Dolls Behaving Badly (10 page)

“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.

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.

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 could 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.”

“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.