Toys Come Home (4 page)

“I’m going to rescue you with a leg warmer!” cries StingRay.

She gets to work. First she ties one end of the leg warmer to one post of the back-porch stair rail. Then she takes the other end of the leg warmer in her mouth and ties it around the other post, pulling it tight.

Then she wiggles herself into the center of the stretched warmer, and scootches up the steps until it is pulled as far back as it can possibly go. She is only holding herself in place by pushing down hard, hard with her tail.

Frrrrrr, Frrrrrr, Frrrrrr.

StingRay hears herself making this sound in the back of her throat.

It is a fear noise. Because she could slingshot herself toward where Sheep is hanging from the rosebush and—

Miss.

She could hit the bush full-on and end up covered in thorns.

She would be a thorny stingray forever and ever after that,

StingRay is about to ease herself out of the slingshot and just slither up the steps to wait sweetly on the doorstep for the people to find her in the morning, when Sheep bleats again. It is such a soft, sad bleat, it doesn’t even have a proper “b” in it.

“Aaaaa,”
Sheep cries.
“Aaaaa.”

StingRay stops thinking. She releases the leg warmer and launches herself across the yard,

Whoooooosh! Through the air,

bouncing off the garage,

twisting and turning—

zooping down to where Sheep hangs from the thorny branch.

Whap! StingRay grabs Sheep in her plush flippers and holds on as hard as she can to the woolly body as they hurtle, with a slight ripping sound, down to the ground, landing in the dirt beneath the rosebush.

They lie there together, Sheep and StingRay. Looking up through the dark.

StingRay glows with pride.

Rescue completed.

Rescue with a leg warmer!

Rescue from the horrible thorny bush.

Oh.

Wait.

Gazing up, StingRay sees Sheep’s softy ear.

It is still attached to the thorn.

“Look,” she says in quiet shock. “Look, Sheep. Your ear.”

Will Sheep yell at her? Maybe Sheep will call StingRay names and scold her for careless ear-losing. Weep and scream over that lovely ear that is so badly torn it can never be sewn on again.

StingRay waits, tense, for Sheep to begin yelling.

But Sheep says nothing.

Finally, StingRay flops over and peers, close up, at Sheep’s face. A small snore floats from Sheep’s nostrils. She is asleep.

. . . . .

In the early dawn, before any people in the house have woken up, Sheep opens her eyes.

Grass. There is unlimited grass here. And nobody to see her chewing it.

Nom nom nom.

Nom nom nom nom, nom nom nom!

Ooh, and clover.

Nom nom nom.

Sheep chews her way over to StingRay and gives her a gentle nudge. “Wake up. No one can see you. You can chew the grass!”

Oof. StingRay is sleepy and sore from the slingshot.

Grass doesn’t interest her.

“Or do you like clover? You can chew the clover!”

StingRay doesn’t even have teeth, but she raises her eyes politely. “How does your head feel?” she asks.

“What?” bleats Sheep. “I can’t hear you. I’ve lost my ear.”

“HOW DOES YOUR HEAD FEEL?”

Nom nom nom nom, nom nom nom. “Actual grass. Can you believe it?”

“I AM SORRY ABOUT YOUR EAR!” cries StingRay.

“You don’t have to shout. The other ear still works,” says Sheep. Then, unexpectedly, she leans her head sweetly against StingRay’s flank. “Oh. I never thought I’d get grass,” she says, sighing. “I never thought it.”

“That’s nice.”

“This is the best day of my life,” says Sheep.

“It is?” StingRay knows Sheep has been around a long time.

“Yes, it is. You, me, and a yard full of grass,” says Sheep.

I
t is now three months later. Sheep has forgotten how it felt to ever have a matching set of ears, but she remembers the grass very well and talks about it often. The clover, too.

StingRay plays solitaire with a deck of cards she’s secreted under the bed. She also spends hours looking out the Girl’s window at the neighborhood below, wishing for someone interesting to talk to.

The leaves have begun to turn red, orange, and brown. Pumpkins are perched fatly on people’s front steps. People huddle in jackets and scarves. It is fall.

Today, the Girl is sick. It started with feeling hot in the face on Thursday, then a fever and Friday staying home. Then a sore stomach and now the Girl is puking.

Her dad comes running as she starts, but it is too late. She has thrown up all over Bobby Dot, who was cuddling with her on the high bed. The vomit covers his thick whiskers, his long tusks, his insufferably self-satisfied eyes. It covers his chubby plush body, sparing only his back flippers.

“Here, take your towel,” says the dad, rubbing the Girl’s back. He hands her a large rectangle of yellow terry cloth, which she uses to wipe her mouth and hands.

The dad tosses Bobby Dot and the soiled patchwork quilt onto the floor near where StingRay is watching. He and the Girl head down the hall to the bathroom.

“Excuse me,” whispers StingRay to the walrus. “Was that a
towel
?”

“Puke! Puke! I’m covered in puke!” Bobby Dot does not answer the question.

“Because
you
said towels had teeth and claws—”

“I can’t believe she puked on me. Ug! So disgusting!”

“—and that was just a big terry-cloth rectangle. You told me they were vicious!”

“Oh, it smells. Can you smell me? Do I smell like puke?”

“You’re telling me the whole scary towel gang is nothing but a club of rectangles?”

“Yes, it’s a club of rectangles!” Bobby Dot barks. “Very obnoxious rectangles who do their rectangle thing and sing together and aren’t very welcoming! How could you not know what a towel is?”

“I knew,” lies StingRay. “I knew what a towel was. I just thought these ones at this house had teeth and claws, because
that is what you told me!
The only reason I was confused is because you lied.”

“I am covered in puke! I can’t worry about your problems. Can you believe the Girl puked on me?”

“She’s
sick,
” snaps StingRay. “She couldn’t help it.”

“She could have turned away. She could have just puked on the blanket. She was thoughtless.”

“She puked on you with love!” StingRay is outraged. “She was cuddling you on the high bed to make herself feel better!”

“This is the most disgusting experience of my life,” moans Bobby Dot.

“It is an honor to be puked on by the Girl.” StingRay rears up in anger. “You are not appreciating what an honor it is. I would give anything to be up on that high bed, being puked on and cuddled.”

At that moment, the dad and the Girl return from the bathroom.

Dad tosses the vomity yellow towel onto the pile of Bobby Dot and the patchwork quilt. He helps the Girl put on a clean nightgown and get back under the sheets. Then he scoops up the linens and the walrus, and heads downstairs to do laundry.

. . . . .

Bobby Dot does not return that day.

Neither does the towel.

Neither does the patchwork quilt nor the dirty nightgown.

The Girl sleeps under a crocheted afghan with the one-eared sheep.

She does not puke any more.

The next morning, the dad brings back the linens from the washer and dryer in the basement. He puts the patchwork quilt on the bed and hangs the worn yellow towel in the hall bathroom. The Girl is feeling well enough to go play downstairs, so the toys are left alone.

“Where is Bobby Dot?” asks StingRay.

Nobody answers.

“Sheep, did you hear me?”

Apparently, Sheep did not.

“Mice, where is Bobby Dot?” calls StingRay. “Rocking Horse? Does anybody know?”

“He went to the basement to get washed,” squeaks a tiny voice from under the bookcase.

“Yes. Well. We know that. We all know that,” says StingRay. “The question is, where is he
now
? Because he hasn’t come back and the basement is full of spiders and maybe ghosts.”

Nobody answers.

“If you don’t have any suggestions for me,” announces StingRay, “then I’ll have to go down the hall and ask that yellow towel.”

Again, no answer.

Oh.

Now StingRay has to go ask the towel.

It is not nearly so scary a prospect as when she thought towels had teeth and claws, but she remembers what Bobby Dot said about them being clubby and unfriendly, and she wishes she had not just announced that she would talk to one.

Still, Bobby Dot has not returned.

And StingRay needs to know what happened.

She waits until night. Until the Girl is asleep and the house is quiet. Then she scoots down the hall and peers nervously into the bathroom. StingRay has never been in there before, and she is surprised at how very tile-y it is. Tile on the floors. Tile on the walls. There is a smell of tangerine soap. The black-and-white whales printed on the shower curtain look menacing.

The yellow towel, damp and slightly wrinkled, hangs over the shower rod. Some floating bath toys are lined up on the edge of the tub: a boat, an orca, two pirates, a purple spray bottle, and a squirty rocket.

StingRay addresses the pirates. “Ahoy. My name is StingRay. I am looking to talk to the yellow towel in hopes of investigating the disappearance of a walrus.”

No reply.

“What I need to know is: Is this towel friendly? Do you think I can just ask it a question?”

Again, no reply.

“Or do I need an introduction?” StingRay goes on. “Or, like, membership in a club?”

“It’s friendly,” says a voice from above. A soothing, droopy voice.

StingRay looks up.

The towel is speaking to her. “None of those bath toys talk,” she continues. “But I do. My name is TukTuk.”

“Hello,” says StingRay. “I—I’m wondering about the walrus. Bobby Dot. Do you remember? He was covered with puke and he went down to the basement for a wash, but—”

“He never came back.” TukTuk finishes the sentence.

StingRay nods.

“They should never have put him in the Dryer.”

“What’s a dryer?”

“Dries towels and clothes after we’re done in the washing machine. Everything spins around very hot.”

“Why shouldn’t Bobby Dot have gone in?”

“The Dryer is very sensitive. They should never have put in those sneakers, either.”

“What happened?”

“I was in the load ahead of him. He washed up okay, even though his tag said Dry Clean Only. I saw him come out of the washer clean and fresh.”

“And then?”