Jim Shepard - Paper Doll

“Jeez,” Bean said, when the room had calmed down, “I thought this party was supposed to be for the kids.”

“Aw it is,” Piacenti said from behind them. He jabbed a thumb toward the front of the room. “They’re having fun, aren’t they?”

Lewis was sitting on the floor with his legs spread, banging his can between them. “He’s squiffed,” Piacenti said. “Bosto. Plastered.” Lewis acknowledged the diagnosis and waved.

They laid in large wooden cases of soda in tall unlabeled bottles and piled up a stash of everyone’s candy rations, for the kids to take home with them at the end. The party briefing had broken up at 1400 hours with Lewis and Eddy and three quarters of the crew of I’se a Muggin’ incapacitated. Snowberry had been fine after throwing up, and was helping with the setups, subdued by the time the first trucks loaded with silent and excited children came rolling in. He had even managed to dig up the Wing’s Santa Claus suit, and was wearing it when the first of the children filed into the main hangar they were using for the party.

One of the youngest boys gaped at the five foot, five inch skinny Santa. “Father Christmas?” he asked dubiously.

“You got it right on the noggin, kid,” Snowberry said, bustling by with two stacked cases of soda. “Ho ho ho.”

Bryant helped Hirsch and another guy with the doughnuts and sandwiches the mess had sent over. “We oughta give out the powdered eggs at these things,” the other guy said. “The Alliance’d be over tomorrow.”

Two little girls in identical gray cotton blouses with rounded collars flanked Bean, who was reading to them from a picture book. “Go slow, Bean,” Piacenti called. “And let them help with the big words.”

There was a small pile of fruit on the table as well, and a tech sergeant from Seraphim was holding a tiny boy up so he could see, the boy reaching in wonder for the pile. Bryant set another doughnut tray on the table. “He’s never seen an orange,” the sergeant said. “Imagine that?” He had handed the undersized fruit to the boy, who was turning it over in his hands.

Bryant felt a tugging at his sleeve and turned to find Colin and another young boy. Colin was wearing a brown jacket with wide lapels and a dark blue tie. The other boy had no tie and a worn and spotless shirt buttoned with such zeal it appeared to be actively choking him.

“Hello, Sergeant,” Colin said. “Have we surprised you?”

“No,” Bryant said. “This whole thing was just so you could visit.” They stood with each other for a moment while Bryant wondered what to do to amuse two little boys. “Have you had anything?” he asked. “We have soda and doughnuts.”

The boys thanked him and Colin indicated they’d get something soon.

Bryant had an inspiration. He led the two of them to the end of the hangar where canvas had been slung over four engines waiting to be overhauled. A small squad of boys and girls followed, but the crew chief in charge hustled over, puffing and shaking his head, before they could get too close, and said, “No soap, kids. Can’t touch. Leave the tools alone.”

The children seemed unfazed, awestruck simply by the huge canvas shapes. Enough had gathered to make it appear that Bryant was preparing to give a speech.

“Jack-a-mighty, forget security here,” the crew chief said within earshot, perhaps even directing the comment at him. “Back in the States we used to say even the lice had to show ID.”

Robin was beside him, smiling, and nodded that he should go on with what he was doing. She always touched him that way, lightly, on the shoulder, as if to indicate a subtle favoring of him. He gave her a hug, her skin cool and smooth against his cheek. Colin looked on without approval or disapproval.

“God,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was wearing an enormous red floral scarf and a white blouse. “I hope it’s sufficiently in the spirit of Christmas.”

“It’s great to see you,” he went on, searching for something useful to say. “Did you come with Jean?”

She nodded. Jean was with Snowberry at the other end of the hangar, leaning down with her hands on her thighs to talk with a little girl. Snowberry was providing the entertainment, having segued from “The White Cliffs of Dover” to “White Christmas.”

“I must say Jean’s a bit puzzled by this passion Gordon has concerning Bing Crosby,” Robin said. “She says he’ll just break into song, at any moment.”

“He thinks he sings like Bing,” Bryant explained. “We tell him he sings like Hope.”

They gathered into the rough semicircle surrounding Snowberry. He was up on a canvas-covered crate festooned with smallish branches painted red and olive green. “But it isn’t Christmastime,” one small boy blurted. Snowberry winked and swung into the second chorus and began affecting Crosby’s sleepy eyes.

Lewis walked by and nodded, wincing as if in constant pain.

“You remember Sergeant Peeters,” Bryant said.

Lewis placed a finger to his lips and extended a hand to Robin. “Lewis,” he said.

“Oh yes,” Robin said apprehensively. “Hello, Lewis.”

“Hope you’re enjoying the show.”

“I am.” Robin lifted her hand from his. “Thank you.”

“Well, he sounds more like Crosby than Kate Smith,” Lewis conceded. “I’m not big on the Groaner. If they ever change the color of Christmas, he’s through. Who’s the kid?” he added. “Looks like Ned Sparks.”

Colin was back. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said.

“How you doin’, kid,” Lewis said.

“Are you a bombardier?” Colin stood straight, arms at his sides.

“Kids.” Lewis pressed his fingertips to the sides of his head. “Uncle Lewis has a hangover. We don’t want to scream at Uncle Lewis.”

“I’m very sorry,” Colin said.

“Uncle Lewis was stinkeroo a few hours ago,” Bryant explained.

“I’m sorry,” Colin said again. “I’m sorry you’ve been stinkeroo.”

Lewis winced, rubbing slowly in tiny circles. “The kid’s great,” he said.

Snowberry finished his program with a spirited whistling rendition of Al Jolson’s “Toot Toot Tootsie,” and the children and village girls applauded enthusiastically.

An Irish staff sergeant from Geezil II stood up and started on the “Indian Love Call.”

“What is this, Talent Night?” Snowberry said. “Siddown.”

He announced the conclusion of the cultural part of the program — on quite a high note, he felt compelled to add — and set about accepting entries for what he called the Derby, pulling a blackboard over and starting two columns, Rider and Mount. He began the Mount column with his own name, and climbed off the crate to circulate among the children in search of a rider.

“What is it?” Robin asked.

“We race on our hands and knees with the kids on our backs,” Bryant said. “And if I know Gordon, he’ll lay out a doozy of a track.”

The children milled around chaotically and pairs of names were going up on the board. “How about it, Colin?” Bryant said. “Ready to bring home the Cup?”

“No thank you, Sergeant,” Colin said. “But my friend Keir might enjoy it.”

Bryant smiled down at the little boy. “Any gum, chum?” he asked. When Keir didn’t respond, he added doubtfully, “Is Keir old enough?” He visualized trying to explain a fall to a mother who had never liked Yanks in the first place.

Once the question registered, Keir nodded.

Snowberry laid out the route and they lined up twelve abreast. A wide lane was cleared of everything but grease and oil spots, some of which were clearly considerable enough to play a role. They were to race down to the Wright Cyclones under the canvas and back. To minimize trampling, when riders fell they were out of the race. Bryant instructed Keir to hold on around his neck and lie low and the boy took his advice with ferocious concentration, digging eager fingers into Bryant’s windpipe. He was sandwiched between Snowberry, still in the Santa suit, and Hirsch. Piacenti, also representing Paper Doll , was at the other end of the line.