Monkey cost $5, and I bought him at F.W. Woolworth in Corsicana with some money I got for my fifth birthday. I slept with him and drug him around with me until the inside stuffing on his arms let go at the armpits giving him a decidedly limp look. He had black arms and legs, a yellow torso, rubber human-looking hands with knuckles and fingernails, and cute white rubber baby shoes, made right onto his legs so they didn't get lost.
The year I was 9 and ordered Poor Pitiful Pearl as my Christmas gift probably marked the setting of some inner orientation. She wasn't pretty like some of the other dolls we'd received in Christmases past. She had dishwater blonde hair, a color my brothers made sure I knew matched my own.
Her hair was coarse and stringy. Mine wasn't like that, thankfully. She had a kind face, not haughty like the 14, now 13, joint ballerina Jan got the year before. She wasn't what you'd call cuddly like the soft baby dolls in their little white organza gowns either. But something about her made you want to hold her close and tight, protect her.
She came with two sets of clothes, a blue shift with a red rag to go on her hair, one that looked like it would be worn by a little girl who would sell matches on a streetcorner. The other was a fancy Sunday dress made of thin blue organza material with a nice black velveteen ribbon to tie her hair up in a ponytail. For her everyday outfit, there were soft black boots; the fancy outfit had white Mary Jane shoes to go with it.
During those years, I loved, in this order: Julie, my dog; Monkey, my stuffed animal; and Poor Pitiful Pearl, my doll. Well, my parents and sisters and maybe even my brothers were in there somewhere, but I was very attached to my strange little group of four-legged and inanimate friends.
Neila never expressed an opinion about my doll. She would look at me brushing her hair, get a quizzical look, then laugh, followed by "Poor Pitiful Pearl", said with real pity, almost like a question.
Mother always simply got us what we requested as gifts, within reason, no questions asked. She never seemed to reflect upon the whys or the what fors. I'm sure she was much too busy.
Neila, on the other hand, seemed to find my selection of the doll amusing for reasons I couldn't fathom.
The boys had gotten a chemistry set a few Christmases before and nearly ruined the desk in their room, letting things burn and sizzle till the varnish melted off in places; other parts of the desk had red, blue, or green globs of who- knew-what all over it. Mother didn't think about the disasters they could create, the other people who might get hurt, or what it would do to her furniture. Hadn't she already told another girl who asked, that she'd just get new furniture when all the kids grew up?
The dolls, by contrast, were totally calming. I continued to brush her hair with the little plastic brush that came with her and then showed her what she looked like in the tiny plastic mirror. Her facial expression never changed from the pleasant near-smile, but I felt sure she was pleased.
"There, there, now. You can go to Sunday School in your pretty dress. Would you like that?" I asked the kind but homely face. "Do you like your new clothes?"
Neila observed from the kitchen doorway, watching me intently.
"Isn't she pretty now?" I asked. "Look how pretty her hair is in a ponytail. Do you like it?"
Neila seemed perplexed. She didn't answer quickly like she usually did. She continued to watch me turn the doll this way and that, smoothing her dress, adjusting her socks, pushing her shoes on firmly.
Finally, she just said "Poor Pitiful Pearl", smiled, and turned away to get something out of the refrigerator.
"I don't really want you selling matches anymore," I told her. "Maybe now that you live with us, you can have a normal life. I'll have to get you some more clothes. You don't really have to wear the rag dress anymore if you don't like it." ------------ "Do you like it? You don't, do you?"
I patted her arm tenderly. She wasn't a baby doll, not one you'd turn sideways and cradle, but still I wanted to reassure her, rescue her from her sorry past, and remind her endlessly of how much she was loved now. She responded with her unfailingly kind smile, its sad origins tugging at the corners of her mouth, trying hard to turn them downward.
She seemed to like Monkey okay, so when I had to leave her, I often left her sitting between Monkey's fat legs, encircled by his protective furry arms. "There," I'd tell her softly. "Monkey will keep you safe until I get back. He's not scary. He's nice. He's been with me since I was five. He'll be a good friend."
Jan had a lot of dolls. I guess we held most of them in common, but I didn't play with them much. However, when it was cold, I felt compelled to cover all of them with scarves, bandannas, tiny quilts and blankets made just for dolls, and by the time we finished (I always begged Jan to help me, and even though she thought it was silly, she did), the stacked brick and white plank shelves on one side of our room were bedecked with red, white, royal blue, ivory, pink, and deep emerald green cloth of every type of material from chenille to satin. A few tiny dollheads peeked out from under the covers, but we didn't allow any arms or legs above the covers in order to protect them from frostbite. It got really cold in the house at night. We had space heaters in the early days of living there before my uncle Bo and Aunt JoAnn practically donated and installed a real central system in the house.
Mother would light the heaters in the morning before we got up, and we usually ran to the den, which was warmer, carrying our clothes with us, dressing there quickly. We appreciated Mother lighting the heaters, which we weren't allowed to light anyway until we were older. I figured the dolls appreciated our putting the covers on them even if they couldn't tell us. Once it warmed up, we took the covers off in the afternoon when we got home after the 45 minute bus ride from school.
Poor Pitiful Pearl became the rather unlikely queen of the dolls. I played with her, changed her clothes, talked to her, and made her the star of our doll plays. Only a few dolls were taller, one being the giant "Bride Doll", but she was somewhat dull in my estimation. Not much personality. And the only thing she had to wear was a white bridal gown, which was becoming smudged and unsightly. We'd long since lost the veil.
I knew the other dolls would eventually be given to nieces or the Salvation Army, but I wouldn't part with Pearl. She was placed lovingly on a shelf open to view in the bedroom and would sit there patiently, even through my high school and college years, her enigmatic smile reminding me of a picture of the Mona Lisa that I had seen in Life magazine. She didn't seem to mind being there, whether we played with her or not, or whether anyone even dusted her off . She was safe in this house with a loud but loving family, and that seemed to satisfy her. Her face now seemed to reflect a secret knowledge and contentment.
I didn't remove her from the shelf when I left home, but years later, I would retrieve her and give her a place of honor on a new bookshelf to the chagrin of my teenage daughters.
"Poor Pitiful Pearl," I could almost hear Neila croon, followed by a little laugh.
1 comment:
This is definitely publishable.
Excellent.
Poor pitiful Pearl.
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