“Well, it was nice seeing you, but I’ve got to dash off. My ice cream is melting.” I pushed my cart forward.
“So’s my heart.” He laid one hand on his chest.
He was making me sick, so I tossed out a “see you later,” and then hurried to the checkout line. I kept glancing over my shoulder, afraid I’d see Dr. Saylor bearing down on me, but he never appeared.
I dropped off the groceries at 214 Dixie, then Aunt Clancy sent me back to town to look for a telescope. She thought it might be a nice present for Byron. I went to Big K and Western Auto, but I returned empty-handed. As I turned up Aunt Clancy’s curved walkway I saw a bouquet of yellow roses propped against the screen door. I reached for the white card.
Nice seeing you again.
Love, Walter.
The next morning, I started out the kitchen door, and tucked inside the screen was another large bouquet of roses—pink this time and still dewy from the florist’s refrigerator. Despite Claude’s wealth, he had never sent me flowers, except for proms, and my two wedding bouquets, which I myself had chosen. As I picked up the flowers, the green paper crinkled in my arms. A white card fell out.
Proof that I don’t give up easy.
Love, Walter.
When I came home that afternoon, another bouquet of pink roses was propped crookedly against the screened porch. I took my time walking to the porch, halfway hoping the flowers were a mirage. They weren’t. I picked up the bouquet, and a note drifted to the porch steps.
You haunt my dreams.
Love, Walter.
I was brushing Jennifer’s hair when the doorbell rang. The baby knocked away my hand and raced to the door, screaming for Chick. But when I opened up, a two-foot-tall arrangement fell into the room, spilling water over the floor, along with red roses, carnations, and baby’s breath. The water gushed over the card, which dangled from a long piece of red ribbon. I picked up Jennifer, to keep her feet from getting wet, then I reached for the vase. The water had blurred the ink on the card, but the message was clear.
I’m not giving up on you.
Love, W
With my free hand, I scooped up the flowers and marched to the end of the driveway. Jennifer grabbed a fistful of carnations and crammed them into her mouth. “No, bad flowers,” I scolded, thinking she was too old to act this way. She screwed up her face and howled, as if she was in the habit of eating flowers at the Wentworths. Hooking my finger into her small mouth, I raked out the petals. She coughed and wiggled down, out of my grasp. On the ground she glared at me and defiantly held out one hand. Petals littered the small palm.
“Gimme!” Jennifer screeched. Then she stamped her small foot and pointed at the flowers.
“No,” I said. “Bad flowers.”
I dropped the bouquet into the trash can, then slammed down the lid. With a yelp, Jennifer flopped onto the driveway grabbing handfuls of her blond hair, tearing it from its roots—just like my mother. I glanced next door at the pink house and there she was, standing spread-eagle in the dining room window. Ever since she’d moved in with Mack and Earlene, my mother had amused herself by spying on me and Clancy Jane. The rest of the time she was cooking meals for Mack and Earlene. I waved and the curtain fell. A minute later my mother stepped out of the pink house. She wore baggy overalls and a red paisley blouse. And she had forgotten to paint on her eyebrows.
“Bitsy, what’s going on? Is the baby hurt?”
“No, M—” I had been going to say, No, Mummy, but I broke off, my lips pursed around the word. I knew she liked for me to call her that. I made a mmm sound, but couldn’t not push out the other letters without remembering how Claude used to taunt me, saying “Mummy” was a stupid name for a mother. It’s true that whenever we’d fight, he’d try and make me feel ashamed. Maybe it did sound affected, as if I were trying to sound British. Maybe it was high time that I called my mother something else.
“No, Dorothy,” I said, surprised at how good it felt to use her actual name. “She’s just mad because I won’t let her eat the flowers.”
“You can’t let a baby eat flowers.”
I frowned, trying to think of a five-syllable word. “Jennifer ate them intentionally,” I said.
“Don’t be silly. Children don’t eat plants unless they’re starved.”
Jennifer scrambled to her feet and threw herself at my legs, pummeling them with her fists. “Mine!” she growled.
“Well,” Dorothy said. “You’d better calm her down. If Betty Wentworth finds out, she’ll make a fuss.”
Long ago I’d stopped following Dr. Spock’s advice; I switched to Dr. Brazleton, who advised ignoring tantrums. I leaned over, trying to brush flowers from the child’s pale blond hair. “A guy sent me a bouquet. I didn’t want them,” I told Dorothy.
“No!” Jennifer yelped. She reached up with one hand and messed up her hair. “Don’t!”
I held up both hands in mock surprise and stared down at my child. Once Jennifer had been a quiet and content baby, but she’d turned into a pint-size delinquent. “Can’t you act nice?” I asked, and she violently shook her head.
“A guy?” Dorothy’s wide, unpainted forehead creased. “Do I know him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go on, then. Be mysterious. But it wouldn’t hurt you to have a boyfriend.” Dorothy marched over to the trash can, lifted the lid, reached inside, and grabbed the bouquet. “Just look at these pretty things. Why, they’re carnations. You should be thrilled. It’s a sin to throw away flowers.”
“Where in the Bible does it say that?”
“Isn’t it in Proverbs?” Dorothy scratched her forehead where her eyebrows should have been.
“Yes, it’s Proverbs,” Dorothy continued emphatically. “I remember now. Waste not, want not. Or is that one of Benjamin Franklin’s sayings?” Her blank forehead moved up and down. “Oh, you’ve just got me so confused, I can’t stand it!”
Dorothy snatched up the flowers, and Jennifer let out another piercing scream. When I tried to pick her up she grabbed the neck of my blouse and yanked down, showing my garage-sale bra. Dorothy paid no attention to the child. She began talking to the bouquet.
“You poor little things. You’re all bent. Well, I’ll fix you up.” She held out one hand to her granddaughter. “Come on, Jennifer. Dry your tears, honey. Let’s take these pretty flowers into my house and put them into a vase.”
Jennifer let go of my shirt and stuck out her tongue, revealing a tiny carnation petal. With her free hand, Dorothy grabbed the baby’s chin. “Spit it out, honey.”
Jennifer clamped her teeth and scowled up at Dorothy. “No!”
“Well, go on, then. Eat the nasty thing,” Dorothy said. “But when you get a tummy ache, don’t come crying to me.”
Dorothy reached for Jennifer’s hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of her. And I’ll get that flower.”
“Good luck,” I called, feeling a pang as I watched my daughter slip her hand into Dorothy’s.
“I think she could be cutting a molar,” said Dorothy. “I’ll check her mouth real good.”
“Maybe it’s pinworms,” I called.
“Well, I’m not checking her there. I’ll let Chick and Betty deal with that.” Dorothy glanced down at the child. “You don’t look wormy to me. Not one bit.”
Jennifer smiled, showing her bunny teeth.
“We’ll have tea party, you and me,” said Dorothy. “And after that, I’ll let you jump on Earlene’s water bed. Won’t that be fun?”
“Don’t spoil her, Dorothy,” I called.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said. “Why, that’s the Wentworths’ job.”
Two days later, I opened the kitchen door, and five bouquets fell into the kitchen. Aunt Clancy stepped into the room, her eyes wide. “From the yellow-eyed dentist?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so. The house already smells like a funeral home.”
“Or a wedding chapel,” said Aunt Clancy. As she gather
ed the bouquets into her arms, five white cards dropped to the floor.
Each was inscribed with a single word in what I had come to recognize as Walter’s crimped handwriting. I laid them out in a line, but they didn’t make sense. Call A Please Me Give. I rearranged them.
Please Give Me A Call.
“Maybe you should,” said Aunt Clancy. “I’ve been asking about him. He’s an excellent dentist. At least, that’s what my beautician said. According to Stella, he’s got a reputation for being a painless dentist, not a womanizer.”
“You talked about me at the beauty shop?” I cried.
“Well, I’m sorry, but it just came up while she was bleaching my roots. And I didn’t talk about you in particular. I just asked who her dentist was, and when she said it was Dr. Saylor, I almost fell out of the chair. So I egged her on, and, honey, I got an earful. Do you want to hear?”
“No.”
“Sure you do. He told the truth. He is separated from his wife. Her name is Fiona, and she’s got a reputation for being pushy.”
“They must make quite a couple. I’ve never heard of a dentist asking for a date with a patient—especially when he’s just stabbed a needle into her gum.”
“It’s not ethical for doctors; I don’t know about dentists. But Stella said he was very business-like when he pulled her wisdom tooth. And the lady in the chair beside me—she was getting a perm?—said that he barely spoke to her when he filled her eyetooth. So he must’ve been attracted to you.”
“It wasn’t mutual.”
“No? Honey, it’s been two years since you’ve been with a man.”
“That’s not long. Anyway, I’m just not ready.”
“And when will that be?”
“When I get my life back together. Maybe then the right man will come along.”
“The right man is a myth. Settle for the left. You don’t want to lose your dating skills. Don’t make a face—it happens. I’ve lost mine.”
“But you’re married.”
“Barely. Anyway, Dr. Saylor might not be the man of your dreams, but can’t you practice on him?”
“That wouldn’t be very nice.”
“Excuse me, Miss Congeniality.”
“I want to concentrate on my daughter, on our visits.”
“Yes, but you deserve a little fun. You don’t want to wake up one day and find cobwebs in your vagina.” Aunt Clancy opened a cabinet and selected a green McCoy vase, an old, elegant one shaped like a bouquet of hydrangeas. She turned on the faucet and filled it with water.
“After he’s divorced, I might give him a call,” I said, hoping to placate her.
“I know why you’re this way. Because of what Claude did to you.” She turned off the faucet and lifted the vase. “I suppose you disapprove of me, seeing as I took Byron from his wife and children. But he and his wife must have been miserable, or he wouldn’t have taken up with me.”
“Maybe she was happy,” I said. “Maybe she assumed that Byron was, too.”
“A fatal mistake.”
“For whom?”
“Why, his wife, of course. I certainly didn’t mean Byron or myself, if that’s what you’re asking.” The vase looked intact, but within seconds a fine trickle of water began to leak from the base onto her hands.
She set the vase gently into the sink and lifted out the whole clump of flowers. Laying them aside, she said, “I can try and glue it back. Thank goodness I didn’t put it on Miss Gussie’s table. It would’ve left a white spot.”
“It wouldn’t have been your fault,” I said. “If you didn’t know it was broken, how can you be expected to fix it?”
“You can’t.” Clancy Jane’s lips tightened, and she picked up a rose, the petals trembling. “That’s the trouble, you just can’t.”
That weekend, Violet drove up from Knoxville. When she stepped into the kitchen she goggled at the vases lined up on the counter and the floor.
“Who died?” She leaned over to smell a coral rose. She wore green army fatigues and clunky boots, but her hair was swept into an Audrey bun.
“Bitsy’s got an admirer,” said Aunt Clancy.
“A florist?” Violet gave the rose one last sniff, then she jerked open the door of the refrigerator and poked her head inside. She pulled out a Sara Lee chocolate cake.
“No, a dentist,” said Aunt Clancy, watching as Violet opened a drawer and removed a knife and three forks. “And don’t include me in this sugar-fest.”
“Oh, come on.” Violet ripped off the plastic wrap. “Preservatives are good for us.”
I told her to cut me a big slice as I walked over to the Welsh cupboard, grabbed three polka-dotted plates, and set them down on the table.
“So, tell me about this suitor who sent all these flowers,” she said, serving the cake.
As Aunt Clancy told her the whole story, Violet fit a hunk of cake into her mouth and chewed vigorously, her dark eyebrows moving up and down. They were virginal brows—not a single hair had ever been plucked. Still chewing, she reached into the cake box and dragged her finger along the cardboard bottom, scraping up a hunk of icing. She put her finger into her mouth, then burped.
“I’m so glad you’re home,” I said, meaning it. I loved the way women were able to relax when no man was around. And these days Byron was always at the hospital, signing charts, recording discharge summaries. When he was home, he either fell asleep on the sofa or buried his face in a medical journal.
“What’s this dentist’s name?” Violet asked.
“Walter Saylor Jr.,” I said.
Violet’s eyes popped open wide. “Hey, I might know him. Does he have a harelip?”
“I didn’t notice.”
Aunt Clancy snorted. “How could you overlook a disfigurement like that?”
“I didn’t say I overlooked it,” I shot back. “I said—”
“It’s not Bitsy’s fault,” Violet said, waving her fork. “If we’re talking about the same Walter Saylor, he has a slight scar on his upper lip. I understand it’s barely noticeable. I’ve never seen him. I don’t understand why he’d be sending you flowers, Itsy. He’s married. Or at least he was last summer. But he’s a wife beater, so you’d be smart to steer clear of him.”
“How do you find out all this stuff?” I asked. “Who told you?”
“Sources. Deep Throat,” Violet said. “The Crystal Falls version.”
“It’s Danny, I know it,” I said.
“That little pip-squeak?” Aunt Clancy smirked. “He doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. You said so yourself, Violet.”
“I never said it was him. I said sources. That’s plural. And my sources know a Vietnam veteran who painted the house next door to Dr. Saylor’s. He heard screams.”
I’d been cutting into my cake, and my hand froze. I hoped that Violet was making this up, trying to scare me. Unlike her mother, my cousin believed that a Crystal Falls man was the last thing I needed, and she was always begging me to go to the community college where I’d meet men and at the same time get an education.
“The painter heard screams?” Aunt Clancy asked.
Violet nodded.
“Quit eating.” Aunt Clancy slapped Violet’s wrist. “What kind of screams?”
“High-pitched ones,” Violet said, her words garbled by cake.
“Could it have been the television?”
“The TV doesn’t squeal, ‘Please, Walter. Don’t!’” Violet opened her mouth, showing a streak of black on her tongue, and shoved in another mouthful. Still chewing, she added, “Apparently the painter heard a great big crash, too. And the next day, he saw the wife in the backyard, wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses.”
“What’s that supposed to prove?” Clancy Jane asked. “Maybe it was a bright, sunshiny day.”
“I thought of that, too. But according to the painter, it was overcast. Hey, are y’all through with this?” Without waiting for an answer, Violet began dragging her fork over the top of the cake, scooping up t
he icing. “The wife didn’t need the sunglasses or hat unless she was trying to hide something.”
“A black eye?” Clancy Jane suggested
“That’s what the painter thought.” Violet licked the tines of her fork. “The wife was wearing something long-sleeved too. Totally weird for a hot summer day.”
The three of us fell silent. The only sound was Violet’s fork scraping over her teeth. Finally Aunt Clancy said, “What about you? Are you still sleeping with that poet?”
“No, he left me for an art major, and I’m better off. He was messy and forgetful.” Violet sniffed. “Men have two speeds, on and off. They aren’t complicated. In fact, they’re too fucking shallow.”
“If you want depth, get a swimming pool,” said Aunt Clancy, “but don’t turn into a man-hater.”
“Would you prefer me to be a man-eater?” Violet pulled the Sara Lee box into her lap. “Personally, I prefer cake.”
“How do you eat so much and stay thin?” I asked.
Before she could answer, the doorbell rang. I followed Aunt Clancy into the front hall. She opened the door, and Donnie, the florist’s gnome-like delivery man, held out two glass vases, both filled with tropical flowers—hibiscus, bird-of-paradise, and some weird, spiked things. I carried the vases back to the kitchen and set them on the table.
Violet stared.
Aunt Clancy touched the envelopes. “May I do the honors?”
“Be my guest.”
“And the winner is…“ She ripped open the envelopes and held up two white cards. One said CALL, the other said ME. A phone number was scrawled on the back of ME card. She handed it to me, saying, “You have to end this.”
“Don’t you dare call that wife-beating bastard,” Violet cried, rising from her chair.
“But she can’t keep ignoring these flowers. She’s just got to be firm with him, and real, real specific, or he’ll think she’s secretly interested.”
“Bitsy, don’t listen to Mama,” Violet said. “If you call, you’ll only inflame him. Ignore him, and he will go away. Eventually.”
Mad Girls In Love Page 20
