The Doll Shop Downstairs (7 page)

“These are very fine dolls,” Papa says, picking one up and admiring her. “You all did an excellent job.”

Mama makes a new sign to hang in the window. It says:

But before we can start selling anything, we have to help Mama tidy up the shop, because it has turned into a real mess while we were making the dolls. As I bend down to pick up some scraps of felt from the floor, I spy a big wooden box that has been pushed aside and out of the way. I know that box. I peer inside and there are our three dolls—Victoria Marie, Bernadette Louise, and Angelica Grace—just where we left them weeks ago. It seems to me that the dolls are lonely. Bernadette Louise's mouth almost looks like it is frowning, and the black hole where Angelica Grace's eye should be seems to stare out at me.

“What are you looking at?” Sophie asks.

“Our dolls,” I tell her. I reach in to take Bernadette Louise out of the box. “I was thinking that they must miss us.”

“We haven't played with them in so long,” Trudie says.

“Well, maybe one day they'll have company again, right, Mama?” says Sophie.

“I certainly hope so,” Mama replies. When she sees the dolls, she adds, “They're all dusty.” She goes upstairs and returns a few minutes later with an old worn tablecloth, stained in one corner. We clean off the dolls and put them back in the box. Mama covers them gently with the cloth.

The next day, the shop is back in order again. Sophie, Trudie, and I sit at Papa's workbench, waiting for people to arrive and buy our new dolls. Only they don't. The morning drags on without a single customer, and finally we trudge upstairs for lunch. In the afternoon, Sophie and Trudie don't even want to come downstairs, so I go by myself. Mama is busy with her sewing, and Papa has gone down the street to work at Mr. Bloom's grocery store. But I've been in the shop alone before; Mama is right upstairs if I need her.

I am bored, so I take one of the Nurse Nora dolls from the counter where she is displayed. Nurse Nora looks kind. And she looks like she knows how to do things, like change the dressing on a bandage or take a patient's temperature. I decide that she should meet Bernadette Louise, so I go get her from the box.

“Bernadette Louise, meet Nurse Nora,” I say.

I pretend the dolls are meeting each other for the first time, shaking hands and smiling a little shyly, the way I sometimes do when I meet someone new. Pretty soon, though, they are feeling more comfortable, and I pretend they are telling each other all about how they were made and where they come from. The game is so much fun that for a minute, I don't even notice that a very stout woman in a stylish hat and a big lace collar has come into the shop and is waiting for someone—me—to assist her.

“May I help you?” I say in my most grown-up voice. I have waited on customers before and know how to use the brass cash register. But usually Papa or Mama is in the shop with me. Still, I think I can handle it all by myself.

“Yes,” says the woman, who is holding a bag. “Can you fix this doll?” She pulls out a bisque lady doll with two missing arms and a badly scratched face.

“No, we can't,” I say sadly. “We don't have the parts. We can't get them.” I explain about the boxes that came from Germany.

“War is a terrible thing in so many ways,” says the woman, shaking her head. “But thank you just the same.” She puts the doll back in the bag and turns to leave. Once she is gone, the shop feels even more quiet and forlorn. Nurse Nora and Bernadette Louise look at each other, but they have nothing else to say. I put my face close to Goldie's cage; he utters a soft tweet. Then he starts chirping excitedly and hopping from perch to perch. The stout lady comes back inside; she seems to be huffing and puffing a little, maybe from the heat.

“Hello again,” she says, putting down the bag and patting her brow with a hankie. “I decided that since I can't get this doll fixed, maybe I would buy a doll instead. It's for my niece; I'm seeing her later today, and she loves dolls. The sign in the window says you have dolls for sale.”

“We do,” I say, holding out Nurse Nora for her to see. “We have Nurse Nora dolls.”

“May I see her?” The lady takes the doll in her hands and looks her over.

“She's new,” I explain. “And she's part of a limited edition.” That's what the sign in the window says, and I am proud that I remembered it.

“Limited edition,” repeats the lady. She continues to examine Nurse Nora. “She's very sweet. And I like her clothes, too.” She tilts her head and holds the doll at arm's length. “I'll take her.”

“That will be one dollar, please.” I wrap the doll in some tissue paper Papa keeps under the counter and hand her to her new owner. I made a sale, all by myself. I can't wait to tell Mama and Papa!

Mama and Papa are very pleased that I sold a doll, and the next morning, we girls help make another one to replace her. Then I seat myself behind the counter while Papa goes off, glumly, it seems to me, to Mr. Bloom's store. Usually Papa is so good-natured and patient. But for weeks, he has been grumpy. Just yesterday, he yelled at Trudie when she spilled her milk. Mama comforted her by explaining that Papa is just short-tempered because he's worried about the shop and what will become of it.

Certainly it is quiet without the business we used to have. Quiet and dull. The morning after I sold the first Nurse Nora, I was so excited; I was sure I was going to sell the other two dolls right away. But I didn't sell any dolls that day, the next day, or the day after that. So now I am discouraged. Mama is upstairs in the parlor, busy with her sewing. Sophie and Trudie are in our room, where Sophie is reading to Trudie. I remain in the shop with loyal little Goldie and Bernadette Louise, who are good company. I take the tea set out and invent a new make-believe game: Bernadette Louise is a servant in a very grand house with marble floors, heavy silk drapes, and crystal chandeliers. Only poor Bernadette Louise can't enjoy any of this luxury—she has to work all the time, trudging up and down a long flight of steps to bring tea and cake to her spoiled mistress. When Mama calls me upstairs for supper, I am sorry to have to leave the game behind.

The next day, I go down to the quiet shop and pick up the game where I left off. I add more details to the story of Bernadette Louise and the spoiled, mean mistress. I pretend that Bernadette Louise is really a princess in disguise, though no one knows that. She has been exiled from her throne and forced to work like a slave. She misses her family, her silky cocker spaniels, and her big bed with its frilly coverlet. And she is so hungry! The mean mistress gives Bernadette Louise only the nasty leftovers and scraps, while she stuffs her own face with cream puffs and strudel. Poor Bernadette Louise is so desperate for food that she decides she will steal one of the pastries in the kitchen, the golden éclair with chocolate glaze and the rich, delicious custard inside—

“Excuse me, but where can I find a Nurse Nora doll?” says a deep voice.

Startled, I look up to see who has spoken. It is a welldressed man in a tan suit and shiny leather shoes. The watch peeking out of his vest pocket looks like it is made of gold.

“You want to see Nurse Nora?” I say. Quickly I tuck Bernadette Louise under the counter, out of sight. I must have been so absorbed by my game that I didn't even notice when Goldie started singing.

“Yes. A friend of my daughter's brought her Nurse Nora over to our home and I was curious, so I asked where she came from.”

“Here she is,” I say, and hand him the doll. I wonder why he wants to know. Most men are not interested in dolls. But this man is. He looks Nurse Nora over carefully—front and back, top of her head down to tips of her toes. Then he turns her upside down and examines her underclothes. How rude! I am about to call Mama to come down when he places her back on the counter.

“Do you have any more like this?”

“Two more,” I say, showing him the other dolls we have made.

He looks those over, too, and then places them beside the first doll.

“I'll take them all,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jacket for his money. “Can you wrap them?”

“I can't sell them all,” I say. We need to keep one doll so we will be able to make more. That's what Papa and Mama told me.

“No? Why not?” He's not angry; he really seems curious. So I tell him.

He thinks for a minute before he speaks again. “How about this—I'll pay for all three but won't take them all today. I'll leave you one as a model so you can make more. Then I'll come back and get it.”

“I guess so,” I say. “I mean, yes.” I am thrilled he is buying them but also confused. Why does he need three dolls? What will he do with all of them? I am trying to figure all this out as I wrap two of the dolls in tissue. Then he hands me three crisp dollar bills and a small white card.

“I'll be back,” he says, as he takes his package and walks out the door.

After he is gone, I stare at the money. Three dollar bills. I don't think I have ever seen three dollars all together before. I start to climb the stairs, eager to show Mama. Then I look at the card. It says:

“Mama!” I call before I am even up the stairs. “Mama, you won't believe what just happened!”

7

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HE ONES WHO STAYED