Bitsy
Toward the end of summer, I began studying the L words in my dictionary, but when I got to “love,” I skipped over it. I no longer knew what that word meant, you see. My daddy was in Mexico for a quicky divorce. My mother, in a rare lucid moment, told him to “go with God,” and to just get out of her hair and into somebody else’s. I drove up to the asylum to visit her, and while I was gone Aunt Clancy went to the Utopian Salon. She heard the ladies talking about Miss Betty, who was also a client. It seemed all she did was bad-mouth Jennifer’s babysitters. She had gone through twenty-five women. Claude lived in their backyard—well, the pool house—but he wasn’t involved with Jennifer at all, which didn’t surprise me. Now the Wentworths were having trouble finding somebody who’d give up their lives and work twenty-four hours a day at minimum wage. Miss Betty had been forced to bring Jennifer to the salon. My baby was twenty months old—on the cusp of the so-called terrible twos. Aunt Clancy said the beauticians couldn’t stop talking about what a spectacle it was. No one was allowed to reprimand her, and she ran around wild, eating anything she wanted from the candy machine, then slept when and where she pleased. It breaks my heart to think about how carefully I followed all Dr. Spock’s rules.
The ladies also said that Miss Betty complained to anyone who’d listen that she was having to miss her bridge parties and soirees, and Chick couldn’t play golf. Anyway, that was probably why they broke down and asked if Jennifer could stay with me. They were that desperate for a sitter. It was just for the afternoon, and when Miss Betty called, she stipulated (I knew I’d be able to use that word) that someone had to supervise me. Byron and Aunt Clancy said they would. I was desperate to bond with my child, but I didn’t know where to start. I hadn’t seen my daughter since that day in Mississippi. Not that I hadn’t tried. Every day I drove past the Wentworths’ house, but their yard was always immaculate and empty. There was no sign that a child lived there.
When Claude’s father showed up at 214 Dixie, he was holding Jennifer in his arms. I restrained myself from rushing over and scooping her into my arms. So I just stood in the hall with Byron and Aunt Clancy. Jennifer was wearing pink coveralls and a tiny gold bracelet with a heart. She regarded me silently, a pacifier bobbing up and down in her mouth. She flashed me a disdainful look then buried her face in Chick’s golf shirt. One small hand reached up and dislodged his white hat, which had Crystal Falls Golf & Country Club printed across the front.
Still holding the baby, Chick exchanged pleasantries with Byron, but refused to make eye contact with me or Aunt Clancy. Then he set Jennifer on the floor and headed out the door, promising to return in several hours. When the door slammed, Jennifer threw herself against it and began to screech. Two hours later, she was still hysterical. Aunt Clancy and I tried everything. We had desperately pulled out Violet’s old Golden Books, and tried to read to her, but Jennifer tore the pages. Then she pushed the books aside, ran to the front door, and beat on the screen. “Papa,” she wailed, her eyes on the empty street.
I raced into the kitchen, poured apple juice into a plastic sippy cup, then hurried back to the living room and offered the cup to my daughter.
“No!” Jennifer screwed up her face and slapped the cup from my hand, sending a comma of juice into the air.
“Ka-ka,” screamed Jennifer. Then she grabbed her own hair and began tearing it from the roots just the way my mother used to do.
“Next it’ll be her eyebrows,” said Clancy Jane.
FROM THE DESK OF CLANCY JANE FALK
August 21, 1973
Dear Violet,
I have tried to phone your dorm, but your roommate always says you’re at the library. I know you’ve only been gone a week, but I miss you like crazy. Plus, the visits with Jennifer aren’t going well. The moment Chick drops her off, she scoots under the sofa and hides until she hears his car pull into the driveway; then her round head pops out from the ruffled sofa skirt, the ever-present pacifier stuck in her mouth, and she crawls out and runs to the door to fling herself at her grandfather.
Bitsy went to Albert’s dime store, hoping to put some toys on layaway, but was told that Miss Betty had bought nearly every doll and Fisher-Price toy on the market. Since Jennifer will turn two on December 31, Byron thinks she’s old enough to learn about nature. I do not mean the birds and the bees, but a gift that money can’t buy, like the names of trees and birds and flowers. He said to think of it as intellectual training to combat the upbringing she’s getting over at Miss Betty’s. This is sad but true. That woman will try her best to turn Jennifer into a spoiled little WASP. Today, for instance, the baby showed up wearing an 18-karat gold bracelet, tiny diamond studs in her ears, and a child-size colorful Pucci outfit. I’m not kidding. Bitsy said that Mrs. Wentworth had probably paid her seamstress to turn all of her old dresses into jumpers and blouses for the baby.
Bitsy gets so angry about stuff like that. But she’s lucky that the Wentworths are allowing these visits. Of course, they are just using her/us as babysitters, but it’s a start. I am keeping a record of these visits to show the court how reliable we are when and if we take Claude to court. But I have to watch Bitsy. The other day she tried to accidentally-on-purpose spill grape juice on that Pucci. Bitsy is too impulsive, her own worst enemy. Byron says she’s just immature for her age. And youth must be forgiven. Who knows? She might overcome her genetics—even though her parents are the King and Queen of Bad Judgment. But Bitsy has a smidgen of Miss Gussie in her. There’s a chance that she will grow into a strong, interesting woman. Every now and then I see a glimmer of intelligence in her eyes. Of course, it could just be a reflection. She could very well end up selling Avon door-to-door. Although Mary Kay is more her style. Can’t you just see her stepping out of a pink car, carrying a pink case, knocking on doors and doing makeovers, spreading skin creams and silliness wherever she goes? Well, somebody has to do it. Maybe she’ll give us a discount.
Love,
Mama
Clancy Jane
Jennifer’s visits were sporadic and revolved around the Wentworths’ social calendar. One weekend, Chick brought the baby to Clancy Jane’s house and mentioned that he had a golf game, and that Betty was playing bridge. “Take your time,” said Clancy Jane, leading him to the front door. She and Bitsy had read up about nature at the library, and they couldn’t wait to start showing things to the baby. They coaxed Jennifer into the yard, but when they started to put her into the stroller, she balled up her fists and began pummeling them. When they finally got her inserted, they walked at a brisk pace, which forced the baby to cling to the stroller’s plastic tray, her blond hair floating in the breeze. After a while, Clancy Jane began to point out cloud formations, but Jennifer just pulled out a hunk of her own hair. They fast-walked around the block, then Clancy Jane started identifying birds, but when she looked down, Jennifer had fallen asleep. Bitsy suggested they give up on nature and just teach her the names of fingernail polish. They could use the colorful bottles lined up on Bitsy’s dresser: “Cotton Candy,” “Pomegranate,” “Grape Kiss.”
Bitsy couldn’t name the presidents in order, but she knew the name and manufacturer of every lipstick and eyeshadow at Rexall Drugs as well as every shampoo and conditioner on the market. Not only that, she held definite prejudices. Prell was for boys, Suave was for penny-pinchers, and Breck was for babies. So it was no surprise that some people found her to be shallow and superficial. But she was also smart. She couldn’t help being what she was—a mixture of Albert and Dorothy. Those bad genes were powerful and lasting—Byron compared it to skunk spray. When he said that, Clancy Jane just laughed, but it wasn’t until later when she realized that he’d been referring to own her genes, too.
A LETTER FROM CENTRAL STATE
August 31, 1973
Dear Witch Betty,
Bitsy drove up to visit me today, and she’s doing just fine and dandy, thank you very much. She happened to mention that her and Claude’s divorce is final today. Guess wh
ose else is, too? No, not mine and Albert’s but Elvis and Priscilla’s. I know this because I read it in the newspaper. It sure is funny that a famous man like him didn’t try and keep Lisa Marie. He let Priscilla have her because children need their mothers. It’s been a whole year since you stole my grandbaby. I’m keeping track. Don’t be surprised if you get a letter of complaint from the White House.
Dorothy
Bitsy
Monday morning, on my way to work, I stopped in front of Marshall’s Department Store and gazed into the display window. Miss Betty thought the store was tacky, but it was the only place in town that sold sandalfoot pantyhose. Also the Marshalls banked with the Wentworths, so Miss Betty was forced to buy coats, sweaters, and dresses there, which she promptly gave to her maids. She wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything but cashmere. But I thought Marshall’s had gorgeous clothes and accessories, even though I could only afford to window-shop. To tell the truth, I was much more interested in pocketbooks than men. My heart was still frozen solid. I was pretty sure that I’d never find someone who’d love me, after all I’d done. But a pocketbook didn’t care about my past. Especially if I bought it for someone else.
In the right side of the display, I saw a cute decoupaged purse with a wooden lid and a tiny gold clasp. The base, woven like a picnic basket, was painted to resemble a town. In black paint, the artist had printed Strawberry Fields on a street sign, Norwegian Wood on another. A church was called St. Paul’s. Except for the Beatles references, I didn’t know where this place was, or if it even existed. A discreet card showed the price: $59.99—a small fortune. The layaway policy at Marshall’s was tougher than at any other store in town—they made you put down at least ten dollars, and I had only enough money for lunch. I could of course get free meals at the café, but I couldn’t stomach the food. I knew that my aunt would adore this purse—the Beatles had disbanded three years ago, but she regularly played their old albums. Her favorite song in the world was “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Her birthday had just passed, but this purse would make a great Christmas present.
So I decided I’d skip lunch. I marched inside and asked Mrs. Marshall if a five-dollar deposit would hold that purse. She shook her head and said, “Sorry, it’s against store policy.” Then she narrowed her eyes at me. “Besides, what do you need with a fine purse like that?”
“It’s not for me,” I explained, feeling my cheeks hotten up. I wondered if she was being hateful because of Miss Betty, or because she was just having a bad day. I went back to the café and drank a cup of coffee, stashing my lunch money in my pocket. I figured I’d have enough money for a down payment in two weeks.
Every day when I finished my shift, I paused by Marshall’s window just to look at that purse. Sometimes I looked at it twice a day. I skipped lunch for two weeks, and when I’d saved twenty dollars—more than enough for a down payment—I hurried over to Marshall’s. But the purse was gone. In its place was a half-dressed mannequin, wearing an Ali McGraw crocheted hat. Mrs. Marshall appeared in the window holding a fringed shawl and began draping it over the mannequin’s torso. She glanced up at me and frowned. Hoping that it hadn’t sold. I went inside and asked about the purse, explaining that I was prepared to put down a substantial cash deposit. “Sorry, but that purse was bought this morning. It was a one-of-a-kind,” she said. “I’ve got one on order showing the streets and landmarks of Crystal Falls. How much can you put down?”
“I’ll pass.” I shook my head and thanked her, trying to hide my disappointment. A week later, I was sitting in Aunt Clancy’s kitchen reading the Democrat. And I saw the Beatles purse on page six, dangling from the arm of Mrs. Cora Smith, a home economics teacher who was retiring that year due to Parkinson’s disease. The home-ec students at Crystal Falls High had pooled their money and bought their teacher that pocketbook. Mrs. Smith was holding up the bag, a proud smile on her face. I smiled back at her.
The next time Chick dropped Jennifer off—I believe he was playing in a golf tournament and Miss Betty was having a bridge party at her house—I took her into Aunt Clancy’s garden. It was a lush, magical place, a hodgepodge of vegetables, herbs, and flowers. My aunt was off to the side, blending a mixture of smashed eggshells and dried blood, which she worked into the soil. She always said that her zucchini and tomatoes were so huge because they dined on animal matter. For blue hydrangeas, she hammered rusty nails under each plant. She left the pink ones alone. “My girls and boys,” she called them. The garden was a good place for a child. While Jennifer picked an okra pod, I wove a story about Mother Nature, how she sent the sun and rain, helping the little vegetables grow. Jennifer didn’t seem to understand. “Mama Wen’wurf,” she said, holding out the okra.
“No, I’m your mama,” I said. “Can you say mama?”
Jennifer violently shook her head. I leaned down to kiss the child—her hair smelled of sunlight and shampoo—the Wentworths weren’t using Breck. Jennifer wiggled away and reached for an ear of corn. Her small hands closed on the shuck and she pulled it down, exposing rough, curly silk, and the delicate kernels, each one aligned tightly but imperfectly.
“Ewww,” she said, pointing. I hunkered down and hugged her, but she shoved me away. Aunt Clancy’s orange Persian darted out of a forsythia bush and scampered into the garden. When Pitty Pat saw me, he loped through the tomatoes, past the corn, over to me and rubbed against my legs. I scooped up the cat and cradled him.
“At least you love me,” I told Pitty, then I felt foolish for talking to a cat and put him down. Across the garden, Aunt Clancy’s head popped up.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” she called. “I talk to Pitty all the time. I call it chatting up the cat. He’s a very good listener, you know. Better than husbands and daughters. Better than God. So keep on talking.”
You are Cordially Invited
to Share in the Christ Sanctioned Nuptial Bliss of
Miss June Mae Rinehart
and
Mr. Albert Franklin McDougal
September 22, 1973, at two o’clock in the afternoon
Garden of Prayer First Born Church of the Living God
Old Nashville Highway
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
Reception Immediately Following,
Jesus Is Lord Reception Hall
“What is ‘Christ sanctioned nuptial bliss’?” I asked Aunt Clancy, holding out the invitation.
“I don’t know, and I hope I never find out,” she said. She walked out into the backyard and began picking up green walnuts that had fallen around the gazebo. It was early September, and the days were getting shorter. But they still felt summery, all hot and hazy at the edges, without a hint that cooler weather lay ahead. The combination of the heat with Mother and Daddy’s Mexican divorce had put me on edge.
I walked next door and found my brother in his kitchen, surrounded by pieces of paper—when he’d opened the invitation, he’d ripped it in half, then tore each half into teeny pieces. When he saw me, he ran one hand through his wavy blond hair. It was shoulder-length and he wore it loose. If you didn’t know he was an ex-Marine, you’d never guess.
“Our daddy is a bastard,” he said. His wife, Earlene, appeared in the doorway, wearing tight jeans and a halter top. She held a tube of lipstick and applied it without even glancing into a mirror. She’d stolen my brother from his Vietnamese wife, Sloopy, and his son, Christopher. They were living in California near her relatives. Earlene patted her cottony hair and struck a pose, holding the lipstick like a weapon. I knew for a fact that she flirted with Mack’s crew when she thought he wasn’t looking.
“What’s that’s mess?” She frowned at the shredded paper.
“My daddy’s getting married,” said Mack.
“Boy, he don’t waste no time.” Earlene rolled her eyes, then she sidled up to Mack and slid her fingers under his T-shirt. “I’d hate to be the one to tell your mama.”
When Violet came home from Knoxville that evening, Aunt Clancy and I were in th
e kitchen, canning tomato-and-walnut chutney. Ball jars and lids were scattered along the counter. Steam floated over the black-speckled kettles. On top of the refrigerator, the little radio was tuned to NPR, and the announcer was giving a preview of upcoming selections. A minute later, the comforting sound of Debussy filled the room. Violet set down her suitcase and looked at the cork bulletin board. She squinted at the invitation. It was little more than a mimeographed sheet, blotched with purple ink.
Violet pursed her lips. “That’s a hell of a name for a church. Obviously Miss June belongs to a cult.”
“No, it’s just one of those off-brand religions,” I said, lifting the pot lid. Steam drifted up, clouding my vision for a moment.
“Are you going to boycott the grand event?” Violet asked me.
“I’d like to, but it wouldn’t be right.” I replaced the lid and walked over to the cork board. I reached for the mimeographed paper, then I smoothed my hands over it.
“Right?” Violet’s mouth opened wide, revealing silver fillings in her jaw teeth. “Who cares about right?”
Aunt Clancy reached for her tongs, then held them aloft, as if she was getting ready to pinch somebody.
“I could never figure out your father.” She waved the tongs. “He always seemed so…”
Mad Girls In Love Page 13