Dolls Behaving Badly Read online

  Instead I smile my fake waitressing smile and make little cooing sounds of approval.

  Then I warm up some bread. It’s my favorite thing after work, thick, sturdy wedges of brown bread so dense I have to rip pieces with my teeth. Jay-Jay munches the crust while I work my way through the middle sections. It’s satisfying to eat this way, no plates or silverware, only our mouths chewing. On Fridays, I spread open the paper to the entertainment section and daydream of myself as Talented Artist, my hips swaying under a long silk skirt as I give an interview to the snotty arts reviewer from the local paper.

  “I know what it’s like at the bottom,” I say as he eyes my breasts (in this fantasy, I have hefty and enviable cleavage). “I lived in a trailer park for years, and the shading from this period was influenced by Kmart blue-light specials.”

  These little fantasies calm me down enough so that by suppertime, Jay-Jay and I are able to enjoy a nice meal out in the living room, eating on TV trays while we watch Vanna applaud as contestants spin the big wheel.

  “She’s pretty old, huh, Mom?” Jay-Jay says. “She’s been on forever.”

  “Yes, honey, she has,” I reply. And I stare at the screen, the wedges on the wheel going round and round, my stomach full and gurgling, the dog lying on my feet, and the TV gives off a tint that makes everything around us, from the mangy carpet to the cracks in the wall, look homey and warm and inviting.

  It isn’t, of course. But it’s a nice illusion.

  Letter #1

  Ms. Carla Richards

  202 W. Hillcrest Drive #22

  Anchorage, AK 99503

  Dear Ms. Carla Richards:

  We regret to inform you that your application for a Platinum Alaska Bank Visa Card has been declined.

  After reviewing your rather entertaining credit history, we feel it is in our best interest to keep you securely focused on your current plan.

  As always, thank you for choosing Alaska Bank Visa Card.

  Sincerely,

  Douglas R. Winnington

  Junior Account Supervisor

  P.S. Did your August payment get lost in the mail again?

  Chapter 2

  Friday, Sept. 23

  SHHH! I’M CROUCHED IN THE CLOSET, hiding from my sister, Laurel, who this very minute is pouring herself a glass of my generic orange juice. I can see her through the cracks along the door hinges.

  “Yoo-hoo, Carla,” she yells. “I’ve got wonderful news.”

  I hold my breath and pray for her to go away. No such luck. She sits down at the kitchen table and shuffles through a magazine.

  “Carla, listen,” she shouts toward the closed bathroom door; she must think I’m in there. “I sold the McPherson place, can you believe it? On the market for almost a year and I sell it in two weeks. Isn’t that amazing?”

  She walks down the hall, her heels click-clack-clicking on the linoleum, and knocks on the bathroom door. “I’ve got to go, Carla. I’m meeting someone for breakfast.” A nervous cough, followed by a giggle. “No one special, you know. Just a…this client.”

  She lets herself out and I wait a moment to make sure the coast is clear, then slip out of the closet and hunker down at the table to finish this entry.

  I know it sounds a bit mad, hiding from my very own sister. But if you saw Laurel, you’d know what I mean. Two years older, Laurel is perfect, or at least she likes to think she is. Smart, talented, beautiful—that’s how Mother used to explain it to me. Laurel was the favorite. The shining star in an otherwise mediocre family. My brother and I (poor Gene, working as a manager for a Chickin’ Lickin’ back home in Dowser) were pushed to the background, half-hidden, like those relatives they used to keep in attics.

  Now Laurel lives up on the Hillside in a perfect house with an immaculate lawn, expensive art dangling from the walls. Her husband, Junior, is a flat, white wall: no surprises, no deep shades or textures. He is a corporate lawyer for British Petroleum, and Laurel is one of the top-selling agents at Southwest Alaska Real Estate. She and Junior are among the Alaska jet set. They play racquetball on the weekends, tennis in the summers, take exotic vacations twice a year, and keep their cars so clean you could put on your makeup in the reflection of the chrome.

  Laurel and Junior weren’t always Alaskans. They used to live in Chicago, a glorious six-hour plane flight away. Then one afternoon about five years ago, someone knocked at the door as I was untangling Barry’s fishing line. Jay-Jay, who was almost three at the time, raced to answer.

  “Mom! Auntie Laurel’s at the door.”

  “Laurel?”

  “She has funny shoes.” Jay-Jay stared at his socks. “Like animal claws.”

  I hurried out to the kitchen and found my sister leaning against the dishwasher, the toe of her expensive boot jutting across my path.

  “Carla,” she cried.

  “I didn’t know you were on vacation,” I said.

  “Vacation?” She giggled. “We’re moving here.” Her voice was high and screechy. “We’re looking at houses up on the Hillside. It’s supposed to be the best neighborhood for people like us.” She nodded at my shabby kitchen as if to say, as opposed to people like you.

  A few months later, they were tucked tidily away in an expensive house by the Chugach foothills, Laurel maneuvering her BMW along potholed roads and bitching about the general lack of basic traffic law obedience. I initially envisioned the two of us drinking tea and sharing pieces of our lives, like sisters in Hallmark Cards commercials, but that never happened. Laurel remained as unapproachable as ever, though she did soften toward Jay-Jay. Oh, the way my sister changes when Jay-Jay is around! Her face lightens, and the lines around her mouth even out. Laurel and Junior don’t have children. Laurel says she can’t, but I think she has willed her body not to reproduce, frightened as she is of the idea of pregnancy. And labor! Blood and sweat, screams and flailing legs: Laurel would die before she would allow herself to be seen like that.

  I could go on, but writing about someone who is so goddamned perfect is like drinking too much. At first you feel brave and superior, but as soon as the alcohol hits your blood, you flatten out and realize that underneath it all, you just want to sit on a barstool and sob.

  Monday, Sept. 26

  Every Sunday the Oprah Giant posts a blog to give us poor diary-​writing slobs hope. This week’s was about loss. “You can’t see the center of the pond when the water is muddied with regret,” she wrote. “Make a list of all the things you lost—socks and pets and that teacup from Aunt Mabel. Draw little hearts beside them. Treasure them! Love them! They’re not lost, they’re still hiding inside your heart.”

  I snorted as I read this. List the things I’ve lost—please! What exactly was her point?

  But then I remembered the winter after the divorce, when the snow and darkness settled in and I felt so alone that I called Laurel in the middle of the night. It was all too much, I sobbed. I couldn’t take it.

  “I’ll come over Saturday and take Jay-Jay,” she offered.

  “Thanks,” I sniffed. But it wasn’t a babysitter I needed as much as hope. I wanted someone to offer me a slice of hope, the way Gramma used to offer me a slice of lemon meringue pie, the middle shiny with promise.

  “I’ll never love anyone again,” I cried dramatically.

  There was a long pause. “Love isn’t what you expect,” Laurel finally said. “It doesn’t necessarily make you happy.”

  I ignored the implication that my sister’s marriage wasn’t working. I was too selfish, too mired in my own pain to acknowledge anyone else’s.

  “I’ll never meet anyone like Barry,” I continued. Now that he was gone, I forgave him his faults and remembered only the good. What had I done? Why had I left such a prince of a man?

  “He chewed with his mouth open,” Laurel reminded me. “He hung dead animal heads on the walls. And remember your wedding? He wore hiking boots with his tux.”

  “Those are no reasons to leave a good man,” I cried.

/>   Laurel snorted in disgust. “What exactly about him do you miss?”

  “He loved to eat,” I said. “He was a great hiking partner. He had a nice furry chest.”

  “So get a dog,” Laurel snapped.

  Enter Killer Bee. Like everything else around here, she isn’t much to look at. Part beagle and part Labrador retriever, her eyes are slightly crossed, her tail bent, her coat speckled with outlandish white spots, the largest one in the perfect shape of Florida, right down to the panhandle. Killer is afraid of loud noises, cats, small dogs, kites, the garbage truck, and plastic bags blowing in the wind. She also has a nervous stomach and throws up if anyone yells too long, too loud, or too often.

  But Killer is loyal to a fault, patrolling the hallway at night, her toenails clicking on the floor like a demented sentry.

  We rescued Killer Bee from the back of a pickup truck at the supermarket. Jay-Jay took one look at the squirming puppies and refused to budge.

  “Can we get one, huh, Mom, huh?” He asked for so little, how could I possibly refuse? I gave the man a twenty and we drove home with that puppy licking Jay-Jay’s face. He named her the next day, after watching an advertisement for a movie about killer bees swarming a Texas town.

  I have to admit that through all the housebreaking, the chewed-up shoes and coats, and the torn upholstery, it helped having another body in the house. Nights after Jay-Jay is asleep and I pace the dark living room, it’s reassuring to know that anytime I want, I can reach my hand out and she’ll trot over and greet me. She’ll always be happy to see me.

  Jay-Jay wasn’t happy to see me when I picked him up from his after-school program this afternoon.

  “You smell,” he hissed, glaring at my grease-splattered uniform. “The other mothers don’t wear stupid aprons.”

  Well, what could I say? The other mothers had neat hair and I’m-a-respected-member-of-the-community clothes and wedding rings that flashed when they waved their hands. Jay-Jay attends the gifted program in a school located in an upper-middle-class neighborhood, and while he’s too young to understand the significance of class structure, he’s smart enough to decipher the nuances. He knows it’s not good to have a mother who works as a waitress and has rightly decided that this must be my fault. Once we got in the car, though, he was more civil, and by the time we hit the first traffic light, he was explaining a science class fiasco.

  “Julia was supposed to only count the green colors,” he said. “But she didn’t, Mom. She counted everything but green.” Jay-Jay shook his head. “We came in last. It took us forever. We had to recount every single green.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about but I nodded my head. I was looking forward to a long bath and a bowl of tomato soup with little oyster crackers floating around the top, like Gramma used to make. She called the crackers “little darling dumplings,” and thought they were the cleverest thing.

  “Crackers that float,” she marveled, and none of us had the heart to tell her that all crackers float, to one degree or another. I was remembering Gramma’s tomato soup recipe when I pulled in the driveway and met up with the sight of my bearded ex-husband sprawled over the porch, his face hidden behind a hunting magazine. A bear growled out from the cover.

  “Jay-Jay Jiggers,” he yelled, standing up and brushing off his pants. “Wanna head over for dinner? Got a nice piece of salmon and I’ll fry them little brown potatoes you like so much.”

  “Can I, Mom, huh?

  I hadn’t planned anything for supper but even so I bit my lip and acted like it was a big deal. Barry and I officially have joint custody; unofficially, I have custody and he has visitation whenever he feels like it. Usually this means every other weekend and a good chunk of the summer, plus fishing trips when the kings and silvers are running. I can handle impromptu visits, and Jay-Jay doesn’t appear to have a problem with them, either. What I have a hard time handling is the way Barry tries to weasel out of child support payments.

  Right now Barry owes me over $1,600 in back support. When I mention this, his mouth tightens and his eyes narrow and he flashes that “don’t tell me what to do” look men have been giving women since we all started stumbling around upright. Don’t get me wrong, he loves Jay-Jay. He would die for him in an instant. It’s just that, like me, money isn’t his strong point. He doesn’t know how to save; he insists that it’s not in his genetic makeup, but really it’s because he blows all his money on fancy outdoor equipment.

  “I said, can I?” Jay-Jay yelled, interrupting my thought process.

  “I suppose so.” I sounded just like my own mother. “Don’t forget your homework, and take a sweatshirt in case you get cold and—”

  “Mom!”

  A few minutes later they roared down the driveway in Barry’s ridiculous camouflaged Jeep. Barry is a chef. I have to mention this because it explains so much. The man loves food. That’s how we met. We were both stuffing grapes in our mouths at the Carrs produce section, those large black Concord grapes we used to pick back home. I was new to Alaska and couldn’t get used to the summertime light or the way the mountains looked when I walked out of my apartment each morning: stern and reproachful, like a father waiting for me to make a mistake. I was terribly unhappy. I had ditched a short-term fling in Homer and hitchhiked up to Anchorage with an old man whose dog chewed the zipper off my pack. I was homesick and couldn’t sleep, so when I noticed the grapes I felt redeemed. I looked up, saw Barry throw a handful in his own mouth, and grinned at him with purple teeth.

  That’s how it started. It wasn’t at all romantic, but then again, nothing ever is.

  Letter #2

  Killer Bee Richards

  c/o Ms. Carla Richards

  202 W. Hillcrest Drive #22

  Anchorage, AK 99503

  Dear Killer Bee Richards:

  Your owner is in trouble. He/she hasn’t paid his/her monthly bill. Please give a bark/meow in his/her direction to start the bone/catnip rolling.

  If payment isn’t made by Oct. 15, your owner will be smacked with a newspaper and sent to a collection agency.

  Woof woof, meow meow,

  Dr. Francis Sterling and Dr. Emily Goodman,

  Anchorage Emergency Clinic

  Wednesday, Sept. 28

  I. Am. So. Depressed.

  After work today I trudged over to an appointment at the Consumer Credit Counseling agency. Laurel set this up for me after I mentioned that I was trying to get my life together.

  A fattish woman who smelled of Jergens hand lotion, the credit counselor patiently explained the counseling motto: a penny saved is a penny saved.

  “Clever,” I muttered as I pulled my dirty waitressing skirt over my knees. For some reason it was important that I make a good impression with this homely woman who knew how to save her pennies.

  I answered questions and turned over copies of my pay stubs and income tax returns while she printed out a spreadsheet with my take-home pay on one side and my basic expenses on the other. No matter how she prodded and subtracted and crossed out items, she couldn’t get the columns to balance.

  “You don’t need to buy name-brand food,” she said. “You don’t need Playtex tampons; generics work just as well.”

  After half an hour of hard-grit figuring, she wiped her hands on a tattered Kleenex and looked up. Sweat dotted her forehead.

  “Any additional income?”

  I lied and shook my head no.

  “Child support?”

  “Four hundred a month, but I never see it.”

  “Never?” she challenged.

  “Not for four, maybe five months. But wait! I got a couple of twenties a few weeks ago, but that’s only because he wanted me to watch his bird for the weekend and—”

  “I think I’ve heard about enough.” The counselor glared me into silence. “The best solution,” she continued in a stern, no-nonsense voice, “is to find a better-paying job.” She scanned my application. “It says here that you’re a what, a waitress? And you’re a
lmost forty?”

  “Thirty-eight,” I said meekly. “I’m thirty-eight.”

  She ignored this and pulled out a new form. “Let’s talk retirement. Any stocks? Money market accounts? CDs? IRAs?”

  I opened my mouth, about to mention my closet filled with art supplies and half-finished paintings. I had invested thousands of dollars in my art. Surely dreams, however far-fetched, however misconstrued, must be worth something. But I knew that this sensible woman with her freshly ironed blouse wouldn’t see it this way, so I wisely shook my head no.

  “Savings?”

  “Five hundred and seven dollars,” I whispered.

  “Health insurance?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Emergency funds?”

  “N-n-no.”

  “Mrs. Richards, may I be frank?”

  I nodded.

  “Your financial life is a mess,” she said. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll be bankrupt in two years.”

  A whimper of shame escaped my mouth.

  “The best you can hope for at this point is to maintain your current level of debt and make every effort—and I mean every—to not dig yourself in any deeper.”

  “Yes,” I whispered again.

  “And cut up your credit cards, or at the very least put them in the freezer.” She leaned forward and glared straight in my face. “You can’t afford to spend another—and I mean another—aimless dollar.”

  She handed me an appointment card for next month, shook my rather limp hand, and escorted me to the door. I was so depressed I stopped at JCPenney on the way home and bought a cookie jar that plays five different songs when you pop the lid. It was rather pricey, but the tag said it was dishwasher safe, so I knew it was a good deal. Besides, it was round and fat and reminded me of Gramma, who used to march down to the gas company every month and demand a handful of the free lollipops they handed out to the kids.

  “I gotta pay, you gotta pay,” she’d say, her three chins wiggling with the indignation of having to hand over her hard-earned money to a company that heated her bathwater. If Gramma were still alive, she’d tell me to not worry, that a little debt never hurt anyone. Then she’d make chocolate chip cookies, which she called little brown chippies, and we’d sit at the table and eat them while they were still warm. Gramma used to say that as long as my belly was full, nothing bad could happen. It was a fib, of course, but it brought me such comfort that I’ve passed it along to my own son. Some nights that’s all I can manage for supper, a batch of chocolate chip cookies with tall glasses of milk, along with a side of cucumbers or tomatoes so we don’t get scurvy. I make Jay-Jay promise to never breathe a word that his mother feeds him cookies for supper.