Toys Come Home: being the early experiences of an intelligent stingray, a brave buffalo, and a brand-new someone called Plastic

CHAPTER ONE

In Which There Is Nowhere Nice to Sleep

StingRay has missed the birthday party.

She didn’t mean to. It was her first party, first party ever in the world to be invited to—and she missed it.

She didn’t even know she was missing it. She didn’t know anything about the party until now, when it is already over.

She can tell the people are disappointed in her.

Here is what happened:

StingRay woke up. She had never been awake before, but she could hear a scissor scoring cardboard above her head. Opening a package mailed from a toy store. Inside the package, StingRay was squashed in a gift box that was wrapped in shiny blue paper and tied with a pink ribbon. She woke with a feeling that she’d been waiting, asleep, for a very long time.

She dreamed while she slept: the same dream over and over, about a wooden crate filled with other plush stingrays, packed with flippers touching flippers, tummies touching tails.

It was a mellow, cozy dream. The stingrays were still. The sounds were muffled.

A dream of something like a family, StingRay thinks.

Though she isn’t entirely sure what a family is.

The word just came to her and she used it, inside her head.

I am an intelligent stingray, she thinks. To just have a word come to me and to know it’s the right word. In fact, now that I consider it, I know a lot of things! For instance,

I know that I’m a stingray,

and that a stingray is an extra-special kind of fish,

and that blue is the very best color anything can possibly be,

and that people are people,

and kids are baby people,

and that a kid would probably like to play with me someday.

I know all this stuff without being told. It’s practically like magic, the knowledge I have.

I hope the rest of the world isn’t too jealous of me.

The scissor scores the cardboard, and the wrapping is ripped off. Now StingRay comes out of her crispy nest of tissue paper and is pulled into the bright light of what she knows, just knows somehow, is a kitchen. White cabinets. A jar of spoons and spatulas. Finger paintings stuck to the fridge with magnets.

A kid smiles down at her.

StingRay smiles back.

“She likes me!” says the Girl. “She smiled at me!”

“That’s a nice pretend.”

“I’m not pretending. She really did smile,” the Girl insists.

The mommy kisses the Girl on her head. “Sorry it didn’t come in time for your party. There was a shipping delay, Grandpa said when he called.”

(A party? thinks StingRay. Was there a party?)

“Still, today is your actual birthday,” the mommy goes on. “The day you were born. So it’s nice to have a present on this day as well, isn’t it?”

(I missed a party! thinks StingRay. A party I was supposed to go to!)

“Her name is StingRay,” the Girl announces.

“Oh?” The mommy crinkles her nose. “Don’t you want to call her a real name? Like Sophia or Samantha?”

“StingRay.”

“Or maybe an animal name, like you gave Bobby Dot?”

(Who is Bobby Dot? wonders StingRay.)

“You could call her Sweetie Pie,” continues the mommy. “Or Sugar Puff. How about Sugar Puff, hmm?”

“Just StingRay,” says the Girl. “I like StingRay.”

. . . . .

Upstairs, the Girl’s bedroom has a high bed with fluffy pillows and a soft patchwork quilt. Atop the windowsill is a collection of birthday cards from her friends. There are shelves filled with books and games, puzzles and art supplies. A large ash-blue rocking horse resides in the corner. On the bed lie a plump stuffed walrus and a woolly sheep on wheels.

The sheep looks old.

Under the bookcase, StingRay can see several sets of tiny, sparkling eyes. She can feel them watching her. She can feel the eyes of the walrus, the sheep, and the rocking horse, too. But none of them is moving.

StingRay doesn’t move, either.

The house feels big. Too big.

There don’t seem to be any other stingrays here with whom to nestle. She longs for the comfort of her cozy dream.

The Girl sets StingRay on a low shelf and trots out of the room. She has a playdate.

When the family bangs the front door behind them and the toys can hear the rumble of the car starting in the driveway, the walrus galumphs himself to the edge of the bed, then hurls himself off. He executes a spectacular flip with a twist—and lands right side up.

Whomp!

He’s a little larger than StingRay, and his plush is a satiny walnut brown. His soft tusks and hairy gray whiskers are fresh and clean. The tag on his hind flipper reads DRY CLEAN ONLY.

The walrus shakes his head with a “Blubba-la blubba-la” sound, and the thick pudge of his neck rolls and shakes. Then he scoots over and snuffs his whiskery nose over the edge of the shelf where StingRay sits.

He doesn’t speak.

StingRay doesn’t speak.

StingRay has never spoken, though she would dearly like to. In fact, she thinks she might have a really huge amount to say. But she doesn’t know how to get going, somehow.

“You say ‘How dya do?’ is what you say,” the walrus announces eventually.

“Haaak,” croaks out StingRay.

“No,” snaps the walrus. “ ‘How dya do?’ ” He repeats the phrase as if StingRay is stupid.

“How dya do?” StingRay manages.

“Splendiferous, thank you. And yourself?”

“Splendiferous.” StingRay likes that word. It sounds grand.

“You can’t say ‘splendiferous’ if I said ‘splendiferous,’ ” complains the walrus. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Sorry.”

“I say ‘splendiferous’ and you say something else. Then you’re not copying. Try again. How dya do?”

“Blue,” says StingRay. “I’m blue, thank you.”

“You’re still doing it wrong,” says the walrus. “It’s not a question about color. But let’s move on. My name is Bobby Dot. I was a birthday present and I arrived in the middle of an enormous party. The Girl really likes me and she sleeps with me on the high bed.”

“My name is StingRay. I’m a birthday present, too.”

“Stingray’s not your name,” says Bobby Dot. “Stingray’s what you are.”

“StingRay is too my name.”

“Really?” Bobby Dot looks at her, pityingly.

“Yes.” StingRay tries to hold her chin high, but she is wishing she were indeed called Sweetie Pie or Sugar Puff. Or even Sophia.

“Well. We can’t all have real names, I suppose,” says Bobby Dot as he hurls himself up onto the shelf with a thump. “Sheep is just called Sheep.” He makes himself comfortable next to StingRay. “I don’t think you are a birthday present, by the way.”

StingRay is starting to find Bobby Dot unpleasant. “Why not?”

“Birthday presents come at birthday parties.”

“The mommy said I was a birthday present.”

“Well, maybe she said that to make you feel good. But if you were really a birthday present you would have arrived at the party.”

StingRay knows he is right. She heard the people talking about how she’d failed to be at the party.

It is a bad feeling, this failure. Right at the start of everything. So she pretends to know something she does not.

“I’m the Actual Day of Birth Present,” she tells Bobby Dot. “Haven’t you heard of that?”

The walrus draws his tiny bit of chin back toward his neck. “No.”

“Oh.” StingRay gives a shrill laugh. “I thought everybody knew about those! The Actual Day of Birth Present is this very special kind of blue present

that arrives, of course, on the actual day of birth,

not just on the day of the party, which is not very important,

no offense.

And the Actual Day of Birth Present is the present the kid wanted the most,

in her very favorite color,

in the best color in the world,

not walnut brown or anything boring like that,

no offense.

I can’t believe you didn’t know about those.

I thought it was common knowledge.”

StingRay has spoken so convincingly, she almost believes herself. Bobby Dot’s bright new eyes dim slightly, and she feels a puff of satisfaction.

“Let’s move on,” the walrus says. “Here are some things about this house that you might want to learn.”

StingRay sighs. She wishes she could tell Bobby Dot she already knows everything he could even think to tell her, but the truth is, she needs his information. She links her flipper with the one he’s holding out and the two of them hop off the shelf. As they tour the room, the walrus points out important sights and landmarks. “Don’t talk to the people,” he says. “Just stay still and quiet when they’re around. That’s the bookshelf, make sure you put back anything you look at. The Girl pretty much knows about us. I mean, she talks to us. We just don’t talk back. There’s a TV downstairs. You can watch it when they’re gone for the day but not at night because you might wake someone up. The bathroom is off the hall. There are some towels there and in the linen closet, but they keep to themselves, mostly. It’s like a towel club or something. Not very nice. I wouldn’t want to be a member.”

StingRay follows Bobby Dot and remembers everything.

She still doesn’t like him.

The tall rocking horse in the corner can’t get around on his own, Bobby Dot explains, and he doesn’t talk much. True to this description, the horse blinks his eyes and sniffs StingRay’s proffered flipper to say hello, but he doesn’t say “How dya do?” when she does.

A mischief of toy mice, very small in size, run across the floor to the toy box. The mice giggle among themselves and ignore StingRay. They proceed to pull out a box of small wooden blocks and play a lively game, squeaking and pushing the blocks about with their noses to make a maze. They move so fast StingRay cannot even count them.

“Mice!” cries Bobby Dot, clapping his front flippers together with authority.

The mice ignore him.

“I said, Mice!” He claps again.

Still no response.

Bobby Dot heaves his thick body up and down repeatedly, making heavy banging noises on the carpet.

Whomp!

Whomp!

Whomp!

“Mice, pay attention. I am talking to you!”

The mice pause briefly, a couple of them balancing on top of blocks. A plump white one chews on his own tail.

“This is StingRay,” announces the walrus. “She is a marine animal like me. She has come here to stay. Please give her your attention and courtesy.”

“Sheesh,” mutters the plump white mouse. “You’d think he’d lived here forever, the way he acts.”

Whomp! “Tell her ‘How dya do!’ ” shouts Bobby Dot, thumping his body again.

The mice, unafraid but wanting to go back to their game, squeak “How dya do” at StingRay.

“Let’s move on,” says Bobby Dot.

. . . . .

The Girl and her family return in the evening, and when night falls the dad reads a book about a cat and a doll who live in a tree with a large collection of hats. StingRay listens to the story from her spot on the low shelf. Bobby Dot and Sheep are up on the bed where they can see the pictures.

Then the dad turns out the light and sings until the Girl’s eyes fall shut.

The first day is over.

Sheep and Bobby Dot are asleep on the high bed, now. StingRay wants to sleep, too. In fact, she is very sleepy, but she can’t relax, can’t get comfortable on her hard, lonely shelf.

The toy mice emerge and scuttle about. They pull down a book and open it in front of the horse, who rocks gently as he reads in the near-darkness. The mice begin leapfrogging over one another, squeaking softly. Every now and then the plump white mouse scoots over and flips a page in the horse’s book.

StingRay thinks about going down the hall to meet the towels, but she is nervous that they won’t be friendly, after what Bobby Dot said.

She also isn’t sure what a towel is.

What if it has sharp teeth?

What if it has angry claws?

What if the vicious towels become enraged when a plush stingray tries to join their private conversation?

They might rip her to shreds and eat her for dinner. Or jump on her with their huge, hairy feet

until she’s completely flat,

then hang her on their wall for decoration.

She stays where she is.

After a while, the rocking horse shuts its long-lashed eyes and the toy mice scuttle under the bookshelf to go to bed. StingRay flops down and peers under the shelf at their shining eyes. Maybe she could get to sleep if she slept with them! All one on top of the other like in the dream about the box of other stingrays.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Oh. Hello there, marine animal!” shouts one mouse. “We’re going to bed now. Night-night!”

“I was wondering. Could I sleep with you?” says StingRay. It is hard for her to ask. She chokes out the words.

“Sure!” cries the mouse. “Come on in!”

So StingRay, feeling awkward and grateful, tries to shove her big plushy body into the narrow flat space beneath the bookshelf.

One flipper goes in. And the tip of her nose.

“We’ll push you!” cries a mouse.

They swarm out from underneath the shelf and begin pushing StingRay with their hard little mouse noses.

They grunt with the effort.

The rest of StingRay’s nose goes in, plus some more flipper. “There!” cries one mouse.

“Great pushing, guys!” cries another.

“We pushed the marine animal. Did you see? Did you see? We pushed it!”

“I saw. I was pushing with you.”

“We pushed it with our noses! High five!”

StingRay’s face is jammed against the shelf, but out of the corner of one eye, she can see the mice bouncing up and down, pleased with themselves.

“I’m not in,” she says.

“You’re almost in!” cries a brown mouse. “You just have to make yourself a bit smaller.”

Maybe this is the sort of thing a stingray can do if she tries, StingRay thinks. So she smallens herself, lessens herself, scrunches herself down and diminishes with all her might.

“A little more smaller!” yells the mouse. “Then you’ll be in!”

StingRay tries again, but somehow, she does not diminish. She stays exactly the same.

Maybe it is not the sort of thing a stingray can do if she tries.

“I think I’ll just sleep here,” says StingRay. “Because, you know, stingrays like to sleep out in the cold dark air. We like that better than cozy under bookshelves.”

“Nighty-night, then!” cries a mouse, and they all scuttle under the shelf and make themselves comfortable. StingRay can feel their hard, furry bodies bumping her nose and creeping back and forth across her one flipper that is underneath. It is ticklish. And not at all cozy.

Eventually, the mice settle down and go to sleep, but StingRay can’t see or feel any of them. She waggles her flipper around a bit, looking for a cuddly mouse to comfort her as she tries to rest.

“Marine animal!” She hears a squeak. “Marine animal!”

“What?”

“You are hurting me with your big arm!”

“And you are squashing me with your nose on my bed!” cries another voice.

StingRay’s face feels hot and she pulls both her nose and flipper out from under the bookshelf.

“Thank you!” “Nighty-night!” cry the mice.

“Good night,” says StingRay.

She goes back to her shelf and settles herself there for the night. All alone, she sleeps only fitfully.

. . . . .

When the Girl goes to school the next day, she takes Bobby Dot with her and leaves Sheep down on the floor.

Sheep is gray-white and ancient, with four wooden wheels, two felt ears, and a firm wool body. “Before I came here I was Dad’s favorite toy—and Grandpa’s before that,” she says, by way of introduction. “What were you?”

StingRay wasn’t anything before this. This is all she ever was.

“I was … I was…,” she stutters.

Sheep sniffs. “You have a new-toy smell, same as that walrus,” says Sheep. “Is that it? You’re a new toy?”

StingRay does not want to have the same smell as Bobby Dot.

“I was the mommy’s,” she lies. “And that is not new-toy smell you’re smelling. That is extremely clean smell,

plus roses and geraniums and clover

and everything fresh and lovely and precious.

It is a special smell for toys that are loved a huge entirely lot.

Bobby Dot smells like plastic thread and sawdust,

I know what you’re talking about,

but that is not my smell at all.”

Sheep sniffs again. “I like clover,” she says, agreeably. “And geraniums. I would like to chew some one day, but I don’t suppose it’ll ever happen.”

Since Sheep seems friendly, StingRay asks her to play a game—and Sheep agrees. But before StingRay can read the instructions and get the checkers set up (Sheep hasn’t got flippers or arms that she can use), there is a gentle snore from the other side of the board.

Sheep is asleep.

StingRay pokes her new friend with a flipper.

She barks “Hello!” in Sheep’s felt ear and even pulls her scrawny tail.

But waking Sheep is impossible.

Slowly, StingRay puts the checkers back in the box.

. . . . .

That night, exhausted, StingRay tries to sleep next to the rocking horse. She creeps across the rug to him and announces, “I’m just going to keep you company here.

Because you seem like you might be lonely.

Like, you want to have someone to sleep next to you,

so the night doesn’t seem so long.

I am going to help you out with that.”

She drapes one soft flipper over the lower rail of the horse’s base.

But it is not very cuddly.

So she climbs, pushing with her tail and clinging with her flippers, onto the horse’s back, then relaxes into the saddle.

But it is kind of wobbly.

She flops onto the horse’s head and flips around to face the other way, so that her long tail trails across his nose and her warm flippers embrace his ears.

The horse coughs.

“What?” StingRay whispers.

“No thank you.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be so nice! You won’t feel lonely anymore!”

“No thank you,” says the horse firmly. Then he shakes his head, the way horses do to ward off flies. His mane swings out and his nose arcs through the air and StingRay is flung sharply across the room to land—

on the high bed with the fluffy pillows.

Hooray! This is perfect.

StingRay can sleep with Sheep, Bobby Dot, and the Girl!

Carefully, carefully she creeps up to the head of the bed. Sheep is clutched in the Girl’s chubby palm, Bobby Dot is under the covers.

Both of them wake as StingRay settles herself between them.

“I was dreaming of clover,” mutters Sheep, sleepily.

“I was dreaming of sharks,” whispers Bobby Dot, irritably.

“I’m going to sleep on the high bed now!” announces StingRay, trying to sound confident. “Because I’m the Actual Day of Birth Present. We’re all going to be cuddling together from now on!”

Sheep eyes Bobby Dot. “It’s already a lot more crowded here than it used to be,” she says, meaningfully. “Before the birthday, there was plenty of room in this bed.”

Bobby Dot eyes Sheep right back. “It would be fine if some people didn’t have hard wooden parts,” he says.

“It would be fine,” says Sheep, “if some people didn’t have teeth that are way larger than regular teeth that people have. And also if those people with the teeth didn’t talk so much all the time when other people are trying to rest.”

“I don’t have teeth,” says StingRay. “Or wooden parts. I’m an extremely cuddly stingray. And you won’t believe how quiet I can be.”

She looks hopefully at Sheep.

Sheep has already gone back to sleep.

“I’m going to be awake for hours,” complains Bobby Dot. “I can’t believe you woke us like this. Don’t you know it’s sleepytime?”

Fine then, thinks StingRay.

Meanie.

Suddenly, she doesn’t want to cozy up with Bobby Dot and Sheep anymore. She doesn’t want to sleep anywhere in this cold unfriendly room. Or anywhere in this too-big house.

That’s it. StingRay is running away.

Right now. Running away forever and ever.

Without another word to Bobby Dot, she flops off the bed and lurches toward the door.

She’ll go away from these selfish toys to somewhere better. Much better.

And she’ll never come back!

And then they’ll all miss her!

Without thinking about the herd of possible vicious towels in the linen closet and the bathroom, without thinking about where she will go and how she will sleep, StingRay zooms out of the Girl’s bedroom, down the hall and—

Fwap! Gobble-a gobble-a.

Fwap! Gobble-a gobble-a.

Fwap! Gobble-a gobble-a.

Bonk!

Falls down the stairs. Flipper over flipper, thumping and ouching, bouncing off moldings and posts, then lying shocked at the bottom, head aching.

But she cannot rest. She is running away. Where to go?

Where to go?

StingRay has not been in the downstairs of the house since she arrived. She doesn’t remember which room is the kitchen, the living room, anything. She hurls herself across the wood floor, searching for an exit in the dark.

She can feel something swing slightly as she bangs into it, so she pulls up short. It’s a door. The door to the outside.

This is it.

Eyes shut tightly, StingRay pushes through the doorway and down another flight of stairs—

Fwap! Gobble-a gobble-a.

Bonk!

—to land in complete darkness.

The floor underneath her is cold.

StingRay coughs.

It is very dusty.

There is a rumbling coming from the other end of the room.

This is not the outside. StingRay has looked out the windows enough to know that the outside has grass and trees and the sounds of cars going by, leaves rustling. Here, she can hear nothing but the scary rumble.

This must be the basement.

Rumble. Ruuuuuuumble.

What is that sound?

Could it be a ghost?

Maybe ghosts go to the basement to hide when the attic gets full up, StingRay thinks.

Maybe they go down there to eat marine animals

who might have strayed from their usual habitats,

or make slaves of lonely friendless people.

Maybe it’s not ghosts at all but axe murderers, leaping around with axes and rumbling all about how they want to chop things.

Whooooo addleaddleaddle!

Something hairy with lots of legs crawls onto StingRay’s flipper. She can feel it inching its way across.…

It is on her! The thing! Maybe a spider with fifty-eight legs,

just a crazy amount of creepy crawly legs,

and it is crawling on StingRay’s body—

Whooooo addleaddleaddle! StingRay rears up and flaps her flippers and screeches to get the spider off. Oh, it sends shivers down her back! She rolls in the dust and flops back and forth and tosses her head—eeeeeewwww—and finally, finally comes to a stop when she is sure the spider-thing is not on her anymore.

In the darkness, she can just make out stacks of cardboard boxes looming on either side of her.

She has lost her bearings.

Where are the stairs?

She is scared to move.

She can still hear that rumble ruuuuuuumble, and if she moves, the ghosts and/or axe murderers might notice her.

She curls herself up as tight as she can, tucking her tail around her body, and holds perfectly still.

After a minute or two, there is a loud buzz. The rumble stops.

StingRay waits for it to start again, but it does not. Still, she is scared to look for the stairs. Instead she sits, tense and knotted, for hours, until the morning sun shines softly through the high basement windows and she hears footsteps on the floor above her.

Feet come softly down to the basement and pad over to the dryer. The dad fills a basket with clothes and turns to take it upstairs. “Honey, your stingray is down here!” he calls in surprise.

He picks StingRay up and brushes some dust from her plush, then places her on top of the basket. Bouncing up the steps, two at a time, he delivers StingRay into the waiting arms of the Little Girl.

“Oh, sweetie sweetie!” cries the Girl, hugging StingRay. “I thought you were lost! I looked for you all over this morning.” She plants a kiss on StingRay’s head. “Now, remember this from now on: don’t go in the basement or I will miss you, miss you! I need you very much.”

The Girl smells like maple syrup and soap. Her arms are warm on StingRay’s cold, tight body.

This is what StingRay has been looking for.

Somebody to love.

Somebody who will love her back.

Who will be her family.

Of course, the Girl is it. Of course she is.

StingRay should have known that all along.

She relaxes into the Girl’s embrace and feels the beautiful day stretch before her as she is carried into the kitchen to watch waffles being made.