Paper Dolls

My friend Ruthie kept her collection of paper dolls - a mother, two golden haired children and a gray and white cat named Dixie - in a shoebox under her bed. On rainy days when she wasn't expected to work in her daddy's general store, we spread her cut outs over her quilted bedspread and made new ones from the Spiegle catalogue. Hearing her daddy's footsteps on the stairs, we would gather up the clippings and hurriedly hide them - without knowing exactly why, we knew he wouldn't approve - he would stand in the doorway of her room, a short, squat man with his hands jammed into his pockets and his heavy glasses almost obscuring his eyes, and stare at us silently, grimly. The man never smiled or spared a kind word for anyone, he usually reeked of cheap whiskey, and rather than speak, he communicated with his wife and daughter through whistling and a series of gestures. Nana had made it clear that she would prefer Ruthie and I to play at our house on The Point and she had made me promise never to accept a ride from him or otherwise be alone with him. I didn't understand why and she refused to explain but because he frightened me with his long stares and his silences - a cold fear, nameless and heavy and somehow dark - I paid attention and did as I was told. If I had known the word predatory back then, I would have been able to define him. We left the paper dolls and despite the weather, went outside to play with Dixie's new kittens but by and by he appeared with the keys to his old pickup truck in hand, gestured for Ruthie to go inside and looking directly at me said, Take you home. I shook my head and ran down the driveway in the rain, not slowing until I reached the square and the safety of McIntyre's. Devil on your tail, girl? one of the old fishermen asked and when I didn't answer, Mr. McInytre frowned from behind the counter then led me to his own pick up truck. Got a delivery for your grandmother, he said with a reassuring smile, You might as well ride with me or you'll catch your death. It was raining in sheets by then, and surprisingly cold, with thick fog building and gliding off the ocean in waves. Bad night comin', Mr.McIntyre told Nana, She was almost caught in the storm. She thanked him, gave me a narrow eyed look and asked if I was hurt, then ordered me upstairs for a hot bath and dry clothes. It was some time before I heard Mr. McIntyre's truck pull out and rattle up the driveway and by then, Nana had made me two slices of her thick brown bread covered with butter and sugar and a mug of hot chocolate. You were at Ruth's, she said evenly, Did Norman come home? Are you sure you're not hurt? I promised her I wasn't and she poured me more hot chocolate. I think, she said in a tone that I knew not to question, that from now on Ruthie will come here to play. I thought of protesting then thought better of it.

The remainder of the summer passed all too quickly and Ruthie's visits to our house were few and far between.

She was needed at the store, Aunt Jenny said none too convincingly, and in her more honest moments which were also few and far between, Norman likes to be able to keep an eye on her, doesn't want her to run wild. I thought for a brief second that Nana was about to explode at this admission - it was uncomfortably close to an accusation, but my rock solid grandmother checked her temper and reminded Jenny that Ruthie was always welcome, Day or night, she added meaningfully. Later I overheard my mother say that interference would likely mean another black eye or broken arm or worse - Aunt Jenny was accident prone, it seemed, as well as clumsy and farsighted. Can't see what's right in front of her, my mother remarked pityingly, Damnable shame.

By the time Ruthie was about twelve, things had improved marginally - a number of seemingly random events had come together - a lengthy and amazingly discreet campaign to boycott her daddy's small store had finally paid a minor dividend and cost him customers, McIntyre's had prospered and renovated the second floor with new and hard to find merchandise, but mostly Ruthie had grown older. She was not defiant, not ready to expose family secrets, but she was stronger, less compliant, and more certain that everyone didn't live the way she and her mother did. She had begun to realize that natural bullies were also natural cowards, that predators sought out the weak and unprotected, that they could be defeated by simple acts of emotional courage, by a child who, at long last, had had enough.

Sometimes you have to circle the wagons and fight to the last Indian, others you have to surrender gracefully, but now and then you can just defect.