BLISSIE AND LULA
Blissie’s face beamed when she seen the pink-flowered fabric. “Kin ya git it clean, Raynelle? If ya cain’t, put the dirty spots in back where I cain’t see ’em, and I’ll wear it anyhow.”
“I think it’ll wash. Don’t you worry none. As long as I’m heating up a wash pot, ya ought’a let me toss in Lula.”
Blissie hugged her filthy rag doll tight against her chest. “Lula ain’t clothes for washing,” she said. “She’s a baby.”
“Babies need baths,” I said. “We kin give Lula a bath.”
It was never easy to pry Lula away from Blissie. That doll was near as attached as her fingers and toes. Had been for as long as I could remember. Raynelle had replaced her stuffing and repaired her seams countless times.
I hadn’t thought about it afore now, but if Blissie’d had that doll since she was a baby, the original seams and stitched-on mouth and eyes must have been Mama’s handiwork. I suddenly had a new respect for that old doll. We’d have to be right careful with its bath.
Blissie rubbed Lula’s cloth hand against her lip, the way she always done when she was troubled or thinking hard. I’d always found that habit disgusting on account’a the doll was so dirty, but now I wished I had something Mama made to hold close to my own face.
I dipped the doll gently into a pan of suds whilst Blissie watched anxiously. “Don’t hurt her none, Adabel.”
“Don’t worry.” The pan set on a small washstand. It wobbled a mite, but that could’a been on account’a uneven porch planks as much as a short washstand leg.
After Lula’s light scrubbing, I emptied the wash pan and filled it with clean water. I dipped Lula into it, squeezing soap from her until she stopped squirting out suds.
I held her up for Blissie’s inspection. “See,” I said, “she come through jist fine.”
Blissie’s smile was restored, and she traipsed behind me toting two clothespins as I carried her doll to the clothesline that zigzagged back and forth betwixt our shanty and the one next door.
I didn’t realize Daddy was leaning up against the house until too late. A Mason jar tipped to his lips was near empty, and his eyes showed he was already slop-faced.
“What mischief you girls up to now?” Daddy’s words come out slurred and angry.
“No mischief, Daddy,” Blissie said. “Me and Adabel just give Lula a bath.”
“Ya’s playing dolls when there’s work to be done?” The roared question made Blissie jump. She grabbed Lula from me and run around the corner of the house.
Daddy follered in a hurried stagger. “Ya’s too old to be playing with dolls anyhow.”
Me and Raynelle often said the same thing to one another, but neither of us could bear to part Blissie from her beloved Lula.
I come around the corner jist in time to see tears in Blissie’s eyes as she disappeared into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.
Daddy grabbed the door handle. “Come back here!”
Me, Pick, and Raynelle had been on the receiving end of Daddy’s open hand now and then, but he’d never struck Blissie. I aimed to keep it that way. I squeezed myself between him and the door. “Leave her be, Daddy. Lula means heaven and earth to Blissie.”
He raised his hand and I cringed against the screen, waiting for the smack I knew was coming. But he didn’t hit me.
“Bah!” he bellowed, and turned away. He let out a string of swear-words and give the washstand a kick that sent it flying into the yard. The pan of rinse water up-ended on the porch, dripping water between the planks and bringing Lonesome out from under with a confused look on his face. That dog slunk away from Daddy’s rage quick-like.
As my father weaved down the path towards the creek, spouting language that Pastor Justice would sermonize against, I toted the broken washstand to the garden shed for Pick to mend.
I dried the empty wash pan and hung it on its peg outside the door. Blissie poked out her head and looked around afore she stepped onto the porch, a wet spot on the front of her dress from clutching her doll, her eyes big—and even wetter than her dress.