Mad Girls In Love (34 page)

Around midday August 16, 1977, Clancy Jane showed up in Memphis again. Violet barely had time to unlock her door when her mother barreled inside, hugging two sacks of groceries. “Let me in quick before I melt,” Clancy Jane said. “Is Memphis always this hot?”

Without waiting for an answer, she rushed past Violet and stepped into the kitchenette. From one of the sacks, she began pulling out carrots, potatoes, onions, and canned beans. “I'm making you a nice pot of lentil soup,” she said. “Would George like to join us?”

“He hates lentils. But, yes, he'll be coming over later.” She wasn't going to address the question of seasonally appropriate food.

“I hope you know what you're doing,” Clancy Jane said, opening a drawer and grabbing a potato peeler.

“About what?” Violet sat on a stool, her chin in her hands, watching her mother rinse the vegetables under a stream of water.

“Falling in love can be dangerous.” Clancy Jane started peeling the carrots. Orange strips began to fill the sink.

“Come on, Mama. Talk to me. What's bugging you?”

“It's Byron.” She reached for a potato and began viciously peeling it. “I miss him.”

“I'm sorry, Mama. But you didn't want him.”

“I did, too. I was in awe of his education. He was a doctor and I never finished high school. And he loved
me
. That just blew my mind.”

“Why are you using the past tense?”

“Because it's past. And stop acting like an English teacher. Act like a daughter.”

When the soup was gently bubbling, Clancy Jane wiped her hands on a towel. “Is there a liquor store around here? I'd like some wine with our soup.”

“Take a right at the light and go three blocks.”

“Aren't you coming?”

“Can't, I've got to study.” Violet grabbed a textbook off the shelf and curled up on the sofa, pretending to read. If her mother hoped to use this apartment as her own personal heartbreak hotel—coming when she wanted, leaving when she pleased—then she was mistaken.

After Clancy Jane walked out the door, Violet waited five minutes, then she threw down the book and stepped outside. Her mother's car wasn't in the parking lot. The hot air smelled faintly of barbecue from the joint down the street. She was thinking of sneaking off for a pork platter, when a little girl walked by, pushing a bike.

“Hey,” the kid said, “did you hear the news? Elvis croaked.”

“Elvis Presley?”

“It's all over the TV,” said the kid. “The King is dead. My daddy works at Baptist Hospital, and he says Elvis was taking a poop and died. He must've strained too hard.”

The kid put one foot on the pedal and shoved off, her hair bouncing up and down.

When Clancy Jane drove up, Violet was still sitting on the front porch. She watched her mother climb out of her Karmann Ghia, then curve up to the sidewalk, hugging paper bags to her chest.

“I bought a burgundy,” she called. “I don't know what vintage, and who cares. It was marked down twenty-five percent. And I also bought a—”

“Didn't you hear the news?” Violet stood up.

“What news?”

“Elvis died. We've got to turn on the radio. Give me your keys.”

“Dead? Oh,
no
!” Clancy Jane held out the keys. Violet snatched them and ran down to the car. When the radio clicked on, Violet twirled the dial, stopping on WMSU. A disc jockey was saying, “It's true, Memphians. Elvis Aaron Presley, dead at the tender age of forty-two.”

“I feel like I've lost a boyfriend!” Clancy Jane sat down abruptly on the curb, the paper sack resting between her knees. In the car, Violet turned up the volume, and the announcer's voice boomed through the parking lot. People stepped out of their apartments and gathered around the car.

“Is this for real?” asked a guy with long brown hair and small green eyes.

“Has it been confirmed?” asked a girl with frizzy hair.

“It's true, guys,” Violet said.

“But there's gotta be a mistake,” cried the guy with green eyes.

On the curb, Clancy Jane began rocking. At first Violet thought her mother was moaning. The crowd stepped back, and a few people murmured, “What's wrong with her?”

“Elvis,” someone answered. “He just bought the farm, man.”

Clancy Jane's voice began to rise, loud and strong and mournful, rising up into the muggy afternoon. It sounded so pretty, Violet turned down the radio.

“Is it ‘Amazing Grace'?” a boy in cutoff jeans asked.

“No, it's ‘Can't Help Falling in Love,'” said the guy with green eyes.

More and more people were drawn from their apartments, attracted by Clancy Jane's singing. When she finished one stanza, she barreled on to the next, and when she ran out of words, she began to hum. A huge crowd was gathering around her. Violet climbed out of the car and made her way toward her mother. Clancy Jane was singing about fools rushing in and crazy old humans who can't help loving each other.

Then everyone began to sing, their voices rising and falling.

From the corner of her eye, Violet saw George's red car turn into the parking lot. He got out, then stared. Holding Beau by his leash, he threaded his way through the crowd. The people stepped aside to let him pass. The Irish setter looked up at them and whined, his lips waffling. George tugged the leash so hard that Beau stood up on his hind legs and bawled. “Violet, did you hear the news?” he asked when he got to her side.

“Shhh,” Violet said, holding his face in her hands. “Mama is singing.”

Now that she'd broken the silence, Clancy Jane had to follow the rules of love and wait for his reaction. She had an idea he'd call; at least, she hoped he'd call—or write. Once a day she trekked down to her mailbox. It stood at the end of a twisty gravel lane. The Long and Winding Road, she called it. Finally she opened her box and found a letter inside—it was typed, no stamp or postmark. She ripped it open, sending tiny pieces of paper spinning into the air.

She called his office twice, but each time a youthful voice explained that Dr. Falk couldn't come to the phone. Both times Clancy Jane left messages. Then she called Bitsy and said, “Help. I'm meeting Byron for dinner at El Toro. What should I wear?”

“A little black dress,” said Bitsy. “Do you even have one?”

“No.”

“Well, I've got several. I wear a six, but you've lost weight, so you're, what, a four?”

“If you say so.”

“I'll be right over.”

“Bring shoes!” cried Clancy Jane.

“But I wear a six and a half and you're a seven and a half.”

“I'll grease my feet with Vaseline.”

Bitsy set her makeup case on the counter. It was a three-tiered, top-of-the-line tackle box given to her last Christmas by Mack, Dorothy, and Earlene—Dorothy herself had thoughtfully filled it with cosmetics from Wal-Mart and Rexall.

Bitsy made Clancy Jane sit, then she went to work, moving in a blur. Blush, lipstick, nail polish, mascara, smoky eye shadow. She swept Clancy Jane's hair into a loose twist, picking out tendrils in strategic places. She'd brought along a black dress, sleeveless with a plunging neckline. It showed off Clancy Jane's collarbones and her bouncy breasts. Bitsy dampened cotton balls with Shalimar and stuffed them into Clancy Jane's bra.

“I haven't worn one of these in years,” Clancy Jane complained, tugging at the straps.

“Hush.” Bitsy picked up a can of Aqua Net. “And close your eyes.”

After the hair spray settled, Bitsy held up a mirror. “Well, what do you think?”

“Oh, my God.” Clancy Jane inhaled. “Bitsy, you're an artist. You missed your calling. You would have made a dynamite beautician.”

Bitsy pressed her cheek against Clancy Jane's and whispered, “Good luck.”

At six forty-five, Clancy Jane stepped into the restaurant, tottering in Bitsy's too-small black high heels and walked up to a lectern. A slew-eyed hostess in a prom dress asked if she had reservations. “Yes, Falk, party of two.” Clancy Jane reached up, patted her hair.

The hostess gave Clancy Jane a wide-eyed look, then she glanced down at her book. Her hair was curled up like a shepherdess's. All she needed was a ewe and a staff.

“Anything wrong?” Clancy Jane asked.

“Did you say Falk?” The girl glanced up, her forehead wrinkling.

“Yes. My husband will be along any minute.”

The girl tapped a pencil against her lip as she stared at the reservation book, then she shrugged. “Would you like to be seated?”

Clancy Jane nodded. Her eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the gloom, and she stumbled after the hostess. The girl seated Clancy Jane, then handed her a padded faux-leather booklet with a blue tassel. A swarthy, foreign-looking waiter materialized from the shadows. He lit the candle with a flourish. Clancy Jane ordered a glass of house burgundy. She didn't think Byron would care if she started without him.

She glanced around the room. At a table near the windows, a man with dark hair and graying temples caught her attention. He was facing in the other direction and his shoulders were partially obscured by a Ficus benjamina. The shoulders looked familiar—broad yet rangy. And that swoosh of hair, expertly combed to hide the bald spot.

It was Byron. He was sitting at the best table, with a 180-degree view. Poised across from him was a redheaded woman, her face illuminated by the flickering candle. She rested her elbows on the table, smiling and nodding at something Byron was saying. With one hand, she flipped back her long, straight hair.

Clancy Jane reached down, lifted the red candle, and blew it out. A small stream of smoke drifted into the dark air above her head. From the neighboring table, a couple shot her a disapproving look. She ignored them and gazed at Byron and his date. He held out a forkful of cheese-cake and slid it into her mouth. Then she fed him a spoonful of mousse. In their entire marriage, Byron had never fed Clancy Jane a crumb. Food had been a source of tension between them, a bone of contention, you might say. She glanced away as the waiter set down the wineglass, its contents swaying dangerously. His dark hands hovered over it, as if commanding the liquid to settle down and behave. While he bustled around her, she recognized the redhead. She was a nurse at Byron's office.

Clancy Jane drank the last of her wine. Byron looked smitten. She didn't have a chance of winning him back. The foreign-looking waiter appeared and asked if she was ready to order.

“No, but I'd like a screwdriver.” Clancy Jane squinted up at him, hastily wiping her eyes. Whoever had put that leter in her mailbox had meant to cause irreparable damage.

She stole another look at Byron's table; he was handing his credit card to a waiter. This was a real bummer, the worst bummer in the world. Clancy Jane leaned back when the waiter returned with her screwdriver. Without hesitation, she picked it up, draining the glass in four noisy gulps. Then she held it out, exhaling loudly. The waiter's eyes bugged slightly.

“Another,” she said, feeling lightheaded. “On second thought, just bring me two.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“How about that man over there?” She closed one eye and pointed. “Right
there
.”

The waiter gave her a helpless look.

“Forget the man,” Clancy Jane said, waving her other hand dismissively. “Just bring those drinks.”

The waiter fled, and Clancy Jane turned her attention back to Byron's table. They were rising from their chairs. Clancy Jane felt her temper rising. Stop, she wanted to cry. Come back! The redhead stepped around a rubber plant, and Byron's fingers grazed the small of her back. It was an inconsequential gesture, yet it told Clancy Jane everything she needed to know. If they hadn't already slept together, they would soon. It was time for Clancy Jane to get on with her life.

She didn't wait for the drinks. Instead, she threw a wad of cash on the table and stood up, veering toward the private bar, through an upholstered door with a porthole. Even the walls in the El Toro Club were padded, like something you would see in a lunatic asylum.

“Screwdriver,” she told the grizzled old bartender.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She glanced sideways at the smooth-faced man beside her. He was peering gloomily into a glass of beer. His straight brown hair flopped onto his forehead. Mechanical pencils protruded from his shirt pocket, and he wore thick horn-rims. When he saw Clancy Jane staring, he straightened up. “Hey, aren't you Violet's mother? Violet Jones?”

“Why, yes,” she said. The bartender slid a large glass in front of her.

“It's so nice to see you,” the boy said. He grabbed her hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

“And you are…?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Daniel Walker, but everybody calls me Danny. I went to U.T. for two years. Violet and I would've graduated together, but I had to drop out. Want to play backgammon?” he added, grinning.

 

Danny had been working at the Sunbeam plant ever since he'd flunked out of U.T. He worked the day shift, maintaining the machines. When his shift ended, he rode his bicycle to Clancy Jane's house in the country—a ten-mile trip, with steep hills. She was grateful for the privacy of her mountain, because if she lived in town, people would think she and Danny were lovers, and they most definitely
were not.
There was nothing romantic between them. True, they drank a lot, and he often fell asleep on the living room floor; but she thought of him as a child.

Apparently her family did, too. “Isn't he a little young?” Mack said, when he stopped by one night for a beer. Danny was out in the yard, looking up at the stars with Walter's old telescope. A tortoiseshell kitten jumped into Mack's lap and meowed.

“The same thing could be said about Byron's girlfriend,” Clancy Jane pointed out. “I saw them at El Toro a few weeks ago, and after his date finished eating, he had to burp her.” Then she told Mack about her evening at the steak house, starting with the mysterious letter and ending with Danny.

“You ought to show Byron the letter,” Mack said.

“I threw it away. Did I mention that a deputy drove up here the other day and served divorce papers?”

“Son of a bitch.” Mack slapped his leg. “On what grounds?”

“Irreconcilable differences.” Clancy Jane laughed. “What about irreconcilable redheads?”

“Well, don't rush into anything with this crazy boy. I know you're hurt, but take it easy.” Mack's eyes narrowed. “Do you think Byron was seeing her on the sly while y'all were still together?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But I almost wish he had.”

“Why?”

“Because he left me for no reason.”

 

Grateful for Danny's company, she took him in like another stray, feeding him endless bowls of vegetable broth. He was small-boned and frail, even if his thigh muscles were overly developed from riding his bicycle. He lived on quaaludes and salted peanuts, which he kept in his trouser pocket. He had seen every episode of
Star Trek,
and he had an unusual interest in films like
Forbidden Planet
and
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
. Also, he suffered from allergies, and he sneezed whenever Clancy Jane's biggest tom cat, Mephistopheles, jumped on his chest and began kneading.

One night while they shared a marijuana cigarette, he put his hand on Clancy Jane's shoulder and told her that she was in danger. She thought maybe he was referring to her single status, living alone in the country, but it turned out he meant something vastly different.

“Aliens are among us,” he said. Behind his thick eyeglasses, his pupils were dilating.

“Yeah?” Clancy Jane said, inhaling smoke, holding it deep inside her chest. She thought he was referring to Vietnamese refugees.

“The Vellagrans have us under constant surveillance,” he said.

“Who?” Clancy Jane said, sputtering smoke.

“The Vellagrans,” he said, surreptitiously glancing over his shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Clancy Jane stared at the joint, wondering if he was referring to her diet. Vegans and Vellagrans sounded awfully close. Or maybe she had gotten some tainted marijuana. Sometimes it could induce paranoia.

“They hail from the planet Vellagra,” he explained. “It's somewhere on the edge of the Milky Way. I've been wanting to tell you, but I had to make sure you weren't one of them.”

To protect her from Vellagran rays, which were apparently as powerful as the magnetic beams on
Star Trek
, Danny taped Clancy Jane's attic windows with a triple layer of heavy-duty Reynolds Wrap, explaining that it would block the rays. From the outside, the windows looked like a church-bound casserole. Next, he sealed up the second-story windows and was making his way downstairs when Clancy Jane stopped him.

“That's enough,” she said. “I need sunlight and fresh air.”

“You like to live dangerously,” he said and retreated to the attic, where he had situated Walter's old telescope aimed out a peephole in the foil. Danny turned the attic into a command post. He drew a crude diagram of the solar system that featured a close-up of each planet just on the edge of the star-strewn Milky Way, and beyond, clumps of galaxies, which he painstakingly labeled in black India ink. Every night he stood out in the backyard, looking up into the night sky, mistaking airplanes and weather balloons for mother ships.

Clancy Jane didn't know what was wrong with him. A bad diet, but she also suspected paranoid schizophrenia. She dug out Byron's
Merck Manual
from where she'd packed it away. Danny had every symptom of schizophrenia except auditory hallucinations. Still, she was lonely, and his craziness was more amusing than frightening. Their odd alliance might have continued indefinitely, if one night she hadn't suggested they sit in the hot tub. “Come on,” she said, pulling two thick towels from the dryer. “It'll relax you.”

“We'll be sitting ducks out there for the Vellagrans!”

“I'm not a happy woman, Danny. If they want my body, and the life that goes with it, then they're welcome to it.”

She strode out the back door, onto the deck, letting the screen bang behind her. When she reached the hot tub, which was built into the plank floor, she began to undress. The night air felt silky and cool as she eased down into the bubbling water. Above, the moon drifted between clouds. She shut her eyes and tried not to think of the few times she and Byron had enjoyed this tub. Now she grasped the spout and her body floated up to the surface.

Danny stepped onto the deck, holding a bottle of tequila. He glanced furtively at the moon, then at her.

“I'm still here,” she said. “I guess the Vellagrans have business elsewhere.”

“You don't know the risk you're taking,” he said hoarsely. He lifted the bottle to his lips. Tequila ran down his chin.