“I never want to see you again,” I said as I slid in the seat and fastened my seat belt. Killer sat in the backseat and ignored me.
“So why are you here?”
“I need a ride home.”
“Now I’m a taxi?” I didn’t answer. “First you kick me and then you expect a ride home?”
“Spare the dramatics. I’d walk but I’m not dressed for it.”
“Here.” He threw me his jacket and I put it on and opened the door. “Killer, you coming?” I asked. She thumped her tail but didn’t move. “Traitor!” I hissed. I had regressed to fifth grade.
Francisco let me walk almost a mile before finally pulling up beside me. I was cold and hungry, my feet numb, my gloves wet from chewing on the fingers. He leaned over and opened the door, and I got in. Killer pressed her nose against my neck as if in apology.
“I thought I’d give you time to cool off,” he said. I didn’t reply. I still didn’t say anything. We drove in silence. We were both in the wrong; we both owed the other an apology, but we were both too stubborn to make the first move. Francisco cleared his throat right as we hit Northern Lights Boulevard. “I can burp the vowel song. Want to hear?”
I shrugged, and Killer and Mamie drooled over the seat back.
“A, E, I, O, and U,” he burped in rapid succession. “And sometimes Y and W.”
I glanced over at him. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his eyes squinted as if unsure if they should look over.
“Cool,” I said grudgingly. I touched his shoulder and burped out the letter U.
Tuesday, Feb. 7
“Well, duh, Mrs. Richards, of course you had a fight.” Stephanie was French braiding my hair as practice for the show. I wanted to look artsy and thought braids might be the way to go. “It’s because you mentioned you had problems.”
“So? Francisco seems pretty secure.”
“He’s a man.” She sprayed something evil over my head. “His life is totally based on ego. You mention problems and right away he thinks he has to fix them. So he lashes out.”
“I don’t think you’re giving Francisco much credit. I kicked him first.” She pulled a section of hair, hard. “Ouch,” I cried. “Watch out, that’s my head.”
“Love is totally blind.”
“I don’t love Francisco, it’s not that simple.”
“It is simple. You love him, he loves you, and neither one of you totally thinks you’re good enough for the other. Everyone thinks that.”
“How old are you again, thirty-five?”
Right as she gave a last yank on my hair, someone banged on the door.
“Is Hammie coming over?”
“Nah, he’s working.”
“Laurel?” A familiar voice yelled from the porch. “I know you’re there. I saw your car out front.” Junior banged harder and Laurel ran into the living room, her laptop cradled in her arms.
“Get rid of him,” she whispered loudly.
I started to get up but she pulled me down. “No, listen. Stay here and don’t move, okay? He’ll think no one’s home and go away.”
“Laurel!” More pounding. “I know you’re in there, damn it.” He kicked the door and Killer went crazy. Another kick and I jerked my arm out of Laurel’s grasp and ran to the door.
“Stop it! You’re going to ruin the hinges!” I yelled, as I opened the door. Junior stood inside the arctic entryway in a pair of wrinkled jeans and a misbuttoned flannel shirt. His hair was tousled and he needed a shave.
“I have to see Laurel,” he said. “I know she’s here. Tell her to get her ass out here. Now!”
“Chill out, dude,” Stephanie yelled.
Junior pushed past me and into the living room. “Where are they?” he demanded. Laurel sat in the chair. She looked at him with such innocence that I knew she was about to lie. “Where are they?” he yelled again. I held tight to Killer’s collar. If he leaned one foot closer to Laurel I would release Killer. She is a pathetically docile dog but faithful to a fault, and Laurel was now part of our family.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Laurel folded her hands over her bulging belly and smiled up at him.
“My lucky socks, the ones I wear in court. They were in the laundry basket last week and now they’re gone.”
“That is so sad,” Laurel said. “Maybe you could buy new ones.”
“I cannot buy new lucky socks,” he thundered. Killer whimpered and sat on my toes. “My mother dipped them in the holy water at Notre Dame. You can’t buy that.”
“I can’t buy anything,” Laurel said. “I have no money. My account has been frozen. Besides, you’re not Catholic.”
“You did this on purpose. You want me to fail.”
“I worked a shitty receptionist job to put you through your last year of law school. Why would I want you to fail?”
“Because I didn’t invite you back,” Junior said.
“Invite me? It’s my house, too. My name is on the mortgage, if you’d ever think to check.”
“Please!” Stephanie waved a large orange comb like a weapon. “You guys are totally spreading negative vibes and it’s screwing my psyche.”
“I need the house,” Junior said, and his voice was awful, awful. “I have nothing else.”
He let out a little sob and fumbled for the door, his untucked shirt-tail bunched against his ass.
“Poor guy.” Stephanie peered out the window and watched him slip down the driveway toward his car. “He’s totally pathetic in this, like, endearing sort of way. It would make a good poem, but I’d have to use a lot of slumpy letters.”
Laurel’s face was pale, tiny drops of sweat lining her forehead. I turned the TV on low, went into the kitchen, and started mixing flour into sugar for Gramma’s Polack Cinnamon Cake recipe, which she cut into squares and called Little Fat Sugars.
I added an egg, all the while thinking of Gramma baking, which made me think of Barry cooking, which made me wonder if what we all really want is to return home and feel special and loved, the way we feel when someone bakes us a pie or offers cookies fresh from the oven.
“I wonder why women don’t kill men and chop them up in pieces.” Laurel walked up beside me, stuck her finger in the mix, and licked it clean. “We kill them sometimes, but we don’t chop them up and leave them all over the city. I wonder why that is.” She reached in and grabbed another finger of batter. “Not that I want to kill Junior; he has his good points. But do you ever wonder why we keep doing it, trying to love men? Oh, I understand it from a procreation standpoint, but do we have to buy couches and curtains and set up house together?” She paused for a moment, a surprised look on her face. “Carly!” She grabbed my hand, sticky from the sugar, and placed it on her belly. “Feel.”
Beneath my palm Laurel’s belly was warm and hard. I waited a moment and there it was, a fluttering that rose and fell, followed by a larger wave, the small thump of an arm or a leg hitting the side of my sister’s belly. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn’t help it. I remembered that jolt, that mystery.
“It feels like being in outer space,” Laurel whispered. “Like flying around the moon.”
Gramma’s Polack Cinnamon Cakes
(Little Fat Sugars)
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
2 bars of margarine
2 cups flour
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 teaspoons cinnamon
Small pinch nutmeg
½ teaspoon anise
Pinch of salt
1½ teaspoon baking powder
2 cups heavy cream (or Betty Crocker icing, if you’re lazy)
Preheat oven to 350˚. Throw the sugar and margarine into a bowl and mix. Slowly fold in the flour. Add the egg, vanilla, salt, baking powder, and spices. Pour into three small cake pans and bake at 350˚ for 15–20 minutes. While cake cools, add sugar to cream until thickened and sweet, and whip into thickness. Swirl in streaks of cinnamon (
about 1 teaspoon, depending on taste), frost layers with icing, and plop together. Serve with iced tea and a lot of hugs.
Chapter 23
Thursday, Feb. 9
I MET TIMOTHY TUPPELO at Organic Oasis after I got off work to talk about the art show flier. We each drank a shot of wheatgrass juice that turned our lips green and made small talk until our organic, whole-grain wraps arrived. Tiny squares of tofu leaked out.
“You’re not going to like hearing this,” Timothy said with his mouth full, “but Betty Blakeslee went ahead and wrote up the fliers. I have one on my laptop—I’ll show you when I’m done.”
“How bad is it?” I picked a mushroom out of my wrap.
“Here’s the thing.” He set down his wrap and wiped his mouth on a napkin. “Blakeslee basically owns the Anchorage art scene. She’s the backbone. If she likes something, the community embraces it. If she doesn’t, well, you’re lucky to hang it in an after-hours bar.”
“What did she say?” I picked out more mushrooms and arranged them over my plate in a flower shape.
“It’s not what she said exactly.” Timothy stalled as he chewed his last bite. “You have to remember that Blakeslee is sharp. She looks like an old society woman, but her mind never stops.”
“Is this your idea of a warning?”
He pulled out his laptop, flipped the lid and punched up the gallery website. “Don’t worry, it’s not posted yet. It’s still in administrative function.” He punched a couple more keys and turned the computer toward me, the lid half closed so that I couldn’t see.
“It might be best to not have food in your mouth,” he said. “It’s a little startling, but nevertheless powerful.”
As he slowly opened the lid, I gasped so loudly that the waiter hurried over with a handful of napkins.
“Where’s the spill?” he cried. “Is everything okay?”
Timothy waved him away as I stared at the screen. The flier was well-done—I had to admit that, even in my shocked state. The colors were vivid, and one of my Woman Running paintings had been imaged across the middle. Below that was a photograph of me followed by an artist statement I had never actually made. Pieces of it did sound familiar, so I guessed that Betty Blakeslee had taken bits of my submitted biography and interwoven it with things I said during the interview. (Had she been taping me? Was she that sly, that evil?) I read it out loud, Timothy leaning forward as if to shield my words from the surrounding restaurant patrons.
“‘Local artist Carla Richards balances the sphere of feminism with the burden of male dominance in her upcoming show, Woman Running with a Box,’” I read in a slow, sardonic tone. “‘An erotic artist who designs dolls for the upscale adult website thinkingbuttsandboobs.com, Richards captures the struggle of modern-day sexuality with a playful and uninhibited voice that challenges the barriers between the id and the ego.’”
I slammed the lid of the laptop down. “Jesus,” I said. “You have to take it off the website; you can’t print that. I have a son in school. I’m in the PTA.” This wasn’t true, but I could have been in the PTA, would have been if I only had more time. “You know what people will say? What they’ll think?”
Timothy motioned for the waiter to clear our plates. “Feel like dessert?” he asked, but didn’t wait for me to answer. “There’s a carrot cake I can’t resist—it’s vegan, but don’t let that fool you.”
I placed my hand on top of his, hard, like the game we played as kids. “You’re not listening. You can’t print that.”
“I told you, it’s already done.” He nodded at the waiter as he set down the cake and two forks. “I pick the fliers up from the printer tomorrow morning.”
“That’s cold.” I picked up the fork but didn’t eat. “That’s nasty cold.”
“It’s art,” he said, his mouth full. “It’s brutal, but it’s a business. Blakeslee is smart, and she knows what she’s doing. I’ll bet you sell at least one piece before the show even opens.”
“She hates me. She can’t remember my name. She calls me Clara.”
“She’s dyslexic.”
I picked up the fork. The cake was rich and sweet, with chunks of carrots that broke up the softness. “Would you do it?”
Timothy paused, his fork in the air. “The show, you mean? With the flier?” He expertly cut the last hunk of cake into two even pieces, stabbing one with his fork and dangling it up in front of his face. “I don’t have a kid but if I did, well, that would make it tough: my wants and needs against someone else’s.” He squinted at the cake and laughed. “Who am I fooling? I’d do it in a minute, and not because I’m selfish and self-centered, which I am, but because opportunities are few and far between.” He motioned to the last piece of cake. “You want that?”
“Yeah, I do.” I didn’t, but I knew that he did and I was feeling spiteful.
“Nothing’s what you expect,” Timothy explained. “My first show was in a bowling alley in Tacoma. Christ, I almost pulled out but know what? Someone who knew someone who knew someone was there. Get my drift?”
“Yeah, your first show was lousy, too.”
“Everyone’s first show is lousy, except in made-for-TV specials.” He waved at the waiter for the check. “Let me know tomorrow morning. But remember: if you piss off Betty Blakeslee, you’re not going to get another show until she dies, and lord only knows how soon that will be.” He threw two twenties and a five down on the table and got up to leave. Then he turned back and squeezed my shoulder. “Go home, talk to your kid. Let me know before noon tomorrow.”
I peeked at the check: at least he tipped well, which was one point in his favor. On the short drive home I worried how people would react if they knew I made and sold dirty dolls. Would coworkers giggle at me behind my back? Would customers make rude comments and expect me to flash my tits? I couldn’t stand the thought of kids teasing Jay-Jay or playdates being canceled because parents thought he came from a corrupt home. How do you choose between what’s right for you and what’s right for your child and the rest of your family, your life? How do you possibly make that decision?
Once home, I didn’t mention the art show flier to Laurel or Stephanie. I sat at the supper table and ate the meatloaf I’d made (a little dry but spicy enough) and listened to Stephanie worry about her SATs. She was retaking the test next month to broaden her scholarship opportunities and was brushing up on advanced math skills.
“It’s totally inconceivable that I’ll ever use precalculus in real life.” She shook salad dressing over her potatoes. “Even basic math is useless. Who balances checkbooks? It’s like, hello! Why don’t you teach us something we need to know?”
“School sucks,” Jay-Jay agreed. “We have to write in longhand. Nobody writes longhand anymore. Pretty soon it will be an ancient language, like hieroglyphs.”
Laurel ignored everyone and shoveled food into her mouth. When Jay-Jay reached for the last slice of garlic bread, she yelped and stabbed the back of his hand with her fork.
“Ouch!” Jay-Jay jumped up. “Did you see that, Mom? She stabbed me.”
“The skin’s not broken.” I held his hand up to the light; it was almost as big as my own. “I think you’ll live, honey.” I scooted him back to his chair. “Laurel, apologize to Jay-Jay and then cut the garlic bread in half and give him the biggest piece.”
“But I’m eating for two,” she protested, tomato sauce smeared across her upper lip. “I need more food. My body is feeding a baby, a whole extra life.” She bit into the garlic bread and chewed. “Jay-Jay’s brain is already formed and really, Carly, if you had shared your food when you were pregnant, he wouldn’t be as smart.”
I put my plate in the sink, grabbed the leash, and called for Killer. My boots were still wet from earlier in the morning, and as I slid my feet into plastic bags to keep them dry, I lost my patience. “Why don’t we live in Hawaii?” I screamed to no one in particular. “We could be sitting on the beach drinking foo-foo drinks. What in the hell are we doing in Alaska?”
Stephanie, Laurel, and Jay-Jay stared at me as if I were mad, as if it were obvious, as if living in a shabby trailer and eating meatloaf made with generic bread crumbs in the middle of the coldest part of winter was the best thing in the world.
I don’t know why I headed up the street instead of down by the inlet. Spenard Road isn’t a choice place to walk at night, even with a dog for protection. I was propositioned three times before I reached Barry’s house.
I heard music as I walked up the front steps, country or maybe old jazz, a woman’s voice, gritty and sad and rising up through them hard times. I knocked while Killer sniffed around the doorstep, excited because when Jay-Jay took Killer with him for weekend visits, Barry cooked her special meals—doggone it food, he called it. I was ready to knock a second time when the door opened. Barry was disheveled, his shirt untucked, his feet bare.
“Carla,” he said, surprised. I realized that he had a woman with him.
“Listen, I didn’t know. I’ll come back another time or call you tomorrow.” I tugged Killer’s leash and turned to go, but she refused to budge. “Killer, move,” I hissed.
“Ain’t no big deal, we was just getting ready to eat.” Barry fidgeted with his shirt hem as I pulled Killer across the steps, her toenails squeaking in the hard-packed snow. “Made up some meatballs and a nice salad. You hungry?”
“No, I just ate dinner.”
“Bear?” a woman’s voice called out. It was strangely lyrical, familiar; I loosened my hold on Killer’s leash and leaned closer.
“Toodles?” I said, and then I called, “Toodles, that you?”
Toodles lumbered out to the living room and stood behind Barry. She had on one of his shirts and a pair of wool socks; her legs were dark and muscular. “Carla!” she cried, as if we were old friends. “Come on in.” She opened her arms to welcome me and when I stepped forward, she hugged me. It was a hard, warm hug. She stood between Barry and me, smiling and holding each of our hands. “That must be Killer,” she said. “She looks like a wolf from this side, see? The wolf makes a fierce brother or sister; she won’t let you down.”
Dolls Behaving Badly Page 24