Mad Girls In Love (52 page)

A TAPED MESSAGE FROM DOROTHY MCDOUGAL

Pain shot through Dorothy's head, and she stopped writing. Rubbing her temple, she wondered if she had a brain tumor. More likely it was the stress of Jennifer and Bitsy. Truth be told, Dorothy never missed an opportunity to brag about her daughter. Several years ago, she had been shopping for dog food at the farmer's Co-op, when she'd run into Walter Saylor Jr., Bitsy's old flame. Dorothy had noticed his thinning hair, and his red beard was tinged with gray. His muscles had degenerated, and he had a potbelly. “Well, hello, Mrs. McDougal,” Walter had said. “Whatever happened to Bitsy?”

“Didn't you know? She's living in London—that's in England, you know,” she added. “I sure do miss her. But did I mention that she's an interior designer? Her clients send her all over the world.”

“I'm real happy for her,” Walter said, his eyes slanting downward. He told her that he was still practicing dentistry. Apparently he'd never remarried and was living with his mother and sisters. Dorothy told him good-bye,
then hurried down the aisle. But she really did wish him the best.

Normally she didn't believe in wishing, she believed in
taking action
. And that was why she'd mailed her copy of Jennifer's wedding invitation to Louie DeChavannes. Yes, it was wrong, but she'd taken guilty pleasure when she'd written out his address in her spidery handwriting, crossing out the printed RSVP information and inserting her own telephone number. She hoped Louie didn't suspect anything. He
was
a brilliant man. And he still sent her Christmas cards, accompanied by a floral arrangement for her dining room table—a table always set for two, since her daughter rarely made it home for the holidays. She wondered if Jennifer didn't want Bitsy at the wedding or if Claude had egged her on—or maybe his new girlfriend was causing trouble.

Dorothy's blood pressure began to rise—or, at least it
felt
like it—when she thought of Claude's latest girlfriend, Samantha Cole-Jennings. You couldn't keep a secret in this town, Dorothy thought, because it usually ended up in the Crystal Fall's
Democrat,
strategically placed on the society page. In recent weeks, Dorothy had seen pictures and write-ups about the parties for Jennifer—bridal teas, kitchen showers, luncheons. In every g.d. picture, standing front and center with Jennifer was Claude's woman. Dorothy had to give him a little credit—Samantha wasn't a vamp or a debutante but somewhere in the middle. And she wasn't too young, either, like his last victim. In the society page pictures, Samantha had a round, pretty face and curly, dark blond hair. Dorothy had asked around, and she'd found out that Samantha came from a middle-class family right here in Crystal Falls—the type the Wentworths looked down on. Samantha's daddy was an insurance agent, and the mother worked in medical records at Crystal Falls General. But she was a far cry from the ritzy-fitzy gals that Claude seemed to favor.

From Dixie Avenue, she heard a revving noise. Then Mack's white truck rolled up his driveway, a thick blacktop that Albert had installed in the '60s, when he was still her Albert, still a family man. Dorothy could hear loud music booming from the truck, something about a watchtower. She prayed that her son wasn't a closet Jehovah's Witness. Rising from her chair, she scuttled off the porch. By the time she reached the sidewalk, the music had abruptly stopped. Mack had already climbed out of his truck and was limping toward his house.

“Mack?” she hollered, scuttling crablike across the yard. Her son didn't acknowledge her. He strode ahead with his uneven gait. “You, Mack!” she called again, shrieking his name so loud that a bird flew out of the maple tree.

Mack froze. Then he turned around. His face contorted, and he cursed under his breath. She just made him so fucking mad. Couldn't even take a
shit
without her knowing. She'd chased off Earlene, and now she had him where she wanted him. Hell, all his life she'd been his protector, his cheerleader, his nutritionist, his tormenter, and his personal assistant, all rolled into one. He was her whole world, but she wasn't his.
Hell, no,
he thought.
I ain't no mama's boy. I'm as manly as they come.

As Dorothy stumbled over, pushing back that wild hair, Mack wanted to bolt. Once, he had accidentally touched her hair, and it had felt so gross—like a rusted Brillo pad, with little prickly things sticking into his fingers—he'd wanted to scream. Today she'd stuck teensy butterfly barrettes all over her head. As he stared at the plastic butterflies, he felt a pang. Poor old woman, she couldn't help it, she thought she was cute. He forced himself to smile.

“I've got your supper ready,” Dorothy said, edging toward him, perspiration dotting her forehead. Despite the butterflies, she looked haggard, with deep pouches beneath her eyes. “I fixed a pork roast and mashed potatoes. And I steamed some broccoli, too. If you eat enough broccoli, you'll never get cancer. I read that in
Woman's World
. Oh, and I've got strawberry shortcake for dessert, if you give me a minute to cap the berries and whip the cream.”

“Ain't got time. I got to mend your fence so your shitty dogs won't escape.”

“Don't call them names. They're practically your brothers and sisters.”

He shuddered, then tugged his Budweiser cap over his eyes and hobbled up the driveway, toward his garage, Dorothy's old garage. Every damn thing he owned, except for his Ford truck, had once belonged to her. She was still giving him things. Mostly it was junk from garage sales, but she acted like she'd bought him a Bass boat and not some shitty weed-eater that she'd got for two dollars.
What the fuck, she meant well,
he thought as he slogged up the driveway. Cooking his supper, running his errands. And he didn't really mind some of her fussing. In fact, his life would be perfect if she would just give him a little privacy.

Dragging his artificial leg behind him, he hobbled over to the little refrigerator—Earlene had bought him that—and grabbed an ice-cold Bud Lite. The beer splashed against the back of his throat, cold and soothing. In a minute, maybe his hands would stop shaking. He was not an alcoholic, hell no, get the fuck out of here; and he wasn't handicapped, either. What the hell, everybody had a flaw. Some you saw, some you didn't. Ain't nobody perfect.

He finished the beer, but his hands were still trembling, so he reached into the fridge and pulled out another can. He drank it with the refrigerator door open, frosty air curling around his leg. It just felt so nice; but if he stayed here, Dorothy would catch him. He glanced over his shoulder, peering out the garage. He couldn't see his mother, but he felt her presence. In a minute she'd holler and tell him to be careful, not to hurt himself.

“Be careful,” she called from her side of the yard. “Don't
hurt
yourself.”

He ignored her, the way he always did, and went about his business. When he reached the fence, he set down his toolbox and took another swig of beer. Reaching into the box, he fished out a vise grip and hooked it onto the broken board. In the old days, Earlene had been his assistant. She'd hand him tools and nails, wipe his forehead, give him a kiss, little sips of beer—all of this had been done without him asking, mind you, she'd just done it. She'd acted like she was a nurse and he was a hotshot surgeon. Just thinking about her made his eyes water, and when he reached up to wipe his face, he somehow caught his finger in the vise grip. The beer can went flying, shooting out a geyser of Bud Lite. He yelped, and his eyes bugged out, Jesus
Christ
, it was the worst PAIN he'd felt in years. Worse than Viet Fucking NAM! Using his free hand, he tried to loosen the clamp, but it was stuck. He tugged—big mistake—and felt the flesh ripping. He threw back his head and cursed. His finger was twisting off at the joint, he could feel bones and ligaments tearing. Did they make prostheses for that? Might as well get one for his dick, too, one of those penile implants with a pump. He hadn't woken up with a hard-on in years.

A drop of blood splashed onto the fence the way it had splattered to the ground in Vietnam. Hump a few klicks, nail some dinks, drop that napalm, chop off your leg for Uncle Sam. He started flailing, slapping at the vise grip. He could die hooked to this fence, and she might never think to look down here. Then a year or two later, she'd take them dogs for a walk and just happen to look at the fence and see his skeleton hanging there. She'd scream and fall down, setting them goddamn dogs loose. They'd have a pissing contest on his bones. Man, that wasn't right.

He let out a scream. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dorothy running toward him, her frizzy hair lifting and falling. “Mack!” she cried. “Are you—”

“Goddammit, Mama,” he bellowed and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh, Lord,” she said, looming over him.

“Shit.” He cracked open one eye. All he could see was hair and those horrible drawn-on brows. “Can't I even have a accident without you getting in my FACE?”

“You'll need a tetanus shot,” she said, ignoring his outburst. “Should I call 911? Tell me what to do.”

“You can get the FUCK outta here!”

Her face creased, like he'd slapped her. She turned around, pulling a tattered green sweater around her shoulders, and veered off toward her yard. Halfway to the forsythia bushes, she stumbled, then swayed from side to side. From deep within her throat, she made a growling nose, like she was trying to answer her bratty dogs. They were locked inside the house, barking their fool heads off.

“Mama?” he called, starting to get a little worried. She wouldn't answer, she just staggered back and forth. Hell, was she crying? She fell to the ground—kerplunk! That was just what it sounded like, a ker and a plunk. He waited for her to get up, but she just sat there. If she was fooling, he was going to be mad. Momentarily forgetting his trapped finger, he started to move toward her, but the fence jerked him back. The pain shot up his arm, but he couldn't worry about that now.

“Mama?” he hollered again. Hell, she was just pretending. She did that sometimes when he was mean. “Mama? Stop funning me, now.”

On the lawn, Dorothy lay motionless, dandelion fluff blowing all around her. A breeze stirred the dogwood branches, setting the forsythias to swaying.

A bird flew over the forsythias, over the fence, and shit fell into Mack's open toolbox. He cursed again, then bent closer to look at the vise grip. It reminded him of those woven Chinese toys that his daddy had once sold at the five-and-dime. Mack had loved those things. He'd trick Bitsy into putting a finger into each end, and then he'd sit back and watch her try to break free. The harder she struggled, the harder it gripped her finger. Then she'd start crying, and he'd go fetch the scissors and hold them over her head.

“This won't hurt a bit,” he'd say. “You won't feel a thing.”

The phone rang, jarring me from a dream where I'd been flying above Stonehenge. With part of my mind still circling the megalithic ruins, I reached out in the dark, my hands clumsily groping on the bedside table. Patting the base of the lamp, my fingers slid upward until I found the switch. I winced at the sudden light and lifted the receiver.

“Hullo?” My voice sounded thick and drowsy. Through the open window, I heard Big Ben faintly gong three times.

“Bitsy?” It was my brother.

“Mack? What's wrong?”

“It's Mama.” His voice broke. “I didn't mean to wake y'all up. It's eight o'clock in Crystal Falls.”

“What about Dorothy?”

“She fainted out in the yard. I rushed her to the hospital and everything. The emergency room doctors didn't know what's wrong, but Mama says it's a stroke.”

Stroke,
I thought, and drew my knees to my chin. “So, she's…conscious?”

“Mama never did have much of a conscience. She just did as she pleased—”

“Is she able to talk?”

“Oh, hell yes. Awake and raising hell, as usual. But she keeps asking for you. She says she wants to say good-bye one last time. I hate to say it, Sis, but you might need to come home. I know you're all in an uproar about Jennifer's wedding, but what if Mama up and dies? She sounds so pitiful.”

“I'll try to get a flight out tomorrow—well, I guess it's already tomorrow.” I paused, thinking that my mother had solved the problem of whether or not I'd go to the wedding.

“I can't meet you at the airport. I can't miss any more work.” He paused. “I'm real sorry. There's nobody else to call, I don't reckon. I know you're fighting with Jennifer, so maybe you can get Clancy Jane to fetch you. But I don't think she drives to Nashville anymore. She says the traffic is too bad.”

“That's all right. I'll rent a car at the airport.”

“Good idea. You always did know the right thing to do.”

“No, I didn't,” I said grimly.

“Well, I'll see you when I see you. You can stay at Mama's—if you can stand them dogs.”

After I hung up, I stared blankly through the darkened windows. I was desperately trying not to cry, but my chin wove, and then my face crumpled.

My hair fell into my eyes, and Ian pushed it back. It was a shameful length for a woman my age. Like most middle-aged women, I'd lived long enough to inspire both flattery and criticism, sometimes from the same person,
in the same breath
. But I wasn't ready to cut my hair.

“Tell me what's wrong,” Ian said.

“It's my mother. It's either a stroke or a dizzy spell. I need to go home. I was going anyway for the wedding. Oh, Ian—what if I can't find a flight?”

“Don't fret, we'll get you there, even if you have a layover in Paris or Amsterdam.” Ian sat up straight and gave me a penetrating stare. “Shall I go with you, darling?”

His question seemed eager and forthright, and I knew the worst possible thing was happening. I was starting to care too much. Maybe it was best that I was leaving. “I'll be fine,” I said and scooted off the bed. I flung open the closet door. Standing on my toes, I pulled a suitcase from the upper shelf and swung it to the floor. I'd better pack for Jennifer's wedding, too. Even if Dorothy
had
suffered a stroke, Jennifer was unlikely to postpone the ceremony. Reaching deeper into the closet, I haphazardly pulled out a long pewter skirt, strewn with abstract flowers, and a black georgette top, off the shoulder. The coloring was odd, but attractive. I also grabbed a lilac, floor-length Oscar de la Renta and the silver slingbacks I wore with it. Then from behind the shoes I pulled out the rosewood letter box I'd been lugging around for the last twenty-two years. I privately called the box My Side of the Story.

“Please, stop packing,” said Ian. “Come over here and let me hold you.”

Just before I moved away from the closet, my hands closed on a lumpy sweater—Louie and I had bought it for Jennifer years ago in Ireland, at the Blarney Mills, to be exact. It was pale blue, threaded with green, featuring white lambs and a single black sheep. Some years ago, my daughter had been so furious that she'd FedExed the sweater to my flat, with a note that had said, “This is too ‘Gidget Goes Hawaiian' for my taste. You probably bought it for yourself, so I am returning it. Wear it when you go to Stonehenge.”

Now I pressed my face into the wool, thinking that a woman could cross the ocean but she couldn't escape who she was or the people she'd left behind.

Ian took the train with me to Heathrow, until just outside Terminal 4, where a uniformed man was checking tickets and passports. “Sorry, mate,” he told Ian. “You'll have to stop here. Only ticketed passengers beyond this point.”

“I won't be a moment,” Ian told the man. Then he put his arms around me. “I wish you'd change your mind and let me come with you,” he said, lifting my chin. “Say yes, and I'll take the next available flight. Or do you have it in hand?”

“No, thank you. I'll be fine.” I stood on my toes and kissed his cheek. Behind us, the passengers were stamping their feet, shifting their carry-on baggage.

“Hurry it up, love,” called a woman with tight blond curls, a child in each hand. “Some of us have planes to catch.”

I touched Ian's chin, my hand lingering for a moment. Then I set my own carry-on—which was crammed full of the old letters and clippings—on the conveyer belt. It surged forward, through black plastic strips. A woman sitting above the machine peered into a screen.

“Move along,” the uniformed man told me, waving his hand.

Ian spun me around and kissed me. It caught me by surprise, and my hands hovered by his head for a few moments, then my fingers brushed over his hair. It was a long, damp, passionate kiss, and when he finally let go, the passengers clapped. Ian's cheeks reddened, but he saluted them, flashing a dimpled grin.

“Can we go now, love?” called the blonde, and several people laughed.

I stepped backward, still looking at Ian. I lifted my hand.

“Call me,” he said.

“If she doesn't,” the blonde said, laughing, “
I
will.”

When I reached my gate, the first class passengers had already boarded, and a long queue was forming by the door, spreading out in a crooked S. The interior of the 767 resembled an egg carton, the blue seats cupped and waiting, wedged into a miserly space. Both aisles were blocked with people stuffing luggage into overhead compartments. A stewardess worked her way down the aisle, slamming the bins, calling out, “If you can't find an available compartment, we'll be happy to check your baggage.”

I found my seat on the last row, which meant sitting bolt upright for the next seven hours and forty-five minutes. But I was grateful to have a seat at all. Ian had pulled strings for this flight, called in favors. So I squashed my bag into the overhead bin, then sat down, my knees brushing against in-flight magazines and safety brochures.

A man with a brown moustache sat down beside me and began pawing through an enormous leather bag, bringing up cough drops, nasal spray, eye drops, and a thick paperback titled
Free From Allergies
. In front of me, a heavyset woman was getting settled, shifting from side to side. I stared at the telephone, which was imbedded into the back of the seat, but quickly discarded the notion of calling my daughter. It was four
A
.
M
. in Tennessee.

My seatmate squirted Afrin into his nostrils. I set my watch to Central time and thought about Dorothy. If she'd really suffered a stroke, and it was altogether possible, then it might be some time before I could return to London.

After the plane took off, the heavyset woman sighed deeply and reclined her seat, pushing it into my lap. Beverage carts began rattling down the aisles. Over the droning engines, announcements were made about safety, movies, duty-free shopping, and meals—a peppered trout-and-celery salad, braised beef, or chicken mango korma. I found my pillow and a thin navy blanket, then tried to arrange myself in the cramped space.

Thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic, the plane lurched. I awakened just in time to see a wine bottle fly off the beverage cart and roll down the aisle. Another thud lifted me into the air, as, from the galley, glass shattered, followed by a muffled scream. I heard a ding, and the seatbelt light turned on. An attendant lurched up the aisle, her hands braced against the overhead bin. My ears popped as the plane changed altitudes. In front of me, the heavyset woman frantically signaled the attendant. Someone else cried, “Are we crashing? Into the
Atlantic
? Mother of God, I can't swim.”

“It's air turbulence,” the attendant said in a monotone. She might as well have said,
Benign tumor.
“Fasten your seatbelts, please. Fasten—”

The plane shuddered, and light bounced through the half-closed windows. The attendant tripped over my seatmate's legs. Then the plane dropped. Oxygen masks fell down, swinging back and forth. The cabin began to shake, and the overhead bins popped open. Several rows up, a Louis Vuitton Last Chance satchel fell, flinging lacy bras over the seats. When my carry-on bag fell into the aisle, it scattered letters and clippings, then the plane dropped again, and, just the way they say, my whole life began to flash before my eyes.