Dolls Behaving Badly

by Cinthia Ritchie

  “An aspirin would be nice.”

  By the time I returned with four of Jay-Jay’s old baby aspirins, Laurel had fallen asleep on the couch, little gasps escaping her throat. I called Junior and left a message that Laurel had had too much to drink and was staying over. My voice was high and shrill, the way it always gets when I lie, but I counted on Junior to not notice. People seldom see what they don’t want to until it’s too late.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday, Nov. 8

  I’M NOT SURE WHERE THIS DIARY IS GOING. The Oprah Giant said that writing about our lives would prompt our unconscious needs and desires to surface. Yet skimming over what I’ve written so far, most of my entries are about lack: Lack of money and lack of artistic merit. Lack of parenting skills and lack of control. Lack of common sense and lack of good sex. There’s talk about love, not real love but wishful or regretful love. There’s also a lot about Barry, which strikes me as terribly unfair. The man is behind in child support! He borrowed my blender and hasn’t returned it! What right does he have to hog so much of my story?

  But the truth (and I hate to admit it) is that I will always love Barry George, though I’ll thankfully never be in love with him again. He’s the first man I ever opened up to. I don’t even know if it was him as much as geography. Alaska is so far removed from everything else, tucked away as it is between towering mountains and cold salt water, that you begin to feel free. You slowly shuck off the old layers of who you used to be, throw them down on the ground, and leave them to be trampled on by knobby-kneed moose and nearsighted bears, and you don’t even care because you’re sure something better waits for you.

  I loved Barry more than I loved myself, and then I loved Jay-Jay more than I loved Barry, and one day I looked up and I was no longer there. But sometimes I stand by the window at night and imagine I can see the woman I used to be running down the road, her hair streaming behind her, her thighs strong and muscular. She is so beautiful, my former self. She doesn’t trip or hesitate. She runs because she wants to, because she loves to feel the wind against her face.

  Thursday, Nov. 10

  Mr. Tims, the manager at Mexico in an Igloo, poked his head in the pantry door and informed me that since Velda had unexpectedly quit, he had signed me on for her Saturday night shift.

  “I don’t have a babysitter.” I sliced flan into eight wavering pieces.

  “Second-best station in the house, nets a hundred bucks, a hundred and fifty if it’s busy.” He leaned down and pulled up his socks. Mr. Tims always wears yellow socks—he says they make him less cranky. “Be here by five.”

  “Six.”

  “Five thirty.”

  It was snowing by the time I left work, an obstinate, lingering snow that made driving slow but gave the trailer park a cheery glow. Even the Huberts’ blaring red trailer looked festive, the torn window shade flapping merrily in the breeze.

  “Oh boy, it’s getting deep,” Jay-Jay yelled as he charged up the walkway and skidded across the porch. Once he settled down, he poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and cleared a spot on the kitchen table. A dirty shoe sat in front of him, along with two stray socks and a threadbare copy of Foolish Women, Foolish Choices.

  “If we lived in Finland, it would snow 101 days a year,” he said, milk dripping down his shirt. “In Sweden, it’d be 95. That’s on average, of course,” he added self-importantly. “You can’t accurately know until it happens.”

  I peered down into the coffee I had poured, as if willing it to give advice. I could see my reflection; sugar crystals wavered around my nose.

  “…desert gets snow but everyone pretends it doesn’t,” Jay-Jay was saying. “And the mountains? It snows more but melts faster ’cause it’s closer…”

  “I’m going to start working Saturday nights,” I interrupted.

  Jay-Jay stared suspiciously at my chin.

  “Of course, I’ll find you a sitter.”

  “Drop me at Dad’s.”

  “He’s got banquets,” I said. “We’ll find someone dependable. I wonder if—”

  “Can we get high-speed Internet?” Jay-Jay blurted out. “Ours is soooo slow. It’s embarrassing, Mom. It’s like we’re stuck in the Pliocene era.”

  After he wiped his face with the grimy dish towel and headed to his room to start his homework, I ate the rest of his soggy Cheerios and worried over how I’d find a babysitter on such short notice. The three Sanchez teenagers next door had found more lucrative jobs at Subway, and the girl I used last time, recommended by the neighbor of a neighbor, had gotten high and dabbed Magic Marker circles over the living room walls.

  Then I remembered the peculiar note duct-taped to our front door last week. I fished it out of the bathroom wastebasket and smoothed it over the counter:

  GOT KIDS? HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR WITH THREE YEARS EXPERIENCE WILL WATCH, FEED, AND AMUSE YOUR KIDS WEEKNIGHTS AND WEEKENDS, UNLESS OCCUPIED WITH A TOTALLY AWESOME DATE.

  RATES VARY WITH NUMBER OF KIDS AND HOW THEY RATE ON THE BRATTINESS SCALE.

  CALL FOR APPOINTMENT AND REFERENCES.

  STEPHANIE ANNE STEELEY

  Below this rather startling announcement was a blurred photograph of a smiling young girl of about seventeen wearing a checkered blouse and one of those pot-shaped hats from the forties, with plastic cherries dangling over her forehead. She looked harmless enough so I called and left a message. She called back in less than ten minutes.

  “I can totally be over in an hour.” Her voice was loud, with a peculiar lilting tone. “Is your daughter, like, home?”

  “Son,” I corrected. “His name is—” But she had already hung up.

  At exactly seven fifteen, the new babysitter arrived. Her hair was blue and she wore yellow fishnet stockings, a red leather skirt, black boots, and an orange-and-green-striped peasant blouse. She nodded her head at everything I said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Richards, I totally agree,” followed by an infuriating snap of her gum. I was ready to boot her out the door when Jay-Jay ran in. Immediately, Stephanie reached out her ringed hand. “Stephanie Steeley,” she said in a serious voice. “And you are, like?”

  “Jay-Jay.” He shook her hand, impressed.

  “So you must be in, like, fifth grade?”

  Jay-Jay giggled. “No, fourth.”

  “Well, you’re totally tall for your age.” She turned her attention to me. “Mrs. Richards, I think I should spend time with Jay-Jay to see how we, like, hang together.”

  An hour later, she walked back into the kitchen and said her boyfriend wouldn’t “totally” like her working Saturdays, but she’d be happy to take the job. I hadn’t offered it to her yet but that seemed beside the point. We hashed out a price and she asked if she could stick around and catch the end of the movie she and Jay-Jay had been watching.

  “If I don’t see the end, it will totally haunt me. I’ll have to, like, imagine endings, and that could easily keep me up the whole night.”

  Wednesday, Nov. 16

  Maybe it was the smell of the acrylic paints I had been using, or the way my brush swirled across my latest Woman Running with a Box, No. 4 painting, my movements fluid and thick, almost sensual. Or maybe it was how the woman ran, her chest stuck forcefully out, her face flushed, her mouth opened in harsh breath, that caused me to finally call Francisco back, my fingers smeared with blue paint as I punched in his number. It was past midnight; I didn’t expect him to answer. The phone rang once, twice.

  “Hello?” a sleepy voice answered, followed by a yawn. “Anybody there?”

  I didn’t say anything. I listened to his breath: in, pause, out, pause, pause. He didn’t hang up; it was as if he knew it was me, as if he had been waiting for this very call. I clutched the phone to my ear and breathed along with him: in, pause, out, pause, pause.

  “Okay,” he finally whispered, and then he hung up.

  Saturday, Nov. 19

  Stephanie showed up promptly at 4:58 p.m. for her babysitting shift, her hair a blaring purple that clashed wit
h her bright pink sweater. Jay-Jay stood expectantly in the doorway.

  “Cool,” he breathed. “You look like this big grape.”

  As I tied my apron and spit-cleaned my shoes, Stephanie told Jay-Jay about a friend who had just gotten her tongue pierced.

  “She passed right out on the floor and we totally couldn’t get her to sit up and Heather tries to call 911 but, like, punches in 844 instead and gets the time and temperature and…”

  “I’m leaving now,” I yelled, as I rushed through the kitchen looking for my purse. “The number’s on the board, Jay-Jay needs a shower and snack before bed, and remember, he can only read for half an hour and no—”

  “Chill, Mrs. Richards.” Stephanie snapped her gum. “We’ll be totally fine. There’s this show on PBS? It’s about these turtles with wrinkled heads that totally look like my grandfather.”

  She shooed me out the door. It was already dark but clear and cold, the air crisp on my face as I walked out to the car. It sputtered twice before catching, and I hurriedly drove down the street hoping to make it in time for my twelve-top reservation.

  I made it but almost wish I hadn’t. It’s two a.m. as I write this, and I’m still jazzed on coffee and the little sips of tequila the bartender slipped me for courage. I had forgotten what a nightmare it is to work a Saturday dinner shift. The pace is frantic, the people impatient, the cooks surly from too much partying the night before. I smiled and scurried for six hours without a single pause, and by the time I sank down at the back table to count my bank, I felt as if I had been through a war. I made money, though, over $125 in tips, which I deposited at the ATM inside the Safeway on the way home, so I wouldn’t be tempted to spend it.

  When I arrived home, every light in the trailer was on, and Jay-Jay and Stephanie sat on the grimy kitchen floor, a vast Lego creation stretching down the hallway as Stephanie relayed a story of her boyfriend Hammie’s pizza delivery job.

  “…dude says to him he doesn’t want to be a pain in the ass but he, like, ordered a super combo with everything but olives and mushrooms and this here is a combo with nothing but olives and mushrooms…”

  Jay-Jay fit together Lego pieces, a transfixed look on his face. Killer Bee, who seemed equally infatuated, lay contentedly at Stephanie’s feet. I threw down my apron and collapsed on the couch. After Stephanie gave me a rundown on their night, I offered to walk her home. A funny look crossed her face.

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Richards, I totally just live a few trailers down.”

  I insisted and waited for her to pull on her coat, which was hairy and tapered down the back like a tail.

  “It’s late,” I grabbed the keys. “Some of the people around here aren’t the most notable of citizens.” I was referring to the hideous orange trailer over in the far lane that hosted parties so wild the cops had to shut them down. Supposedly the woman cooked and sold meth. Supposedly the man was in jail and came around each time he escaped from the halfway house. Stephanie didn’t say a word as she flung an oversized backpack over her scrawny shoulders.

  “Got everything?” I said, and then ordered Jay-Jay to lock the door behind us and stick close to Killer Bee. Stephanie shrugged and followed me down the lane, the hardened snow squeaking beneath our boots.

  “The next one,” Stephanie murmured.

  “The orange one?” My voice rose. “Are you sure?”

  Stephanie nodded but refused to look at me.

  “Well,” I stalled. “I never thought—”

  “Mrs. Richards, I totally understand your trepidation. But can you, like, imagine it from my point of view? I have to live with these people. They’re my parents. I have a lock on my door this big to keep them from selling my stuff for dope.” She spread her arms wide. “Trust me, I know exactly how you feel.”

  “Well, it’s just that…” My mouth hung open, cold aching my teeth.

  “So do you?” Stephanie snapped her gum and looked suddenly tough.

  “Do I what?”

  “Want me to come next week?” Her tone dared me to turn her down.

  “No, it’s just…” Her shoulders slumped and suddenly I saw her for who she really was: a seventeen-year-old girl who needed to get out of the house as much as possible. “I’d like that very much,” I heard my voice say. “Saturdays through at least Christmas.”

  “I’ll totally be there.” She stuck her bony wrist toward mine. It hung in the air for a moment before I realized she wanted to shake my hand. Her palm was dry and cold, her grasp firm yet surprisingly tender.

  “’Night, Mrs. Richards,” she said as she opened the door. The sounds of Van Halen blared out, along with a strong whiff of some really top-notch weed.

  Phone call at 6:03 a.m.

  “Carlita, what the fuck?” A vaguely familiar, deep man’s voice.

  “Francisco?” I pulled myself up in bed and reached for the light.

  “Who the hell is Francisco? It’s Jimmie. Where the fuck is your order?”

  “I can’t get the penises right,” I said. “They look small and self-conscious.”

  “Penises are small and self-conscious,” he laughed. “That’s why guys think about sex so much.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Go buy some smut mags—not Playboy or Penthouse, they’re airbrushed to death. Get something real, with pubic hair and shave marks and pimples.”

  “Pimples,” I mumbled.

  “Send everything second-day UPS. I got production waiting. Clear out your calendar, too. You’ve got twelve orders coming next week for Christmas. Turnaround is short but bonuses are long.”

  It was hard to imagine that Jimmie had once been a porn star who fucked women while hanging from a flying trapeze bar, but then again, I never imagined I’d grow up to be a waitress who lived in a trailer and cooked clay vaginas in an Easy-Bake Oven either.

  Letter #5

  Carlita Richards

  202 W. Hillcrest Drive, #22

  Anchorage, AK 99503

  Dear Ms. Carlita Richards:

  We regret to inform you that order #98456 for 11 American Girl doll chests, 5 Retro G.I. Joe crotches and 25 feet of any size, shape, or length cannot be processed due to insufficient credit card funds.

  Please submit an alternative form of payment within five working days.

  Sincerely,

  Big Bertha’s Doll Palace

  Highway 52

  Horseshoe Bend, Idaho

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday, Nov. 22

  THIS WEEK’S OPRAH GIANT LESSON was unbearable. It was about forgiveness.

  “You can’t heal until you forgive,” the Oprah Giant wrote, little butterfly icons floating up through her words for emphasis. “Think of a dirty shirt in the laundry hamper. Wash it all you want, but it won’t be clean until you add a stain remover.”

  We were told to spend the week writing out our stains. It wasn’t necessary to actually want to forgive anyone. Merely saying the words would start us on our healing journey.

  I thought of all the people I needed to forgive: Mother for being so overbearing, Father for being so distant, Laurel for being so perfect, Barry for being so stingy, Gramma for putting too many dreams inside my head, Jay-Jay for being so vulnerable. Myself for being so flawed. I suddenly felt like crying—I didn’t know where to begin, or what I’d do without the hard knot of anger I’d been carrying around for years.

  I worked on my doll orders instead. There’s something soothing about pounding and drilling, slicing and gluing, and molding clay into small, perfectly shaped boobs. Maybe this is why primitive women pounded stones into beads and molded river mud into pots. It wasn’t for the functional use or beauty of the object as much as for the therapeutic value of calming the spirit, of reaching down and finding a beautiful place and communicating it to others.

  Gramma understood this. It’s why she cooked, why she fussed over recipes and used only certain measuring spoons and never skimped on margarine instead of butter. She never gave a hoot about
whether people approved of her or not, but she needed love. She needed to feel that she was part of the community, part of a family. She needed someone to love. Someone to cook for. After Grandpa died, she had lovers, men she called her “gotta go guys,” who came over in the evening and left early the next morning. She never hid these men from us, though she didn’t share much about them, either. They were just there, musky-smelling older men who left reading glasses and toothbrushes behind in Gramma’s dim apartment.

  “Was it just sex,” I wanted to ask her now, “or did you open up to them, did you figure you had nothing more to lose, that heartbreak was just heartbreak and a few months of misery beat year after year of being alone?”

  I’ll never know because Gramma died during the second year of my marriage, keeling over in the Kroger grocery store as she reached for a flank steak. Someone at the funeral told us her last words were “Cream instead of milk for thicker—” For the longest time I thought it was a message encoded for me, advice or directions on what to do with my life. I counted the letters, tried different combinations, but it was no use. I realized Gramma simply said what had been on her mind. She was thinking about cooking up a steak with mashed potatoes, so that was exactly what came out of her mouth. There was no magic, no hidden message; probably she hadn’t been thinking of me at all.

  Wednesday, Nov. 23

  “Vanna looks kind of peaked, like she hasn’t had sex for years.” Sandee was sprawled over the couch watching Wheel of Fortune reruns, and she was in that stage of drunkenness right before tears, when the giddiness winds down and the suffering breaks through. In a minute she would clutch my hand and cry about Randall.

  I jumped up to show her my latest doll order. The doll’s vagina opened with a trapdoor, and inside was a tiny Webster’s dictionary.