Dolls Behaving Badly (19 page)

“I just got back from Moose Pass. Someone thought the bone in their root cellar was from a dinosaur—a raptor, to be specific.
So I drive all the way down there. The road’s a mess, over ten cars in the ditch, and when I get there everyone’s sitting
around the kitchen table, stoned, the bone painted blue with red polka dots. Artists.” He shook his head and then, as if remembering
that I was one, smiled and said, “No offense.”

“So what was it?”

“It was a pig skull. Don’t you love it?” He slapped his thigh and laughed. “Talk about karma.” He took a long drink of water,
his head thrown back, the underside of his throat exposed and vulnerable. “I got your present, three pieces of painting for
three bones.” His voice was serious, almost soft. “I’ve missed your face. Your angles are so odd, as if your skin is new but
your bones are ancient.”

I felt hot and shaky; I was afraid I was going to throw up.

“Bones are the true history,” he went on. “You hold one in your hand and you feel things, not voices, yet you know right away
it was connected to a person, that it was once alive.” He shuffled his large, sneakered feet beneath the table. “Sorry.” He
looked down at the chip basket. “Sometimes I go on.”

“No.” I inched closer. “It was nice.”

At that very moment Mr. Tims materialized by my side. “Carlita,” he barked. “Orders dying in the window. Scoot.” He turned
to Francisco. “You know her?”

“Not as well as I want,” Francisco said.

“Hmmmm.” Mr. Tims rocked back on his heels as I hid in the waitressing station, listening. “She can be stubborn, that’s for
sure, but here’s what will clinch the deal: halibut—and quality, too, not that frozen crap. Cook it with a nice lemon sauce,
spicy but not overpowering, or you might scare her away. Her ex is a chef, did you know? Works down at the Hilton and Captain
Cook. Temperamental little shit, but what he does to a shrimp could make you weep.”

Francisco looked startled, and I slipped off to the pantry, loaded up my tray, and delivered food to three tables before returning.
Francisco was playing with the corn chips, lining them up into tic-tac-toe formation and eating the outer edges. “You ready
to order?” I asked in my smoothest waitress voice.

“You were married.” He said this as a statement, not a question. “Of course I knew that. You have a son. I just never stopped
to think of the consequences.” He shuffled the corn chips around. “You like food?”

I blushed, as if he were asking me if I liked sex. “Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”

“Okay, I’ll have to make you dinner.” He squared his shoulders, as if this were a challenge. “I can cook, you know; my mother
taught me. Said that boys would be boys but a good meal would overlook the fact.” He stuffed four corn chips into his mouth.
“I’ll take the soft tacos.” Crumbs flew. “Without the onions but extra cheese.” He tapped his fingers over the table. “You
cook?”

“Bake, mostly. Polish recipes and gooey breads.”

“Shit.” He wiped his mouth. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

Wednesday, Jan. 18

“It’s because I never had to share a cubby,” Laurel complained. It was almost dinner and she sat at the table, eating pistachio
nuts. “In school I always had my own. No wonder I can’t share. I’m selfish, and don’t look at me like that.”

“I wasn’t looking. I’m cooking.” I was pleased with the rhyme but Laurel didn’t notice.

“It’s why my marriage didn’t work. I never saw Junior. He was just there, like the lamp shades and towel racks. Remember I
told you we were meeting today? He picked Kaladi Brothers. I knew it was going to be bad. A café is where you say good-bye,
like that Journey song.”

She licked the salt off her lips. “He said he was willing to put it all behind him and move on. That’s what he said, ‘Move
on,’ in this horrible stern voice, as if he were trying to convince himself. Then he said that a baby might just be what we
needed, that we had had problems, but maybe this was the universe’s way of seeing that we finally became a family.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s not what he said, it’s how he said it. I knew he was never going to forgive me, not for having the affair so much as
getting pregnant and reminding him that he can’t give me a child. If we had adopted it would be a joint decision, something
we had both failed at, not just him.”

I had never heard Laurel talk so openly. I added rosemary and basil to the sauce and clucked my tongue in encouragement.

“Then he said that we needed to take a time-out from each other, which was what I
thought
we had been doing, but leave it to a lawyer to make everything official. After it was over, he shook my hand and left.

“On the way home I stopped at the bank to transfer money into my checking account.” Laurel spat pistachio shells angrily.
“The teller came back and said the accounts had been frozen. I could barely look at her, I felt so ashamed. I had to use my
personal savings instead.”

“He froze your accounts?”

“The joint ones.”

“You need a lawyer,” I told her. “A woman with shoulder pads and bright red lipstick and—”

“Sometimes I think that if I could just figure out why I slept with Hank and got pregnant and messed everything up, I could
fix it again.”

“Maybe you didn’t mess everything up. Maybe you saved yourself the only way you knew how.” I sounded more and more like the
Oprah Giant. As I stirred Gramma’s tomato sauce, I told the story of how I became pregnant with Jay-Jay. It was purely by
accident; Barry and I had decided to wait at least five years to start a family, time enough for him to figure out what kind
of chef job he wanted to work and me to dabble in my art while still bringing in enough to help out with the bills. When I
missed my period, I barely gave it a thought. Three weeks later, my breasts bloated and sore, I broke down and told Barry
I was late.

“It wasn’t easy,” I told Laurel as I added spaghetti to a pot of boiling water. “But you know what? It was a good thing, making
that mistake. It was the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Friday, Jan. 20

JAY-JAY SAT ON THE BED
, meticulously filing my rejection notices in a ledger he had made from an old notebook as I stood in front of my closet trying
to decide what to wear on my second first-date attempt with Francisco.

“You’re being rejected at a 76.72 percent rate,” Jay-Jay told me. “Of course, they haven’t all come in yet, so that’s just
an estimate.”

I nodded and pulled out a blue blouse. I was startled by how fast the rejections had poured in. The first one arrived via
e-mail two days after I mailed my proposals, which meant that whoever had opened it had immediately judged it unworthy, not
a good sign.

“Here’s another one that mentions the little creatures lurking around the bottom of the canvas. That’s what it says, Mom,
‘lurking around the bottom.’ Isn’t that neat?” He looked up. “Those must be your dirty dolls, eh?”

I threw a sweater across the floor. “I don’t know, honey.” I kicked the sweater into the closet. “I didn’t purposely put them
in. It must have been my subconscious.”

“Mr. Short says that the subconscious is a myth of modern-day society unwilling to shoulder its own blame.” He narrowed his
eyes as I pulled an old broomskirt dress off a hanger. “Are you seeing that bone guy again?”

“Yeah.” I sat down on the bed. “If I can find something to wear.”

“Dad has bones, out in the garage. A bear skull and a wolverine leg.”

“I suppose he does.” I was quiet for a moment. “You probably don’t remember, but when you were little, you found a fish bone
on the beach. Your dad took a picture of you holding it up. It was almost as big as you.” I laughed. “You tried to eat it
and your dad was afraid you’d choke, so he buried it and you cried and cried. Finally he dug it up and gave it back to you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was down in Homer. You weren’t quite two.”

“Oh.” Jay-Jay thought about this for a moment. I looked over at him, his winter-dark hair falling over his forehead. I wanted
to tell him that I once loved his father so much that it scared me, but I couldn’t remember if it was true. I did love him
once, though, and I wanted Jay-Jay to know that, wanted him to know that he had been conceived in love, that he had been wanted,
that even though he hadn’t been planned, he had been welcomed, cherished. Instead I asked if he wanted me to leave money for
a pizza.

“Nah, Hammie’s stopping by after work with the leftovers. They get to eat
all
of the pizzas no one picks up, and Mom, Hammie sometimes leaves them for the homeless people in the park downtown. Last week
some drunk guy threw
rocks
at him, isn’t that cool?” He closed the ledger and tucked it against my pillow.

“I hope no one got hurt.” I decided on jeans with a T-shirt and sweater. Why bother to dress up when the man had seen me clomping
around in a stained waitressing uniform? I brushed my hair, patted blush on my cheeks, and wondered if I should wear mascara.
I decided not to, since I didn’t want to worry about smears. Once ready, I sat out in the living room with Stephanie and Jay-Jay,
who played Rummy-Jummy, a complicated rummy game they had made up, while Stephanie complained about an English teacher who
had it in for her since she wrote a poem about Jesus coming back as a moth.

“He gave me a D on the paper and I’m like, whoa, dude, this is a good poem, but he said it wasn’t realistic.” She slapped
down three jacks. “So then I say, come on, is rising up from the dead realistic to you? That’s when he totally slammed me
with two days detention for being insolent and—”

A knock interrupted her complaint, and Killer charged for the door. A moment later Francisco stood in our shabby living room
wearing jeans, a Pompeii survivor T-shirt, and no jacket. I threw magazines and dirty socks off the couch to make room. He
sat down and rubbed Killer’s smelly ears. “You must be Jay-Jay.” He leaned over and held out his hand. Jay-Jay ignored him.

“My dad has bones, too,” he said. “Animals, not people. Anthropologically speaking,” he added sarcastically.

“Manners, mister,” I snapped, and Jay-Jay sighed, held out his arm, and shook Francisco’s hand.

“Oh my god,” Stephanie squealed. “You have, like, the coolest T-shirt in the friggin’ world.” She stuck out her bony wrist.
“I’m Stephanie. Babysitter and resident teenager. I cook, fold laundry, but totally don’t clean.”

I pulled on my boots and coat and almost had Francisco out the door when Laurel flew up the hallway, her flannel nightgown
streaming out behind her. “Wait!” she cried. “You forgot me.” Her hair was in pigtails; she looked about twelve. “You must
be Francisco. We’ve heard so much about you. Do you cook?” She leaned in closer. “I have an overpowering urge for chicken
pot pie.”

“Um, sometimes.” Francisco squinted at Laurel’s forehead, which had “Beef Stew” scrawled across it in yellow marker. After
we escaped and settled in his car, I apologized for my family.

“I don’t bring men home very often,” I admitted. “I guess they see this as kind of a big deal.”

“Do you?” Francisco turned onto Northern Lights Boulevard.

“Do I what?”

“See this as a big deal?”

I shrugged. “We both have on jeans and T-shirts.”

“Not just
any
T-shirt,” he said. “I got this in a bar in the Yukon when I drove up from a job site in Colorado. The woman ordered me to
wipe my feet before I walked in, and then she comes over with a bucket and scrub brush, gets down on her hands and knees,
and scrubs the floor around my feet. Talk about Catholic guilt.” He shook his head.

“What were you eating?”

“I was waiting for you to ask.” He grinned over at me. “Pancakes, big as dinner plates. No sausage or eggs, just hotcakes
and butter.”

“Gramma used to make them like that, only she used honey.”

He parked in front of the odd orange house. “Here we are. I have to warn you about the dogs. They’re hyperactive.”

“Figures. Mine is about the same.” That was a lie; Killer wasn’t so much hyperactive as hyper-confused.

“The big one is Abraham Lincoln. I’m sorry, that’s his name. You’ll understand when you see him. He’s got that regal air.
The smaller one is Mamie Eisenhower.”

“I didn’t know you were political,” I said, as a yellow Labrador retriever flung itself into my arms, wiggling and yipping
as if he had missed me for years.

“Down, Mr. Lincoln,” Francisco ordered, and Lincoln tucked his tail between his legs and hid beneath the table. Mamie stood
in front of me, her head half-cocked. She was one of the clumsiest-looking dogs I had ever seen.

“Have a seat.” Francisco motioned to the chairs and I sat down. The legs wobbled.

“Just like home,” I said happily. Francisco smiled at me, and I smiled back.

It was that easy.

After a dinner of baked salmon with an unusual lemon sauce that kicked life up through my mouth and into my nose (“horseradish,”
Francisco had said when my eyes teared up), we sat on the couch with mugs of blueberry tea, and Francisco told me about the
whale jawbone he had photographed up in Barrow. “It was over a thousand years old, in fairly good condition with scrape marks
along one side indicating…” He shook his head, reached over, and traced my cheekbone lightly, a mere flutter, so that it felt
like moths, like wings brushing my skin. “You’ve got the best damned bones in your face,” he said, his voice husky. “Listen,
why don’t we—”

At that moment, my cell rang. “Shit.” Francisco removed his hand from my face and sat up straight. “Is it the pink-haired
babysitter?”

I pulled my cell from my pocket, looked down to see Barry’s name lit up. “No, it’s someone else. Give me a minute, okay?”
I walked over to the window and said hello. Barry’s voice was frantic.

“Carla. I need some help.” He laughed too loud. “Seems I got myself locked in.”

“I’m in the middle of something,” I hissed. Behind me I could feel Francisco tense up, listening.

“Tried to get out but the damned door’s locked up. Got enough food but nowhere to cook, that’s the thing.” He laughed, higher
pitched this time.

“Just tell me straight. I’m not in the mood for games.”

I soon learned he had accidentally locked himself in the dry storage pantry at the hotel while checking ingredients for next
weekend’s banquet.

“Door shuts behind but don’t normally lock. Think the security guards must have locked it while I was in the back.” His voice
was shaky; Barry tends toward claustrophobia. “Was gonna call 911 but didn’t want to be in tomorrow’s paper, might lose jobs
if people think I’m scattering.” He paused a moment. “Can you come let me out, Carla? Here’s the back door code. Write this
quick ’cause my phone’s dying.”

I motioned to Francisco for a piece of paper and wrote the numbers down. “I’ll be there shortly,” I said, hanging up and turning
toward Francisco. “I have to go rescue Barry. He locked himself in the dry storage at the hotel and he’s falling apart, he’s
claustrophobic big-time. Can you drive me home and I’ll pick up my car?”

“Your ex-husband?” He pulled on his coat, a rumpled jacket with a torn hood. “I’ll take you. Lincoln and Mamie could use the
drive.”

On the drive downtown, neither of us talked. I didn’t know if he was angry or disappointed; I was both. I was also curious
to see how flexible he was, and how he’d react to the messier aspects of my life. We parked on the side of the street, walked
around to the back door, and punched in the key access code. Inside it was dim, with only the safety lights on, and smelled
of onions and chicken, a comforting smell from my childhood. I led Francisco down the long hallway and through the doors to
the main kitchen. The pantry was in the back; I knew this from having occasionally served banquets. I knocked on the door.
“Barry? We’re here. I’m opening the door now.”

It wasn’t locked but the latch was stuck. “Can you get it?” I asked Francisco, and he gritted his teeth and pulled until the
door swung open. Barry sat huddled against a hundred-pound bag of rice, his forehead lined with sweat, his chef’s hat bunched
in his hands.

“Pitch-dark in there, not a bit of light ’cept the small stream coming through the door,” he said, as he stumbled out, blinking
in the harsh overhead lights we had turned on. “Makes you wonder about things, being in the dark so long.” He wiped his mouth
on his sleeve and blinked, noticing Francisco for the first time. “You must be Carla’s new guy.” He held out his hand to shake.
“I’m Jay-Jay’s dad, you meet him? He’s quite the kid.” Barry laughed and hiked up his pants. “Need to find me something to
eat, sweet but not too much. Maybe a fruit tart.” He disappeared into the walk-in refrigerator. “You two have dessert?” he
yelled out.

I glanced at Francisco and shrugged. I wanted to be alone with him but also wanted to see how he’d treat Barry, if he’d be
able to see through his bad grammar to the loving, kind, genuine person hiding within. “No,” I said, “we haven’t.”

“Good.” Barry emerged, his arms loaded down with pans. “Just gimme a minute. Made some cranberry-lemon tarts the other day,
heavy on the ginger but ain’t too rich.”

Francisco and I pulled up chairs to the prep table while Barry heated up the tarts, which he served with homemade whipped
cream flavored with rum and cinnamon. The crust melted in my mouth, followed by a rush of sourness, and just when my tongue
began to pucker, the sugar came through with a light, sweet promise.

“Wow,” Francisco whistled after taking a bite. “I heard about you up in Nome after the Iditarod. This musher’s wife raved
about your scallops in red wine sauce. Said it was better than sex.”

“Cooking’s just mixing and measuring,” Barry murmured, but he added another piece to Francisco’s plate. As Barry and Francisco
talked about hunting up in the Brooks Range, I ate a second tart and thought of how everyone I loved shared food with me at
one point or another, how even Jay-Jay sometimes cooked for me when I was sick. There’s something undeniably tender about
a man making a meal for a woman, those large hands chopping and stirring. It’s sensual and slow, like sex, with the reward
at the end, after the slow and delicious buildup.

“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?