Mad Girls In Love (40 page)

I heard Louie's laughter before I saw him, heard the stereo system that I'd artfully hidden in his bookcase tuned to an FM station playing an old Tina Turner song. I knew Louie's laugh as intimately as I knew his smell. Then I heard a feminine twitter, high-pitched and rhythmical, like a laying hen. I wanted to stop and turn around, but the weight of my body propelled me forward, around the corner, into Louie's office, where a frizzy-haired blonde wearing a short white nursing uniform sat on his desk, her long, lithe legs crossed and swinging. She seemed full of herself, in love with herself. On Louie's desk—carved mahogany from an outrageously expensive shop on Royal Street—was a Pepsi can and a half-eaten muffuletta sandwich, resting on a sheet of waxed paper that was scattered with olives and capers. Lipstick on the bread, lipstick on the Pepsi can. But nothing on Louie's collar. The girl's head turned, the laughter still bubbling from her lips—a bow-shaped little-girl mouth with ice-pink lipstick. Louie was laughing and smiling, too. Then his eyes swept past the girl, and he saw me. He stood abruptly, his chair rolling behind him, bumping into the bookcase. The girl sat straight up, back arched, and tossed her hair.

“Sweetie,” Louie's voice was curved, a question mark hanging in the air. The girl turned to face him, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she wasn't certain whom he was addressing.

“I came to take you to lunch,” I said, pushing back my sweaty hair. “But it looks as if you've already eaten.”

“Have a pickle,” said the girl, her eyes going to my stomach. “Don't pregnant women crave pickles?”

A drop of sweat ran down into my eyes, and I wiped it away. The blonde made no effort to move. Her voluptuous hips were planted on a stack of charts. I put my hands somewhere in the vicinity of my own hips and tipped my pelvis forward. I was one heartbeat away from asking this blonde to leave; but all of a sudden I felt sick. I fought an urge to spit on the floor or maybe on this blond hussy. It was a short distance from the doctor's desk to his lap; once she was in his lap, she was on her way to his bed.

I saw my future with a cruel clarity. In six years I would be fattened up by another pregnancy or maybe one too many steak salads. The portly wife, presiding over parties, passing a tray of cheese straws, making excuses to the other wives, “I didn't mean to puff up like this,” I'd say. Yes, I could see myself slipping into a position of vulnerability, looking the other way, waiting for Louie to grow up and stop fucking other women.

“I'm Bitsy DeChavannes,” I told the woman. “And you are…”

Before the woman could answer, Louie said, “This is Tiki. She's just filling in.”

“Tiki the temp. As in time and temp?” I forced out each word. Push harder, the doctor would say before too long. Go ahead, rip yourself wide open.

“We were going over some charts.” Louie flicked one hand at his desk. “They need my signatures.”

“You can't do that yourself?” I asked.

Louie's face reddened. It took a lot for this man to blush. Extreme anger or embarrassment, hot tubs, sunburn, physical exertion, too much wine—and fear. He was growing ruddier by the second, and I stared him down, waiting for him to speak. From the stereo, Tina Turner eloquently asked “What's love got to do with it?” She was answered by three million years of biology. “Breed,” it whispered. “Perpetuate the species, pass on your DNA.”

The blonde tossed her head and stared straight into my eyes. “Can I get you anything in particular? A glass of water? Sandwich?”

“All I want,” I said, facing the girl, “is for you to get your ass off my husband's desk.”

Louie glanced nervously at the blonde. “The conference is over, Tiki.”

Conference? I thought.

Tiki uncrossed her legs. Then she scooted off the desk with excruciating slowness, making her white skirt ride up higher, then without looking at me she pranced to the door, leaving a wake of Emeraude. Louie wouldn't approve. The smell was making me woozy, and I pushed loose strands of hair away from my face. My hand felt heavy and smelled of soil. Women on his desk, women with pretty legs, women who smell good enough to eat. After Tiki's footsteps faded down the hall, Louie turned to me. “She's only temporary.”

“Like a twenty-four-hour virus, I hope,” I replied, not bothering to hide the venom. I leaned toward his desk, picked up part of the muffuletta. “You shared this with her?”

His chin jutted forward and his lips protruded, his most sullen expression. His eyes darted back to his desk. “Good God, Bitsy. It's just food. We didn't
plan
it or anything. She just stopped by to ask about the charts, and she was fixing to eat lunch, and she asked me if I wanted some.”

“Some…
what
?” I was still holding the sandwich.

“She's harmless.” Louie lifted his shoulders.

“Like a sand shark?” I dropped the sandwich, scattering Genoa salami onto his desk.

“Don't worry. She won't be here next week.”

“No, but someone just like her will.”

His forehead puckered. “I didn't do anything. Why do you persist in staying upset all the time? Never mind, it's your
hormones
.”

“No, it's you.”

“Just go home and try to calm down.”

A bearded man with round eyeglasses passed by Louie's office. A stethoscope was coiled around his neck. I couldn't recall his name, but I knew he was Louie's new partner—he was supposed to be on call every other weekend. So far Louie's workload hadn't lessened.

“Bitsy, you look haggard,” Louie said. “Why don't you go home and put your feet up? I'd drive you home, but I've got patients scheduled.”

“Can't your partner see them?”

“He's got his own patients.” He picked up a strand of lettuce from the desktop, holding it aloft.
One of these days
, I thought,
it will be a pubic hair.

“Fine. I'll leave.” I stepped out into the hall.

“Get some rest,” he called after me. “I'll see you tonight. Then we'll go to the beach, okay?”

I turned. “I might just go by myself.”

“I wish you'd wait,” he said. “But I know how you are.”

“No, you don't,” I said, shocked that he'd even consider letting me drive all that way alone. I didn't want to go without him—didn't he know that?

“Call when you get there safely,” he said.

Without bothering to respond, I spun around and walked down the hall. Thank God this pregnancy was portable. Otherwise, I'd have left it behind. Actually, most of the weight had settled
in
my behind. I waddled into the parking lot, climbed into the Mercedes, cranked up the air conditioner, turned up the radio. The Doobie Brothers were singing “What a Fool Believes.” As the chilly air blew around my face, I felt like a fool, but I wasn't sure what to believe anymore.

I drove on old Highway 90, and when I passed through Slidell, I remembered that Jayne Mansfield had died on this road, and even though she'd been buried elsewhere, beneath a heart-shaped headstone, her ghost might still be lingering in the kudzu. I didn't wish to join her, so I drove below the speed limit, ignoring the impatient motorists who honked then zoomed around me.

The minute I pulled up to our shingled white cottage, with its peaked, witch-hat roof, I knew I'd made a mistake. My feet were swelling, and my head ached. I felt a strange pounding in my ears, and I wondered if it meant my blood pressure was rising. I turned the car around and drove back to New Orleans, feeling like Hera coming down the mountain, sniffing Zeus's trail.

Several hours later, I pulled up in front of my house and parked next to Louie's black Jaguar. I rubbed my eyes. The pink dots had returned. I got out of my car and waved to our next-door neighbor, Mr. Harkreader, who was watering his potted ferns. From my backyard, I heard splashing, and I walked toward the sound. It was early evening, but the air felt heavy and hot. I just wanted to lie down with a cold rag over my eyes. When I reached the patio I glanced at the pool. A long-limbed naked woman was swimming underwater, blond hair fanning behind her, a stream of bubbles curving over her head. Sirens, I thought, dumbstruck. Sirens in the pool, sirens below sea level. Her head shot out of the water, and I recognized the face. It was Tiki, the hussy I'd seen on my husband's desk. Louie stood beside the wrought-iron bar, wearing blue swim trunks. Ice cubes rattled as he stirred a pitcher with a long silver spoon. A pile of fresh mint leaves lay stacked on the bar. How dare he make that home wrecker a julep with my mint.

The pool sweep sent up a jet of water, pattering on Tiki's bleached head. I stood with my mouth open, breathing in chlorine, bourbon, mint, and coconut suntan oil. My Chanel pocketbook, a gift from Honora, hit the brick pavers, spilling out lipstick, Rolaids, keys. Louie, reaching for a mint sprig, saw me and dropped the pitcher. The crystal exploded on the pavers. The girl was in the center of the pool, treading water.

“Bitsy?” Louie said in a strangled voice. His eyes rounded in alarm. “Honey, listen. This isn't what you think. She doesn't mean a thing,” he said, waving one hand at the girl. “Honey, wait!”

Weight broke the bridge down, my mother used to say. I felt a cramp low in my spine and my uterus tightened. I staggered back to the walk-way and hurried around the house. The pink dots caused me to walk into a banana tree. The leaves made a whuffling noise and I clawed my way free. Again, pain knotted in my back and stomach. I somehow made it to the driveway, but halfway to my car, I fell. The ground felt surprisingly hard and I threw out both hands, trying to protect my baby. From a long way away I heard Mr. Harkreader yell. Then he was looming above me, shouting my name.

“My baby.” I clutched his arm. “Don't let anything happen to my baby.”

Mr. Harkreader's head moved, and I saw Louie hobbling over to me. Satisfaction. That's what I felt when I saw that his right foot was pouring blood. I was glad he'd stepped on the broken glass. Louie's face was contorted, and it was impossible to know the source of his pain.

 

A TAPED MESSAGE TO ROSALYN CARTER

A NOTE FROM HONORA DECHAVANNES

A NOTE FROM BITSY