Keeping Secrets by Sarah Shankman Page B

didn’t want to even think about risking another baby so soon.
    “It’s a lot of money, Virg.”
    “I know.” She rolled over and let it drop.
    But a few Saturdays later, without saying a word more about it, he’d ridden into Natchitoches and on his return pressed a newspaper-wrapped bundle into Virgie’s hand. She could tell from the shape of it that it was the doll.
    Now it lay among the clutter of the other packages under the Christmas tree. Virgie couldn’t wait for her family to finish dinner so they could open their presents and she could see the expression on Ro’s face.
    Now there it was. As the skinny little girl in her faded blue flour-sack dress slowly unwound the string and then unwrapped the paper, she raised her wide hazel eyes from the doll’s long blue watered silk, her mouth a perfect O.
    She gazed first at Virgie, then at William, then back to the doll again, shaking her head over and over.
    “Momma, Pa,” she cried, racing into their open arms and crushing her thin chest against theirs, but carefully holding her treasure to one side.
    “It’s all right, Ro,” Virgie whispered into her ear. “Merry Christmas.”
    The Norris boys expressed little interest in her special present, disappearing into their room to try on new denim overalls, socks and coats of sensible navy wool, but the girls all gathered round.
    “Look,” said little Nancy as Rosalie lowered the doll’s head, “her eyes close.” They did indeed. Rosalie held her breath. Were their brilliant blue lost somewhere in her head forever? But no, when she lifted the doll perpendicular, there they were again.
    The doll’s jointed head moved, too. “Careful,” Virgie cautioned. “Not too far.” The arms, the legs moved, and the doll could even bend over at her tiny waist.
    “Does she have drawers?” Janey whispered. Rosalie wiped her hand on her lap and carefully lifted the hem of the doll’s dress to see lace-trimmed pantaloons.
    Esther asked, “What are you going to call her?”
    “Gloria,” Rosalie answered without skipping a beat. She’d known the doll’s name the first time she’d laid eyes on her in Kendall’s Mercantile Store.
    “Like morning glory, blue morning glory?” Lucille always seemed to know what was going on in Rosalie’s head.
    “Yes. And Gloria in excelsis Deo . From the hymn at church.”
    Virgie snorted, “Lord, Lord. Put her away now. Girls, come on. Let’s get this table cleared.”
    For the rest of the day, Rosalie was on a cloud. She did her chores as always, taking her turn changing the baby and the other little ones, carrying water from the well, filling the big iron pot on the back of the stove, gathering eggs from under the hateful pecking hens, carrying in pails of foaming milk from the evening milking. But every chance she got, she slipped back into the girls’ room and sneaked a look at Gloria, her blue eyes closed, asleep in a nest fashioned of an old baby quilt atop the chifforobe.
    That night, after a supper of leftovers which had sat all afternoon on the table covered over with a clean tablecloth, she brought Gloria back into the kitchen to play with her while the family sat around the evening fire.
    “Can I hold her?” Florence asked.
    Rosalie hesitated, but Virgie caught her eye. Even if Gloria was hers, she had to share.
    “Here.” She handed the doll over. “But be careful.”
    Florence was careful, as were Esther, Janey, Lucille and even little Nancy. When Gloria had made the circle and was safely back in her arms, Rosalie sighed with relief.
    Then, “What about me?” asked the gruff voice, still changing, of her older brother England. “Can I see the dolly, too?” He stepped forward, holding out his big rough hands.
    Rosalie looked from his hands to Gloria to the eyes of her mother. She found no help there. Nor in the half-closed eyes of her father, leaned back in his rocking chair enjoying his pipe, a pleasure reserved for special occasions.
    “He won’t hurt