Mad Girls In Love (8 page)

“No, but there's birds,” said Dorothy.

“Excuse me?” Gussie's eyes widened.

“A mockingbird is tormenting me.” Dorothy lowered the umbrella and tucked it under her arm. Hoping to change the subject, she added, “I told the kids they could meet Violet.”

“Well, she's dead to the world,” said Gussie.

“Dead?”
Mack gasped.

“No, no,” Gussie said. “I just mean she's asleep.”

“Maybe y'all can come over for lunch,” Dorothy said. “I baked them a cake.”

“We'll see.” Gussie pursed her lips.

“Well, give us a call when you're ready.” Dorothy took Bitsy's hand and steered her across the porch. Mack trotted behind.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Gussie called. “Don't look so crestfallen, Dorothy.”

“You said not to yell,” Mack said.

Gussie placed one hand over her lips and nodded. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I broke my own rule, didn't I?”

And my heart, too, thought Dorothy.

The children ran across the yard, but Dorothy lagged behind. The mockingbird shot out of a tree and swooped down. It seemed to pause in midair, right above Dorothy's head. She tried to open the umbrella, but the bird was too fast. It pooped on her head, then soared up into a pine tree.

“This is it!” she cried and shook her fist. “I've had it with you.”

She hurried into her house, flung open the closet door, and reached for Albert's old BB gun. Then she headed back outside, gripping the gun and pumping the handle the way she'd seen Albert do. She paused in the drive-way, looking up into the trees, trying to find that damn bird. She didn't see it but she heard it. She crept over to her car, and the bird plummeted from the walnut tree. She lifted the gun and fired, but missed. The bird flew back to the walnut tree and perched on a branch, twisting its head and laughing at her. That twitter sounded just like Clancy Jane. Dorothy raised the gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The mockingbird fell out of the tree, and thudded onto the ground. A feather drifted in the air.

“
Well?
You had it coming!” Dorothy cried, her voice filled with despair. “I wouldn't of done it, but you egged me on.”

 

The migraine had begun the minute she'd shot that bird, and by the time she'd thrown it in the trash, she was seeing double. Despite the heat, the bedroom window was propped open so she could hear the children in the backyard. She turned on her side, admiring her gauzy Priscilla curtains stirring in the afternoon breeze, sending dappled light on the pale blue walls.

From beneath her window, she heard children's voices. She lifted the cold rag from her eyes and raised up on one elbow, squinting into the crape myrtles. “Violet, you can't be Tarzan,” Mack was saying. “
I'm
Tarzan. You can be Jane or Cheetah.”

“I'm Jane!” Bitsy said indignantly.

“I ain't no monkey!” Violet yelled. There were scuffling sounds and cries. Then someone was wailing. It wasn't one of Dorothy's babies. That high-pitched and nasal cry had to belong to Violet.

“I'm telling!” the voice shouted.

“Crybaby,” shouted Mack and Bitsy. Then she heard footsteps and a pummeling sound, followed by Violet's plaintive howl. Dorothy settled against her ruffled pillows and put the wet rag over her eyes.

Minutes later, her doorbell rang three times, in quick succession. Then someone began to beat on the door. Dorothy groaned and pulled herself up. Holding the rag to her forehead, she shuffled down the hall. When she opened the front door, Clancy Jane was standing on the porch, her face contorted. She was gripping Violet's hand. The little girl's face was splotched red and tears were spilling down her grubby cheeks. Sand was clotted in her hair. She looked up at Dorothy with brimming eyes and began caterwauling, with snot running out of her fat little nose. No one in their family had a nose like that, with an ugly bulb at the tip. All of the Hamiltons had straight, beautiful noses.

“Bitsy threw sand in Violet's eyes,” Clancy Jane said, her chest rising and falling.

“I'm sorry,” said Dorothy, rubbing her forehead.

“Is that
all
you can say?” Clancy Jane's voice shook. “Aren't you going to spank her?”

“Clancy Jane, please stop yelling.
I
didn't throw the sand. I've got a migraine headache and I just can't think straight.” She glanced next door, at her mother's screened-in porch. It was empty. She just hoped it stayed empty. Because if Miss Gussie got wind of this fight, she'd swoop down on Dorothy.

“She could've blinded Violet.” Clancy Jane grabbed her daughter's wide, tear-splotched face. “You can't let Bitsy go around attacking people.”

“She's never had before,” Dorothy said.

“Just look at her!” Clancy Jane kept squeezing Violet's face, distorting the features. “Why didn't you just get off your fat ass and stop the fight?”

Dorothy blinked. “Yes, I have trouble with my weight, but I don't appreciate you pointing it out. I don't want to fight. Just go back to Mother's.”

“No, I'm staying here. You don't own this land. Our mother
gave
it to you and Albert.”

“Yes, she did. It was a wedding gift.”

“At least
I've
never taken anything from our mother.”

Dorothy almost let that comment pass. It was a trap, a string-pulling trap; but she was still fuming over that remark about her being fat. However, the Bible said to turn the other cheek, and that was exactly what she planned to do. But she just couldn't hold back.

“You nearly broke Mother's heart when you ran off. She cried herself to sleep for two years. Anybody with a soul couldn't let months and years go by without one word to her family.”

“I wrote after Violet was born.” A tear dripped off Clancy Jane's chin.

“And didn't bother to give a return address,” Dorothy said.

“I moved!”

“You could've written another postcard.”

“Stamps cost money!”

Dorothy glanced down at her sister's feet and thought,
so do white sling-back shoes.
Then she glanced at Violet. The hem had come loose from the child's miles-too-big dress. “Anyway, you could have picked up the phone and placed a collect call.”

“I didn't have a phone.” Clancy Jane wiped her eyes.

“Let's drop this. I don't want to fight.” Dorothy nodded at Violet. The child was rubbing her eyes. She looked so pitiful that Dorothy added, “And don't you worry, I will punish Bitsy. She can be too big for her britches. In fact, she's outgrown most of her clothes. Why don't we bring Violet inside and see if they fit?”

“I don't want your hand-me-downs!” Clancy Jane cried. “But then I guess you don't know any better than to offer them. You're used to getting the dregs, aren't you?”

“I just meant—”

“I don't care what you meant.”

“I was hoping the children could get to know each other,” Dorothy said.

“And look what happened!” Clancy Jane shook her head, the blonder-than-blond hair whipping back and forth. She snatched Violet's hand. “Come on, baby. We're going back to New Orleans.”

She towed the child across the yard, through a rustling tunnel of forsythias, then they bustled onto Gussie's screened-in porch and into the house. Dorothy rubbed her forehead, wondering how she could smooth this over. She'd be in the wrong—when it came to Clancy Jane, Dorothy had always been the villain. Gussie's screen door opened. Clancy Jane and Violet ran down the steps, clutching paper sacks with nightgowns dangling out. Miss Gussie hurried after them, calling, “What's the matter? Talk to me!”

Clancy Jane turned and pointed at Dorothy. Then she shook her head. Lord, what was she saying? Clancy Jane and Violet climbed into their car and backed out of the driveway, the tires spinning in the gravel.

“Please don't go!” Gussie cried. But it was too late. They were gone. Gravel dust was hanging in the air. Gussie jammed her hands into her apron pockets and marched over to Dorothy's side of the yard. “Why did you pick a fight?” she cried, stepping close to her daughter. Tears ran down Gussie's face, leaving streaks in her powder. “She said you were mean to her.”

“The kids had a little tiff. And to make up for it, I just tried to give Violet some of Bitsy's old clothes.”

“And did you?” Gussie's eyes flashed.

“Clancy Jane wouldn't take them. She got furious—”

“I don't believe it. Clancy doesn't have an ungrateful bone in her body.”

“Well, she was insulted. But it's not a disgrace to get hand-me-downs,” Dorothy said, then mentally added,
I've been getting them all my life.

“It was probably the way you said it. Oh, I know how you can be, Dorothy. You've always hated your sister. And now she's gone. I may never see her or Violet again.”

Dorothy's eyes filled. She didn't want to be Gussie's favorite, but it would be nice to put her head on her mother's shoulder.

Gussie wiped her eyes, then turned abruptly and headed back to her house.

“I'm sorry,” Dorothy called. “Really and truly, I'm sorry.”

Without turning around, Gussie lifted one hand and flipped it. She hurried onto her screened porch and slammed the door. Gravel dust floated between the two yards. Dorothy watched it float up into the trees, leaving a gritty film on everything it touched.

THE CRYSTAL FALLS
DEMOCRAT
AND FALLS COUNTY NEWS
Vol. 99 * No. 82
Since 1888

POLICE SEARCH FOR MISSING TOT
Statewide Alert Issued for the Teenaged Mother

 

A LETTER FROM DOROTHY MCDOUGAL

It was my break, and Alice Ann and I were standing in the alley, getting some air and watching the shucker open oysters. Empty shells lay scattered on the ground. I'd been working here three weeks, and I'd learned that his name was Daniel. I didn't think he had a crush on me, but Alice Ann swore that he did. I just hoped she was wrong. When he opened oysters, his fleur-de-lis tattoo bulged. It looked homemade. I wondered if he'd served time in a penitentiary. The alley was cool, thanks to the shady banana trees that grew along the fence. The back door to the restaurant was propped open with a brick, and the smell of sauteed onions drifted out. From a transistor radio, an announcer read off the midmorning news with a lisping twang.
Henry Kissinger returned to Washington and briefed President Nixon on his eleven-day Asian tour…and in Munich the U.S. Olympic basketball team lost to the Soviets 51–50 in a controversial gold-medal match. The U.S. protested to no avail.

The news was followed by commercials for Budweiser. I leaned against a crate and watched the shucker's muscles move, the fleur-de-lis twitching like a spider. Then I glanced into the kitchen and waved to the head chef, Joe, who wore a high, white chef's hat and kept a stubby cigar pinched between his teeth. The assistant chef, Manny, was chopping celery, wiping his face on his shoulder, and the new chef, Èmile, was shoving braided loaves into the ovens; Mrs. Bianchi, the owner, was sitting in her glassed-in office, a glass of tea beside her elbow. “Jesus,” Manny said. “These onions are putting my eyes out.”

I turned, blinking at a rusted car that skidded in the shells. It lurched to a stop and a pregnant woman climbed out, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks. She took a step forward, then reached into a purse, and pulled out a gun. First thing, she turned to me. A growl rose up in her throat and she pointed the gun at my head.

“You the one who been seeing my Danny?” The gun wobbled in her pudgy hands. Her wedding ring was fastened to her blouse with a diaper pin. It looked too small for her finger.

“I have not!” I cried.

“Ramona? Sweetheart?” The shucker grinned at his wife. “I been true to you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face contorted. “Liar, liar, LIAR!” Two purple veins throbbed on her forehead. “Why didn't you come home last night? I'll tell you why, because you was with
her
. And you know what I did? I lay up in our trailer, begging the Lord to let me die. That's right, Danny. Your pregnant wife, sweating in that trailer, waiting for God to strike her dead. And your little baby, too, Danny. Think about
that
for a goddamn minute. Meanwhile, you're having sex with a blonde. But I'm calm now. I see the light. I don't want to die, Danny. I want
her
to die.”

Ramona squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. The top of a banana tree exploded. The green leaves shattered, pouring down on my head and shoulders. Alice Ann screamed and rolled into a ball.

“You no good slut!” Ramona yelped and took aim again.

“Don't shoot the child!” I screamed. “Run, Alice Ann!”

The shucker was creeping up behind Ramona. She saw him and tried to hit him with the butt of her gun. The commotion brought both chefs charging out the back door.

“Hey!” Joe yelled. Then he lunged ahead, rushing toward Ramona. She and the shucker were struggling, swaying back and forth. Before Joe could reach them, the gun fired again. I heard something whine past my ear. Then I felt hot pain. My hand flew up to my throat. My fingers came back tipped in red.

“Oh my
God!”
I said. “I'm hit!
”

Ramona looked at the gun, then at me. The shucker jerked the gun from her swollen hands. “You stupid bitch!” he yelled, and a few drops of saliva hit her in the face. She made a fist, hit his shoulder. Joe rushed over to me, his big hands on my arm. “Let me see, Lillian. Come on, take your hand away. Let Joe see.”

“Where's Alice Ann?” I said, pulling away from Joe, trying to find the child. Alice Ann was still crouched beside the banana tree. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but her lips seemed paralyzed.

“She's okay,” said Joe. “She's just scared is all.”

“Thank God,” I said, closing my eyes. “Thank God.”

“And you gonna be okay, too,” Joe said. “The bullet grazed you. It's just a scratch is all, just a scratch.” He took off his apron, pressed it to the wound, then glared at Ramona. “You coulda killed her!”

“Too bad I didn't!” Ramona tossed her head.

“It's a damn good thing you didn't, lady. Being pregnant won't keep you out of jail.” Joe put one hairy arm around Alice Ann, dragging her over to me.

The shucker tucked the gun into his belt. His eyes flitted over to me. “I'm sorry about this. I don't know why she thought I was banging you.”

“Because you was!” Ramona's face flooded with color. She raised her leg and kicked him square in the testicles. He screamed, then cupped his hands over his groin and dropped to one knee. Mrs. Bianchi shoved past the cooks and dishwashers who had gathered in the doorway to watch. She looked at the shucker, then she turned her gaze on me.

“Goddamn ruffians,” she said through her teeth. “Danny, you're nothing but a swamp bug. Get off my property this instant. You, Blondie, you get out of here, too.” She waved a dismissive hand at me, then nodded at Manny. “The rest of you, go back inside. We got a restaurant to run.”

“But Mrs. Bianchi,” I said. “This isn't my fault—”

“I don't want to hear it.” The old woman made a fist and struck her palm. “You're fired. Get out of here or I'm calling the police.”

Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Hold pressure on that apron till the bleeding stops.”

“In this kitchen this second!” yelled Mrs. Bianchi, pointing at the door.

“Go on,” I said, pushing Joe with my elbow. “Don't get fired because of me.”

“Hell, she won't fire me,” he growled, but he shuffled away, avoiding Mrs. Bianchi's eyes. The cooks filed into the restaurant after him. Mrs. Bianchi spat on the ground, then closed the door.

Ramona glanced down at her husband, who was curled up at her feet. She sighed, rubbing her belly with the tips of her fingers. Then she cut her eyes at me. “First you steal my man, now you get him fired. I ought to shoot you between the eyes. You and your little bastard child.”

“I'm
not
a bastard!” Alice Ann screamed.

“Oh, yeah?” Ramona tossed her head, snorted. “Well, that's good you got a daddy 'cause you gonna need him. Especially after I kill your mama. That's right, you little pussy bitches. Stare me down, but it won't change your future. One night, you gone wake up and find a knife to your throat.”

“Don't listen to her,” I said, pulling Alice Ann down the alley. We walked so fast our shoes stirred up a ridge of shell dust. My neck was hurting.

“I know a man, he just got out of Parchman,” Ramona shouted. “He'll cut your hearts out. You and your girl's. Feed you both to the fishes!”

“What's Parchman?” Alice Ann gripped the edge of my apron, twisting it in her fingers. I was trying hard not to cry, but I could feel pressure behind my eyes.

“A prison,” I said. “But don't worry. It's nowhere near Point Minette.”

“I don't care. I'm scared. If that woman knows a bad man…” Alice Ann's throat worked up and down. She wiped her eyes with dirty hands.

“She doesn't know anybody like that,” I said, reaching out with my free hand to pat the child's shoulder. My fingers were bloody. Alice Ann squirmed away.

“But what if she does?” Alice Ann looked up into my eyes. From the end of the alley, Ramona was still shrieking about pussy women getting their just deserts.

We slipped through the azalea hedge and got into the car. I pulled the apron off my wound and looked at it. My blood was bright red, and it hurt my eyes to look at it.

“It's not even suppertime, and you've already lost your job.” Alice Ann crossed her arms. “Just take me back to Memphis. It may be boring, but at least nobody's trying to kill Eunice.”

I ignored her and drove three blocks, then I angled the car down Oak Street. The boardinghouse was straight ahead and the widows were sitting in green metal chairs under the trees, sipping drinks. Mrs. Finch held Jennifer in her lap, letting her play with plastic keys, each one a soft, pastel color.

“I mean it,” Alice Ann said. “Take me back to Eunice
right now
.”

“I can't leave town,” I said. “Mrs. Bianchi still owes me a paycheck. We need that money. If you're scared, I'll push the dresser in front of the door.”

“That won't stop them.” Alice Ann crossed her arms, glaring at me.

“There
is
no them,” I said. “That woman was lying.”

“I don't care. If you don't take me back to Memphis, I'll call the police. I'll tell them your real name. I'll say you kidnapped me.”

“Can we discuss this later?” I could see the old ladies gazing toward the car, sipping their drinks. “I need to wipe off the blood. We don't want Mrs. Finch and her boarders to get excited.”

Alice Ann bolted from the car and ran up the back staircase. I glanced in the rearview mirror, assessing the damage to my neck. It was already trying to form a scab. One more inch, and I'd have been dead. I shuddered and stuffed the apron into my bag. Then I got out of the car. As I walked across the yard, I waved nonchalantly to the widows and sped up the stairs. When I opened the French door, I found Alice Ann throwing the thrift shop clothes I'd bought into paper sacks.

“Honey, don't be scared,” I said. “That woman's not dangerous.”

“Just leave me alone. I want my Eunice. I'm h-homesick.”

“Let's get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow—”

“No, no!” Alice Ann stamped her foot. “We're leaving now, or I'm calling the police.”

“Let me call Eunice.”

“You are driving me home, and that's that.” Without looking at me, Alice Ann grabbed two sacks and ran out of the room. Her footsteps pounded on the staircase. I walked out onto the veranda and looked down into the yard, watching the child run over to the Cadillac. I thought about calling her bluff. I didn't believe she would really go to the police.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Finch called to Alice Ann, rising from her chair, the keys tinkling in Jennifer's hands. The other women were huddled together, watching the girl throw the sacks into the backseat.

“My grandmother died,” answered Alice Ann in a clear, calm voice. “We have to leave right this instant.”

“Oh, my stars,” said Mrs. Finch, patting Jennifer's legs. “Are y'all leaving right now?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Alice Ann and glared up at me.

Suddenly I knew that she was fully capable of calling the police and stirring up a world of trouble. I had no choice but to drive the little psycho back to Memphis and pray that I never laid eyes on her again.

“Well, will y'all be back?” Mrs. Finch's forehead was wrinkled.

“No telling.” Alice Ann shrugged.

“Be careful driving,” called Mrs. Finch. “The road's full of maniacs these days.”

I walked down the stairs, toward the old ladies. Alice Ann charged up past me. “You better pack your stuff,” she whispered. I walked over to Mrs. Finch and lifted the baby into my arms. I drew in a deep breath. “I'm just so sorry,” I said.

“Well, that's perfectly all right,” said Mrs. Finch, glancing up at my neck. The other widows leaned forward and stared.

“Thank you for watching Jennifer. You've been awfully kind to babysit her and Alice Ann.”

“She's a little angel,” said Mrs. Finch. “I was proud to watch her. Now y'all be careful. Where is it that y'all are driving to?”

“Georgia,” Alice Ann said, suddenly appearing behind me. She balanced the baby's car seat in her arms. She looked at me. “I've got your stuff all packed.”

“That Alice Ann's like a miniature adult, isn't she?” said one of the boarders.

“Is her father alive?” asked another.

“No,” I said, grateful that I didn't have to lie. I hugged Jennifer to my chest. From the corner of my eye, I saw Alice Ann running back up to our purple room. I was grateful that the widows hadn't commented about my bloody neck.

I hurried over to the Cadillac. The car seat was sitting in the gravel. I leaned over and strapped Jennifer in, then I lifted the seat. From the corner of my eye, I saw Alice Ann running down the steps, red pigtails flying. On the last riser, she tripped, and a sack of clothes went flying into the air.

The old women cried out. Alice Ann landed and didn't move. She lay motionless in the grass. I set the car seat on the roof of the Cadillac and hurried over to her. Squatting down, I whispered, “Are you hurt?”

“It doesn't matter.” Alice Ann sat up, rubbing her scraped knee. Then she snatched up the sack, stuffed her underwear inside, and hobbled toward the car. She climbed into the front seat and began honking the horn. I picked up a blue shirt. The old ladies were watching, inclining their grizzled heads and whispering.

Alice Ann honked the horn again. Then she began to scream. I ran to the car, tossing the blue shirt onto the seat, next to my pocketbook, which resembled a butcher's bag. “Let's go!” Alice Ann shrieked.

My hand trembled as I stuck the key into the ignition. I started to back out of the driveway, but the widow women were scrambling out of their chairs, waving frantically. Alice Ann stood up on her knees and watched. Mrs. Finch was shouting, but I couldn't hear what she was saying.

“Something's wrong,” I said, tapping the brake.

“No, it's not,” screamed Alice Ann. She made a fist and beat it against the seat, denting the leather. Her cheeks reddened, and her eyes began to glow. “They're just stupid old ladies. Keep driving or I'll tell them everything.”