Dotty’s Suitcase (5 page)

Dotty stretched her mouth into a wide Katharine Hepburn-type smile.

“Dear Janice,” she said. “What would I do without you?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Janice, who looked startled, and turning to a blank page in her notebook, she began to write.

My father was dressed for church, in his striped suit and his new black hat. He carried his yellow doeskin gloves. His shoes were so shiny a person probably could have seen their face in them
.

“
You look very elegant, Papa,” I said, putting my hands inside my squirrel muff
.

My father bowed. “And you also, Daughter,” he said, helping me on with my squirrel coat. “We will wait in the carriage for your mother. She will be down at any moment.
”

The butler opened the door for us and we went down the marble steps of our mansion
.

“Ooooooh, you stop that!” Janice squealed joyously, bringing Dotty back to earth. The boy in back of Janice was stuffing his eraser down the back of her sweater. Boys were always stuffing things down her sweater, pulling her hair, stealing her lunch box. Janice planned on going to Hollywood when she got out of school. She planned on becoming a movie star.

“You think you're so cute,” Dotty said under her breath. Aloud, she hissed, “You sound like Kimball's pigs.”

“You quit that,” Janice squealed again, “or I'll tell.” She cut her eyes at Dotty and whispered, “Aren't boys awful?” and Dotty replied in a loud voice, “How would I know?”

“Come to order, class.” Mrs. Murray handed out the papers from Monday's spelling test. “I'm happy to say we have two perfect papers and two almost perfect. To those of you who did so well, congratulations. To the others,” and it seemed to Dotty that Mrs. Murray was looking straight at her, “I would suggest that they concentrate a little harder and study the words we've covered. I'll give another spelling test next week and will expect better results.”

Dotty looked down as her paper was passed back to her. She shut one eye. It looked like a 76. It was. A big fat red 76. And spelling was her best subject. Mrs. Murray had drawn red circles around the misspelled words.
Imposible. Seperate
. And many more. Most of the words she'd gotten wrong she knew how to spell. She was careless, that's all.

I've got to pay more attention. I've got to concentrate. She rested her hand on her forehead and gazed down at her 76. I've got to earn some money. I feel old.

It seemed to Dotty that just beneath the edges of her memory were hiding many valuable lessons she'd learned but had, for the moment, forgotten. In her head was stored a wealth of knowledge, but she couldn't figure exactly how to get at it.

Beside her, Janice hummed a little tune. She shuffled her papers noisily and allowed one of the papers to slip from her grasp and slide across the floor to Dotty's desk, where it lay, face up.

She poked Dotty, pointing down at her paper. “Get it for me, will you?” she whispered. Wordlessly, Dotty clomped her shoe on it and pushed it back to Janice.

“Thanks,” Janice breathed. “I wouldn't want to lose this. I'm going to take it home and set it up in the kitchen. My parents will be so proud.”

She tossed back her hair, which was held in place by a pink ribbon which exactly matched her pink dress, and smiled her cross-toothed smile at Dotty.

What a waste.

To her rage and frustration, Dotty felt her eyes fill with tears. Only this time they weren't like Katharine Hepburn's in
Little Women
. They were like Dotty Fickett's in Real Life.

A different thing entirely.

CHAPTER 8

Somehow, against its will, the day spun itself out. The bell rang at three out of habit, and Dotty put on her green wool jacket, the knitted hat of many colors she'd made for herself, and her galoshes and headed for home. Jud dragged behind her. It was Friday. The snow still held off.

“Don't forget the store,” Jud reminded her. She had forgotten, but she didn't say, “Thanks.”

“Hello there, missy,” said Mr. Evans, the store owner and a church vestryman who never missed a Sunday and was not well liked in town. “What can I do for you?” His large red nose was crisscrossed by tiny lines that reminded Dotty of rivers marked on a map. His sleeves were rolled above his elbows, and his filthy, stained apron stretched itself taut against his middle. His hands were enormous, red and cracked, like his elbows. Dotty wondered if he was red all over, and didn't suppose she'd ever find out.

“They catch those robbers yet?” Mr. Evans leaned on his glass case, his voice jovial. “Imagine those boys are way over in the next county by now.” He was not a jovial man, but he worked at it. Frequently he was heard hollering at his wife and kids at day's end. Being jovial when it's not your nature must be a strain, Dotty figured.

“What can I do for you?” he repeated in a sharper voice.

“I want a pound of hamburger, a quart of milk, and a loaf of bread. It's for my aunt,” Dotty explained. “She said to tell you she wants the hamburger to be lean. She said last time you sold her some it was fatty.”

“That aunt of yours is a caution.” Mr. Evans threw back his head and laughed as if he had said something vastly amusing.

He put some meat on the scale and began adding to it, his hands the same color as the hamburger. While he was busy, Dotty sidled over to the magazine rack to see what was new. She kept close tabs on the movie magazines, careful not to miss anything.
Photoplay
was her favorite, with
Motion Picture
running a close second. They printed articles about what the stars ate, wore, showed pictures of the cars they drove and the rooms they slept in. Here was a picture of Carole Lombard's kitchen! Somehow the idea that Carole Lombard had a kitchen had never occurred to Dotty. This one didn't look as if it was ever used, but there was a picture of Carole, smiling, smiling, and whipping up what they said was an omelet. Imagine. And on to Joan Crawford's bedroom. Everything here seemed to be white. White rug, white bedspread, white sofas and chairs. Imagine keeping all that stuff clean. Still, Joan had maids and butlers to do the dirty work.

A thin woman wearing a hat that looked like a mushroom came in and asked Mr. Evans how much a stewing chicken cost. Mr. Evans took a chicken from his case and held it up by its feet. The chicken looked so much like a skinny little person that Dotty had to turn away in embarrassment.

The woman protested the price, but she said, “Cut it up and mind you don't leave out the giblets.” Dotty went on to the
Saturday Evening Post
, which advertised on its cover an “Exclusive! New Pictures of Dionne Quintuplets!” Jud was leaning against the penny-candy case, breathing circles on the glass and drawing faces in the circles. It was a good thing Mr. Evans was busy cutting up the chicken.

Dotty opened the magazine to the right page. There were the Dionne quintuplets, five girl babies born all at the same time to a lady up in Canada. Entirely too much fuss was being made over those babies. You'd think they were one of the seven wonders of the world, the way folks were carrying on. There they were, ten beady eyes set in five fat faces, staring out at her. Dotty couldn't help wondering what Mrs. Dionne did if all five of those kids had a load in their pants at the same time. Mr. Dionne didn't look as if he'd be much help. He was a wispy little man whose face wore a look that seemed to say, “Why me?” The Canadian Government had taken over the babies as wards of the state, it said in the magazine, which meant they'd pay all the bills: food, clothing, shoes, the works.

If there'd been five of me, Dotty thought, Daddy wouldn't have a thing to worry about. The idea of five Dotty Ficketts was astounding, even awe-inspiring. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before.

“Here's your groceries,” Mr. Evans said. “You want one of those?” he asked, poking a red thumb at the magazines.

“I want one but I don't have the money.”

“Well, then, I guess that does it. That'll be twenty-seven cents.” Dotty handed him the quarter and the dime and he gave her back seven cents. A nickel and two pennies. She counted it twice to be sure.

“I gave you thirty-five cents,” she said. Mr. Evans wiped his hands down the front of his apron, leaving tracks, as if a dog had walked there.

“So. I gave you your change.”

“You're short a penny. Twenty-seven from thirty-five leaves eight. You gave me seven. See?”

Mr. Evans' mouth fell open in amazement. “You're right. You're absolutely right. Some smart girl you are. Head of your class, I'll bet.” He slapped another penny into her outstretched hand. “You tell your aunt that's the leanest hamburger she'll ever see. Tell her I killed the cow special for her.” His laughter bounced off the ceiling.

Jud leaned against the penny-candy counter. “I'd sure like a licorice stick,” he said.

“Two for a penny,” Mr. Evans said, his red face redder than before.

“Don't got a penny,” Jud said, studying his shoe.

“Me either. Let's go.”

“Shut the door after you!” Mr. Evans shouted.

“You had a penny,” Jud said accusingly as they went out into the cold.

“Move, slowpoke. It's not mine, it's Aunt Martha's.” Dotty pulled up her collar and pulled down her hat so only a thin slice of her face showed.

“My hands are cold,” Jud said.

“Put your mittens on.”

He foraged in his pockets, his face gloomy.

“Got 'em?” Dotty watched as he put on the mittens. Then they climbed the incline leading to the highway, which went north. This route took them way out of their way. They took it only on Fridays, when the weekend and hours of free time loomed ahead of them. Dotty enjoyed watching the speeding cars going to Lord knew where, sometimes traveling as fast as forty, forty-five miles an hour. It was the only paved highway in these parts. The other roads were single-lane, bumpy dirt roads, which anyone who was in a hurry to get anywhere avoided like the plague.

As they reached the top, where they could get a good view of the traffic, a big black car zoomed by, going lickety-split. Up ahead, about fifty feet, loomed a sharp curve where there'd been several recent accidents.

“They better slow down or they're going to crash,” Jud said. The car kept going, the driver hunched over the wheel. As Jud and Dotty watched, an arm appeared at the window on the passenger side and threw something out. In a minute the car had disappeared.

The wind swooped down on them and tried unsuccessfully to carry them away. Dotty's knees knocked together and Jud's teeth chattered.

“Whwhwhatt was thththattt?” he asked.

“What was what?”

Jud's fists were like hard little rocks pounding on her. “You saw!” he shouted. “You saw somebody throw something out of that car and you know it!”

“You're seeing things,” Dotty said in a bored voice. “Go on home. I'm going to take my time. You go on home before you freeze.”

But even as she walked toward the spot where whatever it was they'd thrown had landed, she was certain she'd find something special, something she'd never seen before. Or would ever again.

CHAPTER 9

Whistling “The Rose of Tralee,” Dotty set off in the direction the black car had taken. Some days she could whistle pretty good. This wasn't one of them. The sound that came from between her pursed lips was a dismal sighing sound that might've been a lot of things, none of them “The Rose of Tralee.”

When she turned to look behind her, Jud was standing where she'd left him, arms folded across his chest, eyes boring little holes in her head.

She had known it wouldn't work. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Come on. But it's a waste of time.”

“The robbers are still at large,” Jud said, catching up. “The radio said they were. That means they're still out there”—his arm swept a large arc—“fixing to shoot somebody. The man said they had cruel eyes, mean like. Eyes like to cut you in two.” He watched her face.

Dotty thumped her fists on her hips.

“You ever hear of Sally Rand?”

“Nope.”

“She dances bare at the World's Fair.” If that didn't take Jud's mind off the robbers, nothing would.

“Bare?” he whispered.

“That's the truth. Nothing between her and you except a big fan made of feathers. A gigantic fan made of feathers that'd float away if a big wind struck 'em.”

She resumed her walking. He was behind her, quiet, thinking. Lord knows she'd given him something to think about.

They trudged along the shoulder of the road, careful to stay off the pavement. Presently the sound of a car, going even faster than the first one, reached them. They stood back until it passed. That car was going hell-bent for election, two men in front, two in back, all staring straight ahead grimly.

That car stirred up so much wind it made Dotty's galoshes flap against her legs.

“You see who that was?” Jud asked, his eyes huge. He made a pass at his mouth with his thumb. In times of stress Jud's thumb was a comfort to him.

Dotty glared at him. “Don't start that business now,” she said. “I don't have time for a partner that sucks his thumb. No time at all.”

Stunned by her use of the word “partner,” Jud thrust his hands into his pockets to avoid temptation and stomped behind her.

“It's got to be about here,” Dotty muttered. She tramped in a small circle, head down, studying the ground, widening the circle as she went, beating down the dead gray grass, the mass of weeds.

“What're we looking for?” Jud asked, doing everything she did.

“If I knew that, it'd be easy, wouldn't it?”

“That was the sheriff's car,” Jud said. “Him and his deputies were chasing somebody, I bet.”

“Oh, they were probably just out for a ride,” Dotty said airily.