Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  “Nothing but film noir,” sniffed Desirée.

  “Hush, Desi,” scolded Gladys. “You’re just jealous.”

  “Better Honora’s guest room than mine,” said Merrill.

  “Well, she’s got twelve,” Desirée said.

  “And all the rooms are occupied,” said Merrill.

  “All?” Louie’s eyes widened. “Mother, how many people are living here?”

  “You mean, this week? Six at the moment,” Honora said, giving the cigarette back to Merrill. “But it fluctuates. Isabella requires two bedrooms, of course. One for herself, and one for the Yorkies.”

  “They’re just using it as a lavatory, I’m afraid,” said Gladys. “You’ll need to fumigate when Isabella leaves.”

  Honora ignored her friends and stretched her arms above her head, then walked over to the French doors and flung them open. The pool glowed with an eerie green light. “I might take a swim,” she said. “But what I’d really like is a kilo of Beluga caviar. Can’t you see it, ladies? A gold can surrounded by crushed ice. A silver platter glinting in the light, full of toast points and maybe some latkes.”

  “A mother-of-pearl spoon,” said Gladys.

  “And a tall, blond butler with buns of steel,” said Desirée.

  “We’re not normally like this,” Honora told me. She held out one arm, her skin gleaming in the light.

  “No, usually you’re worse,” said Louie, kissing his mother’s cheek.

  “Oh, poo,” said Honora, pinching his cheek. “You’re a fine one to talk. Now, fix your darling wife a drink while I show her around.”

  FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS DEMOCRAT

  —“Who’s Who & Who’s Where,” a column by Rayetta Parsons, page 3, August 10, 1978

  Claude E. Wentworth IV and his bride, Regina Henley Wentworth, have just returned from a wedding trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina. The couple were married in a private ceremony at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Claude E. Wentworth III on August 1, 1978. They will reside in Crystal Falls, where Claude Wentworth IV is the new president of Citizen’s Bank.

  Clancy Jane

  Clancy Jane set a pot of lentils on the stove, then turned up the heat and wandered into her empty living room, her footsteps echoing. She dragged the tasseled pillows over by the windows to a patch of sunlight and lay down. She only meant to close her eyes for a minute, but the bleating smoke alarm jolted her from a long, torturous nightmare involving Byron and the redhead.

  The house was filled with a billowing black cloud, stinking of charred lentils. She scrambled to her feet and ran to the phone, which was sitting all by itself on the far end of the room. After she called 911, she hurried to the kitchen, flinging open doors and windows as she went, calling to her cats. Through the smoke, she thought she saw flames. A cat shot between her legs. Covering her mouth with one hand, she batted smoke with the other. Then she grappled for the cat-shaped oven mitts, which hung on a hook beside the stove. She’d bought them in Pass Christian when she went to Bitsy and Louie’s reception. Fitting them over her hands, she lurched toward the smoking pot. God, the burned lentils smelled awful, it was enough to make her give up beans forever. She grabbed the handles and ran out of the kitchen, down the porch steps, into the backyard. When she reached the honeysuckle vine, she heaved the pot. It clunked against a tree. Then she staggered back to the porch and sat down, her head in her hands. She kept calling to her cats until she was hoarse, but the little bastards had gone into hiding, under beds and in closets. Only a few stragglers hunkered in the bushes.

  She was still sitting on the steps, dazedly watching the smoke drift out the back door, when she heard the siren. A minute later, two fire engines roared up her driveway. The firemen hopped off the trucks, with hatchets and hoses, and marched into her house. One of the firemen stopped and touched Clancy’s shoulder. He was tall, way over six feet, with dark bushy hair and intense blue eyes.

  “Ma’am? You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. But my k-kitchen is ruined.” Her teeth were chattering; she couldn’t make them be still. “I was c-cooking lentils, and I t-threw the pot into the honeysuckle. Over there.”

  She pointed toward the woods. The fireman nodded.

  “You sure you’re all right, ma’am?” he asked again.

  She nodded. It had been a long time since anyone had asked that question.

  “Don’t you move,” he told her. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said, hugging herself. After all, where would she go?

  As soon as her kitchen was functional—she needed new appliances and the ceiling had to be repainted—she called the fireman and invited him for supper. When Tucker O’Brien stepped into her house, he was carrying a six-pack of Budweiser. Clancy Jane led him into the kitchen and shoved the beer into the new side-by-side refrigerator. She slammed the door and turned and smiled. He was tall—much taller than she’d remembered. “Supper should be ready in about—”

  He silenced her with a kiss. Rough, callused hands slid up her cotton blouse, tickling her skin. His hair smelled of shampoo, with an underlying scent of smoke from a warehouse blaze earlier in the afternoon. They undressed all the way to her bedroom, littering the polished floor with jeans and shoes and undergarments. The mattress was on the floor, centered directly beneath the ceiling fan. They sank down.

  Later, during supper, Tucker sat cross-legged beside the harvest table. “How many inches off the ground is it?” he asked Clancy Jane.

  “Oh, about six,” she replied. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “No, I’m just fine. Would you hand me another slice of bread, please?” He ate three helpings of vegetarian lasagna and half a loaf of honey nut bread. Then she threw tasseled pillows onto the living room floor and stacked records on the turntable. There was a click and a whoosh, and the Stones began singing “Time Is on My Side”—Mick’s definitive song of love, sex, and retaliation.

  Tucker brushed his hand over her cheek, and she thought, What if he turns out to be a loser? Then she thought, So what? Even if he turned out to be wonderful, she wasn’t sure she could stand that, either.

  “This room sure is big,” he said.

  “An illusion. If I had furniture, it would seem smaller.” She drew her legs into a half-lotus position.

  “Why don’t you have any? Did it get smoke-damaged?”

  “No, I’m studying Buddhism, and—”

  “Boo-what?” He gave her a blank stare.

  “Some people think it’s a religion, but it’s more a philosophy of life. Anyway, I’m trying to reduce my fondness for material objects. I’m a long way from Nirvana.” She held up her wineglass. “See? I still drink.”

  “Where’s Nirvana?”

  “It’s the goal Buddhists aim for.”

  “Tell me about it.” He stretched out on the pillow, crossing his long legs. Thrilled to have a captive audience, Clancy Jane began to talk rapidly, her voice rising and falling. He would nod, pausing to interrupt her now and then for clarification. For all his small-town ways, he seemed to understand everything, except the concept known as All Is Suffering. That took a bit of explaining. When she finished, Tucker glanced around the empty room.

  “You might be onto something,” he said. “People do get wrapped up in stuff. Cars and boats and TV sets.”

  “Yes!” Her eyes widened. “Exactly.”

  “When I’m putting out fires, you wouldn’t believe what the folks beg me to go after.” His eyes met hers. “Can you teach me it? This Buddhism?”

  “I’d love to.” She clasped her hands.

  “Damn, I can’t wait.” He grinned and tugged a lock of her hair. Just for a moment, Clancy Jane was reminded of Mack. He was always starting sentences with damn. It was a way of talking favored by Southern punks. Not that Mack had started out that way. Over the years, he’d lost what little polish Dorothy had inflicted upon him, and the moment she was locked up, he’d fallen under the spell of Earlene and her bawdy ways.

 
“How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-eight. Is that too old, too young, or just right?” When she didn’t answer right away, he picked up her hand, rubbed her knuckles. “What?”

  When she was seventy-one, he’d be fifty-eight. Was that so terrible? Well, maybe not for her, but chances were they wouldn’t be together two weeks, much less two decades. She tilted her head, smiling up at him.

  “I’m thinking that this empty living room is perfect for dancing.”

  During a late-night phone call to Violet, Clancy Jane said, “I’m madly in love.”

  “With the fireman?”

  “Yes, and I swear he is the one. When he put out the fire in my kitchen he lit another fire in my heart.”

  “Oh, Mama. That’s so lame.”

  “He’s real tall and muscular, like the lumberjack on Brawny paper towels.”

  Violet laughed.

  “We went camping last weekend, and he didn’t complain once about the nuts and fruit I brought along. I put some frozen pepperpot soup into a cast-iron pot and we cooked it over an open flame. His best friend Joe is the fire chief in Crystal Falls. And he’s got a houseboat on Center Hill. They cruised by our camp site and we swam out to the boat. We just had a ball.”

  “I’m glad for you, Mama. You deserve to be happy.”

  “Yes, it’s about time. But wait—I haven’t finished telling you about a house that burned up. Tucker went in and rescued a cat. He breathed air into its little lungs and saved it. Then he brought it to my house. We named it Cinders. He’s got a singed tail and whiskers, and his meow is so pitiful—it’s real hoarse.”

  “Just what you need: another cat.” Violet laughed again.

  “There’s always room for one more. And you know something else? Now that I’m teaching Tucker about Buddhism, I’m able to see where I went wrong. How I went to extremes.”

  “You mean your no-frills decor?”

  “Exactly. I’m a middle-aged woman, not a monk with a begging bowl. If I have a sofa set and a dresser for my underwear, it won’t undermine my journey toward Nirvana. Besides, I won’t make it there in this lifetime. It’s like Tucker said, getting dog-drunk is probably worse than having pictures on the wall. So we gave up beer and wine, and now we just drink iced tea with lots of lemon.”

  “Get out of here,” Violet cried in an incredulous voice.

  “I’m thinking about selling this house and buying a little cottage in town. Oh, Violet. You’ve just got to meet him.”

  “Bring him to my wedding,” Violet said.

  “Your—oh, my God!” Clancy Jane squealed. Her voice echoed in the empty house. She began jumping up and down, and the phone cord twirled like a jump rope.

  “Calm down.” Violet laughed. “It’s not till next summer. You’ve got plenty of time to find a dress.”

  “My dress! What about yours? Oh, my gosh. My baby’s getting married. Remember how much fun I had planning Bitsy’s wedding to Walter Saylor? Maybe you can come home—bring George, of course—and we’ll pick out flowers and music and cake.”

  “We’ve already done that.”

  “Oh?”

  “George and I want to have the wedding in Memphis. The reception will be at the Peabody.”

  Clancy Jane began untangling the telephone cord. After a moment she said, “Are you having bridesmaids?”

  “No. And I barely agreed to a wedding. But George’s mother would’ve been disappointed.”

  George’s mother? Clancy Jane winced.

  “Mama, you still there?”

  “Mmmhum.”

  “You’re not mad, are you? Please tell me you’re not mad.”

  “Mad? No, I wouldn’t say that.” Clancy Jane lifted her chin, determined not to be annoyed. “I’ve never been to the Peabody. Should I rent a tuxedo for my honey?”

  “Honey?”

  “Well, at my age, boyfriend sounds pathetic.” Clancy Jane laughed.

  “You can always call him your significant other. And no, a tux isn’t required.”

  Bitsy

  In November, I discovered that I was pregnant, and Louie began searching for the perfect house. His requirements posed a challenge to every real estate agent in New Orleans—he wanted something old and elegant, preferably in the Garden District. Our latest Realtor was a stocky woman with short red hair, cut in a sharp elfin V around her ears. Today she’d taken us to see a grand, if run-down, house off Pytrania Street, an elegant beige stucco with dark green shutters. It had a hipped roof and ornate trim around the eaves. The columns were a curious mixture of Ionic and Corinthian, and along the back was a screened-in porch. I knew all these terms from my interior design course. In the backyard, I glimpsed a messy crape myrtle hedge and a striped hammock hanging between two trees. It reminded me of the one back in Crystal Falls where Violet and I used to drink and discuss men.

  Louie took my hand and together we explored the yard. It was large and shady, with live oaks, banana trees, and a hulking forsythia hedge. The real estate agent herded us inside and repeated her litany: five bedrooms, five-and-one-half baths, swimming pool, pavilion, beveled glass doors. She pointed to the chandeliers and pier glass mirrors. “They were taken from a turn-of-the-century brothel.”

  Louie went upstairs to check out the bedrooms, but I stayed behind. Just off the dreary dining room, I opened a door, thinking I’d found a closet, and saw a porcelain sink, etched with rusty stains, and a crooked toilet that made a gargling sound when I pushed the lever.

  “It needs a lot of work,” the Realtor said, coming up behind me. Then she glanced up at the ceiling, as if tracking Louie’s footsteps. “But Dr. DeChavannes likes it. I can tell. And I understand you’re an interior designer—well, this house is a designer’s dream.”

  “Or nightmare,” I said with a laugh. “Actually I was hoping for something smaller.”

  “I probably shouldn’t even say this,” the Realtor said in a cozy, conspiratorial tone, “but a long time ago, I showed Dr. DeChavannes and his first wife an old mansion. Just a few blocks from here, I think. Or maybe it wasn’t his first wife. How many times has the doctor been married?”

  I chewed the inside of my lip while the agent barreled on. “Anyway, Dr. DeChavannes loved the house and she hated it. I think her name was Shelby? They ended up buying a house by the golf course. She liked modern, I guess. The doctor had his heart set on a grand old house.” The agent paused. “I guess you know she just sold it? The golf course house, I mean. And for a steal, too. She must have been desperate. Bad memories can make a seller do crazy things.”

  This woman was good. I turned away and headed up the curved staircase. Each riser gave off an indignant squeak. On the landing Louie grabbed my hands and pulled me into a sunny room that faced the garden.

  “How about this for the nursery?” he asked.

  I stood in the center of the room, in a wedge of light. The windows looked into live oaks, and through the branches I saw chips of blue sky. I could paint clouds on the ceiling and walls. And we could put a bookcase on the left, the shelves loaded with dolls. I just knew I’d have a girl. According to my calculations, my due date was around the end of July. “Can we get it finished in time for the baby?”

  “I’ll move heaven and earth.” Louie kissed my hands. He seemed so happy, so eager to please, but I couldn’t stop worrying. This house demanded an elaborate lifestyle, one far more extravagant than even the Wentworths enjoyed. The idea was alarming. Wealth hadn’t brought Miss Betty any pleasure—her designer suits notwithstanding—so I had no reason to believe that it would enhance mine.

  “Let’s make an offer.” Louie kissed my neck.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Positive.”

  I thought it might be haunted and I almost blurted, “Let’s keep looking. Surely we could find another house, one that pleased us both.”

  As if reading my thoughts, Louie said, “I know it looks awful now, but I’ll call the best architect in New Orleans. But if we ge
t into the renovation and change our minds, no problem. It’s not irrevocable.”

  Few things are, I thought.

  From the Mercedes, I watched my husband at the front door of his exwife’s new house. It was a weathered, little shotgun that jutted out on the bayou: Shelby DeChavannes’s replacement for her five-thousand-square-foot contemporary over by the golf course. Shelby finally opened the door, wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Her blond hair was twisted into a sloppy bun, anchored by yellow pencils. Their little daughter, Renata, shot out. Shelby caught the child’s hand and pulled her back for a goodbye kiss. Then the woman glanced toward the car, fixing me with a wild-eyed stare. Shelby had refused alimony, didn’t want a dime from Louie. Child support went into an account for Renata. Shelby was writing bad checks all over town. Apparently the floating house needed constant repairs; it was taking a financial toll. Worse, the move had forced Renata to change schools, upsetting her so much that she’d walked into a glass door and broken out her front tooth—a permanent one—requiring a root canal and a porcelain cap.

  “Was Shelby always like this?” I’d asked Louie after Renata’s last visit.

  “No,” he’d said, his voice full of despair, as if he were speaking of a priceless object he’d mislaid and had no hopes of recovering. I shot him a look but asked no more questions.

  Today Renata was wearing faded red shorts that were several sizes too large, giving the child a knock-kneed look. I was reminded of Alice Ann. Every time Louie and I went to visit Honora at her summer house in Pass Christian—which was near Point Minette—I was always tempted to drive down the highway and see if Finch House was still standing, but I was afraid of stirring up ghosts. With Walter Saylor in mind, I’d confessed everything to Louie, but he had found my past quirky and humorous, and for a while he’d referred to me as his little criminal. Now, it was never discussed.