Mad Girls In Love (31 page)

Violet hadn't planned on coming home for Easter, but when her mother called, talking excitedly about her menu—instead of a traditional ham and the usual spring vegetables, Clancy Jane had bought a pig—Violet felt homesick.

“Mack's bringing over his domed grill, and we're going to smoke the piglet all day long.”

“I thought you didn't eat flesh,” Violet said, laughing

“I don't. But Byron does.”

Since Violet wasn't quite ready to introduce George to the family, she came by herself. Besides, she'd already told her mother about the deflowering, and Clancy Jane had made cracks about blood on the sheets.

It was night when Violet reached Dixie Avenue. She pulled into the long driveway and her headlights picked out two figures huddled in the dark. It was Clancy Jane and Mack. They were watching smoke billow from the outdoor cooker. Clancy Jane smiled and waved. Her blue eyes looked unusually small and shiny, and her cheeks were red and fleshy, with jowls beneath her chin.

She hugged Violet then she turned back to Mack who was squatting down, feeding hickory wood into the grill, and said, “Like I was saying, the man may be a proctologist, but he doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.” Clancy Jane tonged up smoldering charcoal bricks. She turned to Violet. “I'm referring to one of Byron's colleagues. He's a real butthole.”

Mack snorted. A transistor radio sat on a metal table, playing “The Israelites” by Desmond Dekker and the Aces. Violet noticed that her cousin's hair was thinning, and he had a chunk of fat around his middle. She tactfully shifted her gaze.

“Where's Aunt Dorothy and Bitsy?” Violet asked. She didn't mention Byron because she was used to his absences.

“I wrote you a letter,” said Clancy Jane. “They're in Cozumel.”

“Together?”

“Well, they've got closer since Daddy died,” Mack said.

“Albert's
dead
?” Violet cried.

“From a sledding accident,” said Mack. “He crashed into a tree.”

“I'm so sorry,” Violet said. For the longest time, she hadn't opened any letters from home. When she wasn't dissecting cadavers, she was in bed with George. So far anatomy was her favorite subject.

“When Mama found out, she nearly fainted,” Mack explained. By the time Dorothy McDougal had thought to inform Bitsy and Mack of their father's passing, the funeral was over and his remains had been laid to rest in a Pigeon Forge cemetery. “Then she nearly fainted again when she found out about him leaving her his insurance,” Mack added.

“It was a $250,000 policy,” said Clancy Jane. “But since it was an accidental death, she got double indemnity.”

“I'm surprised that she isn't in Zürich,” Violet said, “setting up a numbered account.”

“She didn't keep it all,” Clancy Jane said. “She gave $50,000 to Mack and $50,000 to Bitsy. The rest went into the bank. And I've got to give Bitsy credit. I thought she'd squander it. You know how she loves shoes and pocketbooks. But she bought a used Mustang and new set of tires. Then she bought CDs—but not at Claude's bank.”

“Hell, I went hog wild,” Mack said. “Me and Earlene bought his 'n' her motorcycles. And we took a few trips to Vegas.”

“Bitsy signed up for a home study course,” said Clancy Jane. “The Ha'vard School of Interior Design. Not to be confused with Harvard, of course.”

“She always had a knack for decorating,” said Violet.

“But not a knack with men,” said Clancy Jane. “She isn't dating anyone. She studies all the time.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Violet shivered. “Where's Earlene?”

“She's up in Monterey,” said Mack. “Her mama's sick.”

“These days, she's always sick,” said Clancy Jane.

“Hope it's not serious,” Violet said, blowing into her hands. “Burr, it's too cold out here for me. I'm going inside.”

She stepped into the kitchen and was startled by the order. Her mother had never been terribly neat—in fact, she was a slob—but the counters were clean and empty, except for a tray of Fostoria goblets. Violet got a glass of water, then headed toward the living room. The gold velvet chairs were missing, along with Gussie's marble tables. No art hung on the walls except for a red floral Georgia O'Keeffe poster. Cats were lounging on the back of the sofa, and Pitty Pat was sleeping on Byron's console TV, one paw curled over his face.

She wandered upstairs, into her old room, and saw that her mother's austerity program hadn't reached there. She flopped facedown on the cherry spindle bed and smoothed her hands over the lilac comforter. Her bookcase was pleasantly jumbled with old textbooks and folders. The door to her closet was ajar, and she could see little plaid dresses that she'd worn in high school. Violet never had cared about clothes. She'd wear anything as long as it fit. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was the middle of the night. She heard footsteps on the creaky staircase, followed by Byron's voice. “One more step, Mack. No, no, don't turn right. That's good, buddy. You're doing fine.”

Violet got out of bed and hurried into the hall, blinking in the harsh light.

“Your cousin's too drunk to walk home,” Byron explained, leading Mack down the hall. “I'm putting him to bed.”

“Where's Mama?” Violet glanced into the hall, trying to see into their bedroom.

“Downstairs,” Byron said, but he wouldn't look at her. “I'm sorry I woke you, Violet.”

Mack's eyes fluttered. He looked at Violet and grinned. “Hey, cuz!” he said brightly. “I been drinking burning roses with your mama.”

“Turn left,” Byron said, steering Mack into the spare bedroom. Violet padded back to her room, changed into a nightgown, and got in bed. She switched off the light, lay back, and shut her eyes. No sooner had she drifted off to sleep when she was awakened by a crash. She sat bolt upright, straining to listen. There was nothing but silence, followed by a muffled groan, a woman's groan. She tensed her stomach muscles, waiting for Byron's footsteps, but the whole house was eerily quiet, except for the clicking of the furnace and wind blowing around the eaves. She threw back the covers and crept downstairs. Clancy Jane was sprawled on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken goblets.

“Mama!”

Clancy Jane lifted her head. “I slipped.”

“Are you hurt?” Violet crouched beside her mother.

“I don't know.” Clancy Jane rubbed the back of her head. “I'm not cut anywhere, just a little stunned. But just look at my kitchen.”

“I'll clean it later. Let's go upstairs.” Violet helped her mother up.

“I'm not a bit sleepy,” Clancy Jane said, then she reeled backward, throwing out one arm.

“Be careful walking through this glass,” Violet cautioned, slipping one arm around her mother's waist, feeling ripples of loose flesh. She might not be eating meat, Violet thought, but she was certainly eating something.

“I don't need to sleep, I need to cook,” Clancy Jane said. She took another step, her leg rising at an exaggerated angle. “I'm not sleepy in the least.”

“Yes, I know,” Violet said in a soothing voice, but she felt angry and frightened. She wished she'd stayed in Memphis. She and George could have eaten a turkey dinner at Morrison's Cafeteria, and she wouldn't have known that her mother was drinking.

When they reached the landing, Violet hesitated, blinking at Byron's shut door. She tried to remember if it had been open or closed. “Come on, Mama,” she said, leading Clancy Jane down the hall to her own purple room. Violet helped her mother into the spindle bed, then she drew the covers up to her chin. Drunk people everywhere, she thought. Falling down drunk people.

“I'll just rest a minute,” Clancy Jane said, her eyelids fluttering. “Just a minute is all I need.”

Violet went back downstairs, found a broom and dustpan, and swept up all the broken glass. She saw where Clancy Jane had made a bar on the counter—bottles of scotch, bourbon, tequila, rum, tonic water. Cans of Coke and Canada Dry were stacked on the floor. Inside the refrigerator were long-necked bottles of Mexican beer and little bowls filled with maraschino cherries and sliced limes. An ugly voice inside of Violet said, Throw it all out, Violet. Pour out every stinking drop. If she did that, her mother would accuse her of being wasteful. Also, she didn't want to get her mother in trouble with Byron. From the looks of the kitchen, Clancy Jane had apparently turned against her dietary principles, and now she was courting Byron with food. A red velvet cake sat on a glass pedestal, next to a homemade fruitcake that reeked of whiskey. There were also three pies—chocolate, pecan, and lemon chess. The fridge held cartons of half-n-half, packages of bacon, and little parcels of smoked salmon.

She slammed the refrigerator door, then hurried back to her purple room. Lifting the covers, she eased into the bed and stretched out beside her mother, flinging her arms over her head. Clancy Jane was gently snoring, giving off toxic fumes of sourmash and tequila. Long ago, when they first came to live at Miss Gussie's house, Clancy Jane had pasted glow-in-the-dark stars onto Violet's ceiling. They had long since peeled off, except for a dozen or so that still gave off a faint, eerie light, incandescent at the edges. She was glad her mother's redecorating hadn't touched her room.

That night she dreamed that Clancy Jane was standing on the edge of an abyss, holding out her hand. “Can I come to Memphis and live with you?” her apparition asked. “No,” Violet said in a sad voice. “I'm in love with George.”

The next morning, she put two cups of coffee on a tray and carried it up to Clancy Jane. Then she slipped into the bed. She both loved and despised this woman with a fierceness that made her feel childlike. “Wake up, sleepy head,” she murmured. “It's Easter, and I don't know how to cook.”

“Oh, shit.” Clancy Jane groaned, covering her eyes with one hand. “I hate the fucking holidays.”

“We'll get through it. We always do.”

“I smell coffee.”

“I brought you a cup.”

“You're a saint.” Clancy Jane pulled up on her elbows. When she was settled, Violet placed the cup into her mother's trembling hands. Clancy took a bracing sip, then she leaned back against the cherry spindle head-board. “I guess you're wondering about last night,” she said.

Violet looked away.

“I'm in trouble.” Clancy Jane took another sip of coffee.

Violet reached for her own cup. Her mother was a binge drinker. A period of abstinence, sometimes a lengthy one, always ended with Clancy Jane's nose in a wineglass. For Violet, when she was younger, each lapse negated a thousand days of sobriety.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” Clancy Jane asked. Pitty Pat leaped onto the bed and began kneading the covers. She reached out to stroke his fur. “I suppose I could blame Byron. He'd blame Buddha and my feline population.”

“Mama, how many cats
do
you have now?”

“Eight. But they're indoor/outdoor. That's not so many when you think about it.” Clancy Jane pursed her lips and blew into her coffee. “Personally, I think Byron's allergies are an excuse. I've had Pitty Pat for most of our marriage, but he never complained until now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know just yet.”

“Just don't pull a Bitsy and hit him in the head.” Violet winked.

“Honey, if I won't kill an ant, why would I kill Byron?” Clancy Jane set her cup on her chest, then she stroked the cat. It began to purr.

“That's right, Mama.” Violet patted the cat's broad head. “Let fate deal with Byron.”

“You know what? I need a new life.” Clancy Jane ran one finger around the mug's rim. “But that doesn't seem likely, so I'll do what all the other doctor's wives do—I'll buy something frightfully expensive.”

“You'll never do that. You're not a spend-thrill, Mama.”

 

Violet turned out to be right. Instead of squandering money, Clancy Jane decided to be miserly with her emotions. She began to ignore Byron, carrying on long, one-sided conversations with her cats. Then she decided to exclude him another way. She emptied the kitchen cupboards. And she stopped drinking. Not that Byron seemed to care. He just ate his meals in the doctors' lounge or with Dorothy and Mack. Clancy Jane spent long hours at the café, helping Zach with Sunday brunch. They installed a long buffet table with halogen lighting and steam that rose up, curling to the ceiling. She was careful not to stand too close, but she hadn't given up on him. Then he hired a harpist named Lydia from the Blair School of Music in Nashville to play on Sundays.

Clancy Jane stood next to the espresso machine, waiting for the milk to froth. She cut her eyes at Zach. He was standing next to the trompe l'oeil wall, blending into the painted fronds and primates, and his face

filled with rapture as if entranced by the ethereal sounds. The harpist's fingers were crooked slightly, like a spider spinning her web. Her long black hair fell like a silk curtain over her shoulder. And Clancy saw he was going to fall in love with her.

After the brunch ended, Zach gave Lydia a green bottle filled with Ganges River water and a statue of Buddha. Clancy Jane locked herself in the restroom and bawled her eyes out. Finally she came to the conclusion that she was damn lucky to have him in her life. She could rejoice in loud arguments about global problems and passionate discussions about how supermarket chains are victimizing America. She could relish their debates over the virtues of buckwheat groats, the versatility of rice, and the nutritional values of falafel and mung beans. It was no crime to secretly love him. As long as she wasn't hurting anyone, what did it matter? She'd alienated Violet. She'd given up alcohol. Her marriage seemed to be dying. All she had were a few dozen alley cats and an infatuation with a younger man. But it was enough to keep breathing.