Summer when my husband fished a puppet out of the neighbors’ trash can and brought her into the kitchen where I was doing dishes. “Cute, huh?” he said. And I suppose she was cute, if you ignored that her eyes were crossed and her skull was scuffed. Also, she smelled a little like liverwurst. But Patrick claimed that all she needed was a little TLC, and set about fixing her up: a little paint, a new wig and dress and voila! And it was fine for the most part until Patrick gave her a name—Myna—and started taking her to bed with us during thunderstorms, insisting she was terrified of the noise and the light. After he was finished with me, he’d snake his hand up Myna’s skirt and finger her neck until she nodded yes.
By winter, there was Jill and Ariel. Patrick started sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night and into their room where he’d say girls, do you love me and make their heads nod yes yes yes. And sometimes when he was feeling really good, he’d pull one on the left hand and one on the right and let them talk about it, though it always ended up in an argument: who loved him more or who was more deserving. Ariel was a natural debater, he said, though Jill was starting to pick up a few tricks. But Myna, poor Myna, was so worn out, it was just a matter of time before her head split and I thought that would be that, he’d go on but heavy in the heart from carrying that first love around. But no. There was always another season, another girl, a better fit. A better yes.
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