Toys Come Home (7 page)

She is a wise old towel and gives good advice.

As Lumphy charges into the bathroom, words spill out urgently. “This kind-of person, kind-of kitty, I don’t know exactly, it’s a thing, a Pumpkinfacehead, very fast, very orange, eats things! Attacks! Got the mouse! Tuna fish! Coming back! Help!” he cries, leaping onto the toilet seat so TukTuk can see him better.

“There’s a kitten visiting,” says TukTuk calmly from her place on the rack.

“What should I do? It’ll eat the mice for sure!” Lumphy cries.

“Be brave.”

“How?”

TukTuk gestures slightly with one corner. “With the spray bottle.”

“What?”

“The purple plastic spray bottle.”

“Really?”

“Trust me,” says TukTuk. “You are brave and you can do it.”

She sounds so certain that Lumphy takes a deep breath and trusts her. He gets the purple plastic spray bottle from the edge of the tub and lugs it in his forepaws to the bedroom doorway.

“You are a toughy little buffalo!” calls TukTuk.

Lumphy wonders if she is right.

He peers into the Girl’s room. “Mice? Are you safe?”

“Safe!”

“Horse?”

A nicker comes from the rocking horse.

“Sheep?”

No answer.

“Sheep? Sheep!”

“She’s safe!” comes a mouse voice. “She’s just not awake.”

“What about me?” Lumphy turns to see StingRay peering over the foot of the high bed. “Aren’t you worried about me?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No one can sleep with this racket,” says StingRay. “What are you doing?”

“I was brave with a tuna casserole.” Lumphy says it more to himself than to StingRay, and as he says it, he puffs with pride. He had not realized he had this bravery inside him. But here it is. He is a toughy little buffalo, like TukTuk said. “Now I’m going to be brave with a spray bottle,” he tells StingRay.

Suddenly, no more time to talk, Pumpkinfacehead is charging—thumpity thumpity, tiny thumps of little cat feet—charging up the stairs, careening off the banister, skittering down the hall, and—

Schwerrp! Lumphy squirts the spray bottle, squeezing hard, hard with his front paws.

Pumpkinfacehead gets it straight in the face. She leaps into the air with a look of shock in her eyes.

Schwerrp! Lumphy squirts again.

Pumpkinfacehead’s damp orange fur now clings to her body. She looks at Lumphy in fear and backs up, spine arched.

Schwerrp! Lumphy ignores the choked feeling in his throat—she is only a baby kitty, after all—and squirts her again. Schwerrp! Schwerrp!

Pumpkinfacehead is soaked now, looking skinny and alone in a puddle in the hallway.

“Khhhhhhhhhh.” She hisses.

Lumphy waves the spray bottle at her.

“Khhhhhhhhhh.” She hisses again.

She slinks halfway down the stairs and curls herself up against the baseboard. “Mngew!” she cries once, as if wishing for aid. Then falls silent and still.

Lumphy stands at the Girl’s door, victorious with the spray bottle, for the rest of the night. He replaces it on the edge of the bathtub only minutes before the parents’ alarm clock rings in the morning.

That day, when the people are gone to work and school, Lumphy stands there again. In the bedroom doorway, wielding the purple plastic spray bottle.

Every day, all day. And every night, all night. Lumphy is there—and he will be until the week is up and Pumpkinfacehead is taken home in the cat carrier.

Lumphy holds that spray bottle, keeping guard, even though the people scold Pumpkinfacehead for breaking into the fridge and tap her nose for punishment. He does it even though the kitten cowers in the hallway, looking sweet and meek. Even though she purrs at him and shows him her soft white tummy. He stands there. Waving the bottle and threatening to squirt.

“Aren’t you tired?” asks StingRay one afternoon, from the safety of the Girl’s bed.

Yes, Lumphy is tired.

“Aren’t you bored?” asks the plump white mouse, before running off to play leapfrog.

Yes, Lumphy is bored.

“What are you doing again?” asks Sheep, who has forgotten the kitten exists.

“Being brave with a spray bottle,” Lumphy answers.

“You’re my hero,” says the tiny gray mouse.

And Lumphy’s chest swells.

He will stand there, even though he is tired and bored and sorry for the lonely little kitty. Lumphy the toughy little buffalo: defender and protector of the creatures in the bedroom.

S
tingRay and Lumphy are playing Hungry Hungry Hippos. The Girl left it out on the rug last night, a game in which white marbles get eaten by plastic hippopotami. Each player hits a lever to make his or her hippo stretch out its neck and chomp a marble.

StingRay is winning. Game after game.

After game.

“Why is more marbles the best?” wonders Lumphy. “Shouldn’t you stop eating when you’re full? My hippo was full a long time ago.”

“More marbles are best because it’s winning,” answers StingRay.

“Is it winning, though, if my hippo overeats and gets a tummyache?”

“Hippos don’t get tummyaches,” says StingRay. “Hippos think more is better because it’s winning.”

“My hippo is feeling sick!” says Lumphy, crossly.

Feet sound on the stairs and StingRay and Lumphy stop playing and lie cutely on the floor. The toys can hardly believe it, but nearly a year has passed since Lumphy’s arrival and today is the Girl’s birthday party. She is old enough now that her party is at a bowling alley (whatever that is), and when she comes in she’s wearing a special dress with ruffly lace at the bottom. She putters around the room, putting barrettes in her hair and looking at herself in the mirror.

Lumphy wants to go to the party. He has never been to a party before, and he thinks it sounds like something he would like a lot. He wonders if there will be dancing.

StingRay wants to go to the party, too. She wonders if there will be ruffly lace for her to wear.

“Honey!” the mommy calls up the stairs. “Time to go!”

The Girl grabs StingRay and Lumphy and shoves them into the backpack. It smells like—like what?

StingRay thinks it smells like sour milk. Lumphy thinks it smells like pencil shavings.

“Sour milk.”

“No, pencil shavings.”

“Sour milk.”

“No, pencil shavings.”

Lumphy nips StingRay’s plush flipper with his buffalo teeth.

StingRay pokes Lumphy in the eye with the tip of her tail.

Buh-buh bump! The backpack goes down the stairs.

Whoosh! It swings out the door, and—

Plunk! Drops into the trunk of the car.

“Maybe we shouldn’t play that hippo game together anymore,” says Lumphy, feeling sorry and sick to his stomach. “I think it makes me cranky.”

“I think it makes you cranky, too.”

“Bowling will be better.”

“We should definitely bowl.”

Their quarrel over, StingRay wraps her tail around Lumphy’s middle. They wait out the car ride together.

“Hey,” says Lumphy, as the car engine turns off. “What’s bowling again?”

“Bowling is …” StingRay pauses for a moment because she wants to give Lumphy an answer, wants to feel important and helpful, but doesn’t actually know. “Bowling is when everybody drinks ginger ale from bowls instead of cups,” she says, eventually. “And wears bowls on their heads, kind of like hats,

“Okay,” says Lumphy. “Let’s definitely do that.”

“Definitely.”

“Although, not the washing part.”

“No,” says StingRay.

“Or the haircuts.”

“Not the haircuts, either. Just the hats and the drumming.”

“Exactly,” says Lumphy.

. . . . .

At the bowling alley, the Girl opens the backpack and swings Lumphy and StingRay by their tails as the parents greet guests. When everyone is there, the children all change shoes and take turns standing in front of a long wooden pathway, rolling heavy round objects, kind of like giant marbles, toward groups of wooden bottles.

The adults yell “Strike!” and “Spare!” and “Not the gutter, not the gutter!”

A few of the children cry.

Lumphy and StingRay sit on the pile of jackets and watch. Lumphy wonders where the bowls of warm soapy water and ginger ale are, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he asks, in a whisper: “What is the point? With the round things and the bottles. What’s the point?”

“Winning,” says StingRay.

“How do you win?”

StingRay doesn’t know, but she’s embarrassed about the lack of soapy water and ginger ale and doesn’t want Lumphy to lose faith in her. “Whoever’s got the most round things,” she answers, with false confidence.

“But isn’t everyone sharing round things?”

“No.”

“Oh,” says Lumphy. “I thought they were, because. Um. They’re sharing them. See? The Girl is using the same one the boy with the red hair used.”

“They only
look
like they’re sharing them,” explains StingRay. “It’s a very complicated thing that’s going on.”

“I still don’t see the point,” says Lumphy.

When the rolling of round things is done, everyone moves to a room in the back of the building where they eat pizza and then chocolate peanut-butter birthday cake with frosting roses. The Girl opens her presents in a flurry of colored paper and curls of ribbon.

“Will there be a new friend in there?” Lumphy asks StingRay.

“How should I know?”

“I thought you knew almost everything,” the buffalo says, mildly.

“Oh.” StingRay is pleased. “Well. Thank you for noticing. But I can’t predict the future.”

The Girl unwraps a game called Uncle Wiggily, two Barbie dolls with blank motionless faces, several glittery Barbie dresses and a shiny pink box to keep them in, markers, a beading kit, and a nightgown.

“Nobody,” says Lumphy, forlornly.

“Nobody,” echoes StingRay.

Lumphy thinks maybe now there will be the hats and haircuts and the drumming and washing feet, but no. Some people have seconds on cake, some people are playing with the discarded ribbon, and some people are jumping on the seats, yelling.

And then—the party is over. Each kid gets a paper goody bag to take home. Children pull out swirly lollipops, sticker books, and red bouncy round things.

The Girl gets a goody bag, too, even though she is the hostess. When they leave the bowling alley, she shoves it into the backpack along with Lumphy and StingRay.

Once they are in the trunk of the car, the round thing in the goody bag begins to wiggle.

And roll a tiny bit.

Boing, boing!

It even bounces—tight small bounces inside the bag.

Every time it moves, it’s making a papery crinkling thump.

Boing, boing, crackle!!

Crackle, boing, boing, BOING!

It appears the round thing is somebody.

Not nobody after all.

It will not stop bouncing and wiggling and trying to roll. Inside the paper bag, inside the backpack, inside the trunk of the car.

“Excuse me,” says StingRay, finally. (Lumphy is sick to his stomach and doesn’t feel like talking.) “Excuse me, but you are bonking us in here. There’s not enough room for you to be so hyper.”

“Good morning!” cries the round thing.

“It’s afternoon.”

“Good afternoon!”

“Don’t feel bad you missed the party,” says StingRay, kindly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Party party party!” says the round thing, spinning in place.

“No. You
missed
the party,” says StingRay. “But don’t feel bad.”

“Isn’t this a party?” the thing asks.

“No.”

“But isn’t a party when three or more people have a good time together? I don’t really know, but somehow I think that’s what a party is!”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Then it’s a party!” cries the thing. “One person, me. Two person, the large guy with legs I can feel over on my left—”

“Buffalo.”

“And three person, you, you nice soft plushy—”

“Marine animal,” says StingRay.

“Mammal!” cries the thing. “And we’re all here together having an excellent time. Party party party!”

“Not mammal. Fish,” corrects StingRay.

“It’s my first party,” says the round thing, bouncing softly. “Lucky me!”

. . . . .

The Girl tries several names for the round thing.

Maria.

No.

LopLop.

No.

Snickers.

No.

Plastic! The Girl says it over and over, as if she likes the sound.

“How about Penny?” says the mother. “Short for Penelope.”

“No. Plastic,” says the Girl.