azines. I found coloring books and a pad of dry watercolor paints with stiff brushes. There were moldy crayons, pencils, and a toy sewing kit with some material meant for doll's clothing. I found a toy nurse's set with a stethoscope, a nurse's cap, a fake thermometer, and some real bandages and gauze. That, too, looked barely used.
At the bottom of the pile, I discovered a notebook that had been used as a drawing pad. The first few pages had crude line drawings, but as I turned the pages, I felt I was turning through the years of Gladys Tate's development until I reached the point at which her drawings were more sophisticated. One page in particular caught my interest.
I thought it looked like Gladys Tate's selfportrait: the face of a little girl who had similar features. Behind the little girl was the looming face of a bearded man. She had drawn nothing more of his body, but hovering just above her shoulder was what was obviously meant to be his hand, the fingers thick, one with a marriage band.
When I lifted the notepad a little higher to bring it closer, I saw something slipping from between some pages. It was a card with a small bird on the outside. Inside were scribbled the words: To my little Princess. Love, Daddy. There was a second card, also with a bird on the outside. This time the scribbled words read: Never be afraid. Love, Daddy.
I turned a few more pages, observing crude drawings of a man without a shirt, his chest covered with what I was sure was meant to look like curled hairs. In the middle of the torso was a light drawing of a face with the mouth stretched in what looked like a scream.
Curious and now intrigued, I flipped past the drawings of birds, trees, and a horse to find the picture that made me gasp. It had been drawn with a shaky hand. The lines wobbled, but it was clearly meant to be the body of a man, waist down, naked, his manliness drawn quite vividly. I closed the notebook quickly, put it back in the closet, and stood up, slapping my hands together to shake off the dust. What strange things for a little girl to draw, I thought. I was afraid to permit myself to wonder what it all meant.
I went to my door and opened it slowly, listening keenly for the sound of footsteps. Surely she would be bringing me something to eat soon, I thought. I was very hungry and my stomach was growling with anger. Frustrated, but aware that if I didn't occupy myself, my hunger would only bellow louder, I turned to the shelf of dolls.
I found some cloth to use for dusting and took the first doll down to carefully wipe its arms, legs, and face. All these dolls looked like they had been expensive ones. Some had features so perfect, I was positive they were handmade. Observing the line of them on the shelf, I realized that there were only two male dolls, and they had been placed a little behind the others.
As I put the first doll down on the table, I noticed something odd when the doll's dress was raised. I peeled back the skirt and gazed with horror at what had been done. A blotch of black ink had been painted between the doll's legs where its female genitals would be. I inspected the other dolls and found either that or a chipping away of the area that had been done with some crude implement. The worst damage, however, was inflicted on the two boy dolls. They had been smashed so that their torsos ended just under their belly buttons.
I hated to think what this all possibly meant. Suddenly I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the short stairway. I hurriedly returned the dolls to the shelf and sat on the bed just as Gladys Tate opened my door, my tray of food in her hands.
"Well," she snapped. "Don't just sit there waiting to be served. Come take it."
I hopped off the bed, took the tray, and placed it on the table.
"Thank you," I said. I pulled the chair close and sat. "Why is that lantern on?" she asked.
"It's so dark in here with the shade drawn."
"You're just wasting the kerosene. I can't be bringing up kerosene every day too. Use it sparingly," she ordered, and turned it out, draping us in shadows. Nevertheless, I began to eat and drink the coffee while it was still warm.
"I see you've been looking at things already," she said, noticing the things on the floor by the closet.
"Yes, madame. That's a very nice dollhouse, a replica of this house, isn't it?"
"My father made that for me. He was artistic," she said, "but he did those things only as a hobby."
"It is a work of art. You should have it on display, downstairs."
"I don't think I need you to tell me how to decorate my house," she snapped. "It belongs up here and here is where it will remain."
"I'm sorry. I just thought you would be proud to have other people see it."
"If you must know, it's personal. He gave it to me for my fifth birthday." She closed her eyes as if it had been painful to explain.
"You must have loved it. I looked at the books. They're all for very small children."
"Umm. I'll see about bringing up something more equal to your maturity. My father used to make me read Charles Dickens. He had me stand before him and read passages aloud."
"I have read some of Charles Dickens's novels in school, yes."
"Well, any one of them will keep you busy awhile," she said. "You were sufficiently quiet this morning," she offered in a tone as close to a compliment as she could manage. "No one noticed anything or mentioned anything to me. That's good. Keep it that way," she commanded.
"One thing you must do, however. Rise before dawn and close the shade. It has never been up during the day, and someone will surely notice."
"Why has it never been up?" I asked.
"It just hasn't," she shot back. "This room has been abandoned up until now."
"Why?" I persisted. "I would think your old playroom would have some nice memories for you, and you would want to keep it nice."