Patricia Geary - Strange Toys

A faint slosh-slosh and a trembling light could be discerned at the distant end of the tunnel.

“I’m prepared,” Sammy whispered, “to offer—”

“Hal-looo?”

“Over here!” I yelled. “I’m stuck!”

Sammy gave me a look so strong, it could have been either anger or love.

The slosh-slosh got louder, the light closer, but then I saw that the creature was not a man at all! His head was huge and misshapen—

“Help!”

“I’m here to help,” said a kindly voice. “Little girl—”

“Help!”

His nose was long and horrible. “Dumbo!” he said.

I screamed again, the air filling up with tiny red ballerinas twirling and twirling before my eyes.

“I’m Dumbo,” insisted the workman. “Calm down, honey. It’s only a mask.”

I opened my eyes. Before me stood a workman in thigh-high waders and a Dumbo mask.

“The fumes in this tunnel are kind of bad,” he apologized. “I couldn’t find no gas mask.” He steadied the canoe, which had began to rotate from the waves of his passage. “What on earth are you doing in here, anyway? This ride’s closed. You okay?” He flashed the light in my face.

I squinted. “I was on Sammy’s Snowland. The boat got stuck.”

“Sammy’s Snowland?” All you could see was the Dumbo mask, but his voice sounded confused.

“You know,” I said impatiently. “The ride they put up while Storybookland’s out.”

“Look, honey. There’s no ride called Sammy’s Snowland. You shouldn’t be back here, it’s dangerous. Hang on, and—”

“Ask Sammy!” I said, then realized that he and his white canoe were gone.

Completely gone. When? How? And, naturally, had they ever been there?

“Whatever,” said the Dumbo man. “Hold tight. I’m going to tow you on out of here in a jiffy.”

He grabbed a rope at the bow of the canoe and, exactly as he had promised, sloshed us out of the tunnel almost immediately. Apparently, my boat had stopped right before the exit.

My eyes hurt from the light. We were over at the side of the whale’s mouth. The red and yellow and blue clothes of the pleasure-seekers were too bright, the smells of popcorn and orange drink too strong, the hurdy-gurdy sounds of the rides too loud.

The Dumbo man looked at me. Without a word, I jumped out of the canoe and ran, blindly, through all the density of the people and their haloes around them.

I was back where I’d been.

No June.

“Excuse me, sir,” I asked the ice cream vendor. “What time is it?”

“Quarter till eleven.”

I sat down on a bench, next to an old couple holding hands. Unthinkingly, I flipped through my unused coupon book, which I still clutched in my hand.

Inside was a thick cream-colored card, embossed in chocolate brown.

the card announced,

“Why can’t we drive through the redwood?”

June had been pressing this point for the last half-hour and we were all weary of it, even her.

“Because,” Stan explained for the umpteenth time, “it’s out of our way. And besides, the car probably wouldn’t fit.”

Apparently, the redwood had been carved out back when they had skinny cars, Model Ts and so forth. We had a baby-blue T-bird, with serious fins.

“Out of our way! That’s a good one.” June snorted. “We don’t have a way .”

All too depressingly true; no one spoke. Late afternoon, and we were in the northern part of the state, where I’d never been before, almost to Oregon. After a week at Disneyland and another few days at Knott’s Berry Farm, with those adorable burros that move very slowly and don’t eat your hair, we had all grown bored with the constant insistence on fun. And besides, they’d gotten another phone call. Or at least that’s what June heard when she leaned against the door that connected our rooms.

So here we were in the gloomy redwoods, unending rain, leaves black and sodden against the gray October sky. You got used to riding in the car all the time. You stared out the window at other people’s houses, grocery stores, schools. You wondered what it would be like to be them, to live the way they lived. Were they happy? Were they just like us? Was there a place you could drive to, and there you’d be happy?

“You could get arrested for depriving us of our right to education.”

“Will you shut her up?” Stan asked Linwood.

“It’d be easier to drive through the redwood.”

I could feel June’s energy bristling at me across the backseat of the car. Times like these, it was best to be invisible. What I wanted to think about was the quick peek I’d taken in Deane’s book this morning while June was in the bathroom. Or maybe I didn’t want to think about it. Right after the picture of The Bad Thing, there was another one of me riding on Sammy’s Snowland. And the next page—as far as I’d gotten before June returned—showed me sitting in an old-fashioned hotel room, clearly not a Holiday Inn, wearing a necklace made out of what could only be poodle toys. Something about the look of that struck me: my picture was powerful, like a hex sign in reverse. Maybe the point of Sammy was some kind of angel warning from God? Maybe I could make up my own magic and protect us? The trouble was sneaking out the toys, with old Hawkeye in the backseat, watching my every move—

“How about that ?” June asked suddenly.

On the right side of the road, gleaming in the gray air, was a red and yellow billboard.

That part was in a huge, flouncy scrawl. Underneath, the sign read:

“Oh great,” said Stan. “Sounds like just what we need.”

“My legs are all cramped,” said June. “Pet and I’ll probably get rickets or scurvy.”

“But that’s not why you get scurvy! It’s from—ouch!” My bruise throbbed. Would I never learn?

“I have to find a restroom,” Linwood pointed out.

Stan sighed. He took the fact that Linwood had only one kidney very personally, something she had done to spite him. Even though we were going nowhere, Stan wanted to get there with as few stops as possible.

“Oh goody!” said June.

Myself, I wasn’t convinced ghosts and floating furniture were such a great idea. There was already enough stuff in the world I didn’t understand.

“They’ll only be disappointed.” Stan’s defense was weak.

Linwood ignored him.

Disappointed was fine with me. A shiver twirled through my body. Best would be transparently fake, though even when we saw that magician who kept dropping the rubber balls, and the pigeon fell out of his pocket, I was still convinced he knew secret things.

June’s eyes were glued to the road, watching for more signs. I took my chance and swiped Pierre’s bag, dumping the contents in my coat pocket and returning the bag to his neck.

My heart pounded, my palm was sweaty. I fingered the loot inside: a pair of metal binoculars, a rubber fish, a glass bottle that I remembered had a miniature ship inside.

“Homemade fudge!”

I glanced up to see another red and yellow billboard.

“No candy,” said Stan. “Not this close to dinner.”

“I’d like some candy,” said Linwood.

“Why do I even bother?” Stan asked the steering wheel.

“What time is it, by the way?” I liked to try to divert their attention when they got like this. Sometimes it worked.