Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  He suggested instead that they serve a tofu and spinach quiche, a big hit up north where he was from, and reached for The Vegetarian Epicure, volume I, by Anna Thomas. While he reverently thumbed through the index, Clancy Jane noticed again his gorgeous hands, and was glad she was wearing a wispy voile tunic over jeans and Violet’s red shoes, each decorated with a leather rose. She moved closer to look over his shoulder at the recipe but told him she hadn’t totally given up on Buddha’s balls. He laughed and said she reminded him of his gutsy friends back home. Clancy asked him if Crystal Falls didn’t seem like home now and his reply was, “I’m like Odysseus. I pine for Ithaca.”

  She started to ask if Odysseus was one of his friends up there, but was afraid he’d think she was prying, so she just asked him what Ithaca was like. Instead of answering he said he had something important to discuss. Clancy Jane could feel her heart tapping away, and wondered if he could feel it too. Then he asked how she would feel about expanding—opening the café for breakfast.

  She realized no matter how long he had been there, he was right, he hadn’t made this his home. She gently tried to explain that the folks in Crystal Falls love their grits and biscuits. But seeing his face fall she added that she guessed they could serve cheese grits. Zach wanted a hipper menu, of course. Omelets, blueberry waffles, spiced coffee cake, home-jams. And flavored coffee.

  Clancy Jane pointed out that they’d be working seven full days a week and would die of exhaustion. He just laughed and said not to worry, she’d get her beauty sleep. Then he pinched her cheek. Would he do that if he wasn’t attracted to me? Clancy Jane thought. She thought he liked her, but he knew she was married, and of course there was the age difference—ten years was a bit much. He was probably smart not to add any more headaches to his life. But if he was older—or if Clancy was younger—they would have made the perfect couple.

  Her mind filled with all the older women/younger men stories she had ever heard, she went home to break the news to Byron. She found him in the kitchen, reading a medical journal at the harvest table. It was the first thing in their house that been theirs as opposed to his or hers from previous lives. They had found it at an antique shop out in the country and it wouldn’t fit into the Volvo, so they had tied it to the roof. When they got it into the kitchen, Clancy Jane had hopped on top of it, feeling the rough wood beneath her thighs, and held out her arms to Byron. When they started making love, she had feared that the table might cave in, but it remained upright.

  Now Byron lowered his magazine, and she told him that she was thinking of opening the café for breakfast. He raised his eyebrows and said, “This is your idea?”

  “Well, mine and Zach’s,” she clarified.

  Byron threw down his magazine and got up from the table. Clancy Jane yelled after him, “Gee thanks for being supportive.”

  He shouted back over his shoulder, “I have been.”

  Clancy Jane’s response was a tirade about how she couldn’t sit home just waiting for him and that her work at the café was important, that food was a symbol of nurturing.

  He laughed. “Nurturing? Did I hear you say nurturing? There hasn’t been one egg in this house since we got married. But go ahead, feed omelets and eggs Benedict to the masses. At least someone will get to eat.”

  “That’s not fair,” she cried. “Are you forgetting all the eggs I put in your birthday cake? And what about that huge steak I fixed? God, your memory is short.”

  “I knew you’d say that,” he told her and quickly left the room.

  “I should’ve married a vegan,” she said under her breath. “Maybe next time I will.”

  Bitsy

  Aunt Clancy and I were sitting on the porch, having a sort of sad talk. I told her about my problem with Dr. Saylor. I wouldn’t date him as long as he and his wife were living in the same house. Then she told me about how sometimes in the night she’d wake up and feel Byron’s body next to hers and wonder how two people could be so close and yet so far away. She was just saying that food had driven them apart when a gray T-bird pulled into the driveway and Dr. Saylor got out, wearing cutoff blue jeans and the Memphis State T-shirt. He reached into the backseat and pulled out a long box. On the side was a picture of a telescope. I didn’t like him being there but was glad for the interruption.

  Once he was on the porch, Dr. Saylor glanced down at the box, then shifted his eyes over to me. “Hi, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

  “Not at all,” said Aunt Clancy. “You must be Dr. Saylor.”

  He nodded, and I quickly made the introductions. Then, even though I pretty much knew the answer, I asked, “What’s in the box?”

  “A telescope,” he said. “I told you I might get one.”

  “It’s super,” said Clancy Jane. She got out of her chair, cracked open the front door and leaned into the hall. “Byron? Can you come here a sec?”

  A minute later, Byron appeared in the doorway, holding The New England Journal of Medicine.

  “This is Dr. Saylor,” I said.

  “The flower guy,” Byron said. He and Dr. Saylor shook hands.

  “And look what’s he’s brought.” Aunt Clancy’s voice was real high and bouncy.

  “I could sure use some help putting it together.” Dr. Saylor set the box on the floor and pulled off the lid. He pulled out an instruction sheet. “You got a Phillips screwdriver?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not mechanically inclined,” Byron said. “I’d only make things worse.”

  “There’s a box of screwdrivers in the shed.” Aunt Clancy headed toward the screen door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll go,” said Dr. Saylor. “Just direct me to it.”

  Wow, I thought, tilting my head to one side, staring at Dr. Saylor’s muscular legs, his frayed white socks peeking above his sneakers. I may have underestimated this guy.

  The next evening he showed up again, holding a bouquet of pink tea roses and several boxes of Whitman’s chocolates. Tucked beneath his arm were Little Golden Books for Jennifer, even though he’d never laid eyes on the child. I myself hadn’t seen her in weeks.

  “What are you doing here?” I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping I hadn’t sounded rude. I was wearing black sweat pants that were covered in lint and a baggy T-shirt.

  He answered by holding out the books—Pokey Little Puppy, Ugly Duckling, The Gingerbread Boy, Henny Penny, and The Three Billy Goats Gruff.

  I started to thank him, but my throat had closed. Then I started to cry, big sobs. Aunt Clancy heard the commotion and came running into the front hall.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Dr. Saylor asked my aunt. The tips of his ears reddened. “Is her daughter too young for books?”

  “Oh, no, they’re perfect,” Clancy Jane said. “Bitsy loves to read. Did you know that she learns a word from the dictionary every single day? What’s today’s word, Bitsy?”

  The pride in her voice made me cry even harder. “Umbrage,” I said.

  “So the books are okay?” Dr. Saylor asked.

  “P-perfectly,” I said, hugging the books to my chest. “Dr. Saylor, do you still want to take me on a real date?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “More than anything.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Now?”

  “Just let me change clothes.” I put the books on a table and laid my hand on his arm.

  We drove to The Electric Circus—the only disco in town—and found a quiet corner. After two beers, I tried to explain why Jennifer didn’t live with me. I glossed over the lurid details, especially the part about the baby back ribs. I’d expected a barrage of questions, but Dr. Saylor surprised me by saying, “You poor kid. You didn’t deserve that.”

  Later we drove over to the Princess Theater to see The Odessa File. It was after midnight when we got back to my house. I took Dr. Saylor’s hand and led him into the dark living room. We leaned against the wall and began to kiss, his hand moving roughly over my
blouse. Then we inched our way across the dark room, stumbling over chairs. Dr. Saylor fell back onto the sofa, and I fell on top of him. He took my face in his hands and whispered, “I wanted you the first day I saw you,” he said, his voice hoarse and creaky. “I just had to have you.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him. To lighten things up I said, “I don’t want to be your rebound woman,” but he thought I was serious.

  “No matter if you are, I can’t let you get away.” He rubbed my chin.

  I glanced down at him. There was the godlike body, but then there were the teeth and hair. However, I admired his intelligence and his thoughtful ways. Once my heart had pounded for Claude’s kisses. I had longed for his touch, and in the backseat of his father’s Lincoln Continental, I’d eagerly surrendered my virginity. Just yesterday I’d been telling Aunt Clancy that I wasn’t sure I could ever feel that way again. She’d looked at me a long time, then said, “Be glad.”

  Dr. Saylor must have misinterpreted my silence for indecision. His head was tilted back, the frizzy curls flattening against the sofa. He stared up at the water-stained ceiling, his eyes dilating. “You’ve got me all hot,” he whispered, towing my hand to his crotch. I started to pull away. Sex on a first date would give him the wrong idea about me. Then I froze. Beneath the tented fabric, I felt him. He moaned, turning his head from side to side. Aunt Clancy was always talking about the sexual revolution—free love and women’s liberation. A woman could enjoy a man, she was always saying, and she didn’t have to be pie-eyed in love with him. Maybe I could do this, too. Maybe it was better to like a man.

  His zipper made a whispery sound, then he kicked off his trousers and pulled down his cotton briefs, Fruit Of The Loom. The air was filled with a musky smell and it drugged me. “Let’s get comfortable,” he said, and he unbuttoned my dress slowly, taking his time. I held up my arms, and he pulled the dress over my head, then neatly folded it, set it on the floor. Next, he pulled down my panties. I held still, passive as a child, feeling him lift my feet, one at a time. He took off the rest of his clothes then, laid them next to my dress, then drew me back down onto the sofa. Every worry and scruple I had ever possessed was driven out of my mind.

  The next day Walter moved out of his orange house. After my shift at the café, I walked over to his office. Ignoring his employees’ stares, he pulled me into his arms and blurted out that he’d taken a room at Sullivan’s Motel, a seedy place that rented by the week. “I no longer live with Fiona. Now we can date right here in Crystal Falls,” he declared, and his receptionist’s eyebrows shot up. He picked up a lock of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers. “Just for fun, why don’t you dye your hair to match mine?”

  Before I could shake my head, he took my hand and said, “It would mean the world to me.”

  I made an appointment at the Utopian, the beauty shop where Aunt Clancy got her hair dyed. My beautician was Tina, a short, wide-hipped woman with a gap between her front teeth. Her eyebrows were tweezed into thin, upside-down Vs. Not a good sign, I thought, but I followed the woman to her station and sat down in a cushioned pink chair.

  “Can you streak my hair a little?” I asked. “Just a subtle hint of red? But I want it to look natural, you know?”

  “Honey, who don’t want it natural?” Tina chortled, her fingers moving expertly over my scalp, parting hairs as if she were searching for lice. “Looks to me like your natural color’s blond. A level eight, beige blond. People would kill to get this color. Pardon me for asking, but why would you want it red?”

  “It’s just temporary.” I shrugged. “I plan to change it back.”

  “Hon, you don’t understand. Getting your hair red is the easy part. Going from red to blond is another story.”

  “Even if it’s just streaked?”

  “Yes. Not to mention the damage you’ll be doing to your shafts.” Tina exhaled. She lifted a strand of my hair and gave it a doubtful look. “Just buy you a wig.”

  “Who sells wigs in Crystal Falls?”

  “Well, you got me there. You’d have to drive to Nashville.”

  “Maybe you could just streak it a little.”

  “You sure are brave. Or else cracked in the head.”

  It hurt to get my hair streaked. Tina shoved a rubber cap, which was full of tiny holes, over my head, then tied the straps under my chin. She reached for a long, sharp object—it resembled a crochet hook or a dental probe—and started digging out strands of hair. While she pulled, I gripped the sides of the chair, tears streaming down my cheeks. I thought about the time I’d applied to cosmetology school, and how I’d recently, found my rejection letter tucked into a old Reader’s Digest. That was probably a lucky break, because I didn’t like how beauty parlors smelled.

  Tina didn’t seem to mind. She was exchanging mother-in-law stories with the other stylists, but I couldn’t concentrate. Tina’s voice droned on and on like an attic fan. After a while she filled a plastic bottle with orangy-red dye and squeezed it over the strands. Then, using her fingers, she formed the strands into stiff prongs until they fanned out all over my head.

  In the mirror I thought I looked like the Statue of Liberty.

  After my hair was shampooed, Tina led me back to her chair and began to comb me. I was in a pleasant daze, listening idly to all the gossip around me and wondering if perhaps the chemicals did more than relax curls and dye hair—they loosened tongues. Then I heard a name that brought me to full attention. Tina was talking with the squatty beautician in the next cubicle. “Don’t look now but Fiona Saylor is getting yet another haircut.”

  The other beautician glanced toward the front of the shop and said, “That’s the second time this week. I wonder what’s wrong at home?”

  “Ask Anita. She’s been doing Fiona’s hair forever.”

  My head swiveled around, and I saw a woman whose hair looked too short for styling. I watched, fascinated, as the beautician took an electric razor and shaved the back of Fiona’s neck. The blade made a harsh scraping noise. The beautician ripped off the cape, waving it like a matador, and said, “Wait till Dr. Saylor gets a load of you! He’ll call off that divorce.”

  “Oh, that. It’s not for real.” Fiona lifted her hand from the plastic cape and gave a dismissive flip, then reached back under the cape, fumbling for something in her lap. She pulled out her eyeglasses and pushed them onto the bridge of her nose, then she squinted at her reflection. “Oh, it’s adorable,” she said. “Walter’ll just love it, I’m sure.”

  Wait a second, I thought. Is Walter two-timing us? I remembered how she’d yelled at Walter when he was in the bathroom and it was the same voice, just turned down several notches. Well, I didn’t love her new hairdo. In fact it was not becoming to her tiny head. From behind, it looked as if a South American headshrinker had performed experiments. I kept watching in the mirror while she walked up to the counter, her long feet splayed outward. She wore thick boots, the type favored by deer hunters. As she moved, her shirt caught the light. It was blue denim, with FIONA spelled in shiny green and blue sequins. The shirt was tucked in military style, accentuating her hips, which bulged on either side. She heaved her pocketbook onto the glass case and pulled out a battered leather wallet. On her left hand, I saw a wedding ring. It flashed as Fiona counted out bills and handed them to the teenage clerk.

  Then Fiona waddled over to the squatty Coca-Cola machine and stared at the selections behind the glass door. It was an old machine, with a round top. She studied the buttons—Orange Crush, Tab, 7UP, Coke. She inserted a dime and pressed the Orange Crush button, then moved back, her eyes on the chute. When the bottle didn’t appear, she stepped closer, made a fist, and whacked the machine. Still no bottle. Turning around, she yelled at the beauticians, “It took my money again! Can you get it back?”

  “Sorry, it’s not our machine,” said Tina. “I can’t open it.”

  “Who can?” Fiona planted one hand on her hip.

  “The Coke machine man,” said another stylist. �
�And he lives in Nashville.”

  “He needs to come down here and fix this thing.” Fiona leaned over, bending at the waist to peer up the chute. Then she stood up and kicked the machine a couple of times. The bottle rattled down and Fiona grabbed it.

  She opened the door, the bell dinging above her head, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, sipping the Orange Crush. Anita shook her head. “She does that every damn time.”

  “One of these days she’s going to break it,” Tina said as she led me to the dryer.

  “And when she does,” said Anita, “I’m sending her the bill.”

  “She’s so rough,” said Tina. She lowered the lid and turned on my dryer, and the roar swallowed up the women’s voices. I could see their lips moving, and I wondered what they were saying. Tina dumped a Photoplay and Glamour into my lap, then she walked toward the front of the shop and returned with another customer, an elderly woman with stiff hair.

  Some time later, when I emerged from the dryer, my cheeks flushed from the heat, Tina began unwinding the rollers, revealing long reddish-blond strands. It resembled the licorice candy that the teenage cashier was eating.

  “Oh, my God,” I said, covering my mouth with one hand. My cry brought the other stylists. They gathered around me.

  “I warned you,” said Tina. “God in His wisdom knew what He was doing when He made you a blonde. Don’t cry. I can fix it. I just can’t fix it today, because I’m booked.”

  “It’ll grow out,” said another stylist.

  “That’s what I love about hair,” said Tina.

  One hazy afternoon in July, Walter took me for a drive. “I want to show you my old house,” he said, steering his Thunderbird down the Nashville Highway. “I want to show you everything about myself.”