Forbes and Fifth

Doll Head

Betty awakes to the sound of her husband’s ringing alarm clock. He always sleeps through it. If not for Betty, he would be late to work every day. The responsibility used to make her feel important—now she wonders why a grown man needs to be woken up like a child. Betty reaches over him to switch the alarm off, then places her hand lightly on the top of his shoulder. He lies on his stomach with his head facing the opposite direction so that Betty can only see his pajama covered back and still thick, graying dark hair.

“Sweetheart, wake up,” she says, kissing his cheek. He opens his eyes with a small groan, pecks her on the lips, and then gets out of bed to shower and shave before work. She also gets out of bed to remove the curlers from her hair and change out of her silky lilac nightgown. She puts on a lacy white brassiere and matching underwear, pantyhose, a slip, and a blue and white gingham dress that comes down just below the knee. Then she slides into the shoes that she normally wears around the house: a pair of tasteful, yet sensible, black leather pumps with a small heel and a square toe.

“Hey, honey?” She hears Jeffrey call through the closed bathroom door. “I’m out of shaving cream.”

“Check the closet,” Betty answers with a sigh. Sometimes she feels like Jeffrey is a stranger to his own house, as though constantly hosting a guest.

Betty likes the clacking sound that her shoes make on the hardwood floor as she walks down the hallway to wake up her three kids: Mary, William, and Robert. She stops in Mary’s room first. She’s the oldest at ten. Betty wakes up Mary similarly to how she wakes up her husband Jeffrey.

“Mary, time for school,” she says softly. Mary opens her eyes and yawns. Betty makes sure that she climbs out of bed before she crosses the hall to the boys’ room. William, eight. Her baby Robert, seven. She misses the days when she still had to help them all get dressed and brush their teeth. Now she just makes sure they’ve got their feet on the floor before she heads downstairs to make breakfast.

Betty makes eggs on Tuesdays. Scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese. Toast with butter and jam. Bacon. Fresh cut strawberries. Jeffrey and the kids come downstairs around the same time—a little after seven. Betty has their plates ready with the table set, a pitcher of orange juice, a carton of milk, and four empty cups lined up. She always preps everything the night before. Changing the tablecloth, laying down the napkins, forks, and knives, positioning the empty plates and setting out the three plastic cups and one transparent, shiny glass. Breakfast ingredients set out so that she can have the food hot and ready by the time everyone finishes getting dressed. Jeffrey is first, as usual. His hair, damp from the shower, parted and combed neatly. His wrinkleless white button-down shirt and khaki pants, a loose navy tie hanging freely around his neck.

“Good morning, darling,” he says, kissing Betty’s cheek before he sits down. She goes to fetch his shoes and briefcase, both freshly polished.

“Kids! Your breakfast is going to get cold,” she calls up the stairs on her way back from the closet.

“Coming!” she hears Mary yell. She always takes the longest. Mary reminds Betty of herself when she was a girl. She used to get up early for school so she’d have enough time to do her hair. William thumps down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom? Have you seen my Huck Finn book?” he asks. He’s wearing a red and grey striped shirt and blue jeans. His hair is sticking up in the back, matted and splayed from his pillow.

“I think the last time I saw it, it was in the den on the coffee table. But eat your breakfast first.” Betty goes to the cabinet to get a comb. She wets it under the sink and tries to flatten out William’s hair as he munches on his eggs and bacon.

“Where’s your brother?” she asks, still fighting with the hair.

“Uhhh, I think he’s still getting dressed,” he says back between mouthfuls.

Betty sighs and hurries upstairs, sure enough finding Robert standing in his socks and underwear, rooting through his hamper.

“Robert, you’re running late,” she says, standing in the open doorway.

“I know, but I can’t find the shirt I want. It’s the white one that has red sleeves.”

“You wore that this week already.”

“I know, it’s my favorite. I can’t find it in the hamper though.”

“I think I washed it last night. But how about you wear a different shirt?”

“But I want that one.”

“Your teacher is going to think you don’t have enough clean shirts to last you the week. Why don’t you wear your striped shirt like William?”

“Okay, I guess. Can I wear the other one tomorrow?”

“Sure, sweetie,” Betty says, handing him the same shirt William has on, except smaller and with blue and black stripes. “You want to wear your new blue jeans?”

“What’s William got on?”

“Jeans.” Betty knows William will be upset when he sees Robert dressed the same as him, but Robert loves it when they match, and Betty knows it’s the only way to keep him out of the dirty shirt, happily at least.

She knocks on Mary’s door. “Hey, Mare? You almost ready?”

“Yes, I’ll be down in a minute.”

When Betty returns to the kitchen, William is rifling through drawers and cabinets, leaving them open as he goes along. Betty makes a mental note to come back later to straighten up.

“Willie, your Huck Finn book isn’t going to be in the kitchen. Did you check your school books? Maybe you already set it out.”

“No, I looked through all my school stuff,” he whines, sitting down on the floor in defeat.

“Okay, baby, how about I go check your room?”

“I looked there too,” he says, sounding as if on the brink of tears.

“I’ll just have a quick look around. I have to go get Robert anyway. Why don’t you put on your shoes? The bus will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Alright, sweetheart, I’m leaving,” says Jeffrey, giving Betty a quick kiss. “Bye, buddy!” he calls over to William, who is still sitting on the floor.

“Bye, Dad!” William jumps up and runs to hug Jeffrey.

“Bye, kids!” Jeffrey yells up the stairs to Mary and Robert as he walks out the door.

Betty heads back up the stairs, thinking, One down, three to go.

“Rob, what are you doing? Let’s go.”

Robert is sitting cross-legged on the carpet, playing with his favorite toy soldier and the detached head of one of Mary’s old plastic dolls. He looks up at Betty as if surprised to see her.

“Come on,” she says, “no more playing. You need to come downstairs and get your shoes on.” She spots The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn lying on the floor next to William’s bed and grabs it.

“I’m hungry.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you missed breakfast. You can take an apple on the bus with you.”

“But I don’t want an apple. I want a banana.”

“Whatever you want. Now come on.”

Robert follows her out into the hallway and across the hall to Mary’s room. He is still holding the doll head in his hand. Betty knocks on the door before opening it a half a second later. “Mary, you’re going to miss the bus.” Mary is standing in front of her bedroom mirror brushing her hair. 

“Can you braid my hair?”

“There’s not enough time. Why don’t you wear a ponytail and a ribbon?”

Mary comes to the doorway and Betty leads her and Robert downstairs.

“Aw, Robert! You ripped off Lilli’s head,” she says, grabbing the doll by its ragged blonde hair.

“No, I didn’t. General Stevenson did,” Robert says, reaching to take back the head.

“You’re lucky I’m too old for dolls now,” Mary says, handing it to him.

“Mary, banana or apple?” Betty asks.

“Apple, please.”

“Robert, shoes! Does everyone have their books and their lunches?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, the bus will be here any minute. Go ahead outside. Wait, William! I found Huck Finn.”

“Thanks, Mom, but I remembered I don’t need it today,” William calls over his shoulder as he follows his brother and his sister out the door. Betty stands at the window, the kids walking down the driveway together. The bus pulls up not a minute later and they all get on. She watches them pull away while she clutches the book to her chest.

Betty cleans up breakfast, washes the dishes, dries them, puts them away, wipes down the counters, cleans the stove, and sweeps the kitchen floor. She vacuums the carpet in every room of the house. She puts in a load of laundry. She walks around the house looking for places to clean. But everything is spotless. Betty checks the time. Half past ten. Only five more hours until the kids come home. Four more hours until she’ll start making dinner. Betty goes to investigate the kitchen pantry to plan what to make. It’s not until she’s standing in the dark closet looking at the shelves does she realize that she has yet to eat today. Betty often forgets to eat. A trivial task compared to preparation and cleanup. She makes herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with sliced apples and eats it as slowly as possible.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Betty feels that familiar trickle of hollowed consciousness. The plunging emptiness in her chest. Insidious rotting in her bones. An overwhelming hopelessness fills her eyes with tears.

“Silly. I’m being silly.” But her eyes threaten to overflow. She stands up from her seat at the table to throw away the uneaten half of her lunch. She takes out the trash. She lets out the old hems on some of Mary’s dresses that have gotten too short. She rearranges William’s book shelf. She refolds the clothes in Robert’s dresser. She takes the sheets off the beds. She moves the clothes out of the washer and into the dryer. Betty checks the time. Almost one. She decides to take a bath. But when she stops moving, she can barely breathe. A pair of invisible hands tighten around her neck. Squeezing the air out. She finishes with the bath and dries herself off. She puts on a new dress with new underwear and new pantyhose. Different shoes. She plays with her makeup. Rouge, lipstick. She blow-dries her hair and styles it into an elaborate up-do. It occurs to Betty that all the effort she puts into her appearance is unnecessary. Jeffrey never had an eye for detail and she knows he loves her on a deeper level than appearance. Maybe he simply doesn’t care. Betty used to spend so much time agonizing over the way she looked. Dieting, going to the salon, buying the trendiest clothes. Betty eats whatever she wants, but she’s still the thinnest she’s ever been. She has time to go to the salon, but never the energy. She’s worn the same clothes for years because she hates shopping for herself. Being beautiful doesn’t seem that important anymore.

What time is it?

Betty starts prepping for dinner. She’s making a roast. She slips and nicks her finger while dicing the potatoes, dropping the knife in surprise and putting her finger in her mouth. She tastes a salty, metallic flavor that she knows is blood. She takes her finger out of her mouth and stares, watching it bleed, entranced by the vibrant red. Then she runs the finger under the faucet. It stings.

When it’s time for the kids to come home, she waits for the bus on the end of the driveway. They’re so happy to see her. But suddenly, Betty wishes to be alone. They go inside, and Betty helps them with their homework. Mary and her worksheet on photosynthesis. William and his arithmetic. Robert and his cursive. Betty used to enjoy doing her children’s work with them. She had wanted to be a teacher at one point, when she was much younger. But now she finds the diagrams bothersome and tedious. The equations repetitive and inane. The awkwardly-held pencil frustrating and the stuttered reading almost unbearable. Does thinking this make her a bad mother?

Jeffrey comes home at a quarter past five. He kisses Betty. Hugs the kids. They hold hands and pray before dinner. Betty never questioned God until recently. Now she feels like a fool for believing in Him— (surely it was a Him)—so fervently before, like a child believing in Santa Clause. There was nothing out there. How could there be? Betty used to be able to feel spiritual presence in her life. She could feel herself being watched over. It gave her comfort. Someone she knew she could always count on. But now she suspects her faith was merely a product of her own delusions. Because now she feels nothing. She doesn’t know when it started, but that it’s worsened as time drew on.

Getting ready for bed, Betty washes her face, brushes her teeth, sets her hair, and changes into one of her pretty nightgowns. It’s a soft pink. The color of Mary’s ballet slippers. Betty used to do ballet. She used to do a lot of things. She crawls into bed next to Jeffrey and he is already asleep. Betty turns her back to him to face the mahogany wardrobe. It’s easier for Betty to cry in the dark. She doesn’t know why.

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