Mad Girls In Love (13 page)

Jennifer's visits were sporadic and revolved around the Wentworths' social calendar. One weekend, Chick brought the baby to Clancy Jane's house and mentioned that he had a golf game, and that Betty was playing bridge. “Take your time,” said Clancy Jane, leading him to the front door. She and Bitsy had read up about nature at the library, and they couldn't wait to start showing things to the baby. They coaxed Jennifer into the yard, but when they started to put her into the stroller, she balled up her fists and began pummeling them. When they finally got her inserted, they walked at a brisk pace, which forced the baby to cling to the stroller's plastic tray, her blond hair floating in the breeze. After a while, Clancy Jane began to point out cloud formations, but Jennifer just pulled out a hunk of her own hair. They fast-walked around the block, then Clancy Jane started identifying birds, but when she looked down, Jennifer had fallen asleep. Bitsy suggested they give up on nature and just teach her the names of fingernail polish. They could use the colorful bottles lined up on Bitsy's dresser: “Cotton Candy,” “Pomegranate,” “Grape Kiss.”

Bitsy couldn't name the presidents in order, but she knew the name and manufacturer of every lipstick and eyeshadow at Rexall Drugs as well as every shampoo and conditioner on the market. Not only that, she held definite prejudices. Prell was for boys, Suave was for penny-pinchers, and Breck was for babies. So it was no surprise that some people found her to be shallow and superficial. But she was also smart. She couldn't help being what she was—a mixture of Albert and Dorothy. Those bad genes were powerful and lasting—Byron compared it to skunk spray. When he said that, Clancy Jane just laughed, but it wasn't until later when she realized that he'd been referring to own her genes, too.

 

A LETTER FROM CENTRAL STATE

Monday morning, on my way to work, I stopped in front of Marshall's Department Store and gazed into the display window. Miss Betty thought the store was tacky, but it was the only place in town that sold sandalfoot pantyhose. Also the Marshalls banked with the Wentworths, so Miss Betty was forced to buy coats, sweaters, and dresses there, which she promptly gave to her maids. She wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything but cashmere. But I thought Marshall's had gorgeous clothes and accessories, even though I could only afford to window-shop. To tell the truth, I was much more interested in pocketbooks than men. My heart was still frozen solid. I was pretty sure that I'd never find someone who'd love me, after all I'd done. But a pocketbook didn't care about my past. Especially if I bought it for someone else.

In the right side of the display, I saw a cute decoupaged purse with a wooden lid and a tiny gold clasp. The base, woven like a picnic basket, was painted to resemble a town. In black paint, the artist had printed
Strawberry Fields
on a street sign,
Norwegian Wood
on another. A church was called St. Paul's. Except for the Beatles references, I didn't know where this place was, or if it even existed. A discreet card showed the price: $59.99—a small fortune. The layaway policy at Marshall's was tougher than at any other store in town—they made you put down at least ten dollars, and I had only enough money for lunch. I could of course get free meals at the café, but I couldn't stomach the food. I knew that my aunt would adore this purse—the Beatles had disbanded three years ago, but she regularly played their old albums. Her favorite song in the world was “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Her birthday had just passed, but this purse would make a great Christmas present.

So I decided I'd skip lunch. I marched inside and asked Mrs. Marshall if a five-dollar deposit would hold that purse. She shook her head and said, “Sorry, it's against store policy.” Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Besides, what do
you
need with a fine purse like that?”

“It's not for me,” I explained, feeling my cheeks hotten up. I wondered if she was being hateful because of Miss Betty, or because she was just having a bad day. I went back to the café and drank a cup of coffee, stashing my lunch money in my pocket. I figured I'd have enough money for a down payment in two weeks.

Every day when I finished my shift, I paused by Marshall's window just to look at that purse. Sometimes I looked at it twice a day. I skipped lunch for two weeks, and when I'd saved twenty dollars—more than enough for a down payment—I hurried over to Marshall's. But the purse was gone. In its place was a half-dressed mannequin, wearing an Ali McGraw crocheted hat. Mrs. Marshall appeared in the window holding a fringed shawl and began draping it over the mannequin's torso. She glanced up at me and frowned. Hoping that it hadn't sold. I went inside and asked about the purse, explaining that I was prepared to put down a substantial cash deposit. “Sorry, but that purse was bought this morning. It was a one-of-a-kind,” she said. “I've got one on order showing the streets and landmarks of Crystal Falls. How much can you put down?”

“I'll pass.” I shook my head and thanked her, trying to hide my disappointment. A week later, I was sitting in Aunt Clancy's kitchen reading the
Democrat
. And I saw the Beatles purse on page six, dangling from the arm of Mrs. Cora Smith, a home economics teacher who was retiring that year due to Parkinson's disease. The home-ec students at Crystal Falls High had pooled their money and bought their teacher that pocketbook. Mrs. Smith was holding up the bag, a proud smile on her face. I smiled back at her.

 

The next time Chick dropped Jennifer off—I believe he was playing in a golf tournament and Miss Betty was having a bridge party at her house—I took her into Aunt Clancy's garden. It was a lush, magical place, a hodgepodge of vegetables, herbs, and flowers. My aunt was off to the side, blending a mixture of smashed eggshells and dried blood, which she worked into the soil. She always said that her zucchini and tomatoes were so huge because they dined on animal matter. For blue hydrangeas, she hammered rusty nails under each plant. She left the pink ones alone. “My girls and boys,” she called them. The garden was a good place for a child. While Jennifer picked an okra pod, I wove a story about Mother Nature, how she sent the sun and rain, helping the little vegetables grow. Jennifer didn't seem to understand. “Mama Wen'wurf,” she said, holding out the okra.

“No, I'm your mama,” I said. “Can you say mama?”

Jennifer violently shook her head. I leaned down to kiss the child—her hair smelled of sunlight and shampoo—the Wentworths weren't using Breck. Jennifer wiggled away and reached for an ear of corn. Her small hands closed on the shuck and she pulled it down, exposing rough, curly silk, and the delicate kernels, each one aligned tightly but imperfectly.

“Ewww,” she said, pointing. I hunkered down and hugged her, but she shoved me away. Aunt Clancy's orange Persian darted out of a forsythia bush and scampered into the garden. When Pitty Pat saw me, he loped through the tomatoes, past the corn, over to me and rubbed against my legs. I scooped up the cat and cradled him.

“At least you love me,” I told Pitty, then I felt foolish for talking to a cat and put him down. Across the garden, Aunt Clancy's head popped up.

“Don't be embarrassed,” she called. “I talk to Pitty all the time. I call it chatting up the cat. He's a very good listener, you know. Better than husbands and daughters. Better than God. So keep on talking.”

 

You are Cordially Invited
to Share in the Christ Sanctioned Nuptial Bliss of
Miss June Mae Rinehart
and
Mr. Albert Franklin McDougal
September 22, 1973, at two o'clock in the afternoon
Garden of Prayer First Born Church of the Living God
Old Nashville Highway
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
Reception Immediately Following,
Jesus Is Lord Reception Hall

“What is ‘Christ sanctioned nuptial bliss'?” I asked Aunt Clancy, holding out the invitation.

“I don't know, and I hope I never find out,” she said. She walked out into the backyard and began picking up green walnuts that had fallen around the gazebo. It was early September, and the days were getting shorter. But they still felt summery, all hot and hazy at the edges, without a hint that cooler weather lay ahead. The combination of the heat with Mother and Daddy's Mexican divorce had put me on edge.

I walked next door and found my brother in his kitchen, surrounded by pieces of paper—when he'd opened the invitation, he'd ripped it in half, then tore each half into teeny pieces. When he saw me, he ran one hand through his wavy blond hair. It was shoulder-length and he wore it loose. If you didn't know he was an ex-Marine, you'd never guess.

“Our daddy is a bastard,” he said. His wife, Earlene, appeared in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a halter top. She held a tube of lipstick and applied it without even glancing into a mirror. She'd stolen my brother from his Vietnamese wife, Sloopy, and his son, Christopher. They were living in California near her relatives. Earlene patted her cottony hair and struck a pose, holding the lipstick like a weapon. I knew for a fact that she flirted with Mack's crew when she thought he wasn't looking.

“What's that's mess?” She frowned at the shredded paper.

“My daddy's getting married,” said Mack.

“Boy, he don't waste no time.” Earlene rolled her eyes, then she sidled up to Mack and slid her fingers under his T-shirt. “I'd hate to be the one to tell your mama.”

 

When Violet came home from Knoxville that evening, Aunt Clancy and I were in the kitchen, canning tomato-and-walnut chutney. Ball jars and lids were scattered along the counter. Steam floated over the black-speckled kettles. On top of the refrigerator, the little radio was tuned to NPR, and the announcer was giving a preview of upcoming selections. A minute later, the comforting sound of Debussy filled the room. Violet set down her suitcase and looked at the cork bulletin board. She squinted at the invitation. It was little more than a mimeographed sheet, blotched with purple ink.

Violet pursed her lips. “That's a hell of a name for a church. Obviously Miss June belongs to a cult.”

“No, it's just one of those off-brand religions,” I said, lifting the pot lid. Steam drifted up, clouding my vision for a moment.

“Are you going to boycott the grand event?” Violet asked me.

“I'd like to, but it wouldn't be right.” I replaced the lid and walked over to the cork board. I reached for the mimeographed paper, then I smoothed my hands over it.

“Right?” Violet's mouth opened wide, revealing silver fillings in her jaw teeth. “Who cares about right?”

Aunt Clancy reached for her tongs, then held them aloft, as if she was getting ready to pinch somebody.

“I could never figure out your father.” She waved the tongs. “He always seemed so…”

“Pussified?” Violet said helpfully.

“Exactly,” said Aunt Clancy. She lowered the tongs and went back to fishing out the jars. “But it's always those silent, cowardly types who do the cruelest things,” she added. “Serving papers to an institutionalized woman is about as low as a man can go.”

“The quicky divorce was worse,” I said and moved back to the stove.

“Is that even legal?” Violet yawned. “So you're definitely going to go?”

“Of course.” I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving a curved red stain. “He's my daddy, no matter if he's marrying a weirdo.”

“Well, I've seen her,” said Aunt Clancy. “But I wouldn't call her a weirdo, she's just old-fashioned-looking.”

“Uncle Albert always
did
have a tendency to select peculiar women,” said Violet.

“I hope you're not including me in his harem,” said Aunt Clancy, laying down the tongs.

“Why not?” Violet shrugged. “You were.”

“For two seconds.” Aunt Clancy laughed. “If that long.”

“And here we are, six years later, still feeling the repercussions.” Violet sighed. She picked up a tomato and balanced it on her palm.

“I wonder if my mother even remembers about you and Daddy,” I said.

“It's hard to say what Aunt Dorothy remembers,” said Violet, frowning at the tomato.

“It's those shock treatments. They wiped out her memory. Did you know the electrical impulses actually cause convulsions?” Clancy Jane's eyes widened.

I gazed back at her. Even though she was thirty-five years old—practically middle-aged—sometimes she looked young, with her small, turned-up nose and pouty lips. Her hair, which was freshly dyed by yours truly, was pinned into a loose bun, with a few tendrils hanging down. She wore blue granny glasses, which hid her beautiful eyes.

“Did I ever tell you about the girl I saw having convulsions?” Aunt Clancy asked me. “She was a little hippie girl on the Haight. She got hold of some bad acid. It happened in front of a head shop—her hands bent at the wrists, jerking under her chin, her eyes rolled back to the white. Her bladder let go and she peed on herself. A big puddle spread over the sidewalk.”

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“I don't know. An ambulance took her away, and I never saw her again.”

“Aunt Clancy, did you ever take acid?”

“You don't need to know every little thing I've done.” Aunt Clancy smiled. Then she looked at her daughter. “Even Violet doesn't know everything.”

Violet snorted.

“I'm famished.” Aunt Clancy opened a cabinet. “Where did I put the Cheese Nips?”

“Stop changing the subject,” said Violet.

“I will, if somebody'll change the radio station.” Aunt Clancy wrinkled her nose.

“But it's Debussy,” I said.

At this, Violet perked up. “You sure about that?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“And may I ask
how
you know?”

“The disc jockey just said it. You weren't listening.”

“WPLN has disc jockeys?”

“Quit needling me. I'm just trying to improve myself.”

“If you're looking for self-improvement, sweetie,” said Aunt Clancy, “it'll take more than Debussy.”

“I comprehend that,” I said, happy that I'd slipped in a three-syllable C-word.

Aunt Clancy gave Violet a sly look. “She's memorizing words from your big, old
Webster's
now. Last week it was Cs. This week she's doing the Ps.”

“What's today's word?” Violet smiled. “Prima donna? Princess?”

“Priapism,” I said. Then I stuck out my tongue. “You don't really know me at all.”

 

The church stood at the end of a country road. I parked my car and got out, listening to the cicadas shrilling from the weeds.
Run, Albert
, they seemed to be yelling.
It's not too late!
The church itself faced a weedy lot with a
NO DUMPING
sign nailed to a tree, but the order had been ignored. It was littered with a burned-up stove and a shredded La-Z-Boy recliner, the stuffing frothing out of the back. The sun glimmered on broken beer bottles, and a squalid smell rose up from a rusty metal canister. I wondered if my daddy was too smitten with June to notice the squalor.

I stepped toward the church, carrying a wedding gift in the crook of my arm. I had bought it at the hippie craft store on Constitution Street, a blue pottery bowl with dolphins swimming in a circle. It was signed on the bottom by a local artist. Violet said it was too bad I hadn't found a bowl with an old decrepit man standing next to a Jesus freak blonde. Mack hadn't bought our daddy a present. He was staying home with Earlene, watching a football game on TV.

The church was decorated with green balloons and streamers. I picked my way through them, following an old woman up the rickety steps. What this church needed was a Christian sugar daddy. Someone like Albert McDougal, ready to shower money on his bride's pet projects, such as whitewash and functional windows.