Chapters (52)
Miss Sorrel and Miss Richards came in, followed by Binty. The low-ceilinged kitchen felt claustrophobic as it filled with Miss Richards’s cloyingly sweet perfume smell—gardenia squared. The woman set the bag on the table and shoved away Binty, who was trying to bury her nose in the woman’s crotch. Was that a tattoo on the small of her back? Lis only got a quick peek, but it looked like Harley-Davidson eagle wings.
“Darling, would you get my logbook?” Miss Sorrel said.
Lis walked through the passageway to her mother’s workroom. She flipped the light switch and banks of fluorescent lights that hung low over a pair of worktables tinked to life. On one table lay an aging hard plastic doll and a can of fixative, its chemical smell lingering in the air. From a drawer Lis pulled out the aging theme book in which doll repairs were carefully logged. She also picked up the digital camera. Every doll that came into the house was photographed and catalogued.
When Lis returned to the kitchen, Miss Sorrel had opened the woman’s bag and was peering inside. Her face was so white that the spots of rouge on her cheeks stood out like a clown’s face paint.
Lis set the theme book on the table and turned on the camera. Miss Sorrel looked across at her, startled. She cleared her throat. “Thank you, darling. I’ll take care of it.” She put out her hand and Lis gave her the camera. “Why don’t you take Binty for a walk? She’s been cooped up all morning.”
In fact, Binty had been out most of the morning, and when Evelyn wasn’t there to assist Miss Sorrel with a client, Lis usually stayed and took notes. But Lis took her cue. She grabbed a plastic bag in case Binty had more business to do and hooked her hand in Binty’s collar.
“We’ll be right outside. Give a holler if you need me,” Lis said.
At the door she looked back. Miss Richards had taken off her sunglasses. The harsh light cast dark shadows around her eyes, and she seemed tense as Miss Sorrel pulled a baby doll from the bag and set it on the table. The curls in its wig were sparse. Its porcelain face was heavily soiled, and one of its arms was missing. Its once-white hand-embroidered dress was matted and torn, and its glass eyes were cloudy.
Miss Sorrel normally turned down repair work on a doll that far gone. So why was she pulling on her gloves and turning the doll over and examining it so carefully, reverentially even? 