Polly Thwarts a Whacker

My grandmother never gave me anything she didn’t make. That sounds quaint and sentimental, but she obsessively practiced handcraftery and pawned off her fetishes as gifts.

Like when she went to Hawaii, she didn’t bring me a souvenir T-shirt. No. To while away time shuttling on buses, waiting in terminals, and marinating like a packed sardine on airplanes, she crocheted a pineapple-motif sweater. Yeah, the lace was pretty to look at, but when I put it on, the holes sat snuggly across my budding breasts. Mom simply laughed.

Then there was her attempt at papermaking. I contemplated writing a poem on the thick sheets embedded with leaves and flowers. Then I saw the bugs trapped in endless slime trails. No thanks.

But the creepiest of all was the moppet she gave me for my seventh birthday. Instead of buying Barbie or Chatty Cathy, she felted a doll with skin that felt like mold, oblique eyes that glanced askance, and a puckered mouth that disapprovingly muttered tsk tsk.

I dubbed her Polly and threw her in my closet with Grammy’s other godawful gifts— a wood-burned treasure box, sock puppets, lopsided baskets, a frilly hand-painted apron, handmade lipstick (gross), and embroidered sachets that smelled like Pine-Sol. There Polly dwelled until I headed off to college.

In an irrational moment, I packed Polly in with a dictionary, colored highlighters, and new bedding for my dorm room.

“What’s this?” My roommate Carla hooted as we personalized our institutional space.

“Polly.” I had no control over the words that then came out of my mouth. It was as if Polly herself was speaking through me. “Ask her a question.”

“Will I pass biology?” Carla tilted her head as if the creepy doll might impart words of wisdom. Then, she looked started. “She said, No.”

In a bonding moment, we laughed hysterically and peppered Polly with questions like she was a Magic Eight Ball.

“Will a smart, handsome guy take me to homecoming?”

Will I pledge Chi Omega?”

We kept Polly busy for the next hour asking, “Will I graduate? Get married? Get a job? Have babies?” Then we stuck her on a bookshelf, where she held court. Before each date, test, or football game, we’d seek her advice.

One night, before a date with a particularly handsome guy, Clara grabbed the doll and insisted we ask Polly’s opinion. Before we could ask a question, however,  we both heard the distinct words, “Don’t go.”

We looked at each other.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

With eyes wider than her brow could accommodate, Clara simply nodded. I grabbed the doll from Clara’s frozen fingers.

“Polly, should I go out with Ted.” The doll stared obliquely and pursed her lips. But no answer came.

Since I was about to go out on the town with a guy who was about as good-looking as they come, I decided to ignore the silly game and reached for the door. Holding Polly tightly and with eyes transfixed, Clara blocked my exit.

I pushed her aside. She pushed back. Then she punched me in the nose. With blood spurting over my new cashmere sweater, I threw my roommate across the room. She landed on her bed, still clutching Polly.

“You’ve just ruined my life,” I screamed. There was no way I could go out with a broken nose and bloodied clothes.

“I just saved your life,” Polly spoke aloud. “Thank your Grammy and put me back where I belong.”