When he said things like that I worried about not having told him the full story about me and Claude and the baby back ribs. So I just nodded. He angled off the highway, into Shenandoah Estates, turning right on Gettysburg Court, then left on Shiloh Avenue. Walter’s house stood in a cul-de-sac. I thought about Violet’s story of the screams coming from that house, and Fiona appearing the next day wearing sunglasses.
In my mind, I’d pictured it as sad-looking with crooked shutters, dead bushes, trash piled up in the driveway. A place with burned-out light bulbs, peeling paint, missing shingles. Instead, it was well tended. No overflowing trash cans. Zinnias bloomed from a flower bed. Aunt Clancy and I hadn’t set out bedding plants. Of course, we didn’t need any with all the roses Walter was still sending.
“It’s just a shame that we can’t live here.” Walter’s chin jutted out. He pressed his foot against the accelerator and drove to the end of the street, then he backed into a paved driveway, and cruised by Fiona’s house a second time. A wooden sign next to the front door cheerfully announced Welcome to the Saylors! Round stepping stones curved past a forsythia bush. I caught a glimpse of a redwood deck at the back, and a kettle grill, the top portion neatly covered with black plastic.
“I seeded that lawn myself,” Walter said. “I had to get a special shade mix, too.”
“You did a good job,” I said.
“It’s not that I begrudge Fiona getting it,” he said, casting one last glance at the house. Then he chewed the inside of his lip. “Well, I guess I do,” he admitted. “I do begrudge her. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want what’s mine. Not a penny of hers went toward the mortgage.”
“You’ll get another house,” I said.
He pursed his lips and made a pffft sound, as if he were spitting out cat hairs. “I doubt it. She’ll get so much alimony, I won’t have a pot to piss in.”
“I guarantee that you can find peace and happiness without a house,” I told him.
“I sure could use some peace,” he said, a slow smile breaking across his lips.
“You want to spell that last word for me?” I smiled.
“First, let’s get out of here,” he said, laughing.
Walter wanted me to meet his family, so a week later we drove way out into the country, toward a community called Hanging Limb. He turned up a gravel driveway that gave way to a rutted dirt road, then put his Thunderbird into park and dropped his right hand to my knee. “I want to tell you about my folks,” he said. “Mama’s a homemaker, but Daddy’s a golf nut.”
Walter glanced up at the house. It was clapboard, painted moss green, with black shutters. The lawn was littered with yellow golf balls. A pink chenille bedspread was airing on the porch railing. I was having trouble picturing a golf nut living here, but Walter’s description of his mother seemed accurate.
As if reading my thoughts, Walter said, “He played golf all last summer. He’d set his alarm clock for five A.M. so he wouldn’t have to wait in line to tee off. Mama stayed home and vacuumed. She doesn’t even drive. You’ll just love her. My sisters live here, too, so you’ll meet them.”
“How many do you have?” I asked. The way he said “my sisters” put me in mind of a harem, women with long flowing hair and jeweled belly buttons.
“Two. Lacy’s the oldest, and Jobeth’s the baby.”
When Walter and I reached the front door, a woman’s head popped out. It had grizzled hair and bright blue eyes. It let out a whoop, then the body it belonged to—surprisingly girlish in a red polyester pantsuit that showed off slender legs and a small waist—ran out onto the porch and drew Walter into her arms. She kissed his eyes, nose, and forehead.
“Stop it, Mama,” Walter complained. “I can’t breathe!”
Mrs. Saylor released her son and spun around. “You must be Walter’s little girlfriend,” she gushed, grabbing my hands. “We’ve been dead to meet you. His sisters will be out here in a minute. They’re in the bathroom douching.” She pronounced it DOO-shin.
I glanced at Walter, but he didn’t seem to find anything odd about his mother’s comment. He took my arm and led me inside. As I stepped into the living room, I smelled the biting aroma of apple cider vinegar, and my eyes began to water.
“Oh, look, Walter. She’s crying!” Mrs. Saylor grabbed my hands again. “How sweet. She’s tenderhearted, just like we are. This calls for a drink. Walter, take your girlfriend into the living room, and I’ll be right with you.”
Walter led me down a dingy hall with faded green wallpaper, past a heap of dirty laundry and a long pine bench. A cross had been carved into each side of the bench, and I realized it was a church pew, but I didn’t have time to ask questions, because Walter was steering me into a paneled room. Here the air smelled of cigarettes and dirty feet. A golf tournament flashed on the portable TV. There were two vinyl sofas—one green, one tan, both of them ripped. Three recliners were angled in the corners. A stubby little man was stretched out in one chair. He had thick forearms, and his dome was bald and gleaming, surrounded by a thatch of graying orange frizz. He didn’t even glance our way.
“Hey, Daddy,” said Walter.
“Hold up!” Mr. Saylor barked. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the television. His ears resembled raw oysters. I gulped, remembering Point Minette. “He’s on the thirteenth hole.”
“Who is?” Walter persisted.
“Arnold Palmer, now hush!” Mr. Saylor cried.
Walter pressed his lips to my ear and said, “When he’s not playing golf, he’s watching it.”
I nodded and glanced around the room again. I thought Walter had been a little too generous in his description of his mother. Wisps of dust hung from the ceiling. Large glass ashtrays were filled with cigarette butts. He led me to the tan sofa and we sat down, our thighs touching. I tried to move away, but he pulled me back. Since I didn’t want the Saylors to get the wrong idea about me, I sat primly—hands in my lap, knees together. On the wall behind Mr. Saylor, I noticed a framed print showing the Arc de Triomphe. I froze. Claude’s mother had owned a similar picture—not a print but an oil painting. This wasn’t a good sign.
From the hallway came the sound of a door slamming, followed by feminine laughter. A moment later, Walter’s sisters appeared. They were strawberry blondes, with pale, freckled faces. One sister was tall and willowy, the other was short and curvy. They perched on opposite ends of the green sofa and smiled at me. Their teeth were sharp and tiny, like upholstery tacks.
A door swung open, showing a glimpse of a filthy kitchen—counters heaped with dishes and potato chip bags. Mrs. Saylor bustled in, carrying a tray. “Girls, say hi to Walter’s girl,” she told them, handing out Bloody Marys.
“Hi,” the sisters said in unison.
“That’s Walter’s daddy over there,” said Mrs. Saylor, nodding in his direction. She lifted her drink, the ice tinkling. “We call him Rooster, and he does kind of look like one. Rooster, turn off that TV and say hello to Walter’s girl.”
“In a minute. Arnold’s putting.” Mr. Saylor frowned.
Mrs. Saylor plopped down on the green sofa, bracketed by her daughters. I sipped my drink. The vodka tasted strong and bitter, the tomato juice weak and watery.
“Waltie, do you think it’s fair that Fiona gets your house?” Mrs. Saylor gave him a sly look.
“Please don’t start, Mama.” He gave her a warning look.
“You’re generous as the day is long. But if it was me, I’d kick her butt out of that house and make her get a motel room. The way you’ve had to do.” Mrs. Saylor lifted her glass and drank half of her Bloody Mary, then she sighed and turned to me. “I just love vodka, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said in a polite, eager-to-please voice. I’d only taken a few sips and already I was feeling giddy.
“Feel free to call me Wilma.”
From the television came the sound of the crowd clapping for Arnold Palmer. Now Walter was sitting on the edge of the sofa, rooting and cheering.
“That’s a lovely painting.” I raised my glass, as if saluting the Arc de Triomphe.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Mrs. Saylor’s eyes shifted away from me, and she turned, gazing over her shoulder. “I don’t know what it’s a picture of—maybe Walter does. He gave it to me last Christmas. Didn’t you, Walter? Walter?”
“What?” Walter’s head swiveled.
“What’s that a picture of?” Mrs. Saylor pointed.
“A place in Italy or Greece, I think.” Walter squinted at the painting. “Or maybe Holland.”
“My boy is so smart,” said Mrs. Saylor. Then she thumped my arm. “How did you and him meet?”
“At his office,” I said. I didn’t volunteer any details, and neither did Walter.
“When you say ‘at his office,’” Jobeth said, making quote marks in the air with her celery stick, “were you working there?”
“No, no,” Walter said, and he put his hand over mine and squeezed it. “She came to get a tooth filled, and the minute I saw her, I fell head-over-heels.”
Jobeth and Lacy stared at his hand and raised their eyebrows, but they didn’t say anything.
“Bitsy, do you work anywhere?” asked Mrs. Saylor.
“The Green Parrot Café,” I said.
“Her aunt owns it,” said Walter.
“When’s the wedding?” Jobeth asked Walter.
“That’s a stupid question,” cried Lacy. “He and Fiona ain’t even divorced.”
“She sure is cuter than Fiona,” said Jobeth.
“And she’s got a nice figure,” said Lacy.
“How much do you weigh?” Jobeth asked me.
“Well…” I couldn’t answer because I had no idea. The scale in Aunt Clancy’s bathroom had a mind of its own. One day I’d step on it and the dial would swirl up to 138, the most I’d ever weighed, and the next day, it registered 122. I liked those days best. I was just about to explain when Walter jumped into the conversation.
“Jobeth, what’s the matter with you? You shouldn’t ask people their weight.”
“But she’s not fat.” Jobeth shrugged. “She’s just stubby.”
“Fiona was huge,” said Jobeth.
“No wonder. She couldn’t cook nothing but fried chicken and banana crumb cake,” said Jobeth.
“Can you cook, Bitsy?” Mrs. Saylor asked.
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” I nodded.
“She was a home ec major in high school,” Walter said.
“That’ll come in handy,” said Mrs. Saylor. “My daughters majored in cigarettes and sex.”
Everyone but Rooster and me laughed. Jobeth wiped her eyes. “We done all right,” she told her mother. “We ain’t perfect, but we done all right.”
From the television, a cheer rose from the crowd. Rooster catapulted from the vinyl chair, scurrying forward, planting himself in front of the old Motorola. “Y’all HUSH!” he yelled.
“Well, don’t have kittens,” said Mrs. Saylor, grinning at me. The Saylor sisters smiled, too. For a moment, I felt a warm acceptance.
“Shit,” said Rooster. Then he blinked at his son. “Hey, I didn’t see you over there.”
“But you talked to me a minute ago,” Walter protested.
“Was that you?” Rooster’s eyebrows moved up. “Want to go hit a few balls?”
“If he has any balls.” Mrs. Saylor laughed, biting into her celery stick. “I think Fiona took them.”
“You might want to check, son.” Mr. Saylor laughed, then winked at Walter. “Take it from me, sonny. These bitches will cut off your balls and leave you bleeding. And they won’t bat one eye. They’ll cut off your little woman’s balls, too.”
“Jesus, Daddy,” Walter said, aghast. “Women don’t have testicles.”
“They do in this family,” he said, clapping Walter’s shoulder. “But I wish to God they didn’t. Now, how about us going to hit a few?”
A TAPED MESSAGE TO BETTY FORD
212 Dixie Avenue
Crystal Falls, Tennessee
August 9, 1974
Dear Betty,
As I watched your hubby get sworn in (not in person, on TV), I wondered if I should bother writing. You kinda look stuck up. Also, there’s no way you’ll be as much fun to write to as Pat. I know she must be a nervous wreck, but so am I. But just look what all I have to deal with: Earlene is an evil bitch from hell who doesn’t cook. Just this morning, she hung up a sign on my kitchen door, Blessed Is the Mother Who Gives Her Children Wings to Fly. I just laughed when I saw it, but it hurt my feelings. Raising a child isn’t so easy—you don’t graduate them, pinning little wings to their collars. Currently she and I aren’t on speaking terms. Last night I cooked my son a fine meal. It started off with bacon dip and pork rinds, then we had French onion soup (it was canned but don’t tell anybody), followed by a tossed salad with French dressing and a pot roast that was so tender you could cut it with a spoon. For dessert, key lime pie—but it wasn’t truly “keyed” as I had to use bottled Minute Maid lime juice. Earlene sat off to the side, painting her nails a vile shade of copper and not talking or eating.
Even though you don’t look so friendly, I was hoping we could correspond with each other, exchanging hints and ideas. Or just venting, as they say in psychiatric circles. I am thinking that it’s harder being a mother than a first lady. In a few years, if your husband doesn’t get reelected—not that he was in the first place—then you can go back to being a wife. But no matter how old or mean-natured your children get, they’re still your babies. There might be an expiration date on mothering, but not motherhood. And there are certainly no wings involved unless you’re an angel or a bat.
Tonight I’m fixing Swiss steak, rice, English peas, sliced tomatoes, biscuits, and sweet tea, with pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. The pineapples were canned, but the tomatoes came from my sister’s garden. Before it was hers, it was my mother’s, and that should make it half mine, but Clancy Jane hogs the vegetables as if they’re heirlooms. The ones she doesn’t want she gives to me or else serves them at her hippie café, so she’ll make a profit. My daughter, Bitsy, works at the café, and she lives next door with my sister. Clancy Jane snatches up everything, from tomatoes to people. She tried to steal my husband, and when that didn’t work, she stole somebody else’s.
Bitsy will be twenty-one years old in October. She has a daughter who is two who she lost custody of although it was her husband who struck the first blow. Bitsy’s girl’s name is Jennifer. I wished they’d named her after me but that’s the way it goes. She visits now and then, and I have discovered something—I LOVE being a grandmother. What they say is true, it’s all the fun and none of the responsibility. She just loves going up into my mother’s attic and digging through the old clothes. I believe she is liking us better too.
But she still runs to the door the minute she hears Chick’s car pull into the drive. Chick is her rich, alcoholic, Republican-loving grandfather.
Well, I need to be running along, as I have supper to fix. Then I want to watch M*A*S*H* with my son. I could send you some samples of my cooking if you’d like. Just say the word. In fact, just say anything. I won’t tell anybody your secrets if you won’t tell mine. Is that a deal?
Your new pal,
Dorothy McDougal
It was early evening, the middle of September, and dry leaves blew across the lawn. Walter and I were sitting on my porch swing in the humid dark. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I love you, Bitsy. I want to slay dragons for you.”
I wanted to say something witty, something that would make him laugh, but I was still thinking about his family. He pointed up at the sky. “Look over there, way, way up. What’s that really bright star?”
“Sirius?”
“You remembered.” He kissed the tip of my nose. From the next street, a dog started barking. Then came the yowl of an al
ley cat. The dog let out a series of yips, followed by a keening wail.
“That poor old dog,” I said, snuggling next to him. “Barking like that.”
“Want me to go kill it?” Walter said, laughing and nuzzling my neck.
“Lord, no.”
Walter reached into his pocket, and drew out a red velvet box. He creaked the lid open, revealing an emerald-cut diamond in a Tiffany setting. He reached inside, picked it out with two fingers, held it up. “Bitsy, will you marry me?”
Dumbfounded, I gazed up at him. I wanted to say Just give me a minute. Let me look before I leap, I’m such a bad leaper. I’m so afraid of making another mistake. We had been dating hardly a month. His family was beyond weird. And he wasn’t officially divorced; but his smile was so hopeful. All of these problems hummed in my mind. I shut my eyes, waiting for divine inspiration. If only God would step in and clear everything up. Bitsy, He might say, Do you know the difference between love and need?
No, Lord, I’d say. I sure don’t.
Walter waved the ring in front of my nose, as if he were holding smelling salts. “Bitsy?”
“I’m just overwhelmed,” I said.
“After we get married, I’m going to hire a lawyer, and we’ll get your daughter away from your ex.”
“You’d do that?”
“I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not stopping until Jennifer and you are back together. Now, give me your hand. That’s a good girl.” Walter slid the ring onto my finger. “There,” he said. “A perfect fit.”
Clancy Jane, Bitsy, Violet, Dorothy, and Earlene
The girls were giving Bitsy an all-girl engagement/Halloween party. Clancy Jane rushed around the dining room, her long velvet skirt sweeping over the floor. She pushed back the sleeves on her cowl-neck sweater—fashion simply wasn’t compatible with life, she thought—and poured Tiki punch into a cut-glass bowl. She was putting the finishing touches on Bitsy’s party. On the sideboard, she’d set candles inside carved jack-o-lanterns, and she’d draped orange crêpe paper around the chandelier.
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