Dolls Behaving Badly (26 page)

It felt colder walking back to the spelling bee, the air damp from the inlet, the wind in our faces. Barry, Francisco, and
Hammie walked in front to block the worst of it, but still our teeth chattered. The afternoon session clipped along at a faster
pace, with the auditorium slowly emptying. Soon only three rows of participants remained, and then two. Jay-Jay walked up
to the microphone each round with a determined set to his shoulders. I wanted to weep. I wanted to run up onstage and pull
him down, drive him back home where it was safe and everyone loved him and there were no failures. I sat between Laurel and
Francisco, and each time Jay-Jay bounded up onstage in his scuffed Nikes, they grabbed my hands, held tight. Barry jiggled
his foot, tore his program to shreds, moaned softly.

By three p.m. there were only twelve students left. Then nine. Then six. Jay-Jay spelled his words without a hitch, but I
could tell the strain was getting to him. His face was pinched, the bottom of his T-shirt damp from the nervous motion of
his hands. Soon it was down to four. A girl in a plaid jumper missed and her mother challenged the judges. Jay-Jay strolled
over during the short recess. He was very pale. He leaned his head on Barry’s shoulder, closed his eyes for a moment. “Dad?”
he said. “Remember that fish you caught and threw back even though it was regulation size?”

“The one I called Tommie?” Barry said. “He put himself up a real good fight. Couldn’t make myself kill him after that, like
he earned my respect. Hated letting him go but damned if I didn’t look at him and think,
This guy needs to live more than I need to eat.
”

Jay-Jay was called back onstage. The boy with the thick glasses lost, and Jay-Jay was left with an eighth-grade girl who had
made it to the final four the last three years in a row and lost each time. This was her last year in the competition. Her
hair was scattered, her lips chapped. Her mother and father sat behind us. They were from a village up by Barrow, and you
could tell they didn’t have much money, that they lived hard lives, worked hard jobs. Jay-Jay and the girl looked so small
and alone up there in the spotlight, spelling back and forth. The girl stumbled on
altazimuth
, but regained her composure.

Jay-Jay’s next word was
quinquagesimal
. I knew he knew it—it was one of the words he had a little song about. He paused for a moment, looked right in our direction,
let out a small shudder, and began.

“Q-u-i-n-q-u-a-g-a-s-i-m-a-l.”

“Sorry, that is incorrect,” the announcer said.

“Shit,” Laurel said. “Damn, damn, damn.”

The girl spelled the next word,
uxoricide
. There was a small hush and her parents leaped up and screamed. Jay-Jay shook her hand, accepted his second-place trophy,
and posed for newspaper photos.

“Honey, you did so well, we’re so proud of you.” Sandee hugged him hard. I glanced at Barry. We both knew Jay-Jay had thrown
the competition, and we were both proud yet confused.

“That girl needed it more,” Barry whispered to me. “We ain’t got much but them, well…” I knew what he meant. Being relatively
poor in Anchorage was one thing; in the bush, where there was often no running water, questionable schools, major alcohol
problems, and few opportunities, it was quite another. The fact that this girl made it to the spelling bee finals year after
year, beating out the rich big-city kids who had it so much easier, was a small miracle. We all shook her hand and made small
talk with her parents, who knew Francisco from his trips up north. Stephanie and Hammie left early to stop at the store on
the way home to buy supplies for our second-place party.

“You’re going to be in the paper,” Sandee said when we all gathered in the kitchen to eat cake. “That reporter talked with
you longer than the winner.”

“He smelled funny,” Jay-Jay said. “And his teeth looked slippery.”

“I’m totally showing everyone at school,” Stephanie said. “I’m saying, ‘This is my little brother and he’s totally awesome.’”

When I went to tuck Jay-Jay into bed hours later, I knew he was about to confess. I could see it in his eyes, the need to
tell the truth, to lay his burdens at my feet.

“Mom?” His voice sounded small and uncertain. “I did a bad thing. I, well…” I sat down on his bed and waited for more. “I
knew the word but pretended I didn’t.” He burst into tears. “I didn’t
want
to lose, Mom. I didn’t plan on it. It just happened.” I held him and rocked back and forth.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s okay; you did a good thing, a brave thing. Shhh.”

“It was her last year, Mom; she really wanted to win.” He hiccupped. “I have five more years, plus I
know
I’m smart.” He rubbed his nose. “Know what she said to me during the break? That she wants to go to college ’cause no one
in her family has ever been. But she said it like she didn’t really believe she would.” His face crumbled and he started to
cry again. “I wanted to win so much, Mom, I really did.”

“I know, honey.” I held him tight and kissed his hair. “I know.”

Sunday, Feb. 26

“MOM? WAKE UP,
Sandee’s here.”

“Sandee?” I rose up on my elbow. The living room was dark except for the glow of Stephanie’s digital alarm clock. “What time
is it?”

Jay-Jay’s watch face lit up. “Four twenty-seven,” he said. “She’s in the kitchen, and Mom, she’s all dressed up.”

I stumbled out to the kitchen, wincing in the bright overhead light. Sandee sat at the table wearing a sleeveless blue dress
and matching shoes. Her hands were folded, and she looked scared and determined.

“What happened?” I cried.

She looked up and tried to smile. “We did it.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re married?”

“Joe had information on a judge about an illegal caribou, so he agreed to shuffle the paperwork for a quickie divorce, as
long as we hand everything in within a month.” She stopped to breathe. “So we got married, though technically it won’t be
official until the divorce comes through. We just got in from Fairbanks on the red-eye.”

She held out her hand, a silver wedding band flashing. “Joe had matching bands made, see? There’s a moose, mountain goat,
and bear running across the side. I thought it would look awful but it’s quite elegant.” It was, too. The figures were small
and well-crafted. I was envious of the design. She leaned her head against my shoulder and wept.

“Hush, now, good for you,” I murmured, patting small circles across her back. “Where’s Joe?” I asked. She wiped her eyes and
laughed.

“He went to the supermarket to buy food. I think he’s bringing a cake.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, of course you’ll need a cake. This is your wedding day.”

“Is this going to get mushy?” Jay-Jay complained.

“Probably.”

A minute later Joe stumbled in carrying so many grocery bags he could hardly walk. “I got distracted,” he said. He had on
a camouflage suit jacket and pants.

“You match my dad’s truck.” Jay-Jay peered inside the bags. “Look, Mom, he bought the lazy-way rolls in the canister.” He
turned to Joe. “My mom always makes homemade, but I like these better.” He tapped the can against the counter until it popped.
“Did you see that? It’s got an air pocket with compressed air.”

While Jay-Jay arranged the rolls over a cookie sheet, Joe stood behind Sandee, grinning. “A quickie wedding,” he said. “Imagine
the story we’ll tell our kids.” He nudged Sandee’s arm and laughed. “Everyone will think we’re pregnant.”

Sandee wiped her eyes, and he cupped her head in his hand. “We’re having a regular ceremony this spring, in a church like
normal folks; this one was just for us.” He looked down at her and I almost melted from the expression in his eyes. “Tell
her the story, San, about why we decided to do it.”

“Wait, I have to wake up Stephanie. She’ll kill us if she misses this.” Jay-Jay raced out to the living room, and a minute
later Stephanie straggled out and sat cross-legged on the floor against the cupboards, Killer’s head across her knees.

“What about Aunt Laurel?” Jay-Jay asked.

“Let her sleep.” I wasn’t sure if Sandee and Joe’s story would make her sad or give her hope. Sandee leaned her head back
against Joe’s chest and began.

“Joe and I had been talking about getting married since I heard from Toodles. I hadn’t said yes, but I hadn’t said no, either.
Besides, I wasn’t divorced yet. ‘We could be engaged,’ Joe said. But I didn’t want to be engaged. I wanted to either be married
or not married. I had been living in limbo for three years. I was tired of the in-betweens.

“I thought I was going to say no. I wasn’t ready for another relationship. There was so much I needed to do: file for divorce,
sell the house, buy decent shoes. But I must have known I was going to say yes, and that I was only waiting for a sign.

“Then I ran into Toodles at the craft fair last weekend and she told me the most beautiful thing. Hollow bones, it’s a Native
expression for emptying yourself out so that you can be filled with the spirit. I thought of how light it would feel to empty
myself of my burdens, how freeing to feel nothing but air inside my bones. Later that night I turned to Joe and said yes.
I didn’t think he’d know what I was talking about but he said, ‘Good, I already bought the rings.’”

Sandee and Joe looked at each other and laughed so hard that they leaned into one another. Their faces shone, their eyes were
wet and bright. They held each other and laughed and we all laughed, and when Jay-Jay opened the oven, the smell of cinnamon
hit us in the face.

“The rolls are done, Mom,” he said. I got up and pulled the cookie sheet from the oven, and we ate store-bought rolls with
milk and hot chocolate, and when Laurel stumbled out and joined us, we told her the story over again, and laughed again, and
we stayed together like that until the sun rose and Joe and Sandee headed back to his house to start their marriage.

“Wonder how long it will last.” Laurel ran her finger through the cake icing and licked it off.

“The marriage?” I asked.

“No, the food they brought over.” She began unpacking the bags Joe left behind. “Olives and hummus and bread. Ever wonder
why there’s rye bread and rye crackers but not rye muffins?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And brownies.” She happily opened
the package and lifted one to her mouth. “They’re probably doomed as a couple. Marriage is like a brownie: sweet, rich, and
fattening, but not necessarily nourishing.” She licked her fingers. “But then again, who knows? Statistically, someone’s marriage
has to work.” She attacked the second brownie. “Yours didn’t, mine didn’t, and her first one didn’t, either.” She burped softly
and dug out a third brownie. “They do look cute together, don’t they? And marrying in camouflage? That takes guts, even in
Alaska.” She burped again. “I wonder who will be next.”

“Next?” I lifted my hands out of the dishwater.

“Toodles and Barry? You and Francisco? Me and someone I haven’t met yet?” She started on the fourth brownie. “It’s hopeful
in a pathetic sort of way, isn’t it, how we refuse to stop believing in love?”

“Carla Richards? This is James Hendersen, arts editor for the
Anchorage Daily News
. I’d like to set up an interview for your upcoming
Woman Running with a Box
show. It sounds as if you’re ready to send a kick in the face of the Anchorage arts world. My number is 555-3436. Leave a
message soon, I’m on deadline. Bye.”

Tuesday, Feb. 28

The opening is in three days.

Three.

Fucking.

Days.

I am falling apart. The Oprah Giant says that chaos is an opportunity to realign the soul, but I’m not sure what she means
or what to do about it, either. I can take my car to the mechanic to get an alignment, but I can’t imagine asking my gynecologist
or family physician for a soul adjustment. Probably they’d write me a prescription for antibiotics and send me on my way.

“What color do you think my soul is?” I asked Laurel. She looked up from her cereal, surprised: that was the kind of question
she was supposed to ask me.

She slurped milk and squinted at me. “Yellow—or wait, maybe a silver blue, warm but not like a Hollywood movie fake. Why?”

“I have an interview I don’t want to do tomorrow and an opening I don’t want to attend Friday.”

“That leaves today and Thursday free.” She poured a second bowl of cereal. “That’s more than a lot of people. If we lived
in Iran, you wouldn’t have the luxury of art world humiliation.” She chewed for a moment. “And I wouldn’t have the luxury
of an unplanned pregnancy. I’d probably be stoned to death, like that woman in the news.” She pointed her spoon at me. “They
purposefully use small stones, to prolong the agony. I wonder how long I’d last.”

“How long what?” Jay-Jay sat down in the chair next to me. He had on a T-shirt that said, “Charles Lindbergh had big feet
and big dreams.” When no one said anything, he started talking about his fruit-fly project, which he had decided to enter
in the upcoming science fair. “The thing about fruit flies,” he said, his mouth filled with cereal, “is that they multiply
so fast that you think,
Oh, another one.
They all look the same, so you don’t think it’s a big deal. It’s like seeing a guy with a beard and mustache and realizing
that
all
guys with beards and mustaches look the same. We group things together, see, because our minds seek patterns.”

After everyone left for school and Laurel snuck off for a nap, I armed myself with a roll of green duct tape and circled around
my paintings. It was beginning to get light outside and the air was filmy and gray; everything looked dreary and depressing.
Why hadn’t I stuck to more conservative subjects, outdoor scenes or chubby-faced toddlers hugging kittens? My paintings were
an embarrassment, a mistake. A woman running through the woods with naked Barbie dolls clutching the edge of her coat—what
the hell did that mean anyway?

I imagined the snickers, the snorts, the superior comments:
you call this art?
It was suddenly perfectly clear—I was about to make a monumental fool out of myself. I slumped down in the corner and leaned
my head against the cupboards as Killer Bee watched in alarm—the floor was her territory. It was comforting down there, and
safe; crumbs and small pieces of vegetables (broccoli? spinach?) littered the linoleum around me. I was on the floor, at the
basest level—I could sink no farther.

When the phone rang, I didn’t move. I counted the rings: three, four, five. I was sure it was Betty Blakeslee calling to cancel
the show. “April Fools’ a month early!” she would squeal. “Did you think I was serious? Did you truly think someone of my
standing would contaminate her gallery with your pathetic scribblings?”

“Carlita,” Francisco’s cheerful voice boomed. “Are you having doubts? Do you need a confidence-boosting lunch? I’m stuck here
at the lab, but we could do a picnic if you don’t mind packing. I’m thinking peanut butter sandwiches, applesauce, chocolate
milk, and cookies. A thermos would be cool if you’ve got one, especially if it’s a superhero. Meet me at the lab whenever
you can and”—
Click.
The machine cut him off.

I momentarily hated him: how dare he be so cheerful in the face of my humiliation! The last thing I needed was to be around
someone so together and balanced, I knew that. I was positive of that. Nevertheless I started spreading peanut butter over
bread and packing lunch. I even found an old Power Rangers thermos of Jay-Jay’s in the cupboard, not exactly a superhero but
close enough. I added carrot sticks, pickles, and the few remaining brownies from Sandee’s wedding party. Then I divided everything
into two separate bags, wrote our names on each with Magic Marker, left a note for Laurel, and headed outside. It was still
absurdly cold but slowly warming; a Chinook wind was forecasted for later in the evening, and already the air felt less tight,
more flowing. I hadn’t bothered changing out of my sweatpants and old black sweater, and my hair was pulled back in a messy
ponytail. At the last minute I grabbed
Woman Running with a Box, No. 10
and ran out to the car with it. By the time I pulled up in front of the ugly building that housed the anthropology lab, my
stomach was growling, even though I had just eaten breakfast a few hours before.

“Hey,” Francisco said as he opened the door. He looked tired, and a thin line of stubble marked his chin and cheeks. “Come
on in. We have to keep the doors locked at all times, not that many people would steal bones, but you can sell anything on
eBay.”

Inside it was dim and cool, with shelf after shelf of bones and partial skeletons and chipped rock artifacts. There was barely
room to walk.

“Look at this.” Francisco led me over to a makeshift room in the back where a strange hunk of metal lay submerged in a large
tub of water. “It’s the toilet from an old ship that sank around Homer.” He leaned over to wipe the corner. “We keep it in
solution to wash off the rust. It’s a slow process—it’s been here for months.”

I followed Francisco back inside, and he showed me what he was working on, a series of flint points and tools excavated around
Aialik Bay. “And here’s my baby.” He opened a dim drawer and brought out a padded box. “This is from the Smithsonian Institute,
from a site up in Greenland. We’re comparing cold climate growth patterns.” His hands reached carefully inside the box and
brought out a partially reconstructed skull and set it in my lap. The empty eye sockets stared outward, and part of the mandible
was missing. “Of course this is all cast; the real set is too valuable to send across the world. Still, there’s something
here, can you feel it?” He picked up my hands and placed them on either side of the cranium, which was cool and hard beneath
my touch. “Now close your eyes and imagine this woman’s life. She was about twenty when she died. Stress fractures on her
humerus indicate she carried heavy objects, I’d guess stone and wood. The lifespan back then was about thirty, so she died
midway through, though still considerably young.” He patted my hand. “I’ll shut up now so you can concentrate.”

I closed my eyes and waited. At first there was nothing but the sound of the air vents and muffled traffic from outside. Then
I felt it, a flicker like a breath, followed by another, and another.

“Feel that?” Francisco whispered into my hair. I could smell the musty, stale smell of his sweat, slightly moist but not repugnant.
I moved closer, laid my head against his chest, listened to the secret rhythm of his heart:
ta-da-dum, ta-da, dum.
I thought of Laurel’s baby and then of Jay-Jay, the first time the midwife put a stethoscope to my ears and let me listen
to the heartbeat, so familiar that it was as if I had been waiting to hear it my entire life.

“It’s the sound of the past,” Francisco said. “We can all hear it; most of us just don’t know how to listen.”

I turned and kissed him. We held each other for a while and then I asked if he’d like to see the painting that would help
conclude my
Woman Running
series. “I’m not sure what it means,” I told him with a shrug, as if it meant nothing, as if showing it to him was as easy
as smiling. I pulled off the paper, set the painting against the smudged counter, and stared at it with alarm. My Woman Running
stood on top of a mountain dressed in a puffy down jacket, the wind flying her hair out from her head. Her back was half-turned
so only her profile could be seen. Her hands were raised, her feet perched at the edge of the drop-off, her muscles tense.
She looked poised to jump but was throwing dirty dolls off the side of the mountain. They tumbled through the air, their skirts
flung up, their genitals exposed. The woman, from what could be seen of her face, wore a look of terrified joy. Behind her,
a bear approached from one direction, two men with rifles from another.