Wanda, The Unaided

Strange what people think of when they are dying. My mother was succumbing to cancer. She sat propped up by pillows, and pointed to the bottom drawer of her dresser. “I haven’t balanced the checkbook in months. The insurance policies are in there, too.” She shook her head and sighed. “Daddy won’t even look at it, so you’ll have to take care of it.”

“I’ve got it covered.” I tried to sound cheerful.

“I know you do.” She attempted a smile, but her eyes glistened. She was not ready to die. “Oh, and I kept Wanda. She’s still in the box. Give her to JoJo if she has a girl.” The temptation to sell an old toy in its original box had appeal. I knew my cousin would take Wanda to her rightful place at the dump, but I honored my mother’s wish. The day after the funeral, I took the hideous box from the shelf, set it on the clothes hamper, and relived the day I met her.

~

 I was four. I lived for Golden Books, stuffed animals, and an extra cavatelli – the one my mother said would be too heavy in my stomach. I’ve yet to find the cavatelli that could sink me, but that is a story for another day. This story starts on Christmas Eve.

In the 1950’s, most Roman Catholics abstained from meat on Fridays and before Holy Days of Obligation, such as Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Italian Catholics did their Catholic duty as they honored traditions of family, food, and fasting. They served a seven fish buffet with as many starchy, saucy side dishes as they could fit on the table.

My parents and I made the hour-long trip to my paternal grandparents’ home for the Feast Fasting Fish Fiesta. I was the only grandchild, so aunts and uncles fussed over me. I two-fistedly stuffed myself with Italian cookies baked by my aunts, who quizzed me about which cookie was my favorite. The kitchen had a life of its own that night, and I got to watch Grandma Antenucci brain an octopus. I wonder now if she had run out of finned fish or just liked the braining process. One of her favorite teasing admonitions was, “I’m going to brain you!” We all knew she was capable.

After midnight mass, my parents climbed the steep, narrow stairs to the bed in the unheated attic, which smelled like the mountain of western paperbacks my grandfather stockpiled there. Sleeping under these conditions populated my mother’s list of never-to-be-filed grievances. She was too polite, too stoic, and always in need of new material for a rant.

I don’t remember where I slept, or when I woke up on Christmas Morning. I only remember the disappointment, and the unfolding terror. My aunts were a competitive lot. I was their only niece, and for this game, the one who pleased me the most claimed a year of bragging rights. This round, each of them gave me a beautifully wrapped large box. Every box held an almost me-sized doll on its back in a cardboard coffin. Aunt Dina called the one with red painted plastic hair “boy doll” for a redundantly obvious reason. He was not anatomically correct. Aunt Betty gave me a doll with an “O” shaped mouth and a tiny glass bottle with a nipple on it. My twin aunts gave me twin “dollies” named Rita and Linda after themselves. The yellow frocked smaller twins sat stiffly through the festivities with startled glass eyes. They seemed afraid of each other. I was afraid of all of them, but I was a polite and stoic child, and I obediently thanked and kissed each of the demon donors.

The box Grandma gave me was heavier than the others, so my hopes were high for books. Confident that she would win the morning, Grandma helped me unwrap Wanda. She was laid out in a hideous green box. She wore a blue dress and matching bonnet. A pageant like ribbon hanging diagonally across her torso read, ‘Wanda the Unaided Walking Doll.’

Grandpa put aside his hand-rolled cigarette and took Wanda from the box. When he pulled up her dress, I saw the large black key protruding from her side. If Wanda were real, it would have surely pierced her spleen. I put my little hand on my own side as I watched. Grandpa wound her up slowly, then with a laugh, he lowered her to the hardwood floor. When she was steady on her round-toed bright white shoes, he turned her loose. A scratchy click later, Wanda was on the move. She slid on rollers, left, right, left, right, a robotic, awkward dance to the music of a rhythmic, scratchy buzz. Her arms pumped up and down with each forward move. When her dead eyes blinked, I threw up.

The escape from Doll Island was quick. Within the hour, I was packed up, picked up, passed around, pecked on, and put in the car. I stood on the back seat floor hump all the way home, singing, sometimes with my mother, sometimes to myself when she needed a rant break.

By afternoon, we were home. My father carried me up the steps and unlocked the front door. Under the Christmas tree. One unwrapped present awaited me - a sleeping, stuffed dog. When I squeezed his tail, he squeaked out a sharp little bark, so I named him Sparky. He was still napping on my bed. Maybe that is what brought me back to the moment.

With dread in my chest, I removed the lid from the green box. My mother had shrouded Wanda in a pristine dish towel. I unwrapped Wanda slowly, hoping not to wake her. In a single motion, the devil doll moved her arm up, uttered a scratchy buzzing noise, and opened one eye. I dropped her to the floor and shouted, “You bitch!”

~

I never saw Wanda after that day. I knew she had waited 23 years to menace me one last time. Otherwise, why would she wink and flip me off while blowing a raspberry?

Sparky turned seventy-one this year. He has an honored spot in the guestroom. When I have guests, he stays in my room. Had he not napped through it all, he would have seen a lot,  but those, too, are stories for another day.