Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  “Not with me, you haven’t.”

  “I’ve done it in Knoxville. All the coeds do it. Even the cheerleaders. It’s more faddish than streaking.”

  “It’s gross. What if you dribble some tee-tee on my car? Or inside my car. Just let me stop, okay?”

  “Come on, loosen up. Be a part of the younger generation.”

  “I am.”

  “No, Bessie, you’re stuck in the early sixties.”

  “I’m not the one with a Holly Golightly bun.”

  “It’s a French twist, Bessie, not a bun.”

  “Don’t call me that! And I don’t want my car to smell like pee.”

  “It won’t. I promise. Look, I know how to do this.” Violet unbuckled her belt and peeled down her jeans. My cousin’s buttocks were firm and round, and quite a bit slimmer than my own, even with my recent starvation.

  “Quit staring. Drive,” Violet ordered. She sat up on her knees and swiveled her nakedness toward the window. Gripping the roof of the car, she raised herself from her seat and leaned out, butt first.

  “Now speed up,” she said, her hair blowing out of the Audrey bun. “Hurry, unless you want piss everywhere.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said, tapping my foot on the brake. Even when Violet was sober, it was difficult to reason with her. Once she made up her mind, that was it.

  “You better pray this road stays empty,” I added. “Oncoming traffic could lop off half your behind.”

  “Not unless it’s going in the wrong direction.” Violet was precariously balanced—her head and shoulders leaning into the car, her bottom jutting out, knees bent, her cork shoes pressing down on the armrest, denting the vinyl. Both hands clutched the roof of the car. She squinched her eyes shut, and two lines appeared on her forehead. Then she drew back her lips, showing small, crooked teeth. Individual droplets of urine blew out into the night air, pale yellow against the darkness.

  “Ahhhh,” she exhaled, and her mouth went slack with pleasure. Then she squealed. “Viva le fuck! Faster, Bitsy! I can feel piss blowing on my legs.”

  “Okay, okay!” I pressed my foot against the accelerator and the car shot ahead, the headlights carving out two tunnels of light.

  “Perfect, just per-fact !” Violet whooped, then she pushed her butt farther out the window. “I’m just gonna air dry. God, this feels good.”

  I sighed with relief, thankful it was over. I looked away from the road and started to tell Violet to get back in, but before I could speak, the front tires hit a deep pothole. The force lifted me out of my seat, and the top of my head smacked into the car’s padded roof. Then my body slammed down roughly, dropping me back into the seat. The headlights shone on the road—straight ahead were a dozen more huge potholes, and I was headed straight toward them.

  Violet was still holding on to the roof of the car. She hadn’t screamed, even though her mouth was open wide. I clenched the wheel. Then both tires plunged into another crater. Violet lost her balance and fell out of the window, arms and legs wheeling. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, I leaned across the seat, trying to grab my cousin’s ankles, but I was too late. Violet rolled off into the darkness. Stop the car, I thought. Find Violet, get help—in that order. I meant to hit the brake but the mai tais had disordered my brain, and I hit the accelerator. The car lurched ahead, veering away from the road, the headlights picking out weeds and saplings. Oak branches battered the windshield, and dried cornstalks crunched beneath the tires. I stomped against the brake. The car stopped abruptly, causing me to rise from my seat again, straight into the wind-shield. My forehead hit something cold and hard and then everything went black.

  The headlights burned into the dark, shining through a curtain of oak leaves. I rose up, feeling dozy. Then I remembered. Violet was somewhere in the darkness. And I had to find her. My head throbbed as I scrambled out of the car, weaving back and forth in the tall grass. My legs felt rubbery, and it wasn’t because of the Candies. The road was knotty, and I kept tripping into potholes. Twice I fell down and skinned my knees.

  “Violet?” I called, then strained to listen. Nothing but the katydids beckoning from the weeds, harsh mating calls: ch-ch-ch. I heard the buzz of crickets, the deep, piglike grunt of a swamp frog. I had learned to identify them when Aunt Clancy and I were going to teach Jennifer about nature. I heard other, stranger sounds and I wondered what was out there in the dark.

  “Violet?” I called again. A whippoorwill answered, the faint notes hanging in the air.

  I heard a moan and whirled around, trying to sense the direction, but everything was black. “Over here,” Violet cried weakly. “In the g-goddamn ditch.”

  “Keep talking so I can find you,” I called. Despite the heat, I was shaking all over, and I could barely see where I was going. I staggered in the general direction of Violet’s voice. I found her sprawled in a ditch. The remnants of her Audrey bun were hanging to one side. I didn’t see any blood, but it was very dark.

  “It HURTS!” Violet screeched. Then she looked at me. “Did you…hit…your…head or somethin’?” She spoke hesitantly, gasping between each word. “You’re all…bloody.”

  “I am?” My hand flew up to my forehead. I felt something damp, then I looked at my fingers. They were smeared black. “Never mind me,” I said. “Do you think you’ve broken a bone?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Shit…get me outta this…ditch.” Violet held up her other hand.

  “Should I get an ambulance? What if you’ve hurt your head? Is it hurting?”

  “No, no. My head is fine. Just take me home. It’s my ass that’s killing me.”

  Even in the darkness, I could see that Violet’s shoes were still strapped to her ankles, but chunks of cork were missing from the soles. How badly was she hurt?

  “Get me up,” she commanded.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes!”

  I gripped Violet’s hand and pulled. She staggered to her feet, rising like something born from a swamp, still bloody from the birthing. Then she leaned heavily against my shoulder.

  “You’ve got to see a doctor,” I whispered. “We’ll get Byron—”

  “NO, NOT HIM!” Violet shrieked. “He’ll just tell Mama, and I don’t want her seeing me this way. She’ll freak out.”

  “But you’re hurt bad. You can’t keep this from her.”

  “Just get me in the car and drive me home. You can sneak me upstairs. All I need is a gauze bandage and some hydrogen peroxide. Or will that sting too bad?”

  “We’ll figure it out later,” I said, trying not to alarm her. I had no intention of taking her home; I was taking her to the emergency room. I took a small step, but Violet didn’t move. I started to cry out, thinking she might have died, then I saw the problem—my cousin was hobbled by the jeans around her ankles. Over our heads, I heard a nighthawk call out a harsh, nasal peent!

  “Can I take off your jeans? I think you’ll walk better without them.” I glanced toward the car. It seemed far away, miles away. The taillights burned red behind a thick tangle of weeds.

  “No, no!” Violet shook her head. “Don’t touch anything. Just let me lean on your shoulder.”

  “Okay, but take it slow.”

  “Slow,” Violet repeated dully.

  “You’re doing fine.” I could taste those mai tais burning in the back of my throat. We staggered off the road, into Queen Anne’s lace and trumpet vines, toward the car, toward the red taillights. Violet was solid muscle, heavier than I would have guessed.

  As we approached the car, Violet’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Bitsy. You ran off the road?”

  “Just a little ways,” I said, trying to sound comforting. In charge, in control. The kind of person you’d trust in an emergency. Or to raise a child. When we reached the Mustang, I opened the passenger door and guided Violet into the backseat, helped her to stretch out onto her stomach. Her silver belt buckle clinked as she settled down. The moon came out from a cloud and shone down on my cousin’
s buttocks. Oh, my God. She was torn to pieces. I jerked my head to the side afraid I’d be sick.

  “This is all my fault,” I said. “If I hadn’t had those damn hiccups, we’d be sitting at home, watching Friday Night at the Movies.”

  “No, we would not. We’d be watching Sonny and Cher. Stop kicking yourself and get your ass in the car,” Violet said.

  “I’m never going to drink again,” I said. In the distance I heard the begging call of a screech owl.

  “Oh, yes, you will,” Violet said in a weary voice. I shut the door, then hurried around the car. I climbed into the front seat, and started the engine. When I shifted into reverse, the tires whined and spun helplessly.

  “Stop giving it the gas,” Violet called from the backseat.

  I tapped my foot against the accelerator. The car rocked back and forth, caught in a little ditch, then it jolted ahead, rocking through the pasture, knocking down weeds and saplings. By the time I pulled up beneath the canopy at Crystal Falls Hospital emergency entrance, smoke was pouring from under my hood. I helped Violet out of the backseat. Somehow she’d managed to kick off her shoes and jeans, and I was horrified to see that she was naked from the waist down. She glanced up, squinted at the lights, then screeched, “No, no, I said no hospitals!”

  I didn’t have time to argue. I looked around for a sheet—anything to throw around her body. Her thighs were smeared with blood, blending into the dark, matted triangle of her pubic hair. It looked as if gravel was embedded beneath her skin, too. With my free hand, I unbuttoned my blouse and draped it over Violet’s lower half. We veered toward the electric doors. The glass swooshed open, and we slogged through. A nurse walked by, holding a tray. When she saw Violet, she dropped the tray. Metal instruments clattered against the tile floor, scattering hemostats and scissors.

  “Stop gawking and get a doctor!” Violet yelled.

  I waited in the lobby. My blood-stained blouse had been returned but at least it covered my own nakedness. Tired-looking people, all of them dressed in summer clothes, were sprawled in the green vinyl chairs, staring up at the TV. The Late, Late Show was playing From Here to Eternity. Next to me sat a woman in lime green shorts and a purple halter top. Her shoulders were sunburned, the bosom sagging and wrinkled. I turned away, toward the plate glass doors, where an ambulance swung up, its red lights wheeling. Two medics hopped out, ran around to the back, and pulled out a stretcher. Another man ran alongside it, holding an intravenous bag in the air. The hospital’s electric doors whooshed open, and the men bustled through, pushing the stretcher around the corner, through steel doors marked Medical Personnel Only.

  The lady in the purple halter leaned forward, touching my arm. “Honey, did somebody beat you up?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I was in a wreck. My cousin’s being treated right now.”

  When Clancy Jane and Byron burst into the lobby, I stood up. So did the woman in the purple halter. “There’s my doctor!” said the woman, waving at Byron.

  Byron didn’t seem to hear. He rushed to a window and rapped against the glass. A receptionist with teased brown hair slid open the window. Aunt Clancy stood behind him. She was still wearing the peasant blouse and the red skirt. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly with a leather clasp. She looked frightened, and she kept clutching Byron’s sleeve like he was her seeing-eye man. He turned away from the window and put one hand on Aunt Clancy’s arm, whispered something into her ear. He squeezed her shoulder, then he strode toward the treatment room, pushing open the metal doors.

  “Sir?” the receptionist cried, poking her head through the window like a turtle. “Sir, you can’t go in there.”

  “But he’s a doctor,” Aunt Clancy said, in the same tone she might have said, “But he’s Jesus.”

  The receptionist’s mouth formed a tight little O, and she withdrew her head. Aunt Clancy turned, scanning the faces in the vestibule. When she saw me, her eyes widened slightly. She stepped across the room, her red skirt swishing, then she grabbed my wrist and pulled me into an alcove. The woman in the purple halter leaned forward, watching.

  “What happened?” Clancy Jane’s voice sounded raspy, as if she’d been yelling at a football game. She scowled down at the bloody handprints on my blouse.

  My head was throbbing again. I briefly closed my eyes, trying to figure out where to begin. The last thing I needed was a lecture on drunk driving—I knew we’d done wrong. “We were on our way home from the Hut, and…” I broke off, remembering my promise to Violet. “I had a wreck. And Violet got thrown from the car.”

  “Oh, God.” The veins stood out on Aunt Clancy’s neck, and her cheeks turned pink. She glanced up at the ceiling. Through her teeth, she said, “Were you drunk?”

  “Yes.” I could feel tears burning in the backs of my eyes. My throat was closing. I swallowed again, wishing my hiccups would return so I’d have a reason not to speak. Aunt Clancy was waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, she said, “Thrown from the goddamn car.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and began to tremble.

  “I told y’all not to go. Didn’t I?” Clancy Jane cried. “Well, how bad is it? Did she hit her head? Is she paralyzed? Is she conscious?” Clancy Jane’s voice rose higher and higher. From the lobby, the whispering halted and people got up from their seats to stare. The woman in the purple halter gaped, as if fascinated.

  “Now, don’t panic, Aunt Clancy. She can walk.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “I think so. She fell on her butt, not her head. The skin is all scraped off.”

  Aunt Clancy winced. She put her hand over her mouth and turned in a slow circle, her back hunched over. “On the way here, Byron said he hoped that she didn’t have any internal bleeding,” she whispered. Her eyes blazed with a strange blue light. One lid twitched. She reached up to rub it, but the minute her hand was gone, the lid began to quiver again.

  “I hope she doesn’t have that, too.” I looked down at the floor, trying to sort out the dizzy patterns.

  “What were y’all drinking?” asked Clancy Jane.

  “Mai tais.”

  “Well, I can’t think of a sweeter way to get drunk,” she said in a bitter voice. “Unless it’s pink ladies or daiquiris.”

  “They got rid of my hiccups.”

  “Great. I’ll file it away in Mama’s household tips box.” Aunt Clancy extended one finger and wrote in the air. “A cure for hiccups.”

  That night, every inch of Violet’s body was scanned and X-rayed, then she was transferred to a private room on the medical-surgical ward. Affixed to the door was a sign that said STRICT ISOLATION. The nurses explained that was to protect Violet from germs. All visitors were required to wear a gown and a mask.

  “This is what we do for burn patients,” said the nurse.

  “But she didn’t get burned,” I said.

  “No, but she’s lost some skin, and she’s vulnerable to infection.”

  Aunt Clancy and I stood outside the room. We couldn’t go inside until the doctors were finished with their examination. Byron had called in several specialists and they hovered around the bed, shining lights on Violet’s rear end. Outside, in the hall, the nurse gave me a shrewd stare. “How’d this happen, anyway?”

  I shook my head, lifted my shoulders. Through the glass, I saw Violet’s outline. She was lying on her stomach, a gauze tent draped over her buttocks, hiding the damage. Her eyes were closed. Byron came out of the room and put his arm around Aunt Clancy.

  “She’s real lucky. Not a single broken bone,” said Byron.

  “She must have a guardian angel,” said Aunt Clancy.

  Yes, I thought. The Tee-Tee Angel. Protected by the Goddess of Pee.

  “Actually, she did,” said Byron, turning to me. “Bitsy, thank God for you. Thank you for finding Violet in the dark and making her come to the hospital. You showed good judgment.”

  “I don’t understand.” Aunt Clancy’s forehead squinched up.

  “Apparently you
r bull-headed daughter thought she could patch herself up.” He nodded at Violet’s door. “She told me all about it. I’ll fill you in later.”

  I kept on staring through the window. The praise was so undeserved. I felt ashamed.

  “But I’ve got to know now,” said Clancy Jane. “How bad is she hurt?”

  “She’s going to be fine,” said Byron, looking into his wife’s face. The door cracked open and another doctor stepped into the hall. Byron gestured at him and said, “Clancy, you remember Ron Fisher, don’t you? The vascular surgeon?”

  Aunt Clancy nodded and put two fingers to her lips.

  “I know your daughter’s condition seems alarming,” said Dr. Fisher. “But it looks worse than it is. Her blood pressure is stable. No head injury. No signs of internal bleeding. She’ll be fine—a little bruised and sore. And she may have a scar or two, but I daresay they won’t show.”

  “Scars?” Aunt Clancy and I said together.

  “If you’ve got to have a scar somewhere, the buttocks is the place for it,” he said. “But she may have none at all. The main thing is, she’s going to have a huge pain in the buttocks for the next week or two, but she’ll recover.”

  He pronounced buttocks using both syllables. But-tocks.

  “I’m not leaving her,” said Aunt Clancy.

  “Me, either,” I said.

  “I’ll stay, too,” said Byron. The three of us crowded around the window, staring at Violet as if we were watching a TV show, scared that we’d miss a crucial scene if we left for an instant.

  The next morning I was awakened by a rattling cart. I opened my eyes and sat up, blinking at the tweedy sofas in the waiting room. They were empty. Sunshine pierced a glass wall, brightening the atrium. The light was too sharp and it hurt my eyes. I held up one hand, trying to block the dazzling brightness. I wondered if Aunt Clancy had gone to get coffee, or if Violet’s condition had worsened. I started to get up but the room reeled to one side, and I slumped onto the sofa, holding my head in my hands. I didn’t know if I had a concussion or a hangover, but it hurt too bad to move. After a while I drifted back to sleep. Almost immediately I felt someone shaking my arm. Looming above me was Aunt Clancy, holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee. She handed one to me.