In the mean time: weird junk!
It's been chilly here lately, but actually pretty normal. A decent stretch of normal, and I honestly forgot how much I like the mundane. Jet's doing well in school, the dog's behaving. I've even been keeping a weekly date with by brother (hey, Dyl!).
Then the stupid basket showed up.
It was last week Tuesday. I got home from the store and there was a gift basket on the step. No big clues--I can't shovel in my condition, and Jet does a crap job because she's just a kid. So there was a mess of footprints with no way to tell who had been there--postal worker, big, small, man, woman...nothing.
There wasn't a card or anything, and the basket was just filled with rags. Not being someone who casually touches random objects, I grabbed part of the molding that I keep meaning to nail back onto the house (when it's warmer) and poked at the rags, pushing them out of the way.
Now I've seen some shit. I was expecting at best a kitten and at worst a severed head. Layer after layer of rags and old kitchen towels, I was wondering if scrap cloth was gonna be it. Then the face.
Not too proud to admit I screamed like a girl, even though it's kind of a given. Being a girl with man-voice makes it tough to actually scream like one, but I managed.
Anyway, big basket, small face. Stupid doll made a really bad first impression, which hasn't improved at all.
Okay, skip to that evening. I'd actually forgotten about the doll--I just left the thing as it was on the steps. No way I was going to bring it in, and I really didn't want to touch it. Who knows what sort of vibe I'd get from it? Not on your life.
Jet gets home from school and marches straight into the kitchen with the doll while I'm trying to make pork chops. I almost screamed again.
It's more disturbing when it's not covered in rags. It has a 40s-style, cherubic plastic face with stylized doll eyes that waggle when Jet moves it--I think they're supposed to close when it lies down, but they never quite get there. It's wearing light brown slacks that look like actual wool, brown leather shoes, a white linen shirt with little buttons and a collar, and a brown sport coat looking thing. It's got a grey wool touring cap covering most of its sculpted plastic hair, and some of its paint job is worn off.
The creepiest part of that doll is the cracked plastic on either side of its mouth. I'll post a photo as soon as I'm brave enough to get close to the thing.
"What's this from?" Jet said, completely oblivious to the fact that she almost made me crap my pants.
Not one to mince words, I told her it freaked me out and I'd like her to throw it away, along with the rags and basket.
She shook her head. "That ain't nice. Note says we hafta take care a' him."
"What note?" I said. There seriously wasn't a note on the basket.
"It was pinned ta his shirt," she said, pulling a torn-off half of a sheet of paper out of her pocket. She's been doing really well reading, and loves to show off. She read it pretty well: "'Please take care of my son James. He is the light of my life. I hope to be back soon.' An' then there's a bunch'a stuff."
She held out the paper, and I used my pork chop tongs to take it. I wouldn't touch something that strange, even with gloves on. Jet's "bunch'a stuff" was a list of James's favorite foods, when his bedtime is, and a mention that he really loves watching reruns of The Golden Girls.
For the past week, Jet's been pouring that doll a bowl of cereal every morning. She won't eat it, and the doll certainly won't, so I throw it out. I've started keeping the cereal out of her reach, but yesterday she got it down from the top of the fridge. I told her not to climb on the counter, but she insists James brought it down.
I came home from work yesterday and the stupid thing was propped in the loveseat across from our broken old television, watching The Golden Girls in yellows and greens. Jet was doing homework in the kitchen. I told her not to waste electricity like that, and she declared that James was sad and the TV helped cheer him up.
The dog? Yeah, whichever room James is in, he avoids. He doesn't even bark anymore when people knock.
I get this face more often than not:
Whoever left the doll on our steps? I hate them.
