The Cats in the Doll Shop (10 page)

Ginger Cat has even taken to jumping in Papa's lap while he reads the newspaper at night. I think he likes it, because he gives her a little scratch behind the ears while she is sitting there. As for Plucky, I try to console myself by imagining that he has been found by another girl, one who will love him, if not as much as I do, then almost as much—which would be pretty good.

One night about a week after Plucky has disappeared, I am lying in bed just before lights out, when I start to cry. I just miss that little cat so much. Not wanting anyone to see me, I turn my face to the pillow. But that doesn't fool Trudie, who climbs up to the top bunk to sit next to me.

“Why are you so sad, Anna?” she asks.

“It's Plucky!” I say, lifting my face from the soggy pillowcase. “I wish he would come back!”

“Maybe he will,” Sophie says. “You never can tell.”

Tania pokes her head out of her bed and looks up at me. She is clutching Shannon and blinking in that way she still does sometimes, though thankfully not so much. Then she gets up, kneels down, and pulls a box out from under her bed. Curious, I lean over so I can see. Inside are the dove gray envelopes that must contain the letters she gets from her mother. But there are drawings in there, too, a whole bunch of them. She selects one and hands it to me. It's a picture of a small orange cat, curled up on a footstool. Plucky!

“Did you do that?” Trudie says, peering over my shoulder so she can see, too.

Shyly, Tania nods. She must have used the colored pencils Mama keeps in the shop.

“It's really good!” says Trudie.

“It's beautiful,” I say, and hand the drawing back. And it is. Even more than his ears and his paws, his tail and his whiskers, she has captured something else about Plucky. Something that seems to live
inside
him, not just on the outside.

Tania pushes the drawing back in my direction. She must want me to keep it. A present.

“Thank you,” I tell her, taking the drawing once again.

Tania smiles shyly.

“Can I see?” Sophie asks. She has gotten out of her bed and is reaching up for the drawing. I am surprised. Since that night months ago when she tattled on Tania about the food, she has pretty much ignored our cousin. And Tania has kept her distance, too. Silently, I hand Sophie the drawing. She looks at it for a long time.

“This is the best drawing of a cat I have ever seen,” she says finally. “It's so good it could be in a book. Or maybe even a museum.” She hands the drawing back to me. I am not sure whether Tania understood everything that Sophie said, but her face has a gone a deep, pleasedlooking pink. Then she does something else surprising. She hands Shannon to Sophie.

“You want to show her to me?” says Sophie. Tania nods, so Sophie takes Shannon and looks her over admiringly before handing her back. “She's a very special doll,” Sophie says.

Soon it is the first night of Chanukah. We light candles in the menorah at sundown, and the smell of Mama's crispy brown latkes and cinnamon-laced applesauce is in the air. There are small gifts for us to share, too, like a bag of almonds, an orange and, best of all, pieces of chocolate Chanukah gelt, wrapped in shining gold foil.

We use the gelt as part of the game we play with the wooden dreidel that always comes out of cupboard on the holiday. It's a game of chance that involves winning and losing the chocolate coins. First Sophie is winning, then Trudie, and finally Tania. But when we are done, we divide up the gelt again, so everyone gets the same number of pieces. I eat two of mine right away but decide to save the rest. I'll be glad have some left for tomorrow.

Later, Papa comes in to say good night. He sits down on Trudie's bed, and starts telling us the story of Chanukah. We all know it of course. But it's fun to lie in bed and listen to Papa tell it again.
A long, long time ago,
Papa begins,
the holy temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and the eternal flame was in danger of going out.
Papa explains how the flame had to remain lit all the time. The Jews of that time knew that they needed eight days to make more purified oil. There was only enough oil left in the lamp for a single night. But the oil miraculously burned for eight nights, long enough for new oil to be pressed and the lamp to be filled. So now we celebrate those eight nights by lighting candles to remember the miracle. As Papa talks, my mind drifts. Maybe there is room for a little miracle in our lives. Maybe Plucky will come back, safe and unharmed, and Papa will let him stay. Now wouldn't
that
be a miracle? I cannot help wishing.

Once Chanukah is over, Papa, Mama, and the O'Learys really have to buckle down to work. There's not much time until Christmas, and there are still plenty of dolls to prepare. Night after night, the four of them stay late in the doll shop, cutting, stuffing, gluing, and sewing. We girls help, too, though Mama does not want our schoolwork to suffer, so she will not let us stay up too late, and sends us up to bed.

The stress takes its toll. First Papa gets a cold, and as soon as he is better, Mama gets it, too. Kathleen and Michael come down with it at the same time. They have to stay home. I miss Michael's whistling and Kathleen's lilting speech. Sophie, Trudie, and I are lucky enough not to catch it, but poor Tania gets it worse than anyone else and runs a fever of one hundred and two. She has to miss school and stay in bed. I know Mama is worried about her. I can tell by the tight line of her mouth and the deep shadows under her eyes. Trudie and I take turns bringing Tania hot tea with honey and bowls of Mama's chicken soup. But Tania will not eat or drink. She clings to Shannon and calls for her mother. Yet even when a new letter comes—one of the thin, gray envelopes we know so well by now—she seems too agitated to read it, or even to have it read to her.

One morning just before Christmas, while Tania is still sick in bed, Papa asks me for Shannon—he has a meeting with Mr. Greenfield in a little while and he wants to bring the doll along. I creep into the room. Tania is asleep, and so I quietly take the doll from her arms and give it to Papa. “I'll be back before she gets up,” he says.

When I get home from school, I hurry into the shop to see Papa. He is at his desk, with his big order sheet spread out in front of him.

“What did Mr. Greenfield say about Shannon?” I ask.

“He seemed to like her. But he said he was so busy now he couldn't think about her,” Papa says. “He'll have to get back to me.”

Oh. Well, at least he didn't say no outright. But I don't feel too hopeful. If he had really liked her, he would have said so right away.

“There's another problem,” Papa says. “One of the buckles on the satchel isn't there. It must have gotten lost.”

I remember how much Tania liked those buckles. But then I also remember there was a bunch of belts—and a bunch of buckles, too! Quickly, I locate the box, find the belt, and show the buckles to Papa. I am able to replace the buckle before Tania wakes and notices it is gone.

In the morning, Tania's fever has broken. She drinks a cup of tea and eats a piece of bread and jam. Mama is relieved. The worst, she says, is over. And soon, Christmas is over, too. All the dolls are delivered—barely!—in time, and Tania is better. She looks a bit pale after her sickness, but Mama assures us she will be all right.

I am glad we are all well again. All except Plucky. I wonder where he is now? But there is no way of knowing.
Plucky
, I think as I walk to the library or to the grocery store for my mother.
Plucky, we're thinking of you
.
Stay safe. Stay strong
. Some people might think I am being foolish, talking in my head to a cat, especially one who is not even here. But I talk to my doll, don't I? So why not talk to a cat? It may not help. But then again, it can't hurt either.

The month of February brings snow, snow, and more snow. Everything is transformed by the wonderful whiteness that pours down from the sky. It's as if all the everyday objects we know so well—a shop sign, a mailbox, a fire hydrant—have suddenly been covered with a coat of frosting. Because of the snow, school is closed on Thursday, a glorious day that we spend outside with all the children on our block who have come out to play. We make snow angels. We build snowmen, snow women, and snow children. We fashion forts and igloos and pelt each other with snowballs until we are so cold and wet that we simply have to get warm. Waving good-bye, everyone drifts back home.

But my sisters and I have fun inside, too. Mama makes cups of hot chocolate, into which she drops fat, pillowlike marshmallows. We pop kernels of corn on the stove. Sprinkled with salt and drizzled with melted butter, the popcorn is delicious. We bring our dolls out, too, and give them hot chocolate from the tea set we bought one year at F.A.O. Schwarz.

Even Sophie, who hasn't wanted to play dolls much lately, is willing today, especially when Mama gives us a bag of scraps from the furrier, Mr. Rosensweig, who has a shop on Orchard Street. Mama is friendly with his wife.

Sophie, Trudie, and I sew muffs for our dolls. Sophie's is dark brown, Trudie's is black, but mine is the best of all—pure white, like the snow. Of course the dolls have to model the muffs, and then we pretend they are all very fine ladies, strolling on Fifth Avenue in their real muffs, and their (imaginary) fur cloaks, and when they are tired, they take a carriage ride around Central Park.

It's only when we are finished with our game that I realize I have not seen Tania for hours, not since this morning. She played with us in the snow, though she went in earlier than we did. I thought that she was cold, and when she warmed up, she would come back outside. But she didn't.

“Have you seen her?” I ask Sophie.

“No, not for a while,” Sophie says. We both look at Trudie, but she too shakes her head.

“Do you think we should go looking for her?” I ask.

But before anyone can answer, Papa comes in, stomping the snow off his boots and untying the long, woolly muffler Mama knit for him that is wrapped around his neck.

“Hello, hello, hello!” says Papa. Now he unbuttons his overcoat and shrugs it off. It seems like he is especially happy to be home.

“Hello, Papa,” I say. “There was a snow day today. No school.”

“That's news!” Papa says. “But I have even bigger news.”

“Tell us,” I say.

“I met with Mr. Greenfield today.”

“Was it about Shannon?” I ask. Maybe Mr. Greenfield remembered her after all.

“Yes it was!” he exclaims. “Anna, Mr. Greenfield wants her for the store. He placed an order for fifty dolls. Fifty! Can you imagine?”

“He did?” I say. “I thought he wasn't very interested.”