that was listed in the Yellow Pages, looking for a doll with hair that could be washed, combed, and set. Not one of the stores had anything like that. Chatty Cathy, Betsy Wetsy, Tiny Tears, “but nothin’ with no hair, lady.”
Bertie got into her car and drove to Rosie’s house.
“Hi, darling.”
“Hi,” Bertie answered distractedly. “Looking for something.” She raced past her mother and down into the cold, damp cellar that smelled of detergent and ammonia.
She pulled boxes from shelves and out of storage bins. Clothes, dishes, photo albums, holiday items, all carefully labeled in Rosie’s neat hand. Ah! A large cardboard box with the word Clorox printed on all four sides, and underneath the word Clorox, also on all four sides, and on the top and bottom just to be sure, Rosie had labeled the box BW’s TOYS .
Bertie ripped off the packing tape and opened the box. One look at the contents filled her with memories of her childhood.
Blackie, the furry little stuffed scotty, a baby toy that had sat on her night table even when she was in high school. Lula, oh, sweet Lula, the faded Kewpie doll her father had won for her at Kennywood Park right after her third birthday. Just before he died. Jake or Joco or Jojo, a teddy bear with no face; she couldn’t remember what she’d called him. Mr. Muggs, a stuffed monkey wearing tennis shoes. Four storybook dolls in their native costumes of Ireland, Scotland, Holland, Spain. And Lisa, the beautiful Toni doll. Bertie had given the doll the name she’d wished her mother had given her. Instead of Roberta. Ick. A girl version of Robert.
Lisa. The doll was smaller than Bertie remembered. She was dressed in the red and white ruffled dress Rosie had made in order to teach Bertie how to use the Singer sewing machine that later replaced all of the toys in Bertie’s affection. Lisa had peach skin and yellow blond hair and green eyes. Bertie used to wish she looked like Lisa.
On Monday morning, Bertie took Lisa from the top shelf of her closet where she’d put her; she had waited until Michael left for work so she wouldn’t have to discuss this with him. Then she gently wrapped Lisa in tissue paper and put her in a large cardboard box. She wrapped the box in more tissue paper and sat it on the passenger seat of her car as she drove to the Home.
Carla was gone. Her parents had picked her up to take her on a weekend outing, and on Sunday when things were going well they decided that they didn’t want their little girl to live at the Home for Crippled Children anymore. That maybe they were capable of caring for her after all.
“Isn’t that great for Carla!” Bertie said to the nurse who gave her the news.
But she felt cheated, as if something had been stolen from her. She felt like crying. It was a feeling she had a lot lately. Wanting to cry from frustration.
“I’d like to have Carla Berns’s address,” she said to the receptionist at the front office. She was trying to sound calm. “I have something I’d like to send to her.”
Dr. Esther Shaw, the child psychologist at the Home, was in the office when Bertie asked for the address. Dr. Shaw was tall and thin and had blue-black hair with square-cut bangs. She was always very serious. Bertie told Dr. Shaw how Carla liked brushing her hair and how she’d gone and looked for the doll and . . . She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly she felt herself talking very fast. Maybe it was because of the look on Dr. Shaw’s face.
“I’m very sorry, Roberta,” the doctor said when Bertie finished, “I’m afraid we can’t give you the girl’s address. Sending Carla the doll now would be entirely too intrusive.”
“Pardon?”
“Intrusive. You see, Carla’s parents couldn’t afford to buy her the kind of toy you’re thinking of sending. If she gets a toy like that in the mail from someone who works here, those parents could think we’re trying to seduce Carla into being happier here than she is at home, and the
Bertie got into her car and drove to Rosie’s house.
“Hi, darling.”
“Hi,” Bertie answered distractedly. “Looking for something.” She raced past her mother and down into the cold, damp cellar that smelled of detergent and ammonia.
She pulled boxes from shelves and out of storage bins. Clothes, dishes, photo albums, holiday items, all carefully labeled in Rosie’s neat hand. Ah! A large cardboard box with the word Clorox printed on all four sides, and underneath the word Clorox, also on all four sides, and on the top and bottom just to be sure, Rosie had labeled the box BW’s TOYS .
Bertie ripped off the packing tape and opened the box. One look at the contents filled her with memories of her childhood.
Blackie, the furry little stuffed scotty, a baby toy that had sat on her night table even when she was in high school. Lula, oh, sweet Lula, the faded Kewpie doll her father had won for her at Kennywood Park right after her third birthday. Just before he died. Jake or Joco or Jojo, a teddy bear with no face; she couldn’t remember what she’d called him. Mr. Muggs, a stuffed monkey wearing tennis shoes. Four storybook dolls in their native costumes of Ireland, Scotland, Holland, Spain. And Lisa, the beautiful Toni doll. Bertie had given the doll the name she’d wished her mother had given her. Instead of Roberta. Ick. A girl version of Robert.
Lisa. The doll was smaller than Bertie remembered. She was dressed in the red and white ruffled dress Rosie had made in order to teach Bertie how to use the Singer sewing machine that later replaced all of the toys in Bertie’s affection. Lisa had peach skin and yellow blond hair and green eyes. Bertie used to wish she looked like Lisa.
On Monday morning, Bertie took Lisa from the top shelf of her closet where she’d put her; she had waited until Michael left for work so she wouldn’t have to discuss this with him. Then she gently wrapped Lisa in tissue paper and put her in a large cardboard box. She wrapped the box in more tissue paper and sat it on the passenger seat of her car as she drove to the Home.
Carla was gone. Her parents had picked her up to take her on a weekend outing, and on Sunday when things were going well they decided that they didn’t want their little girl to live at the Home for Crippled Children anymore. That maybe they were capable of caring for her after all.
“Isn’t that great for Carla!” Bertie said to the nurse who gave her the news.
But she felt cheated, as if something had been stolen from her. She felt like crying. It was a feeling she had a lot lately. Wanting to cry from frustration.
“I’d like to have Carla Berns’s address,” she said to the receptionist at the front office. She was trying to sound calm. “I have something I’d like to send to her.”
Dr. Esther Shaw, the child psychologist at the Home, was in the office when Bertie asked for the address. Dr. Shaw was tall and thin and had blue-black hair with square-cut bangs. She was always very serious. Bertie told Dr. Shaw how Carla liked brushing her hair and how she’d gone and looked for the doll and . . . She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly she felt herself talking very fast. Maybe it was because of the look on Dr. Shaw’s face.
“I’m very sorry, Roberta,” the doctor said when Bertie finished, “I’m afraid we can’t give you the girl’s address. Sending Carla the doll now would be entirely too intrusive.”
“Pardon?”
“Intrusive. You see, Carla’s parents couldn’t afford to buy her the kind of toy you’re thinking of sending. If she gets a toy like that in the mail from someone who works here, those parents could think we’re trying to seduce Carla into being happier here than she is at home, and the
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