hearing voices

I sat there, with my lower lip slightly out but not in a pout as much as in the signifier of earnest concentration, with a string and a tab in one hand and my filthy blue-gray Mrs. Beasley doll in the other. With perfect calm, I slow-w-w-wly released the cord, regulating its retreat as my schoolmarmish plastic pal croaked out a word.

"GRAAAAAAAAACIOUUUUUUUUUUUS," she growled, in a low, saurian crackle.

I pulled the string back and let it slowly play out again.

"GRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAACIOUUUUUUSSSSSSS MEEEEEEEEE, YOOOOOOOUUURRRRR GEEEEE--"

I let it go and the rest of the sentence blipped by at high speed, like parakeet gossip. My father wrinkled his nose, looking up from the paper.

"Son, why don't you just let your mother get that fixed?"

I pulled the string and she shrilled out another phrase, which was "Idothinkyou'rethenicestlittlefriendIeverhad," though you'd have to be a mosquito or someone on a spaceship nearing the speed of light to understand. The newspaper came back up again, a momentary defense against the alternating sounds of squeaky voice and growly voice.

"Mom didn't get Mrs. Beasley fixed," I said. "She took her back to Sears Surplus and exchanged her. I like this one."

"Well, I don't like this one."

With grim determination, I pulled the string again to play another phrase, regulating it as best I could this time. With proper control, it sounded almost like it was meant to, albeit with an unearthly warble.

"Lo-o-ong ago, Iwasalittle gi-i-irl, just like you," she said.

My father huffed.

"That damn doll is broken."

I shrugged, then slowly pulled the string again. My father folded up the paper and left the room with his coffee cup, looking for a fresh charge of caffeine.

"Do you want to hear a secret?" asked the mock-grandmotherly voice of some anonymous voice actress doing piece work at the doll factory. "I know one."

"What's the secret, Mrs. Beasley?"

I pulled the string, but let it out too fast.

"Bbbepllthpht!"

Before it could skip to the next phrase, I pulled it back, and let it play out properly.

"If you were a little smaller," she said, "I could rock you to sleep."

I just smirked back at her.

"You're silly, Mrs. Beasley," I said, and dumped her on the couch to run outside, in search of something new.

My tiny stuffed panda talked, too, but I did the talking, in what my family refers to as "the time when Joe talked in a falsetto for a whole year."

Of course, Teddy was fairly opinionated on seemingly every subject and had a patrician bearing that Julia Child would have thought was a bit over the top, but I could hardly silence my tiny friend when there were factual errors to correct.

"Son, do you have to talk like that?"

"Like what?"

"All high and sing-song."

"That's just Teddy, Dad."

"You don't...think he's actually talking, do you?"

I rolled my eyes and giggled at him.

"Teddy is a stuffed animal, Dad. He's made of mohair, wire, articulated limbs, and a genuine authentic sterling silver tab in his ear."

"A genuine authentic sterling silver tab, you say?"

"He's from Western Germany," I said, with the obvious pride of someone who owned something from Western Germany.

"Ja wohl."

"What?"

"Never mind. As long as you're clear on who's talking."

"The bear."

"Of course," he said, and went back to the Accent section of the Evening Sun.

I tucked Teddy into my pocket and ran outside.