The Dollhouse

Chapter 2

BEFOREHAND, the city of Seattle had always been my home.

My childhood was a typical one. The radio crooned the blues during my mother's Tupperware parties, and some days we got to walk along by the boats on the city's famous ports. Times were changing in the 'sixties - I had the privilege to grow up in the urban blur of diners and coffeehouses, while watching Dr. Martin Luther King declare his dream on our first black-and-white cable television.

By the time I reached adolescence, I had the whole world to look forward to.

It had been years since I had seen my dad. Most forms of contact had been severed by my mother. He wasn't exactly welcome to family functions anymore, but to be honest, I didn't mind.

Being too young to remember the ghastly details of the divorce had its perks.

"Do you want to know a secret?"

"Of course."

"Promise not to tell?"

Violet seemed to have a knack of understanding the ugly ways of the adult world. When we were meant to be sleeping, she would creep along the floorboards on knees to listen through the keyhole. Soon enough, I heard the details of the family secrets.

All surrounding some mistress named Arabella.

My sister adored scandal, even as a child.

She swore that before the divorce, she had seen Daddy kissing another woman in his car. A sophisticated woman with dark hair, and pearls. But that was probably a lie.

I never thought eavesdropping was a good idea. Bible studies at school had taught me that being dishonest was wrong. However, that never stopped me from joining in.

"Goddammit Percival, you can't do this to me," our mother would hiss.

That was the thing about adults. They always spoke the truth when children were out of the room.

Mom was leaning her elbows on the kitchen table. She had been on the telephone a long time. The whiskey bottle sat next to her. "That is absolutely out of the question. You must be joking. No. No, she can't meet them! Do you think I would deliberately bring such a bad influence around my children, Percival?"She stubbed out her cigarette, and hung up the phone.

Violet found this hilarious.

She pointed towards our mother, pretending to chug from an imaginary bottle.

Back then, those hushed arguments had no real meaning. My main concern was the hard flooring hurting my knees. It was just a stupid game. Violet enjoyed breaking the rules, whereas my guilty conscience wasn't enough to stop her.

All of a sudden, the door was wrenched open.

Taken by shock, both of us gasped. The light from the kitchen spilled into the hallway. Mom very nearly trampled us with her high heels.

"Girls! What are you doing out here, in the middle of the night? Get back to bed!"

There it was. That repulsive, squirmy feeling of guilt. I was ready to return to my room as fast as my legs could take me. Facing Mom's wrath was never a pleasant experience. 

Violet, however, kept her ground.

"Was that Daddy?"

My mother's drawn features were as blank as a mask. "No, that was work. They needed to know about the filing system. They knew I was up late writing."

Our mother worked for the papers. A journalist. Mom had always been a writer, but everyone knew she longed to be a real author. Our home was stacked with fragments of books and papers, but most were just odd scraps of incomplete fiction. She hated her job. It's a man's world, my dear, she would always sigh.