Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  Rocking back and forth, she stared through the screen mesh, trying to see what was coming up in the flower beds. In a few days the irises would bloom en masse, as Bitsy would say. The citizens of Crystal Falls took special pride in their iris beds. After the blooming season, the women would begin to “divide and multiply,” which sounded Biblical, but it was a gardening technique. The women dug up their irises, separating the rhizomes into Y-shaped pieces. Using a sharp knife, they cut chunks away from the mother rhizome, making sure each section had at least one bud and one root. Then they would replant the rhizomes. Personally, Dorothy thought the procedure was more like “divide and conquer,” because the ladies liked to sequester their plants, irises in one section, daffodils in another, nothing mingled together. However, the whole process of separating the babies from the mother rhizome wasn’t too different from sending a child out into the world: neither could be accomplished without some type of severing.

  In the old days, the Hamilton graveyard had been only a short distance from the house, and Dorothy had thought the land was haunted. She remembered squatting next to the tombstones, trying not to shiver, while Miss Gussie divided and planted rhizomes on graveyard day. She put a yellow iris beside each tombstone. Now, of course, the field was a subdivision. In the early ’70s, Mack had inherited the land from Miss Gussie, which made up for years of slights. Well, it made up a little. He had moved the family graves and divided the land into teeny yards and built Hamilton Place. Once in a while, in one of the yards, an iris managed to punch through an expanse of crabgrass. This seemed miraculous, as if her mother, and all the women before her, were having the last word.

  Dorothy stepped off the porch, into the yard, and paused beside the perennial beds. This time of year they were a mess, because the weeds were shooting up. She leaned over, snatched up a clump of God knows what. It might have been volunteers from the privet hedge, or even marijuana. When Clancy Jane had lived here, she’d been a dope fiend. She probably still was. Dorothy sniffed the weeds. A few seconds later, she felt strange and prickly. She couldn’t remember if she’d taken her pills this morning; but then she never could.

  What she needed to do was weed those beds. Yard work was satisfying—she just loved raking, mowing, mulching. It toned her muscles and calmed her mind. She was in darn good shape for a sixty-two-year-old woman. Although lately, the arguments with Jennifer and Bitsy had made her agitated. And now Clancy Jane’s weeds had set off charley horses in her arms and legs. Nothing but pins-and-needles. Her hands prickled, the fingertips throbbing. Byron had diagnosed her as having panic attacks, but he was crazy. In case he hadn’t noticed, she was no longer a mental patient, and she was entitled to have illnesses just like a normal woman. But no, he kept on prescribing brain pills. She took enough medicine to control the moods of a small country—Liechtenstein or Andorra. When Bitsy and Louie had been married, they’d sent her postcards from their vacations, otherwise Dorothy wouldn’t have known about such places. Dorothy kept them pinned to her refrigerator with magnets, or stuffed them around the mirror in her living room. The picture cards had outlasted her daughter’s marriage—and to such a nice man. Years ago, if anyone had told her that Bitsy would not only be living alone, but outside the continental United States, Dorothy would have laughed her head off. Then, after Bitsy up and moved to London—actually, fled was more accurate—Dorothy had phoned the girl daily, begging her to return immediately.

  “Leave the man, not the entire country,” Dorothy had begged. Louie DeChavannes was one of the most gifted cardiovascular surgeons in New Orleans and the biggest liar in Louisiana. Bitsy had felt an urgent need to place distance between Louie and herself, and (Dorothy suspected) also from her outrageous relatives back in Tennessee. But mainly, the girl had left because of Louie’s philandering.

  “He can be a one-man woman,” Dorothy had protested.

  “Don’t you mean one-woman man?” Bitsy had said. “And no, he can’t.”

  Now Dorothy’s lips felt numb, and she patted them with her fingertips. She wondered if she should take a Valium; then again, she might need a Lasix. Or maybe she’d already taken them. Oh, it was such a bother trying to remember this pill, that pill. Jennifer was always making smart-aleck comments about the amber bottles lined up in the kitchen window. Sometimes after her granddaughter left, the Valium bottle was empty. Well, never mind, that was all right. Jennifer had inherited her nerves from Bitsy and Clancy Jane, but the hoity-toity airs came straight from Betty Wentworth, and maybe just a bit from Bitsy, too. Personally, Dorothy would rather have panic attacks than pomp.

  Out in the yard, her Pomeranians began to squabble when an old striped alley cat, a descendant of Clancy Jane’s pride, strutted past them. Earlier this morning, she had tethered the dogs to her clothesline, using swivel hooks to prevent snarls and tangles—she needed to get a patent on that idea, it would sell like hotcakes. The dogs ran back and forth, barking and growling, the metal hooks zipping along the rope. The male rose on his hind legs, which were no bigger than the barbecued hot wings from the Piggly Wiggly, and clawed the air with his front paws. The alley cat trotted down the path, his tail crooked at the end, ignoring the uproar.

  “Quit that,” Dorothy told the Pomeranians. She and Mack had taken the dogs to training classes at the fairgrounds, one at a time, and the hard work had paid off. The dogs settled down and began to pant. Dorothy leaned over and started yanking out weeds—they looked like privet branches. The Poms watched her, their beady eyes glimmering with intelligence. Then, two pregnant females began squabbling over a Nylabone—they were like human women fighting over a man. The five-pound bitch bit the three-pounder’s tail, dragging her down the length of the clothesline. Dorothy planned to sell the puppies for three hundred dollars each. The name of her kennel was “Dorothy’s Darlings,” and she advertised in the back of the AKC Gazette, featuring adorable photographs—Pomeranian puppies in teacups and little red wagons. And if people called her a puppy miller, she’d sue. She’d already put a warning in her ad: “I don’t have a kennel! These puppies are home-raised with love.” And a clothesline, she thought, chuckling to herself. Truth be told, she’d rather raise dogs than children. Dogs didn’t ask if you’d had your pill. They didn’t ask for a g.d. thing except a pat on the head and a bowl of Eukanuba—Dorothy served hers Small Bites, ordered special from the Co-op. Though her Poms occasionally pee-peed on the floor, they’d never crapped on her. Which was more than Dorothy could say about humans.

  She pulled up another privet branch and then paused to watch her dogs bounce up and down, play-fighting and sniffing each other’s behinds, then she leaned over the flowerbeds and poked her head into a patch of bloomed-out peonies that her mother had planted way back in 1936. Most of Dorothy’s people were dead, buried in Crystal Falls Memorial Gardens, and she made a point of keeping flowers—not artificial!—on the graves. She wondered who, if anyone, would tend to her grave after she was gone. She hoped Mack would bring a push mower, or maybe plant a few tulip bulbs, but that didn’t seem likely. Grave-tending was woman’s work, and there were no women in the family left around here, save Jennifer and Clancy Jane. Somehow, Dorothy couldn’t see those two picking up a trowel.

  Her family was dwindling, and it saddened her. She was the only one left at 214 Dixie—thank goodness Mack was next door. Yes, everyone was gone, but they’d left things behind. Stuck way back in a drawer, she’d found Bitsy’s old perfume bottles, still smelling of Shalimar, and Clancy Jane’s love beads. In the tip-top of a kitchen cabinet, she’d pulled out Easter candy, hardened and cracked. It broke her heart to think that objects outlasted people.

  From the street, she heard the revving of an engine. She recognized the sound and rose up on her tiptoes, holding one hand over her eyes. Jennifer’s red BMW rolled up the steep driveway, setting off another round of barking. Her granddaughter hopped out of the car and strode up the walkway, toward the kitchen door, her high heels clicking on the cracked pavement.

  �
��I’m in the garden,” Dorothy called, waving the privet branches. The fat female Pom—Dorothy couldn’t bear to call her a bitch, it was just too derogatory—made a perfect bow-wow bark, but the others sounded as if they were gargling with battery acid. Jennifer spotted her grandmother and headed toward the garden. The sun glinted on her short blond hair—a Mia Farrow haircut, Dorothy called it, although Jennifer had never seen Rosemary’s Baby, much less reruns of Peyton Place. She always thought Dorothy was referring to someone she’d known in the mental hospital. Today, Jennifer’s hair stuck up in all directions. She’d done this on purpose. Dorothy had seen the girl squirt mousse into her hand, then scrub it over the razor-shorn locks, letting it dry higgly-piggly.

  Normally when the girl visited, she was decked out in outrageously expensive clothes, and she annotated each item for Dorothy’s benefit, from the designer to the price. Today the girl was dressed like a punk funeral director: a short black skirt, black hose, ruched ivory top, and a black denim jacket. Not too much eye makeup. Tiny pearl studs in her ears, a discreet gold ring in her nose. She had a pierced belly button, too, although it was thankfully hidden under the top, along with a heart tatoo on her left shoulder. In the heart’s center were tiny black letters: CHIC. These days, her hero was Courtney Love, whom she uncannily resembled except for the Mia haircut.

  “You won’t be wearing black hose much longer,” Dorothy called. “Memorial Day is nearly here.”

  “It’s weeks away.” Jennifer frowned at the Pomeranians, who kept lunging toward her, causing the clothesline to bow. “Those are the worst-natured dogs I’ve ever seen,” she added and stepped around the yipping animals, making faces at them. One Pom started rolling in the dirt, and the pregnant females fell on each other in a death lock, biting each other’s furry throats.

  Dorothy whirled around, facing the dogs, and screamed, “Leave it!”

  The dogs froze. “There,” Dorothy said with a nod. “That’s better.”

  “They don’t understand a word you’re saying,” said Jennifer.

  “Yes, they do. They’re just not used to strangers.” She glanced toward the clothesline. The dogs had settled down, sniffing each other’s bottoms, their lips drawn back, tongues coiled like elf toes.

  “I’m a stranger?”

  Of course, you are! Dorothy thought. You’re flat-out peculiar. Although, she had to give the girl credit—her black shoes were magnificent. Dorothy knew good leather when she saw it. She decided that Jennifer wasn’t as pretty as Bitsy. Her features were Wentworthy—her nose was pugged, just like her daddy’s used to be before it got broken, and her square jaw was Miss Betty’s made over.

  “I didn’t mean that, honey,” Dorothy said. “We just don’t get a lot of guests.”

  “Are you saying that I should visit more?” Jennifer pawed the grass with her pretty little shoe, in an unconscious imitation of the male Pomeranian, who was stamping his paw, snorting like a pint-sized bull. “We talk on the phone all the time,” Jennifer added.

  “Yes, you’re real good to call.” Dorothy nodded at her granddaughter’s shoes. “I love your pumps.”

  “These?” Jennifer kicked out one leg. “Manolo Blahnik.”

  “I thought so,” Dorothy lied. Truth be told, she didn’t have a clue, although the name rang a distant bell. She wasn’t familiar with shoe designers, even though Jennifer always brought over stacks of old fashion magazines, instructing Dorothy to study the fine print. And she’d looked at every single page. She never used to care about labels—she’d only minded if a dress made her look fat. But she liked to keep up with fashion so she’d have something in common with her granddaughter.

  “You haven’t mentioned my Birkin.” Jennifer lifted the boxy handbag: black leather with a gold padlock. “It’s Hermès. Four thousand dollars. A gift from Grandmother Wentworth. She was on a waiting list. I just got it last week.”

  “That’s almost as much as a first-class ticket to London,” Dorothy said. Jennifer’s obsession with fashion seemed like a desperate bid for attention, and also one-upmanship. She seemed to be saying, Look at me, Mother. I like what you like, only I can afford it. Dorothy had seen a case just like this on Sally Jessy.

  “I’d rather have a Birkin.” Jennifer opened the bag, revealing an impossibly chic jumble—sunglasses, Louis Vuitton wallet, tube of Estée Lauder “Jungle Red” lipstick, tin of Altoids, thick stack of invitations. Dorothy thought she saw condoms; a whole strip of them, each little square attached to the next like travel-sized Polident tablets. Although it might have been snacks, Fruit Roll-ups, or hermetically sealed teabags. Before Jennifer shut her bag, Dorothy thought she spotted a T and a J on the foil.

  “Stop looking at my stuff.” Jennifer slung the bag over her arm. “I don’t look at yours.”

  “Count your lucky stars. You’d get snakebit,” said Dorothy. Her granddaughter reminded her of someone—not Clancy Jane, not Miss Betty, but her own self. A thousand years ago, Dorothy had been a ring-tailed tooter.

  “I wish Mother could see my Birkin. Remember that horrible fight we had about the pronunciation of Hermès?”

  Dorothy made no comment. She’d heard this story before. Bitsy and Jennifer had agreed the “H” was silent, but they’d been divided about the “s” and the “è.” Bitsy had pronounced it “Air-mess”; Jennifer had insisted it was “Er-Mays.” Bitsy had pointed out that she’d recently heard the proper pronunciation in the Paris boutique, and Jennifer had demanded to know why her mother could jet off to France and not the U.S.

  “I have been there,” Bitsy had said. “In fact, I was in Atlanta last summer buying fabric for—”

  “You were that close, and you didn’t even call?” Jennifer had cried.

  “I tried several times,” Bitsy said.

  “You didn’t leave a message.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “My answering machine never malfunctions.”

  “Maybe you accidentally erased it?”

  “You could’ve at least called Dorothy, or even Clancy Jane, but no, that was too much trouble.”

  When Dorothy had heard about Bitsy’s secret trip to the States, she’d sided with Jennifer, and the two of them had gleefully indulged in Bitsy-bashing. For a time, Dorothy and her granddaughter had seemed to bond. Jennifer began phoning late at night, and they’d complain about Bitsy for hours, dredging up her peccadilloes, obsessing over her shortcomings. And they had so many to choose from—why, Bitsy’s flaws were as plentiful as the weeds in Dorothy’s garden. She had forgiven her daughter—she always did—but Jennifer had been less magnanimous.

  Now, Jennifer rubbed the Birkin, her fingers leaving smudges over the leather. “I can’t stay long today. In fact, I’m late for the bank. But I have a quick question.”

  Dorothy prepared herself for a lecture. When it came to her granddaughter, there was no such thing as a quick question. And lately, every single time the girl came over, she nagged Dorothy about her wedding attire. That was what she called it: Attire.

  “But you haven’t even given me a kiss,” Dorothy said.

  “Not now, Dorothy.” Jennifer stepped backward. “You’re filthy. What’s that in your hands?”

  “Privet hedge.” Dorothy held up the weeds.

  “Well, throw it away.” Jennifer waved one hand. Her nail beds were inflamed and ragged. What would make a woman gnaw her own hands like that? Dorothy wondered. Especially one who was a slave to fashion. What quirks lay beneath her privileged upbringing? Personally, Dorothy thought her granddaughter had been indulged with one too many shopping sprees and bikini waxes. Dorothy knew all about that procedure, and she thought it was ridiculous. In her old age, she’d grown to like body hair. And why endure pain to get rid of it, especially when it didn’t show? Jennifer swore it was the latest trend, but Dorothy had no intention of surrendering a single pubic hair.

  “I hope you’re wearing gloves for the wedding.” Dorothy picked up her granddaughter’s hand.

  “I’m getti
ng acrylics.”

  Dorothy dragged her eyes away from those horrible nails and studied her granddaughter’s petite frame. Why, she was almost the size of a whip-pet or Italian greyhound—two breeds Dorothy wouldn’t own if you paid her. She circled her fingers around Jennifer’s wrist. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “God, no.” Jennifer pulled her hand out of Dorothy’s grasp.

  “But you’re too thin. Let me fry you an egg. Or would you prefer poached?”

  “My wedding gown is a size two. One egg, any style, and I’ll have to find a seamstress.”

  “But I know you drink coffee. I’ve got a fresh pot in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll get a cup at the bank.”

  “Not like mine. I buy my beans from Clancy Jane. Your mother loves how I make coffee.” Dorothy began to chatter about the differences in beans, then she gave Jennifer a recipe that called for coffee. While she talked, she excitedly waved her hands, and the Pomeranians scrambled to their feet and started barking. The male began to yodel, and Dorothy snapped her fingers. “Sit! All of you!” she bellowed. The dogs eyed each other warily; they skittered in agitated circles before reluctantly perching on their furry tails. The male gave a disgusted snort and showed Dorothy his teeth. The dogs looked miserable, like prisoners let out for exercise, but they didn’t flinch. They kept their butts down and their beady little eyes trained on Dorothy, waiting for the next command.

  “I didn’t come here to discuss recipes,” said Jennifer. “I don’t even like to cook. What I came to ask is, have you decided what you’re wearing to the wedding festivities?”

  “Not this again.” Dorothy looked up into the trees. “For the last time, I’m wearing suits. One to the rehearsal and one to the wedding.”

  “I just hope they’re dressy. Can’t you buy a gown?”

  “But they’re designer suits.”

  “And did you buy them for my wedding, at a department store, or at a garage sale?”