I hadn’t gone a block when I saw and heard a black-and-white police car zooming up behind me, blue lights wheeling, as it closed in on my Cadillac. The siren got louder. Alice Ann turned around, grasping the seat with one freckled hand.
“They can’t be after us,” I said.
“You were probably going too slow,” she said.
The police car pulled up alongside the Cadillac. The officer was shouting and pointing at the roof of my car. I rolled down the window, stuck out my head. “What’s wrong?” I hollered into the wind.
“Stop the goddamn car!” he screamed. “You got a baby on the roof !”
I stared at him, uncomprehending, then my mouth fell open. “Oh, my God.”
Alice Ann sat on her knees, peering into the empty backseat. “You stupid idiot, you forgot Jennifer!”
FROM THE DESK OF CLANCY JANE FALK
Dear Dorothy,
They wouldn’t let us see Bitsy until the hearing, and even then, she was surrounded by two police officers and a court-appointed attorney. I sat in the back of the courtroom with Byron, We had persuaded Violet to stay in Knoxville, promising to keep her informed. However, Mack had insisted upon coming along. He was seated next to me, and he kept shifting on the bench, causing his trousers to hike up, revealing his prosthetic leg. For his sister’s hearing, he’d shaved off his beard, and he’d been allergic to the aftershave—his chin and neck were pocked with red blotches. Every few minutes he’d reach up and scratch, then nervously push his hair out of his eyes. It was chin-length and wavy, several shades lighter than his sister’s, from working long hours in the sun.
A little man stood up and said something about the State of Mississippi vs. Bitsy Wentworth, case number 4152. The Wentworths sat on the other side of the courtroom, looking smug as their attorney rattled off Bitsy’s crimes: assault and battery, two counts of kidnapping, forgery, fraud, grand theft auto, and reckless endangerment of a minor child. The attorney didn’t bother to tell the truth about that demon child from Memphis, even though Alice Ann had finally told the truth, that she hadn’t been kidnapped, that she had lied.
The judge listened to Miss Betty’s lawyers, then he listened to Bitsy’s public defender. I could tell that the judge wasn’t impressed. He ordered Bitsy to sign a legal document to relinquish her custodial rights to Jennifer. Then he told her to sign another paper saying she wouldn’t contest the divorce the Wentworths were getting for Claude. Bitsy burst into tears and refused to give up her baby. Then the judge threatened to hold her in contempt and painted a bleak picture of the Mississippi prison system. Bitsy still wouldn’t sign. The judge leaned forward and told Bitsy and her lawyer to approach the bench. Furious whispering commenced, with the red-faced judge talking so fast spittle flew off his mouth onto the documents he kept waving. Bitsy bent over double, crying and crying. The judge kept on talking. I couldn’t hear what he said. Finally Bitsy straightened up and reached for the pen. The judge slammed his gavel and the little old man stood up again and announced case number 4153, the State of Mississippi vs. Donnie Ray Weemus. Bitsy just stood there, staring up at the judge.
“You’re free to go,” he said.
In the back of my mind, I kept hearing Janis Joplin singing about her and Bobby McGee and what freedom meant.
We herded her into their car and left Point Minette that evening, driving on Mississippi backroads and then cutting over to Alabama. Her entire crime spree had lasted a month, but it seemed longer. Byron and Mack were silent all the way to Birmingham, but I kept asking, “Bitsy, why did you run away? What were you thinking?”
Bitsy was curled up on her side in the backseat and didn’t seem to be thinking much of anything. Maybe it was the two Valiums she’d been given. I fiddled with the radio, but every station was staticky.
“Did you plan to stay on the Gulf Coast?” Byron asked. “And never see your family again?”
“If that’s w-w-what it took to keep my baby,” Bitsy said. Then she began to cry—big, wracking sobs that shook the whole backseat.
“At least you aren’t going to jail,” Byron said.
“Those goddamn Wentworths. Bringing in those Vanderbilt lawyers!” Mack said and hit the dashboard with his fist. “Bitsy never had a chance.”
“And did you see Miss Betty?” I asked. “She was prancing around that courthouse like she was a member of the Royal Family.”
Oh, I know all about that woman. Miss Betty might act like royalty, but her daddy used to sell shoes on the Square. Little Betty Stewart had come a long way. Or maybe she hadn’t. Just a few hundred years ago her ancestors were painting their faces Smurf Blue and burning people alive in wicker cages. Now, of course, she wore Max Factor, but everything she touched turned to ashes.
Well, that’s all for now. I will write again when I have more news.
Love,
Clancy Jane
LETTERS FROM CENTRAL STATE
October 17, 1972
Dear Betty,
Years ago we were friends—not the closest in the world, I’ll grant you, but we belonged to the same bridge club and went on the same annual trip to Florida every single year. Also, we are Jennifer’s grandmothers and this binds us in a special way. Because of our friendship and kinship, I am begging you to please let Bitsy see her daughter. If you’re afraid of what’ll happen, that Bitsy’ll run off again, then send the police or the National Guard. But please don’t come between a mother and a daughter.
Sincerely,
Dorothy
November 8, 1972
Betty,
My last letter to you came back in the mail—return to sender was scrawled on the envelope. I recognized your handwriting, that back-slanted block print you’re so fond of using. Just for your information, I am not a bad penpal. I write regularly to Pat Nixon, and she NEVER sends my letters back. So I’m asking you one more time to please let Bitsy see our mutual grandchild. If you don’t, it will warp her. Poor Jennifer is the one who’ll pay for your selfishness. Do you realize that I myself have never laid eyes on Jennifer? But you don’t hear me complaining. Never mind that YOU get to see her every day. A grandmother can’t take the place of a mother. You can try but you will fail.
Dorothy
FROM THE DESK OF CLANCY JANE FALK
November 15, 1972
Dear Violet,
Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I will be so happy to see you. Here in Crystal Falls we’ve had one problem after the next. I drove by Bitsy’s old house on Tarver, and it’s been rented out to a family of five. I knocked on the door, told them who I was, and asked if they’d found any of Bitsy’s things. They didn’t know what I was talking about. I tried to reach Chick at the bank, to tell him that I would pay to have Bitsy’s things brought over here. It’s not like she had a lot. But he never returned my calls. Later I found out that they’d hired movers to pack up her belongings and take everything to the dump.
The poor kid is shaky, like she’s recovering from a near-fatal illness. Things really got worse for her when a packet arrived in the mail of all those papers she signed down in Mississippi. It just reopened the wounds.
When you come home, you might get a shock when you see Bitsy’s room. Miss Betty returned all of the stuffed animals that we’ve been sending to Jennifer. I hid them in the upstairs closet, and then one day Bitsy opened the door and was hit by an avalanche. Pink and blue teddies came tumbling out. So now all those bears and stuffed poodles are on Bitsy’s bed, and she sleeps with her arms around the big pink bear. She carries a little pink kitten—stuffed of course—around in her purse. It’s her security cat. I’m wondering if it is a substitute for Jennifer. Or maybe she is regressing. I tried to look it up in Byron’s textbooks, but I couldn’t find a single mental disorder that centers around stuffed animals. Maybe you can think of one.
Byron says she’s grief-stricken. I sure can relate to that. But even though Jennifer is alive, her absence must feel like a death. Maybe when you come home, we can take Bitsy on
a shopping trip to Nashville. We’ve tried to shop right here in Crystal Falls but people were just too rude.
Well, so much for good Christian ethics. It’s no small wonder that organized religion has turned me into an atheist.
Love,
Your heathen Mama
A LETTER FROM BITSY
December 30, 1972
Dear Jennifer,
Happy Birthday, honey. I can’t believe you will be 1 year old tomorrow. I wonder how many words you’re saying now, and if your hair is still curly blond and if you still remember me. In my mind’s eye, I will be with you tomorrow. I hope you get lots of presents and I hope you like the stuffed panda. I’m sending this a day early so you’ll be sure to have it at your party. I will always love you and you will always be my baby.
Love,
Mother
Part 2
FROM THE DESK OF CLANCY JANE FALK
January 9, 1973
Dear Dorothy,
The holidays were tough. Chick stopped by with all the letters and presents Bitsy had sent to Jennifer for Christmas & her birthday. Bitsy just cried and cried. The Wentworths are determined to remove her from her baby’s world. And I fear they might succeed.
Last Sunday morning the temp. rose into the 60s, Bitsy and I went outside and sat in lawn chairs. It was chilly, but still possible for her to get some sun. She is so pale the veins beneath her skin are visible. This could be a vitamin deficiency. One day I kept track of what she ate—one strawberry, a teaspoon of soup, half a sugar cookie, and a sip of hot tea. Every bone in her face is visible. She has sworn off men and love. I told her not to be hasty, that she couldn’t judge all men by Claude. But she just shook her head.
With or without a man, she still needed to do something with her life, so I sent off for an application to the Crystal Falls School of Cosmetology. I know you don’t approve of such, but thought it was something she could succeed at. Plus she’s always liked that sort of thing. All it takes to be a beautician is six consecutive weeks and a fondness for hair. I helped her fill out the application. But when it asked for a list of her hobbies, she wrote down “putting on makeup.” I felt bad for her when she had to put a checkmark in the box that asked about a criminal record. The school sent Bitsy a rejection letter. I stuck it in an old Reader’s Digest. No need for her to know about it. Next week I will drive her out to Central State so y’all can visit.
Love,
Clancy Jane
FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS DEMOCRAT
CAFÉ UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT
—From “Talk of the Town,”
a column by Rayetta Parsons, June 1973
The Green Parrot Café will open its doors for noonday business, on June 6 at 11 A.M. Formerly the location of Velma’s Diner, the café has done more than remodel the building. The café’s new owners, Clancy Jane Falk and Zach Lombard, have overhauled the menu. Falk, a native of Crystal Falls, is the wife of a local physician, and she is interested in a healthy, wholesome cuisine. Lombard hails from Ithaca, New York, where he cooked at the Moosewood Restaurant. “I’m excited at the prospect of introducing Crystal Falls to international cooking,” he told this reporter. For those of you expecting a meat and three, you might be disappointed with the café’s selections, because the menu isn’t typical Southern fare. Even if you aren’t “into” faddish food, you will enjoy the “jungle motif” atmosphere, which is unique to this part of Tennessee. Ceramic parrots and stuffed monkeys dangle from the ceiling and peep out of the numerous potted palm trees. The vinyl booths have been upholstered in dark green. Ferns and Tarzan-like trees have been painted on the walls. If you look real close you can see parrots hiding in them. A stereo plays bird screeches for your dining enjoyment. On opening day only, the waitresses will wear parrot suits. However, Mr. Lombard emphasizes that the interior design has no bearing on the cuisine. “It’s neither South American nor African, although the ethnic is certainly celebrated,” Lombard said. “It’s a sampling of many cuisines, including vegetarian.”
The menu will include such exotic dishes as gazpacho, tabouli, and melted medley in a pita. A children’s menu offers tofu nut balls, grilled cheese, and peanut butter and honey. All children’s meals will be served with complimentary homemade animal crackers. The desserts include cheesecake with chocolate cookie crust, poppy seed muffins, carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and Albanian chocolate mousse.
Bitsy
From the back of the café, I watched customers stream through the door, the bell tinkling above their heads. I was hot and tired, and I felt ridiculous. For the opening I was wearing a custom-made bird suit, complete with feathered headgear. I straightened my plastic beak, and wished Clancy Jane had named her café something else.
“You need to get out of the house,” Aunt Clancy had told me when she’d gotten the idea to open a cafe. “You’ve sat around moping long enough. And I could use your help with my café.”
“Do I have to?” I asked and swallowed hard. I kept hoping to hear from the beauty college but I never had.
“No,” said Aunt Clancy, “but I wish you would. Nearly one whole year has passed since the scandal, and people have moved on to fresh gossip. So if you’re scared of facing people—”
“I’m not,” I said. I honestly didn’t mind what people thought of me, but I was scared that I’d stir up gossip and lose all chance of winning back my daughter. After I lost custody, I stayed in one of Aunt Clancy’s bedrooms for weeks, creeping downstairs for coffee and the morning paper. All the area newspapers had written about my troubles. “Kidnapped Tot Reunited With Frantic Relatives,” announced the Nashville Tennessean. “Local Woman’s Crime Spree Ends,” asserted the Crystal Falls Democrat. My mug shot was on the front page—hair tousled, neck scabbed and bloody, mouth wide open. Now, almost a year later, I was still something of a pariah—my “P” word for the day.
Days before the café opened, I’d stopped by Noke’s Butcher Shop to pick up cheese and spotted one of my bridesmaids from my first wedding to Claude, Kara Lynn Ketchum. I hadn’t seen the girl since 1971, at a baby shower for Jennifer. She had given the baby a blanket, mono-grammed W for Wentworth.
Kara Lynn was shouting at hard-of-hearing Mr. Nokes. “I want this,” tapping the glass case, pointing to a sirloin roast.
“This?” Mr. Nokes held up baby back ribs.
“No, the r-o-a-s-t,” shouted Kara Lynn. Her daddy owned the Buick dealership, and they kept their money at the Wentworths’ bank.
“Eh?” Mr. Nokes wrinkled his nose.
Under the pink lights the meat looked plush and velvety. The butcher picked up the roast with his fat fingers and plopped it onto the scale.
“Hi, Kara Lynn,” I said.
Kara Lynn turned and froze. “Bitsy,” she said in a flat voice. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I thought you’d left town.”
“No, I’m still here,” I said, stung by the harsh look in my former friend’s eyes. We’d known each other since kindergarten. Kara Lynn turned back to the butcher. He was tearing off a strip of white crinkly paper. “That’ll be all, Mr. Nokes. How much?”
“What?”
“I said, how much do I owe you?” She waved her pocketbook in the air. “Good grief, how MUCH?”
I rolled my eyes. So this was how it was going to be. Kara Lynn paid the butcher, then she collected her package and hurried toward the door without glancing at me. The door slammed and Kara Lynn hurried down the sidewalk.
“Next!” cried Mr. Nokes, even though I was the only customer in the shop. I stepped up to the case and told him I was from the Green Parrot. “I’m here to pick up the cheese,” I said, carefully enunciating each word. Then, on impulse, I pressed a finger against the glass case, pointing at the baby back ribs. “And I’d like these, too,” I added.
Now, huddled in the back of the café, I glanced down at my costume. My promise to help Aunt Clancy hadn’t included wearing a feathered suit. I could hear the kitchen radio blaring out the midday news. Watergat
e, John Dean, Nixon, Vietnam. Aunt Clancy listened to the news, then hurried away. She wasn’t wearing a bird suit. She was decked out in a long paisley skirt and a ruffled peasant blouse and lots of turquoise beads around her neck. She had always turned up her nose at the Bobbie Brooks separates I favored, preferring chic, hippie outfits that suggested journeys and far-flung places. Her closet was full of Indian muslin, Scandinavian sweaters, crocheted shawls studded with beads, sheer linen blouses with satin ribbons and eyelet trim. It occurred to me that her taste was as unique and colorful as the selections on the café’s menu. She’d wanted the place to have an exotic decor, and in the weeks before opening day, we’d painted a mural—a dense jungle filled with monkeys, palms, and birds. Above my head, a ceramic macaw twirled from a length of fishing line. When the air conditioner was blowing just right, the way it was doing now, the bird resembled a vulture. Its under-side had a large hole, just below the tail, which was unseemly for an eating establishment. Zach and Violet had hung a bird over every table, and when I saw the customers gaze up at them with horror, I knew what was on their minds. I told them to relax, those were china birds, not real ones.
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