Woolly understood that Mr. Chippendale and Mr. van der Rohe were held in the highest esteem for the designs of their chairs. But it seemed to him that the men who made these perfect little replicas deserved at least as much esteem, if not more. For to make a Chippendale or van der Rohe chair in such tiny dimensions surely had to be harder than to make one you could sit on.
But Woolly’s favorite part of the case was all the way over to the right, where there was a series of kitchens. At the top there was what was called the Prairie Kitchen, with a simple wooden table and a butter churn and a cast-iron frying pan on a cast-iron stove. Next came the Victorian Kitchen. You could tell this was the sort of kitchen in which a cook did the cooking because there was no table or chairs at which to sit and eat your supper. Instead, there was a long, wooden island over which hung six copper pots in descending order of size. And finally, there was the Kitchen of Today, with all the wonders of the modern era. In addition to a bright white stove and a bright white refrigerator, there was a table for four with a red Formica top and four chrome chairs with red vinyl seats. There was a KitchenAid mixer, and a toaster with a little black lever and two little pieces of toast. And in the cabinet over the counter, you could see all the little boxes of cereal and the tiny cans of soup.
—I knew I’d find you here.
Woolly turned to discover his sister standing at his side.
—How did you know? he asked in surprise.
—How did I know! repeated Sarah with a laugh.
And Woolly laughed too. Because, of course, of course, he knew exactly how she knew.
When they were younger, every December Grandma Wolcott would take them to FAO Schwarz so that they could each pick out their own Christmas present. One year, as the family was getting ready to leave with all of their coats buttoned and all of the big red bags filled to the limit, they realized that in the midst of the holiday bustle, young Woolly had somehow gone missing. Members of the family were dispatched to every floor, calling out his name, until Sarah finally found him here.
—How old were we then?
She shook her head.
—I don’t know. It was the year before Grandma died, so I suppose I was fourteen and you were seven.
Woolly shook his head.
—That was so hard. Wasn’t it?
—What was so hard?
—Choosing a Christmas present—from here of all places!
Woolly waved his arms about in order to encompass all of the giraffes, Ferraris, and magic sets in the building.
—Yes, she said. It was very hard to choose. But especially for you.
Woolly nodded.
—And then after, he said, after we had picked out our presents and Grandma had sent the bags home with the driver, she would take us to the Plaza for tea. Do you remember?
—I remember.
—We would sit in that big room with the palm trees. And they would bring those towers with the little watercress and cucumber and salmon sandwiches on the lower levels, and the little lemon tarts and chocolate eclairs on top. And Grandma would make us eat our sandwiches before we ate the cakes.
—You have to climb your way to heaven.
Woolly laughed.
—Yes, that was it. That’s what Grandma used to say.
* * *
? ? ?
As Woolly and Sarah came off the escalator onto the ground floor, Woolly was explaining his brand-new notion that the dollhouse-chair makers deserved just as much regard, if not more, than Mr. Chippendale and Mr. van der Rohe. But as they were approaching the front door, someone was shouting urgently behind them.
—Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!
When Woolly and his sister looked back to see the source of the commotion, they discovered that a man with a very managerial appearance was chasing after them with a hand in the air.
—Just a moment, sir, the man called as he worked his way definitively in Woolly’s direction.
Intending to wear an expression of comic surprise, Woolly turned to his sister. But she was still watching the man approach with a slight hint of dread. A slight but heartbreaking hint.
Reaching them, the man paused to catch his breath, then addressed Woolly.
—I apologize most sincerely for the shouting. But you’ve forgotten your bear.
Woolly’s eyes opened wide.
—The bear!
He turned to his sister, who looked at once mystified and relieved.
—I’d forgotten the bear, he said with a smile.
A young woman who had been trailing after the manager now appeared, holding a panda that was almost as big as she was.
—Thank you both, said Woolly, taking the bear in his arms. Thank you ten times over.