Mermaids on the Moon

One The Fantasy Doll Theater had no telephone, so France drove out to tell Bruno about her mother's disappearance. The theater, where Bruno staged his Fantasy Doll shows, was thirty miles north of Indianapolis, on a county road a few miles from the town of Cedar Valley, up on a rise where the wind always blew. There was a magnificent view, but France was sure Bruno never noticed the rise and fall of the corn, rolling out for miles, the endless green grid broken up occasionally by a farmhouse glowing white under oak and maple trees. This morning, as usual, rain clouds filled the sky. France pulled up next to Bruno's van with the bashed-in side, a van he'd bought from a family who didn't have the insurance to fix it. She hated the sight of it. When she got out of her Toyota she felt assaulted by sounds. A row of rocking chairs, with Bruno's wooden dolls propped up in them, rocked and squeaked in the wind. Other dolls spun around in a tin merry-go-round, ringing bells as they went. His theater and workshop were in what used to be an old general store. Big tin tubes--wind catchers--stuck up through the roof fantasy doll show--2 dollar admission read the hand-painted sign over the door. Bruno began carving dolls soon after he and France started seeing each other again. A farmer mowing ditches near Bruno's house knocked down one of the cedar posts lining the county road, and Bruno'd helped himself to the post and crafted his first doll. He carved and painted a face, attached movable arms and legs made of pine, and after he finished, he announced that he'd found his calling. He figured out how to use wind power to make his dolls move and dance, sure they would draw a crowd. Inside the dim, barnlike room, which smelled of mouse turds, was a little stage crowded with brightly dressed wooden dolls, and facing the stage were rows of chairs set up for the audience that never came. Bruno crouched on the stage among his dolls, wearing cutoffs and a tank shirt, oblivious, as usual, to the chill in the air. He'd played football at Indiana and had kept that build, even though he never exercised anymore. His golden brown hair was still thick and wavy. The lightly etched lines around his eyes looked as though he could wipe them away if he wanted to. At the moment he was tying an ivory-colored bonnet under the chin of a doll wearing a ruffly, Little-House-on-the-Prairie dress. He dressed all the dolls in clothes he found at the thrift store, and he painted their lips and eyes and fingernails. They all had nameplates hanging like reading glasses from their necks. Wilma. Peanut. He didn't seem surprised to see France, even though he hadn't been expecting her until evening. It was her weekend to stay with him. "Francie Pants, meet Francie Pants," he said. Francie Pants was the first doll Bruno'd based on her, and she felt surprised and slightly offended by the doll's attire. "I can't decide," Bruno said, adjusting the doll's bonnet. "She sings, but should she play an instrument too? Maybe a fiddle." "How about a washtub?" France suggested. She sat down on the edge of the stage, tucking her skirt around her legs. She'd never worn prairie clothes in her entire life. Right now she was dressed for work in a bright knit shirt and long black skirt, and when she left here they'd be covered in dust. "You forgot the corncob pipe," she told Bruno, trying to keep her tone light. "Don't get prickly," said Bruno, grinning at her. "This here's the inner France. The one you try to hide. Your inner Pioneer." "Whatever," France said. She'd rather he'd dressed it like a werewolf. "You've got three more dolls to make," she reminded him. "One doll at a time. That's my motto." Bruno was downwardly mobile. He lived in his parents' old frame house in Cedar Valley, which was stuffed with junk he'd collecteStuckey-French, Elizabeth is the author of 'Mermaids on the Moon' with ISBN 9780385498944 and ISBN 0385498942.