“Calm down,” she said. “I’ll head over as soon as I finish the dishes.” Sandee never leaves the house without washing the dishes. This isn’t because she’s exceptionally neat but because she grew up in a shack with no running water and four to a bed and pork rinds every Saturday night while her father staggered around blitzed on the home-brewed moonshine that was their only source of income. Her poverty-drenched past waits at the edge of her University of Michigan education and $350,000 house, and Sandee is terrified that one day it will pounce. I doubt that this could ever happen. Sandee is a survivor, not because she’s tough but because she isn’t afraid to be soft.
“I’m here,” she sang out an hour later, her arms stuffed with a jumbo box of Safeway croutons and a half-liter of Diet Coke. “Caffeine speeds up the metabolism,” she said, kicking off her shoes and clearing a space off on the coffee table. Then she sat down cross-legged on the floor and arranged the croutons into neat piles.
“Want some?” She motioned to Jay-Jay, who clutched a Harry Potter book to his pajamaed chest. When he refused, she popped a crouton cheerfully into her mouth. “Seven of these have only twenty-four calories,” she said, pointing to the piles. “And just an itty-bitty amount of fat.”
I reached for the croutons, which were garlicky sharp and delicious. I finished off one pile and began on another.
“Mom’s trying to sew,” Jay-Jay said, “but she’s making a mess. A real fiasco.”
“Teeth.” I pointed toward the bathroom. “And don’t forget to floss.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jay-Jay stomped off down the hall.
“It doesn’t look that bad.” Sandee wiped her hands over her jeans and rummaged through the shoddily sewn material. “Here’s a stalk. A leaf. No, wait, a kernel. But look here, they’re all the same size. You want to stagger them so they look more real and then…”
I settled back and happily crunched croutons. Sandee was a quilter and sewed fast and neat, her stitches marching like tiny soldiers across the fabric. I wondered if she’d be up to sewing sexy underwear for my porno dolls. Right now I paid a grandmother from Texas to do it, but shipping was a problem. Last month a box of black thongs and furry handcuffs had gotten lost in the mail. I opened my mouth to ask, but guzzled a mouthful of soda instead. I didn’t want to ruin the mood. Having another adult around made the house feel warm and safe. I wasn’t alone. There was someone to talk to and argue with. Not that I wanted an argument. Still, I knew if I needed one, Sandee would give it her best shot. She handed me one of the sewn kernels and I began stuffing it with quilt batting as I hummed the theme from Happy Days.
“Carla?” Sandee asked.
“Hmmmm?”
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s just, well…”
Sandee crouched over a billowy green leaf, her mouth scrunched tight.
“I need to tell you something.” Her voice was eerily low. “Something I’ve never told anyone.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom first?”
I shook my head no.
“I used to pray for Randall to die,” she said. “I’d say, ‘Please, please get him out of my life.’”
“So?” I munched down on a handful of croutons. “I lit candles at church while Barry and I were married and he still didn’t die.”
“No one tells you.” Sandee’s voice rose. “They dress you in a frilly dress and push you toward the aisle and everyone fusses over your shoes and worries about your hair but no one says, ‘Oh, by the way, in a couple of years you’ll be wishing he’s dead.’
“Then I started to think that maybe I had it wrong, maybe I was the one who was supposed to die. I knew one of us had to go. We couldn’t keep on much longer. When Randall came home with tickets for Vegas, I thought: maybe the plane will crash. It didn’t, though, and the heat slammed us the minute we got off the plane. ‘Whoever thought of going to Vegas in the summer?’ I screamed.
“I wore a sleazy little dress and strappy sandals because Randall told me to dress like I had class, and I knew Vegas class was the same as Florida small-town trash. I fit right in and won three hundred bucks at blackjack. Randall was furious. Blackjack was his thing. He had taken an online course before we left; I guess he thought he’d make a killing. He ended up losing over a thousand, and of course that was my fault, too.
“Finally I headed back up to the room without him. The elevator had glass walls, and after everyone got off, there was just my reflection staring at me from every direction. I had on too much makeup, I looked cheap and eager, and it scared me. I knew that beneath my healthy skin and good grammar, another woman waited, a back-home bayou woman who ate fried catfish and didn’t have all her teeth and let her man beat her every Friday because she knew he would fuck her brains out come Saturday. That’s when I suddenly understood that Randall liked this woman better than me, he needed to know that there was something dirty and tainted inside of me so he could feel better about himself.
“When I got to the room I took all of his clothes and threw them in the filled-up bathtub. Then I went to bed. He woke me early the next morning, screaming. I screamed back, and before you know it, it all came out. It was such a relief, Carla, like throwing up when you’re really sick and how clean you feel afterward. I got it all out: that he was selfish and self-centered and a coward and woman hater and lazy in bed.
“He yelled I was poor white trash who ate out of garbage cans and my family was so inbred my brother was practically retarded.
“I did the worst thing. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. In college I worried so much about people finding out where I came from that finally hearing someone put it into words was a relief. Randall’s neck turned red and his fists balled up and for one glorious moment I thought he would hit me. Instead he slumped down on the bed, took off all his clothes, and added them to the heap in the bathtub. Then he sat across from me in just his socks. I waited a moment and did the same. I took off all my clothes and sat across from him naked and silent. The light coming in the window was harsh and too bright. We looked awful, both of our bellies flabby, our arms and legs sunburned, the rest of us white and splotchy. We looked like the ugliest of things.
“Then we were making love like we used to, soft and slow. We made love all that day and night, and when I woke, he was gone and there was a note on his pillow.
“‘Out to get breakfast, bee back soon.’ He spelled be with two e’s, I noticed that right away. Like bzzzzzzz. I thought he was being cute.
“But he never came back. I waited and waited, and finally I called the police. The older officer wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“‘Lady,’ he said. ‘Happens all da time. Da guy gets restless. Wanders off. It’s Vegas. All kinda pleasures out there.’
“After they left, I noticed Randall’s suitcase was gone. I didn’t cry, though. I stayed in that hotel until my credit card maxed out, but he never even called.”
Sandee wiped the last ear of corn over her face. Her hands shook slightly.
“I still don’t know why he left, and that’s the worst part. Was it something I said? Was there someone else? Not knowing is hell. You invent all sorts of reasons in your mind.
“But here’s the thing I never told anyone. The second night, when I realized he wasn’t coming back, I ordered steak and shrimp for two from room service. I sat down on the bed and ate until I threw up. Then I ate more. I forced down every single bite, even the garnish and cherry tomatoes. Then I thought, ‘Whew, that’s done. I’ll never have to eat that again.’
“I was relieved, get it? I didn’t love him anymore. So why the fuck am I so angry, Carla? Why do I want to kill him over and over again?”
Sandee flounced the costume and held it up: a perfect stalk with two ears of corn tucked coyly around each side, and a hole for Jay-Jay’s face that tightened with a drawstring. Her eyes were red and puffy; her hands left damp smears over the fabric.
“I make dirty dolls,” I offered.
Sh
e stared at me blankly.
“I know it’s not the same as your husband running off,” I said. “But you’re the first person I’ve told.” I rummaged around the closet until I found Little Bo Peek-At-Me, complete with a sheepherding stick that doubled as a vibrator. Sandee turned it over and peered inside the crotchless panties.
“Holy shit,” she said. “You did this yourself?”
“Yeah.” I felt strangely proud.
“Wow, well, this is really crazy, Carla.” She held it up, squinted and then turned it over again. “I can’t believe how real it looks.” She ran her finger over the glued-on labia. “How did you get it to look so real?”
“Playboy and Penthouse spreads,” I said. “Plus that squishy stuff from kids’ footballs to make it soft.”
“Well, shit, honey.” Sandee reached over and grabbed my hand. Our fingers wrapped around each other and it was nice, holding another woman’s hand, the palm soft, no calluses or scratches—I could feel the shiny tint of her fingernail polish against my fingertip.
“We’re two misfits, aren’t we?” Sandee said. “I lost Randall, and you, Carla, well, you’ve kind of lost your mind. But in a good way,” she said quickly. “I mean that as a compliment.”
“I know,” I said.
Monday, Oct. 31
I’m writing this entry by jack-o’-lantern, Jay-Jay’s pumpkin grinning moronically between crooked teeth. The candle gives off the scent of spiced apples, while scattered around me packets of Smarties and Now and Laters and thick squares of purple taffy call out my name. “Eat me,” like in Alice in Wonderland.
Earlier tonight Jay-Jay left for a mad bout of trick-or-treating with a bunch of kids from school, a neatly dressed PTA mother knocking at the door and peering curiously in at our dilapidated trailer that reeked of the casserole I had burned for supper. Two hours later, he staggered back home clutching a bag of treats so heavy he could barely lift it up on the table. His face was smeared with chocolate, his costume ripped down one side.
“We had a blast,” he shouted. “Bailey threw up right in front of the stop sign on Gerald’s street and Mrs. Jenkins made us stop until she was finished, get it? Stop at the stop sign?”
I poured him a glass of milk, for protein, and got him settled at the table, where he slid his candy into complex patterns and then recorded numbers in the small notebook he carries in his back pocket. When I asked what he was doing, he rolled his eyes.
“I’m categorizing,” he said. “Color, shape, and favorbility.” He slid two packets of Life Savers away from a pile of Hershey Kisses. “Did you know we all lose the same amount of weight when we die? The same amount! Even fat people. Even midgets.”
“That’s nice.” I wondered if perhaps his gifted class was a bit too progressive for my tastes. “Did you learn that in school?”
“Nah, it was from a movie over at Alan’s.”
After Jay-Jay went to bed and the house was quiet, my belly filled with chocolate, I decided to work on my Woman Running with a Box painting. In some demented part of my mind I believed the supernatural promise of Halloween would lend a mysterious aura. I was pulling my supplies from the closet when Killer let out a deep growl and charged for the door. A moment later a distraught vampire flew into the kitchen. A vampire with flaming red hair.
“Laurel?” I squinted at the chalky pancake makeup and bloodred lips. “You colored your hair.”
The vampire plopped down in the chair across from me and began devouring a Nestlé Crunch bar. Then a Hershey bar, followed by a Mr. Goodbar, a Kit Kat, and a handful of chocolate coins.
“Holy shit, slow down.” I grabbed the candy bowl and hurried it over to the counter. “You’re gonna be sick.”
Laurel whispered something from behind her chocolate-smeared mouth.
“Huh?”
“I’m seeing someone,” she said, staring at the window behind me.
I jumped up and looked out, sure some nasty little goblins were toilet-papering our backyard again.
“I said I’m seeing someone.” She jammed another Kit Kat in her mouth. “A man,” she slurred. “I’m seeing a man. Okay, I’ve said it. Are you happy now?”
“I heard you.” I didn’t know what to say. Laurel and I don’t tell each other private stuff; we stay on the surface as much as possible, where things are as safe and bland as white bread.
“It’s not what you think,” Laurel sobbed, her vampire makeup smearing down her face. “I love him!” The legs of her chair slammed down as if for emphasis.
“Who?” I finally asked.
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“Why would I care?”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s Mr. Hankel.”
“Who?” The name sounded vaguely familiar, and I ran through a mental list of Jay-Jay’s teachers and camp counselors.
“You know. The weatherman.”
“On TV? With the broadcaster wife? Holy shit!”
“You promised,” Laurel hiccupped. “You promised you wouldn’t get mad.”
“Well,” I stuttered. “I’m not mad, not at all.” I forced my voice low and soft, the same tone I used to comfort Jay-Jay. “It’s just unexpected, that’s all.”
“He came to the office about a summer rental on the Kenai earlier this spring,” Laurel said. “I was wearing my yellow blouse, you know the one? The creamy silk with the cunning collar?”
“Ummmm.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“We were in the middle of the paperwork and I leaned over, and he smelled so good, Carla, sharp and crisp, like a pair of freshly ironed pants. His neck looked lost and vulnerable above his shirt, so trustworthy that I couldn’t help leaning over and kissing him.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I muttered “Ummmm” again.
“That’s when it started.”
“It?”
“You know.” Laurel gave a proud little laugh. “The sex.”
“At work?”
“Carla! Do you think I’m so cheap? Hank took me to a nice hotel.”
“Hank Hankel?”
“Yes,” Laurel sighed, all dreamy. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She wiped her face on one of my dish towels until her skin emerged, pale and beard burned. Then she put her face down on the table and sobbed again. “Oh Carly, I don’t know what to do. I love him. I do! But it’s impossible. We’re both married.”
I ate three Milk Duds and waited for more.
“But I love Junior, too. Don’t look at me like that, Carla. I’ve been with him over fifteen years. He can’t see without his glasses. He’s so helpless. He gropes around every morning like a baby bird. Oh, oh. What am I going to do?”
“I’ll make you something to eat,” I said, handing her a fresh dish towel to mop up her eyes. “How about tuna casserole?”
“Like Gramma used to make?” Laurel asked in a small voice.
“Yeah, just like that,” I lied, desperately trying to remember the recipe: cream of mushroom soup, egg noodles, cheese, and something else, something that gave it a strange, spicy taste. Peppers? Cumin? Garlic powder? “Go watch TV.” I nodded toward the living room. “There’s a bunch of old movies on tonight, a Halloween fest. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
“Okay.” Laurel slumped out of the kitchen. The tuna smelled salty and strong when I opened the can. Gramma used to say that fish was the meat of the gods. Each week she made some type of fish, not on Friday, the typical Catholic fish-eating day, but on Monday, the beginning of the school week. She said the fish would swim up my brain and make me smarter.
“That why you answer all them right on your spelling test,” she said.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I cheated off Bobby Wright’s paper. He sat catty-corner from me and wrote extra big in exchange for the chance to watch me pee into a jar. Bobby saved the pee to pour over his mother’s houseplants and then waited for them to die. When they didn’t, he fell in love with me and insiste
d, in that logical persuasiveness common to eight-year-old boys, that he would never, ever love anyone as much as he loved me. Sometimes I still believe this. Sometimes I’m sure that I will never do anything to impress a man the way I impressed Bobby when I peed in those jars.
Gramma’s Tuna Casserole
(with minor revisions)
2 large handfuls egg noodles
1 can cream of mushroom soup
3 cloves garlic
1 can waterpacked tuna
Pinch of cumin
Splash of bourbon (for a kick)
1¼ cups milk
½ cup (or more) cheese
Preheat oven to 350˚. Throw everything except the bourbon, cheese, and milk into a large casserole dish, adding enough milk to cover noodles. Splash with bourbon and spread cheese over top. Cook at 350˚ for 40 minutes. Eat with a large glass of wine. Serves two sad and frustrated sisters plus one greedy dog.
Lesson Three
Can You See Abundance in This Picture?
At some point during the diary-writing process you will be hit with an insight that forces you to see things as they really are. Once this happens, you’ll never be able to go back and see things as you used to. Be forewarned—change isn’t a party dress. It doesn’t always flatter your life. But like a London Fog raincoat, it will keep you warm and dry.
—The Oprah Giant
Chapter 6
Wednesday, Nov. 2
“DID YOU CALL HIM YET?” Sandee asked as we fake-smoked during a cig dig outside of Mexico in an Igloo. A stingy inch of snow covered the ground, and the air was crisp and cold.
“Call?”
“The god, you know, the Swedish guy.”
“Norwegian,” I corrected. Then I sighed. “I doubt he even remembers. He was just being nice.”
“Yeah,” Sandee snorted. “Guys are so nice. They leave their numbers for the hell of it.” She looked at me sharply. “When was the last time you fucked someone, Carla? Can you even remember?”
Dolls Behaving Badly Page 6
