Mad Girls In Love (54 page)

“Well, shit. What else is new?” Mack shrugged. “I try to avoid the upstairs. I don't go no farther than the kitchen.”

“We ought to clean it while she's in the hospital.” I lifted one arm, gesturing at the bric-a-brac stacked along one wall, and cardboard boxes overflowing with out-of-style clothes.

“We'll need us some wheelbarrows.”

“A lorry would be better.”

“I used to know a girl named Laurie. I wonder if she's still around. I could give her a call.”

“No.” I spelled it. “That's what the British call trucks.”

“Well hell, I can't imagine what kind it would be,” he said, “with a prissy name like that.”

Clancy Jane slouched on her sofa, eating lo mein and spareribs from Peking Chinese. With a greasy finger, she flipped the remote control from HBO to Home Shopping Network. A big-breasted blonde was selling Loma's Self Tanner, not a stain, not a dye, yours for only $23.95. What a rip-off. She tuned to the music channel, Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt were singing a duet. Their voices melded together, entangled like lovers.

A noodle fell on Clancy Jane's robe, a recent catalog purchase. It had come with tuxedo cat slippers. She reached for the noodle and ate it. A striped kitten, Jellybean IV, stopped washing his face to stare, as if to say, Your manners, my dear. Clancy Jane's mountain was a halfway house for felines. She had abandoned Buddhism for the Tao of Meow. The empty spaces in her rooms—and there weren't many—were filled with kitty kitsch. Mugs, night-lights, tissue holders, trivets, pillows, and teapots. Her Volvo sported a bumper sticker that said: My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student. In her everyday conversations, she sprinkled phrases like cat's pajamas and catnaps. If people thought she was crazy, they were probably right. Violet called it feline mania, but she contributed to the fetish. Every Mother's Day, she dutifully sent a Laurel Burch plate, which Clancy Jane proudly displayed in her brand-new reproduction Welsh cupboard.

During her hippie days, she'd scoffed at gray-haired ladies who kept cats. Actually, she'd scoffed at just about everything. She picked up a rib, bit off a chunk of glistening fat. These days, Clancy Jane preferred meat to vegetables. She also preferred strangers to family. Her friends were selected from Crystal Falls' avant-garde community and they understood her need for solitude. Her years in the New Mexico commune had preprepared her to live in a self-contained environment—baking bread, preserving vegetables. The Java Hut brought her into contact with everyday people, and it wasn't always pleasant, but the minute she drove up the mountain to Cat Crossing, a peaceful, easy feeling washed over her, just like in that old Doobie Brothers song. Her mountain was more of a steep ridge, but it was high enough to have its own climate. In the past few weeks, she'd awakened to a dusting of snow, and when she'd driven down to Crystal Falls, it was sunny and springlike, with people walking around in short sleeves.

Jellybean's ears swiveled, and a few seconds later, a car rumbled up the long gravel drive. Still holding the rib and lo mein carton, she ran over to the window. A white Jeep was moving ahead of a dust cloud. Her heart began to thud, and she wondered if the car's owner meant to do her harm—maybe he was a cat burglar. She looked at the sparerib, wondering if she could use it as a weapon. Bitsy had. And it would make a good headline:
BURGLARY FOILED
,
VICTIM CREDITS CHINESE FOOD
.

Clancy Jane watched as the car stopped. The door opened, and a pretty blond woman climbed out. The cats ran to the foot of the staircase. They hated strangers. But this wasn't a stranger. Clancy Jane leaned closer to the windowpane. This was her niece. She stuffed the rib into the carton of lo mein and set it on the coffee table. Then she wiped her hands on her robe. When she started toward the door, the cats bolted up the stairs, their claws snicking on the wood, and just for a moment, Clancy Jane felt like hiding, too. But she couldn't. If Bitsy was home, there was trouble, and it probably had something to do with Jennifer's wedding. Clancy Jane had followed her great-niece's parties in the local paper thinking they seemed like episodes from a serial novel.

Clancy Jane and Bitsy greeted each other like long-lost Alpha Delta Pi sisters. “You'll have to excuse the mess,” Clancy Jane said, pulling away from Bitsy. “I haven't had time to clean. I went to a yoga class this afternoon and stopped by Peking Chinese for takeout. Would you like a sparerib?”

“No, thanks, but could I have a cup of tea?”

“I'll just put the kettle on,” Clancy Jane said, squeezing Bitsy's hand. “I'm thinking of redecorating my house. Are you familiar with feng shui? Well, I'm thinking of doing that. Although in this house, I might should call it fang shui.”

Bitsy laughed and hugged her aunt. “I've missed you
so
much.”

Later, sipping her tea from a yellow mug shaped like a cat, Bitsy asked about Violet.

“I haven't heard a peep. She'll never change,” said Clancy Jane. “Do you know that her favorite movie is still
Lawrence of Arabia
? Each time she sees it, she gets an urge to go camping. Did you know that she still carries a Swiss Army knife in her purse? Lucky for her that George is so outdoorsy.” As Clancy Jane chattered, her face lit up. “They just bought a new house. I haven't seen pictures, but Violet says it's glass-and-wood, with entrancing views of Boulder. I wish they didn't live so far away. I wish for too much, I guess.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I'm starting to sound like your mother. How is she? I haven't seen her in weeks.”

“At the moment she's subdued. Or should I say drugged? She's in the hospital. Just a dizzy spell. Byron called it a panic attack. He's her doctor.”

“I haven't seen the man in years. You'd think that he'd buzz by my coffee shop once in a while. But he can drink his coffee wherever he goddamn pleases. So, Dorothy is all right?”

“Physically.”

“Well, nobody's perfect. Or, as Violet says, purrfect.” Clancy Jane smiled, the skin around her eyes wrinkling. “Speaking of perfection, how is Jennifer?”

“You mean Bridezilla?”

Clancy Jane rolled her eyes again. “You'll have to tell me
all
about the wedding. All of the vile details.”

“You're not coming?”

“Sweetie, I didn't get an invitation.”

“Don't feel bad. I
barely
got one, and even then it was revoked. But you are planning to come, right?”

“Forget it, I'm not a gate-crasher. And I've gotten reclusive. I prefer cats to people.” She gestured at two kittens who were creeping from beneath a chair. When Bitsy turned to look, they dashed across the room and climbed up the floral draperies, their claws hooking into the fabric. “I'd just as soon stay on my mountain. When I'm alone, I actually meow to them. And they meow back. I wouldn't admit that to anyone but you.” Clancy Jane reached out and touched Bitsy's hair. “Have you ever noticed that craziness tends to run in our family? And we've got man problems, too.”

“We're in good company,” Bitsy said. “Madame Butterfly, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Anna Karenina.” Clancy Jane rolled her eyes. Then she smiled again. “So, tell me about Bridezilla. I want to hear
everything
.”

The doorbell rang, setting off a cacophony of barking. Dorothy, freshly released from the hospital, called to Bitsy, “I'll get it!” Pushing her Pomeranians back with her leg, Dorothy cracked open the door and stared into her granddaughter's kohl-rimmed eyes.

“Well, it's about time,” said Jennifer, striding past her grandmother. She was wearing ripped jeans and a hideous bomber jacket, olive satin that turned her eyes a strange, muddy blue. She shrugged off the jacket, showing the label to Dorothy. “Yohji Yamamoto,” Jennifer said. “Eight hundred fifty-five dollars.”

“I wish I had your job.” Dorothy shook her head, silently adding,
But I'd wear Givenchy, not Yamamoto.

“You haven't noticed my shoes.” Jennifer lifted one foot, causing the Poms to scatter.

“You haven't asked how I'm feeling,” Dorothy said. She ran one hand through her hair. “But I'll tell you anyway. I had me a little fainting spell, but no need to worry. Although it
could
be my heart. I just got out of the hospital. Your mother brought me home this afternoon.”

“Well, are you feeling better?”

“Not really.” Dorothy sighed. “My get-up-and-go is gone.”

“It hasn't gone too far, because you cleaned up the living room.” Jennifer turned in a circle. “It looks…sort of good.”

“Your mother did it,” said Dorothy, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But God only knows what she threw away. I'm afraid to ask.”

“Is she here?” Jennifer glanced around the room.

“In the kitchen,” Dorothy said. “Making tea. I think she smuggled it in from England. Want some?”

“No, thanks. I can't stay. I have to meet Pierre.”

Dorothy shuddered. She wouldn't name a basenji Pierre.

Jennifer looked toward the kitchen, where Bitsy was slamming cabinets and clinking china. “The reason I'm here is I need to borrow some of your pictures if you have any. See, Daddy is having a video made for the rehearsal dinner. It kinda shows the story of my life. And they're doing a parallel one for Pierre. The video man called today and asked for more pictures. I was hoping you'd have a few of me.”

Annoyed by the tone in her granddaughter's voice, Dorothy lumbered to the bookcase and picked out an album. On the first page was a photograph of Bitsy, posing at her baby shower next to a plastic stork. She was wearing an orange smock and maternity pants. Dorothy hastily turned the page, where there was a picture of a newborn Jennifer. “This must've been taken through the window of the hospital nursery,” Dorothy said, pulling the picture out of the plastic sheath. On the back, the photograph was dated and annotated in Bitsy's loopy, girlish handwriting: “December 31, 1971, My New Year's Eve Baby!”

“I didn't realize you had these.” Jennifer pulled the album into her lap and kept turning pages. The baby pictures ended abruptly in the fall of 1972. In 1974, the photographs resumed. Under the first pictures, in trembly script, Bitsy had written “Jennifer, age 2.” A later picture showed Jennifer dancing in the front yard with Clancy Jane and Violet, all three of them holding hands and laughing. On the back, Bitsy had scrawled: “Doing the rain dance, Jennifer, age 4.”

“There's lots you don't know,” Dorothy sniffed.

Bitsy appeared in the doorway holding a wicker tray. She blinked at her daughter's satin jacket and tight jeans, the cropped hair. The nose ring, in particular, was shocking. “Jennifer,” she said a little breathlessly.

“Hi, I'm just getting some pictures.” Jennifer glanced at her mother then turned to Dorothy and held up the album. “Can I take it? I see several pictures that'll be perfect for the video.”

“Well, I suppose,” Dorothy said, looking up at Bitsy. “Just as long as you promise to return it.”

“Actually, I'd like to take all the albums.”

“Just be careful,” Dorothy said. “We'd sure hate to lose them.”

“I won't.” Jennifer tilted the book, pointing to a photograph where she was holding a wide-mouth bass. “This will be awesome.”

“That was your first fish.” Dorothy beamed. “Your uncle Mack took you fishing at Center Hill.”

“Funny, I don't remember.” She studied the caption beneath the picture. Jennifer, age 5. She turned to a picture of herself blowing out six candles on a cake, surrounded by two generations of Hamilton women. “We had your birthday party a week early that year, because the Wentworths were taking you on a trip to Hilton Head.”

“How come I don't remember any of this stuff?” Jennifer pursed her lips. “Traumatic memory loss?”

Bitsy and Dorothy exchanged glances. It was an awkward moment, and Dorothy jumped right into the middle of it. “Now that we're here together,” she said. “I think it's high time that we all sat down and talked about that.”

“I told you, Pierre is waiting.” Jennifer gathered the albums into her arms and scrambled to her feet. She started for the door, but her grandmother stopped her.

“Not so fast,” Dorothy said. “You get your little butt back in here.”

“I can't. I'm seriously late. Look, I'll call tomorrow, and we'll set up something. Okay?”

She hurried out the door, onto the screened-in porch. Dorothy walked over to the window and parted the curtains. “She better return my pictures,” she whispered to herself, “or I'll hire me a hit man.”

After Dorothy went to bed, I called Violet, bringing her up to date on the latest Hamilton-McDougal misadventures. “I didn't get an invitation, either,” she said.

“This is so strange,” I said. “Why would Jennifer leave out one whole side of her family? Are we that awful?”

“Do you
really
have to ask? You're practically an ex-con. Dorothy's a little cuckoo, but I think her eyebrows are what's more worrisome to Jennifer. Not to mention Mack's artificial leg. And, of course, Mama's reputation was never the best. But I'm really pissed at Jennifer. She could have sent me an invitation. I'm no slouch. And my husband is a tenured professor.”

“I talked your mother into coming, invitation or not.”

“So?”

“Even Byron will be there.”

“Now
that
should be interesting. In fact, I'd hate to miss it. Let me check my schedule. I've got it right here. Hold on a second.” Violet paused. In the background paper rattled. “Okay, let's see…no, I can't make the rehearsal dinner. But the wedding's a possibility if I can get a morning flight.”

“It isn't till seven
P
.
M
.”

“Too bad Jennifer didn't run off to Vegas. She could've picked the chapel where Mama and Byron got married. Or yours with Louie. Then, after the thrill wears off—and with Jennifer that should take only about two days—they can get a divorce right there.”

“I can't wait to see you,” I said. “I've really missed you.”

“Me, too,” Violet said.

 

A dazzling spring morning in Crystal Falls. Sunlight blazed through the café curtains that hung crookedly in Dorothy's kitchen. In the center of the table was a platter of lemon poppy seed muffins. Beside the platter was a vase of pretty yellow weeds. Dorothy reached for a muffin, and her Pomeranians danced around her chair. Across the table, I lifted the tea bag from my mug, then gently squeezed it.

Dorothy glanced at the window, then ran one hand through her hair and said, “Your daughter's here.”

I put down my mug, transfixed by my mother's gesture. This was the same one that Jennifer used when she was vexed.

“I wish she'd call before she pops in,” said Dorothy, hastily buttoning her pink muumuu. “It's not eight
A
.
M
. yet, but she'll walk in here dressed to kill. Fix your robe, Bitsy. Your titties are showing.”

The Pomeranians began to yip, and the back door swung open. When Jennifer breezed into the kitchen, the dogs hopped excitedly around her legs. “Stop it, you monsters!” Jennifer stamped her foot and lifted her briefcase, threatening to crush one of the dogs, but they wouldn't back off. She looked helplessly at her grandmother. “They'll ruin my hose. And I'm already late for work!”

“Sit!” Dorothy pointed at the dogs, and they scrambled under the table.

“Wow, they're
so
obedient. Just like Uncle Mack.” Jennifer smirked, then brushed one hand over her pinstriped jacket. She kicked out one leg, showing off skyscraper heels. “Like my shoes?”

“You might start with a simple hello,” said Dorothy, biting into a muffin.

Jennifer ignored her grandmother and glanced at her watch. “I can only stay a minute. But I need to clear something up about the rehearsal dinner
and
the wedding. We need to get in synch.”

“Do you mean s-i-n-k,” Dorothy asked, wiggling her eyebrows, “or something else?”

“I don't have time for jokes,” Jennifer said, turning to me. “Let's discuss wardrobe. I don't know what you're planning, but I'm wearing Prada to the rehearsal.”

“Name-dropper,” said Dorothy, pinching off a piece of muffin and tossing it under the table.

“My shoes alone cost…well, you don't need to know.” Jennifer looked down at her feet. “It would just make you ill. And since I'm obviously nauseating
some
people in this room, I won't mention the designer.”

“But isn't the rehearsal on top of a mountain?” I asked, thinking she'd ruin those Pradas.

“So's the wedding, in case you've forgotten,” Jennifer said. “But the rehearsal dinner is at the country club. It will be formal. So
do
dress accordingly, and that goes for both of you.”

Dorothy smiled, flashing her teeth, where poppy seeds had gathered along the gum line. “We aren't nitwits. You can rest assured that I know what formal means.”

“There's a difference in very formal evening, formal evening, and semiformal evening,” Jennifer continued.

“Will my hot pink muumuu do, honey?” Dorothy asked. Beneath the table, the dogs began to growl. “Listen to that. Aren't they cute? I ought to make a tape and send it to Letterman.”

“Can't you pay attention to anything but those dogs?” Jennifer cried.

“Don't be jealous.” Dorothy reached under the table, snatched a Pom, and plopped it on her lap.

“Oh, forget it.” Jennifer ran one hand through her hair, causing it to stand up like a rooster's tail. “I've got a thousand problems. The bridesmaids' gifts haven't arrived, and Tiffany's swears they were shipped two weeks ago. Plus, Sharper Image screwed up with the usher's presents. It's just a mess.”

“Anything I can do?” I reached for my mug.

“You can write a check and pay for your half of the wedding,” Jennifer said.

I spit out a mouthful of tea, and the Poms started to bark.

“Just kidding.” Jennifer raised one thin eyebrow, looking eerily like Dorothy. “Although if you were still married to Louie, I'd expect you to pay half—not because Daddy needs the cash, but on general principle. But I know you don't make any money with your decorating business, so you're off the hook.”

I started to say something, but Dorothy caught my eye and shook her head.

“God, Mother. Your hair is awful.” Jennifer reached out and hesitantly fingered one of my curls. “You've got gray all over. You really need some highlights. And while you're at it, get it cut. It's
way
too long. Either wear it up—and not too poofy—or get it cut and styled.”

I picked up a lock of hair and studied it. “There's not so much gray.”

“Then you must be blind. It's there, trust me, and it adds ten years.” Jennifer touched her own shorn locks. “And your eyebrows…you really should get them waxed. Make an appointment at the Utopian. It's the nicest salon in Crystal Falls. They're doing the entire wedding party.”

“Even the men?” Dorothy held up her hand, hiding her broad, unpainted forehead from Jennifer.

“Well, yes. Some of them have unibrows.” Jennifer sighed. “I don't want the wedding pictures ruined, so Pierre talked them into it. They're having pedicures, too.”

“Don't let the gossips hear. They'll think you're having a toe-suckers convention instead of a wedding,” Dorothy said.

“Very funny.” Jennifer flounced out the back door.

“If she trips,” Dorothy said, “we'll be going to a funeral, not a wedding.”

 

Later, when I stepped into the living room and found Dorothy whispering into the phone, I told her to stop making clandestine phone calls. “I know you're talking to Jennifer,” I added.

Dorothy hung up so fast the phone jangled. “I wasn't talking to her,” she said, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Who was it then?”

“None of your beeswax. I have a life. With people that you
don't know about
,” Dorothy bristled. “Can't I have any privacy?”

“I thought you wanted me here more often,” I said.

“To visit,” Dorothy said. “Not spy. But you know what? Sean Connery is my idea of the perfect man. Who's yours?”

Ian
, I thought. Since I couldn't speak frankly to my mother about men, not without receiving an extensive cross-examination, I just shrugged. “Stop trying to change the subject,” I finally said. “Tell me who you were talking to.”

“It's a surprise,” said Dorothy. “That reminds me. I've made the cutest little present for Jennifer. I want you to look at it and tell me what you think.”

Dorothy opened the pantry, pulled out a plastic bag, and reached inside. She held up a pink-and-purple needlepoint pillow that said Headquarters of the Fashion Police.

“You made this?” I reached for the pillow.

“Mmmhum,” said Dorothy, pulling out another pillow that said Gone to the Dogs.

“I know clients who would adore these,” I said, bending closer to examine my mother's work. “Do you have any samples that I could take back with me?”

“Back?” Dorothy's forehead puckered.

“To London,” I said.

“That's what I thought you meant.” Dorothy sighed. “Even when you were a little baby, you couldn't stay put. But I'm all for global travel if these pillows sell. Why, I might have a second career. I wonder if it'll be more profitable than raising Pomeranians?”

 

At daybreak, the phone rang. Thinking it might be Ian, I scrambled out of bed and dashed into the hallway to answer it. “Mornin', Mother,” said Jennifer in a cheery voice. “I'm just leaving for my morning run, but I wanted to remind you about the rehearsal at Hammersmith Farm. It's tomorrow night at six o'clock sharp.”

“Got it,” I said.

“And please make sure that Dorothy dresses appropriately.” Her unspoken admonishment hung in the air:
And you, too.

“I'll do my best.” I stifled another yawn.

“Is Mack coming?”

“To the dinner, yes,” I said. “But not to the rehearsal.”

“Have you seen what he'll be wearing?”

“No.”

“Can you find out and call me back?”

I lifted the curtain and looked down into my brother's driveway. The white truck was parked in the azalea beds, crushing several bushes. “No,” I lied. “He's gone. I guess he's at work.”

“He's probably with a hooker. But never mind,” said Jennifer. “Is anyone else coming to the dinner? Clancy Jane? Violet? I didn't invite them because I figured you would.”

“They're only coming to the wedding.”

“That's a relief. Because I really hate to keep giving Pierre's mother these shifting numbers. Reservations were made months ago, and it's really embarrassing.”

I was on the verge of saying something unflattering about Pierre's mother and her shifting numbers, but I managed to hold back.

“One more thing, Mother,” Jennifer said in an edgy voice. “And it involves Daddy's girlfriend. I want Samantha to be seated in the grand-mother's row. With Dorothy. Do you mind?”

My heart began to pound. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I brushed them away. “Perhaps you should ask Dorothy,” I said, “since this involves her.”

“You sound upset.”

“No, no. I'm fine. Just sleepy.”

“Pinch yourself and wake up. This is important. If Samantha and Daddy were married, she'd be sitting in the front row with
you
,” Jennifer said. “She's really been there for me, you know? And I just owe her this honor.”

I'm sure you do
, I thought. Jennifer wasn't being cruel, just plain stupid. Dorothy had mentioned that Claude's third ex-wife, Regina, would be attending the ceremony with their daughter. And the second wife, my former bridesmaid, had been invited, too. The addition of a girlfriend—especially if she was seated in a place of honor—might touch off an uprising. Which would be lovely, actually. Jennifer and her mothers.

“Hey, you still there?” Jennifer asked.

“I was just thinking…” I said, feeling the devil take hold. “Why don't you just put Samantha in the front row with me?”

“You…don't mind?” Jennifer asked in a suspicious tone.

“Not at all.”

“Well, okay.” Jennifer paused. “I will. And thanks.”

“You don't have to thank me, dear,” I told her.

 

Dorothy was getting her hair done at the Utopian, but I drove to Fabulous Fred's on the Square. I skipped the pedicure and eyebrow waxing, and asked the stylist, who resembled Cher—long black hair parted down the middle and Cleopatra eyes—to take off several inches. “You're gonna look so
good
,” she said picking up her scissors. I shut my eyes and wished I'd had my hair cut in London—world-class salons were within walking distance of my flat.

After a while, the stylist said, “Okay, sugar. You can look.”

I cracked open one eye and looked into the mirror. I didn't recognize myself. My hair was layered, just hitting my shoulders. I hated to admit it, but Jennifer had been right. “I love it,” I said.

“I've got time to put on a rinse,” the stylist said. “You're too pretty to have so many gray hairs.”

“No, thanks,” I said, rising from the chair. “I've earned them.”

On my way home, I stopped by the jewelry store and bought a Fitz & Floyd tureen. It was large enough to hold all the letters I'd brought from England. Also, I threw in a gift certificate. When I got home, I began having second thoughts about the letters, and I went to my mother for advice, and to show her the tureen.

“She ought to treasure them,” said Dorothy. “Hopefully they'll knock some sense into her head. But the tureen is so pretty she may never remove the lid and find the letters. I wish we could see all her wedding gifts, but they're at Miss Betty's. Jennifer said they're spread out on card tables in the billiard room. She'd promised to take some Polaroids so I could see, but I guess she got too busy. Speaking of which, you and I have work to do.”

We spent the afternoon pulling together our costumes. I hung the glittery purple Oscar de la Renta gown on the back of the kitchen door to drape out the wrinkles and held up the strappy silver heels. “What do you think, Dorothy?”