Mad Girls In Love (7 page)

“I know what it is. My mama told me.”

“Okay, what does it stand for?” I shot her a dubious look.

“Please help, dahling?”

I laughed, thinking of my own mother's storehouse of malapropisms and mispronunciations: tuna was “albatross” and she called Chicago “She-CAR-go.”

Our next stop had gas lanterns burning on either side of the door. Alice Ann asked if it was a funeral home, but I said no, that it was a fancy eating spot. I pointed to a gold plaque that was hammered into the brick wall. The Embers, it said. I pulled open a heavy wrought-iron door and we stepped into pure blackness. A man with hairy arms materialized out of the gloom, and Alice Ann dropped back, the baby in her arms, ducking behind a rubber plant. The man led me to a little red booth, half hidden by a lattice screen. When I leaned to the right, I could see Alice Ann squatting next to the plant, holding the squirming baby and trying not to draw attention, even though a mean-looking waiter kept passing by, giving her harsh glances. He disappeared through a door, and Alice Ann shot away from the rubber plant and across the room, hiding under a table with a long white cloth.

“What position are you applying for?” the man asked.

“I'll do anything—cook, wait tables, sweep floors,” I said.

The hairy man just smiled. “Our salad chef is from New Orleans,” he said. “And our pastry chef comes to us from the CIA.”

My lips parted.
The CIA?
I couldn't imagine a little place like Point Minette having a spy cook the desserts.

“Most of our waiters have been here for five years or more,” the hairy man added.

“Oh,” I said, and my face fell. “I didn't realize.”

“You might want to try Le Cordon Bleu. Tell Mrs. Bianchi I sent you.”

We stepped out of The Embers into bright sun that smelled of cotton candy and turned down a narrow, brick-lined street where all the doors were painted bright colors. I stopped in front of a shop with a turquoise door. Then I reached down, pulled off my shoe, and turned it upside down. A tiny pebble fell to the sidewalk.

“We need to go back to Mrs. Finch's and tell her that we made a mistake,” I said. “Maybe she'll give us back our rent. Even if she gives us half the money, it'll be better than staying here and starving to death.”

“I don't need to eat,” Alice Ann said, shoving the baby into my arms. “I'm getting fat as a hog. Don't make us leave, not yet.” She skipped along the sidewalk and rounded a corner, then dropped out of sight. A moment later she let out an excited squeal. I tightened my arms around Jennifer and drew in a deep breath. Alice Ann sped back around the corner, her eyes shining with excitement. “I found the restaurant,” she hollered, windmilling her arms. “Hurry!”

 

To celebrate my new job, we ate lunch at an expensive tearoom on a shady street. Miss Nina's it said on the sign. We really couldn't afford this treat, but at least I had a job. I was just a lowly cook's apprentice, but I had to start somewhere.

After lunch, we took the long way home, walking barefoot along the beach. The gulf was on one side, hotels and filling stations on the other, in between mansions, all of them built to resemble quaint cottages, with roses spilling over the fences. The sun was straight overhead, making the water glow with a strange radiance. Alice Ann said that angels were skimming over the surface, and their wings shed glitter. I just laughed. For all I knew, it might
be
glitter, because Point Minette was within spitting distance of New Orleans and the water was full of strange things that had floated up, coasters from Pat O'Brien's, plastic drinking cups, Jax bottles.

When the seawall ended, we cut over to the sidewalk. I lifted Jennifer high into the air. The baby giggled. We hurried past a stucco motel and an adjoining coffee shop, where tourists gazed through the plate-glass window. Next door, a condominium complex was under construction. I hated to walk past it because of the workmen. As we passed by, their cat-calls blended in with the screeching gulls.

“Will you wait tables or cook?” Alice Ann asked. “You never said.”

She had fit her shoes on her hands like puppets.

“No, they're training me to cook. I'm starting out in salads, but I may work my way up to seafood.” My polka-dot dress rippled around my knees and the baby reached down to grab it.

“Too bad they won't let you make cakes.” Alice Ann began trudging through the sand.

“Don't step on any glass,” I said. The wind kicked up my dress again, and when I reached down to smooth it, another gust caught the hem from behind, filling the skirt with air like a balloon around my hips. From the road, a man on a red motorcycle revved his motor, then yelled out, “Hey, you big-assed gal!”

I slapped the fabric with my free hand, desperately trying to deflate it. “I am
not
big-assed,” I said through my teeth. But I really was. I just had this tendency for all of my weight to settle there.

Alice Ann stopped to watch. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are apple-butted.”

A blue Datsun slowed down to stare, and a burly-necked man in sunglasses leaned out his head. “Hey, lady!” he shouted. “You! Blondie! I'll give you a free ride if you give me one! Whaddaya say?”

“Don't ever marry a Southern man, Alice Ann,” I told her. “When you get grown, find you a nice man from New Jersey.”

“I'm never getting married,” Alice Ann said, skipping to keep up with me. “But I bet you will.”

“No, I'm through with men,” I said, turning back to look at Alice Ann. Her hair blew across her face, cobwebbing in her mouth.

“Don't be so sure,” said Alice Ann. “When Mrs. Bianchi was showing you around, there was an oyster shucker looking you up and down. The one with the tattoo and a gold tooth.”

“I'm not interested,” I said. “I need a paycheck, not trouble.”

We walked up the sandy path to the boardinghouse. Despite what Mrs. Finch had said about students, at the moment all the other boarders were women who had been abandoned by their men—death, divorce, disappearances at sea. It was a hotel for widows and I felt safe there. I could see the ladies sitting in metal chairs, sipping frothy pink drinks. They seemed always to be drinking something, or else sipping from bottles of cherry cough syrup. Kenny lay curled up in Mrs. Finch's lap. When he saw us approach, his ears perked.

“You, Lillian!” called Mrs. Finch. “Come have a cool drink with us.”

“Another time,” I said. “These girls need a nap. But thank you.”

As we headed up the back stairs, I glanced back at the widows. I longed to join them, even though I wasn't much of a drinker, but in two seconds flat I'd be telling the women my life story, concluding with the afternoon I'd left town. I would tell them my real name and how Claude's mysterious absence from the bank had led to violence. I would describe the hibachi in detail, along with Claude's black Labrador, and the baby back ribs. But the very idea of a confession, even a drunken one, filled me with despair. I'd never thought of food—except for mayonnaise—as a murder weapon: potato salad incubating in a blue bowl, deviled eggs souring beneath a broiling summer sun. Now I saw danger everywhere. If frozen ribs could break a man's nose, then a frozen pound cake might crush a skull.

That night I lay awake in the boardinghouse, imagining a new kind of criminal, people robbing banks with frozen pork tenderloins, kielbasa sausage, or ears of corn. But my mind turned back to those brief days when Claude, Jennifer, and I had lived together as a family. In my mind's eye, I could almost see our little house brooding in the pitch-black darkness, and outside the fireflies would skim in the knee-high grass. The coals in the hibachi would still be burning, the feathery particles wafting in the night air.

A LETTER FROM DOROTHY MCDOUGAL

Dr. Patterson's office was at the end of a long, green-tiled hall. When Dorothy stepped inside, the doctor was sitting at his desk, writing in a notebook. His black eyeglasses slid down to the tip of his nose. Dorothy leaned forward, ready to catch them, but somehow they stayed affixed to his nose. Dr. Patterson waved at a stiff-backed chair, and she sat down, folding her hands on her knees, watching him scribble away in the book. Their shrinking sessions always began with him asking the same question. “How are we today, Dorothy?” Like they were Siamese twins, sharing the same brain—or worse, sharing the same delusions.

The doctor shut the notebook. The chair squeaked as he swiveled around. “How are we today, Dorothy?”

“Pretty good,” she said, repressing a smile. “Considering that I'm glowing in the dark.”

“Glowing?” Dr. Patterson's eyebrows shot up.

“It's a joke,” Dorothy said. Didn't he get it? Hadn't Patterson been the one to order the shock therapy? The doctor flashed a suspicious glance, then turned back to his desk and opened the notebook. He jotted something down. Without looking at Dorothy, he said, “I spoke with your sister this morning—Mrs. Clancy Jane Falk.”

“I know her name.” Dorothy nodded. At least
that
hadn't been fried out of her brain. Not yet, anyway.

“She cleared up the little misunderstanding about your missing daughter.”

“
Little
misunderstanding?” Dorothy's right thumb twitched. It had begun after the last shock treatment.

“Mrs. Falk also mentioned your long-standing feud.”

“She actually called it a feud?” Dorothy felt an urge to rub her eyebrows, but she couldn't because she'd plucked them out years ago. They'd never grown back—just her luck.

“Perhaps sibling rivalry might be a more accurate term.” The doctor smiled. “How did it begin?”

Dorothy twisted her mouth to one side. “Didn't my sister tell you?”

“I'd like to hear your version.”

“I see.” She had copied this phrase from him, and she could tell that he didn't like it. But she couldn't worry about that, because her thumb was twitching again, much like a bank teller counts dollar bills.

“Have you forgotten?” Dr. Patterson cocked his head.

“No, it's just that I'm afraid to tell my side of
any
story. Look what happened to me the other day, when I saw my daughter's face on TV. Nobody believed me. And then y'all—”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor said impatiently, “but I want to know your version.”

“Fine. But it may take a few hours.”

“Why don't you compile a list, itemizing your sister's positive and negative traits. And bring it to the next session.”

“But I've got the list in my head. Can't we get started now? Her number-one bad trait is coldheartedness. But I won't start at the very beginning, which is the day Clancy Jane was born—that was in 1938, by the way, and it would be a very long story. Because all Southern women are born with the long-winded chromosome. I must have two of them, so I'll just speed things up. I'll start in 1953. Back then, I was a happily married woman with two children—Mack and Bitsy. She's the one I saw on TV? But my son is so much cuter. And sweeter. But anyway, in 1953, I was a twenty-one-year-old mother of two, and my sister was fifteen. Miss Everything at Crystal Falls High. Then she got mixed up with a hoodlum named Hart Jones. He was the captain of the football team. And he got Clancy Jane pregnant. They eloped. It nearly killed our mother.”

“Yes, but I fail to see how that's coldhearted, and besides, our session—”

“I'm not finished—didn't I tell you it would take hours? You'd best cancel the rest of your appointments so you can hear me out. Anyway, Clancy Jane and Mother had a big fight. This was real unusual for them. Up to that point, they'd been close. So Clancy Jane and the hoodlum left town. I don't know where all they went. Seven months later, we got a postcard from Louisiana, saying that Clancy Jane's baby had been born. It was a girl, Violet. But we couldn't write back, because my sister hadn't put a return address.

“We didn't hear a peep out of her for five years. Mother was beside herself. She got real skinny. I tried to give her extra attention, but she'd just snap my head off. I guess her nerves were bad. I was upset with my sister for causing this. Anybody with a soul wouldn't let months and years go by without one word to her family. Then one day in 1958, Clancy Jane just turned up. A beat-up car pulled into the driveway—Mother and I lived next door to each other and we shared a big, old driveway. Anyway, the car had Louisiana license plates.”

“That's interesting, Dorothy, but—”

“You're probably wondering if Clancy Jane was my mother's favorite? Well, she was.”

“Dorothy—”

“And you're thinking that I felt slighted. It's true.” She knew she was talking too much, knew he wanted to get away, but he'd asked for it, hadn't he? Or maybe this was a trap. Maybe this was a test to see just how crazy she really was. She put her hands over her mouth and said, “Just listen to me rattling on. Is this a bad sign?”

“No, Dorothy,” said Dr. Patterson. “It's not bad. You have a lot of emotions churning inside. I'm developing a theory that you are terrified of not being loved. But we'll
have
to save this issue for our next session.”

“Oh, phooey. We're on a roll.”

“I know. But it'll have to wait. And don't forget to make a list of positives and negatives.” He turned back to his desk and opened the notebook, signaling that their shrinking session was over.

Dorothy got out of the chair and started to leave. “Dr. Patterson?”

“Yes?”

“Now that you know the truth about my daughter, will they stop giving me shock treatments?”

“Possibly.”

She blinked. Was this all he was going to say? Wasn't he going to offer her a consolation prize, like an extra dessert?

“Is there something else, Dorothy?” He stared at her over the rim of his glasses.

“No, I guess not.”

“Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow, same time.”

She walked back to her room and lay down on the bed. The nurses didn't like for the patients to stay in bed. No, they wanted you to play shuffleboard with homicidal maniacs—it was the truth. Some of the patients were criminally insane. It was all so tiresome. She shut her eyes. The shock treatments had blotted out much of her recent memory. If only it had burned away the past. 1958 was a little too clear. She could still see Clancy Jane drive up in that ancient black Plymouth. The window was down and Frankie Avalon's voice drifted out. The engine sputtered and died, and the music snapped off. The door creaked open and Clancy Jane stepped out. Her hair was longer than Dorothy remembered, and blonder. It was tied back with a blue chiffon scarf, but a few strands tumbled around her cheeks. She looked narrow-hipped and big-breasted in blue pedal pushers and a sleeveless blouse. On her feet were white sling-back flats. Dorothy had never seen anything so stylish in Crystal Falls.

The passenger door opened, and a little brown-haired girl hopped out. This had to be Violet, but she didn't have a look of Clancy Jane. The child had straight, dark hair and a sallow face. Her dress was yellow and wrinkled, and it hung below her knees. She was thin and wormy-looking, and she kept reaching down to scratch her ankles, which were covered in red scabs and welts. Next door a screen door slammed, and Dorothy looked away from the child. She saw her mother running across the grass, her arms open wide.

“I don't believe my eyes!” cried Miss Gussie. She grabbed Clancy Jane and they danced sideways. Then Clancy grabbed her mother's shoulders and steered her around the car, toward the little girl.

“Mama, look here,” cried Clancy. “This is Violet, your grandbaby.”

“Well, my goodness,” said Miss Gussie. She knelt in front of the child, her hands clasped together. The child reached down and scratched her legs. “You're just so precious.”

Clancy Jane's eyes met Dorothy's and she called, “Hey.”

“Hi there!” Dorothy cried, and the last five years just dropped away. She opened her arms and said, “Get over here and give me a hug.”

Just then there was a whirring noise above her head. She glanced up and saw a mockingbird fly across the yard. It made a beeline for her brand-new Coupe de Ville—pale yellow with a powder blue roof. The bird lifted its tail and splattered the windshield. Then it circled back, ready to drop another load. It was the fifth attack this week. And if it continued, Dorothy would be forced to carry an umbrella at all times.

The bird flew over to the Cadillac and perched on the hood ornament. It looked at Dorothy. Just last spring, the mockingbird had made a nest in the dogwood tree. The babies had fledged long ago, but the bird continued to guard her empty nest. Mockingbirds were mean and territorial—they would attack humans at the drop of a hat. Dorothy had read all about them in the
World Book Encyclopedia.

From across the yard, Miss Gussie called up to the bird, “Aren't you a pretty little thing. See the birdie, Violet?”

The child tilted back her head but said nothing. Clancy Jane stepped up to Dorothy. If she'd noticed the bird—probably not; she never worried about anything—she gave no indication. The sisters embraced. Clancy's hair smelled faintly of soap, but her breath was sour and fruity, like old Mrs. Minchey's from down the street who had sugar diabetes. Dorothy gasped and shut her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw Miss Gussie and Violet walking across the grass, swinging their hands, chatting like two old friends.

“You look terrific,” Dorothy said, pulling away from her sister. “How long will you be staying?”

“I'm not sure.” Clancy Jane shrugged.

Miss Gussie was leading Violet next door, toward the screened-in porch. She glanced back at Clancy Jane and called, “Are you hungry? I've got a chess pie cooling on the counter.”

“Famished,” said Clancy Jane. She walked across the driveway, those pretty little shoes scraping in the gravel. Dorothy's stomach growled—she just loved her mother's pies—and she hurried after her sister. When she started up the back steps, Miss Gussie turned and said, “Let me get them settled, and then you can visit. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” Dorothy nodded. She watched her mother go into the house and shut the door. Dorothy staggered toward her own yard. The g-ddamned bird swooped out of nowhere, flew over the Cadillac, and spattered the windshield, this time on Dorothy's side. Then it flew into Miss Gussie's walnut tree. Its chirruping sounded triumphant.

 

Dorothy sat in her knotty-pine kitchen and waited for the phone to ring. One hour passed, then two. She got up and made a two-layer cake, Betty Crocker's vanilla. The phone still hadn't rung, so she whipped up a batch of pink icing and began decorating the cake. In pale blue icing she wrote: “Welcome Home Clancy Jane & Violet.”

She glanced at the clock. It was time to think about supper for Albert and the kids. She'd planned meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, Jell-O salad, and corn bread. And of course that cake would be delicious. Didn't she have more than enough for Miss Gussie and them? She walked across the kitchen and called her mother. “Hi,” she said. “It's me.”

“I was just going to give you a call,” said Miss Gussie.

“I'm about to fix supper. Would y'all like to eat with us? I'm making—”

“That's real sweet of you,” Gussie interrupted, “but the girls are tuckered out. They're already in their nightgowns.”

“Well, I could fix y'all some plates and bring them over.”

“Could we just take a rain check?” Gussie paused. “You'll get to see them tomorrow. I promise. I'm looking at them right now. They've fallen asleep on the couch. They're my angels. Let me go watch them, and I'll see you tomorrow. Okay, Dorothy?”

 

The next morning, Dorothy and her children walked over to Miss Gussie's. Mack was tall for a seven-year-old, and he looked grown-up in his baby-blue Sunday suit and the plaid clip-on tie. Bitsy skipped ahead, her stiff braids hitting her shoulders. She was a year younger than Mack and wore a pale pink baby-doll dress. Dorothy was wearing a pink linen dress, cream spectator pumps, and the strand of pearls that Albert and the kids had given her last Christmas. She held an umbrella above her head, just in case that mockingbird was lurking in the trees.

“Who're we meeting again?” called Mack.

“Your cousin, Violet,” said Dorothy.

“Why haven't we seen her before?”

A good question. Dorothy didn't have the answer. “Let's scoot,” she told the kids. “Maybe y'all can take Violet into the backyard and play on the tire swing.”

“I can show her how to climb a tree,” Mack said.

Bitsy ran up the steps, her white patent leather shoes clattering. She started to open the screen door, but Miss Gussie's voice stopped her. “My, what a racket,” said Gussie, frowning at Dorothy. “And what are y'all doing up so early?”

Dorothy reached around her daughter, opened the screen door, and herded the children inside. “It's nine o'clock,” Dorothy said.

“Yes, I know what time it is, Dorothy,” said Gussie. “And please lower your voice. You'll wake everybody up.”

Mack stood close to Dorothy, but Bitsy threw her arms around her grandmother's legs. “Hi, Mith Guthie,” she lisped.

“Where's the little girl?” asked Mack.

“Just come back later,” said Gussie.

“When?” said Mack. Dorothy nodded. She'd been just about to ask the same question. Gussie didn't answer. She absently patted Bitsy's head and gave Dorothy a quizzical stare.

“Why are you holding an umbrella, Dorothy?” Gussie asked. “There's not a cloud in the sky.”