Free Dolls Behaving Badly by Cinthia Ritchie Page A

legs of her chair slammed
     down as if for emphasis.
    “Who?” I finally asked.
    “Promise you won’t get mad?”
    “Why would I care?”
    “Promise?”
    “Yeah, sure.”
    “It’s Mr. Hankel.”
    “Who?” The name sounded vaguely familiar, and I ran through a mental list of Jay-Jay’s teachers and camp counselors.
    “You know. The weatherman.”
    “On TV? With the broadcaster wife? Holy shit!”
    “You promised,” Laurel hiccupped. “You promised you wouldn’t get mad.”
    “Well,” I stuttered. “I’m not mad, not at all.” I forced my voice low and soft, the same tone I used to comfort Jay-Jay. “It’s
     just unexpected, that’s all.”
    “He came to the office about a summer rental on the Kenai earlier this spring,” Laurel said. “I was wearing my yellow blouse,
     you know the one? The creamy silk with the cunning collar?”
    “Ummmm.” I had no idea what she was talking about.
    “We were in the middle of the paperwork and I leaned over, and he smelled so good, Carla, sharp and crisp, like a pair of
     freshly ironed pants. His neck looked lost and vulnerable above his shirt, so trustworthy that I couldn’t help leaning over
     and kissing him.”
    I didn’t know what to say, so I muttered “Ummmm” again.
    “That’s when it started.”
    “It?”
    “You know.” Laurel gave a proud little laugh. “The sex.”
    “At work?”
    “Carla! Do you think I’m so cheap? Hank took me to a nice hotel.”
    “Hank Hankel?”
    “Yes,” Laurel sighed, all dreamy. “Isn’t it wonderful?” She wiped her face on one of my dish towels until her skin emerged,
     pale and beard burned. Then she put her face down on the table and sobbed again. “Oh Carly, I don’t know what to do. I love
     him. I do! But it’s impossible. We’re both married.”
    I ate three Milk Duds and waited for more.
    “But I love Junior, too. Don’t look at me like that, Carla. I’ve been with him over fifteen years. He can’t see without his
     glasses. He’s so helpless . He gropes around every morning like a baby bird. Oh, oh. What am I going to do?”
    “I’ll make you something to eat,” I said, handing her a fresh dish towel to mop up her eyes. “How about tuna casserole?”
    “Like Gramma used to make?” Laurel asked in a small voice.
    “Yeah, just like that,” I lied, desperately trying to remember the recipe: cream of mushroom soup, egg noodles, cheese, and
     something else, something that gave it a strange, spicy taste. Peppers? Cumin? Garlic powder? “Go watch TV.” I nodded toward
     the living room. “There’s a bunch of old movies on tonight, a Halloween fest. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
    “Okay.” Laurel slumped out of the kitchen. The tuna smelled salty and strong when I opened the can. Gramma used to say that
     fish was the meat of the gods. Each week she made some type of fish, not on Friday, the typical Catholic fish-eating day,
     but on Monday, the beginning of the school week. She said the fish would swim up my brain and make me smarter.
    “That why you answer all them right on your spelling test,” she said.
    I didn’t have the heart to tell her I cheated off Bobby Wright’s paper. He sat catty-corner from me and wrote extra big in
     exchange for the chance to watch me pee into a jar. Bobby saved the pee to pour over his mother’s houseplants and then waited
     for them to die. When they didn’t, he fell in love with me and insisted, in that logical persuasiveness common to eight-year-old
     boys, that he would never, ever love anyone as much as he loved me. Sometimes I still believe this. Sometimes I’m sure that
     I will never do anything to impress a man the way I impressed Bobby when I peed in those jars.
    Gramma’s Tuna Casserole
(with minor revisions)
2 large handfuls egg noodles
1 can cream of mushroom soup
3 cloves garlic
1 can waterpacked tuna
Pinch of cumin
Splash of bourbon (for a kick)
1¼ cups milk
½ cup (or more) cheese
    Preheat oven to 350˚. Throw