“Well, they’re not,” said Violet. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
We played hooky from the café and drove straight home. Violet got out of the car and flopped down in the hammock saying she was dying of thirst. She had grown up to be a natural beauty—high cheekbones, thick lashes that didn’t require mascara, but she’d never cared about her appearance.
“Can you fix us something cool to drink?” she asked. Then without waiting for an answer, she said, “Go make us some frozen margaritas.”
“But it’s the middle of the afternoon,” I cried. “I don’t want to be like Miss Betty.”
“She doesn’t drink margaritas, does she? Stop looking at me that way; I’m parched. Go inside and crush up the ice in the blender. And don’t put in too many ice cubes or it’ll be lumpy. Cut you a fresh lime. Then look in the bottom cupboard and get the Triple Sec and tequila. Don’t forget to put salt on the glasses. Use the giant brandy snifters, okay? But rub the rims with the lime wedge and roll the rims into salt. Not just regular salt, but kosher or sea salt—”
“I know how to fix margaritas,” I said over my shoulder, then hurried into the kitchen before she could think of another command. My cousin would’ve made a good director. Or else a four-star general. Aunt Clancy always said that Violet had been this way since the day she was born. Personally, I thought college had turned her into a know-it-all. She was just a year younger than me, but she seemed older. Still, I couldn’t fault her, because she was right most of the time. And I was mostly wrong.
I dug the Waring blender out of the cabinet and then ground up the ice, just the way Violet had instructed. Lord God, if Miss Betty could see me now, I’d never get custody of my daughter. I couldn’t find but one brandy snifter. I held it up to the light. Violet had won it at the county fair; it had been a fishbowl with a blue fish swimming inside it. The rim squeaked as I rubbed it with the lime, then I rolled it in kosher salt. As I poured in the thick brew, I wondered how someone like Miss Betty—a closet alcoholic—could be considered fit to raise my child. Even though Claude had sole custody, I knew for a fact that Jennifer lived with his parents. And I was just worried sick that they’d set their house on fire with a cigarette or something.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then shook my head. If only I could get control of my imagination and stop thinking of what could go wrong. Besides, if I had custody of Jennifer, there was no guarantee that I could keep her safe. Just look what I’d done in Point Minette. At least the Wentworths hadn’t left her on top of a car. I walked carefully into the backyard, past the gazebo, toward the hammock. After I sat down, I passed the huge glass to Violet.
“Don’t I get my own glass?” She pushed out her bottom lip, then reached for the glass. “Hey, do you have any germs?”
“Honey, what I’ve got isn’t catching.”
“Are you still upset over your daddy?” Violet tilted the glass toward her mouth and took a greedy gulp.
“Yes.” I nodded. “But not for long. Hurry up and pass me that glass.”
Violet wiped her mouth, then held out the snifter. “I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand, but even old men like your daddy have urges.”
“I don’t even want to understand.” I grabbed the snifter and took a swallow.
“It might not even be sexual.” Violet stretched out, wiggling her toes. “Maybe Uncle Albert needs somebody to take care of him. That’s how his generation thinks. They need caretakers, not lovers.”
“I don’t think my daddy has…well, a private part.”
“Then how’d you get here?” Violet laughed and punched me with her foot. “Listen, maybe he just wanted a good Christian woman.”
“My mother went to church every Sunday.”
“Yes, she went, but her thoughts weren’t with Jesus.” Violet sat up and took back the margarita. “Maybe he thinks he can dominate a churchy girl.”
“Then he must be a fool. Have you ever seen a man dominate a Christian woman?”
“Well, not unless he had a whip in his hand.”
“My daddy would never do that.”
“All he’d have to do is quote Ruth—your people are my people, etc.” Violet laughed. “He couldn’t do that with your mother. Aunt Dorothy wore the pants in your family, and don’t try to deny it.”
“But look what happened.” I ducked my head, and a tear hit my hand.
“Jesus, don’t go to pieces on me!” Violet leaned forward, sloshing her drink, and patted my arm. “Hey, I know what. Let’s ditch these homemade margaritas and go barhopping.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“But this is an emergency. Uncle Albert is marrying a ninny.”
Finally we decided it was too much trouble to get up and get dressed. We just sat there, sipping the rest of our margarita, the sky darkening around us. Fireflies appeared, their yellow lights winking on and off, and way off in the distance, I heard neighborhood children playing kick the can. Byron’s MG roared up the driveway. He hurried into the house, not even glancing in our direction. A minute later, Aunt Clancy pulled up in her Volvo. She didn’t see us, either. As she walked up the back steps, Byron opened the door. He drew Aunt Clancy into his arms, and she giggled like a young girl. A long time ago she’d had a drinking problem, but she’d gotten over it. The café had helped. It wasn’t easy being married to a doctor. But, then again, it wasn’t easy being a Hamilton woman.
“Look at them, all lovey-dovey. Maybe they’ll tell their story to Ladies Home Journal.” Violet snorted. “A marriage saved by caramel cake. Isn’t that the stupidest thing?”
I didn’t want to argue, so I said, “Mmmhum.” Then I leaned back in the hammock and made a mental note to get that recipe.
A LETTER FROM CENTRAL STATE
July???, 1973
Dear Bitsy,
I don’t know the exact date because the TV is broken in the day room and without my shows, all the days of my life just run together. Also, Albert brought me a book to read, Jaws, and I got so enthralled that I lost track of everything. But I have come up with an idea. I want you to start writing letters to important people, explaining your plight over Jennifer. I have written the First Lady, and I am seriously thinking of writing Jeanne Dixon, just to see what’s in store for you. Also, I think you should write letters to Jennifer so she can get to know you. It’s probably not a good idea to mail them, as she’s too little to understand what all happened and besides, Miss Betty will just throw them away. Or else she’ll accuse you of harassment. This can happen. A friend of mine here at Central State got accused of doing this—she was in love with her gynecologist and bombarded him with letters and even tried to kill him, so now she’s weaving baskets with me. But you just keep writing letters to your baby because someday she will want to know the truth. Well, I’ve got to run. Here comes the nurse. She’s mad at me because of a little incident the other day. One of the inmates, a geezer-sicko-schizophrenic man, tried to feel my breasts. So I just stuck him with my number 2 pencil, and now the man’s going around saying he’s got lead poisoning. Well, the point did break off under his skin. But a woman has a right to defend herself. And she’s got a right to write letters.
Love,
Mummy
A LETTER FROM BITSY WENTWORTH
214 Dixie Avenue
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
July 15, 1973
Dear Jennifer,
You are too young to read this letter, but one day you will have questions, and I might not be around to answer them. So, no matter what your grandmother Wentworth tells you, I did not give you up without a fight. Your daddy and Miss Betty wanted to put me in jail, and at the time I didn’t think I could fight them in court. Now, of course, I know different. I don’t have the money to hire lawyers, but I’m trying everything within my power to get you back. This is all I’m living for. No matter what happens, I will always love you. And one day you will find your way back to me.
Love always,
Mother
ROWAN, VAN CLEAVE, HARLOW, AND GRIFFIN, PLLC
ATTORNEYS AT LAW
600 First Avenue
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL
July 30, 1973
Lillian Beatrice “Bitsy” Wentworth
214 Dixie Avenue
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
Dear Ms. Wentworth:
All letters to Mr. and Mrs. Claude E. Wentworth III, Mr. Claude E. Wentworth IV, and Jennifer Wentworth (“CLIENTS”) must cease immediately. If the harassment of CLIENTS continues, further action will be required.
Sincerely yours,
Arthur P. Van Cleave III
cc: Mr. and Mrs. Claude E. Wentworth III
Mr. Claude E. Wentworth IV
Mrs. Dorothy H. McDougal
Mrs. Byron Falk
A TAPED MESSAGE TO PAT NIXON
Dorothy Hamilton McDougal
Central State Asylum, Nashville, Tennessee
August 1 or 2, 1973
Dear Pat,
The nurses won’t let me use lead pencils anymore to write letters. Instead they gave me this recording machine, and they promised they’d send you a tape. They’re not supposed to listen to it, either. I just pray they don’t. Maybe they think I’ll unravel the tape and hang myself—I am not their favorite person. But never mind that, enough about me, I just thought I’d drop a line to cheer you up, what with your poor husband on the news every day. One minute he’s signing a $769 million thingamajig—something about the cultivation of weapons, which surely can’t be like the cultivation of orchids. The next minute, he’s telling people to take their subpoenas and stuff them—I guess he wishes he’d never heard the word Watergate. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, either, because the hearings cut into my stories on TV.
Since my last letter, which you failed to answer, I’ve been keeping up with World Events. I may be batty, but I’m not stupid. In fact, some very smart people have been insane. Even a place like Central State has newspapers and televisions—we also get PBS—so I know what’s going on with you and Dick in Washington. My own husband, Albert, isn’t a Republican, and he isn’t a psychiatrist, either. He doesn’t know the first thing about women, and still he’s a skirt chaser, and now I am stuck in this asylum. He put me here by the power of his signature. It was terrible, Pat. I can’t help but call you Pat—or would you prefer Patty?—because I feel like I know you, even though we’ve never met. I think we’d like each other. We both are under the control of powerful men. Dick’s got the Republican party behind him—or he did—and my psychiatrists apparently have the entire TVA at their disposal. All that electricity just for my benefit.
I don’t know if you get PBS in the White House, but if you do, try to catch a rerun of their show on cats. It told all about the common tom cat and how he can sire dozens of litters a night. To reach a receptive female, he will risk unchained dogs and six lanes of traffic. And she will wait for him in the gutter. But if she’s in heat and another tom gets there first, she will lift her tail and squat. Meow, she’ll cry. “Mewowow!” If a cat has these needs, why not Don Juan? Why not Albert? Are humans and animals so very different? Maybe we aren’t. I don’t know. And I don’t ask.
The doctor asks me to look at the inkblot and tell what I see. I see a penis the size of a thumb. Or maybe it’s a thumb the size of a penis. I don’t know. It could even be a chicken. Cock-a-doodle-do! This, I don’t say. It’s not very nice and, besides, you can’t say what you think, whether you’re in an asylum or a beauty parlor.
So I stare at the inkblot. After a moment, I say, “I see a cute little bunny. And over there, I see a flower.” I do not mention the bee in the flower, much less the thorns and aphids. I do not mention the bunny’s manly parts. They drag behind him in the lettuce patch. That’s quite a large ding-dong you’ve got there, Peter Rabbit. I’m not sure if boy rabbits even have manly parts. But I don’t ask, and I do not wonder.
I suppose you’re thinking, How crude! Well, let me explain. I’ve lost more than my social graces in this nuthouse. But as soon as I’m free, I will get them back. In no time flat, I’ll be pouring tea for the church ladies. That is one thing about the good Baptist women in Crystal Falls—they will be nice to me, even if they don’t like me. Not because they fear the wrath of God, but because they don’t want people talking about them, saying they aren’t good Christians.
Pat, I’ve got to break off here, because the nurse is coming straight for me. But it’s been a pleasure chatting with you.
Your friend,
Dorothy McDougal
The nurse told Dorothy that Albert was waiting in the visitors’ lounge. Then she added, “Isn’t that wonderful, Dorothy? Come sit at the nice card table with your husband.”
Dorothy sat down, folded her hands, and nodded at Albert. The sun fell in diamond patterns over her arms. “They might call this a card table,” she told him, “but they won’t give us any cards because of the sharp edges. We can’t play gin rummy in this joint. One of us crazies might slit their throat with the ace of hearts.”
Albert flinched. He had bags under his eyes, but not one gray hair on his head. Dorothy lifted her hand and patted her hair, wishing the asylum had a beauty parlor. Her hair had turned completely white from the shock of being here. Maybe she could persuade Albert to smuggle in a bottle of Fanciful rinse.
“Hello, Dorothy,” Albert said. “You’re looking…” He broke off, as if searching for the right word. “Peaceful,” he finally said. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a long blue folder. Dorothy thought it looked like what the AAA sends before you go on a trip. But on the front it said: Attorney at Law. Two things sprang to Dorothy’s mind. One, he’s hired a lawyer to get her discharged from this stinkhole asylum. Two, he’s hired a lawyer to make sure she never got out. From the pained expression on his face, she figured it was the latter. Her first impulse was to jump on him, tearing his hair out by the roots, but she knew behavior like that would just get her sent to hydrotherapy or E.C.T. In a bughouse, you can’t talk loud or do anything that will draw attention to yourself. A low profile is best on the mental ward.
“I know what you’re up to, and you won’t get away with it,” she said softly, but she made a fist to let him know she meant business. “Why, I’ll escape from this place. And I’ll hunt you down. There’s no place on earth where you can hide.”
“Do what, honey?” Albert’s hand jerked away from the blue folder as if it had stung him. One of the nurses glanced up from a chart she was writing on. Dorothy fixed her mouth into a smile. The nurse went back to writing. Albert looked distraught, more like the inmate. He kept running one hand through his hair.
“We haven’t had a real marriage for seven years,” he said, with a pinched look.
Dorothy’s voice was pure ice, but she kept on smiling. “Don’t give me that crap,” she hissed. “What does our marriage have to do with my incarceration?”
Perspiration slid down Albert’s forehead, and his cheeks turned slightly green, like he was on the verge of throwing up. Dorothy wondered fleetingly what the man had been eating without her to cook for him.
“When did you get this cruel?” Tears sprang into her eyes, but she quickly brushed them away.
“Sugar—”
“Don’t you call me that!” Then she lowered her voice. “If this isn’t cruel, wanting to commit me forever, then I don’t know what the word means. I’ve been good. I’ve tried hard to get well. You signed papers on me once, and I forgave you; but I will never let you do it again.”
“Wait a minute. Commit you? Where, sugar?” His jaw sagged, and his eyes blinked wide open.
“Here!” she cried, and the nurse looked up again. Dorothy gave her a big smile and folded her hands under her chin.
“Why, why…” Albert’s lips parted.
“Close your mouth,” Dorothy snapped. “You look just like a goldfish. A big, fat ugly one.” And he did, she thought. He looked exactly like those fis
h he used to sell at the dime store, the transparent kind where you can see the doody inside, all coiled up like a watch spring.
“I’m confused.” He rubbed the top of his head.
“As usual.” Dorothy rolled her eyes.
“Calm down, Dorothy.”
“I am calm.”
“What’s this about commitment?”
“It’s what you’re trying to pull.” She glanced at his jacket, the ruffled papers peeking out.
“You’ve got it wrong, Dorothy. These papers in my pocket don’t have a thing to do with keeping you here.”
“No?”
“Absolutely not.” He pulled out the blue papers and pushed them into her hands, and repeated that he wasn’t trying to pull anything over on anyone. “I’m not trying to keep you caged. These are only divorce papers.”
Only? Dorothy’s throat tightened. She couldn’t say the word, much less think it. I’ll have to sing it, she thought, like Tammy Wynette (d-i-vo-r-c-e). “I’m going to faint,” she cried to Albert, weaving back and forth. One thing she’d learned at Central State—if you act dizzy, like maybe your inner ear is acting up, the nurses will leave you alone. But it never fails to draw a man. She rose and veered to the left, and Albert’s arms swung open, Johnny-on-the-spot, catching her as she pretended to fall.
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