Mad Girls In Love (25 page)

 

It was early evening, the middle of September, and dry leaves blew across the lawn. Walter and I were sitting on my porch swing in the humid dark. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I love you, Bitsy. I want to slay dragons for you.”

I wanted to say something witty, something that would make him laugh, but I was still thinking about his family. He pointed up at the sky. “Look over there, way, way up. What's that really bright star?”

“Sirius?”

“You remembered.” He kissed the tip of my nose. From the next street, a dog started barking. Then came the yowl of an alley cat. The dog let out a series of yips, followed by a keening wail.

“That poor old dog,” I said, snuggling next to him. “Barking like that.”

“Want me to go kill it?” Walter said, laughing and nuzzling my neck.

“Lord, no.”

Walter reached into his pocket, and drew out a red velvet box. He creaked the lid open, revealing an emerald-cut diamond in a Tiffany setting. He reached inside, picked it out with two fingers, held it up. “Bitsy, will you marry me?”

Dumbfounded, I gazed up at him. I wanted to say
Just give me a minute. Let me look before I leap, I'm such a bad leaper. I'm so afraid of mak
ing another mistake.
We had been dating hardly a month. His family was beyond weird. And he wasn't officially divorced; but his smile was so hopeful. All of these problems hummed in my mind. I shut my eyes, waiting for divine inspiration. If only God would step in and clear everything up.
Bitsy
, He might say,
Do you know the difference between love and need?

No, Lord,
I'd say.
I sure don't.

Walter waved the ring in front of my nose, as if he were holding smelling salts. “Bitsy?”

“I'm just overwhelmed,” I said.

“After we get married, I'm going to hire a lawyer, and we'll get your daughter away from your ex.”

“You'd do that?”

“I'll do whatever it takes. I'm not stopping until Jennifer and you are back together. Now, give me your hand. That's a good girl.” Walter slid the ring onto my finger. “There,” he said. “A perfect fit.”

The girls were giving Bitsy an all-girl engagement/Halloween party. Clancy Jane rushed around the dining room, her long velvet skirt sweeping over the floor. She pushed back the sleeves on her cowl-neck sweater—fashion simply wasn't compatible with life, she thought—and poured Tiki punch into a cut-glass bowl. She was putting the finishing touches on Bitsy's party. On the sideboard, she'd set candles inside carved jack-o-lanterns, and she'd draped orange crêpe paper around the chandelier.

From her new eight-track player, Crosby, Stills and Nash were singing “Just a Song Before I Go.” Violet came into the room carrying Jennifer's box of magnetic letters. Dorothy was right behind her, carrying a platter of homemade Halloween cookies. She paused at the sideboard, smiling down at the cake. It was orange with black icing and had Congratulations Bitsy & Walter! scrawled across the surface. Next to the cake were baskets filled with Ritz crackers. Violet had set out assorted dips, leaving them in their plastic containers. Well, no wonder, thought Dorothy. That poor child had never learned the social graces. And she never would.

Dorothy started to ask her sister if she wanted her to put the dip into cute little bowls, but she was afraid Clancy Jane might take it as criticism. The girl might run a café, but at home she didn't know doodly squat. Empty bottles of Tiki punch were stacked underneath the table, beside an empty Mason jar. Dorothy had seen that jar before, beneath the sink in Mack's house. She had thought it was Clorox, but he'd said, “Hell no, Mama, this is my private stash of pure grain alcohol.”

“For rubbing your sore muscles?” Dorothy had asked.

“It's moonshine, Mama.”

Now Dorothy set down the cookies and walked over to the punch bowl. She was determined to make small talk with her sister. After all, they lived right next door to each other, they should let bygones be bygones.

“This is the reddest punch I've ever seen,” Dorothy said, wishing they'd dyed it orange to match everything else. She didn't plan to drink any of it, but she was hoping the others would. She just loved it when she stayed sober and everybody else got drunk. That was a nightly occurrence over at her house—or should she say Mack and Earlene's house? Byron was over there now, watching TV so the girls could enjoy their party.

“The punch is wicked,” warned Violet, looking up from her cup. “It's got PGA in it.”

“Want a sip?” Clancy Jane held out a cup, but Dorothy shook her head.

“Oh, go on, Aunt Dorothy,” said Violet. “The PGA doesn't alter the taste or the color. It tastes like a regular punch.”

Dorothy started to explain about her nerve pills and how they didn't mix with alcohol, but the front door opened and a woman hollered, “Yoo-hoo!”

It was Earlene. She breezed into the dining room, carrying a tray of finger sandwiches, which she set down on the table. She had taken black eyeliner and drawn a Liz Taylor mole on her right cheek. Despite the chilly weather, she was wearing a purple tube top and cutoff jeans and high heels. She looked very Halloweenish, a cross between a witch and a hooker. “The wind is kicking up something awful,” she said, patting her hair. She looked at the women. “Where's Bitsy?”

“Upstairs primping,” said Violet.

“Why?” Dorothy was startled. She touched her forehead, hoping she'd remembered to draw on her eyebrows. “Walter isn't coming, is he?”

“No, it's just us girls,” said Clancy Jane.

Bitsy came down the stairs wearing a burnt orange velvet dress, one of her Goodwill finds. Her hair was swept up into a French twist, but the strawberry blonde streaks clashed with the dress, making her look more like Lucille Ball than Grace Kelly. When she stepped into the dining room, Clancy Jane started clapping. “Here's our guest of honor!” Earlene and Dorothy clapped, too, with Violet halfheartedly joining in.

When the noise died down, Violet looked up at Bitsy and said, “Gee, didn't you have an oranger dress in your closet?”

“I'm saving it for you,” Bitsy said.

“Touché,” said Violet.

“You better capitulate,” Bitsy said.

“You're regressing,” Violet said. “You're back to using C words? That's pitiful. I thought you'd be up to the Zs already.”

“I'm not going in order, but this is my second pass through your dictionary, I'll have you know,” Bitsy said. She sat down next to Violet, then held out her left hand and gazed at the diamond. She looked around the room, her eyes lingering on each woman's face.

“Y'all, am I doing the right thing?” she asked.

“You can't back out now,” said Earlene. “You'd break that boy's heart.”

“He's hardly a
boy
,” said Violet. “Bitsy, honey, were you asking a rhetorical question or did you really want my opinion?”

“Both, I guess.” Bitsy kept on looking at the diamond.

“Hey, Bitsy,” Clancy Jane said, over her shoulder. “Right before I married Byron, I got cold feet.”

“What happened?” Bitsy sat up straight. “What did you do?”

“That's obvious. She married him.” Violet laughed.

“Hon, it's normal to have doubts,” said Earlene. She lifted the Saran Wrap from her sandwich tray.

“I'd be scared, too,” Dorothy said, “if I got engaged again.”

“Don't hold your breath.” Violet reached for a chicken salad sandwich.

“You don't know everything, Violet,” said Dorothy. “You don't even know that it's tacky to serve dip in these plastic boats. I could get a man. But I just don't want to fool with one.”

“What's wrong with plastic?” Violet asked.

“It's cheap. The
least
you could've done was scrape the dip into cut-glass bowls,” Dorothy said. “When my mother lived in this house, she had hundreds of bowls. But I
never
see them. Where did they go?”

“A catfight's brewing,” Earlene told Clancy Jane. “Hurry up and pass the punch.”

“Coming!” Clancy Jane began ladling punch, then passed around the cups. Dorothy handed hers over to Violet.

“Cool,” Violet said. She drained both cups, then she got an empty wineglass and slid it to the center of the table. Next, using the magnetic letters, she spelled out YES; on the other side, NO. “Enough of this speculation. Let us join hands and contact the living.”

“Don't you mean the dead?” Dorothy whispered.

“It was a joke.” Violet delicately placed the tips of her fingers on the base of the glass. The women gathered closer, elbows touching, and placed their fingertips next to Violet's.

“Concentrate, y'all,” said Clancy Jane. She squeezed her eyes shut, and little wrinkles fanned around her eyes. Three lines appeared on her forehead.

“All right,” said Violet in a low, sultry voice. Her eyes were downcast but not closed. “Does Walter worship the ground Bitsy walks on?”

“Worship?” Bitsy groaned, lifting her hands from the wineglass. “Don't ask it that!”

“It's my glass. I'll ask it whatever I please,” said Violet.

“You sound ten years old,” said Dorothy.

“No, that's how
you
sounded at ten,” Violet snapped. “I'm sorry, Aunt Dorothy. That was mean. I'll go a little lighter on the punch.”

“Worship, worship, worship,” Dorothy was saying, ignoring her niece's comment. When it pleased her, Dorothy had the most amazing powers of concentration.

“Oh, all right.” Bitsy sighed and put her fingers back onto the glass. It began to tremble, then it scraped across the tablecloth to NO, paused for two seconds, then sped to the other side of the table, to YES.

“Did y'all see that?” asked Violet, her eyes widening.

“Why can't it make up its mind?” Bitsy said.

“Maybe both answers are true?” Clancy Jane looked at Bitsy.

“You moved it,” said Bitsy, jabbing Violet's elbow.

“I did
not.”

“Maybe y'all's fingers slipped,” suggested Dorothy. “Let's ask it again.”

“But at least reword the question,” said Earlene.

“All right. Just let me think a minute.” Violet shut her eyes. Then she said, “Is Walter insanely in love with Bitsy?”

The glass trembled, then it lurched across the table, dragging the women's fingers along with it, forcing Earlene to rise from her chair and stretch across the table. The glass stopped at YES. Then it careened back to NO.

“See? I told you the damn stupid thing can't make up its mind,” Bitsy muttered.

“It needs more information,” said Violet. “Bitsy, tell us what Walter looks like naked.”

“I've been wondering that myself,” said Earlene.

“I haven't,” said Dorothy.

“Ask the damn wineglass,” Bitsy said. “I'm not telling y'all a thing.”

“Is he skinny
all
over?” Earlene giggled. “And just where do the freckles stop?”

“Don't ask personal questions,” Dorothy said. “It isn't becoming. Anyway, you've already got a man.”

“Do I?” Earlene stared at her mother-in-law. Everybody in the family had urged Earlene to have it out with Dorothy, but Earlene would always shake her head and say, “I can't. She's his mother. He feels too guilty to straighten her out.”

“Ask what you want. It's just us girls,” said Violet, pouring herself another cup of punch. She didn't sip, she tilted the cup to her lips and poured the liquid into her mouth, like she was watering a rosebush.

“We don't need to ask the spirits,” Clancy Jane said, raising her arms over her head, lifting her heavy dark blond hair. “From the look on Bitsy's face, he must be interesting.”

“So are Andy Warhol paintings,” Violet said.

“Honey, all men look good in the dark,” said Earlene.

“And you should know,” Dorothy muttered.

Earlene just laughed and said, “It's the truth. I'm not ashamed to say it, either.”

“I've seen Walter Saylor's body and it's great,” said Violet. “Don't look shocked. It was perfectly innocent. Bitsy was with me. It was a turning point in their relationship.”

“No, the salami was,” said Clancy Jane.

“I'm confused,” said Dorothy. “First, you're talking about his naked body. Then you're talking about luncheon meat.”

“It's a euphemism, Aunt Dorothy,” Violet said, flashing a wicked smile, “for his
dick.
”

“I just love salami.” Earlene hopped out of her chair and skipped to the freezer.

“Girls, we've had too much PGA,” said Clancy Jane. “Our spiritual auras are muddled. Let's get rid of the kiddie letters and play Voodoo Scrabble.”

“Good idea,” said Violet. It was her Scrabble game, dragged from the depths of her cluttered Volkswagen. When the women got together, they used the game in a variety of ways—sometimes they played Vulgar Scrabble, allowing only disgusting words. But they had to be a little drunker to play that version. Their favorite game was Voodoo Scrabble, spelling out words as if they were in a trance. All the letters were spread face up in the box, and the players could select what they wanted. There was only one rule: You had exactly ten seconds to spell your word—and make it fit into the others. While you decided, the other players timed you out loud—one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.

Earlene walked back the table, holding a grape Popsicle.

“I don't remember how to play,” said Dorothy.

“You'll pick it right up,” Earlene said. She put the Popsicle into her mouth and sucked hard, her cheeks denting. “All you have to do is read between the lines.”

“Give me some tiles.” Violet fit a dip-drenched Triscuit into her mouth, then held out her hand.

“I'll start,” said Clancy Jane. Without hesitation, she spelled out SEXUALITY in a horizontal line, her tiles clinking against the board.

“Man, that was lucky.” Earlene finished off her Popsicle and biting down on the stick, she gathered up her tiles. “How do you spell
fellatio
?”

“If you've gotta ask,” said Clancy in a Louis Armstrong voice, “then you'll never know.”

“Speaking of which,” said Violet, picking up an F, C, and K, fitting the tiles over the U in SEXUALITY.

“We should've asked the Ouija board if Walter and I will have any children,” said Bitsy.

“Stay on the Pill,” said Clancy Jane. “You
are
on it, right?”

“She takes Ovral,” said Violet. “With the little butterflies on the case. I've seen it in the medicine cabinet.”

“Keep taking it,” said Clancy Jane.

Violet was looking at Earlene. Finally she said, “Hey, are you and Mack going to have a family?”

“I can't have kids, hon,” said Earlene, crossing her legs. “The doctor says my tubes are clogged.”

Dorothy's hand shook as she reached for a punch cup. Thank God for germs, she thought. On the other hand, a baby was exactly what Bitsy needed to make up for Jennifer. Bitsy had grown into a sweet young lady. She was just as curvy as Earlene, even though she didn't show off her body in a vulgar fashion. Walter Saylor was ugly, but his profession more than made up for his hair and eyes. Dorothy didn't like to brag—well,
not much
—but here lately she'd been going around town referring to the boy as Dr. Saylor, my daughter's fiancé. Sometimes she'd preface a sentence with “My future son-in-law, the dentist.” That got people's attention.

“Any child of Walter's will have good health insurance. Dentists can afford the best,” Dorothy said. “But it'll probably have his goat eyes.”

“Actually, his eyes are kinda froggy,” said Earlene.

“Y'all stop it!” Bitsy slapped her hand on the table, causing the tiles to jump. “He's good to me.”

“Good in bed?” asked Earlene, “or good as in godly?”