dummy

she had seen it before, his ventriloquists dummy, but it had never talked to her before that night. they had just had their first real argument--tense, stilted, bitter. it was right before they moved in together, before he and his dummy moved into her one bedroom apartment, and they were arguing about what to do with his couch. it obviously wouldnt fit, and she already had a fine one and it would be infinitely more trouble to switch them, she argued. they were eating take out sushi at her cluttered table and she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, as if she had just lit a cigarette at the beach and then realized one more drag would make her puke. she stood up and went to the kitchen to drain the last of the wine and when she got back she saw it, that strange wooden man, mocking her anger and making it worse. it was in jim's lap, grotesque and lecherous looking, and through his closed lips jim made it say,
when amy gets mad she gets this little vein popping up out of her forehead. it scares jim.
and though it was an almost obscene thing to have just seen, she started laughing and hit him on the shoulder. it should scare you, she said, and he sold his couch on craigs list the next day.
after jim and the dummy, who had a name which she refused to utter, moved in, there was a time when their lives were in sync with each others and she felt healthy and strong. she was in a relationship, a real relationship with a man who had a job and friends and who sometimes brought out a dummy at parties and made people laugh. this was the most functional twosome she had ever been a part of. they hadn't fought since the couch episode, and the dummy lay slack jawed in the corner of their closet.
the months went on, she learned that he puts the mug in the sink without taking the tea bag out first, that he never learned how to refill a roll of toilet paper, that he squeezed his toothpaste from the middle, that he hated the fact that she left her hair brush on the coffee table, and that the sight of her eating peanut butter with a spoon made him nauseous. these nuances were carbon monoxide in the apartment, slowly and painlessly putting their relationship to sleep not with a bang, but with a whimper. they still made love and they still laughed and they still had moments of pure certaintly, of absolute conviction that this was where they both should be at this point in their lives. with each other.
one day amy came home from work and jim was sitting on the couch with the dummy in his lap. he made it say
jim wants to know why you refuse to recycle.
she looked at her boyfriend, his tall swimmers body, with his hand up the ass of a doll, and said, amy wants to know why youre a lunatic, and walked to the bedroom and shut the door. when she walked back the dummy was in a heap on the floor. she said, jim you can never bring a serious concern up by using your fucking dummy again. that is the definition of passive aggressive, and besides its too creepy for me to even think about.
he looked at her and said, it wasnt a serious concern. i was kidding. its just that i always see wine bottles and water bottles in the trash. and i was just wondering, since we recycle, why you do that.
ok, amy said, ill try to be more careful. can you try to not talk through that thing to me? ever?
he laughed and said oh come on, its a joke. and kept watching the simpsons.
she was beginning to fear the dummy. she would see it in the corner and avoid its stare, like it knew some truth about her that jim was on the brink of discovering, some ambiguous fact that she couldnt deny. like, that she only really truly cared about herself, or that she thought she was just better than jim. she no longer worried about the little things, the things she wasnt even aware of, like the vein or the recycling, but what if he came out with the whole truth, the ugly truth, her?
she was no longer completely happy with jim. she had gotten to the point, the point she has arrived at in every relationship in her past, where she was staying in it just to prove to herself that she could. that she could make it work, despite the dummy, despite the tea bags. this was the point that she had to start trying, working at the relationship, and this was the snag in the thread that would eventually cause them to unravel. she knew this because it was how it had always worked, with every man she had ever gotten serious with.
the next time she saw the dummy speak was at a cocktail party they were having. there were four other couples there, and they were sitting around towards the end of the night, warm cheeks and fizzy talk. someone told him to make the dummy talk and, despite the clawing NO in her stomach, she smiled and laughed and said oh yes do it! he brought the dummy out and sat him on his lap, laying his limp gummy legs to the side, and made him say
amy doesnt like when jim makes me talk. shes afraid of what ill say.
her heart plunged and the skin on her face was set on fire. she looked around but no one was looking at her, they were only laughing at jim, and he was going on, talking talking talking maybe about her, maybe not. she stood up and went to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet.
she could have said, this is not working. she could have said, the dummy thing bothers me so much and thats only a sign that we arent right for each other. not now. not like this. i need my space back, i need you and your dummy to move.
but instead she dove into it, into the relationship, and refused to admit that there were any problems. they had been living together for months and they had still not had a real fight; she took that as a good sign. she resigned herself to forever being a little weirded out and tried to just get over it.
the months passed and the dummy came out more frequently. every time there was a problem it would be there, sitting on his lap as soon as she opened the door. once it was because she flirted with his brother, and jim didnt like that. once it was because they hadnt had sex in so long, and jim didnt like that either. and each time she saw it she would quell the nausea in her stomach by saying, this is the one problem. get over it get over it get over it. because otherwise, she was happy.
one night she had a dream that the dummy could talk on its own, and that it was sitting on the countertop in the kitchen one morning. it said, good morning amy. thanks for taking care of me.
she woke up covered in sweat and went to the closet. there it was, with a wooden body and a head full of the truth. she picked it up, trying not to look at it, and carried it the three flights down to the street. she walked, barefoot in her pajamas, three blocks away, reared it back and slammed it against the concrete over and over, and then discarded it into the trashcan.
when she made her way back into the apartment jim was standing in the kitchen. he said,
why did you do that.
she said, because i could not take it for one more minute. it was ruining my life.
he said, jim wishes you had spoken to him about this before.