Mad Girls In Love (28 page)

“Please don't start
that
again.” Walter sighed. He was sick of the family motto, share and share alike. When he was in high school, stricken with cystic acne, Lacy used to sit on his chest, straddling him, and squeeze his pimples. After she'd mashed all of the bumps on his face, she'd roll him over and search his back.

Now Lacy glowered at her brother. “Pick one!” she cried. “Us or that girl.”

“It's not right to make a man choose.”

“Pick!”

“Her, I guess.” He swallowed.

That afternoon, Bitsy began getting prank telephone calls. “Sorry, wrong number,” a woman would say. Bitsy told Clancy Jane she recognized Jobeth's twang.

Sometimes a voice, plainly Mrs. Saylor's, would ask for First National Bank. “I'm sorry,” she would say. “I must've dialed the wrong number. I can't see good anymore, ever since…oh well, never mind. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

Whenever Byron or Clancy Jane answered the phone, the caller was silent for a few moments, then the connection would snap off. Although once, Clancy Jane distinctly heard someone hiss, “Bitch!”

“We've got to get an unlisted number,” she told Bitsy.

“I'll do it first thing tomorrow,” the bride-elect promised.

 

Walter was sitting at his desk, studying honeymoon brochures—he was keen on taking Bitsy to Niagara Falls, but they were getting married in the wrong season for that trip. He heard a knock at the door and when he glanced up, he saw his office manager. “Dr. Saylor, your mother's on the phone again,” she said. “She says it's urgent.”

“It's always urgent,” Walter muttered, glancing at the phone. Line one was frantically blinking. He wearily switched on the speaker and said, “This is Walter. What do you need, Mama?”

“Well, it's about time,” she screeched. “Why won't you take my calls?”

“I'm at work, Mama,” Walter said. “I've got teeth to fill.”

“I can't call you at home. And I can't call that little witch at her house, either. Y'all went and got un-listed numbers!”

“So it
was
you calling,” Walter said. “Bitsy was right.”

“Do not mention that whore to me!” hissed Mrs. Saylor. “I can play
this
game. We're getting us an unlisted number, too.”

“It's all her fault.” It was Lacy, on the extension. “She's got you by the balls.”

“How can you turn on your blood kin?” cried Mrs. Saylor. “Ignor-ing us. Not caring if we live or die or have bad teeth—” She broke off, sobbing into the phone. “And me, with bleeding gums. My mouth is falling apart, I tell you, and my son, the dentist, doesn't even care.”

“I care, Mama.”

“No, you don't!” Mrs. Saylor's whimpered. “I'm old and broke and I've got a toothache. Meanwhile you lay up in that house with that girl, drinking gin rickies. I am your goddamn mother. I brought you into this world. I fed you and diapered your ass. And I deserve a little respect.”

“You deserve more than that,” scoffed Lacy. “You deserve a brick house with an attached garage.”

“He isn't giving me shit,” said Mrs. Saylor. “It's all going to Walter's girl.”

“Mama, just calm down. If your tooth is bothering you, come by the office. I'll check it out.”

“Do I have to make an appointment?” Mrs. Saylor was all business now.

“No, Mama. Just come over any time.”

“To your office or to your house?”

“To my office. That's where the X-ray machine is.”

“You can't brush us off,” cried Lacy. “We have a right to visit you anytime we want.”

“I need my privacy,” Walter said. “I've got a life.”

“I've got news for
you
,” said Mrs. Saylor. “You've got a family, and
we're
your life.”

Crudités
Soup à l'Oignon Gratinée
Coq au Vin
Tart de Poireaux
Choux de Bruxelles
Haricots Blancs
Tart Tatin
Gâteau au Chocolat

We were in Byron and Aunt Clancy's living room helping them string colored lights on the Christmas tree, when Walter presented me with the crumpled sheet of paper. “I've drawn up a menu,” he said.

“I'm sorry, Walter,” said Aunt Clancy, lifting a tiny silver angel from the box. “Zach and I have already started freezing ahead. But if you want something special, we can serve it.”

Walter blushed. “I was talking about another party. A family get-together.”

“Family?” I asked, glancing at the paper.

“Yours and mine,” Walter said. “A before-the-wedding get-together. In fact, we could have it here.”

“Here?”
I cried, a bit too loud. I was fed up with Walter's mother and sisters prowling around the house. Aunt Clancy fastened the angel ornament onto a branch, then she grabbed Byron's hand and they left the room. After they'd gone, I said, “That's not a good idea, honey. See, Aunt Clancy and I are still cleaning the house for the wedding, and a party will just make things harder.”

“Then we'll just have it at my house,” said Walter.

I laid the menu aside and picked up a red ornament. A get-together at Walter's house for his family and mine? Not if I could help it. “Please don't take offense,” I began, “but I'm not the party type.”

“Sure, you are,” he said. “Look, I know my family has given you a hard time. But I was thinking if we invited them to something, they might back down.”

“Does it have to be a party?” I hooked the ornament onto a branch. “Couldn't we take them to El Toro?”

“It wouldn't be the same.”

“Can I think about it?” I reached into the box and pulled out a tiny snowman ornament, so old, the color had worn off in places.

He reached for the menu and thrust it into my hands. “This is just suggestions for what to serve. Nothing's set in concrete. But I was hoping you could try something French since you speak the language and all.”

I glanced at the paper—I didn't know what half the items were. A long time ago, Miss Betty had accused me of macerating all things French, whether it was a sauce or a delicate phrase, but whenever I whispered certain words to Walter, he swelled with pride. “My fiancée speaks French,” he told all his patients. “She's a real classy lady.” At night I would whisper
ma puce
, my flea, or
mon chou
, my cabbage, making it sound romantic and naughty. But when it came to cooking, I was an All-American girl.

“Will you do it?” asked Walter, the orange eyebrows moving up and down.

I looked at his menu again and sighed. “Won't you reconsider El Toro?”

“If that's what you want. But it would make me so happy if you'd impress them with the French food, French wine, and French talk.” He picked up my hand and kissed the knuckles. When he looked up, I could see my whole future reflected in his eyes. And to some extent that future included his family.

“Say yes, Bitsy.” He began kissing my other hand. “Please, please say yes.”

“Oui,”
I said.

 

On the afternoon of the party, Walter stood on a ladder, stringing colored lights into the bare branches of his dogwood trees. I directed from the ground, saying, “Move left. No, higher, HIGHER!”

Then I ran back into the kitchen and pulled a casserole out of Fiona's old oven. My family hadn't been invited—at their request. I was dreading the dinner, having to make small talk with the Saylors and ignoring their jabs. I would have preferred to spend the evening curled up on the sofa with Walter, watching the original
Christmas Carol.

Instead I was searching for ground cinnamon in a top cabinet. I found the spice mixed in with a stash of old medicine—dozens of plastic pill bottles. Valium, Nembutal, Demerol. F
IONA
S
AYLOR
was typed across each bottle. T
AKE
A
S
D
IRECTED
. I shook a Valium bottle. Maybe one might calm my nerves. My mother took it daily, and it seemed to help her. I dropped the bottle into my pocket and hurried back outside.

After the lights were hung, Walter dragged the ladder over to Fiona's wisteria arbor, where I thought more twinkly Christmas lights should go. “The best way is to just toss the lights higgledy-piggledy,” I called up to him. “Coil them up like barbed wire and toss them. Yes, that's it!”

“It looks good.” Walter rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping over the dirty red stubble. From the top of the ladder, he grinned down at me. “Hey, drill sergeant. Think I have time to shave?”

“You have time for more than that,” I promised, returning his smile.

 

I stood in the living room window, watching the road. A stack of Billie Holiday records was on the turntable and “You're My Thrill” was playing. I wore a black dress that I'd found at a garage sale, and Miss Gussie's pearls. Even though my hair was swept into a French twist, and it was bitter cold outside, my neck felt sweaty. My chin was red, as if I'd been repeatedly kissed by a man with a day-old beard. The culprit came up behind me and kissed my bare neck.

The Saylors's station wagon was turning into the drive, tearing up the gravel. It stopped next to Walter's T-bird. “They're here,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the pill bottle.

“Hell, I broke a goddamn fingernail,” cried Lacy, coming up the porch steps. She stared with horror at her right hand. “You got a emery board on you, Jobeth?”

Mrs. Saylor helped herself out of the station wagon. She wore a red pantsuit and red leather boots. A red pocketbook swung from one arm. Pinned to her lapel was a little jeweled Santa Claus.

Walter gave my hand a squeeze. “It'll be all right,” he said. I wanted to believe him, but from the porch I could hear Jobeth saying, “Hell, yes. I've got everything, even disposable douche.” I remembered what Miss Gussie used to say before stressful social gatherings: “They can kill me but they can't eat me.”

I silently repeated this, but the mantra held little comfort as Walter opened the door and I looked into those freckled, toothy faces.

“Hey, y'all,” said Walter.

“Hey, yourself,” said Jobeth.

I held out my hands to greet them, but Mrs. Saylor ignored me and silently eyed her son. She rummaged in her bag and lit a cigarette. “Something sure does smell good,” she said.

“A glass of wine, anyone?” Walter asked. I had selected a nice pinot noir, a label that I'd once seen Mrs. Wentworth serve at dinner parties. So I figured it had to be the best.

“I knew you was gonna ask that,” said Jobeth. “Dr. Hoity-Toity,” she added.

“I'll take me a beer if you got one,” said Lacy, stifling a burp.

“I don't think we do.” Walter gave me a questioning glance, and I shook my head.

“I thought as much.” Lacy sighed. “That's why we brought our own. We don't want nobody accusing us of freeloading.”

“Rooster, baby,” said Mrs. Saylor. “Run on back to the car and fetch the cooler.”

“What kind of old-fogy music are you playing, brother? Damn, put on some Christmas carols!” Lacy punched Walter's shoulder, then she leaned over, plucked the cigarette from Mrs. Saylor's fingers, and blew a smoke ring. It floated over her head, toward the twinkling Christmas tree, circling the crêpe-paper angel, wrapping around her neck like a noose.

 

While the guests drank Pabst Blue Ribbon, I hid in the kitchen, waiting for the bread to heat. I kept sipping wine and swallowing pills and listening to Billie. From the living room, the conversation flowed past me in icy waves. Most of it centered around Fiona, her pitiful death, and Lacy's former boyfriends—one was apparently a wrestler from Oklahoma, and another was serving time in an Arkansas jail for armed robbery.

“Waltie, you have bad taste in women, too,” Mrs. Saylor said. “Speaking of which, have you seen Patricia lately?”

“Patricia?” Walter asked. “I don't know any Patricias.”

“That woman who works for you,” said Mrs. Saylor. “Patricia Eller.”

“Oh. Her,” Walter said. “Why do you ask? I see her most every day.”

“I'll just
bet
you do,” said Lacy. She and Jobeth giggled.

I peered out the kitchen door and saw Walter sitting in a brocade chair. He looked crisp and clean in a plaid shirt and festive green corduroy trousers.

“Bitsy ought to drop by your office sometime,” said Jobeth.

Actually, I'd stopped by the dental office yesterday. I'd found Walter sitting at his desk, making notations on a chart. Patricia was standing behind him, gripping an armful of folders. He closed the chart, then held it up. Patricia immediately added it to her pile, then she hurried out of the room, giving me a polite nod. Walter laid down the pen, and opened his arms. “There's my girl,” he said. “Come here and give me a kiss.”

“Last time we dropped into his office,” Lacy was saying, “Patricia was rinsing out her mouth.
If
you get my drift.” She looked at her sister and both collapsed into giggles, pausing to make gestures with their mouths and hands.

“Girls, y'all are
awful,
” scolded Mrs. Saylor. “Maybe she just had bad breath.”

“I'm not awful, I'm hungry,” said Jobeth, cutting her eyes at Walter. “When we gone eat, babycakes?”

While Billie sang “Good Morning, Heartache,” I pulled the homemade French bread, a gift from Zach, out of the oven. Dammit, I'd over-cooked it. I set the pan on the counter, then dropped another pill onto my tongue and washed it down with wine. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the dining room and beckoned my guests to the buffet table. “The plates are at one end, the silverware at the other,” I directed, waving one hand. The gesture seemed exaggerated, and my tongue felt thick.

“Come on, children,” said Mrs. Saylor, clapping her hands. “Kindergarten is starting.”

The Saylors lined up, guffawing and rolling their eyes. Behind them, through the pocket doors, the Christmas tree glittered. Walter came up behind me, kissing the back of my neck. “Don't let them get you riled,” he whispered. “It'll be over soon.”

I nodded, wondering what his family was suggesting about Patricia Eller. I didn't like what I was thinking—not that I was a prude or a wimp—but the idea of Walter and Patricia…why, it was revolting. The woman was old enough to be his mother. Or maybe that was the attraction. I tipped back my glass and drank the last of my wine. I could feel the Valium working. Or maybe it was the wine. I didn't know and didn't care. Lurching into the kitchen, I picked up the bread and began to swing it like a club. Bits of crust flaked onto the floor.

Walter stepped into the kitchen. When he saw me swinging the bread, he blanched. “What's going on?” he asked.

“I'll tell you if you explain about you and Patricia. Quid pro quo, Waltie.”

“There's nothing to tell. My sisters are trying to make you mad. Just don't listen to them.” Walter looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. I wasn't sure what to believe, and the Valium wasn't making me one bit calmer. Giving him a long, contemptuous glance, I dropped the bread into a wicker basket. It made a decisive clunk. I picked it up and stepped around him into the dining room. Billie was singing “That Ole Devil Called Love.” I watched as the Saylors descended on the table.

“Hey, what's this stuff?” Lacy pointed to a Pyrex pie plate. “It looks like a pie, but it sure don't smell like one.”

The others leaned over to stare at the food—some in CorningWare, other on china platters—I had arranged on the blue-checkered cloth.

“A leek tart,” I said, walking up to the table.
Bottled tranquility did not leave you tranquil
, I thought. It only made me slow and stupid and suspicious.

“Did you take a leak in it?” Lacy laughed.

“Not yet,” I said. “But I'm considering it.”

The Saylors gaped at me, trying to decide if my remark was meant humorously. I felt a rush of pity for them. When it came to culinary matters, the poor things had led chaste lives—vinegar douches notwithstanding.

“A leek is a kind of onion,” Walter said, stepping into the dining room.

“Well, pardon my French.” Lacy slapped her thigh, then nudged Jobeth. “And pardon yours, too.”

“Tell them what everything is,” said Walter.

“She may not know what's what,” said Lacy. “
If
you get my drift.”

“Walter's right,” said Mrs. Saylor. “She better tell us what we're eating.”

“I agree,” said Jobeth. “A person has a right to know what's going into her mouth.”

“How true,” I said, feeling absurdly calm. I reached into my pocket, touching the medicine bottle, thinking of that song by the Rolling Stones, “Mother's Little Helper.” Forget the music, I'd rather have Mick Jagger. I stared down at the table. Instead of the food I had painstakingly prepared, I saw Patricia Eller balancing on her knees, mouth agape. If this was an accurate vision, and I suspected it was, I owed the Saylors a debt of gratitude. I blinked and prepared to identify the dishes. Touching a Pyrex bowl, I said,
“Trou de cul.”
Which, of course, meant asshole.

I pointed to another dish and said,
“Pourriture.”
Rotting trash.

“Merde à mouche.”
Shit-fly.

“Chagatte.”
Pussy.

“Well, thanks a bunch,” said Jobeth, rolling her eyes. “That
really
helped.”

I moved along the table, pointed to another dish, and said, “Don't forget to try this—it's
fils de pute
.”