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Goodbye Dolly
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1
Jennie H. Graves created the Ginny doll in the late nineteen-forties. Her small home business quickly grew to become the Vogue Doll Company. Ginny’s popularity sent other companies racing to emulate the eight-inch plastic play doll. The most innovative feature of the new doll was its separate clothing. Ginny came wearing underwear and ready to dress in costumes designed by her creator. And what wonderful costumes they were.
—From
World of Dolls
by Caroline Birch
Gretchen Birch stood next to the flatbed trailer parked in the driveway leading to the house and eyed the mounds of dolls. Howie Howard, the auctioneer, worked the crowd like a harmonica tongue slap, all swinging elbows and agile, fluid mouth movements. Gretchen had a first-timer’s knot of nerves in her stomach the size and weight of a Sunkist grapefruit.
“Do I hear twenty? There’s a two oh. Thirty. Forty. Fine box of dolls.” Howie’s head bobbed like one of the swivel-head dolls boxed up in Gretchen’s doll repair workshop. “Fifty? No. Forty going once . . . Sold for forty dollars.”
Gretchen glanced at the stucco-and-tile house where Chiggy Kent, the once-vibrant founder of the Phoenix Dollers Club, had lived. Dragging an oxygen tank connected to her nostrils, Chiggy had finally succumbed to the persistence of her concerned neighbors and the ravages of lung disease and now resided at Grace Senior Care. But Chiggy would have forced them to haul her out kicking and screaming if she’d had the breath to resist.
Chiggy’s doll-making skills hadn’t improved with experience or with advanced age. At least six hundred handmade dolls cluttered the open-bed truck and Gretchen winced at the poor workmanship. Dolls’ eyebrows wisped in unlikely directions, painted with heavy, awkward strokes; eyelashes that would have impressed the legendary Tammy Faye, notorious queen of eye art.
The doll clothes were worth more than the dolls that wore them, but many of the shoppers bellied up to the truck weren’t serious collectors and couldn’t tell the difference between an original and a poor reproduction.
Howie Howard wasn’t about to clue them in. “Here’s a priceless imitation of a German Kestner. Full of character. Who could resist? Do I hear ten?” The words melded together, strung without the briefest pause, and Gretchen smiled at his singular ability to sell certifiable junk.
A man beside her lifted a doll from a heap and made space on the flatbed to prop it up. He smoothed the doll’s bright blue gown and rearranged the curls framing her face, then stepped back and snapped a picture. Gretchen watched him move along the truck from doll to doll as he repeated the process again and again.
The camera, a Leica digital, looked expensive—too expensive, considering his gaunt, unshaven face and the faded T-shirt stretched over his protruding stomach.
The sun beat down on Gretchen.
She glanced around for a shady spot in which to stand. The last day of September was hot and dry, and Gretchen needed respite from the intensity of the Phoenix sun. One lone palm tree cast a pencil-thin shadow across Chiggy’s now-barren yard, not nearly enough for protection.
Where did I put it?
Gretchen dug through her purse for the list of dolls her mother had wanted her to bid on. She must have left it at home.
Now what?
She didn’t have time to search for it.
No choice but to wing it
.
She hoped Howie wouldn’t auction off all six hundred of these handmade copies before moving on to the real reason she stood there suffering from the heat. Chiggy’s private collection. The real dolls.
Gretchen recognized several serious collectors in the crowd and a few impatient doll dealers looking for bargains. She edged closer to Howie.
“Change of pace,” he shouted, as though reading Gretchen’s mind. “We can’t sell everything one at a time or we’ll be here through Sunday. Let’s dig out something new. What we got, Brett?” He turned and accepted a cardboard box from his assistant. “Box of Kewpie dolls.” He held one aloft. “Cute little things. Whole bunch made by the same talented doll artist, Chiggy Kent.” Howie held up a three-inch Kewpie. “Who wants to start . . . ?” And he was off and running.
Gretchen was fascinated by the speed with which Howie flew through the bidding process. She had sorted through the Kewpie dolls before the auction and noticed that almost all were bad reproductions. Gretchen saw imperfections in the molded bodies, amateurishly shaped topknots and tufts of babyish hair.
Someone was actually bidding on this mess?
“Sold for thirty dollars.” Howie’s voice slammed through the group, and Gretchen craned her neck to see the successful bidder.
Him again
. He slapped his knee in delight. She’d watched the shriveled old man bid several times. Who could miss his stooped shoulders, full head of white hair, and Groucho Marx eyebrows? He waved his registration number with gleeful abandon.
Howie’s assistant, Brett, continued to bring items to the auction block. A collection of paper dolls, then an Aston Drake Little Red Riding Hood.
Gretchen tried to imagine the list her mother had composed. No paper dolls. She was sure of it. Or was she?
Why do I have to be so forgetful and disorganized?
Brett continued lugging boxes out of the garage.
“. . . Ginny dolls.”
Gretchen snapped back to the call of the auctioneer. Ginnys were on the list. Here goes. Her body felt clambaked, and her hair, hard to manage on a good day, frizzed out from her damp scalp.
Someone pushed past her, another bidder positioning for the same round. Gretchen’s palms felt sweaty and she grasped her number firmly, waiting for the opening volley.
Calm down. This is like a horse race. You don’t have to start out in the lead to win
. She remembered her mother’s coaching. Don’t look desperate. Lay low. Wait for the right moment.
Gretchen gulped and felt the thrill of competition. Right this minute she wanted that collection of Ginny dolls more than anything in the world. Was this how it always felt? What a rush of adrenaline! No wonder her mother always covered the auctions and left her to handle repairs.
The dolls that Gretchen lusted after were eight-inch Vogue vintage dolls from the late forties and early fifties, all in their original boxes. They came with a variety of costumes—hats, dresses, purses, and snap-shoes.
Howie’s voice sliced the sun-scorched air. “This is it,” he said, his words coming fast. “The finest of the fine . . .”
Gretchen’s heart sank into her stomach and settled next to the grapefruit-sized nervous lump. Why did he have to call special attention to the dolls she was interested in?
Her eyes never left him as his voice rang out.
“Who’ll give me fifty?”
Gretchen raised her number against her sweat-laden halter top. So much for her mother’s sound advice to lay low. Howie trained his eyes on her, acknowledged the bid, and worked it up. From the rapid sweep of his head, she guessed that three or four others were placing bids.
“One hundred. We have a cool crisp bill.” Howie kept going, and Gretchen felt the sting of impending defeat.
One of the bidders dropped out and Gretchen held up her number again.
Another bidder dropped out.
Yes.
Gretchen slapped an internal high-five at the dwindling competition.
The Ginny dolls whispered her name and she did the math in her head. Twelve dolls. She could sell them at the doll show for at least fifty each. That would be a total of six hundred dollars.
She still had some leeway.
The current bid shot past two hundred.
But some of the dolls needed work. Her mind flicked through the supplies in the repair workshop. She was sure she had extra Ginny doll parts. Arms and legs, even some original dresses, a wig or two.
“We have two eighty.”
Gretchen signaled.
“Three hundred.” Howie’s red face beamed in anticipation of his growing commission. “Do I have three fifty?” His eyes darted behind Gretchen, his eyebrows one big question mark.
Silence. Howie waited a millisecond, then shrugged.
“Sold,” he shouted, pointing at Gretchen.
Brett, who was standing behind Howie holding the next box, managed to give her a thumbs-up.
She felt like she’d won a million-dollar lottery.
Howie didn’t miss a beat, intent on pounding through the remaining items as quickly as possible. Gretchen worked her way out of the crowd and stood at the back. She’d spent all her money on twelve dolls but she couldn’t help grinning. They were worth it.
Had she paid too much? Her mother’s request included at least six or seven different dolls. Even if she hadn’t forgotten the list, she wouldn’t be able to bid on any others.
After Gretchen paid for the dolls, Brett had her box ready at the side of the truck. He slapped her shoulder. “Good job.”
Gretchen tuned out Howie’s theatrical voice when he presented another round of Chiggy’s badly painted dolls to the crowd. She sat down on a white plastic lawn chair and placed the box beside her. Her registration number and the word “Ginny” were scrawled across the top in black magic marker, the handwriting almost illegible.
The photographer strolled her way, camera strapped at his side, and his hand stretched out to her. Gretchen accepted the business card and glanced at the name. Peter Finch.
“I’m putting together a collection of doll photographs and selling them on eBay,” he said. “Photo gallery, you know. A hundred and fifty pictures for thirty bucks. A steal.”
“You’re including photos of Chiggy’s handmade dolls?” Gretchen was incredulous.
“Check it out,” he said, moving off, offering his card down the line.
Gretchen tucked the business card in her white cotton purse embroidered with black poodles and red bows, a gift from Aunt Nina.
She bent over the box and removed the cover.
A heap of poorly produced Kewpie dolls grinned impishly up at her astonished face.
Just great
.
The boxes had been mixed up. The stooped man with the bushy eyebrows who won the Kewpies must be walking around right now with her Ginnys.
Grabbing the box, she hurried back to the truck and scanned the crowd.
Then she heard tires squeal and a car horn blare. Someone screamed. Gretchen, along with everyone else in Chiggy Kent’s yard, rushed toward the street.
“Back up. Quick.” A man’s voice sounded panicked.
Gretchen scooted between two parked cars, still holding the box of Kewpies.
She saw a woman get out of a Ford Explorer that had stopped in the middle of the street. “I didn’t see him,” she said to the people gathering around. “He flew right out between the cars. I didn’t even have time to brake.”
Several people crouched in front of the SUV.
Gretchen gasped and almost dropped the fragile Kewpie dolls.
Howie’s assistant, Brett Wesley, lay crumpled in the road.
2
The ambulance pulled away slowly, without the need for wailing sirens and flashing lights. The police finished questioning possible witnesses and released the remaining auction attendees. People stood in small groups, talking quietly. Cars began to pull away. Everyone would drive with extra care for the rest of the day.
The auction came to an abrupt close. Howie Howard had lost his business partner and close friend and was incapable of continuing. No one seemed interested in dolls anymore. Gretchen watched Howie get into a blue pickup truck, his face the color of Arizona adobe. She guessed he would follow Brett’s body to the morgue.
She felt a wave of nausea each time she thought of Brett lying dead in the street. How quickly life can be snuffed out by a misstep between parked cars. An image of the car’s tire slamming across Brett’s torso forced its way into her thoughts and she tried to block it from her mind.
One of the registration workers slapped a sign on the side of the flatbed trailer: All remaining handmade dolls would sell for ten dollars each. Help yourself. Pay at the register.
The notice reminded Gretchen that she still carried the wrong box of dolls. She looked around for the stooped man but didn’t see him.
A chunky woman with brassy blond curls sat at the registration table. Gretchen approached. “I know this isn’t really important considering what just happened,” she said. “But I have the wrong box of dolls.”
“Nothing I can do about it, sweetheart.” A single sob escaped from the woman but she quickly composed herself.
“I think I know who I need to contact,” Gretchen said. “Can you check the records and tell me who bought a box of Kewpie dolls?”
“I suppose.” She scanned the registration sheet. “That would be Gretchen Birch.”
“Well, I’m Gretchen Birch and I bought Ginny dolls, not Kewpies. Can you tell me who bought the box of Ginny dolls?”
“Name’s Duanne Wilson. Here’s the address. You’d better write that down now.”
Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.