Mad Girls In Love (14 page)

Inside, the heat was almost visible, causing distant objects, like the plastic cross over the altar, to wave and shimmer. Green crepe paper bows adorned every pew, and long curly strands hung from the ceiling. From the altar several dozen candles flickered, giving off a chemical stink. I breathed in the sickening odors of citronella, perfume, and perspiration. A baby wailed, but its mother made no effort to soothe it. A woman with crimped black hair took my gift, then gingerly set it on a table that was already sagging with packages. An usher with a ducktail hairdo popped out of a corner and offered his arm. “Bride's side or the groom's?” he asked.

The bride's side was overflowing, and I suspected that more than a few out-of-towners had been slipped into the groom's pews. As the usher led me down the aisle, I didn't recognize anyone except for Mr. Noonan from the Lion's Club. The back of his neck was wreathed in sweat, beads of perspiration trapped in the webs and wrinkles, seeping into his collar. Everyone looked somber, as if they were waiting for a tetanus shot rather than a wedding. Finally a chubby pianist in a wide green hat emerged from a side door. She sat down on the spindly bench, making the wood creak. Her fat fingers stabbed against the ivory keys and she began playing a clumsy version of “Promise Me.” I thought of my first wedding to Claude. Big, fancy weddings didn't mean a thing, they just wasted money. If I ever fell in love again—and I didn't plan on it—I would elope.

Daddy emerged from a door and he took his place in front of the altar. He was joined by his best man, who bore a strong resemblance to June Rinehart: the same prominent teeth and wide-set, bugged eyes and fuzzy blond hair. I wondered if he was June's brother. Daddy and the man wore matching green suits, with green carnations pinned to their lapels.

The processional took an eternity: seven bridesmaids in kelly green gowns, clutching Bibles rather than bouquets; seven groomsmen, looking uncomfortable in their pale green polyester suits, which bore the telltale marks of Rit Dye. Next came a little redheaded ring bearer, dressed up like an elf. He seemed to be stricken with stage fright. His embarrassed mother got up and dragged the poor child up the aisle. The flower girl suffered from no such affliction. She had long black sausage curls and they bobbed up and down as she turned cartwheels down the aisle, spilling daisies and showing off emerald ruffled pantaloons. Finally an elderly couple, presumably the bride's grandparents, lurched down the aisle, clutching his 'n' her walkers. They were followed by the mother of the bride, who, escorted by an usher, waddled up to the front in an ice-green chiffon muumuu, which also looked homemade. A corsage was pinned to her dress. She was a tall, muscular woman, built like an armored tank, and the wooden floor groaned beneath her large feet.

Daddy turned, his eyes trained on the back of the church. His bride stood at the end of the aisle on the arm of her daddy, a bowlegged man with a tuft of white hair and black eyeglasses. As the music played, the duo lurched forward. June's gown stirred up the daisies. Her dress was pretty, ivory silk-satin with a high virginal neckline. Behind the tulle veil, I caught a glimpse of June's own black-framed glasses and little scrunched-up nose. The pianist stepped up her rhythm, and June moved a bit faster, as if towing her father. She had the air of a missionary eagerly striding on her way to the Amazon. Halfway to the altar, her heel snagged on her veil and she stumbled forward, a blur of high heels and tulle. She screamed, and her old daddy skittered left and sat down hard in a teenaged girl's lap. The piano music abruptly stopped. A collective gasp rose from the guests. The teenager pushed June's daddy out of her lap. The bride was lying motionless in the aisle. Then she lifted her head, her eyeglasses and veil askew. Daddy and the best man hurried to untangle the bride from her netting. Several teenage boys hopped up, offering their assistance. By the time they'd seated June's father with her mother, the bride was back on her feet. She took Daddy's arm, and the music started.

I was half-expecting the preacher to speak in tongues, or at the very least produce a live rattlesnake; but he cracked open a worn Bible and began to read from I Corinthians. In the background, the baby cried hysterically, but the preacher persevered, raising his voice. The baby wailed louder, then there was a muffled sound—a gloved hand striking bare flesh. The baby's cries broke off, replaced with a shuddering gasp. A second later the baby let out a blood-curdling scream. A young woman rose from the pew, clutching the squalling infant. She hurried into the aisle and ran out of the church. The cries faded, then ceased.

“You may kiss your bride,” said the preacher. Daddy lifted June's veil and kissed her, nothing long and lingering, just a peck. The preacher cleared his throat and lifted his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning the couple around, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Albert McDougal!”

The reception took place in a stuffy building next door. On a wooden plaque, Jesus Is Our Savior was spelled out in silver glitter. There wasn't any real food, only mints, cake, and punch, all of it tinted in lurid shades of green. The church ladies doled out these refreshments assembly-line fashion. The lukewarm punch, ginger ale mixed with a block of lime sherbet, was sickly sweet. I could manage only a bit of icing. I set down my cup and plate, then worked my way to the end of the reception line, listening to snatches of conversation.

“What a precious wedding,” said the pianist, straightening her enormous green hat.

“And that adorable flower girl!” exclaimed a lady with red hair and blue eyes.

Daddy spotted me at the tail end of the receiving line and stepped away from June, strode forward, and gave me an awkward hug. He smelled of mothballs and sweat, mingled with Old Spice cologne. “I'm so glad you came. I just wish you could've brought little Jennifer.”

“The Wentworths won't let her ride in a car with me.”

“Well, that's understandable.” Daddy's shoulders sagged.

“It's what?” I squinted, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. If my own daddy thought I was a bad mother, then maybe I was. Maybe it was time for me to just give up and be satisfied with my life.

“Are you happy with your waitressing job?” he asked suddenly.

“You're changing the subject,” I said. “But yes, I like working at the café. Aunt Clancy's a great boss.”

“I'm sure she is.” He smoothed back his hair. “Listen, honey, I've got something to say. I won't be seeing you for a while.”

“Well, I guess not.” I smiled up at him. “You're going on your honeymoon.”

“Yes, we're going to Ruby Falls and Rock City. But that's not what I meant.” He swallowed, and his bow-tie bobbed ever so slightly. “See, Junie and I are moving.”

“Where to?”

“We're leaving Crystal Falls. I'm closing the dime store.”

I just stared, shaking my head back and forth.

“That old Ben Franklin store just isn't making any money. So me and Junie are opening a dish barn on the outskirts of Gatlinburg. We might even sell souvenirs. Junie thinks we should.”

“But…what about me and Mack?”

“Sugar, you know I love you and your brother. But sometimes a man's got to make drastic changes.”

I kept on staring at him, trying to absorb the information. With Daddy in Gatlinburg and Mummy in the asylum, I was practically an orphan. “Well, this is drastic, all right,” I finally said. “Does Mack know you're leaving?”

Daddy shook his head, looking down at me from the shadow of his eyebrows. “I was going to tell him, but he's not here. I was hoping you'd tell him.”

“That's your job.”

“Well, I guess so.” Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. He looked old, with deep lines radiating from his eyes. Loose flesh hung in folds below his jaw.

“Oh, Bitsy. Don't look so sad, honey. It's not the end of the world. I'm not moving clear across the country. I'll only be a few hours away. And it's not like you're a little girl anymore. You're grown. And you'll be fine. Won't you?”

I gaped up at him. The question he'd just posed was imponderable. “Yes, I'll be fine,” I said because that was what he wanted to hear. I reached down and took his hand, then I brought it up to my cheek. “I'm going to miss you, Daddy.”

“I'll miss you, too, sugarplum.” He glanced over his shoulder. From the reception line, June was frantically waving at him. He bent over and kissed me on the cheek, then he hurried off to join his bride.

Daddy's marriage left me with unstoppable hiccups. They began two nights after the wedding, awakening me from a fitful dream involving green bridesmaids with bell-pepper faces and string-bean-like fingers. At dawn the hiccups escalated, and I kept hitting my chest with my fist, struggling to breathe. To make matters worse, an unseasonable heatwave had settled over the mountains, and the temperature was edging into the mid-nineties. I couldn't eat or sleep; I could only converse in one-word sentences and desperate gestures.

In the middle of the fourth night, the hiccups made me pee the bed. I needed to take a bath, but I was afraid of waking up Byron and Aunt Clancy, so I crept down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door. Then I perched on the edge of the claw-foot tub, turning on the faucet, just a trickle. The door creaked open, and Aunt Clancy stuck in her head.

“Hey, you all right?” She yawned.

I started to tell her what happened, but a great big bullfrog croak popped out of my mouth. So I just shook my head and pointed to the soiled gown. As my aunt took in my wet spots, three wrinkles appeared on her forehead. “This is alarming,” she said. “What if you can't stop hiccupping?”

“She will,” said Byron, walking up behind his wife, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Maybe yoga will help,” suggested Aunt Clancy.

“It's two o'clock in the morning,” called Byron.

She ignored him and grabbed my hands and pulled me away from the tub, into the living room. We tried sun salutation and downward facing dog. But it didn't help. Finally she gave up and went into the kitchen to make tea. I took a hot bath.

Hours later I was still hiccupping when Mack and Earlene stopped by with a box of chocolate doughnuts. “Put sugar on your tongue,” Earlene suggested, holding out a doughnut.

“Or let me frighten you,” said Mack. “A bad scare's supposed to cure the hiccups.”

“Forget those old wives' tales,” said Byron, biting into a doughnut.

“Have you got a better solution?” Aunt Clancy asked.

“A Thorazine injection,” Byron suggested, licking his thumb.

“But…isn't that the same medicine my sister gets at Central State?” Aunt Clancy asked.

“Yes, but it will stop intractable hiccups.” Byron shrugged. “One shot probably won't hurt her.”

“But it could?” asked my brother.

“Everything has risks, even hiccups.” He reached for another doughnut. “I think Pope Pius got them and died.”

“You're just full of good news,” said Aunt Clancy.

 

By the time Violet drove up for the weekend, I'd been hiccupping for six straight days. She stepped into the kitchen and gasped when she saw my face. “Dear Lord, what's happened to you?”
Me,
I thought.
What about you?
Violet's hair was piled on top of her head, pinned into an elegant brown bun. She was rail thin, and with her large, dark eyes, she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany's
.

I answered with a three-syllable squeak.

“She's got intractable hiccups,” said Byron. He stood at the counter, going through the mail. He looked up as Aunt Clancy stepped into the kitchen. She ran one hand through her hair—she'd just dyed it ash blond—then she leaned up and kissed his forehead. Even though it was officially fall, she wore a summery red ruffled skirt and a white off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse. On her neck was a choker—silver crosses and jet beads made from old rosaries. Courtesy of yours truly, her toenails were freshly painted, Revlon's Raspberry Kiss. It had taken forever, because my hands were so unsteady.

“I know a cure,” Violet said, blinking at her mother's nails. “Alcohol, consumed in vast quantities.”

“What's with the hairdo?” Aunt Clancy squinted at Violet.

“She looks like Holly Golightly,” I said, talking fast. The idea was to squeeze in as many words as possible in between the hiccups.

“This?” Violet dismissed the bun with a flip of her hand. “One of the giggly girls in my dorm was going to a fraternity dance, so she used my hair for practice.”

“Oh, well that explains it,” said Aunt Clancy. “I mean, it's not like you to doll up.”

“No,” Violet said. “It's not.”

Mother and daughter stared. Clancy Jane was the first to look away. After a moment, she turned to Byron. “Honey, tell the truth. Will alcohol help Bitsy?”

“Look at it this way,” he said, “even if it doesn't cure her condition, she'll be too drunk to care.”

“Let's go,” Violet said, grabbing my arm.

“Violet, you just
got
here,” Clancy Jane cried. “And later
Sonny and Cher
will be on.”

“But I have to try and help Bitsy,” said Violet. “It'll do her good.”

I violently shook my head. I didn't want to leave this house, not with my leaky bladder.

“But maybe you'll meet a cute guy,” said Violet.

“Ha, I'm twenty years old going on eighty,” I said, then hiccupped. I couldn't get a man in my condition. Even if I could, Miss Betty and her lawyers would find out and use it against me.

“Don't be silly,” Violet scoffed. “It wouldn't hurt you to have some fun, date a few guys.”

“I'm trying to rehabilitate my reputation, not drive it farther into the ground.”

“Wow, you used a five-syllable word. You must have been studying R words.”

“I resent that.” I lifted my chin and hiccupped.

“Don't. I didn't mean any harm. I was just trying to shock you out of the hiccups.” Violet winked.

“Didn't work,” I said.

“All the more reason to go barhopping.” She turned to her mother. “Hey, why don't you come with us, Mama?”

“I don't have hiccups.” Clancy Jane walked over to the sink and began chopping green onions. She was making a vegetarian potato salad, which was a challenge, because she'd decided to go vegan. She'd blackballed everything from milk to mayonnaise. I was glad I had hiccups, because I wouldn't eat that salad if you paid me.

Violet pulled me toward the door, and we stepped out into the muggy afternoon. The air felt too hot and heavy to breathe. Other than the Vietnam War, all everybody talked about these days was the weather. A drought had struck the orange groves in Florida. Clancy Jane had pointed to the little television in the kitchen and said, “If you think
you've
got troubles, think of those poor citrus growers.”

She'd threatened to do a rain dance if it didn't rain soon. I wondered if the heat could shock the hiccups out of my system. I lifted my hair from the back of my neck and wished I'd thought to brush it up like Violet's. Well, maybe not. No matter what I did, I looked more like Barbie than Audrey. I wanted to change, I just didn't know how. It was more complicated than pulling my hair into a sleek bun.

Violet strode ahead, her cork platform shoes scraping along the pavement. “You drive,” she called, skipping past her Volkswagen, veering toward my old blue Mustang.

“Me?” I cried. “But I'm afflicted.”

“Hiccups won't interfere with your driving.”

“Well, they most certainly could,” I said a little louder than necessary. “I might accidentally step on the gas.”

“Please drive,” Violet said. Then she whimpered like a puppy. “Please, please, please? I just drove all the way from Knoxville.”

“Oh, all right. But you better wear your seat belt.” I opened my door and slid into the baby-blue leather seat. It felt painfully hot, stinging the backs of my legs and my shoulders. I backed out of the driveway, then charged down Dixie Avenue, turning right onto Main Street. From the radio, Carly Simon was singing “You're So Vain.” At the Square, I glanced at Citizen's Bank where Claude and Chick worked—well, if you called what they did “work.” But the bank had a great sign. It flashed 98 degrees—4:57
P.M
.

“Crystal Falls is way up in the mountains. It shouldn't be this hot,” Violet complained. “But that goes to show how screwy this place is. I hate it here. I don't see why Mama moved back.”

I pursed my lips and didn't answer. If it hadn't been for our grand-mother's leukemia, Aunt Clancy might still be living out west, and Violet might have chosen a different college, maybe one in the east. I knew my own life wouldn't have changed one iota. I would still have broken Claude's nose and then run away. I would have lost my baby girl. And Daddy's marriage would probably still have given me hiccups.

The Hut was a popular drinking spot near the Cumberland River, offering backgammon, mixed drinks, and live bands. To reach it, I had to drive across the river, navigating over a high bridge. I hated that bridge and held my breath until I reached the other side. Once I was safely past that obstacle, I turned off the highway, down a rough-paved road. I cruised past the Rocky Top Concrete Plant, where statues of elves and flamingoes peeked out of a fenced-in lot. The road forked several times, but I knew the way. I drove beside a raspberry field, then turned down a gravel lane. Through the dust and haze, the Hut loomed up, a cinder-block building outlined in yellow Christmas lights. Every third one was burned out. The owner, Fred Harding, the ne'er-do-well son of a local optometrist, had hung a sign over the door,
WELCOME TO VALHALLA
.

“I'm surprised at Fred.” Violet blinked at the sign. “I didn't think he was that smart.”

“Just what
is
Valhalla?” I said, steering the Mustang into the gravel lot.

“You really don't know?”

“It sounds like a California wine.” I hiccupped into my cupped palm.

“It was a beautiful hall where dead warriors drank wine from goat tits.”

“I don't get the connection.”

“After a few drinks you will,” Violet said. “Come on. Let's get inside where it's cool.”

“Just a sec,” I called, digging into my purse. I pulled out a tube of lipstick—“Baby Lips”—and flipped down the visor. You just never knew who you'd meet in a place like the Hut. Maybe the man of my dreams, or maybe the devil himself. Surely to God they weren't one and the same.

I scrambled out of the Mustang and tottered across the gravel lot. I was wearing the same thing I'd worn all day—a blue-jean wrap skirt, sapphire blouse, and blue sandals. They were Candies with extra high heels, and my ankles seemed to bow. I stepped into the lounge, blinking in the smoky haze. Well, at least it was cool. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. More Christmas lights were strung up over the bar. Over to the right, the empty dance floor was illuminated by a revolving color wheel, the kind Mummy had once used on her aluminum Christmas tree. Now the colors flickered across the scuffed dance floor—red, green, blue, gold, then back to red. It was too early for the band, but a poster promised that Jerry and the Bottle Rockets would be appearing nightly through September.

I walked straight over to the bar and shoved in next to Violet, who'd struck up a conversation with Jeb, the bartender. He was a nice older guy with thick biceps who never called the police, even during knife fights. You could count on Jeb to keep your secrets.

“What you want, kid?” Jeb spread his hands on the counter.

From the other end of the bar, a man grinned at me. “Hey, cutie,” he called, pursing his lips. “How do I say French kiss in French?”

Violet gave the man a dark look and said, “How about if I teach you to say ‘kiss off'?”

The man cackled, then reached up and pushed back his hat. “Come over here and I'll teach you five ways to say peckerwood.”

I leaned over the counter. “Jeb, I need a mai tai,” I said, then hiccupped.

“Sounds like you've had one too many already,” he said.

“Make that two,” Violet said. She glanced over her shoulder and waved to a man in a red alligator shirt. I squinted, trying to place him. He wore tortoiseshell glasses, and his hair was dark blond and shaggy. As he hurried over to us, his cowlick bobbed up and down. His jeans were freshly ironed, and he had long, skinny legs. Violet's taste in men didn't run to hunks. Her old boyfriend, Laurence Prescott III, had been afflicted with a pinhead, and she had once spoken fondly of a cross-eyed boy. Violet had a theory that homely men were less likely to break your heart. I wasn't ready to test that theory just yet.

The guy wove through the crowd, heading toward the bar. As he got closer, I noticed that a slide-ruler was protruding from his hip pocket, as if he'd be called upon to solve an intricate math problem at any moment. He stepped up to Violet, and she playfully punched his shoulder. “Hey, Danny,” she said.

“Want to play backgammon?” Danny asked Violet, straightening his glasses.

“Sure,” Violet said. “Just let me get my drink.”

I waited to be introduced, but Violet leaned against the bar and eyed a man in a cowboy hat. I wasn't used to Violet acting foolish around men, because it was usually just the two of us. Now Jeb walked up to the counter, holding two glasses. They were filled with luscious-looking red liquid.
My cure
, I thought, reaching for the glass. Violet grabbed hers and said, “I'll just be in the back with Danny, okay?”

I hiccupped into my glass. On the other side of the room, the jukebox began playing Three Dog Night. I gulped down the mai tai, then hastily ordered another. The bartender brought a drink and I tossed it down between hiccups. Jeb watched, shaking his head. When I held up my glass and ordered a third, he said, “Okay.
One
more. And while I'm fixing it, eat you some peanuts.”

He parked a basket of nuts in front of me. I frowned at them. What if I hiccuped at the wrong moment and aspirated? I doubted that anyone here knew how to do CPR. I broke open a few peanuts and scattered the shells to fool the bartender. Aunt Clancy just loved nuts. “They're packed with protein,” she'd say, sprinkling them on salads, tossing them casually over buttered asparagus, stuffing them into mushrooms. All the while preaching spiritual health, ecological awareness, the mysticism of legumes.