Paper Dolls

  By Christine Purcell

My grandmother, Madeline, died of cancer on December 22 at 7:50 pm. I left the hospital for a few hours to watch the final movie in the Lord of the Rings trilogy with my boyfriend of barely a month. I had been at the hospital every night for the last week. My mother had encouraged me to go to the movie, insisting the break would do me a world of good.

The fast-paced action of the movie distracted my thoughts for a while – I smiled, I shuddered, I almost felt normal. And then a prickly feeling tickled my skin as I watched the Elvish folk sail away to Vallanor. A white ship was gliding over a silver ocean, passing peacefully to the next world, and I knew she was gone. I looked at my watch; 7:50 pm.

Christmas was odd. My father did the shopping for my presents as my mother was busy with funeral arrangements. He gave me a bottle of vodka and a digital camera. “Don’t use them both at the same time,” he said in a failed attempt to lighten the mood.

We opened the rest of the gifts covered hastily with wrapping paper; toothpaste, socks, and other items that appeared to have been usurped from my parents’ storage cupboard, until only two packages were left. They were for my grandmother – a tin of lotion for her dry, cracked skin, and a pair of fleece pants that would feel soft over her swollen, bruised belly. I decided to wear the pants in her memory. They were too short.

We ate Christmas dinner at a restaurant a few blocks from my grandfather’s apartment so my mom wouldn’t have to cook. We chose a Lebanese restaurant to honor my grandmother’s heritage. Kibbe nayyeh and cold grape leaves made a poor substitute for turkey.

The funeral took place on December 26 th. The funeral home was brimming with familiar mourners; faces I saw frequently as well as faces I hadn’t seen for many years. In the corner stood a group of olive skinned gentleman, smiles dotted with gold teeth – the only faces I didn’t recognize.

“Who are they?” I whispered to my great aunt Doris, trying to cock my head inconspicuously in their direction.

“Sons of my father’s friends from the old country. Mob.”

Mob? I must not have heard correctly. Great aunt Doris is aging and tends to mumble. Maybe she didn’t say mob at all. Maybe she used an Arabic word that sounded like mob. I was about to ask her to please repeat herself when a woman wearing square-rimmed glasses walked up to the lectern asking everyone to please take their seats so the minister could begin the eulogy.

Growing up, my grandmother was a source of good things; hugs, pizza, and jokingly telling off my grandfather when he did something foolish. It never occurred to me to take an interest in the depths beneath the rosy, bubble-cheeked surface. Sudden curiosity in knowing about her past, my roots, brought a sense of guilt. I should have been more interested when she was alive.

I also felt guilt because I knew so much about my lineage on my paternal side. My father had an interest in genealogy and had traced his family’s origins back hundreds of years, through 13 th century Scotland, further back to the Scots’ Hungarian origins, and right down to his sharing of a Y-chromosome with Attila the Hun. Now that’s detail.

My maternal family had always been brushed aside. My mother was a Heinz 57. But that possibly misheard word stuck in my head. Mob.

Over the next few months, I dug up all the info I could from of my grandmother’s siblings, my grandfather, and news articles on microfiche. The maternal side of my family may not have been descended from someone as notorious as Attila the Hun, but there is definitely a story worth telling. Mob!

September 10, 1939

I learned to walk on my hands five years ago. I can tap dance like Shirley Temple and do twelve cartwheels in a row, but people always ask me to walk on my hands.

“Come on, Maddy. Show George how you do it.”

Ray Kinney’s Orchestra is playing on CBC radio. The twang of the ukulele and his exaggerated pronunciation of the Hawaiian language make me feel exotic. I imagine lingering beneath a giant palm tree when, suddenly, I see a mysterious stranger gliding towards me through the misty air. But I can’t concentrate on this fantasy because my brother Tom won’t stop pestering me. He bugs me all the time. If we were eating, I could kick him under the table and get away with it, even though I always feel bad later. Poppy always believes me over Tom.

“Come on Maddy, just show him.”

“Alright, hold your horses.”

Getting up from the chesterfield, I put my hands down on the floor and kick my legs over my head. I slowly put one hand in front of the other and walk upside-down all the way to the kitchen.

“See, I told you she could do it. You owe me some moola.”

“Aw, shucks,” says George, handing Tom a coin.

“Tell Poppy that George and me are going to get ice cream. I’ll be home later.”

“Will do,” I promise and sit back down to finish listening to the broadcast. The signoff is my favorite part. I love the way Mr. Kinney says, “Maholo, thank you, and goodnight.”

“Madeline,” my dad calls from the backdoor in his thick accent.

“Yes Poppy?”

“Take this crate of apples to the truck.”

I hate it when he asks me to carry fruit to the truck. Not because I’m lazy; because I’m short.

Grabbing the apples from the hallway, I stagger out to the carport. The bed of the truck is the same height as my head and my arms strain as I toss the bulky box. Soaring through the air, the box catches the edge of the bed and lands on my toe. I start screaming. Through a curtain of tears, the smeared shape of my dad rushes towards me.

“Oh Maddy. What have you done to yourself?”

He scoops me up into his strong arms and makes soothing sounds. My nose is running onto his shirt, but he pretends not to notice and strokes my hair until I quiet down. When I stop crying, I see that the bottom of the truck bed has come loose. There’s no way to hide it and there’s no one around to blame. I should have been more careful. Praying I won’t be punished, I put on the saddest expression I can muster and come clean.

“I’m sorry Poppy. But I think I broke your truck.”

Putting me back on the ground, he turns to examine the damage. Then he laughs.

“You didn’t break my truck. The bed is hollow.”

“Why is it hollow?”

“I used to hide bottles of hooch in there and smuggle them across the border.”

”Why?”

“Because before 1933, Michigan had a law banning the sale of alcohol. We had a similar law here as well, but that was before you were born. It was a silly law. They couldn’t keep it up for long after the market crashed and people’s spirits needed lifting.”

I frowned at him. “But Poppy, wasn’t what you did illegal?”

“Don’t give me that face. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. When you get older, you’ll understand that just because something is illegal, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

My dad’s idea of right and wrong is strange. It’s different than my mom’s, different than our neighbors, and definitely different than my own. Maybe it’s because he grew up in Lebanon and moved to Ontario when he was sixteen. At least he says he was sixteen. Mom says she doesn’t know his age for sure because he came without any papers. He brags about how well he blends in with other Canadians. For many reasons, he has an easier time fitting in than most of the Middle Easterners who moved to Windsor.

First, he doesn’t look Lebanese. His skin isn’t olive. It is more like the memory of olive. And he is not Muslim, but Catholic. So Catholic his mom named him Joseph. My dad is very proud of his heritage and often recites the history of his town to anyone who will listen – which usually ends up being me. He is from Hasroun in the Bsharreh district; a region he calls “the Paris of the Middle East!” The Hasrounians are Maronites, named for the monk St. Maron who brought Christianity to Lebanon. Here in Windsor, my dad continues the Catholic tradition.

He took me to Mass once; at St. Peter’s Maronite Catholic church on the corner of Parent and Niagara street. The priest there, Father Farah, is also from Hasroun. The mass was mostly in Syriac, which I don’t understand. My dad knelt through the whole service. He didn’t even get up to receive the Eucharist. We were the only two people still in the pews and everyone was staring at us. When mass ended I asked him why he didn’t take communion.

“I have a lot to be sorry for.”

“Can’t you just go to confession?” I asked.

He only winked at me.

The second reason he is harder to pick out than other Lebs is that he married my mom instead of bringing over a wife from his own country. My mom’s family is from England and she’s a Protestant. We live in a Protestant neighborhood; not in Little Lebanon or in the Catholic district.

My dad wanted us to go to Catholic school, but my mom is the boss.

“Are you going to drive them across town Joe?” she asked.

He smiled awkwardly.

“No? Then they go to the public school down the street.”

My dad shrugged and said, “My people have always struggled to remain Catholic, why should it be any different now that I am half way around the world.”

His town had fallen under the Muslim rule of the Ottoman Empire a long time ago. According to my dad, the Ottomans were too busy with matters in Persia and Egypt to worry about forcing conversion, so, although Lebanon was respectful of Islam, many people remained Christian in secret. Eventually, France declared it would protect the Maronites from the Ottoman Empire. The people of Hasroun were very grateful and many even changed their names to sound French. My dad’s family name changed from Abrash to L’Abrash before changing back again for some mysterious reason that I’m not too clear on. The name Abrash is all wrong for my dad anyway. Abrash is Persian in origin, referring to the variable change in color that occurs in an Oriental rug over time, but my dad’s color has never changed. Inside he’s always been only one color – black.

France’s promise also inspired the Hasurounians to adopt French culture, including a love of orchards and vineyards. My dad often talks of the beauty of his hometown; the snowy mountains, the red-roofed houses, and the Cedar valley.

I once asked, “If it was so beautiful, why did you leave?”

“I got sick of carrying a gun.”

I knew he still carried a gun, but I said nothing.

I watch his biceps flex as he shifts the false bottom of the bed back into place. I imagine his arms as great cedar trees and wonder how something so massive failed to protect us from poverty.

“Poppy. Did you lose money when the stock market crashed?”

“No, I don’t understand stocks and I’ve never trusted banks.”

“Then how come we’re poor?

“Oh, I got into some debt in ‘20.”

“What happened then?”

“When Man O’ War lost, I lost one hundred thousand dollars. Sir Barton was supposed to be a sure thing. He won the Triple Crown the year before. Thankfully, the apartment building is in your mother’s name or we’d be living on the street.”

“You mean you bet against Man O’ War? A horse that only lost one race in his whole career? Unbelievable!”

“Maddy, you have to understand that Man O’ War was not a proven horse at that time. The Kenilworth Cup was held right here in Windsor. Sir Barton was a Canadian horse running on a Canadian track. He was supposed to be a sure thing.” Poppy sighed and muttered softly, “Only a small regret in a sea of many big ones.”

“Say. Wait a minute. How did you get one hundred thousand dollars? The fruit business can’t be that good.”

“How old are you Maddy?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

“I think maybe you are too smart for your own good.” Reaching into the back of the truck, he tosses me a bruised banana. “Why don’t you go play with your brother?”

“He went to go get ice cream with George.”

“Go play with your sister then.”

“She went to the park with Marion.”

“Just go inside and play, okay.” He says this as a command and not a question.

“Alright. I’m going.”

On my way to the house, I try to picture one hundred thousand dollars as a pile of leaves. How big would it be? It would probably cover our whole yard twice over. I can’t help but feel disappointment towards Poppy. I imagine the things that much money could have bought our family; a big house on Victoria Avenue, new clothes, maybe even a fancy car.

Inside, I hear my mom working the foot pedal of the sewing machine behind her bedroom door. Looks like I’ll have to play on my own as usual. I go to my room to make outfits for my paper doll. I want to make her a nurse’s uniform like the ones I see on the ladies who work at Hotel Dieu hospital across the street. They’re such a clean white. My sister Doris says she would like to be a nurse, but she would wear a purple uniform. Purple is her favorite color. Most of her clothes are purple and when we needed a new shower curtain she convinced mom to buy a purple one.

I like playing with my doll. She always smiles and she has a paper dad who never tells her lies. I put down the banana and pull out my scissors and colored pencils when the front door slams.

“Poppy? Mom? Doris? Maddy?”

“What is it, Tom?” my mom calls.

“Come quick. Come listen to the radio. I heard it down at the ice cream parlor. You won’t believe it.”

He turns the volume up as we gather around. “For those of you just tuning in, yo heard it here first. Yes folks, Canada is joining the war against Hitler and his Nazis. The first troops are waiting to be shipped out to England as soon as Prime Minister Mackenzie King gives the order.”

“Oh my gracious me,” mom says. “This is too much excitement for one year. First the King and Queen visit and now this.”

“I think it’s swell,” Tom says excitedly. “I’d join the navy if I was old enough. I’d show those Germans who they’re dealing with.”

Poppy gives Tom a worried glance. “Real fighting is not like it is in your comic books. Real fighting is scary. It will make your hair turn gray like mine.”

Tom scowls. “I wouldn’t be scared.”

“Yes you would. And you would wish for the rest of your life that you had never picked up a gun.”

* * *

Lying in my bed later that night, in the tiny room that I share with my brother and sister, I notice a light under Tom’s blanket.

“Tom. Are you Awake?”

“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake mom and Poppy.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” Tom says.

“Do you remember dad ever smuggling booze?”

“Sure. He used to take me along sometimes when I was seven or eight. He would drive the truck across the river when it was frozen over. He took you once too.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I guess you wouldn’t. You were three I think. It was in the summer when the Ambassador Bridge had just opened. They had customs officers to search the cars, so we took you as a decoy.”

“What do you mean decoy?”

“Poppy told me that if the officer got too nosy to pinch you.”

“Pinch me?” I say in disbelief.

“Yep. And when that officer was poking around the back of the truck, that’s just what I did. Worked like a charm. You screamed your head off. The officer got so annoyed he just waved us through.”

Fuming, I ball my blanket up in my fists. I feel so used. How could Poppy ask Tom to cause me pain? I want to howl. Instead, I yank my pillow over my head and pretend I’m in one of those Victoria Avenue houses with stylish furniture, a silver tea service and a different family like the ones on the covers of Better Homes.

October 23, 1939

“Good morning Joe,” Mr. Jones calls from his truck. “Here early as usual, eh?”

“Three in the morning is the best time of the day.”

“And I see you’ve brought your lovely daughter with you. Good morning Maddy.”

I smile shyly in response.

My dad walks over to Mr. Jones, peeking at the produce. “Those are some mighty fine looking squash. I’ll take them all.”

“Of course you will,” Mr. Jones laughs, jumping down from the driver’s seat.

“Since no one else is here to do business yet, I’ll help you unload.”

“I’d sure appreciate it.”

Poppy enjoys talking to the farmer’s while they unpack. He says he has worked hard to establish solid relationships and in return for his efforts many of the best farmers will deal only with him. He prides himself on putting out only the finest produce for his customers. That is how he has built his reputation as the best produce merchant in Windsor. He also doesn’t waste anything. If the produce is not perfect, he brings it home to us. I can’t remember ever eating fruit that wasn’t overripe.

“October is always a sad month for me,” Mr. Jones says. “Soon it will be too cold to farm. Sad for you too I imagine; no more horse racing.”

My dad nods and smiles, but I notice the quick guilty look he flashes at me. “I have to finish my morning business, Maddy. Go wait for me in my office.”

“Alright.”

Entering his office, I snatch a paper off his desk and climb into an empty fruit crate. The paper is tomorrow’s betting form with horses names circled in each race. There are big dollar amounts written in beneath each name. I read the names of the owners and jockeys to pass the typically long wait until my dad is ready to leave.

* * *

“Hello Joe.”

I’m awakened by the familiar voice of one of my dad’s associates. I must have fallen asleep in the crate. Peering out of an air hole I see my dad sitting at his desk. He looks up from his work and meets the cold stare. A single bead of sweat sprouts on my dad’s forehead. His fingers tighten on his paper. His face is a mixture of fear with a hint of disgust.

“Hello Ibrahim.”

Ibrahim is also from Lebanon, but he is from Beirut. I overheard my dad tell my mom that he doesn’t like him. Maybe because big city folk are different from country Lebs. Back in the old country, they never would have associated. But, here the small Lebanese community sticks together.

“Picked some winners for me this weekend?”

“Of course, my friend.”

“Joe, you’ve almost finished working your promised twenty years for us now. You have paid back your debt and made us a lot of money. So, my associates and I would like to make you an offer. We want you to continue your work for us on a larger scale. You would take a small cut of what we make. I think you will find it very rewarding.”

“Can I be honest with you Ibrahim?”

The big man nodded.

“I should decline. It is true that I have done good work for you, but only because of my debt and the resulting threats made to my family. I can feel the stars that are God’s eyes burning through the top of my head, urging me to decline. I feel ill and my heart is beating very fast. Sickness is washing over me; the feeling where my insides twist and my head swims with drunkenness; the sickness that makes me gamble. Though I should say no, I will say yes and add another checkmark to the tally of regrettable decisions I have made in my life.”

Ibrahim smiles and sticks out his hand. My father shakes it. I continue to hide until my father leaves the office to look for me.

“Maddy,” he calls out among the farmers. “Maddy, where are you?” I don’t answer. I just sit in the crate and cry until he is far enough away that I can flee the office and pretend I have been happily wandering among the produce the whole time.

September 27, 1982

“Maddy?”

My father’s blind eyes search for me when I am slow to answer.

“Maddy?”

“Yes Poppy?”

“I want to go to confession.”

I respond with stunned silence.

“I said I want to go to confession.”

“I heard you,” I whisper.

“Will you take me?”

“Certainly. But after all these years…?”

“I’m an old man Maddy. I’m not going to live forever and there are some things I need to say to God before I go.”

“Alright. Let me go next door and tell Art where I’m going. I’ll be right back.”

My husband, Art, is a good man. He looks after me. All of my siblings have done well for themselves. I’m glad that God has not punished us for my father’s wrongdoings. As I help Poppy into the car, then into the church, his eyebrows knit together in concentration. He’s probably trying to remember all the shameful things he needs to atone for. Outside the confessional, I hear snippets of his confession.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been…seventy-five years since my last confession. These are my sins. When I was fifteen years old, I wanted to come to Canada because everywhere around me there was war. I did not have any land to sell or any money as my parents were still living. I could not wait for my inheritance so I…”

My father’s voice is giving out and I can’t make out what he is saying.

“…you have to understand that everyone there carried a gun and shootings happened all the time. I used some of the gold to bribe an immigration officer to let me in to the country without any paperwork. I sold the rest of the gold, but lost all the money on a horse race. You see, I have a problem with gambling…”

Stifling a cough, I search my handbag for a tissue.

“…and so I continued to work for them. I was good to my family and I became very rich. No one ever asked me where the money came from – except Maddy. She’s my youngest. There has always been a rift between us. She has never trusted me and I have continually lied to her…that is my biggest regret. Lost love of a child is not worth becoming rich. And now that I am dying and the money will be passed down to my wife and then to my children, I pray that God does not curse the money and…”

The bench squeaks as the priest shifts his weight.

“For these and all the sins of my life I am sorry.”

“My son, your sins are forgiven. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord. Say fifty Hail Mary’s before you go to bed tonight.”

“That’s it? A lifetime of guilt cleansed by a few prayers?”

“That’s it,” the priest assured him.

It doesn’t seem like enough punishment to me either. It’s not enough punishment for feeding me spoiled fruit. It’s not enough punishment for gambling away all our money. It’s not enough punishment for using me to hide a smuggling operation. It’s not enough punishment for a lifetime of bitterness.

On the way home from the church, Poppy looks worn out.

“Whistle me a tune Maddy. You whistle so beautifully.”

I whistle the song Paper Doll. It’s what I used to sing to my daughter every night to help her sleep:

When I come home at night she will be waiting
She'll be the truest doll in all this world
I'd rather have a Paper Doll to call my own
Than have a fickle-minded real live girl.

My husband thought it was an unusual song for a lullaby, but I think the words are the most beautiful ever written. Who hasn’t wanted to be a paper doll? Unaffected by the evils of others around her – a paper doll is happy and stays that way forever.

“Maddy, I have done many terrible things in my life. The priest assures me of God’s forgiveness, but I do not feel forgiven.”

He closes his eyes and breathes softly.

“I have lied to you your whole life. I lied to the entire family, but everyone else believed me. I know you never did. I saw the coldness in your eyes when I lied. Forgive me Maddy; for the distance I put between us, for the pain I have caused. I only wished to protect you from the ugliness of my sins.”

Looking at his frail, wrinkled body, I know I should feel pity; but I’m not sure I can forgive a lifetime of heartache just because he asks me to.

“Maddy, I’m sorry.”

With just three words, overwhelming forgiveness ignites in my heart and rushes from my lips: “I forgive you Poppy.” Perhaps Paper Doll really is a silly song and it is better to be a real live girl. Perhaps the name Abrash does suit my father after all.

When we pull into the carport of the apartment I can no longer hear Poppy breathing. Sunlight streams through the windshield. Through the translucent skin of his eyelids – the sunlight shines from inside him.

______________________________________________________________

Christine Purcell is a Ph.D. student and freelance writer. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the ESC! magazine, the Loch Raven Review, and Third Reader. She is married and has a terrific husband and newborn son.