Mad Girls In Love (49 page)
Authors: Michael Lee West
A TAPED MESSAGE FROM DOROTHY
September 6, 1991
My darling daughter,
I can't bear to tell you this on the phone and there is nothing you can do anyway. Jennifer is back. I found out that she was put into Cumberland Heights, that new psychiatric hospital next to the bowling alley. I ran into her at the Winn-Dixie and hardly recognized her. She was wild-eyed and skinny, and she had a cigarette in her hand. She said, “Oh, hi, Dorothy,” like she saw me every day and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She told me she was just fine except she was in a real, real bad mood. I tried to tell her that you've been sick with worry, but her eyes went dead. I could tell that she wasn't listening. I thought to myself, This is the saddest thing in the world. You have lost each other twice.
If I can do anything, let me know, and I will try my best. Meanwhile, I will continue to spy.
Love,
Dorothy (a.k.a. 007)
September 16, 1991
To My Biological Mother:
I almost died. You didn't care. After my accident you never wrote. You never called. So now you are like dead to me. These are all the old cards and letters you ever wrote me, the ones when I was a baby. I don't know why I saved them. Throw them away. Use them to start fires.
Grandmother took me to a therapist who says that YOU are the reason I'm fucked up. Your bad decisions set the tone for my life. So thanks bunches. My life is in total shambles. And don't try and say that Grandmother and Dad prevented you and me from developing a relationship. If you'd really loved me, you would've found a way.
I am 19 years old. I don't need a mother anymore. If I do, I've got quite a few stepmothers to choose from.
Jennifer
I called Violet to ask if she could explain why Jennifer was acting so hostile. My cousin said she couldn't imagine a legitimate therapist saying those awful things. She went on to explain about how our relationships with our mothers are critical to who we become, and affect all other relationships. Then she told me to stop blaming myself. That in this case Miss Betty seized that role, so if anyone is to blame, it's her.
Violet laughed and said that even at her age she hesitates to call her mother because all she talks about is her coffee shop and her hot flashes and irregular periods. Violet said that Aunt Clancy is going through Menopaws.
I hung up and walked into the conservatory, leaning my cheek against a glass pane. Violet's voice was still in my head. I missed the days when we'd all been together. Despite all of my troubles, that era had been a sort of golden age. And it would never come again.
July 11, 1992
Dear Mother,
I am working the 12-Step program, and I can't seem to get past #8 and #9 where I'm supposed to make a list of all the people I've harmed. Then I have to make amends to them. So, I forgive you, okay? Meanwhile, I am waiting for God, or my Higher Power, or whoever, to remove my shortcomings. I wish I'd meet the right guy.
One Day at a Time,
Jennifer
November 3, 1992
Dear Bitsy,
My Pomeranian had 2 puppies. I plan to sell them for a small fortune, not that I need it. I have enclosed a copy of a note that I sent to Barbara Bush since you enjoy reading my letters so much.
November 3, 1992
Dear Barbara,
Today I voted for your hubby, and I almost had second thoughts. I wondered if I should have voted for Clinton. Well, he is cute. Al Gore's not too shabby, either, and he's from my home state, even if he doesn't talk real Southern. I suppose that's Tipper's influence. Despite that, I might have voted the Democratic ticket just to see what they'd do with health care, but what finally tipped the scales was Hillary's cookies. Maybe it's just me, but they looked store-bought. I would appreciate having your recipe. I'll be staying up all night, watching the election results.
Your friend,
Dorothy
January 21, 1993
Dear Bitsy,
Here is a tape that I sent to Clinton. I hope you won't get mad that I bragged on you.
Love,
Dorothy
A TAPED MESSAGE TO BILL CLINTON
January 21, 1993
Dear Bill,
As I watched you on TV tonight, I admired your tie and wondered if Hillary had picked it out.
Even though I am too scared to fly over the ocean, I know you're not. Didn't I read somewhere that you went to school in Oxford? Or maybe that's the kind of shoes you wear. I am bad to mix up men's fashions and their education. But if you ever go to England on a diplomatic mission, feel free to look up my daughter. She is an interior decoratorâa pretty darn good one, too. She is the favorite of the ritzy-fitzy set, with country houses, horses, and hounds. Her clients are evermore inviting her to parties, and they send a
limousine to pick her up. If the parties are far away, they'll send a private plane. You would like her lifestyle. In fact, y'all might run with the same crowd. Bitsy has decorated for a friend of a friend of Diana, Princess of Wales.
She's a blue-eyed blonde, a dead ringer for Gennifer, except youngerâand more discreet. I wish you were my son-in-law. Not that I'm hoping anything will happen to Hillaryâbut my daughter has no business living over in England, and she would make you a fantastic First Lady.
Fondly,
Dorothy McDougal
A NOTE FROM LOUIE DECHAVANNES
May 21, 1993
Dear Beauty,
This is my last letter, kid. I love youâalways will. If I don't hear from you soon, I'm giving up.
Happy anniversary,
Louie
For days I kept his letter propped on my burled walnut desk, wondering if I should answer or just let it go. I didn't regret England for a moment but he had written faithfully for nearly a decadeâthis was impressive, considering his attention span. Not that I'd become dependent on those letters. I wasn't exactly leading a solitary existence. My friends were always introducing me to darling men, and I enjoyed their company immensely, but I never allowed myself to care. Every important relationship in my life had been damaged in some wayâmy mother, my daughter, my lovers. So I could notâwould notârisk loving someone that deeply.
Each time I passed my desk, I picked up Louie's letter. It wasn't his threat of giving up on me, but his shaky handwriting that had gotten my attention. I had an image of himâall withered and stooped as he bent over the stationary, his fingers stiff and gnarled as they gripped the pen. Finally, I sat down at the desk, took out a sheet of paper, and began to write. But I couldn't find the right tone. I preferred to read a letter than to write one, especially one this important. In minutes, my trash bin filled with crumpled paper.
Dear Louie,
Don't be a quitter. Here' my number. Give me a call sometime.
Â
I tore that letter up, threw it into the bin, and started over.
Dear Louie
Why don't we talk?
I ripped up that letter, too. Then I grabbed another sheet and hastily scribbled my phone number. Before I could change my mind, I folded the paper in half and slipped it into the pocket of my cardigan, a lumpy, old thing I'd brought from 214 Dixie Avenue. I started to make tea, then I happened to glance at my watch. I had promised to meet my friend Rosamund at Waterstone's, where she was promoting her latest children's book. Rosamund was a tall, angular blonde who bit her nails to the quick and chain-smoked. I'd decorated her Kensington flat last year, and while we were very different, we'd become friends, despite her irritating habit of dragging me to book signings and parties, introducing me to eligible writer-friendsânot my sort of chaps whatsoever. In fact, just last month, she'd insisted I attend a publishing party in Bedford Square, where I'd met her editor, a young, blond fellow named Ian. I tried to be cordial, but privately dismissed him as too young.
Hoping the outing to Waterstone's might clear my head, I dashed out of my flat and caught a taxi on Picadilly. When I reached the bookstore, Rosamund was nowhere to be found. Instead of my friend, I found her editor sitting on the floor, reading
The Secret Garden
to several dozen children. I sat down with the kids, mesmerized by his voice, the elegant flat As and blurred Rs. After he finished, he stood up and the children swarmed past him. I started to leave, too, but he called, “You're Rosamund's friend aren't you?”
“Right.” I extended my hand, surprised that he'd remembered.
“Nice to see you again.” He gripped my hand and gave it a firm shake. “Once again, Rosamund's gone missing. I was left carrying the can, wasn't I?”
“You were splendid.” I loved how the Brits added a rhetorical “wasn't I” to every sentence.
He muttered thanksâwhich came out sounding like
tah.
“I noticed it stopped raining,” he said, glancing out the window. Wobbly sunlight shone down on the damp street. “Do you care to take a stroll?”
We stepped out of the bookstore and headed toward a pub Ian knew just off Charing Cross. The clouds washed low, and it began to rain again. “It's
throwing
it down,” Ian said, handing me his umbrella. Then he stepped away to hail a cab. I slid one hand into my cardigan pocket, trying to warm up. A cab pulled up to the curb. When Ian turned to open the door, I started to close the umbrella, but I couldn't get the lever to work. I pulled my hand out of the pocket and my letter to Louie flew up and caught wind. I started to run after it, but then I saw that Ian was waiting. I gave the letter one last glance. It drifted over a phone booth, then caught an updraft and landed on an awning. I hurried over to Ian, and he helped me inside the cab. It smelled faintly of tobacco, but it wasn't unpleasant. Ian gave the pub's address to the driverâ“four one treble six.” Beads of water clung to his hair and his raincoat. The driver sped off, jolting me against Ian's shoulder. It felt rather niceâsolid, familiar. I smelled his cologneâbay and spice and something else. Ian smiled down at me and said, “Sorry about that.”
But I wasn't sorry. Not one bit.
Â
October 15, 1993
Dear Bitsy,
I can't believe that you're 40 years old today. And our little Jennifer will turn twenty-two years old this New Year's Eve. You know how I like to buy ahead, so I got her a cute Dior evening bag from the Episcopal Church rummage sale. I have missed you so much. I'm sorry I couldn't get to London last summer, but I have all these dogs, and it's just so hard to travel.
Love,
Dorothy
January 3, 1994
Dear Bitsy,
Sit down before you read this. I have enclosed a newspaper clipping. Love,
Dorothy
FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS
DEMOCRAT
Section F, Living, January 3, 1994
Mr. Claude E. Wentworth IV announces the engagement of his daughter, Jennifer, to Pierre Armand Tournear, of Atlanta, Georgia. Ms. Wentworth is the granddaughter of Mr. and Mrs. Claude E. Wentworth III and Dorothy Hamilton McDougal and the late Albert McDougal. A 1989 graduate of Falls High, Ms. Wentworth attended Falls College. She is employed at Citizen's Bank as a vice president.
Mr. Tournear is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Thurmond Tournear of Marietta, Georgia. He briefly attended Kennesaw College and is currently employed at The Gap in Buckhead, Georgia.
The nuptials are slated for May 15, 1994.
After Dorothy mailed the newspaper clipping to Bitsy, she called her granddaughter to complain about not having been told. Jennifer's response was to tell her to take a chill pill. Then she said, “I totally feel your pain, Dorothy. But I WAS going to tell you.”
Dorothy couldn't think of a reply. She was sure Miss Betty had made Jennifer keep it from her. Nothing was enough for that woman. Not only had the lofty title of Grandmother had been claimed by that old witch, but Dorothy didn't get to have a special name, and that irritated the hell out of her.
“Are you going to tell your mother?” Dorothy asked. “Or shall I?”
“Dammit, stay out of my business,” Jennifer cried. “If you tell her anything, I'll personally send someone over to break your legs.”
“I promise,” Dorothy said. “But it sure is funny that you always cash your mother's checks but fail to return her phone calls.”
“Stop meddling. Get a hobby.”
“My family is my hobby.” Dorothy paused, then quickly changed the subject. “Where did you meet the Frenchman?”
“Pierre isn't French. He's from Georgia.”
“Well, that's a relief.”
“Oh, forget it. Just tell me Mack's tuxedo size.”
“Why?” Dorothy perked up. “Is he going to be an usher?”
Jennifer just snorted. “No, I want to make sure he dresses appropriately.” Then she said to make certain that he ordered the tux this week.
“What's the rush?” Dorothy asked. “The wedding isn't till May.”
“I just want to be organized.”
To Dorothy she sounded just like the crazies on Sally Jessie. Obsessive-compulsive brides cracking up on national TV. As if reading her grandmother's mind, Jennifer said, “Make SURE that you tend to Mack's tuxedo. Or better yet, just give me his measurements, and I'll order it.”
That night, Dorothy went over to Mack's house and rifled through his closet, pulling together all his sizes. She wrote them down on an index card then she handed the card to her son, and told him to please call his niece and give her the information, that she was having fits over the tuxedo.
Mack cracked open a Budweiser, sucked up the foam, and told her to handle it.
Dorothy reached for the portable phone and punched in her grand-daughter's number, then shoved the receiver into Mack's hand. As he recited his sizes to Jennifer, his face turned pink. He was almost bald, a pale, blue-eyed, bald-headed man with purple bags under his eyes, not to mention a sour yellow complexion.
If his liver is shot,
Dorothy thought,
I will give him mine
.
Mack's forehead puckered and he said, “Inseam? Mama didn't give me one.”
He held out the receiver, as if gripping a live copperhead. Jennifer was yelling, “I have never
heard
of someone not knowing his inseam. What kind of throwback
are
you? Listen, if you want to come to my wedding, you'd better get your sizes in order.”
Mack hung up the phone and scowled at his mother. “This is
your
fault. You didn't give me a fucking inseam.”
“No,” she told him. “But God did.”
