Dolls Behaving Badly

by Cinthia Ritchie

  “Eight-point buck but couldn’t shoot him. He had this look on his face, like he shoulda been wearing glasses,” Barry was saying, and Francisco reached beneath the table and squeezed my knee. They genuinely seemed to like each other; they even had similar mannerisms, both of them leaning forward and waving their hands when they got to the good part of a story. I sat between those two odd and wonderful men, and I licked sugar from my lips.

  Monday, Jan. 23

  Laurel returned to work today after having used up all of her sick and vacation days. She emerged from her bedroom at 7:45 a.m. and sat down with the rest of us for breakfast wearing her usual work blazer and blouse, the buttons straining across her growing breasts, and instead of a designer skirt she wore a pair of casual pants bought on clearance at JCPenney.

  “I’ll take two eggs but no toast,” she said. I sat at the other end of the table reading a Runner’s World magazine, though I wasn’t a runner.

  “I’m not cooking.” I didn’t even look up. “It’s a Monday, oatmeal day. There’s some left in the pan, and strawberries in the fridge.”

  “You go on one good date and look what happens: oatmeal for breakfast.” Laurel sighed. “I’ll have to fight my protein cravings until lunch.” But she got up and spooned herself a huge portion, plus she popped two slices of bread into the toaster. “Where’s Jay-Jay?” She looked around, as if noticing us for the first time. “Shouldn’t he be up by now?”

  “Barry picked him up early and took him out for breakfast. He invited us all, but I didn’t feel like getting out of my pajamas.” I yawned and went back to the story I had been reading, about a seventy-four-year-old marathon runner who ran thirteen to twenty miles on the same half-mile stretch of beach, back and forth and back and forth. Would that equal insanity or dedication?

  “Well, I have to get going. How do I look?” Laurel stood before me in her expensive blouse and cheap pants, her hair styled only in the front, her stomach poofing out against the blazer so that she looked like a middle-aged housewife getting ready to do the weekly shopping.

  “You look great,” I lied, neglecting to mention the smear of strawberry down the side of her pant leg.

  “Wish me luck.” She waved her hand and marched out the door in a pair of my heavy Sorel boots.

  I cleaned up the kitchen, took Killer for a quick walk, and headed into work early, since I had a twenty-top reservation at eleven a.m. Sandee was already there, hacking tomatoes for side salads, seeds flying every which way. She still wore her hiking boots, along with an ugly flannel shirt in place of a blouse.

  “You look like a lumberjack,” I told her as I tied my apron around my waist and got ready to prep the salad dressings and desserts.

  “Good!” A tomato quarter flew across the room and smacked into the wall. “I’m becoming a nun,” she said. “One of those orders where you aren’t allowed to speak. Do they still have those, you think?”

  I rolled balls of ice cream through a mixture of crushed cereal and spices for the fried ice creams. “What’d Joe do this time?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t heard from him in over a week.”

  “He’s probably down in Seward. A bear woke up from hibernation and got its foot stuck in a toilet in the harbormaster’s bathroom. I saw it on the news.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said I haven’t heard from him. That means no text or phone calls.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Joe.”

  “He’s a guy, get it?” Sandee’s voice was awful. “It’s all about sex or not having sex or having too much sex.” Her voice trembled, and she put down the knife and took a breath. “It’s not about sex at all. It’s Randall. Joe says that as long as I’m still married, then we’re committing adultery. He actually used that word, as if he were a preacher.”

  “You should have him legally declared dead,” I suggested. “Put an ad in Vegas newspapers and if you don’t hear from him, that’s that. Or hire a private detective. He could have an address and phone number in a couple of days. Call Randall, tell him you want a divorce, and cut the cord, for once and for all.”

  Sandee stopped chopping. “You’ll go with me? To the detective’s office?”

  “Sure.” The idea frightened me for some reason. “Make an appointment and we’ll drive over together.”

  After the worst of the lunch rush was over and I was wiping down the pantry counters, Sandee handed me a business card. “Toodles O’Brien, Private Investigator,” it said, and had a photograph of an unsmiling Native woman.

  “A customer left this—it must be fate. We’re meeting her at four fifteen. She doesn’t normally do same-day appointments, but she had a cancellation and said to come on in. I’m heading home to pick up a photograph of Randall plus his Social Security number.” Sandee picked dried food off her apron with her fingernails. “Can you believe I’m finally doing this? You can come, right? Please tell me you can make it.”

  I had grocery shopping to do and overdue movies to return, plus I needed to stop at OfficeMax to pick up a new printer cartridge so Jay-Jay could print out his essay for Berkeley gifted camp, but I agreed nevertheless. Then I texted Stephanie that I would be home late and could she please defrost the chicken in the freezer.

  A little before four p.m., Sandee arrived. I almost didn’t recognize her. She wore a stark black blouse with a high collar and an ugly floor-length pleated skirt, and she had her hair in a fussy bun that gave her face a sharp, prim expression.

  “Jesus, what did you do to yourself?” I asked.

  “I don’t want her to think I’m a slut.”

  “You’re not a slut,” I said as I refilled ketchup and Tabasco bottles. “You’ve just been experimenting with single life.”

  We drove over in her car, which was neater than mine, so neat that I marveled over the uncluttered dash and sole coffee cup in the cup holder. Sandee pulled into a house tucked behind the Park Strip. Wind chimes hung from every tree branch so that walking up to the front door we were serenaded with rings and soft clicks.

  A thirty-something woman opened the door before we reached it. Her hair was twisted into four thick braids, and she had her eyebrows, nose, and chin pierced.

  “I’m Toodles.” She reached out her arm. A wolf tattoo circled her wrist. “Brother wolf,” she said, noticing my stare. “He protects me. Sweets, you don’t have to take off your shoes,” she said to Sandee. “Anyone want coffee or tea?”

  “Tea,” Sandee and I said in unison, and Toodles sized us up with her dark, beautiful face. “Devil’s club and rose hip,” she said, motioning for us to follow her out to the kitchen. “I don’t usually work at home, but I didn’t feel like putting on my boots and walking to the fucking office. Sorry about the language. I’m an Aries, which means I swear a lot. Actually, I’m not sure if that’s true, but that’s what I tell people.”

  Toodles was solid and muscular, and she liked to talk. “I came from the village, up by Point Hope. We didn’t have indoor plumbing, used a honey bucket and it was no big deal. I saw my first toilet when I was six. I was terrified; I thought it was going to swallow me whole.” She threw back her head and laughed. Her voice was musical and lilting, and it still carried a hint of a village accent. “Now when I go back I bitch about having to pee into a bucket. That’s what they call progress.” She set two steeping mugs of tea on the table and waved for us to sit down. “I almost lost it when I moved down here for college. You know the story: Native girl from the village goes wild in the big city and loses part of her soul.” She stirred her tea, and I noticed a series of etchings over her right hand. “Willow branches, for serenity,” she said. “Luckily, I didn’t lose my soul. Know what saved me?” She leaned forward impishly. “I learned to make our Native foods: sage and mushroom sauce, fry bread, salmon cheeks marinated in dandelion greens and nettles. I enjoyed that so much that I learned the white man’s cooking ways, too, went down to Seward and studied culinary arts and then advanced my learning at Le Cordon Bleu.”

  “That’s
where Barry went,” I said. “That’s my ex-husband. He’s the chef down at the Hilton. And Captain Cook. And the Sheraton, too—he moves around a lot, contracts himself out and—”

  “Barry George?” Toodles leaned forward. “Met him at a banquet. We exchanged chowder recipes: moose for elk. Your ex, eh?” She stared at me with her dark eyes. “That was before I got my private detective license.” She patted her large but firm belly. “Enough of my story, what’s yours?”

  Sandee explained about Randall leaving her alone in a Vegas hotel room, she showed photographs, and handed over his Social Security number, birth date, and parents’ names and address.

  “You’ve called his old friends?” Toodles asked. “High school sweetheart? College roommates?”

  Sandee shook her head no.

  “People don’t disappear. That’s movie bullshit.” Toodles straightened her large shoulders and suddenly looked imposing. “What they do is go someplace familiar and re-create their old lives, right down to how they arrange their living rooms. Kinda sad, isn’t it? We’re supposed to be the dominant species yet we have so little imagination.” She held the postcards in her hands and closed her eyes for a minute, as if she were a psychic instead of a PI. Sandee fidgeted but I held out my hands for her to be still.

  “Okay, here’s the deal.” Toodles opened her eyes and stared directly at Sandee. “Your husband probably dyed his hair one shade lighter or darker. If he wore contacts, he wears glasses now; if he wore glasses, he’s switched to contacts. He’s living with someone younger than he is, probably much younger, he’s working…what was his profession before?”

  “Accountant,” Sandee said. “For a hospital chain.”

  “Now he’s working as an accountant for a supermarket or warehouse club. He’s driving the same make and color vehicle, has the same credit cards but different account numbers, follows the same daily routine, and goes to bed and gets up at the same time as before. The new girlfriend probably looks like you, or the way you looked when you were younger. He’s re-created his life,” she said more gently. “He just did it without you this time.

  “It’s a classic midlife crisis,” she continued. “You wouldn’t believe how often it happens. We are all so predictable.” She sighed. “I took this job expecting excitement but instead found out how excruciatingly ordinary our lives are.” She sipped tea and grimaced. “This one will be easy. I can have an address, phone number, and even photos in seventy-two hours.”

  “Sev-seventy-two hours?” Sandee stuttered. “I’m not sure if I’m ready.”

  “What’s not to be ready? You’re looking for the truth, and you’ll get it.” She excused herself, went into the kitchen, and came out with a plate of cold salmon and a peppery lemon basil sauce. “I made this last night, when I couldn’t sleep. Dig in. The salmon’s from the Yukon River—caught my share dipnetting last summer. Native rights.” She folded her arms across the table and leaned toward me. “Now, you,” she said to me in that lilted voice, “tell me more about that delicious ex-husband of yours.”

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday, Jan. 25

  “I STILL CAN’T GET OVER the fact that someone finds Barry delicious,” I said to Sandee, as we cross-country skied along the Coastal Trail. Mexico in an Igloo was closed for the day due to a faulty hot-water heater, and we were using the time to get in our exercise so we could eat more later. “Do you think I overlooked too many of his good points? Everyone keeps saying what a great cook he is. I feel insecure, as if I missed something.”

  “You’re not fat,” she said, as we began to ski through the tunnel. “And you don’t watch the Food Network or read gourmet magazines, so I’d say that cooking doesn’t mean that much to you.”

  “I like to eat.”

  “We all like to eat,” Sandee said, “and most of us eat too much.”

  “But I cook,” I protested. “And bake. I’m always baking.”

  “It’s not a passion, though. You’re not a foodie, which Barry needs, and he’s not into art, which you need. You loved each other but couldn’t touch the other’s soft shine.”

  “Soft shine?”

  “You know, the place that’s the deepest part of you, the thing that defines you, makes you the person that you are. My mother called it the soft shine, though she never found hers.” Sandee laughed bitterly, as we skied up a small hill and around a curve. It was a cloudy day, the inlet on our right, huge chunks of ice moving slowly with the tide so it looked as if they were alive. We both breathed hard as we skied along the side of the trail classic style. A group of thin, athletic girls from the high school ski team zipped past us in their sleek tights and bright jackets.

  “I hate them,” Sandee muttered, as we plodded along. My back pricked with sweat, and the air felt cold and damp against my face. We skied in silence until we reached the downhill before Point Woronzof, where we stopped and looked out over the expanse of beach. The sun was setting, lighting the sky pink and orange, and off in the distance the few tall buildings that made up downtown reflected the light back so that it shined bright and fiery against the frozen water. We always paused before the hill, since it had a tricky curve at the bottom and neither of us skied well on turns, especially while moving fast.

  “Here goes.” Sandee dug in with her poles and pushed off. I waited until she was halfway down, then pushed off and flew down the hill, my skis picking up speed, my poles raised, my knees tucked down as I alternated weight from one leg to the other in an attempt to keep my balance. What is it about being out of control that is so enticing? Each time I skied a hill I didn’t know if I would make it down without falling, and that made it special, something I both looked forward to and dreaded.

  “Cross-country skiing is like love,” Sandee said, as we trudged back up the hill, our ridiculous skis splayed out so that we took giant, lumbering steps. “Most of the time it’s boring and mindless, just moving along and following the trail. Then you come to the hills, and going up can bring you to tears.” She paused to take a breath. “Everyone thinks the downhills are the easiest parts, but that’s when you’re most likely to fall and get hurt. Do you get it?”

  “Kind of.” We crested the hill and skied past a woman walking a dog in a sweater.

  “It’s the effortless times that are the most dangerous, the times that you feel as if nothing could go wrong. That’s when you need to beware.”

  “You sound like an ad for a horror movie,” I joked, panning an announcer’s voice. “She was happy and then…beware.”

  “Laugh, but think of it and it makes sense.”

  “This is about Toodles, isn’t it?” I stopped so fast that a man skiing behind me crashed into the back of my skis. “Sorry,” I yelled over my shoulder, and then I turned back to Sandee. “You’re not afraid of what she’s going to tell you. You’re afraid of what she’s not going to tell you.”

  Sandee’s face was scrunched tight in the dim light.

  “You never loved him, did you? At least not in the shiny-spot way. Oh my god—” My ski had hit a rough lump of snow, and I momentarily stumbled. “This is about guilt; that’s why you hired Toodles. You’re trying to pay for your guilt, the sin of your relief.”

  “Leave me alone,” Sandee snarled, trying to ski ahead.

  But I stayed by her side. “The Oprah Giant says that to love is the grandest thing we’ll ever do in our lives,” I panted. Now Sandee was picking up speed. “She says that—”

  “Who in the hell is the Oprah Giant?”

  I realized I had never told her, I hadn’t told anyone. They knew about my dirty dolls but not about my messed-up and troublesome mind. So I explained about the diary and the blog and e-mail messages, and how each month offered a lesson to follow. I was sure she’d laugh or make a joke, but she surprised me.

  “That’s why you’ve changed.” She squinted at me in the hazy purple twilight. “Don’t get mad, but you’re different, Carla. There’s an air about you, a lightness. People notice, too. Look at Francis
co. He’s been coming in for over a year and suddenly he notices you. It’s not a coincidence. There’s this feeling about being around you lately, I can’t explain it. It’s sort of like eating a plum.”

  After I got back from skiing, I started mixing up biscuits. Right as I folded in the butter, the door slammed.

  “That’s that,” Laurel sat down across from me and shrugged off her coat. “Now I can sleep in again.”

  I added milk and a handful of cheddar cheese. I was trying to replicate Gramma’s cheesy biscuit recipe but couldn’t get the spices balanced.

  “So there I was sitting at my desk skimming through sales documents,” Laurel continued. “I reached for the stapler but it was empty, so I pulled out a box of staples, and that was empty, too. Five thousand staples.”

  She looked at me expectantly. I looked back, waiting for more.

  “Don’t you get it? Five thousand staples! I had stapled five thousand times.” She smacked the table. “I knew it was an omen. So I quit.”

  “Y-you quit?”

  “No more documents, no more smiling and showing houses to couples happier than I am. I’m done.”

  “But what about money?”

  “I’ll stay here with you until I have the baby. Then I’ll work something out with Junior. We can sell the house. The furniture alone is worth a small fortune.”

  I stared at her as if she were mad, but she was up rummaging through the cupboards. “The funny thing is, the minute I handed in my notice, my stomach rumbled and I felt hungry for real food for the first time in months. What’s for supper? I’ve been craving deviled eggs all afternoon.”