face, I'll kill you!'
She leaves the house, bangs the door shut behind her. Forty minutes later she leaves a cab at the mouth of the alley running past the Rambeau backyard. She walks up the alley, goes through the gate. She crosses the yard to the back door. She starts to turn the doorknob, hesitates. She decides she must be utterly alone in her crisis.
She retraces to a corner of the yard. For the first time in years, she stoops to enter the door of the weather mauled candy striped playhouse of her early girlhood. Tears threaten as she eye sweeps the dusty toys, the quartet of dolls in silk dresses, now time sleazed, seated at a miniature table with dull waxen smiles before a tiny scaled daisy appliqued tea service. Misery embattled, she falls to her knees on the mildewed beige carpet beside the table. She smiles oddly as she takes flight through the regressive gates of nostalgia's comforting time warp.
In a child's quaver she says to the diminutive ghostly ladies at tea, 'Pretties, I'm so glad to see you again. I've been away on a trip. Can you please forgive me for staying away so long?' She leans, crawls about the table, kisses their cool tarnished foreheads in turn, murmurs, I will always adore you.'
A beam of late morning sun fires through a sooted window pane, illuminates the face of a tiny doll swathed in calico lying in a crib with long lashed eyes shuttered. Reba crawls to crib side. She takes a cracked thermometer from a toy doctor's bag beside the crib.
She inserts it into the doll's mouth for a moment before she withdraws it, mock studies it, exclaims cheerily, 'Whoopee! Peggy Precious, your fever's gone!'
She crawls to a half-dozen naked dolls topsy turvy on an eye level shelf, staring blank eyes into space. She tenderly arranges them neatly seated side by side. She takes a square of black silk from a rainbow dyed straw Easter basket. She drapes it across them to cover their nude torsos.
From the basket, a music box, in the image of Mickey Mouse, issues, for a moment, the tinny lyrics of 'On The Good Ship Lollipop.'
She gazes at a huge doll dressed in yellowed white satin seated in a rocking chair across the room. She crawls to the rocking chair, stares into the filmy china blue eyes of the doll. She fingers the satin dress hem. She remembers Phillipa spanking her bottom raw in angry outrage when she discovered her expensive dress cut up to costume Tawny, the huge doll's name.
Reba stiffens, recoils as she stares at speckles of brown dried blood on the bodice of the doll's dress. The blood of her father, she remembers. One early a.m. it was Phillipa that had shed his blood. Phillipa had stabbed a nail file into his wrist, splattering her bed and doll when they brawled in the hall and into her bedroom, about her mother coming home drunk with her clothes disarrayed.
She spots a pair of her mother's old high heels that she remembers tottering in when she played grown-up. She tries to slip her foot into one of the shoes. She is amazed to discover her triple A foot too snug now for Phillipa's triple E size.
She rolls a rusted tricycle squeakily across the floor. She remembers the scary blood from a forehead cut when she fell on the sidewalk riding it with her feet on the handlebars, showboating for a gallery of chums. Old sorrow twinges her as she excavates, from the toy box, the rhinestone collar of her beloved Mitzi, the Yorkie, her first puppy, long ago murdered by a Doberman.
Tears flood her eyes as she fondles a pair of sneakers from the box. She was seven, she remembers, when she wore them. She had fled in terror into the midnight from a terrible profane fight between her parents. A sweet faced elderly man in a big black car befriended her, promised to take her home and stop her parents from killing each other.
Instead, the man drove her to frightening darkness behind a factory. She remembers his suffocating hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. He had ripped off her clothes when the blinding
She leaves the house, bangs the door shut behind her. Forty minutes later she leaves a cab at the mouth of the alley running past the Rambeau backyard. She walks up the alley, goes through the gate. She crosses the yard to the back door. She starts to turn the doorknob, hesitates. She decides she must be utterly alone in her crisis.
She retraces to a corner of the yard. For the first time in years, she stoops to enter the door of the weather mauled candy striped playhouse of her early girlhood. Tears threaten as she eye sweeps the dusty toys, the quartet of dolls in silk dresses, now time sleazed, seated at a miniature table with dull waxen smiles before a tiny scaled daisy appliqued tea service. Misery embattled, she falls to her knees on the mildewed beige carpet beside the table. She smiles oddly as she takes flight through the regressive gates of nostalgia's comforting time warp.
In a child's quaver she says to the diminutive ghostly ladies at tea, 'Pretties, I'm so glad to see you again. I've been away on a trip. Can you please forgive me for staying away so long?' She leans, crawls about the table, kisses their cool tarnished foreheads in turn, murmurs, I will always adore you.'
A beam of late morning sun fires through a sooted window pane, illuminates the face of a tiny doll swathed in calico lying in a crib with long lashed eyes shuttered. Reba crawls to crib side. She takes a cracked thermometer from a toy doctor's bag beside the crib.
She inserts it into the doll's mouth for a moment before she withdraws it, mock studies it, exclaims cheerily, 'Whoopee! Peggy Precious, your fever's gone!'
She crawls to a half-dozen naked dolls topsy turvy on an eye level shelf, staring blank eyes into space. She tenderly arranges them neatly seated side by side. She takes a square of black silk from a rainbow dyed straw Easter basket. She drapes it across them to cover their nude torsos.
From the basket, a music box, in the image of Mickey Mouse, issues, for a moment, the tinny lyrics of 'On The Good Ship Lollipop.'
She gazes at a huge doll dressed in yellowed white satin seated in a rocking chair across the room. She crawls to the rocking chair, stares into the filmy china blue eyes of the doll. She fingers the satin dress hem. She remembers Phillipa spanking her bottom raw in angry outrage when she discovered her expensive dress cut up to costume Tawny, the huge doll's name.
Reba stiffens, recoils as she stares at speckles of brown dried blood on the bodice of the doll's dress. The blood of her father, she remembers. One early a.m. it was Phillipa that had shed his blood. Phillipa had stabbed a nail file into his wrist, splattering her bed and doll when they brawled in the hall and into her bedroom, about her mother coming home drunk with her clothes disarrayed.
She spots a pair of her mother's old high heels that she remembers tottering in when she played grown-up. She tries to slip her foot into one of the shoes. She is amazed to discover her triple A foot too snug now for Phillipa's triple E size.
She rolls a rusted tricycle squeakily across the floor. She remembers the scary blood from a forehead cut when she fell on the sidewalk riding it with her feet on the handlebars, showboating for a gallery of chums. Old sorrow twinges her as she excavates, from the toy box, the rhinestone collar of her beloved Mitzi, the Yorkie, her first puppy, long ago murdered by a Doberman.
Tears flood her eyes as she fondles a pair of sneakers from the box. She was seven, she remembers, when she wore them. She had fled in terror into the midnight from a terrible profane fight between her parents. A sweet faced elderly man in a big black car befriended her, promised to take her home and stop her parents from killing each other.
Instead, the man drove her to frightening darkness behind a factory. She remembers his suffocating hand over her mouth to stop her screaming. He had ripped off her clothes when the blinding
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