Mad Girls In Love (10 page)

From the back of the café, I watched customers stream through the door, the bell tinkling above their heads. I was hot and tired, and I felt ridiculous. For the opening I was wearing a custom-made bird suit, complete with feathered headgear. I straightened my plastic beak, and wished Clancy Jane had named her café something else.

“You need to get out of the house,” Aunt Clancy had told me when she'd gotten the idea to open a cafe. “You've sat around moping long enough. And I could use your help with my café.”

“Do I have to?” I asked and swallowed hard. I kept hoping to hear from the beauty college but I never had.

“No,” said Aunt Clancy, “but I wish you would. Nearly one whole year has passed since the scandal, and people have moved on to fresh gossip. So if you're scared of facing people—”

“I'm not,” I said. I honestly didn't mind what people thought of me, but I was scared that I'd stir up gossip and lose all chance of winning back my daughter. After I lost custody, I stayed in one of Aunt Clancy's bedrooms for weeks, creeping downstairs for coffee and the morning paper. All the area newspapers had written about my troubles. “Kidnapped Tot Reunited With Frantic Relatives,” announced the Nashville
Tennessean
. “Local Woman's Crime Spree Ends,” asserted the Crystal Falls
Democrat
. My mug shot was on the front page—hair tousled, neck scabbed and bloody, mouth wide open. Now, almost a year later, I was still something of a pariah—my “P” word for the day.

Days before the café opened, I'd stopped by Noke's Butcher Shop to pick up cheese and spotted one of my bridesmaids from my first wedding to Claude, Kara Lynn Ketchum. I hadn't seen the girl since 1971, at a baby shower for Jennifer. She had given the baby a blanket, mono-grammed W for Wentworth.

Kara Lynn was shouting at hard-of-hearing Mr. Nokes. “I want this,” tapping the glass case, pointing to a sirloin roast.

“This?” Mr. Nokes held up baby back ribs.

“No, the r-o-a-s-t,” shouted Kara Lynn. Her daddy owned the Buick dealership, and they kept their money at the Wentworths' bank.

“Eh?” Mr. Nokes wrinkled his nose.

Under the pink lights the meat looked plush and velvety. The butcher picked up the roast with his fat fingers and plopped it onto the scale.

“Hi, Kara Lynn,” I said.

Kara Lynn turned and froze. “Bitsy,” she said in a flat voice. “I haven't seen you in ages. I thought you'd left town.”

“No, I'm still here,” I said, stung by the harsh look in my former friend's eyes. We'd known each other since kindergarten. Kara Lynn turned back to the butcher. He was tearing off a strip of white crinkly paper. “That'll be all, Mr. Nokes. How much?”

“What?”

“I
said
, how much do I owe you?” She waved her pocketbook in the air. “Good grief, how MUCH?”

I rolled my eyes. So this was how it was going to be. Kara Lynn paid the butcher, then she collected her package and hurried toward the door without glancing at me. The door slammed and Kara Lynn hurried down the sidewalk.

“Next!” cried Mr. Nokes, even though I was the only customer in the shop. I stepped up to the case and told him I was from the Green Parrot. “I'm here to pick up the cheese,” I said, carefully enunciating each word. Then, on impulse, I pressed a finger against the glass case, pointing at the baby back ribs. “And I'd like these, too,” I added.

Now, huddled in the back of the café, I glanced down at my costume. My promise to help Aunt Clancy hadn't included wearing a feathered suit. I could hear the kitchen radio blaring out the midday news. Watergate, John Dean, Nixon, Vietnam. Aunt Clancy listened to the news, then hurried away. She wasn't wearing a bird suit. She was decked out in a long paisley skirt and a ruffled peasant blouse and lots of turquoise beads around her neck. She had always turned up her nose at the Bobbie Brooks separates I favored, preferring chic, hippie outfits that suggested journeys and far-flung places. Her closet was full of Indian muslin, Scandinavian sweaters, crocheted shawls studded with beads, sheer linen blouses with satin ribbons and eyelet trim. It occurred to me that her taste was as unique and colorful as the selections on the café's menu. She'd wanted the place to have an exotic decor, and in the weeks before opening day, we'd painted a mural—a dense jungle filled with monkeys, palms, and birds. Above my head, a ceramic macaw twirled from a length of fishing line. When the air conditioner was blowing just right, the way it was doing now, the bird resembled a vulture. Its under-side had a large hole, just below the tail, which was unseemly for an eating establishment. Zach and Violet had hung a bird over every table, and when I saw the customers gaze up at them with horror, I knew what was on their minds. I told them to relax, those were china birds, not real ones.

From the kitchen, a bell rang, and the cook hollered out, “Pick up!” I sighed and reached for the plates, setting them in the crook of each wing. Trying not to breathe in the tofu fumes, I hurried toward the front of the café, whizzing past the plate glass window, where was freshly painted. A real artist had done this, and each letter was formed out of green bamboo, trimmed in black; even I knew that didn't occur in nature. Scattered around the bamboo letters, the artist had embellished the glass with palm fronds and a larger-than-life macaw.

After the tables and booths filled up, it was standing room only. The waiting customers huddled on the sidewalk in groups of twos and fours, drinking complimentary cups of fruity iced tea while they waited for an available table. Even though the cafe was air-conditioned, the patrons kept opening the glass doors, letting in gusts of sweltering air. I patted my forehead with a paper napkin. It was getting hotter and hotter inside my suit. And if one more customer tugged my feathered tail, I might squawk. Well, not really. If I ever wanted to get custody of my daughter—or even regular visitation rights—I had to act ladylike.

I glanced around the dining room and spotted Violet. She was home for summer vacation, but today she was sashaying around the dining room in her parrot suit, her wings loaded with dishes. She seemed oblivious to the heat. Then again, it was difficult to tell what Violet was thinking. She passed by her mother, who was conferring with her partner, Zach Lombard. Aunt Clancy had opened the café against her husband's wishes. I wondered if Byron Falk might be jealous of Zach who was a hippie from New York State, with long brown hair which he tied back into a shiny tail with a piece of leather. Zach hadn't gone to Vietnam because he'd gotton a high lottery number. He was ten years younger than Aunt Clancy, but only five years older than me. But even if I was interested in finding me a man—and I wasn't!—he wasn't my type at
all
. Personally, I thought Zach was more interested in food than women. But Aunt Clancy said I was crazy. She liked him a little too much, however Zach didn't seem to notice.

“Miss, the soup's cold!” cried a bald-headed man just as Violet rushed by, juggling three platters. His hand grazed her feathers, and Violet stopped. “Life isn't perfect,” she snapped. “Deal with it!”

The customer started to protest, but Violet zoomed off. As she passed by a booth, another outraged customer grabbed her suit and began to complain about his food. “Oh, I see the problem,” Violet said in her know-it-all voice. “Gazpacho is supposed to be cold. Would you like something else?”

Before the customer could reply, a man with bushy eyebrows lodged a complaint.

“Ma'am? I didn't want mayonnaise on my burger.”

“I'll be right back, sir,” Violet called, hurrying to another table. Her eyes met mine, and I knew what she was thinking. In the weeds, the other waitresses called it. My cousin plunked down the plates and began sorting them, sometimes matching them up to a customer and sometimes not. I longed to be as careless as Violet—to say what was on my mind and not get in trouble. I tried real hard to get the details right, but already this morning I had made a grown woman cry over sour cream. Trying to soothe her, I'd said, “There's nothing worse than getting sour cream when you're not in the mood for it.” The woman had responded by picking up her plate and smashing it to the floor.

“Miss?” called a man in a navy Izod shirt. “I ordered the mango chicken salad, but I'm not sure
what
you gave me.”

“Oh, no. That's tabouli.” Violet glanced around, then she snatched up the man's plate and switched it with the one in front of a woman at the next table. The woman held her fork in midair, a romaine leaf hanging down. She blinked as Violet plunked down the tabouli.

Turning back to the man, my cousin said “All set?”

“No!” cried the man, eyeing his plate as if Violet had given him the wrong brain, rather than the wrong food. “I can't eat this! She's already eaten some of my chicken!”

“I'll bring you another.” Violet turned, her tail feathers shaking. The bald-headed fellow was holding up his soup bowl.

“Sorry?” Violet asked.

“Aside from being cold,” shouted the man, tilting the bowl, “there's a hair in here, a curly black hair. Where did it come from?”

“I'm not sure,” Violet said, “but I can assure you it's from somebody's head.”

The man's mouth fell open, revealing a half dozen silver fillings. He gaped up at her. “I want to speak to the manager.” he said, setting down his bowl. It clunked against the table.

“You'll have to stand in line,” Violet said, nodding at the cash register, where a dozen folks were crowded around Zach. Clancy Jane was now waiting tables. Violet marched over to the next customers. Her pen was poised over the green tablet. The man had straight black hair, all whooshed back into a pompadour, and his female companion had a pretty face but her arms were fleshy.

“Hey,” Violet said, peering down at the portly woman. If the woman smarted off, I was pretty sure that my cousin would respond with an insult—I could just hear her telling the woman that she would roast very nicely with a sprig of rosemary. Instead, Violet offered an uncharacteristically sweet smile.

“Ready to order?” she asked the woman, “or do you need a few minutes?”

 

One day, when the café had been open about a month, my daddy walked in. He blinked at the mural, squinting at the palm trees, monkeys, and macaws, as if to say, Is this compatible with nature? My arms were loaded with plates, so Clancy Jane greeted him. She smiled faintly and said, “Thanks for coming, Albert.”

He glanced up, his eyelids fluttering. “Actually, I didn't come to eat. I came to see Bitsy.”

“Certainly.” Clancy Jane led him to a table beside the window, which was lined with prayer plants and pink geraniums, and hurried away. On the other side of the café, I had been watching this little exchange. Aunt Clancy and my father had not spoken in six years. His eyes were darting around the room, and he kept smoothing back his hair with one pale hand. He wore a wrinkled summer suit and a skinny tie that had gone out of style when LBJ was president. I walked over to him and kissed the top of his bald head, which tasted slightly salty. “Can I get you a nice glass of tea?” I asked.

“Er, actually—”

“Or maybe you want a full meal? Today's special is tabouli—just perfect on a hot day like today.”

“Can you sit down a minute, honey? Please?” He gestured at the empty chair.

“I really shouldn't,” I told him, but then I saw the disappointment on his face and I sat down. “What's the matter?”

His eyes looked old and sad. I steeled myself for the worst: Mack driving his truck off an embankment; Dorothy swallowing her tongue at the asylum.

“Well, it's like this, honey.”

“Just say it, Daddy.”

His cheeks turned pink, with little red veins stitched across them. “As you know your mother and I have been separated for a long time. And I guess I got lonely. See, I've met a lady? You may know her, Miss June Rinehart? She works at my dime store.”

I nodded. Sure, I knew June Rinehart. The cashier at Daddy's dime store, a short perky blonde, her hair trained into a forties pageboy, with crimped waves and pin-curled bangs, which she fluffed out with a rat comb. She wore cotton housewife dresses that flared out like bells, the waists cinched tight with shiny plastic belts. Many a time I'd seen her peer into the little mirror over the scales—for a penny the machine would tell your weight and your fortune. June Rinehart never put in a penny. She'd just gaze into the mirror, teasing her hair and rubbing lipstick off her teeth. I knew for a fact that she'd started working at the Ben Franklin the year after my mother had been sent away.

“I want to marry her,” said Daddy.

“But you're already married!” Soon as the words were out of my mouth, I cringed. All around me, the café had fallen silent. Several people were staring—the last thing I needed. In this town, you weren't supposed to shout unless you were at a football game. I just hoped nobody told the Wentworths about my little outburst.

Daddy folded his hands on the table. “But that's fixing to change. I've filed for divorce.”

I shut my eyes for a moment. I had just gotten a letter from my mother. She'd been writing steadily ever since I'd lost Jennifer. Most of her notes advised me to rebuild my reputation, so I could take Claude back to court and reclaim my baby. This most recent note was packed with motherly advice, and I'd been touched. “I'm so happy that you are gainfully employed,” she'd written, “even if it's with Clancy. Just don't scream at the customers. One of them might be related to a judge. You never know who's related to who in Crystal Falls.”

“Please don't rush into this, Daddy.”

“Your mother has been in Central State for two years,” he said. “I don't think she'll get better. And don't forget, she and I had stopped living together long before she went…well, long before she jumped off the Ben Franklin's roof. I have a right to be happy. That's why I'm taking the divorce papers to her this afternoon.” Daddy patted his suit pocket. Then he rubbed the hand over his brow, messing up his eyebrows. They stuck up crazily, like cat fur licked the wrong way.