“Violet, you just got here,” Clancy Jane cried. “And later Sonny and Cher will be on.”
“But I have to try and help Bitsy,” said Violet. “It’ll do her good.”
I violently shook my head. I didn’t want to leave this house, not with my leaky bladder.
“But maybe you’ll meet a cute guy,” said Violet.
“Ha, I’m twenty years old going on eighty,” I said, then hiccupped. I couldn’t get a man in my condition. Even if I could, Miss Betty and her lawyers would find out and use it against me.
“Don’t be silly,” Violet scoffed. “It wouldn’t hurt you to have some fun, date a few guys.”
“I’m trying to rehabilitate my reputation, not drive it farther into the ground.”
“Wow, you used a five-syllable word. You must have been studying R words.”
“I resent that.” I lifted my chin and hiccupped.
“Don’t. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to shock you out of the hiccups.” Violet winked.
“Didn’t work,” I said.
“All the more reason to go barhopping.” She turned to her mother. “Hey, why don’t you come with us, Mama?”
“I don’t have hiccups.” Clancy Jane walked over to the sink and began chopping green onions. She was making a vegetarian potato salad, which was a challenge, because she’d decided to go vegan. She’d blackballed everything from milk to mayonnaise. I was glad I had hiccups, because I wouldn’t eat that salad if you paid me.
Violet pulled me toward the door, and we stepped out into the muggy afternoon. The air felt too hot and heavy to breathe. Other than the Vietnam War, all everybody talked about these days was the weather. A drought had struck the orange groves in Florida. Clancy Jane had pointed to the little television in the kitchen and said, “If you think you’ve got troubles, think of those poor citrus growers.”
She’d threatened to do a rain dance if it didn’t rain soon. I wondered if the heat could shock the hiccups out of my system. I lifted my hair from the back of my neck and wished I’d thought to brush it up like Violet’s. Well, maybe not. No matter what I did, I looked more like Barbie than Audrey. I wanted to change, I just didn’t know how. It was more complicated than pulling my hair into a sleek bun.
Violet strode ahead, her cork platform shoes scraping along the pavement. “You drive,” she called, skipping past her Volkswagen, veering toward my old blue Mustang.
“Me?” I cried. “But I’m afflicted.”
“Hiccups won’t interfere with your driving.”
“Well, they most certainly could,” I said a little louder than necessary. “I might accidentally step on the gas.”
“Please drive,” Violet said. Then she whimpered like a puppy. “Please, please, please? I just drove all the way from Knoxville.”
“Oh, all right. But you better wear your seat belt.” I opened my door and slid into the baby-blue leather seat. It felt painfully hot, stinging the backs of my legs and my shoulders. I backed out of the driveway, then charged down Dixie Avenue, turning right onto Main Street. From the radio, Carly Simon was singing “You’re So Vain.” At the Square, I glanced at Citizen’s Bank where Claude and Chick worked—well, if you called what they did “work.” But the bank had a great sign. It flashed 98 degrees—4:57 P.M.
“Crystal Falls is way up in the mountains. It shouldn’t be this hot,” Violet complained. “But that goes to show how screwy this place is. I hate it here. I don’t see why Mama moved back.”
I pursed my lips and didn’t answer. If it hadn’t been for our grand-mother’s leukemia, Aunt Clancy might still be living out west, and Violet might have chosen a different college, maybe one in the east. I knew my own life wouldn’t have changed one iota. I would still have broken Claude’s nose and then run away. I would have lost my baby girl. And Daddy’s marriage would probably still have given me hiccups.
The Hut was a popular drinking spot near the Cumberland River, offering backgammon, mixed drinks, and live bands. To reach it, I had to drive across the river, navigating over a high bridge. I hated that bridge and held my breath until I reached the other side. Once I was safely past that obstacle, I turned off the highway, down a rough-paved road. I cruised past the Rocky Top Concrete Plant, where statues of elves and flamingoes peeked out of a fenced-in lot. The road forked several times, but I knew the way. I drove beside a raspberry field, then turned down a gravel lane. Through the dust and haze, the Hut loomed up, a cinder-block building outlined in yellow Christmas lights. Every third one was burned out. The owner, Fred Harding, the ne’er-do-well son of a local optometrist, had hung a sign over the door, WELCOME TO VALHALLA.
“I’m surprised at Fred.” Violet blinked at the sign. “I didn’t think he was that smart.”
“Just what is Valhalla?” I said, steering the Mustang into the gravel lot.
“You really don’t know?”
“It sounds like a California wine.” I hiccupped into my cupped palm.
“It was a beautiful hall where dead warriors drank wine from goat tits.”
“I don’t get the connection.”
“After a few drinks you will,” Violet said. “Come on. Let’s get inside where it’s cool.”
“Just a sec,” I called, digging into my purse. I pulled out a tube of lipstick—“Baby Lips”—and flipped down the visor. You just never knew who you’d meet in a place like the Hut. Maybe the man of my dreams, or maybe the devil himself. Surely to God they weren’t one and the same.
I scrambled out of the Mustang and tottered across the gravel lot. I was wearing the same thing I’d worn all day—a blue-jean wrap skirt, sapphire blouse, and blue sandals. They were Candies with extra high heels, and my ankles seemed to bow. I stepped into the lounge, blinking in the smoky haze. Well, at least it was cool. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. More Christmas lights were strung up over the bar. Over to the right, the empty dance floor was illuminated by a revolving color wheel, the kind Mummy had once used on her aluminum Christmas tree. Now the colors flickered across the scuffed dance floor—red, green, blue, gold, then back to red. It was too early for the band, but a poster promised that Jerry and the Bottle Rockets would be appearing nightly through September.
I walked straight over to the bar and shoved in next to Violet, who’d struck up a conversation with Jeb, the bartender. He was a nice older guy with thick biceps who never called the police, even during knife fights. You could count on Jeb to keep your secrets.
“What you want, kid?” Jeb spread his hands on the counter.
From the other end of the bar, a man grinned at me. “Hey, cutie,” he called, pursing his lips. “How do I say French kiss in French?”
Violet gave the man a dark look and said, “How about if I teach you to say ‘kiss off’?”
The man cackled, then reached up and pushed back his hat. “Come over here and I’ll teach you five ways to say peckerwood.”
I leaned over the counter. “Jeb, I need a mai tai,” I said, then hiccupped.
“Sounds like you’ve had one too many already,” he said.
“Make that two,” Violet said. She glanced over her shoulder and waved to a man in a red alligator shirt. I squinted, trying to place him. He wore tortoiseshell glasses, and his hair was dark blond and shaggy. As he hurried over to us, his cowlick bobbed up and down. His jeans were freshly ironed, and he had long, skinny legs. Violet’s taste in men didn’t run to hunks. Her old boyfriend, Laurence Prescott III, had been afflicted with a pinhead, and she had once spoken fondly of a cross-eyed boy. Violet had a theory that homely men were less likely to break your heart. I wasn’t ready to test that theory just yet.
The guy wove through the crowd, heading toward the bar. As he got closer, I noticed that a slide-ruler was protruding from his hip pocket, as if he’d be called upon to solve an intricate math problem at any moment. He stepped up to Violet, and she playfully punched his shoulder. “Hey, Danny,” she said.
“Want to play backgammon?�
�� Danny asked Violet, straightening his glasses.
“Sure,” Violet said. “Just let me get my drink.”
I waited to be introduced, but Violet leaned against the bar and eyed a man in a cowboy hat. I wasn’t used to Violet acting foolish around men, because it was usually just the two of us. Now Jeb walked up to the counter, holding two glasses. They were filled with luscious-looking red liquid. My cure, I thought, reaching for the glass. Violet grabbed hers and said, “I’ll just be in the back with Danny, okay?”
I hiccupped into my glass. On the other side of the room, the jukebox began playing Three Dog Night. I gulped down the mai tai, then hastily ordered another. The bartender brought a drink and I tossed it down between hiccups. Jeb watched, shaking his head. When I held up my glass and ordered a third, he said, “Okay. One more. And while I’m fixing it, eat you some peanuts.”
He parked a basket of nuts in front of me. I frowned at them. What if I hiccuped at the wrong moment and aspirated? I doubted that anyone here knew how to do CPR. I broke open a few peanuts and scattered the shells to fool the bartender. Aunt Clancy just loved nuts. “They’re packed with protein,” she’d say, sprinkling them on salads, tossing them casually over buttered asparagus, stuffing them into mushrooms. All the while preaching spiritual health, ecological awareness, the mysticism of legumes.
Jeb passed by and gave me a look that said You ain’t fooling me. I just sighed. In the week that I’d suffered with hiccups, I hadn’t been able to eat a bite, and my jean skirt was starting to feel loose. It was a damn pitiful way to lose weight. As soon as the hiccups went away, I was going to order a pepperoni pizza and eat the whole damn thing.
I heard giggles and glanced over my shoulder. From a booth, three girls were staring at me and whispering. With a jolt, I recognized them. They were known as the Three Sarahs—best friends, all with the same first name, set apart only by their looks—two blondes and a redhead—and their middle names: Beth, Lou, and Jill. After high school, they began working for the telephone company. It was amazing that they’d kept their jobs, because they had the kind of voices that escalated into hoots and shrieks, as if they were being tortured.
I could hear their whispering. A few phrases drifted over, kidnapping, attempted manslaughter, lost custody. I slid off the barstool and worked my way through the gloom, sipping my drink. I sidestepped the waitress, who looked old and tired, and I wondered if I myself would still be working at the Green Parrot when I was that age. Maybe it was time to move on, apply to a community college, learn a skill. But I’d been trapped by my own stupid choices, all of them made at age nineteen. I walked up to Violet’s table. The funny-looking guy grinned. “She’s beating me,” he explained.
“That’s why I don’t play with her,” I said in a cheery voice. Finally I was starting to feel the effects of the rum.
“That’s not why.” Violet turned her face up and smiled at her friend. “You know what, Danny? The real reason Bitsy won’t play backgammon is she can’t multiply. She adds everything on a cocktail napkin.”
I wanted to hit her, but I was afraid I’d spill my drink, and I knew Jeb wouldn’t give me another. “Stop picking on me.”
“Relax, Ditsy. Have a seat,” said the weird guy, and Violet emitted a shrill giggle, causing the Three Sarahs to lean out of their booth and stare.
“Ditsy?” I said. It was amazing how a consonant changed everything. The same for vowels. A while back, when I was studying the Ls in Violet’s big Merriam-Webster, I’d come across labial and labile. I would hate to mix up those two words. Violet just loved to twist a person’s name. She called me things like Itsy and Bitchy, resorting to Bessie when she was peeved. I fought back. “Calm down, Violent,” I would say. “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Violin.”
A half hour later, we lurched out of the bar into warm air that smelled faintly of cedar. The sky was dusky blue, except for a swirl of burning pink clouds in the west. In minutes it would be dark. Danny stood in the doorway, backlit by smoky yellow light. “Y’all shouldn’t drive,” he called, sticking his hands under his armpits. He glanced up at the sky. “It’s dangerous.”
“We’ve done it a million times,” Violet said, walking backward, grinning at him. Her jeans were tight, outlining her narrow hips. Her belt was studded with turquoise and silver, a souvenir from a trip to New Mexico back when Aunt Clancy had lived there. Several strands of dark hair had fallen from her upsweep, and she pushed them away. She had no idea that she was beautiful.
Danny frowned and rubbed his chin, brushing one hand over his hair, smoothing the cowlick for an instant before it popped back up. “It’s still not safe. You just never know what’s out there.”
“Like what?” Violet lifted one eyebrow at Danny in a meaningful way.
“The cops,” I said, eyeing my Mustang. “You know, he’s right. Maybe we should call your mother.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Violet shoved me toward the car. “We don’t have far to go. We’ll be fine.”
“You drive,” I called to Violet, holding up the keys. On the ring was a miniature rubber ducky, and it actually floated.
“No, you.” Violet leaned against the Mustang and tilted back her head, looking up at the sky. It was getting darker by the second, and stars began to appear over the mountains.
“Hey!” somebody called from inside the bar. “Close the fucking door, man. All the air’s blowing out!”
“Just be careful,” Danny called. In slow-motion, he stepped back into the building and closed the door behind him, but I could see him looking out through its square window, his fingers spread on the glass.
“He seems fond of you,” I said.
“No, he’s just weird,” Violet said. “He believes in little green men.”
“Leprechauns?”
“Hell no, space men. Aliens.”
“Seriously?” I glanced back at the bar. I could see Danny peering through the little window.
“Someday I’m going to live in a place where the temperature never goes above seventy degrees.” Violet fanned herself.
I started to say me, too, then I held my breath, one hand rising to my throat.
“What’s wrong?” Violet asked.
“I stopped hiccupping.”
“See? I told you it worked.” Violet flashed a triumphant smile. She ran one slender hand along her slicked-back hair, looking more and more Audrey-ish. “Where to next? The Tap Room? Or what about the Sheraton?”
“Let’s go home and order a pizza, extra sausage and pepperoni. I’m starved.”
As soon as I started the engine, I felt the full force of those mai tais. I peered through the windshield, and the road swayed. Gripping the wheel, I steered cautiously out of the lot, but I still managed to roll over a concrete curb. The car rocked violently, tossing Violet in the bucket seat.
“Hey watch out!” She reached for the dash.
“I asked you to drive.” I tapped the brake and the car lurched to a stop. “You want to take over?”
“I’m more pie-eyed than you. Just get us home, Bessie.”
“Then don’t backseat drive, Violence,” I shot back. Whenever I got scared, my voice climbed higher and higher; I was already petrified at the prospect of navigating over the bridge that spanned the Cumberland River. I had visions of plunging through the spindly green railing. Violet and I would break every bone in our bodies—if the crash didn’t kill us outright, like it had done to Alice Ann’s mother. I squinched up my forehead, wondering how that child was tormenting Eunice and Odell, or if they’d sent her to that school in Arkansas.
“Maybe if I shut my eyes,” Violet was saying.
I hit the gas, and the tires spit gravel.
“Holy mother of God.” Violet crossed herself; she wasn’t even Catholic, she was nothing.
“I really think we should go back inside and call Aunt Clancy,” I said.
“We’re not calling anybody.” Violet flipped one hand at the road. “Now drive the goddamn car or I
’m going to pull out every bleached hair on your head.”
“It is not bleached.”
“Liar. I saw a Summer Blonde box in the trash.”
“I’m not the only blonde in the house.” I eased my foot onto the gas pedal and wondered if Danny was still watching. My Mustang had kicked up so much dust that the Hut’s crazy Christmas lights were barely visible. I made a wide turn onto the gravel road, riding the brake. The car inched forward. There were no other cars, thank God, because I couldn’t have handled the distraction. When I was drunk, I needed the road to myself. By the time I’d passed by the raspberry field, it was twilight, and the moon was hovering over the trees. The road forked, and I hit the brake. While the engine idled, I considered the options. I could turn left and be home in ten minutes, but I’d have to cross that damn bridge. Also, police cars liked to wait on the other side of the river. If they pulled me over, I would get a ticket or even thrown in jail—and the Wentworths would cut off my visitations with Jennifer, just as swiftly as they’d started them. If I turned right, I could avoid the police, but it was a dangerous route that hugged the river and crossed over not one but three dilapidated bridges. But that road was desolate and I could drive as slow as I pleased.
“What’s the holdup?” Violet asked irritably.
“I’m trying to decide which way to turn.”
“Jesus Christ, it’s a road, not an entree at Howard Johnson’s. Just pick one.”
I hesitated a second more, then turned right. The road was so narrow that Queen Anne’s lace brushed against the sides of the car, making a whuffling noise. Bugs hit the windshield.
“Dammit, I should’ve gone to the restroom before we left.” Violet groaned. “I’ve got to pee something awful.”
“Let me find a place to pull over.” I pushed my face toward the wind-shield, but all I saw were weeds and potholes.
“I’m not going in the damn bushes. I might get chigger bites. So I’m just going to stick my little butt out the window and piss.”
“Violet!” I drew back, horrified. “Men p-i-s-s. Girls tee-tee.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid. I’ve peed out of moving cars before.”
Mad Girls In Love Page 15