“Pussified?” Violet said helpfully.
“Exactly,” said Aunt Clancy. She lowered the tongs and went back to fishing out the jars. “But it’s always those silent, cowardly types who do the cruelest things,” she added. “Serving papers to an institutionalized woman is about as low as a man can go.”
“The quicky divorce was worse,” I said and moved back to the stove.
“Is that even legal?” Violet yawned. “So you’re definitely going to go?”
“Of course.” I wiped my hands on my apron, leaving a curved red stain. “He’s my daddy, no matter if he’s marrying a weirdo.”
“Well, I’ve seen her,” said Aunt Clancy. “But I wouldn’t call her a weirdo, she’s just old-fashioned-looking.”
“Uncle Albert always did have a tendency to select peculiar women,” said Violet.
“I hope you’re not including me in his harem,” said Aunt Clancy, laying down the tongs.
“Why not?” Violet shrugged. “You were.”
“For two seconds.” Aunt Clancy laughed. “If that long.”
“And here we are, six years later, still feeling the repercussions.” Violet sighed. She picked up a tomato and balanced it on her palm.
“I wonder if my mother even remembers about you and Daddy,” I said.
“It’s hard to say what Aunt Dorothy remembers,” said Violet, frowning at the tomato.
“It’s those shock treatments. They wiped out her memory. Did you know the electrical impulses actually cause convulsions?” Clancy Jane’s eyes widened.
I gazed back at her. Even though she was thirty-five years old—practically middle-aged—sometimes she looked young, with her small, turned-up nose and pouty lips. Her hair, which was freshly dyed by yours truly, was pinned into a loose bun, with a few tendrils hanging down. She wore blue granny glasses, which hid her beautiful eyes.
“Did I ever tell you about the girl I saw having convulsions?” Aunt Clancy asked me. “She was a little hippie girl on the Haight. She got hold of some bad acid. It happened in front of a head shop—her hands bent at the wrists, jerking under her chin, her eyes rolled back to the white. Her bladder let go and she peed on herself. A big puddle spread over the sidewalk.”
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“I don’t know. An ambulance took her away, and I never saw her again.”
“Aunt Clancy, did you ever take acid?”
“You don’t need to know every little thing I’ve done.” Aunt Clancy smiled. Then she looked at her daughter. “Even Violet doesn’t know everything.”
Violet snorted.
“I’m famished.” Aunt Clancy opened a cabinet. “Where did I put the Cheese Nips?”
“Stop changing the subject,” said Violet.
“I will, if somebody’ll change the radio station.” Aunt Clancy wrinkled her nose.
“But it’s Debussy,” I said.
At this, Violet perked up. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
“And may I ask how you know?”
“The disc jockey just said it. You weren’t listening.”
“WPLN has disc jockeys?”
“Quit needling me. I’m just trying to improve myself.”
“If you’re looking for self-improvement, sweetie,” said Aunt Clancy, “it’ll take more than Debussy.”
“I comprehend that,” I said, happy that I’d slipped in a three-syllable C-word.
Aunt Clancy gave Violet a sly look. “She’s memorizing words from your big, old Webster’s now. Last week it was Cs. This week she’s doing the Ps.”
“What’s today’s word?” Violet smiled. “Prima donna? Princess?”
“Priapism,” I said. Then I stuck out my tongue. “You don’t really know me at all.”
The church stood at the end of a country road. I parked my car and got out, listening to the cicadas shrilling from the weeds. Run, Albert, they seemed to be yelling. It’s not too late! The church itself faced a weedy lot with a NO DUMPING sign nailed to a tree, but the order had been ignored. It was littered with a burned-up stove and a shredded La-Z-Boy recliner, the stuffing frothing out of the back. The sun glimmered on broken beer bottles, and a squalid smell rose up from a rusty metal canister. I wondered if my daddy was too smitten with June to notice the squalor.
I stepped toward the church, carrying a wedding gift in the crook of my arm. I had bought it at the hippie craft store on Constitution Street, a blue pottery bowl with dolphins swimming in a circle. It was signed on the bottom by a local artist. Violet said it was too bad I hadn’t found a bowl with an old decrepit man standing next to a Jesus freak blonde. Mack hadn’t bought our daddy a present. He was staying home with Earlene, watching a football game on TV.
The church was decorated with green balloons and streamers. I picked my way through them, following an old woman up the rickety steps. What this church needed was a Christian sugar daddy. Someone like Albert McDougal, ready to shower money on his bride’s pet projects, such as whitewash and functional windows.
Inside, the heat was almost visible, causing distant objects, like the plastic cross over the altar, to wave and shimmer. Green crepe paper bows adorned every pew, and long curly strands hung from the ceiling. From the altar several dozen candles flickered, giving off a chemical stink. I breathed in the sickening odors of citronella, perfume, and perspiration. A baby wailed, but its mother made no effort to soothe it. A woman with crimped black hair took my gift, then gingerly set it on a table that was already sagging with packages. An usher with a ducktail hairdo popped out of a corner and offered his arm. “Bride’s side or the groom’s?” he asked.
The bride’s side was overflowing, and I suspected that more than a few out-of-towners had been slipped into the groom’s pews. As the usher led me down the aisle, I didn’t recognize anyone except for Mr. Noonan from the Lion’s Club. The back of his neck was wreathed in sweat, beads of perspiration trapped in the webs and wrinkles, seeping into his collar. Everyone looked somber, as if they were waiting for a tetanus shot rather than a wedding. Finally a chubby pianist in a wide green hat emerged from a side door. She sat down on the spindly bench, making the wood creak. Her fat fingers stabbed against the ivory keys and she began playing a clumsy version of “Promise Me.” I thought of my first wedding to Claude. Big, fancy weddings didn’t mean a thing, they just wasted money. If I ever fell in love again—and I didn’t plan on it—I would elope.
Daddy emerged from a door and he took his place in front of the altar. He was joined by his best man, who bore a strong resemblance to June Rinehart: the same prominent teeth and wide-set, bugged eyes and fuzzy blond hair. I wondered if he was June’s brother. Daddy and the man wore matching green suits, with green carnations pinned to their lapels.
The processional took an eternity: seven bridesmaids in kelly green gowns, clutching Bibles rather than bouquets; seven groomsmen, looking uncomfortable in their pale green polyester suits, which bore the telltale marks of Rit Dye. Next came a little redheaded ring bearer, dressed up like an elf. He seemed to be stricken with stage fright. His embarrassed mother got up and dragged the poor child up the aisle. The flower girl suffered from no such affliction. She had long black sausage curls and they bobbed up and down as she turned cartwheels down the aisle, spilling daisies and showing off emerald ruffled pantaloons. Finally an elderly couple, presumably the bride’s grandparents, lurched down the aisle, clutching his ’n’ her walkers. They were followed by the mother of the bride, who, escorted by an usher, waddled up to the front in an ice-green chiffon muumuu, which also looked homemade. A corsage was pinned to her dress. She was a tall, muscular woman, built like an armored tank, and the wooden floor groaned beneath her large feet.
Daddy turned, his eyes trained on the back of the church. His bride stood at the end of the aisle on the arm of her daddy, a bowlegged man with a tuft of white hair and black eyeglasses. As the music played, the duo lurched forward. June’s gown stirred up the daisies. Her dres
s was pretty, ivory silk-satin with a high virginal neckline. Behind the tulle veil, I caught a glimpse of June’s own black-framed glasses and little scrunched-up nose. The pianist stepped up her rhythm, and June moved a bit faster, as if towing her father. She had the air of a missionary eagerly striding on her way to the Amazon. Halfway to the altar, her heel snagged on her veil and she stumbled forward, a blur of high heels and tulle. She screamed, and her old daddy skittered left and sat down hard in a teenaged girl’s lap. The piano music abruptly stopped. A collective gasp rose from the guests. The teenager pushed June’s daddy out of her lap. The bride was lying motionless in the aisle. Then she lifted her head, her eyeglasses and veil askew. Daddy and the best man hurried to untangle the bride from her netting. Several teenage boys hopped up, offering their assistance. By the time they’d seated June’s father with her mother, the bride was back on her feet. She took Daddy’s arm, and the music started.
I was half-expecting the preacher to speak in tongues, or at the very least produce a live rattlesnake; but he cracked open a worn Bible and began to read from I Corinthians. In the background, the baby cried hysterically, but the preacher persevered, raising his voice. The baby wailed louder, then there was a muffled sound—a gloved hand striking bare flesh. The baby’s cries broke off, replaced with a shuddering gasp. A second later the baby let out a blood-curdling scream. A young woman rose from the pew, clutching the squalling infant. She hurried into the aisle and ran out of the church. The cries faded, then ceased.
“You may kiss your bride,” said the preacher. Daddy lifted June’s veil and kissed her, nothing long and lingering, just a peck. The preacher cleared his throat and lifted his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning the couple around, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. Albert McDougal!”
The reception took place in a stuffy building next door. On a wooden plaque, Jesus Is Our Savior was spelled out in silver glitter. There wasn’t any real food, only mints, cake, and punch, all of it tinted in lurid shades of green. The church ladies doled out these refreshments assembly-line fashion. The lukewarm punch, ginger ale mixed with a block of lime sherbet, was sickly sweet. I could manage only a bit of icing. I set down my cup and plate, then worked my way to the end of the reception line, listening to snatches of conversation.
“What a precious wedding,” said the pianist, straightening her enormous green hat.
“And that adorable flower girl!” exclaimed a lady with red hair and blue eyes.
Daddy spotted me at the tail end of the receiving line and stepped away from June, strode forward, and gave me an awkward hug. He smelled of mothballs and sweat, mingled with Old Spice cologne. “I’m so glad you came. I just wish you could’ve brought little Jennifer.”
“The Wentworths won’t let her ride in a car with me.”
“Well, that’s understandable.” Daddy’s shoulders sagged.
“It’s what?” I squinted, wondering if I’d heard him correctly. If my own daddy thought I was a bad mother, then maybe I was. Maybe it was time for me to just give up and be satisfied with my life.
“Are you happy with your waitressing job?” he asked suddenly.
“You’re changing the subject,” I said. “But yes, I like working at the café. Aunt Clancy’s a great boss.”
“I’m sure she is.” He smoothed back his hair. “Listen, honey, I’ve got something to say. I won’t be seeing you for a while.”
“Well, I guess not.” I smiled up at him. “You’re going on your honeymoon.”
“Yes, we’re going to Ruby Falls and Rock City. But that’s not what I meant.” He swallowed, and his bow-tie bobbed ever so slightly. “See, Junie and I are moving.”
“Where to?”
“We’re leaving Crystal Falls. I’m closing the dime store.”
I just stared, shaking my head back and forth.
“That old Ben Franklin store just isn’t making any money. So me and Junie are opening a dish barn on the outskirts of Gatlinburg. We might even sell souvenirs. Junie thinks we should.”
“But…what about me and Mack?”
“Sugar, you know I love you and your brother. But sometimes a man’s got to make drastic changes.”
I kept on staring at him, trying to absorb the information. With Daddy in Gatlinburg and Mummy in the asylum, I was practically an orphan. “Well, this is drastic, all right,” I finally said. “Does Mack know you’re leaving?”
Daddy shook his head, looking down at me from the shadow of his eyebrows. “I was going to tell him, but he’s not here. I was hoping you’d tell him.”
“That’s your job.”
“Well, I guess so.” Daddy rubbed the back of his neck. He looked old, with deep lines radiating from his eyes. Loose flesh hung in folds below his jaw.
“Oh, Bitsy. Don’t look so sad, honey. It’s not the end of the world. I’m not moving clear across the country. I’ll only be a few hours away. And it’s not like you’re a little girl anymore. You’re grown. And you’ll be fine. Won’t you?”
I gaped up at him. The question he’d just posed was imponderable. “Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said because that was what he wanted to hear. I reached down and took his hand, then I brought it up to my cheek. “I’m going to miss you, Daddy.”
“I’ll miss you, too, sugarplum.” He glanced over his shoulder. From the reception line, June was frantically waving at him. He bent over and kissed me on the cheek, then he hurried off to join his bride.
Bitsy and Violet
Daddy’s marriage left me with unstoppable hiccups. They began two nights after the wedding, awakening me from a fitful dream involving green bridesmaids with bell-pepper faces and string-bean-like fingers. At dawn the hiccups escalated, and I kept hitting my chest with my fist, struggling to breathe. To make matters worse, an unseasonable heatwave had settled over the mountains, and the temperature was edging into the mid-nineties. I couldn’t eat or sleep; I could only converse in one-word sentences and desperate gestures.
In the middle of the fourth night, the hiccups made me pee the bed. I needed to take a bath, but I was afraid of waking up Byron and Aunt Clancy, so I crept down the hall to the bathroom and shut the door. Then I perched on the edge of the claw-foot tub, turning on the faucet, just a trickle. The door creaked open, and Aunt Clancy stuck in her head.
“Hey, you all right?” She yawned.
I started to tell her what happened, but a great big bullfrog croak popped out of my mouth. So I just shook my head and pointed to the soiled gown. As my aunt took in my wet spots, three wrinkles appeared on her forehead. “This is alarming,” she said. “What if you can’t stop hiccupping?”
“She will,” said Byron, walking up behind his wife, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“Maybe yoga will help,” suggested Aunt Clancy.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” called Byron.
She ignored him and grabbed my hands and pulled me away from the tub, into the living room. We tried sun salutation and downward facing dog. But it didn’t help. Finally she gave up and went into the kitchen to make tea. I took a hot bath.
Hours later I was still hiccupping when Mack and Earlene stopped by with a box of chocolate doughnuts. “Put sugar on your tongue,” Earlene suggested, holding out a doughnut.
“Or let me frighten you,” said Mack. “A bad scare’s supposed to cure the hiccups.”
“Forget those old wives’ tales,” said Byron, biting into a doughnut.
“Have you got a better solution?” Aunt Clancy asked.
“A Thorazine injection,” Byron suggested, licking his thumb.
“But…isn’t that the same medicine my sister gets at Central State?” Aunt Clancy asked.
“Yes, but it will stop intractable hiccups.” Byron shrugged. “One shot probably won’t hurt her.”
“But it could?” asked my brother.
“Everything has risks, even hiccups.” He reached for another doughnut. “I think Pope Pius got them and died.”
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“You’re just full of good news,” said Aunt Clancy.
By the time Violet drove up for the weekend, I’d been hiccupping for six straight days. She stepped into the kitchen and gasped when she saw my face. “Dear Lord, what’s happened to you?” Me, I thought. What about you? Violet’s hair was piled on top of her head, pinned into an elegant brown bun. She was rail thin, and with her large, dark eyes, she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I answered with a three-syllable squeak.
“She’s got intractable hiccups,” said Byron. He stood at the counter, going through the mail. He looked up as Aunt Clancy stepped into the kitchen. She ran one hand through her hair—she’d just dyed it ash blond—then she leaned up and kissed his forehead. Even though it was officially fall, she wore a summery red ruffled skirt and a white off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse. On her neck was a choker—silver crosses and jet beads made from old rosaries. Courtesy of yours truly, her toenails were freshly painted, Revlon’s Raspberry Kiss. It had taken forever, because my hands were so unsteady.
“I know a cure,” Violet said, blinking at her mother’s nails. “Alcohol, consumed in vast quantities.”
“What’s with the hairdo?” Aunt Clancy squinted at Violet.
“She looks like Holly Golightly,” I said, talking fast. The idea was to squeeze in as many words as possible in between the hiccups.
“This?” Violet dismissed the bun with a flip of her hand. “One of the giggly girls in my dorm was going to a fraternity dance, so she used my hair for practice.”
“Oh, well that explains it,” said Aunt Clancy. “I mean, it’s not like you to doll up.”
“No,” Violet said. “It’s not.”
Mother and daughter stared. Clancy Jane was the first to look away. After a moment, she turned to Byron. “Honey, tell the truth. Will alcohol help Bitsy?”
“Look at it this way,” he said, “even if it doesn’t cure her condition, she’ll be too drunk to care.”
“Let’s go,” Violet said, grabbing my arm.
Mad Girls In Love Page 14
