Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

I held out my hands to greet them, but Mrs. Saylor ignored me and silently eyed her son. She rummaged in her bag and lit a cigarette. “Something sure does smell good,” she said.

  “A glass of wine, anyone?” Walter asked. I had selected a nice pinot noir, a label that I’d once seen Mrs. Wentworth serve at dinner parties. So I figured it had to be the best.

  “I knew you was gonna ask that,” said Jobeth. “Dr. Hoity-Toity,” she added.

  “I’ll take me a beer if you got one,” said Lacy, stifling a burp.

  “I don’t think we do.” Walter gave me a questioning glance, and I shook my head.

  “I thought as much.” Lacy sighed. “That’s why we brought our own. We don’t want nobody accusing us of freeloading.”

  “Rooster, baby,” said Mrs. Saylor. “Run on back to the car and fetch the cooler.”

  “What kind of old-fogy music are you playing, brother? Damn, put on some Christmas carols!” Lacy punched Walter’s shoulder, then she leaned over, plucked the cigarette from Mrs. Saylor’s fingers, and blew a smoke ring. It floated over her head, toward the twinkling Christmas tree, circling the crêpe-paper angel, wrapping around her neck like a noose.

  While the guests drank Pabst Blue Ribbon, I hid in the kitchen, waiting for the bread to heat. I kept sipping wine and swallowing pills and listening to Billie. From the living room, the conversation flowed past me in icy waves. Most of it centered around Fiona, her pitiful death, and Lacy’s former boyfriends—one was apparently a wrestler from Oklahoma, and another was serving time in an Arkansas jail for armed robbery.

  “Waltie, you have bad taste in women, too,” Mrs. Saylor said. “Speaking of which, have you seen Patricia lately?”

  “Patricia?” Walter asked. “I don’t know any Patricias.”

  “That woman who works for you,” said Mrs. Saylor. “Patricia Eller.”

  “Oh. Her,” Walter said. “Why do you ask? I see her most every day.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” said Lacy. She and Jobeth giggled.

  I peered out the kitchen door and saw Walter sitting in a brocade chair. He looked crisp and clean in a plaid shirt and festive green corduroy trousers.

  “Bitsy ought to drop by your office sometime,” said Jobeth.

  Actually, I’d stopped by the dental office yesterday. I’d found Walter sitting at his desk, making notations on a chart. Patricia was standing behind him, gripping an armful of folders. He closed the chart, then held it up. Patricia immediately added it to her pile, then she hurried out of the room, giving me a polite nod. Walter laid down the pen, and opened his arms. “There’s my girl,” he said. “Come here and give me a kiss.”

  “Last time we dropped into his office,” Lacy was saying, “Patricia was rinsing out her mouth. If you get my drift.” She looked at her sister and both collapsed into giggles, pausing to make gestures with their mouths and hands.

  “Girls, y’all are awful,” scolded Mrs. Saylor. “Maybe she just had bad breath.”

  “I’m not awful, I’m hungry,” said Jobeth, cutting her eyes at Walter. “When we gone eat, babycakes?”

  While Billie sang “Good Morning, Heartache,” I pulled the homemade French bread, a gift from Zach, out of the oven. Dammit, I’d over-cooked it. I set the pan on the counter, then dropped another pill onto my tongue and washed it down with wine. Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the dining room and beckoned my guests to the buffet table. “The plates are at one end, the silverware at the other,” I directed, waving one hand. The gesture seemed exaggerated, and my tongue felt thick.

  “Come on, children,” said Mrs. Saylor, clapping her hands. “Kindergarten is starting.”

  The Saylors lined up, guffawing and rolling their eyes. Behind them, through the pocket doors, the Christmas tree glittered. Walter came up behind me, kissing the back of my neck. “Don’t let them get you riled,” he whispered. “It’ll be over soon.”

  I nodded, wondering what his family was suggesting about Patricia Eller. I didn’t like what I was thinking—not that I was a prude or a wimp—but the idea of Walter and Patricia…why, it was revolting. The woman was old enough to be his mother. Or maybe that was the attraction. I tipped back my glass and drank the last of my wine. I could feel the Valium working. Or maybe it was the wine. I didn’t know and didn’t care. Lurching into the kitchen, I picked up the bread and began to swing it like a club. Bits of crust flaked onto the floor.

  Walter stepped into the kitchen. When he saw me swinging the bread, he blanched. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you if you explain about you and Patricia. Quid pro quo, Waltie.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. My sisters are trying to make you mad. Just don’t listen to them.” Walter looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. I wasn’t sure what to believe, and the Valium wasn’t making me one bit calmer. Giving him a long, contemptuous glance, I dropped the bread into a wicker basket. It made a decisive clunk. I picked it up and stepped around him into the dining room. Billie was singing “That Ole Devil Called Love.” I watched as the Saylors descended on the table.

  “Hey, what’s this stuff?” Lacy pointed to a Pyrex pie plate. “It looks like a pie, but it sure don’t smell like one.”

  The others leaned over to stare at the food—some in CorningWare, other on china platters—I had arranged on the blue-checkered cloth.

  “A leek tart,” I said, walking up to the table. Bottled tranquility did not leave you tranquil, I thought. It only made me slow and stupid and suspicious.

  “Did you take a leak in it?” Lacy laughed.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’m considering it.”

  The Saylors gaped at me, trying to decide if my remark was meant humorously. I felt a rush of pity for them. When it came to culinary matters, the poor things had led chaste lives—vinegar douches notwithstanding.

  “A leek is a kind of onion,” Walter said, stepping into the dining room.

  “Well, pardon my French.” Lacy slapped her thigh, then nudged Jobeth. “And pardon yours, too.”

  “Tell them what everything is,” said Walter.

  “She may not know what’s what,” said Lacy. “If you get my drift.”

  “Walter’s right,” said Mrs. Saylor. “She better tell us what we’re eating.”

  “I agree,” said Jobeth. “A person has a right to know what’s going into her mouth.”

  “How true,” I said, feeling absurdly calm. I reached into my pocket, touching the medicine bottle, thinking of that song by the Rolling Stones, “Mother’s Little Helper.” Forget the music, I’d rather have Mick Jagger. I stared down at the table. Instead of the food I had painstakingly prepared, I saw Patricia Eller balancing on her knees, mouth agape. If this was an accurate vision, and I suspected it was, I owed the Saylors a debt of gratitude. I blinked and prepared to identify the dishes. Touching a Pyrex bowl, I said, “Trou de cul.” Which, of course, meant asshole.

  I pointed to another dish and said, “Pourriture.” Rotting trash.

  “Merde à mouche.” Shit-fly.

  “Chagatte.” Pussy.

  “Well, thanks a bunch,” said Jobeth, rolling her eyes. “That really helped.”

  I moved along the table, pointed to another dish, and said, “Don’t forget to try this—it’s fils de pute.”

  “You’re serving us a poot?” Rooster looked horrified.

  “It must go with the pee-pee tart,” Lacy said. “Excuse me—I mean fart.”

  “No, it goes with the music,” said Jobeth.

  “We just want to know what the hell we’re eating,” said Lacy. “You know?”

  Jobeth grimly nodded.

  “Otherwise we could have stayed home and ate hot dogs.”

  “Wilma never served me a poot in her life,” said Rooster.

  “Oh, I bet she has,” I said. Suddenly I felt gay and buoyant.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Mrs. Saylor lifted her arm and briskly waved it over the table, as if she were an evil fairy cas
ting a spell.

  “I told Bitsy to fix y’all a feast,” Walter explained. “I made up this menu. I specifically requested French food. So if you’re upset, then blame me.”

  “Honey, we’d forgive you if you killed somebody,” said Mrs. Saylor, her eyes filling. “Blood is thicker than piss.”

  “Oh, Mama.” Walter put his long arms around her, his freckled fingers smoothing her wiry hair. “Please don’t cry. It’s just food.”

  “I can’t h-h-help it.”

  Over by the table, Rooster lifted a Pyrex dish. It was filled with small green balls. “What the hell did you say this was?” he asked.

  “Actually, I lied. That casserole is not fils de pute,” I said. “In fact, it’s not a casserole. It’s brussels sprouts.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so from the start?” Lacy giggled and wiped her eyes.

  “I was wondering what stunk so bad.” Jobeth wrinkled her nose.

  I stepped over to the sideboard and poured another glass of wine. I drank it in three swallows. As the Valium collided with the alcohol, I felt both cheerful and careless. “My darling rednecks,” I said in a grand voice, exactly like Mrs. Wentworth’s. “Fils de pute means son of a whore, but I promise it doesn’t taste like one. And I should know.”

  Lacy and Jobeth looked at each other and snorted. Walter came up next to me, his red hair bobbing, cheeks flaming, and he put his hand on my shoulder. “Honey,” he said in a patient voice. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “No, I’ve just had a minuscule amount.” I squirmed away from his grasp.

  “What’s minuscule mean?” asked Rooster.

  “Look between your legs,” Mrs. Saylor said, and her daughters dissolved into giggles.

  “Laisse-moi tranquille,” I said, waving my free arm.

  “Stop,” Walter cried, spinning me around.

  But I couldn’t stop, I was on a roll. I pulled away from him, then stared into the blank faces of my guests. “I’m sorry,” I told them. “Let me translate. I just said: ‘You’re annoying as shit! Leave me alone.’”

  “Cut it out, Bitsy!” cried Walter.

  “Did you tell Patricia to spit it out?” I asked.

  “Uh-oh,” Jobeth said. “I think a family tift is brewing.”

  “I believe the word is tiff,” I said.

  Jobeth slammed down her plate and turned to the others. “I ain’t putting up with this parley voo shit. Let’s haul ass and go to Lucky Lee’s Smorgasbord on Highway 231. They’ll be sure to have ribs.”

  “Barbecued ones,” said Lacy.

  “But not the kind that kill,” said Mrs. Saylor, picking up her red pocketbook. Then she turned to her son. “By the way, ask Bitsy how she cooks baby back ribs. Ask about her first husband and what she did to him.”

  Walter opened the front door and said, “She didn’t do anything to anybody. So just leave.”

  “She bashed her ex in the face.” Mrs. Saylor patted her nose. “And that’s the real reason she don’t have custody of her child. Me and the girls have been asking around about her.”

  Lacy turned to me. “I guess you thought you’d pulled a fast one, didn’t you? You never dreamed the gossip could reach Hanging Limb, Tennessee.”

  “Actually, it didn’t,” said Mrs. Saylor. “We had to ask around the beauty shops in Crystal Falls to hear the juicy stuff. Her ex had plastic surgery after Bitsy got through with him. A nose job. Be sure and ask her all about it, Waltie. Have a safe Christmas.”

  The Saylors hurried out of the house. Jobeth lagged behind. “We’re real simple people,” she told me. “If you’d served us barbecue and banana splits, we’d a kissed your feet.”

  “Maybe I don’t want my feet kissed,” I said, wishing I could shut up, wishing I hadn’t taken that Valium.

  “If you talked English,” said Lacy, poking her head around Jobeth’s, “we’d a kissed your ass.”

  “Tire-toi morpion!” I said gaily.

  Walter shut the door after his family, then leaned against it, glaring at me.

  “I am sorry, Walter,” I began. “I was nervous about tonight, and I just don’t know what came over me. Well, I guess I do. I drank too much wine. And I took some of Fiona’s Valium. I found it in the cabinet—why was she taking it, by the way?”

  “I didn’t know she was.”

  “I may have taken too many.”

  “You can’t blame wine and tranquilizers. I know my family’s loud and tasteless, but I love them and you went too damn far.”

  “What about you? Were you getting it on with Patricia?”

  “There’s never been anything between me and her.”

  I looked up into his eyes. “But your sisters said—”

  “They want to break us up.” His orange eyebrows lowered. “What’s this about your ex-husband? Did you smash his nose, or was Mama lying?”

  “No. But I can explain.”

  “You actually hit him?” He backed up, his hands raised.

  “I’m not like Fiona. It was self-defense.”

  “That’s what Fiona used to say. Why didn’t you just tell me? You had plenty of chances. I can’t risk being hooked up to another abusive woman.” He held out his hand, his fingers slightly curled. “I’m sorry, Bitsy, but the engagement’s off.”

  I hid my left hand behind my back. “You said yourself that your family wants to break us up.”

  “Give it to me!”

  “But I love you, Walter. We’re getting married.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? The wedding is off !” He crossed his arms like a football referee. Fumble! Pass intended for Bitsy Wentworth is incomplete.

  “Let’s just sleep on it, all right? Then, tomorrow, you can talk to Aunt Clancy. She’ll explain about my first marriage.” I tried to smile, but my lips felt rubbery, and I probably grimaced instead.

  “I don’t need to hear any more. I’m not getting in bed with a rattlesnake. Just keep the goddamn ring. It didn’t cost all that much, anyway.”

  “But I want you, not the ring.”

  “Just leave, I want to be alone.”

  “Fine.” I looked down at my finger, then twisted off the diamond. I grabbed Walter’s hand, and he flinched as I fit the ring onto his pinkie. “A perfect fit,” I said.

  A TAPED MESSAGE TO BETTY FORD

  December 22, 1974

  Dear Betty,

  I hope your Xmas turns out to be better than mine. The dentist (Walter Saylor) broke off his engagement to my daughter. She had turned cartwheels trying to please him. She has naturally blond hair, but when he asked her to be a redhead, she went straight to the beauty parlor and had it dyed. Anyway, after they broke up, she marched straight to the drugstore and bought a box of Miss Clairol, a level 8. Only it turned out muddy, and she had to go to the salon and get yet another color correction. I’m sure you understand—you being a blonde. Only her hair was too porous, not to mention damaged from all that dye, and it broke off two inches from her scalp. She took it in stride, but short hair doesn’t flatter her round little face. My heart went out to her. Not only is she torn up over her romance, she’s practically bald. So don’t tell me that this isn’t cosmic justice. First, Fiona has a beauty parlor disaster, and now Bitsy.

  Of course, now that her love life is in shambles, I won’t be able to get you a discount for your teeth. But if you come to Crystal Falls, I will cook you a delicious meal. Yesterday I baked a ham—the secret is to baste with Coca-Cola—along with macaroni and cheese and corn bread and turnip greens. A chocolate pie for dessert with a scratch crust. My food is better than what my sister serves down at the café and she no longer cooks at home. Most every night, Bitsy and Byron eat with me and Mack and that thing he’s married to. I don’t think my son is happy. He’s got a beer bottle in his hand all the time now, even in the daytime. And I no longer hear their bedsprings squeak.

  I’ll just be honest—love troubles can drive a body to drink. I don’t, of course, because it wouldn’t mix with my
medicines. My son just lays up watching Sanford and Son or Good Times, then his head will tip over and he’ll start snoring. But he wakes up the minute I change the channel to Rhoda. Well, I’ve got to sign off because the oven dinger just went off, and I don’t want my cookies to burn. They are oatmeal raisin, and I’ve enclosed a few dozen for your dining enjoyment. Wish you were here,

  Dorothy McDougal

  A NOTE FROM BITSY

  December 30, 1974

  Dear Mrs. Wentworth,

  I am sorry for writing this letter, but I wasn’t able to reach you any other way. What I’m wanting to know is, may I have permission to take Jennifer out to dinner at El Toro? My whole family will be going, too. I know it can’t be on her birthday, but please let me know which day will work for you. I have enclosed a card and birthday presents from all of us. Will you please give them to her at the party?

  Sincerely,

  Bitsy

  December 30, 1974

  Dear Jennifer,

  I just can’t believe that you will turn three years old tomorrow. I am sending your presents a day early, so you’ll have lots of goodies at your party. I miss you, and I hope we can see each other soon.

  Love,

  Mother

  Part 4

  TAPED MESSAGES TO BETTY FORD

  January 15, 1975

  Dear Betty,

  For my 43rd birthday, my daughter fixed up my bedroom. In the old days, I just loved to redecorate. I’d call the designer and tell him what I wanted. But Bitsy beats him all to pieces. I told her my room was my own personal island in a Sea of Antagonism. Since green is my favorite color, Bitsy painted the walls key lime. Meanwhile, she put Mack to work, scraping that hideous orange paint off my furniture. The ugly Sears curtains came down and up went matchstick blinds from Pier One. Over these we hung filmy white sheers that stir in the breeze. We even bought a wicker cage for my canary, Frank Sinatra.