Late at night Gramma used to tell stories of her sister who had been lost in the war.
“She just fifteen,” Gramma said, wiping tears from her eyes, and for some reason I imagined an empty toy store, dusty racks and shelves stretching on forever as her sister wandered by herself, her socks falling down, her dress torn and damp like the character from the Little Match Girl movie we watched every Christmas.
Gramma made sad pastries when she told her late-night stories, rolling out the dough and cutting big circles with the rim of a metal cup, then folding over the dough and pinching it closed with the edges of a fork. She usually cried when she made these; she talked about her sister and wiped her eyes on her apron and kept right on baking. She insisted that the tears were what made the pastries so light and sweet.
“The tongue,” she said, “needs a taste of sadness to keep it from falling out.”
Gramma’s Sad Pastries
1 cup flour
Pinch of salt
1⅓ tablespoons sugar
3 tablespoons butter/margarine
1–2 tablespoons cold water (for consistency)
Jam, jelly, or preserves (for filling)
Melted butter
Small bowl of sugar
Preheat oven to 350˚. Mix dry ingredients together, except the small bowl of sugar, and slowly fold in butter. Add cold water for consistency. Knead until soft. Roll out across the counter, cut into small circles, spoon in filling, crimp closed with fork. Brush with melted butter, sprinkle with small dabs of sugar, and prick tops with a fork. Cook at 350˚ for 20–25 minutes. Eat late at night after a good cry.
Lesson Four
The Things We Carry
By now you are thinking, I don’t want to know any more about myself. Don’t worry, the worst is almost over. But first you must list your faults. Start with the petty ones: You didn’t make your bed, you lied to your boss. Slowly make your way toward the tougher stuff: You aren’t as happy as you pretend, you wish you were in better shape. If you are truthful and very brave, you will learn who you are not. This, you will come to find out, is much more important than who you are.
—The Oprah Giant
Chapter 9
Sunday, Dec. 4
JAY-JAY ATE GENERIC CORNFLAKES while reading from his school report on Egyptian mummy facts.
“…hook up the nose and then they pulled the brains out.” He slurped cheerfully. “They had to be real careful or they’d mess up the face. And Mom?”
“Yes?” I gritted my teeth and scrubbed a dish with my fingernails.
“They used natron to dry out the body. It’s this kind of salt that sucks all the moisture from the skin.” He made a loud sucking noise with his mouth.
“That’s nice.” It had been a rough morning. I finally gathered the courage to open last week’s mail only to discover that even after the extra push from my Saturday night shift, I was still behind on the electric, phone, and car insurance bills. To top it off, there was a pale yellow envelope from Mother. I haven’t written about my mother much. I suppose I’ve been avoiding it. She sends letters every few weeks, badly typed and reeking of Lysol air freshener. This letter was typical in that it both saddened and infuriated me.
My little Carlita:
Did Jay-Jay get the dental floss I sent? Flossing is so important to a young boy’s hygiene. I remember when you and Laurel were girls, you had the most perfect teeth. I was so proud. Neither of you had cavities until you were out of the house and your eating habits went to hell.
Please write your father. He is still fretting over Fido’s death. I think he loved that gerbil more than he loves the rest of us and he’s taking it hard. “What do you expect, letting him run loose with three cats in the house?” I want to scream. But I hold my tongue. That’s what marriage is about. If you had held your tongue you and Barry would still be together.
I sent your Christmas gifts out yesterday. I can’t believe that both of my little girls live so far away! When you were young all you wanted to do was stay close. “I’m never leaving,” you used to say. “I’m living here with you forever.”
Gene is here at least. He brought his new girlfriend to dinner last week. She’s tall and pleasant enough but slouches when she walks.
Love, Mother and Father
P.S. Jay-Jay sent a picture of the two of you at Halloween. Have you gained weight?
My stomach hurt after reading this. Why weren’t we going home for Christmas? Couldn’t we have given Mother this one small thing, the gift of our presence? Of course, I hadn’t the money to head home and even if I did, I would end up regretting it. Mother always gets drunk around the holidays, not a slamming-down-the-house drunk but a mournful, soft drunk that leaves her melancholy. It’s the only time she openly drinks; the rest of the time she hides her bottles in the cupboard behind the cat food bags.
I clutched the letter in my hand, debating how to answer, when the phone rang. “Can you get that, sweetie?”
Jay-Jay slurped the last of his cereal and ignored me. The phone rang a third time, and then a fourth. “Everyone I know texts,” he said. “Only old people use the phone.”
The answering machine whirled and a deep voice entered the room. “Carlita? It’s Francisco. I think this is you. I have, let me see, four, no, five, calls from this number and I thought: Who would call and listen to me breathe? For some reason I thought of you. Plus you look like someone who would have a kid named Jay-Jay and—” Click! The machine mercifully cut him off in midsentence.
“Francisco?” Jay-Jay squinted at me with sudden interest. “A guy’s calling you? Guys never call you.”
“He’s just a customer from work. He orders, uh, verde enchilada with extra pico de gallo sauce.” I couldn’t stop talking. “Sometimes he gets a side of whole black beans, but not usually.”
“Oh.” Jay-Jay stared at me closely. “Your face is all splotchy.”
I held up the letter. “Grampa’s gerbil died.”
“He e-mailed me. Gramma wrote too but kept calling me Gene. I think she was drunk.”
“She means well,” I said quickly. “She loves you more than—”
“Can I go over to Alan’s? We’re making a duct-tape semiconductor.”
“Brush your teeth first,” I said, but he was already out the door. I reached down and stroked Killer’s bony head and thought about calling Francisco and actually speaking, but knew I wouldn’t. The next time he came into work, I’d trade tables with Sandee. I couldn’t wait on him now. I felt exposed, as if he knew how lonely I was inside, how needy and weak and scared.
Naturally, the Oprah Giant picked today to blog about love. “Think about having all the love you want,” she wrote, and the type was pink, with little hearts at the end of each sentence. “How would that feel?”
“Like shit,” I answered. I wasn’t sure I wanted love. Or happiness. My misery was my comfort zone, as safe and bland as vanilla pudding. Which is what I’m eating as I write this entry, Pudding Pals, a generic offshoot of Jell-O Pudding Cups, which I can’t afford. I can’t afford love, either. Thinking about love makes me want to go shopping. There is so much I need! Sexy underpants and push-up bras, skirts that swish against my thighs and gold chains that draw attention to my collarbone.
Of course, the giantess didn’t mention lingerie or toenail polish; she was talking about deep love, the kind where looks don’t matter and cotton underwear works just fine and you don’t have to shave your legs every night because what you’re after is the shape of each other’s souls.
“Real love is sharing the ugly, selfish parts of yourself without shame,” she wrote. “It’s less about the red nightie with the matching G-string and more about the dirty smells leaking out of the laundry hamper.”
I don’t think I could handle a love like that
I think I would run from a love like that.
Monday, Dec. 5
“Laurel’s pregnant,” I said to Barry after he brought Jay-Jay back from an ice-fishing jaunt,
both of them dripping over the kitchen floor.
“Fat guy hogged the good spots,” Barry interrupted. “Didn’t catch a nibble. Jay-Jay says, ‘Why don’t we set up right next to him?’ but I say that ain’t good etiquette.”
“I said Laurel’s pregnant,” I repeated.
“I’m not deaf.”
“Well, you could have answered. You could have at least nodded.”
“My ears are cold.”
“It’s not Junior’s.” I stamped my foot like a child. “Do you get it now?”
“Okay.” His voice was slightly high, the way Jay-Jay’s gets when he’s feeling defensive. “Your sister’s knocked up.”
I didn’t say anything.
“The radio announcer?”
“TV weatherman.”
“Shit.” Barry whistled. “Got any Wheaties? I got me a craving.”
Suddenly, eating made perfect sense. I quickly washed out two bowls (the dirty dishes had stacked up again) and poured us each cereal. I added milk and sat down across from him. “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “I mean, Laurel with a baby, can you imagine?”
Barry slurped in agreement, so I continued. “Junior’s sterile, that’s what Laurel said. There’s no chance it could be his. None. Jesus, how would you tell someone something like that?
“You don’t.” I slammed my hand down on the table before he could answer. “You can’t. You leave instead.” Barry eyed my bowl so I pushed it toward him. “Or else you make the other person so miserable that they leave. They can’t stay together now, that’s for sure, though I can’t imagine them apart.”
I leaned forward until I was practically breathing on Barry. “What would you do if your wife came home pregnant and you knew it wasn’t yours?”
“I ain’t married,” Barry said.
“I know that. But say you were. Say we were still married and we hadn’t had sex for months and then I come home and say, ‘Surprise, I’m pregnant and it’s not yours.’ Would you hit me?”
“Christ, Carla, that’s a hell of a thing to ask.” He cupped the cereal bowl in his hands and slurped the remaining milk.
“Well?”
“Well what?” He wiped his mouth across his sleeve. “Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe. But we got ourselves Jay-Jay, see. We know what a kid’s like, how it don’t matter who they belong to, they gradually become yours. Laurel and Junior, they don’t got that knowledge. But I seen him with Jay-Jay and I thought, ‘There’s a guy that needs a child.’ Maybe this is gonna be his only chance.”
“So you’d forgive me?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” He scratched his armpit. “But it ain’t about forgiveness when you need something like that.”
Letter #6
Ms. Carlita Richards
202 W. Hillcrest Drive, #22
Anchorage, AK 99503
Dear Ms. Carlita Richards:
Imagine our excitement when we finally received a check to cover your Aug. 6 balance.
We were overjoyed! Until we noticed that the check was made out to “Fifty-six dirty dolls” instead of dollars.
We are intrigued. Clue us in on what this means, and we will forgive $10 from your account.
Sincerely,
Dr. Jack Jennison and Dr. Emelee Harrison
Northern Lights Eye Care Center
“We only have eyes for you”
Wednesday, Dec. 7
“He had a gap between his front teeth and ordered a bottle of wine, decent vintage but not too pricey, that would have been tacky.”
Sandee and I stood in the Mexico in an Igloo pantry pretending to wipe down trays. We had fifteen minutes before opening and were trying to look busy so Mr. Tims wouldn’t assign extra work.
“I was wearing new lipstick,” she continued. “Cranberry Morning, isn’t that a hopeful name? The beginning was good. He took time to ask me questions. And he had on sandals, Carla, in the middle of winter. His toes were chubby and friendly. I dropped my napkin twice so I could get a better look.”
Sandee had a theory you could predict a person’s character by the shape of their toes.
“He invited me back to his place and I thought, why not, he seemed nice and he works for fish and game; they do background checks, you know. We were sitting on his sofa drinking diet soda, all that carbonation was making me feel tipsy but I was trying not to show it. I could tell he wouldn’t appreciate a slatternly woman. He goes over his history briefly—he was married seven years ago but seems over it by now—and then I wait for him to start the moves. Nothing happens, so I go over my history, muted of course; why scare the poor man off.
“When he got tears in his eyes talking about the baby moose he had to put down last winter, I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed him by the collar and kissed him hard. He kissed me back and it was nice, he didn’t cram his tongue into my mouth or yank my breast to pieces. I tingled all over. I don’t think I’ve ever been so swept up by a kiss.
“The next thing you know I’m taking off my dress and standing in front of him in just my bra and panties, good ones too, Nordstrom’s but on sale. I’m waiting for him to admire me but nothing happens. Finally I squint open one eye and he’s staring at me sadly.
“Put your dress on, honey,” he says. He helps me slide it over my head; I feel like a child being dressed by my mother. His hands were warm and tender. I started to cry, I don’t know why, but I sat on the floor and cried and cried. He didn’t ask what was wrong, he…”
Sandee looked at me intently. Her hair was dirty, and she had accidentally put in the wrong contacts, so one eye was blue and the other green.
“He cupped his hands around my head and held them there. Every so often he gave me little pats. It felt, I don’t know. Tender.”
Her lower lip trembled and I grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I think I love him,” she said. “I can’t remember his last name so I can’t love him, can I?”
She needed me to tell her no; I could hear it in her voice. I wanted to say that, too. I didn’t want to believe love could be so easy, so simple. But I think that maybe it is. I think we make it more complicated than it was ever intended to be.
“Maybe,” I began.
“Carla,” Sandee warned.
I coughed because I had to do something to fill the silence, which was thick and anticipatory, the way it often gets when two people try to talk about love.
Thursday, Dec. 8
“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” Laurel demanded on the phone earlier tonight.
“No.” It wasn’t really a lie since I had only told Barry.
“I made an appointment. At the clinic. Over by the hospital. For next week. Ten days before Christmas.” Laurel laughed harshly. “What a way. To welcome in. The Christ child.” She seemed unable to talk in complete sentences.
“When?”
“I just said. Next week.” Her voice was tight.
“I meant what time?”
“You coming?” It was more of a challenge than a question.
“You’re my sister,” I said. “Of course I’m coming.”
“Oh, Carly.” Laurel was crying again. “You’d do that? For me? Really?”
By the time she hung up I was exhausted. I thought of my own abortion over eleven years ago, how I sat in the waiting room unable to meet anyone’s eyes. The room had been clean, almost sterile, with a water fountain in the corner that gave off the smell of chlorine. I almost bolted. Now I wonder if I should have. What would my life be like if I had an almost twelve-year-old little girl beside me, legs long like a colt’s? Her hair in pigtails, her fingers dirty, her sneakers colored with green and pink magic markers. Would I be happier? Would I be married, have a better job, be respectable?
But then I wouldn’t have Jay-Jay, and that thought is unbearable. It’s impossible to think of Jay-Jay not existing; he fills all the holes of my life. Yet he came with a cost, and that was the abortion. Maybe everything good comes with a cost; maybe every gift is filled with a trail of hard choices
. I wanted to call up Laurel and tell her this but knew she wouldn’t listen. She was caught in the present and I was speaking from the past—the language barrier was too immense.
I picked up the doll I had been working on, a G.I. Joe fashioned into Superman with a thick dick that came with its own cape, which doubled as an emergency condom. As I spiked up Superman’s hair, I gave him a couple of tattoos and chiseled out his ass to give it more definition (maybe this Superman swung both ways—and, really, who could blame him?), all the while wondering why Laurel hadn’t been using birth control. It was almost as if she wanted it to happen. I was fattening up Superman’s lips when Stephanie rushed through the door.
“Mrs. Richards!” she yelled. “Can I, like, borrow the living room? My mother’s totally having another party and I need to write a paper.” She heaved a stack of books on the table and picked up the Superman doll.
“Oh-my-god, this is totally awesome.” She traced his dick with her fingers. “The cape works but it needs something. I know! Doesn’t this dude, like, wear glasses?”
“Well, his Clark Kent persona is a reporter and—”
“Then his dick needs to wear them too. You know how guys are totally sure their dicks are the greatest things in the world? If you put glasses on it, it would be this exacting spoof. Like saying, which one is my real brain? Which one am I totally using to see?”
I stared at Stephanie. She had six earrings in each ear and wore a T-shirt that said, “If I’m trying to find Jesus does that mean he’s lost?” She looked punkish and tough and very, very young.
“You just hit upon something brilliant,” I said.
Dolls Behaving Badly Page 10
