Mad Girls In Love (42 page)

Before we left for England, Louie called up Claude and asked if Jennifer could go with us. “We'll be there several months, but if you'd prefer, she can visit for two or three weeks.”

“I'd prefer that she stay right here.”

“England will be cultural for her,” Louie said in his soothing, doctorly, I-know-what's-best voice. Claude shot back, “She's just a little girl, for God's sake. She can't cross the Atlantic without an escort.”

“How old is she now? Nine? She can fly over with us,” said Louie. “We'll put her in first class going back.”

“Are you crazy?” Claude cried. “A house in Florida, I can understand, but England is too far away.”

Louie began to protest, but I knew he was wasting his energy. For all the Wentworths' small-town grandeur and their wealth, they had never set foot outside the continental United States. Their idea of a luxury vacation was a week in Destin or Hilton Head, or a shopping trip to Atlanta.

In early July, Louie and I stopped off in Crystal Falls to visit my family. Aunt Clancy invited us for lunch, but Louie said it sounded like a girl thing and that he'd stay home and nap. So Dorothy and I climbed into her old station wagon and took off for Aunt Clancy's mountain. We drove past a sign that said Cat Crossing, then parked at the top of the hill. When we stepped out of the car, a dozen felines scattered through a grape arbor, past trees where wind chimes dangled from the branches. A black cat with three white paws ran over to me and rubbed against my legs.

“Damn thing probably has worms,” Dorothy said, giving the animal a withering look.

White Adirondacks were lined up on the deck. The front door stood open, and as we passed to the kitchen, we saw furniture—floral sofas and chairs, a bookcase crammed with pretty rocks and albums. In the middle of the kitchen stood a long pine table, its legs intact. Clay pots, overflowing with herbs, were lined up in the sunny window. On top of the large refrigerator, a green-eyed cat sat on its haunches, watching.

Aunt Clancy was standing next to the sink with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at Violet's asymmetrical haircut—jaw-level on her right side, and three, maybe four inches shorter on the left. “What happened? Did you leave the beauty shop before the beautician was finished?”

“Quit harping,” said Violet. “It's purposely uneven.”

“Violet!” I cried. “I didn't know you were coming!”

“It was a surprise,” said Aunt Clancy. “Ladies, please have a seat.”

Violet yawned and said, “Where's Earlene?”

“Who knows?” Dorothy lifted her shoulders. “She
said
she was helping her mother hoe the garden. Isn't that funny? The ‘ho' is hoeing. Personally, I think she's having an affair. How about you and George?” Dorothy pulled out a chair and sat down. “Is the honeymoon over?”

“Not yet. We're blissfully happy.” Violet smiled into her cupped hand. “He's one in a million.”

“What's your secret?” I asked, sitting down between my mother and Violet.

“I've no idea.” She shrugged. “In fact, I try not to analyze it too much.”

“I'm glad for you.” I grabbed my cousin's hand and squeezed it.

“And proud,” put in Dorothy. “My own niece, a future head shrinker. Now if I can just talk Jennifer into being a lawyer, we'll be set.”

The ladies fell silent. Jennifer had been invited, of course, but Miss Betty had offered a feeble excuse. A vein throbbed in my right temple as I watched Aunt Clancy set down a blue glass platter full of tea sandwiches laid on the diagonal: cucumber, pimento cheese, smoked turkey, and egg salad. She went back to the counter and returned with more platters. Zucchini bread was piled up on a milk-glass dish. Arranged on a crystal plate were bakery petits fours, the pink icing dusted with sugared violets.
EAT ME
was written on each in white icing.

“So, how's the decorating business?” Aunt Clancy asked.

I laughed and told them how, since joining Sister's design firm, I was not only privy to the finest antiques in town, I got to hear the dirt on the créme de la créme of greater New Orleans. All our clients seemed to be politicians' and physicians' wives. I launched into a story about an influential allergist who'd given his wife an infection. I finished up by saying, “So the doctor brought home Flagyl.”

Violet laughed and said, “Flagyl is specific to trichomonas.”

“Is that what you get from eating raw pork?” asked Dorothy.

“No, it's a sexually transmitted disease,” said Violet. “But go on, Bitsy. What happened?”

“Apparently the wife refused to take the pills until the allergist agreed to tell the truth. He insisted he'd been faithful, acting as if the infection had just occurred spontaneously—a virgin birth of germs, so to speak. And the wife said, ‘Look, you can lie all you want, but I've got a fulminating infection, and I didn't get it from a toilet seat. You have been fooling around with pond scum.'”

“The moral of the story is this,” said Violet. “If a man sticks his dick in a whore's butt, ask for antibiotics, not a confession. After all, you're not his priest. You're his wife.”

Violet's language appeared to agitate Dorothy, and she interrupted with a comment about the rabbits in her garden and how they were eating the lettuce. Then she began complaining about the price of store-bought lettuce, and followed up with a long, chatty recipe for seven-layer salad. I smiled into my cupped hand. Listening to my mother was like stepping through the looking glass, trying to keep up with the White Rabbit.

Dorothy popped a captioned petit four obliviously into her mouth. Aunt Clancy set down an enormous brandy snifter filled with strawberries. She parked a bowl of whipped cream beside it. I knew that my aunt still avoided animal products, and I was deeply touched by this concession until Dorothy leaned over, her mouth full of cake, and whispered, “What if it's poisoned?”

The copper kettle began to howl, and Aunt Clancy walked over to the stove. “How is Louie?” she called. “Is he being good?”

“He better be,” said Dorothy.

“And if he's not?” Violet lifted one dark eyebrow.

“Then he'll be singing in the Viennese Boy's Choir,” said Dorothy. “I'll make sure of it.”

“Isn't it Vienna Boy's Choir?” Violet smiled.

I was glad the conversation had gone off on a tangent. It was difficult for my family to understand why I'd taken Louie back. But all they had to do was listen to Billie Holiday. Billie understood the crushing weight of bad love. When Billie sang “Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do,” she was telling the world to go fuck themselves.

While the tea steeped, Aunt Clancy set out mugs with Drink Me written on the sides in gold Magic Marker. She looked happy. I wondered if she and the fireman would get married or if they were content with the status quo.

“Claude ought to let Jennifer go with you guys,” said Violet.

“He's not,” said Aunt Clancy.

“Maybe he's scared for her to fly across the Atlantic,” said Dorothy. “I know
I'd
be terrified.”

“Well, she's nine years old,” said Violet. “Nowadays the courts are letting children of divorce make up their own minds about where they live and with whom. And the Wentworths have done their best to prevent Jennifer from loving you, Bitsy. They keep seeing this tiny little light in her heart, maybe it's no bigger than a fingernail clipping, but they're scared it'll grow. So they try to annihilate it. But if you stamp out everything in a heart, what's left?”

We fell silent.

Finally Dorothy patted Violet's head, jostling the asymmetrical hairdo. “You may not know it, but you got your high I.Q. from me.”

 

Our flight was scheduled to leave at 10:45
A
.
M
., nonstop from Nashville to Chicago. According to the itinerary, we would spend most of the day languishing at O'Hare, then catch the 7:43
P
.
M
. British Airways flight to Heathrow. When we boarded the plane in Nashville and found our seats in the first class cabin, the stewardess, a perky brunette with freckles scattered across her cheekbones, offered a choice of complimentary beverages. Louie interrupted her litany. “Do you have champagne?”

“Yes!” she said brightly. “Shall I bring two glasses?”

Louie nodded and kissed the tip of my nose.

“I love honeymooners,” said the stewardess with a smile.

Louie gasped, then he sat bolt upright. His eyes were fixed on something in the aisle, past the stewardess.

“What's wrong, honey?” I grabbed his hand, then followed his gaze. Another stewardess was coming toward us, holding by the hand a little blond girl.

“Jennifer!” I sprang out of my seat, the top of my head grazing the overhead bin. As I stumbled into the aisle, I knocked into a gray-headed man with a leather briefcase. I profusely apologized, then squeezed past him. Jennifer blinked up at me, then took a cautious step forward.

“Your daughter's tickets,” said the stewardess, handing me a packet. “I'll stow her suitcase.”

Those tickets couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, yet they rooted me to the floor of the plane. I had a million questions, but I didn't know where to start or whom to ask. The last thing I wanted to do was alarm Jennifer. Maybe someone in the family had abducted the child, then spirited her off to the airport.

“Is anything wrong?” The stewardess looked alarmed.

I shook my head and squatted beside my daughter. “Baby, how did you
get
here?”

“Daddy,” Jennifer said.

“And you're going to England with me and Louie?”

She nodded again. The stewardess was starting to look desperate. I knew we were blocking traffic, but I couldn't move.

“Can we let these passengers by?” the stewardess asked, eyeing the congestion. People were backed up to the cockpit. I leaned over and kissed Jennifer's head, smelling shampoo, and led her up the aisle to where Louie was standing. I told my daughter to stay with Louie, that I'd be right back. He took Jennifer's hand and guided her to our seats. When I reached the front of the plane, another stewardess charged in front of me, blocking the doorway with her arms. Behind her, the metal steps plunged down to the pavement. I peered over the stewardess's shoulder to where I had spotted Claude on the edge of the tarmac, his hair blowing in the wind.

“I'm sorry,” snapped the stewardess, “but you can't disembark.”

I leaned across the woman's outstretched arm and lifted my hand into the air, feeling the wind push against my palm, and yelled, “Claude? Over here!”

When he heard my voice, his head swiveled around, straightened up, and he took a tentative step forward. A man with earmuffs shouted something into his face and pushed him back. Keeping his eyes on me, Claude spread his arms up to the sky and shrugged, as if to say
I can't explain it.

 

Once we were in the Cotswolds, Jennifer became sulky. “When's it gonna stop raining?” she asked Louie, dragging her finger through a half-eaten egg salad sandwich. We'd only been here a week.

He thought a moment, then shrugged. “How long is a piece of string?”

“What does string have to do with the rain?” She frowned.

“Pretty much everything,” he said.

“I don't like it here,” she said.

Louie lifted an ironic eyebrow and said, “Would you prefer a trip to Opryland next summer?”

“Of course she wouldn't. Don't be silly.” I unfolded a map of Britain and began plotting day trips. The next day we took the train to London and took a taxi to Westminster Abbey, where we walked over the graves of the poets.

“It smells funny in here,” Jennifer said, tugging on my hand. “Can we go? Please?”

Late that afternoon, we bought tickets for a sunset boat ride along the Thames. Most of the sightseers were seated, but Louie insisted we stand at the rail, our coat collars turned up against the biting gusts. He tried to point out landmarks, but Jennifer wasn't interested. She kept pulling my coat.

“Mother, what time is it in Crystal Falls?” she asked over and over.

“I don't know, baby,” I replied each time.

“Guess,” Jennifer finally said. “Just take a guess.”

“It's eleven
A
.
M
.,” Louis answered without even glancing at his watch. The boat was drifting past the House of Commons, where people were gathered on a terrace, drinking white wine in fluted glasses. One man raised his glass and saluted the boat. In the distance, Big Ben chimed. I counted six gongs. Which meant it
was
eleven
A
.
M
. in New Orleans.

“Isn't this fun?” I asked my daughter.

“It's cold,” Jennifer said, jumping up and down. “Burr!”

The boat made a U-turn, and a gust of wind lashed my legs. Jennifer leaned against me. I unbuttoned my coat and pulled her inside.

“Better?” I asked.

 

Away from New Orleans, Louie seemed untroubled, placidly buying seedlings at the nursery, waiting in line at the butcher's for a leg of lamb, chatting with the postmistress while buying stamps. “This is your element, isn't it?” I asked him one day—it wasn't a question, really, more of a wish. It was
my
element. I felt utterly at peace in England—and safe. But we were far, far away from Louie's world.

“Sure,” he answered as he shook out the
Guardian.
“But I'd sell my soul for a cup of shrimp gumbo.”

“I prefer cock-a-leeky,” I said, eyeing him carefully.

“Darlin', I can't wait to show you the world.”

“Don't you like it here?”

“Well, I like the concept of tea,” Louie said after a moment.