Holly in Love (3 page)

Frankly, it was tacky looking. But it was such fun. I loved doing it. I loved those tiny little pieces and the steady wrist I needed and the teeny speck of glue it took, and the patience.

My parents had very mixed feelings. My mother worried that I was regressing. That I felt doomed to a lack of popularity and so retreated to my girlhood bedroom and occupied myself with babyish things. “Don’t you want to be out with your friends?” Mother would say. And then,
very
understanding, “Or did they go off without you? That’s rough, isn’t it, Holly? But I know how you feel, dear.”

“Mother, Lydia and Kate and for that matter everybody else would be perfectly happy to have me meet them at the pond and skate.”

“I’ll buy you new skates. Your old ones probably squash your toes.”

“No, thanks, Mom. Having old, crummy skates is a terrific excuse. I don’t want to skate.”

Then my father’s even more mixed feelings would surface. On the one hand, he was darn glad that his gift of love and craft had been noticed after all these years. On the other hand, he worried that it wasn’t normal to play with a dollhouse at my age. “It isn’t good to isolate yourself from your fellow man,” he would say nervously. “You need to join things, Holly. Be with your friends.”

“Dad, I’ve been in school with them for seven hours today already. Isolated I’m not.”

They were relieved to find magazines for adults printed to reach the miniatures enthusiast. When there was a dollhouse exhibit to raise money for playground equipment, they were even more relieved to find civilized, church-going adults participating in this sort of thing. And when the senior deacon of the church and his wife showed off
their
miniatures collections, my parents surrendered completely.

One day my father was watching me hack at bits of old balsa-wood flying airplanes, using a kitchen knife in an attempt to cut cradle pieces, and he said, “You’re not using proper tools, Holly. Come on down to my workshop, and I’ll teach you how to work with wood. Those flimsy little things you’re making won’t last long.”

It was a whole new world. A world of tiny screwdrivers and miniature files, of tweezers and vises for making tiny furniture. It wasn’t the world I’d been daydreaming about—that hot, sunny, sandy world—but it certainly kept me occupied through a long and frigid spring.

Even my mother got into the act. She loves needlework. To my complete surprise, she made a pair of tiny quilts for the twin beds in the dollhouse guest room, the smallest imaginable squares making the patterns.

When summer came—in northern New Hampshire it doesn’t come for long—we went on long drives down unknown roads that wound through the patchwork quilt of forest and stone walls of rural New England. And what should we find in one village but a little shop that sold nothing but dollhouses and miniatures and dollhouse furniture kits. When we got over our total and absolute shock at the prices of those lovely Queen Anne hunt boards designed for a three-inch doll to serve from, we drove shakily on home.

Every Christmas my grandmother sends me a check. This year I was trying to decide whether to save it for my hot climate escape hatch fund, or buy a six-inch-tall clock that actually chimes and tells the time and wall sconces that actually have electrical connections.

Sometimes when I’m pouring over a catalog for dollhouse things I want the pieces so much I actually ache for them. Especially on Sundays it’s hard to look at that dollhouse without a twinge of guilt. My father likes to tell me that there are places in, say, Brazil where half the children die before age one because they have no milk and perhaps no safe water. Instead of sending my grandmother’s Christmas check to them, or at the very least planning on how I’m going to save the world, I sit and daydream about buying a miniature fireplace screen, or plan decorating the dollhouse parlor for Christmas.

Sometimes I wonder if my father goes through life feeling guilty, or if being a minister sort of takes the edge off.

I could ask him, of course, and he’d love it, but the trouble is that Dad answers things too thoroughly. When I’d like a two sentence answer, I get a two-hour sermon.

My current project for the dollhouse is a Christmas tree. I cut it from balsa, slotting three tree shapes together to make a six-winged tree, and now the green paint I’d sprayed on was dry so I could paint the bells and candles and tinsel and popcorn. Now, painting those tiny, tiny decorations takes a steady hand, believe me.

The phone rang, taking my mind off my guilt. It was Kate. Kate is sunshine. If she’s ever had a doubt or a fear, she’s never mentioned it in my presence. “Holly!” she said, bubbling even more than usual. “You’ll never guess what!”

“What?”

Kate paused for a moment so I could sense that it really was something special. Finally she said, “Gary Beaulieu asked me out on Friday!”

“Oh, Kate!” I said, delighted for her. Gary was a really nice guy. As far as I knew, he’d never asked a girl out except to the occasional class dances, and he’d never asked the same girl twice. He was much too athletic and winter sports oriented for me—a sidekick of Pete Stein—and yet curiously enough I felt a little pang of unhappiness at the thought of Kate going out with him. Once again, it was somebody else dating, and not me. “That’s super, Kate!” I said. “He’s a doll.”

My dolls were three inches high. Hers were living, breathing six-foot males.

Kate talked happily about the date they would have Friday.
I’m not jealous
, I told myself.

“There’s one problem, Hollyberry,” said Kate anxiously.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to babysit Friday,” she said. “I agreed ages ago. Do you think you could sit for me?”

“Oh, Kate, you know I would, but I’m already sitting. Mr. and Mrs. Dallimonti.”

“Oh, no!” said Kate, almost in tears. “I was sure you’d be able to help me. Can you think of anybody else I could call? I already accepted the date because I was so sure I could find someone.”

“Lynn Vining?” I said. “Or Sally? Or maybe Gretchen?”

My father yelled from downstairs. “Holly! Don’t stay on the phone so long! I want the line open!”

He always wants the line open. He’s convinced that some suicidal parishioner will try to call just when I’m using the phone to talk about hair styles or something. There’s never been a suicidal parishioner in his church that I know of, but he really has a thing about keeping the phone line free. I can never talk more than fifteen minutes.

“I know, I know,” said Kate glumly.

We were silent for a moment, thinking. Of course, Kate could always back out of her babysitting job, but then she’d feel so guilty all Friday night she couldn’t enjoy herself with Gary. “Listen, Kate,” I said. “The Dallimontis have only the one little girl, and Nancy is seven, after all, and absolutely no problem. Who are you sitting for? Could I combine kids in one house?”

I could almost feel Kate hugging me. “Oh, Hollyberry, I love you. It’s the Smith baby. I bet you could. Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Dallimonti wouldn’t mind.”

I said I’d call them both and be sure.

Kate said I was the most terrific person she knew.

It wasn’t in quite the same league with feeding the starving in Bangladesh, but it certainly did make me feel better. I made a miniature Christmas present for my dollhouse tree and tied the silver embroidery thread bow with pleasure.

I
T WAS A FEW
weeks after the double babysitting job that Christopher asked if he could practice on me.

He came into my bedroom at about ten at night and just sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at me nervously. “Did you break something?” I said. “You look as if you hope Mom and Dad won’t get home for two years.”

Christopher tried to laugh. Instead, he just looked pinched around the mouth. Whatever he’d done, it must be pretty awful.

It’s strange to watch a kid brother grow up. For years and years, Christopher was nothing but a shrimp, a loud-mouthed pest. I steered around him, speaking only if absolutely necessary. Christopher always had sand in his shoes and peanut butter in his hair and D’s on his report card.

Then all of a sudden—wham!

There was this six-foot-tall, handsome man living in my house—and it was my little brother.

I don’t even feel acquainted with the present Christopher. He’s so different from the shrimpy pest of the past that I sometimes think a substitution was worked when I wasn’t looking. “What’s your problem, Christopher?” I said.

It’s never wise to ask Christopher that. While I loathe telling anybody my problems, Christopher loves to. He’ll tell Dad for an hour and Dad will give him support and feedback, being a minister experienced in comfort sessions. Then Christopher’ll tell Mother for an hour, and she’ll give him insight and understanding, being a college prof accustomed to young people with difficulties. Yuck.

But Christopher, to my surprise, did not settle down on my bed, close up my chemistry book for me, and start in on a long monologue about how life is hard and nobody cares enough. He said, “Holly, if I put some music on, would you dance with me?”

My lower half slid off the bed, partly due to Christopher’s weighing it down and creating a path and partly due to sheer astonishment. “Dance with you?” I said.

He looked down at the rug, over at the wall, and finally into the dollhouse, where he seemed deeply interested in the miniature bookshelf. “Yeah,” he said.

Christopher was not a dancer. Christopher could hardly
count
to four in rhythm, let alone dance. “Why?” I said suspiciously.

“Because I’m taking Alison Coffey out tomorrow night to the junior class dance, and I need the practice.”

My little brother.

First I babysat so Kate could have a date. Now I was to be dance instructor so my little brother could have a date. I was sitting around doing homework and thinking about miniature furniture and daydreaming of hot climates, and here was my kid brother getting on with life and asking girls to dances.

I wrote another three numbers down in my chemistry calculations. They were wrong and I’d have to erase them, but it gave me something to do. My stomach hurt a little.

“You don’t have to,” said Christopher, flushed with embarrassment. He got up off the bed.

“Sure,” I told him. “Glad to.”

The saint in action, I thought to myself. I may never have a social life of my own, but at least I’ll be known far and wide for my generosity and overwhelming kindness.

Christopher slid a cassette into his cassette player, put the volume on high, and gave me a fierce and sudden hug. At first I was kind of tickled to have all that brotherly affection and then I realized he was dancing with me. “Maybe a little looser,” I said. “Think how annoyed Mrs. Coffey would be if you suffocated Alison on the very first date.”

“Very funny,” said Christopher. But he held me looser.

I am a pretty good dancer. It’s too bad I have no one to dance with these days except myself or my brother. I debated what a saint would say in these circumstances. “Actually, Christopher,” I told him, “you’re not too bad.”

Christopher smiled complacently.

I said, “You don’t need that much practice. You’re fine. Alison is going to have a ball.”

Christopher swaggered around the bedroom, agreeing with me.

“You want to rehearse something to talk about?” I said. “That could be a problem.”

“Heck, no. I never have any problem talking to Al Coffey. In fact, I have a problem finding empty air time to fit my words in. The only human being on earth who talks more than Al is her mother.”

I got bored being saintly. “Give Al a few years,” I predicted. “She’s going to surpass Mrs. Coffey before long.”

Christopher just grinned, as if he’d considered the possibility of himself and Alison aging together, and I had a sudden lurch of the brain, feeling younger than my brother. Feeling awkward and gawky and little. Gosh, I thought, is he just sixteen? He seems so old, suddenly. And I seem so
young
.

I sank back down and stared glumly at my chemistry. I like to finish my homework on Friday nights. Otherwise it just seems to lurk there all weekend, like Evil, hunkering around Sunday evening and ruining it.

“Mind rehearsing something else?” said Christopher.

His anxiety was back. He was fidgeting and tugging at his belt loops. He looked like a very tall first-grader. I liked him much better when I was older and calmer and he was younger and more worried. “What else is there?” I said. I definitely was not going to rehearse kissing.

“The car.” Christopher got his driver’s license last month. It occurred to me that part of the reason he wanted to date was that he needed somebody to show off his driving skills to. The rest of us just weren’t very impressed. “I want to practice putting a girl in and out of the car.”

“You make it sound like a box for United Parcel. Anyway, Alison may be the self-reliant type, and she’ll get in and out of the car herself.”

“Just in case,” said Christopher. “Please? Be helpful and useful, please?”

How repellent, I thought. Here I am, aching to be slinky, alluring, sexy, and breathtaking, and what does he call me? Helpful and useful. Sainthood is a drag.

“I also want to practice holding your coat up for you so I get your hand started in the armholes right.”

I wondered if somewhere out there, beyond the drifts of snow and the glossy sheets of ice, there was a boy rehearsing how to put a coat on
me.
Stranger things have happened, I told myself.

I lapsed into a little daydream, where this suave gentleman helped me in and out of fur coats and cranberry-red Mercedes.

“Please?” said Christopher.

He has huge brown eyes. When he was small, people used to exclaim over him and claim to be absolutely melting under that gaze. When he was a grubby little urchin growing up, the effect of the eyes was lost in the general filth and hanging hair, but now the eyes had it again. Christopher turned them on me, as though he were some superhero, and tried to melt me.

“Okay, okay,” I said. I wondered how Alison Coffey felt when he tried his eye-melting technique on her. I wondered when I was going to melt somebody with
my
eyes.