When I was the tender age of seven, my father informed me that blue eyes could be bought at a store – specifically, at Woolworth’s Five and Dime. My father hung the moon as fathers do, but he was a ruthless kidder. I had to be vigilant.
“Are you absolutely sure we can buy blue eyes at a store?” We were in the kitchen just finishing up our tuna sandwiches.
“Absolutely,” Dad said. He was doing a quick rinse of our plates, then jamming them into the crowded drying rack. Mom would have disapproved of his lack of soap, but she wasn’t home.
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Yup.”
“Stick a needle in your eye?”
“Yes, siree.”
“Sticking a needle in your eye will blind you. Then you’ll have an eye just like mine.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Do you want an eye like mine?”
“Well, I would have a valid to reason to wear the eyepatch I made to match yours,” Dad said. “But I would prefer to not lose my vision.”
I looked at my father. He wasn’t smiling or dancing his eyebrows like he usually did when pulling my leg. Sometimes his kidding was fun, other times, I wanted to kick him in the shins.
“Can we buy brown eyes?”
“Why would you want to?”
All the females in our house had blue eyes, including my doll, Baby. But Dad had dark, sensual eyes as my mother had been known to say. Sensual sounded mesmerizing, especially when my mother said it because when she did her own eyes sparkled like a sun catcher.
“You’re sure they’re brand new? Not everything at Woolworth’s looks new, Dad. The clothes are wrinkled to death. The cans have dents. Mom says dents ruin the stuff inside.”
Dad snorted. “Apparently your mother is too good for the Five and Dime. I’m not.” Dad peered over his black-framed glasses. “Are you?”
It was obviously bad to be ‘too good’ for Woolworth’s. Worry whirls kicked up inside my chest. What if the Woolworth’s eyes weren’t brand new? What if the Woolworth’s eyes were as spoiled as the crinkled clothes and dented cans? Disfigured like my eye? Dad was still peering over his glasses. To convince him I felt no trepidation, I shook my head “no” with gusto. That produced a smile and a quick scruffing of the top of my head.
“When can we go?” I asked. I had to see these eyes. It felt like an emergency. Most things did at age seven. I wondered how they were packaged. Did they come in a plastic bag? A box? Or in a can floating in tears? I found it so incredible that they could be bought at a store, and why on earth had no one suggested buying them before? Why wasn’t that mentioned by the doctor in the hospital who couldn’t fix my monster eye? At seven, I was aware my eyes weren’t the same as Baby’s: she was a doll and I was human; hers were scratched and my right eye was blind and disfigured. Nonetheless, hope bloomed in my heart: could I get a new eye, too?
“Let’s go right now,” Dad said.
He wrestled his car keys out of his trousers, strode a few steps to the mudroom, yanked our jackets from their respective hooks, then whooshed me out the side door, down the porch steps and into his Cadillac parked in the driveway. Dad was whistling. He let me sit in the front seat. There weren’t any seatbelt-wearing laws in Massachusetts in those days, so I scooted right next to him and helped steer the car. Man, oh, man, I was in heaven.
At Woolworths, eyes in plastic bags, boxes, or floating in a can of tears were not to be found, but there was Dad’s colleague, a fellow professor he knew from Adam University just browsing the aisles of Woolworth’s when we bumped into her. Just like a bug flying up my nose, the fun stopped. I stood, staring at his shins, thinking where I could kick him, but his trousers were baggy, his shins unlocatable, and besides, I could never go through with kicking my dad. Her shins, however, were in full view below her trench coat and above her low-heeled, navy-blue pumps. She was a nice enough brown-haired lady, and she shook my hand like I was a real person, but the time she was stealing from me being with my father was the mortalest of sins.
She asked me if I was in school. After a pause, Dad said I was in second grade and reading and writing. She asked what I was reading and Dad said a lot of Dr. Seuss. She mentioned Dr. Seuss lived close by, in Springfield, like that was supposed to impress me or get me to speak. I was impressed. I loved One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, but I wouldn’t let her know that.
“I love your eyepatch,” she said. “It’s perfect for your very pretty face.”
Okay, that was incredibly nice, but I still shrugged.
Dad resumed their conversation and, once again, I was invisible. After a lot of blah, blah, blah, she said something like, “Can you believe the human species has been around thousands of years and we’re only now learning how people love?”
I remembered it because it was stupid.
“They just do,” I said to the lady. “No one had to teach me how to love my dad. It was automatic.”
Dad and his friend laughed at me like I was stupid.
“It’s not funny,” I said.
“We’re not laughing at you, Hon Bun,” Dad said.
“Not at all,” his friend chimed. “You’re beyond wise.”
“Can I go look at the dolls?” I asked. I had to get away from them before I did kick someone in the shins.
Dad found me a million hours later. I was ogling a tall doll with shoulder-length golden curls, crystalline blue eyes and pretty lips, the color of flamingos. She was high on a shelf in a long box with crunched edges. The plastic window was shredded, like it had been stabbed several times with a steak knife. The doll didn’t look damaged, thank god, but it was hard to tell given she was crammed between the ceiling and the shelf. I was sure she was my age. I was bewitched by her perfect Shirley Temple curls, curls I’d never attain with my baby-fine hair. Her blue tie-back dress was prettier than all the dresses I owned. If she could be mine, I’d name her something spectacular, like Stephanie or Samantha.
Dad yelled my name. He was jogging down the aisle.
“You took forever,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Hon Bun, we had some catching up to do.”
“You were supposed to be buying me some eyes.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
I pointed to Stephanie or Samantha. “I want her.”
My father chuckled. He wasn’t amused. It was something better. “Hon Bun, you’re brilliant.” He reached up and snatched Stephanie or Samantha from the shelf and handed the box to me.
“Oh my god,” I said. “She’s even prettier up close. She wasn’t as tall as me, not at all, but she was still my age and she was also wearing white-heeled Mary Janes that perfectly complemented her elegant blue dress.
“Look at her,” Dad said. “Ready for Easter.” He lifted the box from my arms. “Let’s go.”
“You’re getting her for me?”
“Sure am.”
“Really, Dad?”
“Really.”
“Why?” Was he sorry for ditching me to talk forever to the brown-haired lady and buying me off? I was okay being bought off.
“Her eyes are perfect,” Dad said.
“They are.”
“They’ll look great on Baby.”
Baby? What was he saying? Stephanie or Samantha would be Baby’s sister. He said we’d buy Baby’s eyes at another store. I said nothing. I didn’t want to jinx Dad buying Stephanie or Samantha. I wanted her so much, I worried if I questioned him, he’d change his mind and chuck her on a pile of crumpled clothing and burst out of Woolworth’s. I worried I’d burst into tears. No one liked a crybaby. Not in Woolworth’s. Not anywhere.
I kept quiet the entire ride home. Dad, however, was rattling on about the decline of the north end of Adam: sad sack buildings with bird-pooped awnings and ‘For Lease’ signs in filthy windows. He often dwelled on the irony of how our city was built on the back of the armory that manufactured most of the firearms for the revolutionary and civil wars, but once it closed, the city lost its life.
“Where we live is still nice,” I said.
“Yes, Pill Hill is still nice because everyone eventually gets sick and needs a doctor.” He said people needed lawyers, too, and the occasional university professor which he was, but doctors dispensed pills, hence the name, Pill Hill.
I was half-listening because I was worried about Stephanie or Samantha. I stuffed her between the bench seat and the floor near the passenger door and wrapped my legs over the box. If I could get her into the house, I could hide her from Dad and save her eyes.
When we walked into the kitchen fragrant with cooking tomato sauce, my mother spun around from the stove and eyed the box I held tightly against my chest. “What’s that?”
“Her name is Stephanie.”
Dad swept past me, kissed Mom and asked if he had time to shower before dinner. When she said yes, he dashed out of the kitchen. I listened to him clomping up the stairs to the second floor.
“Stephanie?” Joey asked. My brother was seated at the kitchen table near the frilly-curtained windows. I knew he was there, but my attention was on my new doll. He was snapping together a model car. “Why Stephanie?”
“Where did you get it?” Mom asked.
“Woolworth’s. She’s brand new, not wrinkled or dirty or anything.”
My mother raised her eyebrows. “The box is ripped to shit.” She strode to the kitchen table, slipped the box from my grasp, pulled back the lid and slid Stephanie out. Stephanie’s arms, legs and neck were attached to a piece of cardboard with long, plastic ties that were almost impossible to untwist. Joey stopped his model building to help free her legs while Mom worked on her neck, and I pathetically tried to free one of her arms.
“So, what did you do to deserve this?” Mom asked. She was working fast on Stephanie’s neck.
I didn’t want to tell Mom that Dad had promised me we could buy eyes at Woolworth’s. I didn’t want her to know that Dad had plans for Stephanie that I didn’t like. I wanted her to know that Stephanie was a part of the family, like Baby was, like Joey’s models were. Then it occurred to me that Mom could help keep Stephanie safe from Dad. She obviously can see how pretty Stephanie was and that her eyes should stay in her head where they belonged.
Mom freed Stephanie’s neck and started working on her leg. Joey freed her leg and started on her arm, and I continued to untwist while considering what to tell Mom.
“Did Dad get me something?” Joey asked.
“No.”
He pouted. “What did you deserve to get…Stephanie?” Joey asked. “That’s a boy’s name made into a girl’s.”
“So.”
“She’s dusty,” Mom said, after fully freeing her. “See this?’ She pointed to a tie-back that was slightly torn from the dress.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind.” I reached for Stephanie and Mom let her go.
“I mind.,” Mom said. “What did your dad pay for this thing?”
“Five cents? Ten cents?”
Joey balked. “One cent.”
“I can’t believe your father took you to that dump and bought you junk.”
“She’s not junk.” I sat in a metal chair with the yellow Naugahyde seat and held her up on the formica table. She was everything. Mom resumed stirring the sauce. Joey went back to his model.
“Did you buy anything else?” Mom asked.
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“No.”
“Where else did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Dad met someone from work and they talked forever,” I said.
The metal spoon in Mom’s hand clattered on the stovetop.
“Who?”
“Some lady. She shook my hand.”
“Some lady shook your hand? What was her name?”
Without my awareness, Mom had left the stove and was hovering over me. I glanced at Joey, who was staring at my face.
“I don’t remember.”
“What did she look like?” Mom asked.
I shrugged. “I didn’t like her, Mom.”
“Why not?”
“She wouldn’t stop talking. It was so annoying.”
Dad breezed into the kitchen smelling of Canoe aftershave. He had slicked his dark hair back. I could see the comb streaks. He said he’d set the table and asked Joey to help. Joey jumped up, removed his model from the table. I scooted from my chair, ran to a drawer near the sink, pulled out cloth napkins and placed them in front of the four chairs at the kitchen table. Thankfully, Mom went back to the stove. Dad pulled down plates, handed them to Joey. Mom announced the noodles were done, stomped to the sink with the hot pot, and poured the contents into a waiting colander. Dad poured sauce into a smaller bowl. He snatched two tumblers, cracked ice, dropped a few cubes into each glass, covered the ice with gin, and covered the gin with tonic. Joey poured milk for him and me. I stood Stephanie next to the radiator under the windows and next to my chair at the kitchen table.
When we were all seated, pasta, sauce and parmesan cheese distributed, Joey and I dug into our spaghetti. Mom, however, had her drink in her hand, stirring her ice cubes and staring hard at Dad. He smiled at her, but that seemed to tighten her lips more. He swirled some spaghetti on his fork and slurped it into his mouth like a barbarian, splattering sauce everywhere. He took a couple big gulps of his drink, peered at my mother, whose face hadn’t changed, drained his glass and stood to pour himself another.
Joey and I remembered Dad saying, “I do love gin, the namesake of my dear wife, Virginia.” as he poured more gin into his tumbler. “Gin is so much like your mother. So beloved. So bedeviled. I bet you kids don’t know the origins of gin. How it made people happy and absurdly desperate. So desperate, in fact, that people distilled their own concoctions with sawdust, turpentine, whatever they could get their hands on. It caused virulent madness.” Dad chuckled. “There’s a famous print called “Gin Lane.” The center image is of a mother dressed in rags, breasts exposed, not aware she dropped her baby over a railing to its death. Once gin was properly regulated, however, it became the favored elixir enjoyed by a large portion of Europe.”
Mom snorted, then downed her drink. “Make me another, Mr. Five and Dime. Don’t be so chintzy this time. I know how you love to be cheap, like your friends.”
Dad plucked the tumbler from Mom’s hand. “With pleasure, my dear.”
I kept glancing over at Stephanie, worried she might disappear.
Dad handed Mom her refreshed drink and sat down with his own drink in hand.
“Did you get me something from the Five and Dime, Dad?” Joey asked.
“Yes, Andre, did you get your son a gift, too?”
“I’m sorry, Bug,” Dad said. “We weren’t shopping for presents. I was helping Honey find new eyes for her doll.”
“That’s okay,” Mom said to Joey. “What would you want from that junk store? I wouldn’t be caught dead in there. Dad likes it because his friends shop there. His friend who buys plastic navy-blue pumps that easily scratch.”
Mom smiled. Her eyes danced from my father, then to me, where they hardened into a stare.
“There was also a mother named Judith,” Dad said. “She was a beauty: strangled her two-year-old daughter with a handkerchief, dumped her naked body in a ditch and sold her clothes to buy gin.”
“Was Dad’s friend wearing navy-blue shoes, Honey?”
“Judith was hung in a public square.” Dad brought his hand up to the side of his neck and jerked as if pulling on an invisible rope.
“Answer me, Honey,” Mom said louder.
I looked at Joey, my good eye pleading for a lifeline. He looked to be pleading with me to answer Mom carefully – make this stop. Quickly, I glanced next to me to check on Stephanie.
“Ha. I knew it,” Mom shouted.
How that clued Mom, I didn’t know at the time. Joey told me later that I had covered my eyepatch with my hand. I usually did that unconsciously; my eye knocked when I was nervous or scared.
“So,” Dad said, “if you don’t want to go nuts, be careful with gin.”
“You’re the crazy one, Andre. Crazy, stingy, cheating maniac.” Mom guzzled her drink. She delicately placed the empty glass on the table. Then she shoved it towards Dad. All of us watched it careen over the table’s edge and shatter on the floor.
Dad guzzled his drink, slammed down his tumbler and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Spaghetti sauce was smeared across his knuckles.
“You’re sickening, Ginny,” he said. “Absolutely sickening.”
Mom stood, slapped Dad hard across the face. He jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, his hands flew to her neck. Joey and I screamed, “Dad!”
He seemed to be in a battle between squeezing the life from her and not squeezing. His arms were shaking while my mother defiantly stared him down. Joey rushed from his chair, threw his arms around Dad’s waist. He was wailing, begging Dad to stop. Dad stepped back, released Mom. He shoved Joey from his grasp, stumbled to the sink, dropped his head and screamed as if he was trying to wake the devil from the bowels of Hell. He screamed and he screamed. It was a noise so enraged and terrifying, my hands flew to my ears to drown it out. Time stood still. Even Mom, standing where he’d left her, was motionless. Except her face seemed to break from its hardness. Was she sorry? Would she go to him, hug him? I was hoping she would. I believed she had stepped in his direction, but Joey later insisted my memory had concocted that motion. However, there was no dispute that Dad eventually stopped screaming and pulled his head from the sink. His face was wet from tears. He looked at me, still seated in my chair, he looked at Joey, still standing where he had been shoved. Dad rattled the keys in his slacks and sprinted out the back door. We never saw him again.
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