“That’s right, I do believe I tol’ you to pack ’em up in the attic.” Hilda Effania bit her lips, smuggled a smile out of her concern for her child. “Indigo, you don’t haveta bury the girls. I think they look wonderful here in your room. As long as I can remember, you’ve gone to bed with your dollies. No matter how angry I was when I said what I said, you know I don’t hold a soul to my every word. You keep your dolls as long as you want. Why, I think at least Miranda can come to Christmas dinner.” Hilda Effania wanted Indigo to lose this forlorn curve in her back, the sadness in her gaze. But Indigo was resolute.

“No, Mama. I don’t think they’re quite dead, they’re just resting, I think.” Indigo looked up at her mama wanting very much. All she said was: “Mama, I couldn’t bear for them to grow up. I couldn’t stand it, Mama. I just couldn’t.”

Hilda Effania really didn’t know what was the matter. She knew to hold Indigo close to her, to say her name over & over till the child was ready to talk.

“Mama, it’s hard, isn’t it?”

“What’s hard, Indigo?”

“Being a grown colored woman is hard, ain’t it? Just like you tol’ me. Just ’cause I haveta grow up, my dolls don’t haveta. I can save them. Mama, let’s take them to the attic. You & me. I don’t even wanta invite Mrs. Yancey, though Miranda will miss her. Just you & me, let’s do something very special.”

Hilda Effania sat Indigo down on the bed with her. She rocked her baby in her arms, patted her back, hummed a tune as she made it up.

“I don’t know that it’s all that hard to be a full-grown colored woman, Indigo. I can imagine not wanting your friends to grow up, though. If they grow up, eventually, they will haveta go. But, you know they could stay little girls forever.”

“How, Mama?”

“You know it’s Christmas time, & there’s hundreds of other little girls, oh tiny little girls, who’d take real good care of Miranda, Marie-Hélène & all the rest of them. & you & I know there’s no dollies in the whole world quite like these.” Hilda Effania tried so hard not to laugh. She had flashes of Indigo stealing rice from the kitchen, buttons from the sewing room, bits of satin from patterns for Miz Fitzhugh’s ball gowns. “Like I was saying, Indigo, there’s no dollies like this anywhere on the earth.”

“You mean, give ’em away to strangers?” Indigo asked, indignant.

“You said they weren’t dead, just resting,” Hilda Effania responded, while she put Indigo’s Stetson on her head. “You know, for a man’s hat, that’s pretty sharp, Indigo.”