Doll

The day dawns overcast after last night’s driving rain though clear enough for me to hear through the open casement window my neighbor say your husband’s a doll. What’s he doing today? He’s off at a job site somewhere, my wife says with that distracted tone she uses when she’s upset. I try to lean closer to catch the rest of their chat but the wind swirls. A few minutes later the side door opens, wife and dog come in, she goes to our room on the second floor, the dog comes downstairs, carries me outside, drops me on the grass where our boys are playing with their trucks. Daddy Doll is here, the older one says as he hands me to his brother. The younger boy unbuttons my plaid shirt, bends my arms at the elbow, rotates them so my fists are level with my close-set ears, rotates them again till they’re level with my hip bones, back and forth sometimes 180, sometimes 360 degrees. Daddy Doll has articulated abs, he says in the tone young children use when they repeat what they hear from adults. Real Daddy has flabby abs, a voice from the open upstairs window says. I heard that, I think but can’t say through painted lips. The boys line their toy trucks – excavators, bulldozers, backhoes, and the like – around the lip of the patch of dirt – mud, now – where they’re playing. We’ll make Daddy Doll the boss, the younger one says though it should go without saying. I walk to the center of the site, they’ve barely started, delayed by bad weather. The foreman, Cowboy Bob or Joe, some common name not dissimilar to mine that I can never remember, we call him Cowboy because of the hat he wears, we’re not out West, we’re in a part of the East that wants to be the West, who knows why. It’s in the contract, I say, right here in black and white, signed in blue ink. He takes the papers from me. Daddy Doll doesn’t carry a tablet, not in this version. I take a few steps back to let him scrutinize it. I survey the site. A lot of our equipment is here. They’re not taking care of it. I see rust marks on one of the lifts. Be firm, I remind myself. We want to please the customer but we need to get everything we’re entitled to, we’re not gouging anyone, they’re abusing our machines, we’ll have to invoke penalties, we all need to work together, times are tough for everyone, they’re always tough, if we play fair, we’ll all stay above water. I examine my chinos, chinos made to look like khakis, they’re still pressed, I sense the men on the job resent my creases, I can’t help it, must look good, not for me, for the company. The foreman approaches. See here, he says, that’s not right. He hands it back to me. I examine where I think he pointed, look up, what do you mean, I want to say, can’t, a fist I never saw lands on my chin. A few drops of rain fall. On the ground I rub my jaw, hear voices. Come in boys, you have to wash up to go to Corey’s birthday party. Ugh, you’ll both have to change too. No, don’t take Daddy Doll, he’s dirty, yes, you can take the cowboy, he looks clean, leave the trucks there, we’ll just have to clean them when we get back. The boys complain, their mother holds firm, the dog runs in circles round the pit, the boys chase him before going in. Hours later I hear a car pull up. The light’s different, it must be close to five. I hear car doors open, slam, my wife opens the house door, the dog bounds out, circles the boys till they go inside, the dog does its business further back in the yard, returns, scoops me in its slobbering mouth, drops me off in the half bathroom in the basement. He licks me a few times, I’m still unclean. Twenty minutes later, the usual time, I’m back to normal size. I clean myself as best I can, walk upstairs wearing a plaid dress shirt, gray chinos, matching brogans. Oh, you’re back, my wife says, I didn’t hear you come in. She puts meat in the oven. Tough day? They’re all tough, I say, rubbing my jaw. Tell me about it. Why don’t you prepare the salad while I go downstairs and put a load of wash in? You wouldn’t believe how filthy the boys got this morning.