Dolls Behaving Badly

by Cinthia Ritchie

  “Thought we was getting him a laptop.” He grabbed the joint from my hand and expertly inhaled.

  “Yeah, it’s on order.” I closed my eyes, colors flashing behind my lids: carmine, violet, a bismuth yellow the exact shade as the ribbon tied around the secret box that kept appearing in my paintings, which I hadn’t gotten around to finishing. I swallowed glumly. “Have I ever finished anything?” My voice was far away, the way it gets when I’m high. “In my whole life, tell me, have I ever finished one thing?”

  “I dunno.” Barry stared down at his penis, as if expecting it to perform tricks.

  “I barely finished high school, I never filled out my college applications, and I didn’t finish our marriage.” I was getting more and more depressed. Pot did that to me sometimes, took me down before flying me up. “I’ve never lasted at a job longer than three years.”

  “You had Jay-Jay, that’s something.”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “Always a choice.”

  “I guess.” I sighed and picked at my cuticle. “I shouldn’t have given up so easily.” Barry’s edges were starting to fuzz. “Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about when you don’t,” I yelled before taking one last hit; I held that sweet smoke deep inside my lungs. “It’s painting, okay?”

  “I seen you paint.”

  “Not seriously.” I laughed an ugly laugh. “Not like it was what I was meant to do. I want…” I couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t put into words the ache inside me, the loneliness, the need. “I want…more.”

  Barry nodded and grabbed the joint. “So get more,” he said, his eyes dulling.

  “I don’t know how.” I was beginning to relax now, to go with the flow. I lay back and looked up at the rough plank ceiling.

  “Nobody knows cow, I mean how,” Barry slurred. “You just gotta moo, you know? Moooovvvvve forward.”

  I giggled and closed my eyes, colors swishing by. Barry woke me a few hours later, the stove out, my nose so cold I couldn’t feel it.

  “It’s past three.” He pulled on his pants and groped along the rough planks for his socks. “Ouch!” He sucked on his finger. “Got me a splinter.” He held his hand in front of my face but it was too dark to see.

  “I’ll get the tweezers,” I said wearily. The night was heavy and cold, and climbing down the ladder felt claustrophobic, as if I were moving inside a huge freezer. I led Barry into the house, creeping past Stephanie on the couch and Jay-Jay sleeping in his room. Barry paused and stuck his head in the door.

  “He looks good sleeping,” he whispered. “Some kids get all dopey-faced but Jay-Jay looks like he’s figuring things out.” He laughed softly, and Jay-Jay rolled over in his sleep, as if following Barry’s voice. I turned on the bathroom light and we both cringed. Then I got out the rubbing alcohol and tweezers and set about pulling fibers of wood out of my ex-husband’s palm. It reminded me of that story of the lamb pulling a splinter out of the lion’s paw. I told this to Barry, and he grunted.

  I put the rubbing alcohol away and started brushing my teeth. Barry leaned toward the mirror and picked a small pimple on his forehead. Our eyes met in the mirror and we looked away guiltily.

  “We’ve got to stop.” I sat down on the closed toilet seat. “Look at us, it’s like we’re still married. This can’t be normal, can it?”

  “Dunno.” Barry sat on the edge of the tub, his large knees hunched against his chest. “Normal for us, maybe.”

  “I met someone,” I blurted as I got out the dental floss, breaking off a strand and handing the container to Barry. “We had one date but he never showed. He said he was in Barrow. Sometimes I call him at night just to hear him breathe.”

  Barry didn’t say anything.

  “Do you really want to do it again?” I waved my dental floss through the air. “The beginning so good and then the middle kind of sagging and before you know it, the ugly, cold ending? You really want to try all that?”

  “Yeah, I do.” His voice was firm.

  We flossed in rhythm, our elbows moving in time. It was comfortingly familiar yet vaguely shameful, the way I sometimes felt after I masturbated, satisfied yet hollow, as if I had stroked myself to pleasure in all the wrong places.

  Chapter 13

  Monday, Dec. 19 (early, early, early morning)

  I SPENT THE WEEKEND cramming the last of my holiday doll orders, staying up through the night fueled by chocolate, coffee, and the clever caffeinated lip balm I bought on Jay-Jay’s favorite website. Six dolls in two days was too much, and frankly, it showed. These definitely weren’t my best, and the Whip Me, Sip Me, Flip Me doll ended up with lopsided balls, but as Stephanie pointed out, it lent a more realistic appearance.

  She picked up a brown-skinned Barbie and gave her a butch haircut. “To make her, you know, look like she’s tougher than sex. Like she doesn’t need it but wants it. I think that’s totally what makes men hot.”

  I stared at Stephanie. How could someone from such a broken home, with no parents to speak of, someone who has practically raised herself—how could someone like that be so wise? “Steph?” I said. She turned and looked at me. Her blusher was the wrong shade and her eyes, beneath their purple makeup, were so trusting and open that I couldn’t go on. “Wanna help?” I asked instead.

  “Oh, Mrs. Richards, you mean it?”

  “Totally.” I pushed over supplies and explained the orders. She chose Tie Me, Tickle Me, Teach Me, a submissive forced to walk on all fours like a dog.

  “This is totally the best thing that’s happened to me,” she gushed. “I mean, think of it. Some guy is totally going to be jerking off to something I made. That’s, like, well, that’s almost like being famous or something.”

  “I worried that I was a bad influence, that I could be arrested for including a minor in the design of one of my porno dolls. “How old are you again?” I asked Stephanie.

  “Seventeen,” she said. “But don’t worry, Mrs. Richards. With the stuff I’ve seen over at my house, a few fake dicks aren’t going to warp my mind. I’m, like, an old soul. It takes a lot to faze me.”

  We worked for two hours straight until Jay-Jay came home from his friend Alan’s house. Stephanie fed him a grilled cheese sandwich, ordered him to do his homework, and returned to her doll. The longer she worked, the more cheerful she became. She hummed and tapped out songs with the toes of her high-topped sneakers.

  “Hey, Mrs. Richards,” she sang out. “Name this tune, okay? See if you can get it in, like, ten notes, okay?”

  I played along. I even devised my own tunes, which I tapped out with the toes of my old slippers. We were deep into a country-western round, our hands covered with cuts, burns, and scratches, when Laurel straggled out of bed for the day. It was past five, almost dinnertime.

  “God,” she said, sweeping into the kitchen like an old-time movie actress. “I feel so woozy. My stomach won’t let me eat a thing.” She glared as if this were my fault. Then she caught sight of the Dora Do Me Both Ways doll I was working on. “What’s that?” She tittered and then covered her mouth. “I’m going to be sick again.” Her feet pounded toward the bathroom.

  “She won’t make it,” Stephanie said cheerfully.

  She made it, but barely. “It’s the oddest thing,” she said a few moments later as she slumped down in the chair across from me. “My throw-up keeps tasting like Bugles. Remember? Those corn-tasting crackers Mother served with tomato soup?”

  I measured a dildo against the doll’s butt.

  “I wonder if they still make those.” Laurel picked up a naked doll and peered between its legs. I waited for her to ask me why I was drilling vagina and butt holes into dolls but she was too involved with her own suffering to care. “I feel like beef stew,” she said. “Got any? It’s the only thing that sounds remotely edible.”

  Beside me, Stephanie hammered a piece of wire. I had no idea what she was doing but trusted her instincts.

  “Not Dinty Moore, though
,” Laurel continued. “The Safeway brand. It’s less salty and the vegetables are soggier. Soggy is the only thing I can cope with right now.”

  “My mom totally ate marshmallows when she was pregnant with my sister,” Stephanie said. “Everyone says that’s why she’s so pale and puffy.” Stephanie’s mother weighed over three hundred pounds and had four kids by four different men. “She hates marshmallows now, though. It’s the only food she won’t eat.”

  Talking about her family seemed to depress Stephanie, and she bit down on her lip and got to work attaching a spiked dog collar (which she made from the tops of thumb tacks and an old piece of leather) around the doll’s neck. She added a leash printed with tiny fish.

  Laurel squinted across the table. “Are those lobsters?”

  “Crayfish.” Stephanie snapped her gum.

  Laurel looked around as if for the first time. “What exactly are you doing?” She spread her arms and knocked over a pile of penises. “Is this a penis?”

  “Yes,” I said proudly. I had finished the penises last week and was pleased at how realistic they looked, especially the crooked veins I had painted down each shaft.

  “Well,” Laurel huffed, sounding like her old self again. “This certainly doesn’t look like something a woman with a small child should be doing. I know you won’t like hearing this, Carly, but it looks—”

  “Those are for Mom’s porno dolls,” Jay-Jay interrupted from the hallway. Everyone froze. “It’s no big deal,” he said. “It’s not like I’m going to grow up and chop people into pieces because there were dirty dolls in my house.”

  My face turned red with shame. “Well, honey, it’s not exactly porn. More along the lines of erotic art.”

  “Whatever,” he said with a shrug. “Do we have any Goldfish crackers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Regular crackers?”

  “Nope.” Laurel was eating us out of house and home.

  “Toast?”

  “I’ll totally make it for you.” Stephanie jumped up and rustled Jay-Jay’s head. “With jelly on the bottom of the peanut butter, right?”

  “I sell them on a website,” I explained to Laurel as Jay-Jay headed to the living room with Stephanie. “It’s a classy site. Some of their articles have been reprinted in the Village Voice and…”

  Laurel picked up a doll and peered at the half-finished labia. “Are vaginas ugly or amazing?” she said. “I can never figure it out. One minute they look ugly, the next mysterious and forbidden.” She held up another doll. “These aren’t bad, actually. That snobby art critic from the paper would probably say they’re scathingly honest.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’ll ever see them, so I doubt—”

  Laurel burped. “Listen, I really need some beef stew. Can you get me some, Carly?”

  “I’m kind of busy.” I etched a sunflower tattoo over a doll’s buttocks. “Can’t it wait?”

  “Well, of course it could wait,” Laurel said sarcastically. “I could keel over and die and then you wouldn’t have to bother. Or I could sit here and throw up all over these dirty dolls.”

  I slammed down my doll, got my keys, and headed for the door.

  “The Safeway kind,” she yelled after me. I drove through the snow to the store, bought four cans of beef stew, warmed one up in the microwave, and served it to Laurel, who sat playing with a Ken doll’s newly fashioned boobs.

  “I wish I could take my breasts off and fold them in a drawer like a sweater,” she said. “I’d never have to worry if they’re bouncing or my nipples are showing.” With that she attacked her stew, gobbling it up so fast she barely had time to chew. I watched in amazement—Laurel had always prided herself on impeccable manners.

  “How would you reattach them?” I asked. She raised her head; a piece of carrot was caught in her teeth.

  “Snaps,” she said. “Over my chest.” She took another bite. “I wonder why clothes no longer require snaps.”

  With that she went off to watch TV in the living room. The old Laurel had rarely watched TV. The new Laurel had a whole lineup of reality shows she couldn’t miss: The Amazing Race. Survivor. America’s Next Top Model. Although she was more easygoing now, I wasn’t sure if it was good for her to be so lax. It was like watching a species trying to defy its genetic heritage, like birds flying north instead of south each autumn.

  After a taped Survivor episode blared on, I returned to my doll orders. Stephanie had a paper to finish for school, so I was on my own until Sandee stopped by after work to complain about Joe. I immediately put her to work sanding down butts.

  “Joe wants to take me to Seldovia,” she said. “He wants me to meet his mother.”

  “Really?” This cheered me up. “He said that?”

  “We haven’t even slept together.” She was clearly depressed. “I’m not ready to meet his mother.”

  “Ever find out his last name?”

  “Don’t laugh, okay? But it’s Smith.”

  “Joe Smith?” I was incredulous. “That was the name you couldn’t remember.” I leaned forward. “I know you don’t want to hear this but if you can’t remember Smith, you’re doomed. You’re definitely in love.”

  “I know,” she said angrily. “Don’t you think I fucking know that?”

  I was jealous. I wanted to be in love and miserable. I told her so.

  “So call the god dude,” she snapped.

  After she headed home, I continued through the night, shipping everything off early in the morning at the Airport Post Office. As soon as I returned home, I started writing this. More than an hour has passed and I’m still writing. My hands ache and a blister is forming on my index finger, but I can’t stop. Now that my dolls are finished until spring orders, what will I do with myself?

  You’ll finish your real work, a voice in my head replied in a calm, clear tone that couldn’t possibly belong to me.

  Letter #7

  Ms. Carlita Richards

  202 W. Hillcrest Drive, #22

  Anchorage, AK 99503

  Dear Carlita Richards:

  We were so excited to receive payment for your long overdue library book, How to Save Your Own Life by Erica Jong, that we’ve named you Redeemed Library Patron of the Month.

  Please send a photograph of yourself by the end of the week so that we may include it on our main bulletin board, along with our announcement. A short bio on your reading habits would be much appreciated.

  Congratulations on finally settling your bill, and welcome back to Anchorage Community Libraries.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret M. Miller

  Anchorage Community Libraries

  P.S. Have you saved your own life yet?

  Friday, Dec. 23

  “Joe keeps staring at my fingers.” Sandee cut lemons into furious slices. “I think he’s getting me a ring for Christmas.”

  “It’s kind of sweet.” We were finishing up our morning side work in the Mexico in an Igloo lounge. “Barry gave me a weed whacker our first year together.”

  Sandee shook the knife at me. “Better than a ring.”

  “Yeah, right.” I took the knife from her hand and finished the lemons. “I’ve been thinking.” I glanced at my watch. I had a feeling that once I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. “We’re both being ridiculous, don’t you think? Overly cautious. We’ve reverted to born-again virgins, love-wise. Women who can fuck but can’t open their hearts.”

  Sandee slumped against the counter. “It’s almost Christmas. Why would you say something like that when it’s practically a holiday?”

  “I don’t know, I just…” I put the lid on the lemons, wiped my hands over my skirt, and attached the Feliz Navidad pin shaped like a baby Jesus that Mr. Tims wanted us to wear. He wasn’t religious, but the pins came for free with the tequila and he figured it would keep the church crowd happy. “We’re playing games, don’t you think? Acting like we’re still in high school?”

  “You wouldn’t say that if Francisco cam
e in,” Sandee challenged. Her baby Jesus pin sagged at her breast, as if it were nursing.

  “Would too.” I wasn’t being particularly brave; Francisco was spending the holidays up in Fairbanks, or so I thought. Right past noon, amid the horrid Spanish holiday music and the throngs of last-minute shoppers, with the kitchen backed up, the bar out of limes, and Mr. Tims in a frenzy, Sandee tugged at my ponytail.

  “Time to play games,” she said as I loaded my tray with taco salads and chicken fingers shaped like sombreros.

  “He’s here?” I looked around, as if Francisco might be in the kitchen. “You sure it’s him?”

  “Swedish hair, big feet, smells like dog—should I go on?”

  “He’s supposed to be in Fairbanks.”

  “What were you saying this morning?” Sandee repositioned the plates over my tray. “That we have to stop being overcautious about love?”

  “Stop the hissy fight, food’s dying.” Mr. Tims swung a towel at my butt so I lifted my tray and adopted the swaying type of walk necessary to balance ten plates of Mexican food over my head. I noticed Francisco right away. He had tinsel stuck to the back of his neck and wore an ugly sweater with reindeer prancing up the sleeves. I was horrified.

  “Carla!” he said as I passed, but I didn’t answer. I snapped the tray jack open with my right hand and expertly lowered the tray; I felt his eyes on me as I served and it made me so nervous that I half-clobbered an elderly woman with a tamale plate.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, but she just giggled and sipped her Midori Christmas margarita. After all the plates had been distributed and the second round of drink orders taken, I stalled beside the table, fidgeting with the hot sauce dishes and water glasses.

  “Be a dear and scoot,” the elderly woman scolded, so I picked up my tray jack and scooted. Unfortunately, I had to pass Francisco’s table on my way back to the pantry. I blushed and stared down at my ugly, thick-soled waitressing shoes.