See, Dad-dy? What you made me do.
Better them them me, girl.
An old-fart nervous type would “dispose of” such evidence in case of police intervention, but Ira Early is a unique personality. More unique, you might say, than the legendary Doll.
Chronicles of Midwestern crime will never plumb the depths of Ira Early. Even those who’d met Ira Early and his (step)daughter Doll will not know how to speak of them.
These mementos Mr. Early stores in jug bottles, in formaldehyde. He has five, six... seven?... scattered in rental lockers as far north as Mille Lacs, Minnesota, and as far south as Greenville, Mississippi. Under various names, not a one of them “Early.” Some kind of sentimental record maybe he’ll look back on one day when Doll is finally too mature to be Doll. Now Mr. Early is feeling maudlin.
Refresh your drink, mister? inquires the ponytailed bartender.
Mr. Early shakes his Santa Claus head no, better not, hears himself say, Well. If you insist.
Doll, sprawled provocatively on the bed, hasn’t removed the sexy white knee-high boots; her black satin miniskirt rides up her lovely thighs. Her spaghetti-strap top is crushed-velvet gold, and there’s a teasing suggestion of little-girl breasts, or padding, at her bosom. Those bristly pigtails sprout from her small head with a look like, if you touched them, they’d give you a shock. (Mr. Radish’s wickedest dream come true. Maybe he should rape-murder, or murder-rape, this exquisite child, get it over with in a burst of passion, and then murder himself? But how, practically speaking, is a man like Mr. Radish going to murder himself? He’s not made for heroics.)
Doll is watching a TV game show. Looks like Millionaire. Squeals and applause and that sappy emcee who bears a resemblance to Ira Early, in fact. Bored, Doll switches to another channel. She’s gotten too restless, these months and years of traveling with her (step) Daddy, to watch any TV program more than three or four minutes, likes to surf the channels from one to ninety-nine and back again like a merry-go-round. If Mr. Early is present, he’ll take the remote from Doll’s fingers firmly no matter how she protests. TV is just plain bad for the brain, Mr. Early believes. But Mr. Early is not here, just Mr. Radish, who seems to adore her and will not touch her. Staring as Doll aims the remote at the TV like a wand.
Doll hates commercials, but she’s staring at this one for PMS. That is, for the prevention of. Premenstrual stress. Doll whispers these mysterious words aloud. Her Daddy has assured her this will never happen to her. He gives her pills daily, and there are other ways of keeping Doll from that ugly phenomenon called pubescence.
Switches the channel to Funniest Animal Videos. There’s a mournful-looking basset hound and a bald oblong-headed baby sharing an orange Popsicle as family members look on howling, tears running down their cheeks. Doll laughs too, but in disgust. Yuck! Everyone knows dogs’ mouths are cesspools of germs.
Mr. Radish has tugged his shirt open, revealing a patchily red-haired pimply chest Doll doesn’t wish to see. Mr. Radish is still chattering excitedly; maybe he’s drunk or high on painkillers. Doll seems to recall Mr. Early mentioning this Mr. X at the E-Z is something like a junior high teacher, an educator, and an idealist.
Saying, swallowing hard, D-Doll, are you listening? I’m real ashamed of myself, for this. You’re a beautiful child. I just know you have a b-beautiful soul. It’s shitty what your own stepfather has done to you. You deserve a whole lot better than... this.
Doll shrugs. Uh-hmm?
Frozen-faced Doll ignores this bullshit. Staring fiercely at the TV screen as she clicks through the channels rapid as a lizard scaling a wall. Her Cleopatra eyes have the glassy-hungry TV look of a child rushing through the channels, certain that something special is waiting. In a cold fury she’s thinking maybe she’ll not only saw open Mr. Radish’s bulgy carotid artery, she’ll gouge out one of his bulgy eyes. That time she surprised Mr. Early with a coin-sized slab of flesh containing the belly button of some crude Ozark trucker, the old humbug had been truly amazed. Dolclass="underline" this goes beyond my DNA, I swear.
Wish I could, Mr. Radish says, oh God wish I could save you. Beautiful little girl like you.
Mister thanks, but I’m saved.
(Doll checks the time: Oh God not even 11:30 P.M.)
I could p-pray for us. The power of prayer is awesome.
Mister thanks, it’s okay.
A man like that stepfather of yours, Mr. Radish is panting, should be cast down in fire and brimstone forever. Should be turned in to the police, at least.
Doll pretends she hasn’t heard this. Though she has heard it.
Well. Let Mr. Radish say what he wishes — that’s part of the fee — and he can do what he wishes, to himself exclusively; Doll won’t so much as glance around at him. If this creep strangles in his own spit, if his face turns the color of boils, she won’t glance at him.
But she might say, if the urge comes upon her, Oh mister is it time for Doll’s bath?
Or, smiling the naughty-little-girl smile, batting her eyelashes like butterfly wings, Doll wants her bath. It’s time!
In the Kismet Lounge, Mr. Early sees suddenly to his horror it’s 11:46 P.M. He’s been in this place far longer than he’d planned, and he’s had more to drink than he’d planned. Shame! What if, back at the E-Z, his little girl is crying piteously for him?
Nothing like that has happened yet, exactly. Not since an unfortunate night in El Dorado, Arkansas, when Ira Early and his (step)daughter Doll were new and naive in their adventures.
Are you nek-ked, mister? Don’t peek.
From inside the steamy bathroom, Mr. Radish croaks out, Yes.
Doll, naked too, biting her lower lip to keep from giggling, pushes open the door. Looks like Mr. Radish has done as she requested.
The last twenty minutes of Mr. Radish are going to be a game.
Mr. Radish has been told it is a bath. Doll has another game in mind.
(Seems that, that morning, I’d done the bad thing. Prepared a fresh razor blade on a ballpoint pen from one of the motels, fixed with that Crazy Glue that can’t ever be pried off, as my Daddy had forbidden after St. Louis. Oh, this blade is sharp.)
Doll is slender and small-boned as an actual doll might be, of some long-ago time. Doll has tiny breasts with warm brown flower-let nipples and no more hairs at the fork of her legs than the down on the back of her neck. Her legs are long, like they could spring into action and run her out of your reach, just make the wrong move. In the humid bathroom air, Doll’s creamy nougat skin is slightly flushed, and her big eyes shine with anticipation. Doll’s bristly pigtails are pinned up neatly onto her head and covered with a cheap plastic shower cap provided by the K-Z Motel. Must be in one of her mean moods, as Mr. Early would say, but in fact Doll is laughing.
Like an actual eleven-year-old might cry, breathless, Is that bath water nice and hot?
It’s hot, Doll. It... is.
Mr. Radish, obeying the rules of the game not to peek, splashes the water with his cupped hands. Doll sees a wedge of sickly pale chest and a swath of faded-red hair. It isn’t too hot, mister, is it?
No! It’s just right.
I don’t want to be burned, see. But I like a hot bath.
D-Doll, it’s just right. You can stick a t-toe in.
Is there some nice soap, mister? I want lots and lots of suds.
There’s a real nice soap here. Big as the palm of my hand, see?