style="font-size:15px;"> “Confiscate, Nana Moira.”
“That’s what I said.”
Rachel does not respond. Instead she busies herself with paging through Monday’s issue of the Athens News while Nana Moira spreads cut pieces of cloth on a long white table for the next quilt she will be stitching together.
The loaf is rosy-brown when Rachel takes it out of the oven an hour later. She covers it with a cloth and asks Nana Moira to share it with her Centre regulars and visitors tomorrow. She will return on Friday to bake a number of loaves for the Saturday market. And she will do that every week for the rest of the pawpaw season.
“I’ve a surprise for you in your room,” says Nana Moira as Rachel gets into her car.
Their home is only half a mile from the Centre. It is a double-wide, much bigger than the other five trailers that form a row. Unlike the rest, which are in bad shape with peeling paint and gutters that need fixing, Rachel’s trailer is glistening with new paint. Its surroundings are clean and neat with cottage pinks and tomatoes growing in pots. The big satellite dish on the roof makes it look like a spaceship from some awkward sci-fi movie.
Rachel parks her car on the paved driveway in front of the trailer, making sure that she leaves enough space for Nana Moira to park her 1983 GMC Suburban when she returns in the evening. To Rachel’s consternation she still drives at night at her age, and loves speed. These days she struggles to climb into the car since it has become too high for her arthritic knees. But she won’t give it up or trade it for a lower car; it belonged to her late husband.
The mobile home is just as neat inside, and smells of Febreze in every room. Rachel goes straight to her room, the master bedroom that used to belong to her parents. When Nana Moira came to live with them after her late husband’s creditors obtained a default judgment and foreclosure decree on her truck farm, she took the smaller bedroom and filled the third bedroom to the roof with boxes of all the sentimental stuff she owned. Those days Rachel used to sleep on the sofa-bunk bed that is still in the living area in front of the television.
Since then Rachel has upgraded the place, fixed new tiles in the bathroom and shower, and bought a new stove for the kitchen area. It is rarely used though because Nana Moira does most of the cooking at the Centre and brings the food home in the evening.
In the bedroom Rachel is greeted by a rag doll sitting perkily on top of her pillow as if it owns the place. At first she cannot believe her eyes, and then she shrieks and reaches for it.
“Blue! My Blue! Where’ve you been?”
Blue is still in the blue frock as Rachel remembers her. A blue frock, a black cape and a black bonnet.
She holds her close to her bosom. She had forgotten all about Blue since she went missing a few years back. Just like she forgot all the others who had disappeared. She had mourned, and then moved on. But here’s Blue, she has come back. None of the others did.
She was four or five when she first got Blue. She had always wanted a Raggedy Ann and had badgered her father for it. One day he – an itinerant musician and teller of tall tales – was travelling through Amish country when he chanced upon a roadside stall covered with different sizes of rag dolls. He bought one for his little girl.
The first time Rachel saw the doll it freaked her out.
“It ain’t no Raggedy Ann, Pops,” she had cried.
“It’s a rag doll, what’s the difference?” asked her father.
“It ain’t got no eyes or mouth or nose or ears or nothing. It’s creepy.”
“It ain’t got no face because it’s an Amish doll, baby. Them Amish believe all folk are the same in the eyes of God. So they don’t do no faces on their dolls.”
This explanation, however, did not comfort Rachel. She couldn’t bring herself even to look at the doll without a face. Until her father drew eyes, a nose and a mouth with a ballpoint pen. Though they were crude, like those one would see on a stick figure drawn by a child, Rachel accepted them, and gradually she learned to love the doll. It became her constant companion.
As a kid Rachel showered all her love on Blue. All her anger too. When she had tantrums she repeatedly hit the floor with Blue, and Blue took the abuse uncomplainingly. She was made of sturdy stuff. The Amish stitches were tough and Blue did not fall apart.
After her father died in Operation Desert Storm, Rachel grew even more attached to the doll and held on to it everywhere she went. Even to kindergarten. Though they didn’t allow kids to come with their own toys to school the teacher made a special exception for Rachel and her Blue because “this kid has issues”. As a result she was picked on by bratty kids. When Nana Moira and Rachel’s mom met Rachel at the bus stop she was in tears.
“They called me a routter,” she cried.
“What the fuck is routter?” asked her mom, who was not quite sober at that time of the afternoon.
“That’s what they call hillbilly kids in Athens. After some poor family called the Routters way back in the day,” explained Nana Moira, whose work at the Jensen Community Centre exposed her to all sorts of gossip.
“This ain’t no hillbilly doll. It’s an Amish doll. They’re too dumb to know the difference,” said Rachel’s mother, glaring at her mother-in-law as if Nana Moira was the originator of the “routter” idea.
“It ain’t about no doll. It’s about us ’cause we poor,” said Nana Moira.
That was before Rachel’s mom lost her teeth to meth, and then her mind, and wandered away with a fellow meth-head never to return. The people of the township said it was a result of a broken heart after she lost her husband who had enlisted because, as he said, “The music business ain’t paying no bills and some bad folks are crapping on America in Kuwait.”
When everyone was gone, Blue was the only one that stayed. There was Nana Moira of course, but she didn’t count that much. She spent the whole day working at the Centre’s Food Pantry, or travelling to Logan to get more food from the food bank. Blue, on the other hand, was always with Rachel. She was not apt to die in a war or disappear in a fog of drugs.
Although Nana Moira tried to be with Rachel as much as possible, she spent most of her time at the Centre unloading food from the trucks, dividing the cans and vegetables into many equal parcels, and then giving them out to long lines of people who would otherwise not survive without the Food Pantry. Or cooking in the kitchen of the Centre for the senior citizens of the township. Or sewing quilts with the women of the Quilting Circle. Or poring over papers and receipts and vouchers. And all that time Rachel played alone under the long tables, or on the porch, weather permitting, inventing games with Blue.
It is after nine when Nana Moira hobbles in with a small pot of bean soup.
“I know you gonna bitch about my driving at night,” she says. “Save your breath already and eat the bean soup.”
But Rachel is in no mood for a confrontation.
“Where was she at?” she asks, holding Blue up.
“In the storeroom. I found her when I was looking for something else.”
“You knew all the time where she was at?”
“I
