The Friendship Doll (19 page)

She was so engrossed in the bonsai that she exclaimed aloud when she encountered a pair of dark eyes. “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” she hollered, quickly clamping her hand over her mouth. “Sorry for being so loud, ma’am.” Then she giggled at the realization that she was apologizing to a doll. Not a rag doll like Mama had made for her when she was a knee baby but a fancy thing. Fancier than any doll she’d ever seen in the Monkey Ward catalog.

She stepped closer and read the placard by the doll’s display. “Miss Kanagawa. One of 58 Doll Ambassadors sent to the United States from the Schoolchildren of Japan.” “Ambassadors,” Lucy said aloud. “I don’t know what that means, but it must be something important. You look like you were made to do something important.” She reached her hand out to touch the doll’s, but remembered Dr. Evans’ words and pulled back.

Ah, there is that tug again at my heart. Is this thin waif the one whose hand is on the other end of the kite string? The child for whom I was brought to this place?

She could certainly stand to eat a few bowls of donburi,
with some chicken cooked with the rice. Why do these Americans not feed their children properly? It must be another odd custom.

Like the custom of wearing a dress that is too small and shoes that are too large. It’s certainly not very becoming.

The hair on the back of Lucy’s neck pricked up, as if she were being watched. For some reason, she suddenly felt the need to defend her footwear. “These are Widow Murphy’s wedding shoes,” she said aloud. “She loaned them to me. Trusted them to me.” She glanced around and then giggled nervously. Here she was, talking out loud, when there was no one else in the room.

Poor child. She mistakenly believes she is alone in this room. She does not yet know me.

But she will.

On the wall behind the doll display was a map with a red pin to mark where the doll came from and a white pin to mark Klamath Falls. She had come a long way. “Was it hard to leave your home?” Lucy asked. “I miss Goodwell.” She thought about these words for a moment. “I guess I don’t exactly miss Goodwell. I miss Gloria Jean and Mama. And I miss having a house of our own. But Pop’s working on that. I wish I could be more help.”

Though this girl wears a cloak of sorrow, she has not let it weigh her down completely, like the old woman after Willie Mae’s death.

I sense that her short life has been long on troubles. One parent gone and another who has lost his way, lost himself. And I see that a roof might be the beginning of the end to those troubles. Of course, I can only make suggestions. It is up to the child to take action.

And I am confident that she will. She is like me in that way. Samurai strong.

Once during a powerful dust storm—Mama was still alive then—Lucy had been out in the barn, playing with the new kittens. The rule was to get to the house as soon as the dust began blowing, so Lucy nestled the kitties back under their mother and ran to the house. The storm had kicked up a devil-dervish of static electricity, so that when Lucy touched the doorknob, she was knocked flat on her hind end from the shock. It was such a surprise, it didn’t even hurt. Just like the jolt she got now, looking at that doll from Japan.

Hesitantly, she moved closer, examining the doll from the top of her silky black hair to the hem of her fancy dress. Behind her stood a trunk—a card said it was the trunk she and her belongings traveled in. “Some of her
accoutrement
are too delicate to be on display,” the card
said. Lucy would have to ask Miss Olson what
“accoutrement”
meant. Next to the doll a tiered stand displayed some of her belongings: a small silk purse, two paper fans, an ornately painted parasol. In front of the parasol was a miniature stationery set, complete with paper and envelopes.

“You write letters?” Lucy asked. “That’s what I like to do, too. Gloria Jean says I write real interesting ones.” At that moment, an idea popped into Lucy’s mind. An idea she’d never have gotten if she hadn’t wandered into this funny little room, tucked away in this big house.

Sharp laughter poked at her like a pencil point. “Look at that Okie.” Lucy didn’t need to turn around to know that Betty and Helen were behind her. “She’s even dumber than I thought,” said Betty. “Talking to a doll.”

Lucy’s eyes met Miss Kanagawa’s and she felt another surge of energy. Not a jolt like the first time. But something that starched up her spine and unbent her shoulders. She walked past Betty and Helen with a firm smile and without a word, giving them no purchase for a squabble.

After she got home, she returned Widow Murphy’s shoes and told her all about the museum.

“Why, I feel as if I was right there, taking it all in with you,” the widow said after Lucy’s report.

That gave Lucy the confidence to tell about her idea.

“I knew you was going to go places,” said Widow Murphy when Lucy had finished. “That’s just the ticket, seeing as most folks here can’t neither read nor write.” She fished out a penny. “I want to be your first customer.”

Lucy ran home for her tablet and hurried back. Right then and there, she wrote out a letter to the widow’s folks back home.

Word traveled fast. Soon Lucy had all the customers she could handle and then some. She found an empty Bright and Early coffee can and stashed away every cent she earned. She would never take any money to read mail, only to write letters in reply. By the time her birthday rolled around in July, that coffee can had a real musical jingle to it. Pop gave her a dime—one penny for each year she’d been alive—to spend any way she wanted, but she put that in the coffee can, too.

• • •

What with all the reading and writing she’d done over the summer, and with a little tutoring from Miss Olson, Lucy moved into the fifth grade come fall, along with the rest of her class. Except for Delbert White. He got held back.