The Friendship Doll (18 page)

After sleeping out in the open, on the side of the road, for so long, Lucy thought the Klamath County FSA camp was as close to heaven as a body could get on earth. She arranged all their things inside their tent just so. Pop’s suitcase, turned on end, served as a table, and she topped it with one of Mama’s doilies she’d carried all the way from Goodwell in her pasteboard box. When a family on
the other side of the camp moved on and left behind a length of calico, Lucy fetched it and stitched it to the back wall of the tent so they had something pleasant in view before they went to sleep. Widow Murphy next door loaned her a broom so she could sweep the floor each day. And she always made sure there was a biscuit left over from supper the night before for Pop’s breakfast.

The first thing she put on each morning was a smile, hoping it would pass on to Pop the way a yawn did.

Sometime in the second week, when Pop started out the door to earn that week’s rent, he noticed Lucy writing on her tablet.

“What’s that scratching?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound like him, not one bit. It was the voice of someone so full of misery he might crack to pieces like a broken pitcher.

Lucy looked down at her lap and didn’t answer for a minute. She measured out whether to tell the truth or not. Truth won out. “I was remembering that sampler Mama stitched that time. The one that said ‘Count Your Blessings and They’ll Double Up.’ ” She chewed on the end of her pencil. “So that’s what I was doing. Counting my blessings.”

With a sound of disgust, Pop snatched the tablet from her hand. “That’s foolishness. Pure foolishness.” He held her pad above his head. “I should throw this in the fire. Right this minute.”

Lucy didn’t say a word, but a pain went through her worse than anything she’d felt when Mama passed. It was
one thing to lose a parent to death, but to lose a parent that was still living … Words hadn’t been invented yet for that sort of sorrow.

“Oh, hang it all.” Lucy ducked as Pop threw the tablet back at her. “I’ll be late to work.” He stomped off the platform onto the dirt path and headed to the camp manager’s office. Lucy held the tent flap back, watching him go.

Widow Murphy was watching her.

“Do you need your broom back?” Lucy asked. “Let me get it for you.” She ducked back inside to compose herself, then reemerged with the broom in hand. She hopped down from the platform and walked over to the widow’s tent.

“It’s best to let those kettles boil,” Widow Murphy said, nodding her head after Pop. “He’ll come around again. You’ll see. This life is enough to sour up any man, even a good one like your daddy there.”

Lucy nodded, her eyes welling with tears at the widow’s kindness. She swiped them away quickly so no one could call her a crybaby.

The early May morning that Lucy started school put her to mind of starting school each year back in Goodwell. Mama would order her a new pair of saddle shoes from the Monkey Ward catalog. Pop would give her an apple to take to the teacher on the first day. And he always told her, “You get yourself an education. That’s the ticket.” But when she braided her hair that morning, he frowned. “We’d be out of this camp a whole sight faster if you kept working.” Lucy’s hands froze in place as she was twining the strands of her hair. She was afraid to remind him of his long-ago words. Afraid of him. She had never been afraid of her father before.

Ida Wolf called from outside the tent. “You ready to go, Lucy?”

Lucy didn’t move.

“What are you standing there for?” Pop said. “I’ll never hear the end of it from Widow Murphy if you don’t go.”

Lucy didn’t wait a second longer. One braid unfinished,
she clomped across the floor in her pair of too-small boys’ boots from the Charity Closet, slipping through the tent flap to meet Ida.

When the camp kids arrived at the big red-brick school building in town, this one kid in her class, Delbert White, heard Lucy’s accent and started calling her “Licey” instead of Lucy. “Them Okies is covered with lice,” he told his pals loudly. “They don’t wash but once a year.” Back home or in camp, Lucy wouldn’t have thought twice about clocking him a good one. A shiner or a bloody nose might teach him a lesson. But here at school, she wanted to start off on the right foot. And fighting would not be a good way to make a first impression.

Especially not on Miss Olson, who was the daintiest thing Lucy had ever seen. She was soft-spoken, too. You had to crank your ears real hard to hear her. But lady that she was, she didn’t hesitate to use the cane leaning up in the front corner of the room. Or so the other kids said. Leastways, everyone toed the line in Miss Olson’s class.

Sometime near the end of the second week Lucy had been in school, Miss Olson stood at the front of the class with a look on her face that was practically rapturous. “I am delighted to tell you that my former college professor, Dr. Evans, is opening a new museum in town.”

“I seen him,” Missy Salters hollered out, without waiting to be called on.

Miss Olson raised one eyebrow. Her left.

“Sorry, ma’am.” Missy raised her hand.

“Yes, Missy?”

“I seen him. At the old house where Mr. and Mrs. Ketteman used to live.”

“That’s correct. The Kettemans left their home to the university, with the request that it be used as a museum.” She smiled again at her students. “And our class will have the opportunity to be among the first visitors. This coming Saturday.”

Delbert hissed through his teeth. “I ain’t giving up a Saturday for no museum,” he said, loud enough for the students around him to hear.

Again Miss Olson’s left eyebrow arched. Delbert’s arm lumbered into the air like an injured goose. “I can’t be excused from my chores on a Saturday,” he said.

Miss Olson nodded. “I appreciate that that may be the case for some of you.” Her eyes traveled around the room. “But those who can, please meet here at the school at ten a.m.”

There was a question Lucy wanted to ask, but she would die before asking it. She sat there, chewing her pencil, when Miss Olson spoke out the answer. As if she’d read Lucy’s mind.

“And the best part is that the Kettemans have left an endowment so that there is no admission fee. Ever!” She smiled warmly.

News traveled fast in the camp, and by suppertime, folks were talking about the museum visit. Lucy ate only half her biscuit, offering the other half to Pop. He’d never been a talker, and he’d been saying less and less the longer
they’d been gone from Oklahoma. But there’d been a little bacon to throw in with the beans tonight and he seemed content as he reached for his pipe and tobacco after slurping up the last spoonful of supper.

“I hear that schoolteacher’s up to something,” he said, tamping the tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe.

Lucy nodded cautiously. “There’s an excursion on Saturday. To the new museum.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but she held her breath anyway for his reply.

His pipe lit, Pop took a trial puff. “She needs to stick to the three Rs.”

Though she wanted to beg and say, Please, let me go, Lucy held her tongue.

Pop stood up off his orange crate chair and it toppled over. “Going to go speak with the camp manager about a mill job. You get the supper things cleaned up and get ready for bed.”

“Yes, sir.” Lucy picked up Pop’s plate.

He took a few steps away from the tent and then stopped. “You might as well go on Saturday. But see to it you’re back in time to fix supper.” He slapped at the tent flap as he went out, having gotten tangled in it. “I never thought I’d live someplace without a proper door.” Anger greased his words.

Lucy stood for a moment, then called out to his retreating back, “Thank you, Pop.”

That left the problem of what to wear. A person couldn’t go to a fancy house turned into a museum wearing overalls and clodhopper boots. Boys’ clodhopper
boots, at that. She could let out the hem—again—in her cotton dress, but her feet were a problem. Seemed like she could just look at them and watch them grow. For the first day of school, she’d forced her feet into her old Mary Janes, but there was too much foot and not near enough shoe. She’d tried to make a trade for some shoes that fit, but nobody in camp had anything but broken-down oxfords or sneakers that were more hole than canvas.

She sat on an apple crate outside the tent, re-hemming her dress. Then, like a princess in one of those fairy stories Gloria Jean loved to read, Lucy discovered she, too, had a fairy godmother. Widow Murphy stepped out of her tent, holding something behind her back.

“These’ll suit that dress better than those boots of yours.” The old lady handed her a bundle wrapped up in an apron.

Lucy took the bundle and pulled away the fabric to reveal a pair of white t-strap shoes with a delicate kitten heel. “These are beautiful!”

Widow Murphy covered her mouth with her hand to hide her gap-toothed smile. “Them’s what I wore on my wedding day.” She held up her foot, ensconced in a man’s work boot. “You’d never know it now, but I had real ladylike feet. Was one of my best features, Mr. Murphy always said.”

“Oh, I can’t borrow your wedding shoes.” Lucy slowly held them back out to Widow Murphy, but not before noticing how close they appeared to be to her own size.

“You shore can,” said the widow. “I’d be pleased as
punch to think they got an outing.” She pushed the shoes back at Lucy. “Course, it’ll cost you—”

Lucy’s heart sank. She didn’t have a cent and she couldn’t ask Pop for anything.

Widow Murphy nodded solemnly. “Yep, I’ll expect a good long visit afterward to hear about everything you seen.”

Lucy let out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes. Oh, yes!” She wrapped the shoes back up in the apron, not even allowing herself to try them on. She would wear them only on museum day, that was all, to keep them as nice as she could.

Come Saturday morning, Lucy was the only camp kid up and dressed to hitch a ride into town with the iceman. If Miss Olson was disappointed to see that Lucy was by herself, she didn’t let on. Waiting at the school were a tangle of town kids. Delbert White was not one of them, for which Lucy was thankful.

“Come, children,” Miss Olson said to her baker’s dozen of an entourage. Lucy, in Widow Murphy’s wedding shoes, which turned out to be two sizes too big, wobbled up the walk in front of the Ketteman home. She was so struck by the outside of the house—with geegaws and curlicues and a little turret at the top that made her certain it was modeled after Rapunzel’s castle—that she walked right out of the shoes without even noticing. Miss Olson’s voice reminding them to mind their manners once inside snatched Lucy’s thoughts back to the present. She quickly
stepped back into the shoes and followed her teacher up the grand entry stairs.

Miss Olson’s old professor, Dr. Evans, loved to hear himself talk. He yammered about this something-or-other and that doohickey in “this grand home” until Lucy’s eyes were nearly spinning around in their sockets. After two eternities, he said that he was sure students of Miss Olson’s would know how to conduct themselves in a place of history and that they were free to explore on their own, “without touching ANYTHING.” Then he asked Miss Olson if she’d like to come to his office for tea, all the while stroking that caterpillar moustache on top of his lip.

All of the town kids buddied up, leaving Lucy the odd girl out, which suited her fine. That way she could wander at her own pace among the fascinations that filled every nook and cranny of the old mansion. At one point, Lucy found herself behind Betty Mitchell and Helen Frank; they turned right when they reached a T in the hallway, so she turned left, finding herself in a cozy little room labeled “The Land of the Sun.” As she nosed around, she learned that the Land of the Sun was Japan. In a couple of the tramp camps they’d been in, Lucy had heard people bad-mouth the Japanese. “Trying to take all the jobs, the yellow devils,” one man had said. Maybe that was why this room was tucked away in a far corner of the museum. But Lucy liked the things she saw in here—like that delicate teapot and those tiny cups without handles.
Paintings of mountains and seas captured with brushes as slight as a blade of grass somehow conveyed the power of those natural wonders. It was hard to attend to Dr. Evans’ admonition not to touch when she came upon a tiny forest in a dish. “Bone-say-ee,” she said aloud, trying to pronounce the name of this green delight. Imagine a real tree, hundreds of years old, no bigger than a cracker tin.