"Gretchen's talking about the street sign," Nina said.
"Why would he say it was the Lizzie Borden murder scene if it wasn't?"
Gretchen tried to clarify her statement about Joseph's lie. "That's not-"
What was the use? Nina was only interested in mothering dogs and reading tarot cards. April's main ambition in life was blowing one diet after another and gossiping with the doll club members.
"There's a sub shop," April shouted, pointing to the left, her finger almost in Nina's face. "Stop."
Gretchen's aunt blasted right by, pretending not to hear.
17
Joseph enters the church and crosses the lobby, hoping the meeting is almost over. He considers going in and joining them. What if he shared his problem with the entire group?
Too dangerous.
Joseph dips two fingers into holy water and crosses himself.
He's a wreck.
Gretchen Birch saw him! She can place him at the parade, within several blocks of Charlie's shop. He can't think of anything else.
What a fool he is. In more ways than one.
Charlie had it right all along. You can't fight your genetic makeup. Bad blood, she said, the outcome is inevitable. You'll self-destruct.
Thanks for the encouragement, friend.
He remembers the anger churning inside of him like a whirl of dust. "Look at you," Charlie had said as she watched him suck his life out through a menthol cigarette. "You have an addictive personality. Face it. You can't change. You can't stop the motion."
He still feels the hurt.
Tough as nails, the brassy broad had lost her perspective on humanity. She'd lost her compassion, and she'd given up on people after Sara died. That crackhead son of hers didn't help her view any, either.
Joseph enters the church interior, bends a knee, makes the sign of the cross, and slides into a pew. A derelict from the street is the only other worshipper in this house of the Lord.
The church is soundless. The air smells like the bum two pews ahead of him.
Joseph tries to pray but can't. He kneels on the riser, folds his hands, and squeezes his eyes shut. Nothing. He has dressed carefully to come here, curbing his appetite for attention. He's wearing all brown. Different shades. The same khaki pants from earlier today, a shirt the color of Phoenix gravel, brown sandals. His propensity for loudness is what got him into this mess. Those big, look-atme colors. Here I come, he likes to say without words. You can't help what you are.
Stop with the excuses. Isn't that part of recovery? No more excuses?
The clothes didn't do it. You did. Six months without a drink, and now this.
Joseph hears a murmur of voices outside the lobby, near the meeting room. Carl will stay behind to make sure the room is in the same condition he found it in before the meeting. He will turn off the lights and lock up for the group. Responsible Carl. Solid, perfect, example-setting Carl. Believe in the power of God. Sit quietly when in doubt. Joseph reviews the principles of Alcoholics Anonymous. The Twelve Steps. But his mind wanders, and he tries to remember the night before Charlie died. He wants a cigarette so badly his entire body is trembling. He can't remember. More minutes of his life unaccounted for. Wasn't it the blackouts that finally scared him enough to seek help for his drinking problem? He could live with the morning-after sickness, but not remembering. .
The massive church doors open and close several times, and the voices die away.
He has the list in his pocket, one of the steps. It contains every person he has harmed with his actions.
One more to add.
But there will be no making amends this time. The woman is dead.
Joseph rises slowly and moves back up the aisle like an old man.
Carl turns from the meeting room door, and their eyes meet.
Joseph thinks his sponsor can see right into his very soul. Carl's face is a sea of tranquillity and, for a moment, Joseph hates him for it. "Joseph." Carl acknowledges his existence, then waits.
Joseph almost breaks and runs. Sweat seeps into his shirt. He's come this far, might as well finish what he started.
"Help me," he says. "I'm in trouble."
18
Contests: How could the doll community exist without awards for excellence? Collectors and dealers alike anxiously await these announcements. Competition is friendly but fierce. Judges with scorecards move among the exhibits. The crowd's excitement builds while the contestants covet the grand prize. Winning means recognition, blue ribbons to display, prize money. Sometimes the top award leads to a feature in a reputable doll magazine seen by thousands of readers.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch Gretchen took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, early morning desert air. She wore hiking boots, a baseball cap, and binoculars strapped around her neck. She had already added many of Phoenix's local birds to her list: rock wrens, roadrunners, black-throated sparrows, and the elusive Gila woodpecker that builds its nest in saguaro cactus holes. She wanted to burn off her tension with a rigorous climb up Camelback Mountain. If she discovered a new bird, it would be a bonus.
The morning was still too chilly for snakes to be slithering about, and that suited Gretchen just fine. Bugs and snakes creeped her out, especially the poisonous kind that dwelled in the Sonoran Desert.
She strode along the footpath to the trailhead, past a creosote bush in full yellow bloom and a thicket of teddy bear cholla dominating a rocky slope. The teddy bear cholla looked furry and cuddly, but Gretchen had learned the hard way that it wasn't as huggable as it appeared. She had been careless and brushed against one of these silvery, tall cacti. Its spikes had reminded her that only those with very developed defense systems survived the harshness of the Sonoran Desert. It was always best to admire desert beauty from a safe distance.
February was a marvelous month in Phoenix, she decided, veering to the left and following the path to Summit Trail. Spring rain showers cleansed the desert dust away, blossoms sprouted from the tips of the different varieties of cacti, and the sun hadn't yet baked the earth hard and brittle.
She lost track of time as she began to maneuver over slippery rocks. The incline became steeper, and she dug in. At last she stood at the summit, looking off over the awakening city. This was the top of the world for Gretchen, a place to hide and think.
She sat down and studied the sheer, red cliffs, vegetation cropping out in the most unlikely places. Her thoughts turned to Charlie Maize's death and the people involved in the doll shop owner's life. Why had Joseph lied about attending the parade? What was the story with Charlie's druggie son, Ryan? Did the craggy old man, Bernard, have designs on Charlie's shop? And Britt? What about her? Something about that woman seemed weird. A roadrunner watched boldly from a few yards away. When Gretchen remained motionless, it went back to its task of hunting lizards. The answers to her questions didn't come to her on the top of the mountain, as she thought they might, not even a whisper to calm the disquiet she felt.
Gretchen hiked back down the red clay mountain and joined Nimrod and Wobbles for breakfast, opening cans of dog and cat food for them, toasting a bagel and pouring coffee for herself.
Then she went to work on a client's antique doll. Gretchen fished through a drawer and found a white leather glove. After studying the doll's kid body, she set about preserving the doll's original body as closely as possible: stuffing sawdust into the doll's ripped torso, carefully cutting a piece of the glove into an oval and gluing it on.