Jagged Destinies

© 2003 by Norma Panelli Halahan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without

written permission from the author.

ISBN: 9781410702197 (e-book)

1stBooks-rev. 06/04/03

Table of Contents

Chapter I The Depression and its Aftermath

Chapter II The Tragedy

Chapter III College Chaos—New Awakenings

Chapter IV A Different Lifestyle

Chapter V The Wedding Weekend

Chapter VI Secrets

Chapter VII Spring

About The Book

Jagged Destinies is the heartwarming story of a girl named Emily whose mother dies giving her life. Emily, the only child in the family, is raised by a cantankerous grandmother and an unemotional father who is seldom home. The times are hard due to the Depression. During her childhood, Emily goes through turmoil. Because of it, she promises herself that some day she will do well in her life. Her plan is to marry someone rich, be successful, and have children. Many of her plans are fulfilled, but as time passes, situations change. There are pitfalls along the way. Along with the joys and rewards are tragedies and deaths. Throughout the story, her mother’s image appears from the shadows of her mind.

Emily’s confidence and determination play an important role in directing her destiny and the destiny of those she loves. She finds true happiness and love with the person she least expects, the one who loved her from the moment he met her.

As we live our lives we experience many trials and triumphs. This book walks the reader through various stages of life. Although Jagged Destinies is a novel, Norma has depicted several occurrences from her own life throughout the story, beginning from the age of seven.

Jagged Destinies

The doctor and the man would soon be face to face. At the far end of the hall, the man anxiously waited, smoking his cigarette. Breaking up the monotony of the waiting area was a smoking stand, a small wooden table with National Geographics, and a row of chairs that lined the wall. He chose to pace. Finally the doctor, still wearing his bloody surgical garments, came through the steel swinging doors and walked down the corridor toward the man. The heavy scuffling on the gray and white marble floor became more profound as he neared. With trembling fingers, the man put out his cigarette in the smoking stand, straightened his tall lean frame, then looked at the doctor squarely.

It’s a girl, Mr. McCaffrey, and she’s fine.

He stood curving the brim of his felt hat as the doctor continued.

Your wife was very weak. She lost a lot of blood. We tried to save her but she couldn’t hold on. He paused then added. I’m sorry.

The man’s face grayed. The doctor bowed his head, slowly turned, and walked away.

He drove his baby home in his 1928 Ford. The clicking from the windshield wipers was the only sound they shared during the drive to his mother’s farmhouse where the baby would live until her late teens.

Moments after they entered the house, she was brought to the tidy upstairs room where a labor of love awaited her. A hooded cradle skirted with white and yellow taffeta had been completed by the baby’s mother days before she entered the hospital. After the baby was placed in it, the father and grandmother tiptoed out and descended to the parlor.

Chapter I

The Depression and its Aftermath

The year was 1932. It was the end of my mother’s young auspicious life, while mine was beginning with augmenting disenchantment. For my grandmother, I was an added exhausting responsibility, an obligation bestowed upon her aging years. This duty would be fulfilled out of loyalty. As for my father, my birth was not the most joyous moment of his life. But now I was here, Emily Jane McCaffrey, the child he and Rose McCaffrey had planned and hoped for.

These were hard times for my father, grandmother, and the nation as well. The country was in the midst of a depression. From the encouragements and promises made by our new president, many were looking for new horizons.

There was no great fortune left by Sidney McCaffrey, my grandfather, when he died during the mid 1920’s. The homestead and the dilapidated farm equipment that was left to Flo, my grandmother, left her in a temporarily manageable position. The two story clapboard house with the wide front porch looked out on to what was once green farmland. The house had worth but it was only a place to rest and die. The land held significance and was as valuable to Granny as life itself.

Even as newlyweds, my grandparents plowed and planted; their life was centered around the land. Their fruit cellar had always been stocked from their productive harvest. Many stored jars of edibles weighed heavily on the dark, cool shelves. From babyhood my father had accompanied them to the market by wagon and years later by truck to where the produce was sold. In time he was taught to work the land and tend to chores after school. Much to Granny’s dismay, farming held little interest for her son. It was the journey to the market with all its animation that aroused him. The market meant excitement as people scattered about, lifting their crates to and from their vehicles, and women wearing printed dresses without aprons rustled by. Ankles were exposed. High laced-up shoes were becoming a part of the past. It was an erotic sight, the giggling girls as they circled and skipped about the streets, and the horns blowing in different directions. He considered these days a grand adventure and absorbed the reality in full. The farm, with its picturesque beauty and fresh aroma from the jostled earth, lacked these stimulants. No longer was the phonograph in the dreary parlor enjoyable. The voices with imaginary faces from a black pivoting disk became merely restful. During these early years my father often sat on the porch steps and contemplated. He stared into space beyond the green fields and dreamt of the many places he had read about. He had a wandering heart. Now he was a man and had responsibilities.

I chose to believe that my father was one of the millions of Americans who took to the open road looking for work. I was a week old when Granny assured him I would be cared for.

Carl, don’t worry about Emily and me, we’ll be fine. These were the words he heard when he departed from us.

As well as my father, people everywhere began to journey. Because of the Depression the country hungered. Listening to rumor after rumor, families uprooted themselves and headed west upon hearing a word or some tittle-tattle. From drought, the farmland had become miles of dusty, cracked vastness. There were hunger lines in the city. The banks were failing. The migrant workers heading west to the land of ‘milk and honey’ were destined for more drudgery. Transporting their weak and sick along with them only served to make their journey more burdensome. Leaflets were handed out. Help needed to pick crops down south. South they went. The north needed factory workers,

so with bare essentials they traveled, some by foot, some hitched, always holding on to the American dream. Each mile traveled was getting them closer to where the sun set on better land. The roads were long and dusty. They met with more privation. A few of our neighbors passed our house, en route to state roads. Their rickety trucks bulged with small pieces of furniture, washboards and basins, pots and lamps, all of this and more secured with ropes once used for their haying. Granny, standing on her porch, waved and shouted encouragements.

The Petersons, our closest neighbors, were among the ones to leave their small house. Their truck clanged and whistled before it came to a reluctant stop in front of our path. Hazel Peterson and Granny had been on again, off again friends through the years. They had stuck together through the hard times, the sicknesses, the deaths and the blizzards. It was only during the festivities that they feuded. The dance competitions triggered their jealousies.

Hazel descended slowly from the truck with arms swaying. Granny greeted her by saying, You folks leaving, too? Granny knew a blessing was about to be bestowed.

Wait a spell, Granny shouted. I have something for you. With those words she ran to her fruit cellar and came back with one of her last jars of pears. Wiping the cobwebs off with her apron, she walked swiftly toward Hazel and handed it to her. I’m expecting you to come back and when you do, you bring me back my jar.

Now Florence, I didn’t stop to get something for yuh she replied. I stopped to say goodbye and to leave you something.

Granny’s heart was pumping very fast now. She gently put her hand on her chest. Hazel’s oldest son began untying the cow that had been fastened by a long rope to the truck. Granny was sly and conniving. She twisted circumstances her way. When receiving a gift or kind gesture, she had ways of making the renderer feel obliged.

You know, Florence, the cow won’t make it if we bring it along. Keep it for us, you’ll have milk for the young ‘un.

Granny pondered, giving the impression of consideration. Well, it’s the least I can do for a neighbor, but you know I can’t guarantee anything. It might die by the time you get back. I’ll do what I can for the old cow. Now bring me back my jar, you hear. Good luck to yuh and watch over yourselves.

With squinted eyes she viewed the truck till it was out of sight and all that was left was a dusty haze. After a deep breath she swirled around and around and her feet were high stepping in a form of a dance. She untied her apron and swung it so high it glided like a kite. Then, reaching her arms to the heavens, she sang, Lordy, Lordy, we got ourselves a cow.

The discontentment from the plague of poverty was beginning to dissipate. The new president promised a great change, a New Deal. Hope and prosperity were the inspirational sounds, and many American hearts were being uplifted. There were some that had coins jingling in their pockets. The fiddlers were tuning up. The harmonicas were lipped with gusto as the paper-soled shoes were tapping. There was moonshine and spooning as the American dream got closer. Someday soon a miraculous rainbow would emerge, and not far from it the pot of gold. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

One early morning a rumbling sound became louder and louder. It finally stopped in our rutted driveway. Granny leapt from her bed, and without peeking out the window she knew who it was. She held on to her long nightie so as not to trip as she rapidly pranced down the steps. My father came toward her carrying packages wrapped in newspaper and tied loosely with string. His fatigued, lined face perked up after glancing around the homestead and at his mother, who was waiting with

beckoning arms by the back door. This was the first time my father had seen us in six months. The warmth and aroma of the kitchen as the coffee pot brewed united the three of us. Tears filled my father’s eyes as he bounced me on his knee. The tales of his many travels and odd jobs became the chatter as Granny gleefully unwrapped the packages. The cupboard was replenished with flour, coffee, a sack of beans, and lard. Baby oil, shoe laces, a toy rattle, long stockings and brown soap were the luxuries carefully placed on a shelf in the pantry. He had emptied out his pockets and placed coins and a few bills on the kitchen table. We were endowed. Granny shook her head in disbelief as she slowly folded the newspapers from the parcels. The bold headlines featured misfortunes such as the kidnap-murder of Charles Augustus Lindbergh’s son, and the scandals behind the poor little rich girl Gloria Vanderbilt. These were unnerving to millions of Americans.

The rich and privileged had problems, too. In a country racked by the Great Depression, the deprived children with all their insufficiencies were better off than some of the marvelous rich whose dignity had fallen and shattered. Millions of parents felt these calamities and held dearly and cautiously to their children.

With tears in his eyes, my father held me close, so close I began to cry.

Here now, let me take her, she don’t know you yet, Granny said.

So long as I know she will always be safe, he replied.

Yet there were moments of relief for Americans. By turning the pages of the news to the land of make-believe one could find the smiling face of Little Orphan Annie in the midst of her escapades. There were comedies on the radio. On the silver screen, people found contentment by watching sweet Shirley Temple with her blonde, bouncy curls.

I never knew what kind of work my father did. He came and went, staying for only short periods. With each visit he brought me a surprise. Happy to see the coins on the table, Granny was also delighted when he tended to the chores. Her arthritis was becoming more painful and, as she ran after me, exhausting. I tuned out and often hid when I heard her shrieking voice call, Emily Jane, where are you? You’d better not be getting into trouble.

I had a rag doll I spanked and threw in the closet every time Granny was mad at me. The doll was being thrown into the closet more and more. There were times she never came out. Like most poor children from the 1930’s, my playtime was occupied with the basics—paper, pencils and crayons. Coloring books were a treat brought home by Daddy. For brief moments he would sit and play. After a spell, a vacant look would come over him and, as if in a trance, he would stare at me and then walk away. The same uneasiness filtered through me time after time. I sensed that perhaps a good spanking was due me for being born.

It may have been out of guilt, because there were no children to play with that Granny sat with me to sew. When her patience wasn’t rattled, she would read to me and help me with my numbers and letters. In a crude manner, she made games out of chores. I handed her the wash from the big laundry basket as she clipped them on the line and I counted the many clothespins we would use. She watched with pride and astonishment as I wrote my letters and numbers, and colored with tightly held crayons to keep within the lines. When her Carl came home again he would be so pleased. My school days were not too far into the future and she was doing her duty by readying me for them. On our trips to market with a neighbor she would boast. The shopkeepers, who knew her, were bored by Granny’s pretentiousness, but they politely showed interest. The Woolworth store was always my favorite. She had to drag me out, fearful of spending on me.

I received the greatest gift of my young life on Christmas morning. My father had returned a week before Christmas and told me that if I were very good, Santa would leave me a beautiful surprise. My nights were sleepless waiting for the big day. I skipped about the house with excitement. If I was contrary in any way I was reminded about Santa. I awoke Christmas morning and awkwardly banged the door with my shoulder as I rushed and scurried down the steps. Moments after, Dad descended. Lagging behind and holding on to the banister to ease the pains from her still-sleepy, tired bones was Granny. There were only a few wrapped presents under the tree. Most of them were for me. I don’t remember what Dad gave Granny or what Granny had made for my father, yet I do remember the big fuss she made over her new mop. It was as if she had received a new coat. I excitedly opened each box with my name on it. Handmade mittens from Grandma, cutouts, a ruler, a spinning top, and bright red boots, all from Santa. I held each gift with enthusiasm and flip-flopped around in my red boots and long nightie. Daddy and Granny laughed. I was too preoccupied with what I had, to notice Daddy pull out a box hidden under the tree. It was bigger than a shoebox and it had a red ribbon around it.

Here is your big surprise.

Now you untie it easy, grumbled Granny.

Oh, Daddy, what is it? What could be so big?

They both sat patiently smiling as my fingers began to lift the cover off the box. I stood in awe, my mouth open wide as my eyes set on the most beautiful doll I had ever seen. It was a Shirley Temple doll with blue glass eyes that looked right at me. Her blonde curls were soft and bobbed up and down. She was wearing a pink accordion-pleated dress. I was so excited I began jumping.

Oh, Daddy, is she really mine? She had black patent leather shoes like the rich children’s. I could not take my eyes off her. Again and again I said, I love her, oh thank you, thank you, thank you.

Granny rose, quickly brushing a tear from her eyes with the back of her hand. I think it’s time I put the coffee on.

The three of us went to church to worship the newborn King. I saw the infant Jesus in his crib with hay and quietly spoke to Him. Jesus, this is your birthday and because of You, I am the luckiest little girl in the whole church, in the state of Pennsylvania, in the whole world.

Only minor touch-ups were undertaken when my father was home. From his slim earnings, Granny very shrewdly saved what she could. Even when a dollar was sent by mail, a portion was put away for a rainy day.

By the time your dad comes home again, Emmie, we will have this house fixed up a bit.

The neighbors who had remained were always looking for odd jobs for a little pay, or some exchange. Granny had taken in some mending, and baked bread in exchange for some hay from their barn. The old cow had been wasting away to nothing. Nick Pendorlin, the older of two brothers, was hired to paint the back bedroom. Granny swore that the last time the bedrooms had been painted was when Sidney had done them.

I was not allowed upstairs while Nick was working. I don’t want you bothering him now, you hear? You might trip over something or step in the paint. Lordy, Emmie, you can get into so much mischief.

The big ladder was brought up first, then the drop cloths. The last trip was with paints and brushes. I peeked from the hall each time. It was something new, almost like having company. Hardly ever was there anybody over to see us. A neighbor now and then would take us to town or stop to chat. Oh yes, Bart and old Harry would come over and play cards, but this was when Daddy was home. I was always sent to bed after they came.

As Granny was about to step outside and tend to her wash, she heard Nick call from the upstairs landing.

Mrs. McCaffrey, send Emmie up with a hammer.

After rummaging through the old wooden box containing nails, string, screwdrivers, and small junk, she found the hammer. Handing it to me she said, Now you bring this up to Nick and be watchin where you’re steppin.

I began to skip with it toward the steps. The hammer seemed heavier as I reached the top landing. Then, dragging it a bit down the hall, I entered the back bedroom. After walking into the room, I placed the hammer on the floor. The smell of paint and turpentine made my eyes burn. I rubbed my nose and eyes but it didn’t make the burn go away. The tall pyramid-shaped ladder against the wall went almost to the ceiling. Nick stood on it, halfway up. His shoes were paint-stained and his brown trousers looked like two long fence posts. The top of his cap touched the ceiling when he arched his back and stretched. Bring me the hammer Emmie, he demanded with a smile. I slowly proceeded toward him. I stood on my toes and reached as high as I could, trying to steady the heavy hammer over my head.

I can’t get it, Emmie, come on the first step. Now, closer, he reached, grabbed my arms with his strong hand, and yanked me up. My face was so close to him I could smell his breath from his nostrils. He was breathing deeply and held me close to his body. I was shaking and so frightened. The hammer and my hand squeezed between us, hurting my chest.

He nervously and quickly began to fondle me. With one hand he unzipped his pants. Then he pulled my panties down. Something bad was happening. I was so afraid, jittery and whimpering. With my one free hand I pushed and wanted to scratch his face but I could hardly reach his neck. The ladder swayed but he steadied it from the wall. Oh why can’t I fall and run away? Something bad was happening to me. The window was a few feet away from the ladder. Granny, why can’t Granny see what is happening? Oh Mama, Mama, why did you have to die? Something hard was rubbing against my legs. I tried to scream but no sounds came out. Daddy, where is my Daddy?

I instantly became aware that the pain in my chest was not as intense. Both hands were free, and from my swaying and punching the hammer fell on the hard floor. The sound startled him. I immediately stumbled down from the ladder, landing on the paint-stained cloth with hands and knees. A half-filled can of paint was in my way as I raced toward the door. My leg brushed against it and paint stains were on my sock. Maybe I toppled the paint but I don’t remember. I remember my heart beating so fast as he yelled, Emmie, come back, you come back here now.

I ran toward the back door just as Granny was about to come in. My arms were waving toward her but no words could come from my mouth.

My lands, look at you, child, you are a mess, she shouted. What did you do?

No, Granny, no, please.

She went on and on. You tripped over the paint. I knew’d you’d do it.

Oh, why couldn’t she see what had happened? I turned around and there he was, staring at me, wiping his hands with a cloth. He never took his eyes off me. I hid behind Granny.

Did she make much of a mess, did she?

No ma’am, but there won’t be any more painting for today, he said, and off he went.

Now see what you’ve done, she shouted. I ran to my room and hid in the closet. She continued shouting See what you’ve done, the sound of her scratchy voice still ringing. See what you’ve done?

I held my rag doll close and crouched down in the dark corner. My knees came up to my chest and I rocked back

and forth. Soon my doll became drenched with my tears. Had I done something wrong? Did Granny love me? Did Daddy still hate me for being born? Nick never came back but the bedroom was finished by his younger brother, Roy. I never told Granny what had happened. Maybe she would have been mad at me. I never told anyone. My rag doll had been my only confidante of that fretful experience. For a long time I looked at men, except my father, with distaste and uncertainty. It wasn’t until my preteens that these feelings began to diminish, though the memory from the trauma occasionally surfaced throughout my life.

Granny was stirring the hot starch over the stove for my dress and her son’s shirts. The next day we would leave for the World’s Fair.

No matter what happens, tomorrow, Emily, we are going to the big fair in New York, my Dad promised, as I scooted off to bed early that night. I fell asleep thinking of his words: World’s Fair, I promise, no matter what.

He woke me at five a.m. It was so dark outside. I kept rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and I could hear Granny fussing in the kitchen. I looked outside and could see the rain beating hard against the window.

Oooh, Daddy, it’s raining. It’s raining. I was so disappointed. Are we still going?

You bet we are, no matter what, remember.

Sandwiches, homemade cookies, and apples were packed in a basket along with a screw-top thermos. Granny folded a freshly starched shirt and a change of clothes for me in case I got dirty, and put them all neatly in a paper bag.

I wore my raincoat over my starched dress. Daddy carried the basket and umbrella to the car. Granny was anxious for us to leave. It was a holiday for her as well. It would be a tranquil day in a hushed house. Only the walls watched her sip the brandy while listening to Stella Dallas on the radio. But first she would go back to bed, stretch her tired bones, and hope to fall back to sleep. I lay in the back seat and the motion of the car lulled me to dozing. After what seemed a short ride, the car slowed down to a stop. I heard the door open and became aware that someone had joined us. After some quiet mumbling the car started up again. This time I fell into deeper sleep, later to be wakened by conversation. I sat straight up. In the front seat, next to my father, was a lady. She smelt of something sweet, lilies of the valley, I think.

She turned to look at me and, as if I wasn’t even there, she said, Why, Carl, she’s darling. Where did she ever get the honey colored hair?

I stared at her. Her lips were purple and went upward in a slow smile while she studied me. Her thin black penciled eyebrows were like arrows aimed at each other with a slight curve at the end. Her dark hair had a pompadour and a wave to the side that almost came down to one of the black arrows. The rest of her hair hung straight and curled under into a pageboy, like the movie stars. She was wearing a white dress with puffed sleeves and little flowers all over it. He may have thought she was pretty, but I thought she was ugly. Daddy had a lady friend and I never knew it. He kept glancing in the mirror to see my reaction as he continued driving.

Emmie, this is Ginger. Ginger, meet Emily. She even had a name like a movie star. I sat there and all I did was stare at her.

Why, Carl, she’s a shy little thing, isn’t she? We stopped at the gas station to go to the bathroom. I didn’t want her with me. All right, I know you’re a big girl. Her tone had a touch of sarcasm.

The rain had stopped. Daddy gave the gas attendant two dollars after he filled the tank, and off we went. We were getting hungry. We stopped at the side of the road, sat on the running board of the car, and had an early lunch. They kept smiling and giggling at each other and she rested her

head on his shoulder, then, mumbling something, they both began to laugh. I never knew Daddy this way. He was so different. He didn’t laugh like this at home with me. He liked her better, but I didn’t care; she was not pretty anyway, and she was fat.

Come on, Emmie, you can finish the rest in the car. We have a ways to go yet. I hopped in the back seat. All I thought about was the fair. I would be on the rides and see beautiful buildings from different countries and marvel at new inventions like the ones Mrs. Walsh was telling us about at school.

We had a long walk to the gate after we parked the car. I had never seen so many people before in my whole life. There were happy faces, and everyone was walking in different directions. The buildings were much prettier than any of the pictures, some with waterfalls, some statues. There were buildings made with glass and gold, and when we were close our eyes squinted from the glitter. The colored glass windows were bigger than the ones in church. The Chinese building had a wavy pointed roof. I saw brilliant colors every time I turned around. Oh, how Granny would love the tulips and all the pretty flowers. We went on the rides and Daddy and Ginger laughed and laughed.

Why did they have to hold hands? Oh, I didn’t care, the day was so perfect. The needle-like Trylon was seven hundred feet high, someone said. The Perisphere was bigger than I had ever imagined. Maybe it was as big as the world. Daddy bought me a little souvenir of it which read on the bottom World’s Fair 1939. He bought me some picture cards and a dish for Granny, an orange necklace from the Italian building. Ginger bought me a strawberry ice cream cone. She really wasn’t too ugly. A picture was taken of me standing on little colored flat stones that made a design. Ginger said it was mosaic. I had so many little mementos. Since I kept dropping them, Daddy saved them in his pocket.

A beautiful lady was resting on a bench holding her child. I stopped and stared at her. Come on, Emmie, my father called. I did not move. He came over to see what I was staring at. He, too, glanced at her for a long moment, then he tenderly put his hand on my shoulder.

Come now, Emmie, it’s time to go.

I didn’t want this day to end. I knew Ginger wasn’t anxious to go home either, even though her feet hurt. What did she wear those high heels for anyway? Daddy was thinking of the long drive home. He emptied his pocket of my treats and I curled up in the back seat clutching them, the brilliant colors of the day still dancing in my head. This was the most beautiful time of my whole life. I was determined to stay awake. I remember thinking to myself that if I closed my eyes and slept, this day would be gone. I’ll just rest… I won’t sleep… I won’t. I’m just going to lie here and rest. Maybe I’ll close my eyes for one moment. Just for..

My father was spending more time at home, and because of it there seemed to be more bickering between us. He and Granny were two peas in a pod, both obstinate. Now and then I stayed in town at my friend Irene’s, to play or do homework. Sometimes I had dinner with them. She once told me during school lunch that she had never seen a beehive. At dinner one night, I asked if she could come over to play. Having children about irritated Granny. So I quickly promised, We’ll play outside and be quiet, we won’t get under foot. I want to show her Granddad’s old wagon and the tub we had before the bathroom was put in.

She interrupted with an outburst. I don’t need anymore headaches.

Daddy became vehement with her and promised me Irene could come over for my birthday and times when he was home. Days would go by when all would be calm between us, then Granny would begin screaming and nagging, throwing things about. Due to pains or sleepless

nights, she took to sipping the brandy more and more. My father would stomp out after arguing and not return for days. I often thought he scampered off to Ginger’s.

To avoid listening to her hollering, one night I went to bed early. With a firm grip on my rag doll, I pretended to be sleeping when she came to my room. Through squinted eyes I saw her silhouette in the doorway. Her loose unbelted smock made her appear like a lady scarecrow. Strands of hair were every which way like her mop. She held on to the frame of the door as she said, I know’d you ain’t sleeping. I didn’t move, hoping she would go away. She’s mad again. Why doesn’t she go to bed? Mumbling, she turned to leave. She spotted my Shirley Temple doll on the dresser near the door, seized it and stomped off. I lay in panic. She took my beautiful doll. There was a loud thud, several bumping sounds, then silence. She broke it, she hurt my doll.

My first impulse was to run and find her, but Granny might still be waiting in the hall. Stirring and sobbing, I buried my head under my pillow. I waited for the familiar stillness of the night. Finally, the faint light from the crack under my door was out. I quietly got up. The dusky shadows helped guide me. On hands and knees I felt my way, hoping to find my doll. For a moment, I paused at Granny’s door. There was darkness and silence. Feeling relieved, I held on to the post of the banister and glided my foot onto each step. The thought that she might be smashed at the bottom made me nervous and I moved faster. Finally I reached the bottom and opened the light. There she was on the floor. Her arm was detached and there was a crack across her face. For a long moment I just stood there. I hate you, I hate you, Granny, I said through gritted teeth. With composure, I cautiously picked her up and brought her to my room. I went to bed restless and bitter after gently putting her in the corner of my closet.

Where is Emmie? my father questioned on his return the following day.

She locked herself in her room, was her nonchalant response.

He sat on my bed and tried to appease me after I told him what had happened. Carefully, he inspected the pathetic doll.

She can be fixed, you know? There is a man that fixes dolls worse then this.

I know, but she will never be the same.

Fruitlessly he tried to persuade me to join him for supper. Nor did I budge when he suggested we play Chinese checkers. My room had become my sanctuary.

You know, Emily, your grandmother is very sick and she’s been lonely for a long time.

I sat straight up. She’s got you and me, Daddy, how can she be lonely?

He looked at me squarely, then said, Even when we are together, don’t we sometimes feel alone?

I didn’t always understand him, but I knew exactly what he meant. After a short pause, he said, Emmie, get me a big sheet of your white drawing paper and a scissor. Folding the paper over and over again till it was an inch wide and long like a ruler, be began cutting this way and that way. Watching my expression, he opened the paper slowly, and in front of me were six little paper dolls.

You are a magician, Daddy, you’re a magician, I shouted with glee. I carefully held each end with my fingertips and gently bobbed and dangled them. Loosely, I strung them on my mirror, and from the slightest movements in the room they gently swayed. After my joy, he patted me on the head and left.

The familiar stillness of my room began to settle. While gazing at them from my bed, I was enveloped into a mystical fantasy. I glared at them with intensity, when suddenly, I became one of them. My hands clasped with theirs and their faces became alive with laughter. Instantaneously, there were rays of sunlight and deep blue

skies. Giant marshmallow clouds ballooned