Mad Girls In Love (37 page)

In November, I discovered that I was pregnant, and Louie began searching for the perfect house. His requirements posed a challenge to every real estate agent in New Orleans—he wanted something old and elegant, preferably in the Garden District. Our latest Realtor was a stocky woman with short red hair, cut in a sharp elfin V around her ears. Today she'd taken us to see a grand, if run-down, house off Pytrania Street, an elegant beige stucco with dark green shutters. It had a hipped roof and ornate trim around the eaves. The columns were a curious mixture of Ionic and Corinthian, and along the back was a screened-in porch. I knew all these terms from my interior design course. In the backyard, I glimpsed a messy crape myrtle hedge and a striped hammock hanging between two trees. It reminded me of the one back in Crystal Falls where Violet and I used to drink and discuss men.

Louie took my hand and together we explored the yard. It was large and shady, with live oaks, banana trees, and a hulking forsythia hedge. The real estate agent herded us inside and repeated her litany: five bedrooms, five-and-one-half baths, swimming pool, pavilion, beveled glass doors. She pointed to the chandeliers and pier glass mirrors. “They were taken from a turn-of-the-century brothel.”

Louie went upstairs to check out the bedrooms, but I stayed behind. Just off the dreary dining room, I opened a door, thinking I'd found a closet, and saw a porcelain sink, etched with rusty stains, and a crooked toilet that made a gargling sound when I pushed the lever.

“It needs a lot of work,” the Realtor said, coming up behind me. Then she glanced up at the ceiling, as if tracking Louie's footsteps. “But Dr. DeChavannes likes it. I can tell. And I understand you're an interior designer—well, this house is a designer's dream.”

“Or nightmare,” I said with a laugh. “Actually I was hoping for something
smaller.”

“I probably shouldn't even say this,” the Realtor said in a cozy, conspiratorial tone, “but a long time ago, I showed Dr. DeChavannes and his first wife an old mansion. Just a few blocks from here, I think. Or maybe it wasn't his first wife. How many times has the doctor been married?”

I chewed the inside of my lip while the agent barreled on. “Anyway, Dr. DeChavannes loved the house and she hated it. I think her name was Shelby? They ended up buying a house by the golf course. She liked modern, I guess. The doctor had his heart set on a grand old house.” The agent paused. “I guess you know she just sold it? The golf course house, I mean. And for a steal, too. She must have been desperate. Bad memories can make a seller do crazy things.”

This woman was good. I turned away and headed up the curved staircase. Each riser gave off an indignant squeak. On the landing Louie grabbed my hands and pulled me into a sunny room that faced the garden.

“How about this for the nursery?” he asked.

I stood in the center of the room, in a wedge of light. The windows looked into live oaks, and through the branches I saw chips of blue sky. I could paint clouds on the ceiling and walls. And we could put a bookcase on the left, the shelves loaded with dolls. I just knew I'd have a girl. According to my calculations, my due date was around the end of July. “Can we get it finished in time for the baby?”

“I'll move heaven and earth.” Louie kissed my hands. He seemed so happy, so eager to please, but I couldn't stop worrying. This house demanded an elaborate lifestyle, one far more extravagant than even the Wentworths enjoyed. The idea was alarming. Wealth hadn't brought Miss Betty any pleasure—her designer suits notwithstanding—so I had no reason to believe that it would enhance mine.

“Let's make an offer.” Louie kissed my neck.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive.”

I thought it might be haunted and I almost blurted, “Let's keep looking. Surely we could find another house, one that pleased us both.”

As if reading my thoughts, Louie said, “I know it looks awful now, but I'll call the best architect in New Orleans. But if we get into the renovation and change our minds, no problem. It's not irrevocable.”

Few things are,
I thought.

 

From the Mercedes, I watched my husband at the front door of his exwife's new house. It was a weathered, little shotgun that jutted out on the bayou: Shelby DeChavannes's replacement for her five-thousand-square-foot contemporary over by the golf course. Shelby finally opened the door, wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Her blond hair was twisted into a sloppy bun, anchored by yellow pencils. Their little daughter, Renata, shot out. Shelby caught the child's hand and pulled her back for a goodbye kiss. Then the woman glanced toward the car, fixing me with a wild-eyed stare. Shelby had refused alimony, didn't want a dime from Louie. Child support went into an account for Renata. Shelby was writing bad checks all over town. Apparently the floating house needed constant repairs; it was taking a financial toll. Worse, the move had forced Renata to change schools, upsetting her so much that she'd walked into a glass door and broken out her front tooth—a permanent one—requiring a root canal and a porcelain cap.

“Was Shelby always like this?” I'd asked Louie after Renata's last visit.

“No,” he'd said, his voice full of despair, as if he were speaking of a priceless object he'd mislaid and had no hopes of recovering. I shot him a look but asked no more questions.

Today Renata was wearing faded red shorts that were several sizes too large, giving the child a knock-kneed look. I was reminded of Alice Ann. Every time Louie and I went to visit Honora at her summer house in Pass Christian—which was near Point Minette—I was always tempted to drive down the highway and see if Finch House was still standing, but I was afraid of stirring up ghosts. With Walter Saylor in mind, I'd confessed everything to Louie, but he had found my past quirky and humorous, and for a while he'd referred to me as his little criminal. Now, it was never discussed.

The pregnancy made me lightheaded and queasy, but I was determined to prepare a home-cooked meal for Renata. The kitchen in Louie's bachelor apartment was no larger than a coat closet, but the window over the sink had a lovely view of Lake Pontchartrain. I asked Louie what he wanted for supper. He thought a moment and said, “Fried shrimp.”

“And you, Renata?” I asked.

“I don't eat on weekends,” she said. Her face was gaunt, the fine bones painfully visible through her pale skin.

“Never?” I asked, and Renata shook her head, her pigtails whipping from side to side. There really was a spooky resemblance to Alice Ann.

At dinner, Renata only nibbled at the shrimp and hushpuppies, but later I caught her in the kitchen, making a potato chip and Dijon mustard sandwich. “Honey, let me fix you something good,” I said.

“This
is
good,” Renata insisted, biting into the sandwich. She chewed fiercely for several seconds, her teeth crunching on the chips. “When me and Mommy move in with Granny Honora, we can see Daddy
all
the time. And I won't have to put up with
you
anymore.”

Renata stuck out her tongue. It was stained yellow, flecked with tiny chips.

In early January, when Dorothy learned of her daughter's troubled pregnancy, she locked up her house and drove to Louisiana. Bitsy was in her first trimester, and her cervix was starting to prematurely efface and dilate, so her obstetrician had ordered bed rest.

Dorothy drove with the window rolled down. Her silk scarf, green with blue parakeets, flapped in the wind, catching the attention of every truck driver on the road. She honked and waved. For her last birthday, she'd gotten herself a makeover at Merle Norman. She'd bought two bags full of cosmetics and face creams, then driven over to the Utopian, where her hair was artfully cut, dyed, and styled. Since she didn't have any clothes to go with her new look, her next stop was Karen's Consignments, where she found just what she wanted. More than a few outfits had come from Miss Betty's closet, all size twelve, and they fit Dorothy to a T. Then she took off for New Orleans.

Bitsy and her new husband had just moved into an old mansion in the Garden District, and the remodeling had apparently brought on the obstetrical woes. Fortunately her husband was one of the leading physicians in New Orleans, and he knew all the best ob-gyns, so Bitsy couldn't have been in better hands. Dorothy just loved having a doctor for a sonin-law, and she went around Crystal Falls referring to him as “the heart surgeon,” or simply “the doctor.” It was lots better than a dentist. Sometimes she'd preface a sentence with, “My son-in-law, the cardiovascular physician.” That got people's attention.

 

When Dorothy pulled into her daughter's circular driveway, she saw a bunch of scary-looking men on the roof. And some gangster types were painting the porch. Dorothy got out of the car, and the hammering stopped. All of the workmen-convicts turned to stare as she reached into the backseat, grabbed her suitcase, and scurried onto the front porch. The door was wide open and she hurried inside, praying that those workmen-convicts weren't rape-stranglers.

She found Bitsy lying in the middle of a four-poster bed, which was reputed to have come from the childhood home of Margaret Mitchell—a wedding gift from Louie's mother. “Dorothy!” Bitsy cried, pushing up on the pillows. She waved a limp strand of hair out of her face. “Thank God you're here.”

“I drove like a maniac,” Dorothy said. “Where's Louie?”

“At the hospital.”

“How have you stayed in bed, what with all these…horrible men running around?” Dorothy touched her daughter's face. The cheeks seemed rounder, as if they'd been slightly inflated. Already she was fattening up.

“Oh, Dorothy. They're not horrible. They're craftsmen.”

“Well, whatever.” Dorothy shivered. “But what about you? Any more spotting?”

“Not a bit. The bed rest seems to be working.” Bitsy picked up a black remote control and pointed it at the television set. The screen flicked on. “Even though I am getting tired of watching soap operas.”

“You poor thing,” Dorothy said, her ears perking up. “Which ones?”

“The Young and the Restless,”
said Bitsy. “But I'm getting hooked on
Guiding Light
.”

“Then we'll have a good time. Those are my favorites, too.” Dorothy perched on the edge of a blue silk chair. She tried not to look at her daughter's messy room. On the floor, books were piled hip-high, mostly decorating guides and childbirth manuals. An empty box of Wheat Thins was being used as a makeshift trash can. Dirty teacups were lined up on the fireplace mantel. Dorothy leaned over and ran her hand along the windowsill; her fingers stirred up long tendrils of dust. She decided to speak to Louie about hiring servants. Soap opera people rarely had maids, but somehow their homes were stylish and immaculate. If only real life could be that way.

Later, while Dorothy prepared lunch in the half-renovated kitchen, she decided she'd alphabetize the canned goods. Next, she planned to scour the bathrooms, which had been grossly defiled by the workmen. It would probably take weeks to hire a housekeeper, so Dorothy decided she'd bring order, serenity, and cleanliness to her daughter's bedroom—crisp linen, fresh air, the furniture wiped down with lemon Pledge. After Louie got home, he drove her to the Winn-Dixie, where she bought cleaning supplies and nourishing food. Dorothy wanted that heart surgeon to know that Bitsy came from fine people. People who knew how to take control of any situation and make it better.

 

Louie watched his mother-in-law prance down the hall. From behind, Dorothy had wide hips and slightly humped shoulders. During his years as a physician, he had observed that mothers and daughters tended to age similarly. His own father, the late Dr. DeChavannes, had refused to marry Honora until he'd set eyes on
her
mother. Louie's first wife, CeeCee, had descended from a clan of Alabama brunettes who believed that a woman aged according to the skill of her beautician—a good colorist could knock off as many years as a plastic surgeon. Louie's second wife, Shelby, came from a long line of Louisiana beauty queens. What Louie remembered best about Shelby's mother was her hair—it turned blonder every year until it eventually acquired the texture of sphagnum moss. Last month, when the woman had died quite suddenly, she had been completely bald.

When he'd heard the news, he'd driven over to Shelby's floating house, to offer his condolences. Shelby had fixed him a glass of whiskey, then she fell into his arms. “Poor Mama,” she wailed. “I can't bury her until I find a wig.”

Louie had rounded up not one, but two human-hair wigs. During the wake, he and Shelby had broken away from the crowd, which had included his mother, his daughter, and his pregnant wife, and Louie had followed Shelby upstairs, into the casket display room. She'd kicked off her heels, then climbed into a “tall man's” coffin and stretched out on the faux silk cushion. Louie had unbuckled his trousers, then climbed into the casket.

Later, all flushed from lovemaking, he returned downstairs to his wife and daughter in the chapel. He had picked up Bitsy's hand and kissed her palm. “There you are, Beauty,” he said a little breathlessly. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”

“Well, I've been right here.” Bitsy smiled at him. He noticed a softening around her edges; her lovely cheekbones were obscured by flesh. Still, she possessed an iridescent beauty that seemed to come from the baby. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't let things start up with Shelby.

Days later, his resolve faltered. He kissed his new wife good-bye and drove across town to Shelby's house, his path as straight and unwavering as a homing pigeon's. He climbed into Shelby's bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. Then he pulled Shelby into his arms. Her hips arched upward, taking him deep inside her, he knew she was about to come; she had a way of shaking her head from side to side, eyes closed, crying out his name,
Louie Louie
, over and over until it brought him to the edge. Her lovemaking was familiar and soothing, and he told himself that it wasn't adultery. He was just caught in a transition. But the transition had reactivated an old problem: insomnia. Guilt had always produced sleepless nights.

Louie hoped Dorothy's arrival would give him more time to spend with Shelby. But his squatty little mother-in-law turned out to be a tyrant. She ordered him to take her grocery shopping, and he gritted his teeth as he pushed the metal cart, trying to appear interested in the differences between kinds of kale and winter tomatoes. When they got home, she insisted that he help put their purchases away. When that was done, she placed a dust mop in his hand and told him to push it over the dusty heart-of-pine floors.

“Anything else?” He raised his eyebrows. “Shall I defrost the freezer? Wash the baseboards?”

“I had no idea you were this marvelous,” Dorothy said. “You're a prize. You don't have to do any of those things just yet. But I would just love for you to chop an onion. I thought I'd fix you and Bitsy some of my famous spaghetti. Do you like Italian food, Louie?”

She pronounced Italian with a hard I. Louie nodded, then selected a large Vidalia, carried it over to the chopping block, and pulled out a French knife.

“Be sure to chop it real fine,” Dorothy called. “It's criminal to make spaghetti with big, old hunks of vegetables.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, nodding. He raised the knife, then hacked the onion in half. The truth was he was guilty of crimes his mother-in-law hadn't even begun to suspect. Lying to one wife, lying with the other—what could he be thinking? Well, at least he could chop onions. His mother had trained him well.

A month passed. Bitsy would not hear of hiring servants, so Dorothy continued to direct Louie. Under her supervision, he scoured the toilets, rearranged the linen closet, and swept the front porch. The household chores kept him too busy to see Shelby. On Valentine's Day, he stopped by her house. She met him at the door. “Already tired of me?”

“No, I swear I'm not.”

“Prove it,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts. She was wearing a black see-through nightgown. “Renata's at your mother's house. So spend the night with me.”

“I can't, I've got to get home and vacuum.” He hadn't meant to say that. He cringed.

Shelby's lips tightened. “You never vacuumed when
we
were married. Wow, you must really be smitten by that little blonde.”

He didn't know how to respond, so he just stood blinking on the rickety dock, clutching his offerings—Elmer's Gold Bricks, Shelby's favorite candy, and calla lilies.

“No, I actually feel sorry for you. Poor Louie. His wife is sick and can't fuck him. So he vacuums floors. I don't need this shit. So either you commit to me, or it's over.” She lifted a hank of blond hair and studied the ends. They resembled frayed platinum wires—Shelby was her mother's daughter, after all. She looked very tired.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“Our old life back.” She put her hands on his face, and he felt his heart fold in half.

 

It was late when Louie walked into his own house, depressed and empty-handed. He was met at the door by Dorothy, who grabbed his arm and hissed, “Where's the candy? The flowers?”

He reeled backward, wondering if she'd been spying on him and Shelby. “What are you talking about?” he blustered.

He walked past her into the kitchen, alarmed when he realized she was following him. Maybe Shelby had gone crazy, called Bitsy, and confessed their affair. Well, no, it wasn't really an affair, just an encounter. He opened the Sub-Zero, pulling out a bottle of chablis.

“Put that back,” Dorothy scolded. “I need you to drive me somewhere.”

“Now?” he said.

“Yes, now! You forgot flowers!” She threw her hands up in the air. “You forgot candy!” Dorothy crossed the kitchen in two steps and yanked the wine bottle from his hand. “It's Valentine's!”

“Christ!” He slapped his forehead.

“All the florists are closed by now,” she said, “but if you hurry you can still find candy at Walgreens. And a
card
. Oh, whatever were you thinking, Louie?”

 

In sleep, Bitsy looked wary. Her forehead wrinkled, and she threw one arm over her head, clenching her fingers. Louie's insomnia surfaced. Pulling back the sheet, he eased out of the Margaret Mitchell bed, down the dark, squeaky stairs. Through a maze of rooms, all destined to be gutted, he threaded his way into the kitchen. Opening the silver door of the Sub-Zero, he blinked when the light hit his cornea. Then he saw how his mother-in-law had decorated the inside of the refrigerator—celery sticks standing in striped glasses, brown eggs in a wire basket, the gourmet mustards lined up on a silver relish tray. She had also thoughtfully sealed the leftovers in tinfoil, which meant he had to open every single packet to see if it was what he craved.

He decided on the cold hamburger steak. Then he unwrapped the French bread, sliced it at an angle. He slathered both pieces with mayonnaise, catsup, and Dijon. Next he slapped on romaine, jalapeño cheese, sprouts, and roasted red peppers. When he was finished, he'd wreaked havoc on both the kitchen and the refrigerator art, but he'd made one hell of a sandwich. With his free hand, he picked up the phone and dragged it into the dining room. Then he sat down on the floor, the phone in his lap. His molars crunched down on the romaine, and the pepper jack burned his tongue. In Shelby's bed, they had feasted on chocolates and tequila poppers—a jalapeño marinated in tequila, then stuffed with cheese, battered, and deep fried. She answered on the fourth ring, her voice sleep-drenched.

“It's me,” he said.

“God, what time is it?” Shelby yawned.

“I don't want it to be over, Shel. Please, talk to me.”

“I am.” She yawned again.

“Can I come over tomorrow?” He pulled the phone over to the window and gazed into the trunk of a live oak. Beneath the streetlight, there was a camilla bush loaded with buds.

She was silent. Then she said, “No. You'd better not.”

“Let me see you.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please?”

“Your wife is pregnant, for God's sake. Since you obviously don't have a conscience, I'll use mine. Besides, I've got a hair appointment tomorrow.”

“That's unfair. My heart's in the right place.”

“But your dick isn't.” She yawned again. “Good-bye, Louie. Really, good-bye.”

“Wait!” he cried turning away from the window, toward the kitchen. “Don't hang up. Please. I've got to see you.” There was a figure in the doorway. He froze, “Bitsy?”

“No, it's Dorothy,” came the voice.

“Oh, God,” he heard Shelby say, and the line went dead. Very softly, without making a sound, Louie hung up the phone. He drew in a deep breath, and tried to smile at his mother-in-law. Her face was stony, and her eyes were cold. He stepped forward, tripped over the cord, and fell, skidding on the hardwood floor. The phone flipped over, making a trilling sound. His right hand landed on and flattened the sandwich.