Revenge of the Dolls Read online

  I turned and saw Trissy making a smear on her mouth with the lipstick Annie had given us. She looked gnomelike in the drooping shawl and a hat with a dusty velvet rose. No one would know her now as she clutched her shawl with tiny fingers and smiled at me through the dark slash of lipstick.

  “I’m ready.” Paulie flourished his cardboard dagger. “Let’s go down and wait.”

  “I’m ready,” Trissy echoed. I spread my fan and covered my face.

  We turned off the attic light and went down the narrow stairs.

  Below lay the empty house with the clocks ticking on the mantels in its silent rooms.

  Chapter 6

  WE PULLED ASIDE the living room draperies and watched the road from town, hopeful at every shine of approaching car lights.

  The minutes lagged. No one came. No passing car turned into our driveway as the late-afternoon light faded.

  “Why don’t they come?” Paulie complained. He fidgeted and frowned. He wanted to show off, and there wasn’t any audience.

  Trissy pressed her nose against the windowpane.

  “I want Mama to see me,” she said wistfully.

  Annie was busy now with preparations for dinner, and by and by we gave up our watch at the window and restlessly drifted upstairs. We were tired and disappointed, and already getting too warm in our costumes.

  Annie had lighted the fire in Aunt Sarah’s room, and through the half-open door we could see the dolls sitting in the firelight.

  Aunt Sarah’s room was forbidden territory, but Paulie was too irritated to care. He pushed the door open and stalked in. I held Trissy back, and we stood in the doorway watching him.

  “Scaredy-cats,” Paulie taunted us. His face was smug. “Come on. What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid.” I edged in just enough to show Paulie I wasn’t.

  He was looking around at Aunt Sarah’s things. Pins rattled in a lacquered tray; a bureau drawer slid open with a faint whine. He picked up a small carved owl and examined it without interest. The silence of conspiracy hung in the room, as though Paulie and I were playing a game: who would dare stay longest in this forbidden place?

  The sky was darkening rapidly now. Wind blew gusts of raindrops against the windowpanes.

  “Do you think she’ll come back?”

  “You mean today?” Paulie sat down boldly in Aunt Sarah’s chair. He sprawled out his legs and pointed his dagger at Trissy. “Sure she’ll come back today,” he said. “They’ll lock her up all right, but not today. Those things take time.”

  “How do you know they’ll lock her up?”

  “My dad told me.”

  Mama had not told such secrets to me. She had only kissed me good-bye when she left. “Mind Trissy,” she had said.

  “She’s crazy as a bedbug.” Paulie got up and wandered around. I knew he was tired of waiting, hungry for dinner. He pushed his dagger through the lampshade fringe, making the silky strands ripple and quiver. He picked up a glass bowl and set it down. Dried rose petals fluttered to the floor.

  “You’re making a mess,” I warned him.

  “They’re late,” he grumbled. “And it’s all her fault. Crazy old lady. Making these stupid dolls.”

  He seized one from the sofa and held it close to his face, wriggling his nose.

  “That’s Nellie.” Trissy had come up beside him, trailing her shawl.

  “Nellie, Nellie, smelly Nellie,” Paulie chanted. He shook the doll in Trissy’s face.

  “Why don’t you just leave things alone,” I told him.

  “I hate these old dolls,” he said. He tossed Nellie back on the sofa and snatched up another doll. “I hate you,” he said to it. “You’re ugly.”

  “Paulie, put it down.”

  He turned and looked at me.

  “Put it down, put it down,” he mimicked. And then he turned and tossed it into the fire.

  “Paulie — stop!”

  I lunged forward, but it was too late.

  Trissy and I stood paralyzed as the flames licked around the sagging skirts, sucked at the hideous face, consumed the doll before our eyes.

  “Paulie!”

  But there was nothing I could do. The doll was flaming, its glass eyes glaring bright through the fire. And where Paulie stood at the center of the hearthrug it seemed that every doll in the room was staring at him. Glass-button eyes all turned toward Paulie from the shadows beyond the firelight.

  They saw you, Paulie. They saw what you did.

  And then we heard the downstairs door and voices in the lower hall.

  We fled from the room without a word, with no other thought but to get away. In the hallway Trissy tripped over her long skirt, and I dragged her to her feet. Her eyes were wide with fright.

  “Don’t you say a word!” I had a good grip on her arm, and I shook her. Her face was pale and startled. Tears sprang into her eyes. But I had to make her understand.

  “Not one word.”

  Paulie was gone — I didn’t know where. And I didn’t care. I pulled Trissy along the hall into our room, and dabbed at her tears with my shawl.

  We were safe now. If anyone came upstairs, we were safe. We weren’t in Aunt Sarah’s room. We were in our own room.

  I was sorry I’d been so rough with Trissy. My own heart had been pounding so hard I couldn’t think. But as I dried her tears, I spoke more gently.

  “Paulie didn’t mean it, Trissy. He was just tired because we’ve been waiting so long to show everybody our costumes.”

  Trissy sniffled. Tears hung in her eyes.

  “Paulie wanted his mama and daddy to see his pirate costume, like you wanted Mama to see you. Paulie was just tired waiting so long and nobody came.”

  Trissy rubbed at her tears.

  “We mustn’t tell.” I was whispering now. No one could hear us. Everyone else was far away in the other rooms of the house. But I whispered just the same. “We mustn’t tell, Trissy. Understand? We mustn’t tell. Aunt Sarah would be so mad at Paulie — and at us, too. We aren’t supposed to go in her room.”

  “The dolls will tell.” Trissy’s voice trembled. “They talk to her.”

  “No they don’t, Trissy. They don’t really talk to her. Now listen to me. Promise you won’t tell.”

  She gazed at me silently.

  “Promise, Trissy!”

  I looked into the tear-streaked little face. What could I say to make her understand?

  “Promise you won’t tell what happened.” How many times would I have to say it?

  “I promise,” she whispered at last from the gash of red lipstick. Little gypsy with the dusty velvet rose.

  Chapter 7

  AUNT CHRISTINA was drawing off her gloves, fluffing her hair. The living room was filled with voices and the smell of coats damp with rain. Umbrellas were propped open by the hall stairs to dry.

  Mama stood by the fire, her coat still on. She looked small and defenseless in the confusion of people and voices around her.

  “Such weather!” Aunt Christina looked distressed. Her shoes were spattered with mud.

  “I didn’t want to go,” Aunt Sarah said.

  Paulie pranced in the background, flourishing his cardboard dagger.

  “I didn’t like that man,” Aunt Sarah said. No one was listening.

  “Why, Paulie! My goodness, look at you!” Aunt Christina clasped her hands together. “Look, Jason. Look at this fierce pirate.”

  “And who is this?” Aunt Christina made a great show of not recognizing Trissy. She fingered the attic shawl, and a piece of tattered fringe came off in her fingers.

  “Darling, you’ve been crying.” Mama bent down and put her hand under Trissy’s chin, tilting the small face up.

  “A gypsy princess.” Uncle Jason bowed to me. His dark eyes were alight with pleasure. He was very handsome with the firelight soft around him. Sometimes I liked him very much.

  “Isn’t that my fan?” Aunt Sarah frowned at me.

  “It’s just an old fan from the trunk in the attic, Auntie.” Cousin Grace patted the withered hand draped upon the chair arm. “The children have been playing there. They couldn’t go outside with all this rain.”

  Aunt Sarah looked at me a moment longer, not quite convinced. Then her thoughts strayed away from me. “I’m not going to that man again,” she warned everybody.

  I couldn’t look at her. I was afraid if I met her eye she would know something was wrong.

  Paulie was perspiring in the heavy black coat. But he wouldn’t take it off. He strutted around like a king. His red muffler-sash came loose and fell in a heap on the floor. He thought I had pulled it off, and he pushed me back against the sofa arm.

  “Play nice, Paulie,” Aunt Christina said.

  Annie was bringing in wine, small goblets on a shiny black tray. The wine was deep red, like rubies. But there was none for us; it was only for the grown-ups.

  “Well, here’s to better times,” Uncle Jason said, lifting his glass. He looked especially at Cousin Grace. She smiled wryly. I don’t think she thought “better times” existed. Or if they did, she had given up hope they would come her way. Her small pearl earrings were her token of dressing up to go to town.

  Aunt Christina, on the other hand, was jingling with bracelets. They slid merrily along her arm as she lifted her glass for the toast.

  “To better times,” she said agreeably.

  Aunt Sarah drank her wine without a glance at anyone.

  I sat on a chair arm, fiddling with my fan, feeling miserable. Paulie wouldn’t look at me.

  Uncle Jason poured himself another glass from the bottle on the tray.

  “Take off your coat and stay awhile,” he said to Mama. The wine was making him jovial.

  Aunt Christina nestled back into her c
hair and said, “It’s been a long day.”

  It had been a long day for everyone, and Trissy fell asleep in a corner by the fire before Uncle Jason had finished his third glass of wine. Mama had to awaken her.

  “Come, little gypsy. Supper time.”

  No one said anything about what had happened in town at the doctor’s office. But Aunt Sarah had come home. Maybe they were going to lock her up someday, but they hadn’t done it yet. By and by she would go to her room. By and by she would know what we had done.

  That night I dreamed about Aunt Sarah’s dolls. We were in a forsaken garden, wet with rain … and their voices whispered around me. But I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I wanted to know, needed to know. It was so important. But the voices were only a blur of sound. “Tell me!” I begged. But the dolls only grinned. Ghouls. Devils. Wicked witches. The rain soaked their faces, glistened on the glass eyes, streaked the red crayon mouths. Everything ran together until their features were gone.

  “Tell me! Tell me!”

  But instead, they all grew silent. Their voices faded away like a vanishing whisper that I strained after and lost.

  My eyes flew open. And with that rain-swept garden around me still, I heard Trissy’s voice.

  “Alice …” There was a tremor in her whisper. “Will the dolls tell?”

  The garden, the rain, the dolls faded. I was in a big old-fashioned bed in a room in Aunt Sarah’s house. The night lamp burned on a table by the window. A chair cast a shadow on the wall. A clock ticked. Mama was still downstairs. I had no idea whether I had been sleeping five minutes or five hours.

  “Will the dolls tell?” Trissy’s face hovered inches from mine. Mama had scrubbed her, but her lips were still stained with faint traces of lipstick. Strands of hair drooped over her eyes.

  Let’s go back, Trissy. Let’s go back to the way things used to be. We always came in summertime. Remember, Trissy? And there were no fires then. The hearths are bare in the summertime. Cousin Grace lines up a row of plants on the bricks, no doll could burn in the summertime.

  “Go to sleep.” I smoothed back the wisps of hair. “I told you, the dolls can’t really talk.”

  “But maybe they can.” Trissy snuggled closer to me. “Maybe they’ll tell on Paulie.”

  “No, they won’t,” I insisted. “And we won’t either. Nobody tells. Do you understand?”

  “But the dolls don’t like Paulie anymore. He was mean.”

  “Go to sleep.” I put a finger gently on each eyelid, the way Daddy always did. “Go to sleep,” I whispered. “The sleep fairy is coming ….”

  But after she fell asleep I lay awake, staring at the lamplight reflected in the window. There were two lamps, one inside our room, one outside in the night. And if I went to the window there would be two of me, Alice-in-the-room, Alice-in-the-dark-outside. I would be there, two of me, one on each side of the windowpane.

  “You’re still awake?” Mama sat down in the chair by the lamp that was burning inside our room and also burning outside in the darkness. She lifted her arms to unfasten a string of golden beads. I was drowsy, but awake, and I heard the familiar metallic sound of the beads being laid on the table.

  “I thought you’d be asleep long ago.” Mama bent over our bed. Trissy slept, her mouth half opened, her lashes fragile on her cheeks.

  “Is anything wrong?” Mama touched my forehead. Did I have a fever? Always, since I was as little as Trissy, I could remember the gesture. Mama’s first thought: feel the forehead. Is it hot, flushed, feverish? Is her beloved child sick?

  Oh, I love you, Mama. You are always there when I need you. You love me.

  “I was just thinking about Paulie.”

  Mama sat down on the edge of the bed. She fumbled with the clasp of her wristwatch, loosened the band, and slipped it off. She sat winding it for morning, listening to me.

  “What were you thinking about Paulie?”

  I didn’t answer at once.

  “Alice?”

  “Oh, just why he’s so — well, so bossy and mean all the time.”

  Mama laughed softly. “Did he do something bad today? I thought you had fun in the attic.”

  “We did.”

  “Your costumes were wonderful.”

  Mama sat holding the watch. I knew she was tired and wanted to get on with the things she had to do before she could go to bed. She always brushed her hair. She would put on a soft, rustling gown, a long gown. Gold slippers would show at the hem when she walked. She would brush her hair and put cream on her face. She would put her watch on the table beside the golden beads. Then she would go to sleep.

  “Paulie isn’t really a bad boy,” Mama said. “Maybe he doesn’t always ‘play nice.’ ” She smiled with amusement as she used Aunt Christina’s favorite phrase. Play nice, Paulie, Aunt Christina always said. Play nice with the girls. Trissy is only little. Play nice, Paulie.

  “No,” I said, “he doesn’t always play nice.”

  Mama smiled again. And then she grew serious. “Remember when you had the measles last year? Remember the funny letter Paulie sent you? He wanted to cheer you up.”

  I remembered the letter very well — mostly because I hadn’t expected a letter like that from Paulie. There was a clumsy drawing of somebody with a spotted face. Two big tears dripped down from the eyes. “Heres some ridles for you,” he had written under the picture.

  Why does Alice have meesels?

  Because she doesn’t have mumps.

  What has four legs and only one foot?

  A bed. Thats where Alice is.

  What has gold inside?

  An egg. Thats what Alice eats.

  They were pretty awful “ridles.” But they made me laugh.

  At the end of the letter he had written, “Dont wory. I had meesels once. They went away ok.”

  “I remember the letter,” I said to Mama.

  “Paulie has some lessons to learn, honey, about kindness and consideration. We all have lessons to learn. He’ll grow up someday and be a good man.”

  She patted my cheek. “Go to sleep now.”

  She meant to comfort me, but I felt rebellious, trapped. I didn’t want to hold things back from Mama. But I didn’t want to be a tattletale either. And it was all Paulie’s fault.

  I hoped Mama was right. I hoped Paulie would grow up and be nice. But he wasn’t grown up or nice yet. And it wasn’t fair. I wanted him to be nice now. I wanted him to learn whatever lessons Mama thought he had to learn, and be nice now. I wanted to erase the whole evening. Play it over differently.

  But the flames had curled around the doll’s face. The skirts had caught fire and burned. The melting crayon mouth had widened like a scream of pain.

  The doll was gone. Destroyed. There was no going back, no changing things.

  And Aunt Sarah was there now, in that room.

  I dreaded morning. What a fuss there would be!

  Chapter 8

  TO MY SURPRISE there was no “fuss.” Morning came and went. Aunt Sarah did not come storming downstairs wailing that one of her dolls was gone.

  I expected her at any moment, as I watched Paulie across the breakfast table. If he was worried, he didn’t show it. I counted, and he ate nine pancakes while the grown-ups chattered … about how delicious the breakfast was, how awful the weather was. Uncle Jason said if winter came, could spring be far behind? Mama laughed and said apparently it was pretty far behind this year. Aunt Christina said she couldn’t stay to wait for it, as they were leaving today.

  My heart sank. I hadn’t thought of that. Soon Paulie would be safely away. Only Trissy and I would be left to face Aunt Sarah and answer questions. Yes, Aunt Sarah, we went in your room. That confession would be hard enough. But what would I say when she wanted to know where her doll was. To say Ask Paulie wouldn’t help much if he wasn’t there to ask.

  I had been dreading the moment Aunt Sarah would come downstairs. Now I wished she would come — before Paulie got away. But the minutes crept by, and Aunt Sarah did not appear. I knew she was awake. I had seen Annie pass the dining-room door, carrying up a breakfast tray with a teapot, a covered dish, and a napkin in a heavy silver ring. Annie’s apron had a big bow in the back. Her hair was curled tighter than ever. Pretty Annie.

  Uncle Jason poured cream in his coffee and lighted a cigarette.