Mad Girls In Love (45 page)

“You barbarian.” Louie spoke in a hushed, furious voice. He clenched the handkerchief in his fists. “I want you to leave.”

Mack looked at Dorothy. She held his gaze.
Fix this yourself
, her eyes said.
I've had enough
.

“But it's Christmas,” Mack said. “I ain't had dessert yet.”

“Pick one off the floor and go,” said Louie.

“You can't kick me out. I'll whoop your ass if you try.”

Louie grabbed Mack's bony shoulders then started dragging him across the room. Mack's shoe came off, exposing a plastic foot. It snagged on a Chippendale chair and creaked, but Louie didn't slow down.

“Oh, my
God,
” cried the photographer. “What's wrong with his foot?”

“It's fake,” said Dorothy. She stood up, brushing away tears, and stepped over to her daughter. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered, pressing her cheek against Bitsy's hair. “I just wanted to spend some time with you, honey. I just miss you so much.”

“I know it,” Bitsy said. “I miss you, too.”

Dorothy gave Bitsy another squeeze, then she snapped her fingers at the Poms. She was hoping Louie might forgive Mack's outburst and let them stay, although it didn't seem promising. Bitsy looked stunned, and Louie was on his knees, picking up chocolates and fighting off the dogs who were trying to gobble them first. Still, it was Christmas, and families should be together, no matter if wine gets tossed and people's shoes get pulled off.

“Mama? Get your purse, we're leaving.” Mack got off the floor, snatched up his shoe, and hobbled toward the entry hall. “Hell, I ain't never coming back,” he yelled, then looked over his shoulder. “Mama? You coming?”

“Please say you're sorry, Mack. Ask for forgiveness.”

“Why? I ain't sorry one damn bit. Hell, I think he broke a hook on my foot.” He pointed at Louie. “I hope you've got homeowner's, because I'm sending you the bill.”

He stomped outside, Dorothy and the Poms scuttling behind. When they reached Mack's truck, a red Ford with a double cab, he insisted on driving, but Dorothy wouldn't let him. She stood on her toes and gently put her dogs into the backseat. The truck was high off the ground, and she had to drag herself into the front seat. She gripped the steering wheel and waited for her son. He took his time settling into the passenger seat. Dorothy glanced back at the house. Bitsy was standing in the doorway. The front of her dress had a large stain, and her mascara was smeared. The dogs scrambled to look out the side window, their nails snicking against the glass.

Dorothy pushed her foot against the gas pedal, speeding past ostentatious houses with gaudy wrought-iron trim, wondering how she could have given birth to such different children and why her holidays always turned out so poorly. But they did every single time. Oh, it just wasn't fair.

Dorothy woke from a troubling afternoon nap, and as she lay thinking about it, realized it was a memory of something that had really happened back in August 1938, when she was six and Miss Gussie was pregnant with Clancy Jane. In the dream it was a hot and dry afternoon, and Miss Gussie was towing Dorothy down the sidewalk. Miss Gussie stopped abruptly in front of Borden's Jewelry where a set of china had been cleverly arranged on a length of royal blue velvet. She pulled Dorothy into the store. Miss Gussie picked up a teacup, setting it on top of her big stomach. A clerk walked over, “Isn't it pretty?” she said “It's Spode. Queen Mary picked it out last year, so it's called Queen's Bird.”

Dorothy reached for a saucer.

Then, in slow motion, she dropped it. The saucer hit the tile floor and broke into two wedges—the bird's head on one half, its body on the other.

“Dorothy, no!” her mother cried. Then she seemed to collect herself and put her hand on her daughter's wet cheek. “Don't cry. It's just an old dish. I'll pay for it,” Gussie said. Then she picked up another cup and saucer and smiled at the fuming clerk. “Actually, I'll take this one, too. So my little girl can have something pretty.”

Dorothy had shaken her head, her hair whipping back and forth. She wasn't rejecting the gift, exactly, but she knew her mother didn't have the money for one cup and saucer, much less two. “No,” she'd cried, “put it back. I don't want it.” She could see how her mother's hand had trembled as she set down the cup. They had waited for the clerk to wrap the broken one and then walked home.

All these years later she remembered her mother's smile, her mother's hand on her face, walking home in silence, the broken Spode rattling in the paper sack. Clancy Jane was born a few days later, and everything had seemed to change. But now, she had no doubt that her mother had loved her. She wished she had just taken her portion, taken what her mother had offered, then everything might have been different.

And then Dorothy thought,
When I got married and had my babies, I repeated the mistake that I thought my mother had made. It's a wonder that Bitsy didn't hate her brother—or hate me for loving him to excess. But she didn't. I want to be like my daughter. I don't particularly want to be like Clancy Jane, but I don't mind being her sister. Well, not much.

She threw back the covers and shuffled into the dining room, then rummaged in Miss Gussie's old corner cupboard until she found the Spode teacups. Lord knew how they'd escaped Clancy Jane's Zen house-cleaning rampages. Dorothy gingerly fit a cup into a saucer. She stared at it a long time. Then she found a box, drove to the post office, and mailed the cup to her daughter.

A NOTE FROM CLANCY JANE

Clancy Jane wasn't in the mood for grocery shopping. She hated being around the masses, and their squeaky little carts filled with junk food and chicken breasts, for their shitty little families. She walked up to perfect strangers and said, “That food you're buying—it's poison. Don't you know that you're killing yourself?”

The people looked at her as if she were crazy. Clancy Jane stared back—she wasn't the transgressor,
they
were the ones screwing up, eating the wrong foods, going about their lives in this stink-hole town. They were clueless about the evils of white sugar. Hell, Christianity was just as bad as red meat. Well, it was. Still, if Tucker asked her to cook a steak and eat it, she wouldn't hesitate. Not that he'd ever ask, of course.

She drove home with her cartons of yogurt and her bags of brown rice, and then she called Violet to complain about small-minded southerners who were hell-bent on waiting for the Second Coming. “I feel like saying to them, ‘Second
coming
? Surely you don't mean multiple orgasms?'”

“Mama, stop,” Violet cried.

“When did
you
get religious?” Clancy Jane sighed. “I shouldn't call you up and whine.”

“Whine? Try blasphemy. I'm really worried about you. I'm sensing that you have a lot of pent-up rage. You should let it out.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I'm happier than I've ever been in my life.”

“Seriously, you're repressing a lot of rage, and it's all mixed up with sadness. If you don't let all that out, you'll never find happiness.”

“You sound like a Hallmark card. I'm in love with Tucker. I have no use for rage or sadness. And you'd better stop shrinking me or else.”

 

A LETTER FROM DOROTHY

A LETTER FROM JENNIFER WENTWORTH

For no reason at all, Louie gave me a Harry Winston bracelet and a set of T. Anthony luggage, then we jetted off to Ireland for sixteen days. We drove up from Shannon and stopped for the night on the Connemara Coast. After a not-so-Irish dinner of spring rolls and salad, we wandered down to the windy, rocky shore to look at the stars. The tide was out, and rocks stretched off into the darkness. I leaned against Louie, the damp wind whipping around us. We sank to the grass, and begun making love. Seduced by Irish whiskey on Irish soil, by a dark-eyed man from New Orleans. Afterward, Louie reached for my hand and together we walked toward the lights from our hotel.

It was Louie, never me, who planned these excursions. He had a world map that covered one wall in his study. With each geographic conquest, a new pin would appear on the map. After Louie toured a place, he felt a sense of completion, as if he'd achieved a goal. During a guided expedition to the Galápagos Islands, Louie turned to me and said, “Well, that was exciting. No need to come back.”

He'd made a similar comment while driving a Jeep through the out-back of Australia, pausing now and then to snap photographs of the monitor lizards that glared at us from the red rocks. “Isn't this great?” he'd said. “Everybody should do this once.” Coming back down the steep, olive-strewn path from the Acropolis, I'd stopped to feed feral cats bits of beef jerky. Louie had put his arm around me and said, “It doesn't get any better than this.” But he didn't want to revisit.

On our fifth day in Ireland, we stopped at the Waterford factory, then drove over to the Ring of Kerry. It was too foggy to take pictures, so we found a pub and drank Guinness until the weather cleared. After my second pint, I slipped my arms around Louie.

“I love you, Beauty,” he said, kissing my hair. “No matter what happens, you've got to remember that.”

“What's going to happen?”

“Nothing in particular, Beauty. Except that I'll always love you.”

A POSTCARD FROM IRELAND

 

Louie and I were in the kitchen making gumbo. While he chopped celery, we chatted about the French Quarter townhouse that I was helping Sister renovate. “I wish Sister would let up. She's been working you too hard,” he said. “Maybe I'll shanghai you, take you down to the coast for the weekend.”

“I'd love that.” Leaning across the counter, I watched him chop celery. He had long, slender fingers, like his mother, and I loved the way he expertly slid the stalks toward the French knife. I'd seen TV chefs do it the same way. When the celery was sliced, he changed the angle of the knife and began dicing it.

“Are you still going to that auction tomorrow?” he asked.

“I really should. But it's in Mandeville, and the bidding could go into the evening. You know how I hate crossing the Pontchartrain after dark.”

“Don't worry, Beauty. Just give me a ring when you're ready to come home, and I'll send a limo.”

But it was afternoon when I was driving back from Mandeville, and I decided to swing by Louie's office to show off a Limoges tureen I'd bought. I glanced in the rearview mirror—my hair was pulled into a severe knot, and Louie preferred it down. So I took a minute to remove the pins and brush out my hair.

The office was dark and quiet, except for a shaft of light spilling from beneath his door. Just before I opened the door, I had a sickening feeling of déjà vu. But Tiki was long gone, and my beautiful husband had reformed. I grasped the knob, pushed open the door. A bottle of Dom Perignon was on Louie's desk. A naked woman was sitting in his leather chair, holding a plastic glass.

I had purchased this particular bottle a month ago, and it had been chilling in our Sub-Zero refrigerator ever since, waiting for Louie's birthday next month. That son of a bitch had stolen it. Hadn't he noticed the red bow tied to the foil wrapper? Too bad I hadn't affixed it to his…never mind, there probably wasn't enough ribbon in the world to hog-tie that man. I saw this with a sickening clarity.

Heaped on the other chair was his Gucci suit, a lovely gray silk shark-skin that he'd bought in New York last spring. I had helped him select the lavender shirt to wear with it. Now the naked woman reached out with one hand and snatched the suit jacket, clapping it over her breasts.

“Gray isn't your color,” I told her, calmly setting the tureen on the desk. Then I picked up the champagne bottle, corked it with my thumb, and began to shake it vigorously. I could feel the pressure building. The bathroom door opened, and Louie stepped out. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” I asked in a conversational tone. Louie's nostrils flared in and out, and his eyes widened. “I guess I have,” I said, not waiting for him to answer. I released my thumb and sprayed champagne over the lovers.

“What a waste,” I said, dropping the bottle at my husband's feet. On my way out the door, I glanced nonchalantly over my shoulder. “By the way, dear. I won't be cooking supper tonight. You might wish to order takeout Chinese.”

Je me démords
, I thought, slamming the door behind me. My heart was thumping, but I kept on walking. Behind me, Louie's door opened and he yelled my name. I ignored him. I was letting go, giving up.

I drove back to our stucco house and hurriedly packed two suitcases, taking care to grab a memento—a Spode teacup that my mother had given me and my old rosewood box that held all of my letters to Jennifer. I drove to the airport and caught the next plane to Atlanta. While I stood in line at the Delta ticket counter, I kept glancing at the monitor, studying the departure list. At first, I thought I might try living in Paris but I really only knew a few phrases of French and didn't need the added stress of a foreign language. So I jetted off to London, the city of Shakespeare and Dickens and Jack the Ripper, not to mention Henry VIII and all of his frustrated women. As I waited to board, I felt like a refugee—not from an oppressive, third-world government, but from love and my own checkered past.

During the long flight, I put on the earphones. Elton John was singing “Blue Eyes.” Louie used to say that was my song. I switched the channel to hard rock. Somehow I fell asleep and dreamed that I was living in an English country house. Stained-glass windows, portraits of dukes, dark Jacobean furniture, a secret garden and secret passageways.

Pushing my cart through customs, I suddenly realized that I didn't know a soul on this side of the ocean. I hadn't even read Henry James. I glanced over my shoulder. If I turned around now it might create a scene with the customs officials, so I decided to wait patiently in line and then work my way back to the departure lounge. Although I had been through Heathrow many times, suddenly it looked dated, trapped in the Mod 1960s. Everything was brown and shabby. Even the air felt old and oppressive, almost difficult to breathe; then I realized the air was full of smoke—the British were all puffing on cigarettes.

Why, of all places on earth, had I picked London? A mood like mine needed Barbados, not Britain. And why should
I
leave home? I hadn't broken any vows. I pictured myself as a gay divorcée in Florence. Well, I didn't speak Italian, either. And I could be a single woman anywhere, even in New Orleans. Then I remembered what was waiting for me there, Louie and the home wrecker; but no, the woman wasn't in our home—yet—and besides, Louie had wrecked our home.

If I returned to New Orleans, he would renounce the woman in a showy, dramatic way. Louie was marvelous at reconciliations. He was the best. Anything you want, baby. Two weeks in Paris, chinchilla coat, BMW. Once, he'd given me a bouquet of sweetheart roses and dangling from the card was a three-carat diamond in a swirled platinum setting. Love for sale, that was his mantra. But it wasn't going to work this time.

“Next!” called the customs official.

I squared my shoulders and pushed my cart over the yellow line. I handed my passport to the man and he stamped it with a flourish. Without glancing up, he said, “Welcome to London.”