A nonprofit publication of the Kentucky Center for Public Service Journalism

Constance Alexander: Exotic doll symbolizes one little girl’s power to speak up and speak out


Phyllis Martucci was a divorcee. The word alone throbbed with excitement but was seldom heard when I was ten years old and living in Metuchen, a small town in suburban New Jersey. Not only was Phyllis single again, but she was the recipient of something my mother called a “quickie divorce” in Reno.

Such behavior was the realm of movie stars and jet setters, not territory much explored in my hometown in the late 1950s.

It was August, that time of summer when kids were restless and looking for adventure before school started after Labor Day. When the taxi pulled into the driveway next door to deliver Phyllis, I was bored and flopped in a beach chair on the back porch, reading. What caught my attention was the driver hopping out of the cab and opening the door with a bow and a flourish.

As if for a pause and a silent drumroll, Phyllis emerged, one sleek leg at a time.

(Photo provided)

Blond and beautiful, she had a glossy glow. Her yellow dress was form-fitting and her appearance flawless, even after a complicated journey on a jet from Nevada to Newark Airport. She was so stunning I could barely take my eyes off her until Angelica bounced out of the back seat, red-faced and howling.

“You said we were going home,” she shouted.

“We are,” Phyllis replied. “This is where grandpa lives.”

With that, the old professor from next door bounded out of his house, arms open to enfold his daughter and granddaughter. The retired professor, usually addressed as Dr. Norman by people in town, was embraced with fervor by his granddaughter Angelica. The precocious seven-year-old hugged him and called him Boompa.

He was transformed in her presence, and throughout Angelica’s visit, he did everything he could to please her. He crawled on the floor, climbed trees, and played every game she made up.

I was enlisted as a companion for Angelica, a task I welcomed because it allowed me to bask in the reflected light Phyllis cast. She talked to me like a grown-up and asked my advice on her hair, her wardrobe, her mothering of Angelica.

The girl was difficult, stubborn and bossy, just like her father, according to her mother. My job was to teach her some manners and encourage good behavior instead of frequent tantrums.

Between my attention and her grandfather’s, Angelica calmed down, but that changed the day the first bouquet of flowers arrived.

Phyllis clapped her hands and squealed like a girl. The local florist began delivering a box a day. The little cottage where Boompa lived was afloat in roses of all colors. The scent was delicious and exotic, but it inflamed Angelica’s allergies.

The letters that followed were the tipping point. Angelica was more inflamed. I watched in horror the first day she sweet-talked the mailman into giving her the day’s mail.

Constance Alexander is a columnist, award-winning poet and playwright, and President of INTEXCommunications in Murray. She can be reached at constancealexander@twc.com. Or visit www.constancealexander.com.

“I’ll give it to Boompa,” she promised with a curtsey.

Swearing me to secrecy, she read the letters and then tore them into little pieces she buried in the backyard. It didn’t take long for Boompa to catch on.

The letter writer, Phyllis told Angelica, was going to be her new father. When they returned to Rio De Janeiro, where the Martucci family had lived because of Angelica’s father’s job at the U.S. embassy, Phyllis and Jorge would be married.

When Phyllis asked Angelica, “Wouldn’t you like a new baby brother or sister?” the girl stuck out her tongue and made throw-up sounds.

It didn’t take long for Boompa to figure out that Angelica had purloined the letters.

Handling the situation with his usual aplomb, Boompa privately told me he knew it was not my fault and that he understood his granddaughter’s rage. He admitted his own daughter puzzled and disappointed him, but instead of berating her, he just tried to love us all more.

I’m not sure how long all this went on; it felt like it lasted the whole summer. Eventually, everyone calmed down and Angelica and her mother went back to Brazil. Phyllis got married in September and Angelica was sent to boarding school. In a move that shocked the whole town, Boompa married a much younger doctoral candidate he was advising and took a yearlong honeymoon.

At Christmas, a battered package showed up in the mail addressed to me. It was the exotic doll in the picture that accompanies this column. She was nothing like the other dolls in my collection. Long-legged and wearing very high heels, she wore a skirt with a thigh-high slit. Her lace blouse was off-the-shoulder; underneath she had real breasts. She was fixed in place on a pedestal but her stance held a hint of energy that suggested she might break into tango at any second.

All these years I have kept that doll as a reminder of Angelica, a little girl who knew at seven what it has taken me a lifetime to learn: There is power in speaking up and speaking out, even when it’s not pretty.


Related Posts

Leave a Comment