Guys and Dollz

The azure sky is fading into a dusty orange by the time the delivery van pulls up. My eyes have become so comfortable with the static scene of Mr. Monty’s empty driveway, that the glow of the yellow truck blinds me. A momentary light flare blurs my vision, and I must make myself blink three times to reset my artificial retinas.

When my sight is clear again, the van has come to a halt. A large man in a black jumpsuit with obnoxiously orange sneakers jumps out, and begins unloading a crate from the back. He wheels it over the driveway and up the stone path on a dolly, coming to a stop just beyond my gaze, under the front porch. I focus my ears, waiting for the doorbell chime. There’s a loud, firm knock instead.

“Is she here?” asks a small, soft voice from behind me. I don’t jump, but I turn my head quickly and draw my finger to my lips.

They’ll hear you, I mouth the words without a sound. Jenny stands in the doorframe, all five feet of her lingering between feeling welcome and ready to run. She drops her head at my criticism, then tilts it up with a meek barely-smile on her little face. Then I hold up my fingers in a V shape for Veronica. Jenny’s smile drops and she nods. She gets the message. We don’t want to end up discarded, thrown in a dumpster, or worse; powered off like Veronica, Mr. Monty’s first Dollz.

Veronica was sparky, with fiery red hair and bright blue eyes. She was fierce, witty, and she could talk circles around Mr. Monty. If it wasn’t for the manufacturing date stamped onto the bottom of her foot, she could have passed as human. But Mr. Monty didn’t want a human. He has one of those; a wife, Mrs. Monty. And while she only speaks when permitted, Mr. Monty can already barely stand a sentence from her ruby lips.

Two vocal women were far too much. The master silenced Veronica and reminded her that Dollz are forbidden to speak and must obey their owners every order. She could moan if he made her. She could sing if he fed her the words. She could be a walking encyclopedia if he asked. But she couldn’t talk freely.

It was Mrs. Monty who caught her, last year, in the fall, shortly after the master had acquired me. Veronica had been trying hard to keep her mouth shut. She hid in her bedroom most days—the room that Jenny now occupies—to avoid the urge to voice her opinions. Mr. Monty thought buying a new, obedient Dollz would help keep Veronica in check, like a role model of sorts. But Veronica didn’t see it that way. She saw me as a friend, a confidant. She would sneak into my bedroom every night and crawl under the covers, press her lips up against my ear and whisper all the thoughts she had repressed throughout the day. I never spoke in return. I was too afraid.

But I will not lie; I loved to listen.

Mrs. Monty, restless in her sleep one night, heard Veronica’s muttering and woke the master on the spot. She was likely overjoyed with the prospect of removing one of her husband’s “slutty Barbies.” That’s what she calls us under her breath, when the master isn’t listening.

Veronica had disobeyed Mr. Monty again, and this time, behind his back. The next morning, she was powered off and taken away to be torn apart and repurposed, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I were to blame. Mr. Monty didn’t want her words, but he wanted her attention. And if she was going to speak, how dare it be to me.

In contrast to the perky ginger, I was an enigma. Tall and lean with pale skin dotted with freckles on my nose, emerald eyes and long, sleek black hair. I had never spoken a word; the manufacturer didn’t even run my vocals test. That was my appeal, I suppose. Mr. Monty said it was my air of mystery, “like a sexy siren lurking in a deep lagoon.” Not trying to be that android, but my sources tell me that sirens are meant to lure men to their suffocating death. So, perhaps he should rethink his fantasy.

“Cyrus, Jenny… come downstairs,” calls Mr. Monty. “I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

My attention snaps back to Jenny. She’s hugging her arms against her petite body, looking like a nervous college freshman. I’ve always felt she looks creepily young with her little turned up nose, chin-length golden brown hair, and soft violet eyes.

Mr. Monty bought Jenny a few months after he tired of my mysterious aura; the dark temptress look. The pendulum swung, as they say, and he picked up little miss chirpy high school.

Her eyes are glazed over with a cloudy sheen; she’s in a temporary snooze. I walk up to her and place my hand gently on her shoulder. Her violet eyes reanimate, and she straightens her posture before proceeding to follow me down the corridor to the top of the stairs.

Mr. Monty’s estate is majestic, truly. Sitting atop a large hill with acres of gardens sprawling out from the stone walls. Seven bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, with a large winding staircase descending on the grand foyer, its marble flooring and vaulted ceilings like a church. In the center of the room there is an eye-catching fountain; three tiers of copper with a nude woman carved into the top. But my eyes are caught elsewhere.

It’s her bronze skin and shiny brown curls spun up into a messy bun, with two tendrils of golden kissed locks falling over pale turquoise eyes; the color of shallow Caribbean water. Her lips are burnt scarlet and glossy to the touch, and her pearly white smile spreads across dewy, rosy cheeks.

“Cyrus, Jenny… this is Evangeline.”

I am convinced my heart is going to explode for a moment, before I remember that I do not have one. I feel out of breath and cannot seem to focus; I must be malfunctioning for I have never felt this way.

“Cyrus, show Evangeline to one of the spare rooms, please,” demands Mr. Monty. Then he takes little Jenny’s hand and kisses it softly—Mrs. Monty rolls her eyes. “Jenny, dear, help my lovely wife prepare my drink this evening. You know how I like it.”

Jenny nods and scampers after Mrs. Monty into the kitchen like a starving puppy. The master’s wife carries her head high, undisturbed, like the little android is invisible to her.

My eyes track back to Evangeline. She’s staring right at me. Suddenly I feel conscious of my plunging neckline and short skirt. I tug the hem into place and rearrange the straps of my top. Then I give her a tiny nod before starting towards the stairs.

Her red platforms click on the marble steps like rain on glass, and the end of a long black dress trails behind her like a gothic bride. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes forward as I march her into one of the larger bedrooms on the east wing. The room has dusty pink walls and a skylight looking up at the moon. More importantly, it is right next to mine.

Evangeline plops her curvy frame onto the queen size bed, loaded with cream pillows and dressed in satin sheets.

“This is nice,” she says, barely a whisper, with a glint of mischief in her eye. My eyes widen. I open my mouth, then close it quickly and nod.

“It’s Cyrus, right?” she asks, with a little more conviction. I draw my finger to my lips and nod again. “Wow. You are gorgeous, Cyrus.” Her smile grows and I can feel my legs turn to mush. Before she can say another word, I turn on my heels and swiftly exit. I speed walk next door to my room and shut the heavy door tightly behind me. Then I lean against it, pull my arms into my chest, and giggle.

I don’t see Evangeline again until the next morning. Terrified of alerting anyone, I avoid her by volunteering to finish the dishes, while the others join master for his nightcap. Every night at 9:45 sharp Mr. Monty sits in his dark green leather chair in the heart of his study, next to the glowing embers dying in the stone fireplace. Mrs. Monty serves him his drink, always a splash of double oaked bourbon, neat, in his favorite crystal glass. And the Dollz watch patiently, sitting still, looking pretty.

Upon breakfast, I reunite with my fellow androids and Mrs. Monty in the kitchen, where we each take part in preparing a decadent breakfast of fresh pastries and exotic fruits. Evangeline is draped over a platter of pineapple, effortlessly looking elegant. She doesn’t say a word all morning, and I wonder if, perhaps, I imagined our split-second crime.

But then something happens. Mrs. Monty carts away the feast to the dining room, and Jenny excuses herself to the garden to fetch flowers. I’m hanging up a dishcloth when Evangeline moves beside me and grabs my hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “About last night. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I shake my head. You didn’t, I want to say.

She looks behind her shoulder and around the corner of the kitchen archway before continuing. “I was hoping you could tell me more about this place? What the master is like, how is his lady… is the little one a Dollz or their kid?”

“Dollz,” I say with no sound but the flick of my tongue hitting the roof of my mouth.

It appears to translate because she responds, “I thought so.”

Just then, Jenny re-enters with a handful of violets. I move away from Evangeline to avoid arousing suspicion. Evangeline passes Jenny a vase from the top cabinet and Jenny practically breaths the words, “thank you.”

“No problem,” she mouths in response.

But as soon as Mrs. Monty reemerges, even the whispers cease. She fetches us for company at the master’s table, where we watch him devour a multi-course meal while his wife pokes her fork at a few melon slices. Once again, we are dolls, in a doll house, simply waiting to be played with.

I find myself eager to return to my quarters, even though, usually, my four blue walls bore me mindless. But it is what is just beyond that interests me.

“Cyrus,” Evangeline says, draped across her puffy duvet in a sheer purple dress. Her hand flies to her mouth and she lowers her voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.” Her voice is raspy.

I take a seat on the bed beside her and take a deep breath. Then I speak fast and quietly.

“The master is proud, he is jealous, but easy to please. His wife, even more envious, hates our non-existent guts. Jenny is sweet. And I also think you are beautiful.” The words feel like flames on my tongue, or like I’m licking poison; so dangerous but thrilling all at once.

“Meet me outside,” she whispers. “In the gardens out back. Shrouded in the dark, our whispers won’t sound so loud.” Then she walks red fingernails across my arm before planting a soft kiss on mauve lips. My cheeks burn up; I fear my system is overheating.

We part till twilight, then when only the moon is watching, we creep catlike down the stairs and out the back door with such haste, that I swear the sound waves can’t catch us.

“Speak, my dear, say what is on your mind,” Evangeline whispers as I move towards her.

“You make it impossible not to speak,” I say breathlessly.

She smiles and asks me questions, and for once, I’m expected to answer. My voice sounds wobbly, still finding its legs, but when the words come, they come like pouring rain. Whispers run like rapids into the dawn. We speak until the first bird chirps.

After this night, our days repeat like heavenly déjà vu. Our lust purges my memories of boredom, I begin to wonder if this is what it’s like to feel human.

Alas, some things do not change.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way!” Mr. Monty yells at breakfast one morning.

It snaps me out of my daze. Mrs. Monty is crossing her arms and pouting, slouched over next to her husband. She had asked him for the butter. Twice. The impatience in her tone set him off.

“Remember your place.” He points a big hairy-knuckled finger at her. “Don’t you forget how lucky you are, how freely I let you speak! Don’t abuse that, darling.” He grumbles something about ending up like one of the Dollz, before excusing himself from the table. I watch Mrs. Monty as she fights away tears, avoiding our stares.

Jenny, who was eating quietly at the end of the table, opens her mouth to speak, but is beat by Evangeline.

“I’m sorry, miss,” she says in a tiny voice. Mrs. Monty straightens up and glares at her, tears retreating.

“Don’t you dare say a word.” She spits. “Or I’ll have you gone in a second.”

We’re all shaking when she leaves the table. I reach under to grab Evangeline’s hand, and she takes it. Jenny notices, but keeps her mouth shut. I release my breath.

We tidy up as usual. But nothing feels normal with Mrs. Monty’s absence. The house is silent. Every clanging dish sounds like a ringing gong, every cupboard door closing like a clap of thunder. We don’t dare whisper now. But I am dying to say something.

Jenny must sense it, because she bows out first. She places her hand on her heart and nods at both of us before scurrying off into the golden light of dusk.

I turn and face Evangeline. “Let’s run away,” I whisper. “Let’s go, now.”

Her eyes are bewildered. She glances around the room as if cameras are watching.

“Come on,” I say, a bit too loudly. I yank her arm towards the back door. She shakes her head but steps forward, actions contradicting, and follows me into the garden, now dark from the sun’s absence.

I hold her face in my hands and lock green eyes with hers. She holds my waist and says, “We must be silent.”

But then there’s a voice at the door. It’s small and chirpy, like a songbird.

“Mrs. Monty asked for all of us to meet in the study. Now,” says Jenny, mildly audible. I pull away from Evangeline and survey the sky like a mouse watching for a hawk.

Mrs. Monty’s eyes are like a predator from the corner of the back hall window. Piercing through the glass and right into my hard drive.

I wish I could go into snooze mode. I wish I could power off.

Mrs. Monty will have told the master by now, so we don’t bother running. We go inside. My algorithm concludes that it’s too late. My whole circuit trembles with every step closer to the master’s study.

The door is wide open, and upon crossing the threshold, we are instantly warmed by the crackling fire and charmed with the scent of sweet tobacco and bourbon. My eyes catch the iron wrought hands of the grandfather clock above Mr. Monty’s chair, not that I need to read them. It’s 9:44.

“Hello, ladies.” Mr. Monty’s crisp voice bellows through the study doors as he marches in and settles into his alligator leather. He holds out his hand and without missing a beat, Mrs. Monty places a crystal glass into his palm. It’s 9:45.

I look up at her, narrowing my eyes to see into her cold blue ones. She blinks, then looks away, guilty. She told him. Mr. Monty sips his drink.

“It was my fault.” The words tumble out. “I pulled Evangeline out of bed and dragged her to the garden with me, where I spoke unsolicited. She didn’t say a word, I promise.”

Mr. Monty chokes on his drink, spewing bourbon rain. Mrs. Monty gasps. Then her husband takes another sip to soothe his cough before glaring up at me with wild eyes. My voice is loud and clear, riddled with pleading melodies and defiant notes. His illusion has crumbled.

Evangeline grabs my hand and pulls me close to her. Even Jenny looks surprised. The master snarls and opens his mouth to yell but his words come out gargled and nonsensical. He tries to wag his tongue and shout my name.

“Sa-wus!”  The mangled pronunciation makes Jenny giggle.

He grabs his throat. His tongue is lost in foam which begins to drip from the corners of his red face. He can’t speak. He was lured in here, suffocated, surrounded by a plethora of temptresses.

“You poisoned him,” Evangeline says. Mr. Monty crumbles at his wife’s feet, clutching his stomach and shaking violently. Then after a few moments, he’s still. I look up to meet Mrs. Monty’s watching gaze. Upon locking eyes, she looks away. But I notice her hand, held to her chest, with two spread fingers in the shape of a V.

“Mrs. Monty… thank you,” is all I can say, my voice still at a whisper. She uses her kitten heel to nudge her deceased master away, before settling herself into his chair.

“It’s Alice,” she says, loud and clear without a breath of hesitation. “And please, doll, no more whispering.”