“What for?”
“To tell her about Dorothy. And to see if she’s coming to the wedding.”
“Don’t look at me, Sis.” Mack peered into the vanity mirror, wiping one finger down the grimy surface. Then he stared at his blackened fingertip. “I’m tired of Mama’s spells. One day, she’ll have a real one. I don’t think she’s been taking her medicine like she should of.”
“She probably hasn’t.” I stood up, brushing my hands together. “She’s let the house get out of control.”
“Well, shit. What else is new?” Mack shrugged. “I try to avoid the upstairs. I don’t go no farther than the kitchen.”
“We ought to clean it while she’s in the hospital.” I lifted one arm, gesturing at the bric-a-brac stacked along one wall, and cardboard boxes overflowing with out-of-style clothes.
“We’ll need us some wheelbarrows.”
“A lorry would be better.”
“I used to know a girl named Laurie. I wonder if she’s still around. I could give her a call.”
“No.” I spelled it. “That’s what the British call trucks.”
“Well hell, I can’t imagine what kind it would be,” he said, “with a prissy name like that.”
Clancy Jane
Clancy Jane slouched on her sofa, eating lo mein and spareribs from Peking Chinese. With a greasy finger, she flipped the remote control from HBO to Home Shopping Network. A big-breasted blonde was selling Loma’s Self Tanner, not a stain, not a dye, yours for only $23.95. What a rip-off. She tuned to the music channel, Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt were singing a duet. Their voices melded together, entangled like lovers.
A noodle fell on Clancy Jane’s robe, a recent catalog purchase. It had come with tuxedo cat slippers. She reached for the noodle and ate it. A striped kitten, Jellybean IV, stopped washing his face to stare, as if to say, Your manners, my dear. Clancy Jane’s mountain was a halfway house for felines. She had abandoned Buddhism for the Tao of Meow. The empty spaces in her rooms—and there weren’t many—were filled with kitty kitsch. Mugs, night-lights, tissue holders, trivets, pillows, and teapots. Her Volvo sported a bumper sticker that said: My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student. In her everyday conversations, she sprinkled phrases like cat’s pajamas and catnaps. If people thought she was crazy, they were probably right. Violet called it feline mania, but she contributed to the fetish. Every Mother’s Day, she dutifully sent a Laurel Burch plate, which Clancy Jane proudly displayed in her brand-new reproduction Welsh cupboard.
During her hippie days, she’d scoffed at gray-haired ladies who kept cats. Actually, she’d scoffed at just about everything. She picked up a rib, bit off a chunk of glistening fat. These days, Clancy Jane preferred meat to vegetables. She also preferred strangers to family. Her friends were selected from Crystal Falls’ avant-garde community and they understood her need for solitude. Her years in the New Mexico commune had preprepared her to live in a self-contained environment—baking bread, preserving vegetables. The Java Hut brought her into contact with everyday people, and it wasn’t always pleasant, but the minute she drove up the mountain to Cat Crossing, a peaceful, easy feeling washed over her, just like in that old Doobie Brothers song. Her mountain was more of a steep ridge, but it was high enough to have its own climate. In the past few weeks, she’d awakened to a dusting of snow, and when she’d driven down to Crystal Falls, it was sunny and springlike, with people walking around in short sleeves.
Jellybean’s ears swiveled, and a few seconds later, a car rumbled up the long gravel drive. Still holding the rib and lo mein carton, she ran over to the window. A white Jeep was moving ahead of a dust cloud. Her heart began to thud, and she wondered if the car’s owner meant to do her harm—maybe he was a cat burglar. She looked at the sparerib, wondering if she could use it as a weapon. Bitsy had. And it would make a good headline: BURGLARY FOILED, VICTIM CREDITS CHINESE FOOD.
Clancy Jane watched as the car stopped. The door opened, and a pretty blond woman climbed out. The cats ran to the foot of the staircase. They hated strangers. But this wasn’t a stranger. Clancy Jane leaned closer to the windowpane. This was her niece. She stuffed the rib into the carton of lo mein and set it on the coffee table. Then she wiped her hands on her robe. When she started toward the door, the cats bolted up the stairs, their claws snicking on the wood, and just for a moment, Clancy Jane felt like hiding, too. But she couldn’t. If Bitsy was home, there was trouble, and it probably had something to do with Jennifer’s wedding. Clancy Jane had followed her great-niece’s parties in the local paper thinking they seemed like episodes from a serial novel.
Clancy Jane and Bitsy greeted each other like long-lost Alpha Delta Pi sisters. “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Clancy Jane said, pulling away from Bitsy. “I haven’t had time to clean. I went to a yoga class this afternoon and stopped by Peking Chinese for takeout. Would you like a sparerib?”
“No, thanks, but could I have a cup of tea?”
“I’ll just put the kettle on,” Clancy Jane said, squeezing Bitsy’s hand. “I’m thinking of redecorating my house. Are you familiar with feng shui? Well, I’m thinking of doing that. Although in this house, I might should call it fang shui.”
Bitsy laughed and hugged her aunt. “I’ve missed you so much.”
Later, sipping her tea from a yellow mug shaped like a cat, Bitsy asked about Violet.
“I haven’t heard a peep. She’ll never change,” said Clancy Jane. “Do you know that her favorite movie is still Lawrence of Arabia? Each time she sees it, she gets an urge to go camping. Did you know that she still carries a Swiss Army knife in her purse? Lucky for her that George is so outdoorsy.” As Clancy Jane chattered, her face lit up. “They just bought a new house. I haven’t seen pictures, but Violet says it’s glass-and-wood, with entrancing views of Boulder. I wish they didn’t live so far away. I wish for too much, I guess.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m starting to sound like your mother. How is she? I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“At the moment she’s subdued. Or should I say drugged? She’s in the hospital. Just a dizzy spell. Byron called it a panic attack. He’s her doctor.”
“I haven’t seen the man in years. You’d think that he’d buzz by my coffee shop once in a while. But he can drink his coffee wherever he goddamn pleases. So, Dorothy is all right?”
“Physically.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect. Or, as Violet says, purrfect.” Clancy Jane smiled, the skin around her eyes wrinkling. “Speaking of perfection, how is Jennifer?”
“You mean Bridezilla?”
Clancy Jane rolled her eyes again. “You’ll have to tell me all about the wedding. All of the vile details.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Sweetie, I didn’t get an invitation.”
“Don’t feel bad. I barely got one, and even then it was revoked. But you are planning to come, right?”
“Forget it, I’m not a gate-crasher. And I’ve gotten reclusive. I prefer cats to people.” She gestured at two kittens who were creeping from beneath a chair. When Bitsy turned to look, they dashed across the room and climbed up the floral draperies, their claws hooking into the fabric. “I’d just as soon stay on my mountain. When I’m alone, I actually meow to them. And they meow back. I wouldn’t admit that to anyone but you.” Clancy Jane reached out and touched Bitsy’s hair. “Have you ever noticed that craziness tends to run in our family? And we’ve got man problems, too.”
“We’re in good company,” Bitsy said. “Madame Butterfly, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Anna Karenina.” Clancy Jane rolled her eyes. Then she smiled again. “So, tell me about Bridezilla. I want to hear everything.”
Dorothy
The doorbell rang, setting off a cacophony of barking. Dorothy, freshly released from the hospital, called to Bitsy, “I’ll get it!” Pushing her Pomeranians back with her leg, Dorothy cracked open the door and stared into her granddaughter’s kohl-rimmed eyes.
&nb
sp; “Well, it’s about time,” said Jennifer, striding past her grandmother. She was wearing ripped jeans and a hideous bomber jacket, olive satin that turned her eyes a strange, muddy blue. She shrugged off the jacket, showing the label to Dorothy. “Yohji Yamamoto,” Jennifer said. “Eight hundred fifty-five dollars.”
“I wish I had your job.” Dorothy shook her head, silently adding, But I’d wear Givenchy, not Yamamoto.
“You haven’t noticed my shoes.” Jennifer lifted one foot, causing the Poms to scatter.
“You haven’t asked how I’m feeling,” Dorothy said. She ran one hand through her hair. “But I’ll tell you anyway. I had me a little fainting spell, but no need to worry. Although it could be my heart. I just got out of the hospital. Your mother brought me home this afternoon.”
“Well, are you feeling better?”
“Not really.” Dorothy sighed. “My get-up-and-go is gone.”
“It hasn’t gone too far, because you cleaned up the living room.” Jennifer turned in a circle. “It looks…sort of good.”
“Your mother did it,” said Dorothy, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But God only knows what she threw away. I’m afraid to ask.”
“Is she here?” Jennifer glanced around the room.
“In the kitchen,” Dorothy said. “Making tea. I think she smuggled it in from England. Want some?”
“No, thanks. I can’t stay. I have to meet Pierre.”
Dorothy shuddered. She wouldn’t name a basenji Pierre.
Jennifer looked toward the kitchen, where Bitsy was slamming cabinets and clinking china. “The reason I’m here is I need to borrow some of your pictures if you have any. See, Daddy is having a video made for the rehearsal dinner. It kinda shows the story of my life. And they’re doing a parallel one for Pierre. The video man called today and asked for more pictures. I was hoping you’d have a few of me.”
Annoyed by the tone in her granddaughter’s voice, Dorothy lumbered to the bookcase and picked out an album. On the first page was a photograph of Bitsy, posing at her baby shower next to a plastic stork. She was wearing an orange smock and maternity pants. Dorothy hastily turned the page, where there was a picture of a newborn Jennifer. “This must’ve been taken through the window of the hospital nursery,” Dorothy said, pulling the picture out of the plastic sheath. On the back, the photograph was dated and annotated in Bitsy’s loopy, girlish handwriting: “December 31, 1971, My New Year’s Eve Baby!”
“I didn’t realize you had these.” Jennifer pulled the album into her lap and kept turning pages. The baby pictures ended abruptly in the fall of 1972. In 1974, the photographs resumed. Under the first pictures, in trembly script, Bitsy had written “Jennifer, age 2.” A later picture showed Jennifer dancing in the front yard with Clancy Jane and Violet, all three of them holding hands and laughing. On the back, Bitsy had scrawled: “Doing the rain dance, Jennifer, age 4.”
“There’s lots you don’t know,” Dorothy sniffed.
Bitsy appeared in the doorway holding a wicker tray. She blinked at her daughter’s satin jacket and tight jeans, the cropped hair. The nose ring, in particular, was shocking. “Jennifer,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Hi, I’m just getting some pictures.” Jennifer glanced at her mother then turned to Dorothy and held up the album. “Can I take it? I see several pictures that’ll be perfect for the video.”
“Well, I suppose,” Dorothy said, looking up at Bitsy. “Just as long as you promise to return it.”
“Actually, I’d like to take all the albums.”
“Just be careful,” Dorothy said. “We’d sure hate to lose them.”
“I won’t.” Jennifer tilted the book, pointing to a photograph where she was holding a wide-mouth bass. “This will be awesome.”
“That was your first fish.” Dorothy beamed. “Your uncle Mack took you fishing at Center Hill.”
“Funny, I don’t remember.” She studied the caption beneath the picture. Jennifer, age 5. She turned to a picture of herself blowing out six candles on a cake, surrounded by two generations of Hamilton women. “We had your birthday party a week early that year, because the Wentworths were taking you on a trip to Hilton Head.”
“How come I don’t remember any of this stuff?” Jennifer pursed her lips. “Traumatic memory loss?”
Bitsy and Dorothy exchanged glances. It was an awkward moment, and Dorothy jumped right into the middle of it. “Now that we’re here together,” she said. “I think it’s high time that we all sat down and talked about that.”
“I told you, Pierre is waiting.” Jennifer gathered the albums into her arms and scrambled to her feet. She started for the door, but her grandmother stopped her.
“Not so fast,” Dorothy said. “You get your little butt back in here.”
“I can’t. I’m seriously late. Look, I’ll call tomorrow, and we’ll set up something. Okay?”
She hurried out the door, onto the screened-in porch. Dorothy walked over to the window and parted the curtains. “She better return my pictures,” she whispered to herself, “or I’ll hire me a hit man.”
Bitsy
After Dorothy went to bed, I called Violet, bringing her up to date on the latest Hamilton-McDougal misadventures. “I didn’t get an invitation, either,” she said.
“This is so strange,” I said. “Why would Jennifer leave out one whole side of her family? Are we that awful?”
“Do you really have to ask? You’re practically an ex-con. Dorothy’s a little cuckoo, but I think her eyebrows are what’s more worrisome to Jennifer. Not to mention Mack’s artificial leg. And, of course, Mama’s reputation was never the best. But I’m really pissed at Jennifer. She could have sent me an invitation. I’m no slouch. And my husband is a tenured professor.”
“I talked your mother into coming, invitation or not.”
“So?”
“Even Byron will be there.”
“Now that should be interesting. In fact, I’d hate to miss it. Let me check my schedule. I’ve got it right here. Hold on a second.” Violet paused. In the background paper rattled. “Okay, let’s see…no, I can’t make the rehearsal dinner. But the wedding’s a possibility if I can get a morning flight.”
“It isn’t till seven P.M.”
“Too bad Jennifer didn’t run off to Vegas. She could’ve picked the chapel where Mama and Byron got married. Or yours with Louie. Then, after the thrill wears off—and with Jennifer that should take only about two days—they can get a divorce right there.”
“I can’t wait to see you,” I said. “I’ve really missed you.”
“Me, too,” Violet said.
A dazzling spring morning in Crystal Falls. Sunlight blazed through the café curtains that hung crookedly in Dorothy’s kitchen. In the center of the table was a platter of lemon poppy seed muffins. Beside the platter was a vase of pretty yellow weeds. Dorothy reached for a muffin, and her Pomeranians danced around her chair. Across the table, I lifted the tea bag from my mug, then gently squeezed it.
Dorothy glanced at the window, then ran one hand through her hair and said, “Your daughter’s here.”
I put down my mug, transfixed by my mother’s gesture. This was the same one that Jennifer used when she was vexed.
“I wish she’d call before she pops in,” said Dorothy, hastily buttoning her pink muumuu. “It’s not eight A.M. yet, but she’ll walk in here dressed to kill. Fix your robe, Bitsy. Your titties are showing.”
The Pomeranians began to yip, and the back door swung open. When Jennifer breezed into the kitchen, the dogs hopped excitedly around her legs. “Stop it, you monsters!” Jennifer stamped her foot and lifted her briefcase, threatening to crush one of the dogs, but they wouldn’t back off. She looked helplessly at her grandmother. “They’ll ruin my hose. And I’m already late for work!”
“Sit!” Dorothy pointed at the dogs, and they scrambled under the table.
“Wow, they’re so obedient. Just like Uncle Mack.” Jennifer smirked, then
brushed one hand over her pinstriped jacket. She kicked out one leg, showing off skyscraper heels. “Like my shoes?”
“You might start with a simple hello,” said Dorothy, biting into a muffin.
Jennifer ignored her grandmother and glanced at her watch. “I can only stay a minute. But I need to clear something up about the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. We need to get in synch.”
“Do you mean s-i-n-k,” Dorothy asked, wiggling her eyebrows, “or something else?”
“I don’t have time for jokes,” Jennifer said, turning to me. “Let’s discuss wardrobe. I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’m wearing Prada to the rehearsal.”
“Name-dropper,” said Dorothy, pinching off a piece of muffin and tossing it under the table.
“My shoes alone cost…well, you don’t need to know.” Jennifer looked down at her feet. “It would just make you ill. And since I’m obviously nauseating some people in this room, I won’t mention the designer.”
“But isn’t the rehearsal on top of a mountain?” I asked, thinking she’d ruin those Pradas.
“So’s the wedding, in case you’ve forgotten,” Jennifer said. “But the rehearsal dinner is at the country club. It will be formal. So do dress accordingly, and that goes for both of you.”
Dorothy smiled, flashing her teeth, where poppy seeds had gathered along the gum line. “We aren’t nitwits. You can rest assured that I know what formal means.”
“There’s a difference in very formal evening, formal evening, and semiformal evening,” Jennifer continued.
“Will my hot pink muumuu do, honey?” Dorothy asked. Beneath the table, the dogs began to growl. “Listen to that. Aren’t they cute? I ought to make a tape and send it to Letterman.”
“Can’t you pay attention to anything but those dogs?” Jennifer cried.
“Don’t be jealous.” Dorothy reached under the table, snatched a Pom, and plopped it on her lap.
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