She shrugged, sat down across from me, and petted Killer Bee. She didn’t ask what I was doing or why I had hacked-off doll parts across the table or if I had a good reason for trying to attach a large penis between Superman’s legs. The smell of melted plastic filled the kitchen. A moment later she wandered out to the living room, Killer Bee following behind. The TV blared on, followed by the crinkle of papers as she settled down to work. Every so often she snapped her gum. It was a companionable sound, and I nodded along with it as I fashioned miniature glasses from bobby pins. I was gluing the frames to the back of the penis, which I had modeled after a small Vienna sausage, when Stephanie rushed into the room.
“Mrs. Richards!”
Her face was flushed and she cradled a piece of paper to her scrawny chest. “I totally wrote the most awesome poem about David Letterman’s hair.”
I put down my glue gun and rubbed my eyes. I had forgotten all about her.
“And get this, I said his hair is as bland as the letter K, isn’t that the best thing?”
I said I supposed it was. “But why K?”
“Think about it. All the loser states have a K: Kansas, Kentucky, Oklahoma. No one really comes from those states. They’re just there. Like Letterman’s hair, see? It’s totally illuminating.”
I hadn’t known Stephanie was a poet, but it made sense. She was bizarre yet sweet, the kind of girl who could bravely march past whistling construction workers one minute and collapse in tears over an old lady feeding birds in the park the next.
“I’ll make up the couch. You can stay here tonight.” I pushed back my chair. “You need to take a bath first?”
“Nah, I’m retro.” I watched her walk down the hall. The back of her pajamas had “School Sucks” embroidered over the ass, and her T-shirt bagged out at the hips. She was so thin, so defenseless; her wrists were barely thicker than a pencil. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that high school was just a phase, that better things waited on the other side, but I stayed at the table working on my dolls. Before I went to bed, I walked out to the living room to turn off the lamp. Stephanie slept curled tight, her arms wrapped protectively across her chest, one foot wedged between her legs like a barrier. Was this how she slept at home, how she kept herself safe among the drug dealers and partiers and god knows what else was over there? I leaned down, pushed the hair off her face.
“Sweet child,” I whispered. For a moment, even though the age difference didn’t match, I imagined that she was my daughter, the one I had aborted. That this was who she would have grown up to be.
Chapter 10
Friday, Dec. 9
I WAS SO CAUGHT UP in the drama of Laurel’s pregnancy that I hadn’t given much thought to Francisco, but there he was sitting in my station during today’s lunch rush.
“Carlita!” he said heartily. “Long time, no call. Or should I say, no breathe?”
I rushed back into the pantry. “You’ve gotta help,” I said to Sandee, who was arguing with the cooks over the enchilada sauce.
“I’m busy,” she snapped. “My orders are fucked and Judge Thurman’s in my section.” Judge Thurman was notorious for being difficult plus a bad tipper. Still, he was in charge of traffic court, and we all feared we might one day face him over a speeding ticket.
“It’s Francisco.” I tugged on her apron. “He’s out there. You’ve got to help.”
“The god dude?” She piled plates of fajita setups onto her tray, added two containers of salsa and a side of guacamole. “Thought you wanted to see him.”
“That was before,” I whispered. “You know, the calling and breathing and hanging up.”
“Listen, Carla, I hate to be the one to tell you this but…hey, that was a chicken burrito, not beef,” she yelled to the kitchen, pushing her plate back for a remake and then turning to me. “You have to get over this fear of dating. It’s crippling you. Plus, look at it this way. He knows you called and hung up and he still wants to see you.” She pulled a new plate from the window and rearranged it over her already loaded tray. “Where’s my side of jalapeños?” she yelled as she wiped her hands over her apron.
I mustered up my courage and slowly approached Francisco’s table.
“Ready to order?” My waitressing tablet half-covered my face.
“Any specials?” He seemed in an extremely good mood. “I’m celebrating. Hear about the find up toward Barrow?”
I shook my head and lowered the tablet to my chin.
“Remains of eleven sled dogs and a partial harness, looks like it dates over seven hundred years, some woman found them buried beneath her house.” He rubbed his hands. “I’m heading up there next week. Hope the weather holds. It’s thirty below right now, that’s my limit; anything colder and my gums bleed.”
I stood there in my ridiculous waitressing uniform feeling more and more insignificant. He tossed his menu down and smiled up at me, a wide, opened smile. I smiled back without thinking.
“Now, write this down. Ready?” I nodded. “Two cheese enchiladas with the hottest peppers you’ve got, a side of rice, and a couple corn tortillas. And, let me see, a large iced tea with two lemons.” He grinned. “I’m going all out, huh? Okay, wait, a small salad with ranch on the side. And dinner, say, at about sixish, is that too early?”
“Six,” I repeated dumbly.
“Okay, make it seven, that works for me actually…”
“You’re asking me to dinner.” It was a statement, not a question. “Why?”
“Because I’ll be hungry later.”
“I’m busy,” I told him.
“What about the following night? Or the night after that?”
I looked at his pleasant face, his wonderful hands and shook my head. “Sorry,” I said. “I just…I can’t.”
“Sure.” His face closed over and he tried to smile. “Whatever.”
Suddenly my mouth opened and it all spilled out. “You don’t understand,” I heard myself say. “I’m a waitress, this is what I do. I live in a trailer and my sister is pregnant with the weatherman’s child.” I paused for breath.
“The guy with all the teeth?” Francisco whistled. “The one that never gets the forecast right?”
“There’s more.” I leaned closer, almost knocking over a dish of mild salsa. “My finances are a mess, I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks, and the dog ate my last pair of decent underwear. I have nothing to wear on a date!” My voice rose, and the man at the next table jerked his head our way, alarmed.
“I like hairy women,” Francisco said. “I have two dogs.”
“You don’t get it.” I lowered my voice. I was so near I could smell his hair, a musky, outdoorsy smell. “I used to be an artist, and know what I do now?”
Francisco stuffed a corn chip into his mouth and widened his eyes, as if to communicate that I should go on. “I make dirty dolls. For an adult website. Nothing sleazy—it’s actually one of the better ones—but think of it. While other women are having intelligent conversations I’m drilling vaginas into plastic dolls.”
I looked up, suddenly embarrassed. Across the dining room, Mr. Tims waved frantically toward the kitchen. “I have to go, my food’s up.”
I sprinted toward the kitchen. I felt purged. I had gotten all of the dirty, ugly stuff out right up front. Now I could go back to being a waitress and Francisco could go back to playing with bones or whatever the hell he did. The expediter took out my orders so I didn’t see Francisco again until it was time to drop off the check. “Everything okay?” I asked.
“There was a hair in my enchilada but I think it was from my dog. Probably fell off my shirt.” He squinted at me. “So how does a guy ask a woman who works as a waitress, lives in a trailer, has a sister knocked up by the weatherman, and does dirty things with dolls out to dinner?”
I didn’t say anything.
“It doesn’t have to be eventful.” He took his Visa card out of his wallet, which was old and cracked, the seams peeling, the leather so worn you co
uld almost see through. “Okay.” He sat back and relaxed. “I’ll play fair. Here’s something about me you probably don’t know: I dropped out of Yale to hitchhike around Thailand, my father disowned me, and before we could make things right, he was shot in a liquor store robbery. He died holding a bottle of thirty-five-dollar wine.” He was quiet for a moment. “We all have our stuff. Now will you do dinner?”
I felt tender inside, and soft and liquidy. I couldn’t talk so I nodded instead.
“Tomorrow or the next day,” he said. “I’ll call you. Answer this time, okay?”
He signed his credit card statement, squeezed my shoulder, and left. I began clearing his table when the man from the next both motioned with his arm.
“Pssst, over here,” he called.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” I hated when customers waved me down or snapped their fingers.
“Just wanted to see you up close.” His face scrunched with excitement. “So you’re the one who makes those dolls. I thought you’d live in California or Florida. Someplace hot.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I felt dizzy and flushed—how much had he heard?
“I’d be honored if you signed my napkin.” He pushed it toward me. “My name’s Fred but everyone calls me Charlie.”
“You must have misunderstood,” I protested. “You’ve mixed me up with someone else.”
“Heard what I heard.” He shook his head up and down. “You’re just being bashful. Must be tough being a famous artist. People fawning over you all the time.”
“Where are you from?” I leaned down and touched the napkin, as if it might tell me what to do.
“Billings. Came up for the daughter’s birthday. Colder here, but sky isn’t as clear.”
What the hell, I thought, leaning down and scrawling my name over the napkin. “Just don’t tell anyone,” I said. “I’m not supposed to reveal my identity.”
He picked up the napkin as if it were a holy object. “Oh, oh, oh,” he breathed deeply. “The guys back home aren’t gonna believe this. I got the Patty Please Me and Willie Working His Wonker dolls.” He held the napkin to his mouth and gently kissed my signature as I booked the hell out of there.
“What was that about?” Sandee asked when we finally squeezed in time for a cig dig.
“Just some tourist needing directions,” I lied.
“No, I meant the god dude.”
“We’re going to dinner, I guess.” I sighed.
She sucked on her unlit cigarette and eyed me. “The shit never ends, does it? Joe, the good-looking toe dude, texted me three times today. I read them all, too, the minute they came in.”
We fake-smoked and shivered. Around us, the sky was gray, the mountains rising to the east with a white fury.
“A moose got hit on the Glenn Highway, that’s why the texts.” Sandee tucked her cigarettes back in her apron. “They found a leg stuck in the windshield. The moose, not the driver. Joe said it screamed, over and over, high-pitched and awful until they put it down. Then there was just silence.”
I waited.
“I think I’ve been screaming inside since Randall left,” she said. “I want that silence.”
“So go shoot something.”
She looked at me, her eyes fierce. “You mean it?”
I nodded. I was a fairly decent shot, having trudged behind Barry on hunts for so many years.
“Yeah, okay.” She tightened her ponytail and looked off toward the mountains. “Maybe I need to start thinking like a man. Maybe I need to shoot the hell out of something.”
Saturday, Dec. 10
My dinner with Francisco was a disaster. It started off okay. Stephanie arrived to babysit, plopped down on the couch, and began texting her boyfriend, Hammie. I asked if I looked okay.
She nodded without looking up.
“No, I mean really.” I had spent over fifteen minutes on my hair, which was twisted in a complicated knot that prevented me from turning my head too quickly.
Stephanie finally glanced up. “You look okay,” she said with disinterest.
“Only okay?”
“For an older woman going on a date, sure.”
I kissed Jay-Jay good-bye and grabbed my purse.
“Your hair looks stupid,” Jay-Jay complained. “Dating is stupid. Dad doesn’t date.”
I kept my mouth shut and squeezed out the door. Francisco had chosen Moose’s Tooth, a popular restaurant in midtown that caters to young professionals but also welcomes grandmothers and families with small children. I parked next to a dented green truck, hurried through the crowded lobby, and looked around—I didn’t see Francisco anywhere.
“Do you need a table?” the pretty young hostess asked. Her teeth were overly white, her mouth coated in bright purplish lipstick.
“For two,” I said. “I’m waiting for someone.” I sat in the small lobby area with the strange plastic pager that would buzz when my table was ready. Across from me a young couple nuzzled together.
Ten minutes later, the pager buzzed and the hostess led me to a small table against the side of the room. “Enjoy your dinner,” she said with a toss of her pretty head. I ordered Diablo Bread Sticks from the hurried waiter and skimmed through the menu. The salads were always a good choice, but I didn’t want to worry about lettuce sticking in my teeth.
“Ready to order?” the waiter asked when he set down the breadsticks.
I shook my head. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Good for you.” He winked as he charged toward the next table. I munched on the breadsticks, intending to only eat half, but before I knew it they were all gone and Francisco still hadn’t arrived. I called him on my cell and left a message. Ten minutes later, I called again; still no answer. I was pissed. I had been waiting over forty minutes.
I told the waiter I was ready for the check. He nodded and placed it gently on the table, as if understanding how fragile I felt. I left a massive tip and walked past table after table of happy diners as I headed toward the door. I felt humiliated and used, as if everyone in the restaurant knew I had been waiting for a man who had never shown. As soon as I reached the car, I pulled out my cell and rechecked the messages, but there were none from Francisco. Finally I called Sandee in the middle of her dinner shift.
“He stood me up,” I said, my voice breaking. “I waited over an hour and he never showed.”
“Who’s standing?” Sandee shouted above the roar of Mexico in an Igloo.
“He. Stood. Me. Up,” I enunciated slowly.
“Fucker.” There was a loud bang in the background, followed by a door squeaking closed. “Okay, I’m in the bathroom. What happened?”
“Nothing happened, don’t you get it? He never showed. I put on makeup. I wore heels.” I was trying not to cry.
“Listen, this is what you do.” Sandee’s voice was comforting and firm. “Drive home and send him a text. Tell him that you’re sorry you missed him but an emergency came up. Make him think that you stood him up.”
“That’s genius, really, I mean—”
“He’ll call you the next day,” she interrupted. “I’ve done it a thousand times. Nothing gets to a guy like a woman turning away.”
“I don’t want to see him again.”
“Exactly! That’s my point… Shit, my order’s probably up. Promise you’ll do what I said?”
“I’ll try,” I said unconvincingly, but it didn’t matter because she had already hung up. I sat in the car feeling sorry for myself, not so much because a man I barely knew had turned out to be a loser but because I had allowed myself to hope.
“Well, Mrs. Richards, what did you totally expect?” Stephanie said as she fixed me a cup of Sleepytime tea. “Men don’t know how to communicate. They’re trapped inside the urges of their penis. My friends and I totally call it ‘penis participation.’”
“He’s not a teenager,” I snapped. “He’s almost forty. Plus you don’t need to converse to leave a message.”
&
nbsp; “Maybe not to you, but guys’ brains are totally different. They can’t think the way we do. It’s sad when you think about it. They’re so stunted. It’s almost as if they’re deformed.” She snapped her gum for emphasis.
“You’re only seventeen,” I told her. “You’re supposed to be more optimistic.”
She shrugged. “I can’t help it. I had to grow up when I was, like, five.”
I grabbed an old stack of women’s magazines and wandered into Jay-Jay’s room. He was still awake, so I sat on the floor and read up on ways to improve myself.
“Dad called,” Jay-Jay said without looking up from his book. “I told him you went to meet some guy but didn’t tell him about your hair.”
“Thanks.” My hair had fallen out of its knot long ago; it lay bunched and fallen around my shoulders. Jay-Jay scrambled off the bed to go say a second good night to Stephanie, Killer Bee stumbling behind him. I sat pressed against a box of Legos and skimmed an article about reclaiming one’s inner childhood joy.
“Some guy’s on the phone.” Jay-Jay’s head appeared in the doorway. “He’s leaving this super-long message, and Mom, he used the word mulligrubs, isn’t that cool?”
“Delete it.” I opened a new magazine.
“But, Mom, he said that he hoped you didn’t have the mulligrubs after today’s misunderstanding. How can you delete something like that?”
“Easily.” I threw down the magazine and picked up another. “Mulligrub guys are a dime a dozen.”
I knew that they weren’t, though, and apparently Jay-Jay did also, because he didn’t delete the message. I listened to it after everyone was asleep, leaning over the answering machine with a towel over my head to muffle the sound of Francisco’s voice apologizing for not being able to reach me. He had to catch a last-minute flight to Barrow and cell reception was down. He was stuck inside a motel with polka-dot curtains. “Please don’t be besieged with the mulligrubs,” he said, and then he laughed. I started to laugh and then pressed my hand tight against my mouth as if to hold it all in, because I suddenly realized that I was being given an out. Fate had handed me the perfect excuse to stop whatever might happen with Francisco before it had even begun. It was almost too perfect. I closed my eyes, poised my finger over the Delete button. Just one tiny press, I said to myself. My hand wavered in the air. I stood there for a long time, unsure of what to do.
Dolls Behaving Badly Page 11
