The Brave Little Toaster

Some, like the Water Pik, the blender, and the TV itself, were old friends. Some, like the stereo and the clock on the mantel, were known to the four appliances that had lived in the apartment at one time themselves but not to the toaster. But a great many were complete strangers to them all. There were huge impractical ginger-jar lamps squatting on low tables and, out of the bedroom, dim little lamps with frilly shades and other lamps screwed into the dining-nook wall that were pretending to be candleflames. Out of the kitchen had trooped a whole tribe of unfamiliar gadgets: a crockpot, a can opener, a waffle iron, a meat grinder, a carving knife, and, somewhat abashedly, the master’s new toaster.

“How do you do,” said the new toaster in a barely audible voice when the TV introduced it.

“How do you do?” the toaster replied warmly.

Neither could think of anything else to say. Fortunately there were more introductions to be effected. The Hoover had to go through a similar ordeal when it met the apartment’s vacuum cleaner, which was (just as the Hoover had feared) one of the new lightweight models that looks like a big hamburger bun on wheels. They were polite to each other, but it was obvious that the new vacuum looked on the Hoover as outmoded.

The blanket had an even worse shock in store. The last two appliances to appear in the living room were a vaporizer and a long tangled string of Christmas tree lights, both of which had been hibernating in a closet. The blanket looked about anxiously. “Well,” it said, making a determined effort to seem accepting and friendly, “I think there must still be one more of you we haven’t yet met.”

“No,” said the TV. “We’re all here.”

“But is there no other… blanket?”

The TV avoided the blanket’s earnest gaze. “No. The master doesn’t use an electric blanket anymore. Just a plain wool one.”

“But he always… he always…” The blanket could say no more. Its resolution deserted it and it fell in a heap on the carpet.

A gasp went up from the apartment’s assembled appliances, which until now had had no idea of the extent of the blanket’s injuries.

“Doesn’t use an electric blanket!” the toaster repeated indignantly. “Why ever not?”

The screen of the TV flickered and then, evasively, started showing a gardening show.

“It isn’t the master’s choice, really,” said the Singer sewing machine in its funny clipped accent. “I daresay he would be delighted to see his old blanket again.”

The blanket looked up questioningly.

“It’s the mistress,” the sewing machine went on. “She says she becomes too hot under an electric blanket.”

“The mistress?” the five appliances repeated.

“Didn’t you know?”

“No,” said the toaster. “No, we haven’t heard anything from the master since he left the cottage three years ago.”

“Two years, eleven months, and twenty-two days, to be precise,” said the alarm clock/radio.

“That’s why we determined to find our way here. We feared… I don’t know what exactly. But we thought that… that our master would need us.”

“Oh,” said the sewing machine. It turned to watch the gardening show on the TV.

As unobtrusively as it might, the new toaster crept back into the kitchen and resumed its post of duty on the formica countertop.

“Two years, eleven months, and twenty-two days is a long time to be left alone,” the radio asserted at rather a loud volume. “Naturally we became concerned. The poor air conditioner stopped working altogether.”

“And all the while,” said the lamp, “never a word of explanation!” It glared reproachfully at the TV, which continued to discuss the problem of blister beetles.

“Can’t any of you tell us why?” the toaster demanded earnestly. “Why did he never return to the cottage? There must be a reason.”

“I can tell you,” said the vaporizer, inching forward. “You see, the mistress is subject to hay fever. I can help her a bit with her asthma, but when the hay fever starts in on her, there’s nothing anyone can do, and she is really very miserable then.”

“I still don’t understand,” said the toaster.

The sewing machine spelled it out. “Rather than go to the country, where there is bound to be ragweed and pollen and such, they spend their summers at the seaside.”

“And our cottage—our lovely cottage in the woods—what is to become of it?”

“I believe the master means to sell it.”

“And… and us?” the toaster asked.

“I understand there is to be an auction,” said the sewing machine.

The Hoover, which had comported itself with great dignity throughout the visit, could bear no more. With a loud groan it grasped the handle of the perambulator as though to steady itself. “Come,” it gasped. “All of you, come. We are not wanted here. We’ll return to… to…”

Where would they return? Where could they? They had become appliances without a household!

“To the Dump!” shrieked the blanket hysterically. “Isn’t that where junk belongs? That’s all we are now—junk!” It twisted its cord into an agonized knot. “Isn’t that what the pirate said we were? Junk! Junk! Junk! All of us, and me most of all.”

“Control yourself,” said the toaster sternly, though its own coils felt as though they were about to snap. “We’re not junk. We’re sturdy, useful appliances.”

“Look at me!” cried the blanket, displaying the full extent of its worst tear. “And these mudstains— look!”

“Your tears can be sewn up,” said the toaster calmly. It turned to the sewing machine. “Can’t they?”

The sewing machine nodded in mute agreement.

“And the stains can be cleaned.”

“And then what?” the Hoover demanded dourly. “Let us suppose the blanket is repaired and cleaned, and that I’ve mended my cord and got my dustbag into working shape, and that you’ve polished yourself. Suppose all that—what then? Where shall we go?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere. I’ll have to think.”

“Pardon me,” said the TV, turning off the gardening show. “But didn’t I hear you say something about a… pirate?”

“Yes,” said the sewing machine nervously. “What pirate did you mean? There’s not a pirate in this building, I hope?”

“Never fear—we don’t have to worry any more about him. He captured us but we escaped from him. Would you like to know how?”

“Goodness, yes,” said the TV. “I love a good story.”

So all the appliances gathered in a circle about the toaster, which began to tell the story of their adventures from the moment they had decided to leave the cottage till the moment they arrived at the door of the apartment. It was a very long story, as you know, and while the toaster told it, the sewing machine set to work sewing up all the rips and tears in the blanket.

The next afternoon when the blanket came back from Jiffy Dry Cleaners on the other side of Newton Avenue, the apartment’s appliances put on a splendid party for their five visitors. The Christmas tree lights strung themselves up between the two ginger-jar lamps and winked and bubbled in the merriest way, while the TV and the stereo sang duets from all the most famous musical comedies. The toaster was polished to a fare-thee-well, and the Hoover was likewise in fine fettle once again. But most wonderful of all—the blanket looked almost as good as new. Its yellow was possibly not as bright as it had been, but it was a lovely yellow, for all that. The exact same yellow, according to the TV, of custard and primroses and the nicest bathroom tissues.

At five o’clock the radio’s alarm went off, and everyone became very still, except for the blanket, which went on whirling gaily about the living room for some time before it realized the music had stopped.