Mad Girls In Love (2 page)

“After the haircut, I had errands,” Claude said irritably.

“And they were…” I waved one hand, prompting him to continue.

“I don't have to account for everything.” He frowned. Then, in a spiteful voice, he added, “In fact, I don't have to tell you shit.”

“What about that woman calling the house?”

“Our phone number's in the book. I can't help who calls.”

Well, he had a point. It occurred to me that I'd inherited my mother's paranoia. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. The phone rang. I leaned across the counter and snatched the receiver. “Hello?”

Silence, then a click. I started to hang up, but Claude looked a little too cocky, as if he expected me to play Debbie Reynolds to his Eddie Fisher. So I decided to trick him. I rolled my eyes and thrust out the receiver. “It's
her
again.”

Claude's eyes switched back and forth.

“Here, talk to her.”

“No!”

“Suit yourself.” I jammed the receiver against my ear and said, “Sorry, Claude won't come to the phone. He's chickenshit—”

“I am NOT!” He sprang forward and wrestled the phone from my hands.

“Candy?” he said. “Are you there?”

Candy? It was a perfect little name for a hamster, not a mistress. I knew a Candy McCall who worked at the appliance store, but she was a skinny platinum blonde who chain smoked, and besides, she was thirty years old. I had bought a refrigerator from her just last month. I couldn't see Claude falling for an older woman. Then I thought maybe he'd said Randy. Yes, maybe that was it. At least five Randys had gone to our high school, and any one of them might need a home improvement loan.

Claude gave me a sly look and said, “She's just a friend of mine.”

“She?”

“Candy's a friend, that's all. It's not what you think.”

I put both hands on my chest and cried, “How do
you
know what I think?”

“Because you're so obvious.” He poured his wine then picked up the glass and walked into the living room. He settled into the plaid chair and reached with one hand for the newspaper. The subject was closed, Wentworth-style. He wasn't going to confess anything. I turned toward the sink and gazed down at the ribs. They still looked frozen, but I thought about cooking them anyway. If he broke a tooth on the rock-hard meat, it would serve him right. I imagined the woman calling the bank, saying, “Hi, I'm Candy.
Lick me
.”

The phone rang again, and Claude yelled, “I'll get it!” but I beat him to it. “Hey, Candy,” I said in a peppy voice. “Or would you prefer if I called you Sugar Lump? I like that better, don't you? Or maybe you're not Candy. Maybe you're Taffy or Ginger.” I forced out a laugh. “You know Claude—he's got something sweet in every corner of this town. Instead of dessert du jour, it's
girl
du jour. I just can't keep track of his sluts. Or should I say
les filles
? It sounds
so
much nicer, don't you agree?”

Claude ran into the room and lunged at me. We wrestled for control of the phone, and then I suddenly let go. He staggered sideways, gripping the receiver, then raised it to his ear.

“Candy?” he whispered. Then, more urgently, “
Candy?
You still there?”

As I studied my husband's face, my heart sped up. Whoever this woman was—refrigerator saleswoman or hooker—she was his lover. And I wished that I had never remarried him. My mother's sister, Clancy Jane, once said that Claude had little hope of becoming a decent human being, thanks to his spoiled, rich-boy upbringing. He slammed down the receiver, then beat his fist against the counter. On the window ledge, my favorite ceramic bunny—I have this really cute collection—fell over and broke. I wouldn't be able to glue it back. Its ears were shattered. I began gathering the broken pieces in my palm, holding back tears. It was just a rabbit, not my heart. Claude was still standing beside the sink. He reached into the water and lifted the package of meat.

“What's this?” His upper lip curled. “Pigsicles?”

I didn't answer. He dropped the package. It bobbed sideways.

“You need to get organized. I wanted to eat supper before my TV shows come on.” He opened the cabinet and grabbed a fresh goblet. This was another Wentworth trait—they wouldn't drink out of a used glass, even if it was their own. Maybe Claude was this way with women, too. It sure was ironic that his favorite show was
Love, American Style
. Me, I liked
Bridget Loves Bernie
. The wine bottle gurgled as he filled the glass. Every afternoon his parents drank vodka martinis in their cherry-paneled den. By the time the maid called them into the dining room to eat dinner, the Wentworths were bombed, surrounded by empty glasses. And he was going to be just like them. He gulped down the wine, then got a new glass. I chewed my tongue, trying to control it. I knew I shouldn't mention the dangers of alcohol, but I couldn't stop myself. I gestured at his glass and said, “You've had enough.”

“I'll drink the whole damn bottle if I please.” He lifted his glass and took a long, deliberate swallow.

I wondered if he and Candy had opened a bottle of champagne. Then I blurted, “Go on, then,
be
just like your mother.”

Claude's eyes narrowed. “I made a big mistake taking you back.”

“Then why'd you do it?”

“For Jennifer's sake. But you aren't fit to raise my daughter.”

“
Your
daughter? Just tell me one thing. Does having a girlfriend on the side make you a good parent?”

“I don't know. Look it up in Dr. Spock.” He reached for another glass and filled it. “You're not worthy of me. Everybody in town knows about your family.”

“They know about yours, too,” I snapped. “Just visit any beauty shop in town, and you'll see—”

He threw the Fostoria goblet. It exploded on the floor, bits of green glass skittering over the linoleum. I felt something hot in my throat. Why, I could spit on this pug-nosed boy and burn him up. In ancient times, there probably weren't any fire-breathing dragons, just angry people with acid reflux. As I stared down at the wreckage, I thought of another insult.

“Go on, break another one. Miss Betty would.”

“You bitch!” He grabbed my hair and dragged me to the sink, then shoved my face into the water. I felt it rush up my nose and I started to choke. I reached behind me for his face. My wet hand slid over his mouth. He bit down hard on my thumb. I opened my mouth to scream and sucked in water. I whipped my head from side to side, but he would not let go. Black spots swirled behind my lids, and my lips were going numb. Fighting to stay conscious, I pushed against the bottom of the sink. Then I felt the chain and grasped it, tugging on the rubber stopper. Water began to trickle down the pipe, but I felt how weak the suction was. Two seconds passed, then three. I'd never known what to do in an emergency, and this sure qualified as one. I'd drown before the sink emptied. My hands groped helplessly along the porcelain bottom of the sink, trying to get leverage. I touched the package of ribs. Then I grasped it firmly, dragged it up and out of the water, and swung it in a wide arc. I felt them smash into something rigid. The impact reverberated up my arms, but Claude didn't let go. I swung again. This time, his fingers loosened. I lifted my face out of the water and staggered backward. He was shrieking, his hands cupped over his nose. Blood trickled between his fingers. Behind me, the last bit of water gurgled down the drain.

“Bitch! You broke my fucking nose!”

He lunged toward the counter, and I brandished the ribs, ready to hit him again. He snatched up the stainless toaster, jerking the electrical cord from the socket, then lifted it. When he saw his reflection, he screamed. Then he threw the toaster. I tried to duck, but it grazed my forehead.

“You fucking bitch,” he yelled, only it sounded like “futhin bith,” because his lips and nose were swelling. He turned back to the counter, picked up the blender, and hurled it at me. This time I jumped out of the way; the blender hit the wall behind me and clunked against the counter.

“You'll wot in thail,” he lisped. “My pawents'll see to it.”

Afraid he might throw another small appliance, I gripped the baby back ribs to my chest and ran, leaving a trail of water behind me. Claude caught up with me and grabbed my hair, yanking me around. I tried to hit him with the ribs, but he lunged backward. His shoes skidded on the wet floor, and he let go of my hair. His arms whirled, then he fell. The back of his head cracked against the floor. I waited for him to get up and start cursing me, but he just lay there. With his eyes closed he didn't look dangerous.

“Claude?” I knelt beside him and gingerly nudged his hand. It flopped to the floor, giving me a full view of his damaged face. His nose was squashed to the left, and it had tripled in size. I leaned over, my wet hair swinging forward. Was he breathing? Oh, Lord, what if he was dead, or else in a coma like that poor Karen Ann Quinlan, wasting away in New Jersey? Her parents were seeking legal action to pull the plug. I shuddered, thinking of my own near-death experience.

Maybe he's just stunned, I thought. Maybe he'll wake up and want dinner. Hugging the ribs to my chest, I gave Claude's body a wide berth and hurried toward the door. On my way out, I grabbed a box of matches. In the backyard, a breeze was stirring the upper limbs of the hackberry tree, ruffling the crape myrtles, sending pink blossoms spinning through the air. I lifted one hand and touched my forehead. I wasn't bleeding, but a huge punk-knot was forming above my eyebrow. It occurred to me that I was acting peculiar—Claude wasn't in any shape to eat grilled ribs. But why not get them ready, just in case? I squirted lighter fluid over the charcoal. Then I lit a match. The wind gusted, and my polka-dot dress billowed, threatening to blow over my head. When I reached down to slap the hem, my match snuffed out. It was as if the wind was trying to warn me:
Don't do it, Bitsy. Don't cook these ribs.
But I couldn't stop myself. I lit another match and dropped it onto the briquettes. Flames licked upward, burning in a filmy, oily haze, and smoke billowed up into the sky.

Then I unwrapped the ribs. They hardly looked like a weapon, but then, I hadn't really committed a crime. He had tried to drown me. I'd hit him in self-defense. But this was Crystal Falls. The police were notorious for taking their time to reach a crime scene—usually nothing more than vandalism or public drunkenness. Even if I called them, they probably wouldn't get here for another hour, and by then my supporting evidence would be gone. My hair would be dry, the ribs thawed. The police would take one look at the boy on the floor, realize who he was, and haul me to jail. I wasn't overreacting, was I?

I closed my eyes and remembered how Miss Betty had cried at both my weddings. If her son was dead or comatose, she'd do more than weep: She would destroy my life. I tossed the meat onto the grill, orange sparks drifting up. I sat there for a long time, trying to figure out a plan. When the meat began to sizzle, Claude's Labrador suddenly darted out of the crape myrtles and sniffed the air. I threw the empty meat package at him. Princeton snapped it up, then trotted off. I stepped back into the kitchen, and the screened door clapped against the frame. Claude still hadn't moved, but he was moaning. Any minute now, he'd be coming around. When that happened, I didn't want to be here. In the last thirty minutes—or maybe it was only three?—the following things had happened:

1. I found out about the Claude-and-Candy affair.
   
2. He tried to drown me in the sink.
   
3. I accidentally broke his nose or maybe I'd killed him.
   

Until today, he'd never been violent. I'd known him since the first grade. He was my first and only love. And now I had permanently altered his profile. I walked to the sink and wet a tea towel. Then, kneeling beside him, I gently pressed the rag to his face. A fresh strand of blood, narrow as thread, curved out of his nose. It wove around the earlobe, under the jaw, down his neck. Normally I wasn't scared of blood—I mean, really, I'd survived childbirth, hadn't I?—but my hands began shaking, and I thought I might pass out. No, I couldn't do that. I had to be strong.

“Claude?” I cupped his cheek. I couldn't just let him lie here and bleed to death. I did love him, even with his shortcomings. I had come to believe that most men, including my own daddy, were devious when it came to sex—but good grief, there were worse things, like atomic warfare and bubonic plague.

“Open your eyes, sweetie,” I said, rubbing his hand. “Talk to me, Claude.”

From the nursery, Jennifer began to wail. I hesitated, torn between my daughter's tears and my husband's imminent demise. The baby let out another piercing wail. I got to my feet and started to step over Claude's body. Then I froze, remembering a high school football game. A big-shouldered linebacker had slammed into number 14, Claude's number. I'd watched with horror as the ball had flown out of Claude's hands into a defensive back's outstretched arms. Then the linebacker flattened number 14. A cheer rose up in the visitors' section. From the loudspeaker, the announcer called, “Fumble on the play. Recovery by Putnam County.” Claude lay motionless on the field. A minute ticked by, and when he didn't get up, the coaches jogged over and helped him to his feet. As he limped to the sidelines, the home crowd had clapped. Later, in the backseat of his daddy's Lincoln Continental, he'd told me that he'd faked the injury to cover his error. “I should go to Hollywood,” he'd said, and I'd agreed. I thought he'd be good either as a movie star or a politician, which were one and the same, if you asked me.

Remembering all this, I imagined his hand rising up, grabbing my ankle, and yanking me down. The baby screeched again, and I leaped over Claude and ran to the doorway. Then I turned. He still hadn't moved. The very least I could do was cover him. So I hurried down the hall, into our bedroom, and flung open the closet door. I ran my hands over Claude's suits, and the rows of color-coordinated shirts. Then I reached up onto a shelf and grabbed a stack of cashmere sweaters. I could vaguely smell his cologne, Canoe.
If I warm him up, he'll be all right,
I thought.
Please God, don't let him be hurt.