Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

Linwood fooled with the radio until she got the news, a Florida station. A balmy eighty degrees in Miami!

“The poodles will swelter in these costumes,” June muttered. Always the traditionalist, she’d like us to sit on Plymouth Rock while we ate our turkey.

Stan was trying to sing something, even after all the times Linwood had tormented him about his voice.

“I’m trying to hear the news.”

He went on singing, so she shut off the radio.

I cut out another circle and brim. “How many more?”

June did a quick head count. “Seventeen.”

Linwood turned around. “Why do you have their pillows out like that?”

I kept my head down. My cheeks grew hot.

“They like to sleep while they’re riding in the car.” June was cool as sherbet. “It’s so boring and tiring for them. They’re used to playing outside and seeing their friends.”

“What other friends do they have besides each other?”

What Linwood was getting at was that June didn’t have any friends. I mean, every now and then she caught one, but she scared her away almost instantly.

“How would you know?”

Linwood turned back around, restless. She thumbed through an old magazine, threw it on the floor, lit a cigarette.

“Do you think we should call her tonight?” Stan seemed to know what the problem was.

June and I froze, soundless. It was beneath our collective dignity to ask about Deane, but that didn’t mean we didn’t want to know what was going on.

“I’d like to,” Linwood pleaded.

Why did they have to be so caught up in her always? We were here. They never agonized about us like that.

Stan sighed. “She won’t be any better.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But I can make an educated guess, can’t I? Unless they move the court date.”

“When is the court date?” I had such a big mouth.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Stan said.

“As if I’d brought it up,” Linwood said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, you implied—”

Oh, just shut up! I felt vicious, the thoughts screaming in my head. It was like cabin fever in an automobile. I wanted everybody dead, but the instant that thought wheeled into my mind, I wheeled it right out again. I really wanted… what? I really wanted to stop making these stupid Pilgrim hats, for one thing.

Out the window was green grass, green trees, an occasional white farmhouse with a car or two in front. The way you could tell it was cold out there was that bruised color to the sky. That, and the shade of green, not the blinding vibrant one of summer but the resigned shade of autumn.

“Keep cutting.”

“Yassah, boss-ma’am. I’sa gwine keep cuttin’ dem hats, awrite.”

June punched me on the bruise, but at least I got a chuckle out of the front seat.

“Let’s stop there,” said Linwood.

A bright pink billboard announced cactus candy, cold lemonade, and “the world’s cleanest restrooms.”

“Not much cactus around here,” Stan observed.

Running Redskin’s was the name of the curio shop, and it was twelve or so miles away. That gave me time to cut out at least six more hats. But what I wanted to do was watch the billboards, to see if Sammy might be there. This time I’d be prepared: my pockets contained poodle toys and money, and, burning against my thigh, the book.

Every mile or so, another billboard appeared, but food seemed to be the main order of business. Coney Island hot dogs, homemade apple pie (like “Mom’s”—except Linwood wouldn’t have baked an apple pie if her life depended on it), frosty old-fashioned root beer, on and on. I hadn’t been hungry when the signs began, and now I felt a little sick.

Then, when I was resigning myself, came a new enticement:

“That’s half a ton,” said June.

Half a ton sounded like even more than a thousand pounds. How could anyone, a woman, lift that much weight? “Maybe she weighs a thousand pounds herself,” I said stupidly.

“Like you,” said June.

“I don’t either!” Usually this conversation didn’t bother me, but, like I said, my nerves were frayed.

“Close to it, Fatty.”

“Linwood,” I said, clutching the back of the front seat, “tell June I’m not fat!”

“Goddammit!” said Stan. “How many times do I have to tell you not to hit the seat when I’m driving?”

“Fatty,” said June. “Lean on the seat and you break it!”

“ I’M NOT FAT! ” I wailed.

“Absolute silence,” Linwood said. “Total silence for fifteen minutes or no allowance and no sweets this week. Do I make myself clear?”

“Are we stopping at Running Redskin’s?” June demanded.

“Yes, if you shut up.”

Totally silent, afraid to breathe—had I gone too far?—I snipped away at my hats. Deep shame. Shouting and shoving and evil thoughts. No wonder Sammy had abandoned me.

I glanced out the window and watched the network of electric poles, mean cats’ heads, strung on silver up to the sky.

We only passed one more sign for Running Redskin’s: no Hannah, only creamy fudge. June poked me in the side and mouthed “Fatty,” but I kept my dignity. And, even when the fifteen minutes had passed, we were both wise enough to maintain our silence until Stan was pulling the car into the parking lot.

Two enormous plywood figures dominated the front of what was only a small, concrete building. The figures towered at least three stories high: the wily Redskin and the resplendent Hannah. When you first saw them, they were as impressive as cartoon gods—his blue and yellow loincloth, his feathered headdress; her pink and green polka-dot bikini, the flowing mane of platinum hair. But also their bodies were godlike, his sleek and linear, a runner this Indian, and hers all curve and muscle bulge. Slave bracelets on her upper arms emphasized the power of her biceps. Her thighs reminded you of Paul Bunyon, of Viking legends. Stan snorted when he saw them; June and Linwood laughed.

But I wanted to cry. Okay, she was silly, but that’s who I wanted to be. A woman like that: she had power . She could protect people. This was what Sally the Snake Queen intended to be, and failed so dreadfully. Could I ever grow up to look like that, with my slight build and my hair, thin as water and brown as mud?

Stan opened his door and I weaseled out of the backseat.

“I’ll meet you inside,” I called over my shoulder. They probably thought I had to use the ladies’ room. But what I wanted was to see Hannah before they all had a chance to make fun of her. I had a mission, and this time it was all for me.

Inside was nothing special, just a long lunch counter and the usual rows of dusty trinkets. Where did they keep the world’s strongest woman? Behind the counter, a redhead in a bowling shirt (MOLLY) was reading a movie magazine.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Where’s Hannah?”

Her eyes lifted from the movie magazine in surprise.

“You know, Hannah . Who lifts a thousand pounds.”

“Why, out back,” the woman said. Then she winked.

I raced out back at the same time I heard my family walk in the front door. But outside was nothing except a kind of stable. Inside the stable was a scruffy old mule.

I ran back inside. The woman was reading once again.

“All I see is a mule.”

“That’s Hannah,” said the woman. “And she’s carried a thousand pounds before.”

I merely looked at her.

She looked right back: in her stare there was both sympathy and daring. My mouth opened and I meant to say that I was angry, I had been tricked, I would make a citizen’s arrest for false advertising, but nothing came out. My mouth slammed shut like a trapdoor.