Mad Girls In Love (30 page)

Mack and Earlene invited Aunt Clancy, Byron, and me to go down to Center Hill Lake on the July Fourth, and we were about to step out the door when the phone rang. Aunt Clancy told Byron to ignore it, but, thinking it might be the hospital, he picked it up. It was Chick. Apparently he and Miss Betty were going to a fancy party at the country club, and they couldn't find a babysitter for Jennifer. Byron told him that we'd be more than happy to take her—talk about understatement—but we were going to the lake for the day and was it okay with them if Jennifer came with us. Chick had to confer with Miss Betty. After a minute, he said it was fine.

When we got to the lake, Earlene barged up to a family of five and asked if she could borrow a life preserver. The family seemed a little stunned, but they gave the jacket to her. I was going to put Jennifer into her swimsuit but when I looked in the diaper bag Chick had left us, which was actually a big, drawstring Vuitton purse, I saw they hadn't packed one, just outfits. Earlene wanted to borrow one from the family, but we decided just to improvise, so we took off Jennifer's shorts and let her swim in her panties and the big life preserver. She looked adorable, like a sea nymph, and had the best time.

Before we started for home, I returned the life jacket. I took off Jennifer's wet panties, stuck them in a plastic sandwich bag in the Vuitton, and put her into the dry shorts. She was tired out and slept all the way back home. Then, about fifteen minutes after Chick picked Jennifer and her bag up, Miss Betty telephoned, screaming that only a fiend would send a child home without panties, and that she was calling the police. Aunt Clancy tried to explain but Miss Betty wouldn't listen. She kept calling me hateful names, nothing unusual, but she even implied that Byron and Mack might be perverts. Now the Wentworths have cut off the visits again, but everyone says that won't last long because we're the only babysitters who'll put up with them.

A NOTE FROM VIOLET

It was Halloween, and Violet was stuck in the middle of a smoke-filled room in Midtown. It was a stupid costume party, but she'd refused to dress up. Her date was sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for his turn at the bong. He wore a clown suit. What a loser. She grabbed her Army surplus jacket and wandered outside, jamming her hands into her pockets. On her way out the door, she stumbled against a tall, sallow-faced guy, who caught her elbow.

“I'm sorry, did I trip you?” he asked.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

He let go of her elbow and stepped backward. Beneath the porch light, Violet noticed that he had straight brown hair, and quite a few cowlicks. He wasn't wearing a costume, either.

“I just can't take all that smoke,” she said, gesturing at the door.

“Me, either.” He looked at Violet and blushed. “I'm not much of a party animal. In fact, I was just leaving.”

“What's your name?”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” He extended his hand. “George Atherton. I'm a grad student at Memphis State. I'm writing a thesis on Hardy.”

“Violet Jones,” she said, shaking his hand. “I'm a first-year med student.”

Someone inside the house yelled, “Trick-or-treat!” Violet noticed that George had gorgeous brown eyes and long lashes, like a cartoon giraffe. His face was round, and he had a rash on his chin, but she loved his shy expression. She started to ask how old he was, then someone burst out the door, yelling, “Happy Halloween, you ghouls!” Inside the house, someone tossed a handful of Hershey's kisses. She saw the candy fall around her date, who was kissing a petite blonde in a metallic miniskirt, with gauzy fairy wings somehow affixed to her shoulders.

“Do you have a car?” Violet grabbed George's arm.

“Sure.” He nodded. “Do you need a ride home?”

“How about if we go to your place? That is, if you have a place.”

“Yes, but—”

“Come on.” Violet took his hand and dragged him down the porch.

He lived only a few blocks away, and when he opened his apartment door, an Irish setter bounded down the hall and jumped up on him. “Down, Beau!” he said. “Hey, where's your manners? We've got a guest. Say hello to, er, what was your name again?”

“Violet.”

“Ah.” George shuffled his feet, and his face turned red. “Would you like a late-night brunch?”

“Great.” Violet followed him into the kitchen and sat on the counter.

“Do you like your eggs scrambled or fried?” he asked.

“Both,” Violet said, amused. “I was raised by a vegan, so naturally I'll eat anything. I've never met a man who can cook—except Zach, of course.”

“Zach?” With one hand, he broke eggs into a bowl.

“He and my mother own a café in Crystal Falls.”

“Ah.”

“You're a man of few words, George.”

“Yes.”

While he scrambled their eggs, Violet wandered around his apartment. It was cluttered, but she liked it, lots of books, threadbare Persian rug, frayed velvet chairs with goose-down cushions, and an old planter's desk, crammed with papers. She turned a corner and found herself back in the kitchen. During her absence, George had cracked open the long kitchen window, and delicious smells wafted over from Justine's Restaurant across the street. The dog loped to the window and pressed his nose through the crack, sniffing hard.

“It must be difficult living next to Justine's,” Violet said. “Do you like French food?”

“I've never really had any.”

“Me, either. Also, I never had a dog,” Violet said, raking her fingers through the setter's extravagant red coat. His tail whipped back and forth against her legs. She leaned over and patted his head. “I bet you pant over all the girls, don't you, Beau?”

“Actually, you're the first,” George said and two pink blotches appeared on his cheeks.

After breakfast—which was very good—he drove her home without so much as a kiss on the cheek. Violet promptly forgot about him until a week later, when he invited her to an M.S.U. basketball game. After they got back to his place, Violet curled up on the sofa and began playing with the dog. George sat across the room in one of the velvet chairs, his eyes shifting back and forth. Violet got up, walked over to the chair, and sat down in his lap. She leaned over, her dark hair falling between them, and kissed him. His lips were clamped together, and she tried to pry them apart with her tongue. With one hand she started unbuttoning her blouse. “I like you and you like me. So let's go to bed,” she said between kisses.

“I'd rather we didn't.”

“Why not?”

He started to breathe fast. “Violet, I'm—” He broke off. Then he licked his lips and started over. “I'm not a cosmopolitan man.”

“But you read Hardy,” she said. A smile started on her lips but it was instantly repressed.

“I don't date a lot. In fact, I don't date at all.”

“Never?”

“No.”

“Hey, you need Masters and Johnson, not me.” Her hands trembled as she started to rebutton her blouse. He wasn't attracted to her. That was it. She slid off his lap.

“Yes, I probably do.” He stood and began to pace, glancing back at her periodically. He seemed to be arriving at some sort of decision. “I don't know how to tell you this, but—”

“What?” Violet tried to appear calm, but horrific thoughts were filling her mind. Deformity. Arrested development. Undescended testicles. She frowned, trying to remember what the
Merck Manual
said about genital malformations.
If he says hermaphrodism,
she thought,
I want to see proof.

“Well, see, I'm—” His round face seemed to swell.

“Just
say
it, George. I'm a medical student. It can't be that bad.”

“I've never been with a woman.”

Violet exhaled. She looked down at the floor, then back at George. “Is that all?”

“Isn't that enough?”

“We've got to fix this immediately.” She walked toward his bedroom, flinging off her clothes as she went. She found a candle on the dresser and lit it. George was standing in the doorway, his hands pressed against the frame. The flickering light had tinted the air sepia, and she felt as if she were posing in a vintage photograph.
Couple Contemplating Intercourse
would be a fitting title.

“You're pretty,” he whispered, then he gave her a bashful smile.

“Have you ever seen a naked woman before, George?” Violet cupped her breasts in her hands, trying to distract him from the scars on her buttocks. They weren't that bad but she didn't want to scare him.

“In movies but n-not in real life,” he said.

She walked over and started unbuttoning him. He stepped obediently out of his jeans and boxers, then followed her over to the bed. It was walnut, with a high, carved headboard. The sheets felt crisp in Violet's hands, and smelled faintly of detergent. They lay there for several minutes, staring at each other. She felt his breath on her face. A virgin, she thought. This was going to be so cool. She reached for his hand and put it on her breast. He shuddered. Then she leaned over and began kissing him. She felt him tremble. Moving her hand down, she rubbed the inside of his thighs. When she felt his erection brush against her arm, she pulled him on top of her.

“Will you, ah, can you…oh, shit. “ He grimaced, then collapsed, gasping for air. After a moment, he kissed her hair and whispered, “Sorry. I just couldn't wait.”

“That's understandable,” Violet said, glancing over at the night table. She wondered if he had any Kleenex.

“It is?” he asked in an incredulous voice.

“Hey, it's your first time. We'll keep trying until you get it right.”

He drew back, his eyes rounded. “You think I ever will?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, pulling him back down. “Absolutely.”

Clancy Jane was sitting at the harvest table, writing a letter, when she heard a car roll up the driveway. She glanced up from her notepad and saw Zach Lombard's blue Toyota. He tooted his horn. Clancy Jane hurried to the kitchen door, opened the screen, and stepped out onto the porch. In the distance, thunder crackled.

“Hope I'm not disturbing you,” Zach said, climbing out of his car. The wind tossed his ponytail, which fell midway down his back. He had studied Buddhism, and recently he'd lent her his favorite book,
The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches
, but she hadn't found the time to read it. She vowed to start it tonight. Maybe it would offer insight into his psyche.

“Not at all,” she said.

“I've been visiting the Mennonites. I couldn't wait to show you the cool things I bought.”

“You went by yourself?” Clancy Jane said, feeling a pang. She'd asked him repeatedly if she could tag along on his foraging expeditions. To hide her disappointment, she peered through the Toyota's windows at the overflowing boxes.

Instead of answering, he reached into the backseat, pulling out one of the boxes. “And it seems that I've returned none too soon. It's getting ready to storm.”

“So, what'd you get?”

“Preserves. Strawberry, peach, plum, and apple jelly.”

“Wow,” she said, hoping she sounded enthusiastic. He headed toward the door and she propped open the screen as Zach passed through.

“But this box isn't for the café,” he said, setting it on the counter. “It's for you.”

“Why, how sweet of you.” She smiled. “Stay and have a cup of tea. I want to hear about the Mennonites.”

He glanced at his watch, then out at the sky. The wind was stirring the trees, and a few dried maple leaves drifted down onto the pavement. “I better not.”

“I've got some tea leaves from Northern California,” she said.

“They grow tea in California?” Zach smiled.

“No, it's Assam. My friend Sunny sent it,” Clancy Jane said, filling the kettle with water. “She weaves lovely blankets on the Mendicino Coast. A boutique sells them for outrageous prices.”

Outside, it began to rain. Clancy Jane set the kettle on a burner, switched the knob to high, then walked over to the cabinet. She paused to turn on the radio. Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 were singing “Fool on the Hill.” Not her idea of seduction music, but it did bring back 1968. As she pulled out mugs, she silently blessed the downpour, and the empty house.

“I wish we could serve afternoon tea at the café,” Zack said. “Just the classics, of course. Scones, crumpets, lemon curd. Although I don't know where we'd get clotted cream.”

“A stodgy English tea? That's so unlike you.”

Zach didn't answer. His attention had shifted, and he was staring out the back door, as if mesmerized by the storm. Outside, water puddled in the driveway, filling up the cracks in the stone path. From the stove, the kettle whistled, and Zach glanced over his shoulder.

“I really shouldn't stay,” he said. “I should get home.”

“But you'll get soaked.” Clancy Jane set down the tea tin.

“I'll make a run for it.” Zach pulled up his collar. He started toward the door and she impulsively grabbed his arm.

“Don't go,” she said. She looked up into his eyes. Behind her, the kettle was screaming, but she ignored it. One step closer, she thought, and he'll be within kissing range. She wanted to do more than kiss. He had to know it, she thought.

His eyes widened for a moment, as if she had pinched him. Then he stepped back.
He's appalled,
Clancy Jane thought. He held up both hands as if deflecting a blow. “I'm a big boy,” he said. “A little rain won't hurt me. You worry too much.”

Big boy?
This
was how he saw her—a nurturing, let-me-take-care-of- you sort of woman. She wasn't motherly—look how she'd botched it with Violet. It occurred to her that he was pretending. Maybe that was the Buddhist way. Her way was the fool's way. Now she couldn't even love him from afar, because, no matter how he was acting, he knew what was in her heart, and he was embarrassed for her. If only she could take it back, if only she hadn't been so grabby; but God, she hadn't been able to help herself.

“I have to go,” he said and dashed out the door. The rain beat hard against his shirt. He leaped over a puddle, then ducked into his car. The Toyota swung around, leaving tire tracks in the damp grass, then sped down the hill, into the street, and off into the downpour.

 

The first week in December, Byron went to a medical conference in Kansas City, and when he returned, he felt as if he'd come back to someone else's house. First, he walked toward the back door and glanced up for the wind chimes; they were gone. Instead he saw several copper-eyed cats sitting in the trees. They gazed down at him as if he might be edible. The largest meowed. Byron wondered if Pitty Pat, Clancy's elderly Persian, had somehow replicated himself.

Byron hurried into the kitchen and started to holler for Clancy Jane, but stopped and set down his suitcase. He didn't recognize the room. Before he'd left, the kitchen had been pleasantly jumbled with plants and polka-dotted crockery. The Welsh cupboard had been packed with platters, dishes, and covered bowls, with mail tucked behind saucers, but in his absence, everything had disappeared but eight polka-dotted dinner plates. The counters were bare except for the radio. Heart was singing “Barracuda.” Byron rubbed his eyes. Over by the sink, a crooked line of water bugs moved to the music, winding their way across the counter.

He walked into the hall, into the living room. Clancy Jane was lying on the sofa, a red afghan tucked around her, reading a hardback, a new translation of the Tao Te-Ching
.
Stacked beside her on the floor were
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
and
Large Sutra on Perfect Wisdom
. She looked at Byron over the book. “Hey, back already?”

“I'm thrilled to see you, too.”

“How was Kansas City?”

“Fine. But what happened here?” He glanced around the room. All the pictures had been taken down, leaving nail holes in the Sheetrock. The matchstick blinds were gone, and through the windows, he could see early evening gathering under the trees. “Where are your wind chimes? And what happened in the kitchen?” He pointed over his shoulder. “Are you getting ready to redecorate?”

“No, I just got sick of the clutter.” She set down the book and sat up, brushing her hair from her face. “Bitsy helped me box up everything.”

“I liked it. It was pretty.”

“We had too many possessions, Byron. Too much to worry about. Too much upkeep. So I pared down.”

“Had?” Byron asked. “Did you say had?”

“I took a few things to Goodwill.”

“Without consulting me? It's human nature to develop attachments to objects.” He started to sit down, but a cat screeched and leaped over his shoulder, digging its claws into his shirt. He whirled around. “What the hell?”

“That's Jellybean,” said Clancy Jane. “Someone dumped her off while you were gone.”

“What about the cats outside, the ones in the trees? Do they have names?”

“Stella, Moksha, and Calcutta,” she said.

“And where's Pitty Pat?”

“Hiding. He doesn't like the new people.”

“Neither do I. Call the animal shelter.”

“That's a death sentence.”

“But you just said you wanted to pare down. If dishes are too much responsibility, what the hell are these cats?”

“Dishes are inanimate objects, Byron. These cats might have been humans in another life. I was just reading about something called samsara. In Sanskrit that means wandering from one life to the next. I believe Jellybean and the others might be doing that.”

“You could have waited till I got back. I live here, too, you know.” Byron started to sit down again, but he froze. The cushion was missing. He eased into the hollowed-out space.

“I didn't think you'd mind.” Clancy Jane shrugged.

“Did Zach have anything to do with this?”

“Well, he let me borrow these books. We haven't discussed anything yet.”

“But you will. Right?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she reached down and picked up Jellybean, touching her nose to the cat's nose. “Are you hungry, girl? Shall I pour you a saucer of milk?”

“What about me?” Byron cried. “I'm starved.”

The next morning, Clancy Jane caught Byron spraying the kitchen with Raid. She ran over and knocked the can from his grasp. “Murderer!” she yelled.

“What's your problem?”

“Stop killing the ants!” She rushed over to the counter and pointed to an ant that was desperately trying to reach a crack in the Formica. “This could be a transmigrating soul, not just a bug crawling on the counter.”

“Oh, fuck,” he said.

“What we do in this life has a bearing on the next.”

“Next what?”

“Life! Your next life. This ant could be your grandmother.”

“Maybe it's just a bug, Clancy Jane.”

 

Three days later, Byron broke out in welts and began sneezing. “If you don't get rid of those cats, I'll have to move out,” Byron said, blowing his nose into a Kleenex. The trash can was filled with wadded-up tissues. “I've already spoken to an allergist. He says we should find homes for these cats.”

“You probably just have a cold.” Clancy Jane picked up a knife and began viciously chopping green onions.

“I can't breathe,” Byron said. “You're killing me.”

“Maybe you're allergic to onions, not cats.”

“You don't understand, I'm suffering.”

“No,
you
don't understand.” She stopped chopping and waved the knife. “Those cats are involved in the cycle of rebirth. I am
not
getting rid of them. The humane shelter would kill them. And if I set them loose, they might get hit by a truck or bitten by a dog. It's bad karma.”

“Fuck karma. I want those goddamn cats out of here.”

“This isn't about allergies.” She narrowed her eyes. “First, you hated my café, and now it's cats. Why can't I have a pet?”

“Pets, Clancy Jane. P-e-t-s.”

“I can spell.”

“You had Pitty Pat, and I didn't complain. But a fucking pride is something else.”

“So, this is about your pride?” Clancy Jane yelled.

“I'm referring to a pride of lions.” Byron shook his head. “As in pack of dogs, school of fish? Or is that over your head?”

“Oh,” she said, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, “
that
kind of pride.”

“Right,” Byron said. “Like you knew.”

A TAPED MESSAGE TO ROSALYN CARTER