Violette is traveling in my purse. I love that her eyes open and close as they do. That is far more enchanting to me than taking out her eyes and putting in others. I feel a little worried about damaging her original hair or clothes, and I keep telling myself to relax. She has survived intact for over forty years. I can always comb her hair and wash her vinyl. Unlike resin, her composition is quite indestructible.
I have been too busy over the past few weeks to do anything with my new small charge, and I decided only in the last day or two to bring her with me. I feel very un-self-conscious bringing an old Madame Alexander doll around with me. She is smalls, weighs almost nothing, and doesn't have the kind of looks that get a largely bewildered reaction from others. Though I loved my resin dolls, I hated those reactions. I love what I love, but I don't necessarily love being different from everyone else. And everyone knows a Madame Alexander doll. There is no surprise, only a small doll in my purse.
She lays like Sleeping Beauty, her thick black lashes closed, and she appears lost in her own world. I wondered, as we moved along, passing trucks and gas stations, stopping for some iced tea and coffee at McDonald's and scrambling through our luggage for music and books, what the world looks like behind her white eyelids.
*
Sunday.
It is a balmy heat, and I long for something other than a satin gown for travel. In my valise I have three rosewater-drenched handkerchiefs to blot my brow and revive my senses when the heat is too much. Beyond this I have not known what provisions to make. I have never been to the deep South and I do not know the customs, the manner of dress or food therein. Yet I feel so many discoveries lie before me, and I am eager to make them.
The bellman has just passed through my car saying that we have crossed into Louisiana. I go to the window to look eagerly. All around us stretch impossibly high pines interspersed with flat green planes. Signs of establishment along the way are in French.
I ordered a coffee with milk, and soon I will return to reading my Temple Bailey novel. The moments race by and I watch a little dark liquid spill into the saucer of my fine china cup with the movement of the train.
The gentleman next to me inquired briefly of my destination. I mentioned that I am traveling with my family to New Orleans for pleasure. It is perhaps unusual that I go around the train alone, but I like to be alone. It makes everything feel like an adventure, even a brief exchange with a stranger. The newspaper he reads is French.
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