Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  Louie stepped into the bedroom and I gestured to the back of my neck. “Sweetie, can you zip me?”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. “It’s going to be hot this evening,” he said, giving my long-sleeved dress a doubtful look. “Can’t you wear something cooler?”

  “No.” I shrugged. “After this baby is born, I’m going to burn this dress.”

  “Oh, Bitsy.” He squeezed me. “It’s just one afternoon. You’ll get through it.”

  The hummingbird thermometer on Honora’s patio registered ninety-one degrees. As we stepped around the swimming pool, I saw a blonde in a frilly green dress sitting on the diving board, flicking cigarette ashes into the water. Her long hair was artfully streaked several shades of blond, and was tossed back over her shoulders.

  “Who is she?” I whispered.

  “Mrs. Dickie Boy McGeehee.”

  “That name sounds so familiar. Didn’t she send us a silver tureen when we got married?”

  “If she did, it was probably one of Honora’s. Mrs. McGeehee lives in one of Mother’s bedrooms.”

  “Why haven’t I met her?” I asked.

  “Darling!” The blonde waved at Louie, then climbed off the diving board, showing a flash of thigh. “Come over here and give me a kiss. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  We walked around the pool, toward the deep end. The blonde opened her arms wide, and Louie stepped into them. She kissed his cheek, leaving behind a pink smudge. Louie reached for my hand and said, “Isabella, have you met my wife?”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” the woman said, smiling. “But I’ve heard about you, dear. All good things, of course. Aren’t congratulations in order? I understand you’re expecting another little DeChavannes? How utterly thrilling.”

  “Where are your Yorkies?” Louie asked.

  “Honora made me shut them up in a room.” Isabella turned to me. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your handsome hubby for a moment?”

  Before I could reply, Isabella took Louie’s hand and pulled him toward Honora’s gazebo, which was nestled in the live oaks. Louie gave me a helpless look as he stepped inside. I lifted my braid off my neck, then eased into one of the wicker chairs. The cushion made a whooshing noise, like escaping gas, and I hoped Louie and the blonde hadn’t heard. The afternoon sun was slanting over the azaleas, and the air was buzzing with midges. I remembered a time when I’d cultivated the sun. Violet and I would stretch out in the backyard on a quilt, with a bottle of homemade suntan lotion, a mixture of baby oil and iodine, which gave our skin a golden hue, even if it tinted our palms orange. In those days, my body was hard and lean; I never thought one second about growing old. “Age isn’t ugly,” Miss Gussie used to say, with a shrug. “It’s just age.”

  The French doors opened, and Honora poked out her head. She looked elegant in a sleeveless beige linen dress with a double strand of pearls around her neck. “Bitsy, you’re going to flambé out here. Come on inside and have some birthday cake. I’m afraid I’ve already blown out the candles.”

  Through the French doors, I could see into the dining room. In the center of the polished rosewood table was a floral arrangement—bells of Ireland and wild sea grasses. On the far end was a massive sheet cake, decorated like a nine-hole golf course, with miniature tees, fairways, and greens. Honora was an enthusiastic golfer, and a present to herself stood off to the side—a new set of Patty Berg clubs nestled in a Louis Vuitton golf bag.

  I rose from the chair, bracing my stomach with one hand, casting a furtive glance toward the gazebo. “Some woman has shanghaied Louie,” I complained.

  “Oh, that’s just Isabella D’Agostino.” Honora squinted. “Dickie Boy McGeehee’s widow? I’ve mentioned her haven’t I?”

  “How did her husband die?”

  “It was his liver. Dickie Boy’s drinking was legendary—and that’s saying a lot. He didn’t look terminal till the end. But then, he’d never looked healthy. Anyway, at the funeral, Isabella wanted a closed casket, but Dickie Boy’s mama had a fit. So they laid him out on pale gold satin, which clashed horribly with the jaundice. But he left Isabella with a net worth over two hundred million.”

  Out in the gazebo, Isabella laughed at something Louie was saying. She crossed her legs, and the green dress rode up past her knees. Despite her beauty, she was way too old for my husband. I started to relax. Then Honora said something that sent my pulse racing.

  “I love her to death, but don’t let Louie linger with her,” Honora said, then she guided me into the house. Gifts were piled up on the sideboard. Louie’s uncles—the DeChavannes males—were holding court around the punch bowl, flirting with Honora’s friends from Point Clear. Uncle James was a leading neurologist on the Gulf Coast, and he had aged gracefully, the way brunet men so often do—a light misting of gray around the temples. Uncle Nigel, known to everyone as “Boo,” was a general practitioner. He was recovering from a face lift, and his eyes were still a little swollen and slanted like a Chinaman’s, but the bruises had faded. His face looked taut and shiny.

  To the women, who begged to see his scars, he complained, “Had to get off my Coumadin before the surgeon would touch me.” Honora’s friend Desirée, in spiked heels and a black dress, pranced into the living room. “Welcome!” Honora cried. “I thought you were still in Scotland.”

  “And miss your party?” cried Desirée. “Lord, I saw enough sheep to last me a lifetime.”

  “Did you meet any titled chaps?” asked Uncle James.

  “No, but I saw a Kerry blue terrier with undescended testicles.”

  “Did you bring him back?” asked Boo, laughing.

  “Honey, I’ve already got one man without balls. Do I need another?”

  At twilight, I stepped out into the backyard, looking for Louie, and spotted him at the edge of the pool, sitting on a blue lounge chair, directly opposite Isabella. Their heads were inclined, their knees touching. They looked up, saw me approaching, and broke apart. I suddenly thought about when Violet had read Casanova’s memoirs—twelve volumes of relentless womanizing. Now I wondered where I could find a copy so I could read it myself.

  On the drive home, I aimed the air-conditioning vent between my legs. “What was going on out there?”

  “Where?” Louie’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Don’t play dumb. With you and that actress. Y’all were a little too cozy.”

  “You’re getting upset for no reason, and it’s not good for the baby.” Louie lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s supposed to rain next week. Maybe it’ll cool things off.”

  That night, I lay next to Louie, watching a National Geographic rerun. It was soothing to see Jane Goodall cavort with her chimpanzees. Somehow Jane had found love in the wilds of Africa. And she was especially close to her mother. When the show ended, I climbed rather gracelessly from the bed, trying my best not to disturb Louie, and lumbered into the kitchen. My feet were painfully swollen, and I had to creep slowly. I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the patio, past the swimming pool, into the garden. The air was still uncomfortably warm, but the grass felt cool and damp against my toes. I squatted down, legs splayed rather awkwardly, and began to pull weeds.

  I worked until dawn, and I was still working when Louie, leaving for the hospital, poked his head out the back door.

  “You been up all night?” he asked, jingling his car keys.

  I nodded, then flashed a look that said I can’t help this. Please don’t harass me.

  “You look a little puffy. You feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine, Louie. I’m just having trouble sleeping.”

  “Then let me drive you to the beach tonight. I’ll make you a pot of gumbo.”

  “And you’ll stay the whole weekend?”

  “I’ll need to make hospital rounds, but that’s no problem. I’ll just drive back and forth.”

  During the sticky hot, interminable morning, I thumbed through my dictionary, the
n stretched out on the living-room sofa and pondered the conundrum of love. An answer eluded me the way sleep had.

  At midday I got dressed and drove the long way to my doctor’s office. When I checked in at the desk, the nurse waved me into the hall. I stepped on the scales, and they rattled. The nurse clicked her tongue with disapproval. “You’ve gained five pounds in one week!”

  “That’s impossible. I haven’t eaten anything but salads.”

  “Scales say otherwise, dear.”

  The nurse led me into a windowless room with fuchsia wallpaper. It was a hideous shade, the color of mashed fruit. I could almost hear the buzz and hum of flies. The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. The bulb made a whooshing sound, and my arm began to ache. The nurse’s thin eyebrows shot up.

  “Your pressure is way too high. We don’t need it going up any more,” she said in a stern voice.

  “Well, I didn’t do it,” I snapped. True, I might have eaten a little cheesecake, but my vital signs were totally beyond my control.

  “Slip off your panties, dear, and climb up on the table,” said the nurse. “Dr. Savat is going to be so upset.”

  The nurse stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. The overhead fluorescent light crackled. I swayed, then reached out and grabbed the table, steadying myself. Slip off your panties, dear. Those words suddenly struck me as obscene. Not unless you take yours off first. The raspberry walls were making me wild and reckless. Any minute now the doctor would come into the room and make small talk while he squirted ice-cold jelly onto my stomach. Then he would push the ultra-sound’s wand over my abdomen. I’d love to tell him the truth about having babies. It hurt to have a watermelon inside your body. I thought of that Led Zeppelin song, the big-legged woman, the juice running down her legs.

  Still holding on to the table, I shut my eyes, tried to ignore the nausea. Pink dots swirled behind my lids. I needed rest, not another damn ultra-sound in this hideous room with its pink and sour and boiling hot walls. I felt an urgent need to see Louie, to put my head on his chest. Maybe we could drive down to the beach right now. I lurched toward the door. When I reached the Mercedes, I cranked the engine. The air conditioner came on, giving off a musty smell, with the hint of sun and new leather. As I drove across town, the nausea vanished, and I began to crave a sirloin steak salad with crumbled bleu cheese. Or fried shrimp with lots of cocktail sauce. I turned off St. Charles, toward Louie and his beautifully decorated office—he’d given me carte blanche, and I’d gone out of my way not to choose any color associated with heart surgery—red might have scared off the patients. Hadn’t Dr. Savat’s wife more sense than to choose womb-colored paint for his examining rooms?

  Suddenly the road seesawed, and instead of four lanes of traffic I saw eight. As I turned into the parking lot at Oschner, I rolled over a curb. The tires shuddered, and the baby beat its little fists in protest. I found the medical arts building and circled it twice. I parked the Mercedes in the shade of a magnolia, its branches studded with blossoms, each one the size of a dinner plate. “Lunch,” I thought, feeling those fresh five pounds dragging behind me.

  Heaving myself out of the front seat, my legs splayed like an old woman’s, I stood up, weaving slightly. It was difficult to move my wide, bloated feet, but I shuffled forward, tilted backward like a penguin. Several pedestrians stepped aside to let me pass. When I entered the air-conditioned Medical Arts building, my vision narrowed. Red spots churned in the air. I felt light-headed, and I placed one chubby hand against the wall and waited for the dizziness to pass. After a minute my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I headed down the corridor with its swimmy green walls. What wife had picked that color? I stumbled ever so slightly—not a stagger but more of a dance, the pregnant woman’s dance. The elevator was out of order, but Louie’s office was on the second floor, so I climbed a flight of wide stairs. When I reached the landing, I was breathless and dripping wet. I staggered into a windowless corridor. This would shock the hell out of Louie, I thought. Since I’d gotten pregnant, I’d rarely stopped by his office. I entered a door marked PRIVATE and stepped into the hall.

  I heard Louie’s laughter before I saw him, heard the stereo system that I’d artfully hidden in his bookcase tuned to an FM station playing an old Tina Turner song. I knew Louie’s laugh as intimately as I knew his smell. Then I heard a feminine twitter, high-pitched and rhythmical, like a laying hen. I wanted to stop and turn around, but the weight of my body propelled me forward, around the corner, into Louie’s office, where a frizzy-haired blonde wearing a short white nursing uniform sat on his desk, her long, lithe legs crossed and swinging. She seemed full of herself, in love with herself. On Louie’s desk—carved mahogany from an outrageously expensive shop on Royal Street—was a Pepsi can and a half-eaten muffuletta sandwich, resting on a sheet of waxed paper that was scattered with olives and capers. Lipstick on the bread, lipstick on the Pepsi can. But nothing on Louie’s collar. The girl’s head turned, the laughter still bubbling from her lips—a bow-shaped little-girl mouth with ice-pink lipstick. Louie was laughing and smiling, too. Then his eyes swept past the girl, and he saw me. He stood abruptly, his chair rolling behind him, bumping into the bookcase. The girl sat straight up, back arched, and tossed her hair.

  “Sweetie,” Louie’s voice was curved, a question mark hanging in the air. The girl turned to face him, eyebrows raised expectantly, as if she wasn’t certain whom he was addressing.

  “I came to take you to lunch,” I said, pushing back my sweaty hair. “But it looks as if you’ve already eaten.”

  “Have a pickle,” said the girl, her eyes going to my stomach. “Don’t pregnant women crave pickles?”

  A drop of sweat ran down into my eyes, and I wiped it away. The blonde made no effort to move. Her voluptuous hips were planted on a stack of charts. I put my hands somewhere in the vicinity of my own hips and tipped my pelvis forward. I was one heartbeat away from asking this blonde to leave; but all of a sudden I felt sick. I fought an urge to spit on the floor or maybe on this blond hussy. It was a short distance from the doctor’s desk to his lap; once she was in his lap, she was on her way to his bed.

  I saw my future with a cruel clarity. In six years I would be fattened up by another pregnancy or maybe one too many steak salads. The portly wife, presiding over parties, passing a tray of cheese straws, making excuses to the other wives, “I didn’t mean to puff up like this,” I’d say. Yes, I could see myself slipping into a position of vulnerability, looking the other way, waiting for Louie to grow up and stop fucking other women.

  “I’m Bitsy DeChavannes,” I told the woman. “And you are…”

  Before the woman could answer, Louie said, “This is Tiki. She’s just filling in.”

  “Tiki the temp. As in time and temp?” I forced out each word. Push harder, the doctor would say before too long. Go ahead, rip yourself wide open.

  “We were going over some charts.” Louie flicked one hand at his desk. “They need my signatures.”

  “You can’t do that yourself?” I asked.

  Louie’s face reddened. It took a lot for this man to blush. Extreme anger or embarrassment, hot tubs, sunburn, physical exertion, too much wine—and fear. He was growing ruddier by the second, and I stared him down, waiting for him to speak. From the stereo, Tina Turner eloquently asked “What’s love got to do with it?” She was answered by three million years of biology. “Breed,” it whispered. “Perpetuate the species, pass on your DNA.”

  The blonde tossed her head and stared straight into my eyes. “Can I get you anything in particular? A glass of water? Sandwich?”

  “All I want,” I said, facing the girl, “is for you to get your ass off my husband’s desk.”

  Louie glanced nervously at the blonde. “The conference is over, Tiki.”

  Conference? I thought.

  Tiki uncrossed her legs. Then she scooted off the desk with excruciating slowness, making her white skirt ride up higher, then without looking
at me she pranced to the door, leaving a wake of Emeraude. Louie wouldn’t approve. The smell was making me woozy, and I pushed loose strands of hair away from my face. My hand felt heavy and smelled of soil. Women on his desk, women with pretty legs, women who smell good enough to eat. After Tiki’s footsteps faded down the hall, Louie turned to me. “She’s only temporary.”

  “Like a twenty-four-hour virus, I hope,” I replied, not bothering to hide the venom. I leaned toward his desk, picked up part of the muffuletta. “You shared this with her?”

  His chin jutted forward and his lips protruded, his most sullen expression. His eyes darted back to his desk. “Good God, Bitsy. It’s just food. We didn’t plan it or anything. She just stopped by to ask about the charts, and she was fixing to eat lunch, and she asked me if I wanted some.”

  “Some…what?” I was still holding the sandwich.

  “She’s harmless.” Louie lifted his shoulders.

  “Like a sand shark?” I dropped the sandwich, scattering Genoa salami onto his desk.

  “Don’t worry. She won’t be here next week.”

  “No, but someone just like her will.”

  His forehead puckered. “I didn’t do anything. Why do you persist in staying upset all the time? Never mind, it’s your hormones.”

  “No, it’s you.”

  “Just go home and try to calm down.”

  A bearded man with round eyeglasses passed by Louie’s office. A stethoscope was coiled around his neck. I couldn’t recall his name, but I knew he was Louie’s new partner—he was supposed to be on call every other weekend. So far Louie’s workload hadn’t lessened.

  “Bitsy, you look haggard,” Louie said. “Why don’t you go home and put your feet up? I’d drive you home, but I’ve got patients scheduled.”

  “Can’t your partner see them?”

  “He’s got his own patients.” He picked up a strand of lettuce from the desktop, holding it aloft. One of these days, I thought, it will be a pubic hair.