The Doll Maker

Pearl and Rose quickly learned it was wise to stay out of Benjamin’s sight. As soon as they were old enough to handle a skiff they started rowing across the creek to visit their Aunt Sarah at every opportunity. She lived with her daughter Jo in a tiny house. Their house was no larger than a child’s playhouse. There was a wood-burning stove in the middle if the one room house. Sarah used it for cooking and heating.

She was a doll maker. That was how she made her living. She had an old Singer sewing machine that she operated with a foot treadle. Her neighbors carried the dolls to stores in Belhaven, Plymouth and Pantego – sometimes as far away as Norfolk. She could turn out two or three dolls a week. She called them her Jo Dolls.

The twins loved visiting Sarah. They admired the dolls that were lined up on every available surface. Some of the dolls were nearly as big as they were. Each one had its own special outfit. No two were alike.

“Don’t touch the dolls, girls. They’re all for sale.”

“I want a Jo doll, Aunt Sarah. Why can’t I have a Jo doll?” Pearl crossed her arms and stuck out her bottom lip. She looked just like Benjamin looked when he was five years old and he didn’t get his way. “Poor Benjamin” Sarah thought to herself. “It has been a long time since that boy has gotten his way.”

“Come here Pearl. You know I would love to give you one of those dolls, but they’re all that stands between me and the poor house. You wouldn’t want your old Aunt Sarah in the poor house, would you?”

“No, Aunt Sarah” she said shaking her curly blond head.

She ran her fingers through Pearl’s hair. “Child, if I could make a Jo doll with a head of hair like you’ve got I could sell her for a pretty penny.” She noticed the frown on her sister’s face and quickly touched Rose’s straight dark hair. “You’re both a couple of doll babies.”

Sarah loved things that other people couldn’t love because she saw things that other people couldn’t see. She loved Bandit. Other people saw an ugly bulldog, always underfoot, constantly drooling. Sarah saw something beautiful and adored the repulsive old dog. Sarah had loved Harvey. Other people had seen an unshaven alcoholic, lounging in his rocking chair– a cigarette dangling from the corner of his frown. Sarah had seen a loving husband and she missed him when his liver finally gave out and he died.

After Harvey died, Sarah was left alone to care for her only daughter. Jo was as helpless as a doll. An injury at birth had left her brain severely damaged. She was unable to speak, walk or care for herself. She was nineteen and had spent her life tied securely to a wrought iron bed.
Pearl and Rose watched from a safe distance as their aunt brushed Jo’s hair. “Don’t get too close to her bed, darlings. She might kick you.” Aunt Sarah warned them. They were deathly afraid of Jo but they crept close enough to peek at their wild-eyed cousin. Jo’s thin nightgown was hitched up above her hips showing her diaper. Her long dark hair spread over the pillow. She rolled her head from one side to the other. Incoherent sounds came from her gaping mouth. As Sarah stroked her hair, she stopped thrashing, her eyes looked less wild. Jo never kicked or bit Sarah.
Sarah shifted the full grown woman, removed the wet diaper and replaced it with a fresh one. The stench was not masked by the dusting powder that Sarah sprinkled on Jo’s legs. “There you go, sweetheart, dry again.” She leaned down and kissed Jo on her forehead.