Trying not to hope too hard for what I want
- Lighting Candles, The Weepies
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For his fourth birthday, George receives a doll and meets his father for the first time.
His father has been turned out of the house by his wife for yet another offense (it doesn't matter what, these things always smooth over.) He comes to the apartment and finds his mistress, who he'd provided with a space to live when he'd heard she was pregnant, and promptly forgotten about. He'd decided to patch things up with her and brings a toy as a goodwill offering, hoping he had remembered correctly that she had kept it.
"Oh, darling," she says, not even pointing out that he hasn't seen her in a year, not even bothering to hide the half-empty wine bottle on the table. "How thoughtful of you to remember baby's birthday."
"Naturally, naturally," he says, kissing her neck.
"I knew you'd want to meet him someday. He's such an adorable child. So precocious, it's a little bit frightening," she tells him breathily, throwing her arms around him and surrounding him in a cloud of perfume.
"Mama," pipes George in his high-pitched voice from the kitchen, staring reproachfully. "What about the cake?"
His mother brightens. "Oh, baby, don't worry about the cake. Come here for a moment."
George comes closer, and boldly stares into his father's eyes. He shows remarkable character for a child, and there is a clear resemblance between them.
His father regards him and feels pride faintly stirring up inside him. He decides that he ought to give them a better place to stay; the boy to grow up in, his mother for having him. There is a penthouse apartment being built that he had planned on keeping for himself. Perhaps he'll build another, and leave that for his boy.
"Happy birthday," he announces. "I am your father, and I expect you'll see much more of me in the future." He hands him the present, wrapped with garish ribbons. He'd told his secretary to pick something up, but he isn't quite sure what's inside.
"Mama?" George questions, turning to her.
"Don't be a goose, baby," his mother tells him, still clinging to his father. "You can trust your father at least as much as me."
George shrugs, and accepts the package. He opens it slowly, during which time his father holds his mother even closer, but keeps a wary eye on him still.
Inside is a doll. It's a very nice doll, but it has shiny brown pigtails with little curls on the bottom, big blue eyes, and it's wearing a bright pink polka-dotted dress and matching ballet shoes. It is not in the least bit suitable for little boys.
George stares at it. The doll stares back.
"Oh, dear," his mother says, staring balefully at his father.
"There must have been a mixup en route," his father offers, smoothly. "My apologies. I'll have this exchanged-"
"No," George says suddenly. He takes the doll out of the box, holds it at arms' length, and nods with a definitive air. "I like it."
"But, baby, it's..." his mother trails off, aghast.
George has already taken off the doll's clothes. His father laughs uproariously. He senses a kindred spirit, and turns his attention to distracting and possibly undressing. Neither adult give him a second thought.
George slips away quietly. He places the doll in a corner and covers her with a blanket, after some thought. He examines the dress, admires the pattern, turns it inside out and looks at the seams.
He asks for nothing but doll clothes for years. He dresses and undresses his models, matching colours and patterns and accessories.
When they have to embroider handkerchiefs in third grade, George decides to finally make a dress instead.