Mad Girls in Love
Michael Lee West
for Ellen Levine
We need to know the writing of the past
and know it differently than we have ever known it;
not to pass on a tradition but to break its hold over us.
—ADRIENNE RICH
Contents
We need to know the writing of the past
Prologue
Part 1
Bitsy
Bitsy
Bitsy
Dorothy
Bitsy
Part 2
Bitsy
Bitsy
Clancy Jane
Bitsy
Bitsy and Violet
Part 3
Bitsy
Dorothy
Bitsy
Clancy Jane
Bitsy
Clancy Jane, Bitsy, Violet, Dorothy, and Earlene
Fiona
Walter and His Family
Bitsy
Part 4
Bitsy
Violet Jones
Clancy Jane
Violet and Clancy Jane
Bitsy
Clancy Jane and Violet
Clancy Jane
Clancy Jane and Byron
Bitsy
Violet and Clancy Jane
Clancy Jane
Part 5
Bitsy and Louie
Dr. and Mrs. DeChavannes
Clancy Jane
Bitsy
Dorothy and Louie
Bitsy
Clancy Jane & Violet
Bitsy
Part 6
Jennifer Wentworth
Bitsy
Dorothy & Her Son
Dorothy
Part 7
Dorothy
Clancy Jane
Bitsy
Bitsy and Letters from Home
Jennifer and the Wentworths
Bitsy
Dorothy
Part 8
Bitsy Wentworth DeChavannes
Dorothy and Jennifer
Bitsy
Dorothy
Bitsy
Dorothy
Bitsy
Clancy Jane
Dorothy
Bitsy
The Wentworths and the McDougals
Clancy Jane
Bitsy and Jennifer
About the Author
Also by Michael Lee West Credits
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
A LETTER TO PAT NIXON
Dorothy McDougal
Central State Asylum
Nashville, Tennessee
Monday, October 17, 1972
Dear Pat Nixon,
I don’t know if First Ladies read their fan mail, but I’m hoping this letter finds its way to your desk. I just didn’t know where else to turn. And please don’t be put off by my return address—I’m not crazy. In fact, I’m just as sane as anybody in Washington, D.C. But that’s not why I’m writing. See, my nineteen-year-old daughter, Bitsy, is in a fix. A kangaroo court took her baby daughter away, and now the whole town is buzzing. I’ve enclosed copies of the Times-Picayune, Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Nashville Tennessean, and the Crystal Falls Democrat to give you an idea of what’s happened.
First, let me just say that Bitsy isn’t a violent person. She’s never killed an insect, much less hurt a person. Well, that’s not exactly true. When she was five years old, she accidentally swallowed a ladybug. I was frantic. I thought it might cause a tummy ache, but Bitsy didn’t care about that. She was worried about that bug. Her eyes welled up, then she started to squall. I suggested that we throw a funeral—an in absentia insect funeral. It was real nice. But to this day, when Bitsy is outside, she’s extra careful to keep her mouth shut. So you can imagine my surprise when I heard that she’d bludgeoned her husband. She used a frozen slab of baby back ribs, bought on sale at Piggly Wiggly for thirty-nine cents a pound.
I once had a lip-smacking recipe for baby back ribs—I’d be happy to send you the recipe. And speaking of babies, I remember when Bitsy was pregnant with Jennifer Leigh. Lord, her stomach was huge; I thought she was carrying twins, but the baby merely had a big head. All the Wentworths have gigantic skulls. Unfortunately, I got sent to Central State before my grandbaby was born, and I’ve only gotten to see pictures. Jennifer Leigh will be ten months old on October 31, and her head is a tad large but cleverly hidden by curly blond hair. She’s got her daddy’s pugged nose, along with his red facial moles. This, too, is a Wentworthian trait. Although Claude’s mother, Miss Betty, will probably take the baby to a dermatologist in Nashville and get them burned off. Betty had Claude’s moles burned off. She’d planned for him to get a nose job, too, but it looks like my daughter has done that for him.
Since the so-called crime spree, Bitsy has been living with my sister, Clancy Jane, who never liked me. But I won’t get into that just yet. She reports that Bitsy can’t stop crying, much less get out of bed. These are two things that will get you slapped into the insane asylum. The wards are full of women who are too sad to wash their hair or change their nightgowns. My hair is dry and crackly, but I’d wash it every day if they’d let me out of here. A mother should be allowed to comfort her daughter, even if that mother isn’t right in the head. I always dreamed that we would live next door to each other and dress alike—I’m partial to cardigan sweater sets and open-toed sandals—and maybe we’d have our hair cut in similar styles. But it never occurred to me that we’d have mother-daughter nervous breakdowns.
This is where you come in, Pat—or would you prefer to be called Patricia? We mothers must stick together. (In addition to my daughter, I have a twenty-year-old son named Mack. Maybe Trisha would be interested in meeting him? He lost his leg in Vietnam, but he’s real cute.) Anyway, I was wondering if you’d ask the president if the Supreme Court will hear my daughter’s case. Or maybe Dick himself can make a few phone calls and smooth things over. I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours very truly,
Dorothy McDougal
P.S. Here is my recipe for baby back ribs. It will be a hit at White House dinners!
Dorothy McDougal’s Bourbon-Soaked Ribs
7 to 10 pound rack of pork ribs (defrosted)
1 large white onion
½ cup brown sugar
2 tablespoon Dijon mustard
½ cup soy sauce
¾ cup bourbon
1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1/3 cups apple cider vinegar
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
Salt, pepper, paprika
Mince onion. Into a large bowl, combine all ingredients and mix well. Season ribs with salt and pepper and a sprinkling of paprika. Set in baking pan. Pour sauce over ribs. Chill 8 hours or overnight. Using a charcoal grill, cook ribs for 45 minutes. Serves: 12.
Part 1
Bitsy
TO-DO LIST
OCTOBER 17, 1972
Get out of bed.
Or stay in bed and write down my side of the story.
Find an inexpensive (but smart!) lawyer.
Buy Summer Blonde to touch up my roots.
Notorious. That’s what the Times-Picayune called me. And the Atlanta Journal-Constitution wrote, “Wicked Bitsy Wentworth looks like a blond Barbie—shapely on the exterior, but underneath the plastic is the razor-sharp brain of a teenaged criminal.”
My name is Lillian Beatrice McDougal Wentworth—Bitsy for short—and this is my side of the story: It began two months ago on a hot afternoon in August. The day started out normal. First, I washed my baby’s hair in the kitchen sink. Jennifer has quite a lot of hair for an eight-month-old, so it took a while. I w
rapped her in a towel and we danced around the room. From the top of the refrigerator, the radio was playing Strauss’s “On the Beautiful Blue Danube.” Normally I would be listening to Neil Diamond, but ever since Claude and I had renewed our marriage vows—six weeks ago, to be exact—I was determined to improve myself. After all, Claude was a Wentworth, and his people have been cultured for the last hundred years. Which shouldn’t be confused with buttermilk or bacterial cultures; I’m talking about sophistication. I’d tried to sound stylish by memorizing words from the dictionary, but sometimes I mispronounced the words, and Claude’s mother, Miss Betty, would call me down. But I could stand to listen to classical music, as long as I didn’t have to say the composers’ names.
The baby stirred in my arms, sending up sweet gusts of baby shampoo, and we waltzed to the other side of the kitchen, stepping through puddles of sunlight, which poured through the long windows. Jennifer laughed. It came from her belly and sounded a little like Phyllis Diller, but in a cute sort of way. After I fluffed the baby’s hair and dressed her in a pink sunsuit, I carried her into the living room. I picked up a blanket and was just starting to play peek-a-boo, when I happened to glance at the clock. It was nearly three P.M., and Claude liked his supper on the table by five sharp. I put the baby in the playpen, hurried into the kitchen, and flung open the freezer door. All I could find was an enormous package of ribs. Hoping they’d defrost faster, I shoved the rubber stopper into the sink drain and turned on the water, then I tossed in the package. Next, I changed the radio station to one that played love songs. The Fifth Dimension was singing “One Less Bell to Answer,” and I asked myself why men leave and what did fried eggs have to do with it?
From the living room, I could hear Jennifer banging on her toy xylophone—she sounded extra-talented to me—and then I grabbed the charcoal bag and a tin of lighter fluid. I stepped outside and hunkered next to the hibachi. It was too soon to light the briquettes, but I thought I’d get them ready. As I piled them into the bottom of the hibachi, I tried to remember my mother’s recipe for barbecue sauce—did it call for honey or brown sugar? I couldn’t ask because she was in a psychiatric hospital getting cured of paranoia and in no condition to exchange recipes.
The kitchen phone rang and I hurried back inside, skidding across the linoleum, my polka-dot dress swishing around my legs. I just love anything with polka dots, although gingham is awfully sweet, too. I grabbed the receiver and answered in my breathless Julie Christie voice, the one Claude liked. I’d copied it from Dr. Zhivago.
“Is Claude there?” It was a woman. I didn’t recognize her voice, but it reminded me of sticky hot summer nights on my grandmother’s old screened porch, mosquitoes humming in the damp air.
“No, but I’m expecting him any minute.” I waved my hand, as if shooing a bug.
“I’m sure you are. Never mind, I’ll catch up with him later.” The woman laughed and hung up. I frowned, trying to place the voice. It hummed in my ear in dizzy circles. I wanted to slap it and draw blood. But maybe the caller was one of Claude’s customers. He was a loan officer at Citizen’s Bank where his daddy, Claude Wentworth III, was the president. People were always wanting to borrow money.
From the radio, Petula Clark began singing “My Love.” I stared at the phone a minute. Then I dialed the bank. My love for Claude was deeper than the deepest ocean, and nothing in the world could ever change that love—unless he was up to something.
When the receptionist answered, I pinched my nostrils to disguise my voice. “May I speak to Claude Wentworth IV?” I put emphasis on the numeral, so the woman wouldn’t put me through to Claude III, my father-in-law.
“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist. “He isn’t in his office this afternoon. May I take a message?”
“What do you mean, not in his office?” I cried in my real voice.
“He’ll be here tomorrow,” said the woman. Then in a more suspicious tone, “Who is this?”
I hung up and walked in a daze to the living room. I sank down into a teal blue plaid chair. I’d bought it at Goodwill, then Claude’s mother had her upholsterer recover it in some of her leftover fabric. From this, I had put together a teal-and-white color scheme. Claude said he loved it. But then, he said a lot of things. If he hadn’t been to the bank today, then where had he gone? Across the room, Jennifer had abandoned the xylophone and was busily fitting nesting cups together. She looked up and grinned—the spitting image of the Wentworths, with their high foreheads and curly blond hair. Then she tossed the cups into the air and screeched.
The phone rang again, and I sprang out of the chair, racing into the kitchen. As soon as I answered, the line went dead. Now I was worried. I had seen this happen many times on soap operas, and it meant one of two things, adultery or a contract killing. But usually it was the other woman. A hang-up call was the International Signal for Mistresses. Claude was rich enough to keep a woman, but he wasn’t old enough. Although with his genes, anything was possible. I walked back into the living room and lifted my daughter from the playpen. “We’re going to find Da-da,” I told her as we headed out the door, but she didn’t seem impressed. In the driveway, a hot breeze stirred the upper limbs of the hackberry tree. A wind chime clinked. The air smelled of stale suntan lotion. The source of this odor was the stained mesh chair on the side patio, where Claude often sunbathed. He was finicky about his looks, but so was I. It was the main thing we had in common, besides our precious baby girl. Only this morning, I had helped him select a tie that matched his blue linen suit, and he’d warned me that he might have to work late. “That’s all right, honey,” I’d said, trying to be a good wife. “I’ll have you a nice supper ready when you get home.”
Claude’s black Labrador, a neutered male named Princeton, was stretched out in the driveway. He’d named the dog when he was applying to colleges. By the time the real Princeton had rejected him it was too late to give the dog another name. I stepped over the dog, then flung open the door to my powder blue Mustang and felt inside the baby’s car seat, making certain that it wasn’t too hot, the way Dr. Spock said to do. When Jennifer was strapped in, she squeezed her eyes shut and smiled, baring her rabbit teeth. For a moment my beautiful daughter looked just like Claude’s mother.
First, I sped over to the bank, praying that the secretary had been mistaken. When I didn’t see Claude’s Corvette—white with an orange Go Vols! sticker in the rear window—I drove to the Mountain Air Motor Court and swerved into the parking lot, stirring up gravel dust. I circled slowly, hitting the brake each time I saw a squatty white car. The heat plus hysteria was making me queasy, and I could taste my lunch, a peanut butter and banana sandwich. If I’d known I was going to become a girl sleuth, I would have eaten something more soothing, like chicken salad on toast—that’s what Nancy Drew preferred. I hoped that Claude was on the golf course with his daddy, slapping mosquitoes and drinking vodka tonics. But I had a feeling that he’d been up to no good.
Steering back onto the highway, I charged toward the Holiday Inn. I drove up and down that lot, too, but I didn’t see a trace of Claude. I thought about stopping by my aunt’s house for advice, but Clancy Jane had flown to Bermuda with Dr. Falk, her new husband. None of my relatives was in town. My father was on a church trip to Gatlinburg; my brother, Mack, was in Myrtle Beach with his wife, Earlene; my cousin Violet had gone back to college, and, of course, my mother was locked up.
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