Mad Girls In Love (43 page)

“Didn't you love those pink and green meringues we bought yesterday in Bath?”

“And the funny thing is,” he continued, as if I'd never spoken, “you don't often see an overweight Brit.”

“I'm sure they're around,” I said, trying not to look at my bulging thighs. I'd already gained two kilos, if those rusty old scales at the cottage were to be trusted, but the bulk was well hidden beneath woolly sweaters and long tartan skirts.

“There's a lesson here,” Louie said. “Americans eat too much. And we're far too sedentary.”

“I certainly am.” I patted my lumpy hips.

“We'll take a walk later.” He stretched out on the houndstooth sofa, signaling that it was time for his nap.

A LETTER FROM STOW-ON-THE-WOLD

Louie said that Dartmoor was England's last bit of wildness. It looked awfully desolate to me. I remembered Violet reading
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, and getting so scared she'd had to sleep with the lights on. As we drove through Devon, a mist rose up and engulfed the car. Louie hunched over the steering wheel, driving slowly down the two-lane road. Jennifer began whining from the backseat. “What if you drive off a cliff?”

“Anything's possible on the moor,” Louie said. As we neared Princetown, the mist cleared a bit, and the prison loomed up, ethereal and eerie. “It was built for Napoleonic prisoners of war,” Louie said. “Americans were put here during the War of 1812. But now it's where England keeps sex offenders. There's a pub down the way. Shall we stop?”

“Lovely,” I said, eyeing the prison. It seemed to fall back into the whirling fog.

We parked the Land Rover on the street, then walked toward the Prince of Wales Pub. A light, chilly rain started to fall, and my teeth were chattering when we stepped inside. Jennifer and I took a seat next to a spitting fireplace, while Louie stepped up to the bar and ordered two pints and a Coca-Cola. Then he began chatting with a pair of grizzled gentlemen.

“How long before the fog clears?” Louie asked them.

One lit a cigarette and said, “Could be minutes. Then again, could be days.”

“Last summer, three prisoners escaped. Two were found on the moor,” said the other man, scratching his beard. “They're still looking for the other one.”

“Fell into a bog, most likely,” said the first man. “Or he could've been pixie-led. It's common for travelers and convicts alike to lose their way on the moor.”

At this, Jennifer stopped rubbing her hands and sat up straight. “What's pixie-led?” she asked the men.

“Some say pixies are the souls of unbaptized children. But whatever they are, they're bent on doin' mischief. They mislead travelers like yourselves, luring them with fairy lights. The poor chaps get turned around. And they're never seen again.”

“Do the pixies eat them?” Jennifer leaned forward.

“No, lass. They deceive them. Any person who loses his way is considered to be Pixie-led.”

Jennifer's eyes rounded as he began telling the old legends—fog, rain, convicts, pixies, and phantom hounds. One of the gentlemen glanced in my direction and advised me to take care if I should decide to visit the W.C.—apparently it was haunted by the spirit of a womanizing monk. Then he turned to Louie and warned him to be cautious on the drive home.

“Be on the lookout for Harry Hands,” he said.

“Who's he?” Jennifer asked.

“Why, it's not a he,” said the man. “It's two ghostly hands that appear from nowhere, and they seize your steering wheel and cause you to wreck.” Then, nodding at the window where the fog was inching its way down the cobbled street, he issued another warning about the pixies. “But if you see one, turn your petticoats inside out, and off the imp will go.”

“Show me a pixie.” Jennifer pointed at the window where the fog was swirling. “Get me one right now.”

The old men laughed and said, “What would you do with it, lass?”

“Why, I'd put it in my suitcase and take it home. Then I'd turn it loose on my stepmother,” said Jennifer.

Jennifer complained on the way to Stonehenge too. She kicked the back of Louie's seat and demanded that he turn the Land Rover around
this instant.
Louie reached for my hand, gave it a squeeze, and then glanced back at Jennifer, lowering his dark eyebrows.

“You should try out for soccer,” he told her. “Here, they call it football.”

After he'd parked the car, we walked toward a tunnel, where a tall, gawky guide was speaking French to a large group. Her voice echoed, exotic and lyrical. Jennifer lagged behind, distracted by an elderly woman walking an unruly Cairn terrier. When the dog saw Jennifer, it strained toward her at the end of its braided lead.

“I wish
I
had a doggie,” Jennifer whined, kneeling beside the terrier, stroking his stiff coat. She looked up at the woman, her eyes filling. “Can I buy him from you?”

The woman shook her head and clucked to the dog. Together they trotted out of the tunnel and disappeared into the crowd. Louie was pawing through the bins, looking for English-speaking headphones. He grabbed two, then hurried over to me.

“After we leave here,” he suggested, “let's have tea in Salisbury.”

“I don't want tea,” Jennifer said, her voice rising. “I hate tea, and I hate scones.”

“You can get a sandwich and a Coke,” I said, reaching for my daughter's hand. “Come on, let's see Stonehenge before it starts raining again.”

“I don't want to see any stupid rocks!” Jennifer crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her chin.

“They're not stupid,” I said in a cajoling tone.

“Oh, yes, they are!” Jennifer lowered her eyebrows.

Louie had been watching this little exchange, and he touched my arm. “It's useless to reason with a child,” he advised. “It never works with Renata. I'm sure she wouldn't like Stonehenge, either.”

I'd never spent more than five consecutive days with my daughter, so we'd never had time to work out the tenets of discipline, much less the secret language that all families develop. Louie had one with Renata. Without speaking a word, all he had to do was raise his eyebrows in a certain way, and Renata knew she was about to get a spanking. That's what I needed, a look that said “Keep this up, and you'll be in trouble.”

“If you want to see Stonehenge, now is the time,” Louie told me, holding out the earphone, “because I'm not coming back.”

I pushed aside the gadget. I'd already read about the stone circle, and I wanted to sit down in the grass and imagine the ancient rituals.

“She'll be all right,” Louie said, glancing over at Jennifer. The child had planted herself against the tunnel wall and was watching us with a venomous expression.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Louie took my arm and we walked out of the tunnel, up a steep, paved grade. Behind us, Jennifer began to scream, her voice echoing in the burrow. The French tour guide stopped talking and stared, along with everyone in her group. An Asian couple drew back, their eyes rounded in horror. A teenager with spiked green hair gave Jennifer a thumbs-up, and in a Cockney accent, said, “Let 'er rip, wench.”

“I hate it
here
!” Jennifer shrieked. “I hate
you.
I want my daddy!”

“Keep walking,” said Louie, towing me along. In the tunnel, the screams had reached ear-splitting decibels.

Startled tourists were emerging from the tunnel, glancing back at Jennifer as they turned up the steep incline.

“Funny that she chose to scream,” Louie said, leading me up the path. “It's the one form of communication that speaks all languages and dialects. They probably think we kidnapped her.”

When he said “kidnapped,” I flinched and stopped walking. Louie kept on, oblivious. Behind us, Jennifer's screams snapped off suddenly. A minute later she raced up the path, her face red and puffy, her cheeks stained with tears.

“You left me!” she said in an outraged voice. “Somebody could've snatched me! I hate you!”

“Jennifer, stop it,” I said.

“No!” With a sharp little cry, she charged forward and pushed hard into my stomach. I fell backward and hit the ground.

“That's enough,” Louie told Jennifer. “No more out of you today.”

“You can't tell me what to do.” She stuck out her tongue.

After I caught my breath, Louie helped me to my feet. I grabbed her arm and said, “Don't you
ever
—and I mean
ever—
shove me again.”

Jennifer tossed her head. “You can't spank me. Daddy said so. Only a parent can do that.”

“I am your parent.”

“You're not!”

“Yes, I
am.
” I turned away from my daughter and husband, then I started up the path alone. The huge boulders came into view, larger than I'd ever imagined, and I just stood there, the wind whipping through my hair, unable to look away, even for a moment.

FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS
DEMOCRAT

—September 9, 1981, page 4

NEW COFFEEHOUSE SLATED
FOR GRAND OPENING!!

The Java Hut will open for business at 1244 West Broad Street on September 18, 1981. The proprietor, Clancy Jane Falk, says she will be serving cappuccino, espresso, and plain old coffee, too. A dazzling array of desserts will be featured, including local favorites like coconut cake, cinnamon coffee cake, apple strudel, key lime pie, turtle cheesecake, and Mississippi mud, to name a few. Bins of whole coffee beans from Kenya and the Kona coast will also be featured, to be sold by the pound, along with coffee grinders, decorative mugs, and flavored syrups. Business hours are Monday through Friday, from 7
A
.
M
. until 2
P
.
M
.

 

A LETTER FROM CLANCY JANE

A TAPED MESSAGE FROM DOROTHY

A LETTER TO NANCY REAGAN