From her new eight-track player, Crosby, Stills and Nash were singing “Just a Song Before I Go.” Violet came into the room carrying Jennifer’s box of magnetic letters. Dorothy was right behind her, carrying a platter of homemade Halloween cookies. She paused at the sideboard, smiling down at the cake. It was orange with black icing and had Congratulations Bitsy & Walter! scrawled across the surface. Next to the cake were baskets filled with Ritz crackers. Violet had set out assorted dips, leaving them in their plastic containers. Well, no wonder, thought Dorothy. That poor child had never learned the social graces. And she never would.
Dorothy started to ask her sister if she wanted her to put the dip into cute little bowls, but she was afraid Clancy Jane might take it as criticism. The girl might run a café, but at home she didn’t know doodly squat. Empty bottles of Tiki punch were stacked underneath the table, beside an empty Mason jar. Dorothy had seen that jar before, beneath the sink in Mack’s house. She had thought it was Clorox, but he’d said, “Hell no, Mama, this is my private stash of pure grain alcohol.”
“For rubbing your sore muscles?” Dorothy had asked.
“It’s moonshine, Mama.”
Now Dorothy set down the cookies and walked over to the punch bowl. She was determined to make small talk with her sister. After all, they lived right next door to each other, they should let bygones be bygones.
“This is the reddest punch I’ve ever seen,” Dorothy said, wishing they’d dyed it orange to match everything else. She didn’t plan to drink any of it, but she was hoping the others would. She just loved it when she stayed sober and everybody else got drunk. That was a nightly occurrence over at her house—or should she say Mack and Earlene’s house? Byron was over there now, watching TV so the girls could enjoy their party.
“The punch is wicked,” warned Violet, looking up from her cup. “It’s got PGA in it.”
“Want a sip?” Clancy Jane held out a cup, but Dorothy shook her head.
“Oh, go on, Aunt Dorothy,” said Violet. “The PGA doesn’t alter the taste or the color. It tastes like a regular punch.”
Dorothy started to explain about her nerve pills and how they didn’t mix with alcohol, but the front door opened and a woman hollered, “Yoo-hoo!”
It was Earlene. She breezed into the dining room, carrying a tray of finger sandwiches, which she set down on the table. She had taken black eyeliner and drawn a Liz Taylor mole on her right cheek. Despite the chilly weather, she was wearing a purple tube top and cutoff jeans and high heels. She looked very Halloweenish, a cross between a witch and a hooker. “The wind is kicking up something awful,” she said, patting her hair. She looked at the women. “Where’s Bitsy?”
“Upstairs primping,” said Violet.
“Why?” Dorothy was startled. She touched her forehead, hoping she’d remembered to draw on her eyebrows. “Walter isn’t coming, is he?”
“No, it’s just us girls,” said Clancy Jane.
Bitsy came down the stairs wearing a burnt orange velvet dress, one of her Goodwill finds. Her hair was swept up into a French twist, but the strawberry blonde streaks clashed with the dress, making her look more like Lucille Ball than Grace Kelly. When she stepped into the dining room, Clancy Jane started clapping. “Here’s our guest of honor!” Earlene and Dorothy clapped, too, with Violet halfheartedly joining in.
When the noise died down, Violet looked up at Bitsy and said, “Gee, didn’t you have an oranger dress in your closet?”
“I’m saving it for you,” Bitsy said.
“Touché,” said Violet.
“You better capitulate,” Bitsy said.
“You’re regressing,” Violet said. “You’re back to using C words? That’s pitiful. I thought you’d be up to the Zs already.”
“I’m not going in order, but this is my second pass through your dictionary, I’ll have you know,” Bitsy said. She sat down next to Violet, then held out her left hand and gazed at the diamond. She looked around the room, her eyes lingering on each woman’s face.
“Y’all, am I doing the right thing?” she asked.
“You can’t back out now,” said Earlene. “You’d break that boy’s heart.”
“He’s hardly a boy,” said Violet. “Bitsy, honey, were you asking a rhetorical question or did you really want my opinion?”
“Both, I guess.” Bitsy kept on looking at the diamond.
“Hey, Bitsy,” Clancy Jane said, over her shoulder. “Right before I married Byron, I got cold feet.”
“What happened?” Bitsy sat up straight. “What did you do?”
“That’s obvious. She married him.” Violet laughed.
“Hon, it’s normal to have doubts,” said Earlene. She lifted the Saran Wrap from her sandwich tray.
“I’d be scared, too,” Dorothy said, “if I got engaged again.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Violet reached for a chicken salad sandwich.
“You don’t know everything, Violet,” said Dorothy. “You don’t even know that it’s tacky to serve dip in these plastic boats. I could get a man. But I just don’t want to fool with one.”
“What’s wrong with plastic?” Violet asked.
“It’s cheap. The least you could’ve done was scrape the dip into cut-glass bowls,” Dorothy said. “When my mother lived in this house, she had hundreds of bowls. But I never see them. Where did they go?”
“A catfight’s brewing,” Earlene told Clancy Jane. “Hurry up and pass the punch.”
“Coming!” Clancy Jane began ladling punch, then passed around the cups. Dorothy handed hers over to Violet.
“Cool,” Violet said. She drained both cups, then she got an empty wineglass and slid it to the center of the table. Next, using the magnetic letters, she spelled out YES; on the other side, NO. “Enough of this speculation. Let us join hands and contact the living.”
“Don’t you mean the dead?” Dorothy whispered.
“It was a joke.” Violet delicately placed the tips of her fingers on the base of the glass. The women gathered closer, elbows touching, and placed their fingertips next to Violet’s.
“Concentrate, y’all,” said Clancy Jane. She squeezed her eyes shut, and little wrinkles fanned around her eyes. Three lines appeared on her forehead.
“All right,” said Violet in a low, sultry voice. Her eyes were downcast but not closed. “Does Walter worship the ground Bitsy walks on?”
“Worship?” Bitsy groaned, lifting her hands from the wineglass. “Don’t ask it that!”
“It’s my glass. I’ll ask it whatever I please,” said Violet.
“You sound ten years old,” said Dorothy.
“No, that’s how you sounded at ten,” Violet snapped. “I’m sorry, Aunt Dorothy. That was mean. I’ll go a little lighter on the punch.”
“Worship, worship, worship,” Dorothy was saying, ignoring her niece’s comment. When it pleased her, Dorothy had the most amazing powers of concentration.
“Oh, all right.” Bitsy sighed and put her fingers back onto the glass. It began to tremble, then it scraped across the tablecloth to NO, paused for two seconds, then sped to the other side of the table, to YES.
“Did y’all see that?” asked Violet, her eyes widening.
“Why can’t it make up its mind?” Bitsy said.
“Maybe both answers are true?” Clancy Jane looked at Bitsy.
“You moved it,” said Bitsy, jabbing Violet’s elbow.
“I did not.”
“Maybe y’all’s fingers slipped,” suggested Dorothy. “Let’s ask it again.”
“But at least reword the question,” said Earlene.
“All right. Just let me think a minute.” Violet shut her eyes. Then she said, “Is Walter insanely in love with Bitsy?”
The glass trembled, then it lurched across the table, dragging the women’s fingers along with it, forcing Earlene to rise from her chair and stretch across the table. The glass stopped at YES. Then it careened back to NO.
“See? I tol
d you the damn stupid thing can’t make up its mind,” Bitsy muttered.
“It needs more information,” said Violet. “Bitsy, tell us what Walter looks like naked.”
“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Earlene.
“I haven’t,” said Dorothy.
“Ask the damn wineglass,” Bitsy said. “I’m not telling y’all a thing.”
“Is he skinny all over?” Earlene giggled. “And just where do the freckles stop?”
“Don’t ask personal questions,” Dorothy said. “It isn’t becoming. Anyway, you’ve already got a man.”
“Do I?” Earlene stared at her mother-in-law. Everybody in the family had urged Earlene to have it out with Dorothy, but Earlene would always shake her head and say, “I can’t. She’s his mother. He feels too guilty to straighten her out.”
“Ask what you want. It’s just us girls,” said Violet, pouring herself another cup of punch. She didn’t sip, she tilted the cup to her lips and poured the liquid into her mouth, like she was watering a rosebush.
“We don’t need to ask the spirits,” Clancy Jane said, raising her arms over her head, lifting her heavy dark blond hair. “From the look on Bitsy’s face, he must be interesting.”
“So are Andy Warhol paintings,” Violet said.
“Honey, all men look good in the dark,” said Earlene.
“And you should know,” Dorothy muttered.
Earlene just laughed and said, “It’s the truth. I’m not ashamed to say it, either.”
“I’ve seen Walter Saylor’s body and it’s great,” said Violet. “Don’t look shocked. It was perfectly innocent. Bitsy was with me. It was a turning point in their relationship.”
“No, the salami was,” said Clancy Jane.
“I’m confused,” said Dorothy. “First, you’re talking about his naked body. Then you’re talking about luncheon meat.”
“It’s a euphemism, Aunt Dorothy,” Violet said, flashing a wicked smile, “for his dick.”
“I just love salami.” Earlene hopped out of her chair and skipped to the freezer.
“Girls, we’ve had too much PGA,” said Clancy Jane. “Our spiritual auras are muddled. Let’s get rid of the kiddie letters and play Voodoo Scrabble.”
“Good idea,” said Violet. It was her Scrabble game, dragged from the depths of her cluttered Volkswagen. When the women got together, they used the game in a variety of ways—sometimes they played Vulgar Scrabble, allowing only disgusting words. But they had to be a little drunker to play that version. Their favorite game was Voodoo Scrabble, spelling out words as if they were in a trance. All the letters were spread face up in the box, and the players could select what they wanted. There was only one rule: You had exactly ten seconds to spell your word—and make it fit into the others. While you decided, the other players timed you out loud—one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand.
Earlene walked back the table, holding a grape Popsicle.
“I don’t remember how to play,” said Dorothy.
“You’ll pick it right up,” Earlene said. She put the Popsicle into her mouth and sucked hard, her cheeks denting. “All you have to do is read between the lines.”
“Give me some tiles.” Violet fit a dip-drenched Triscuit into her mouth, then held out her hand.
“I’ll start,” said Clancy Jane. Without hesitation, she spelled out SEXUALITY in a horizontal line, her tiles clinking against the board.
“Man, that was lucky.” Earlene finished off her Popsicle and biting down on the stick, she gathered up her tiles. “How do you spell fellatio?”
“If you’ve gotta ask,” said Clancy in a Louis Armstrong voice, “then you’ll never know.”
“Speaking of which,” said Violet, picking up an F, C, and K, fitting the tiles over the U in SEXUALITY.
“We should’ve asked the Ouija board if Walter and I will have any children,” said Bitsy.
“Stay on the Pill,” said Clancy Jane. “You are on it, right?”
“She takes Ovral,” said Violet. “With the little butterflies on the case. I’ve seen it in the medicine cabinet.”
“Keep taking it,” said Clancy Jane.
Violet was looking at Earlene. Finally she said, “Hey, are you and Mack going to have a family?”
“I can’t have kids, hon,” said Earlene, crossing her legs. “The doctor says my tubes are clogged.”
Dorothy’s hand shook as she reached for a punch cup. Thank God for germs, she thought. On the other hand, a baby was exactly what Bitsy needed to make up for Jennifer. Bitsy had grown into a sweet young lady. She was just as curvy as Earlene, even though she didn’t show off her body in a vulgar fashion. Walter Saylor was ugly, but his profession more than made up for his hair and eyes. Dorothy didn’t like to brag—well, not much—but here lately she’d been going around town referring to the boy as Dr. Saylor, my daughter’s fiancé. Sometimes she’d preface a sentence with “My future son-in-law, the dentist.” That got people’s attention.
“Any child of Walter’s will have good health insurance. Dentists can afford the best,” Dorothy said. “But it’ll probably have his goat eyes.”
“Actually, his eyes are kinda froggy,” said Earlene.
“Y’all stop it!” Bitsy slapped her hand on the table, causing the tiles to jump. “He’s good to me.”
“Good in bed?” asked Earlene, “or good as in godly?”
“Good isn’t a reason to get married,” said Violet.
“I might be making a mistake,” said Bitsy, “but I won’t sit here and let y’all run him down.”
“She’s right, hon,” Earlene said, picking up a tile. “Who knows? He might change Bitsy’s life.”
“Sugar lump, it’ll take more than a man to do that,” Violet said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. She picked up a few tiles, spelling out ROMANCE. “Try education.”
“College isn’t for everyone,” Clancy Jane said.
“It all depends on what you want out of life.” Violet shrugged.
“I want a husband who reads the morning paper while I fry his bacon,” Bitsy said.
“I’m confused,” said Violet. “You want to be a personal chef? Wait, how ’bout doormat?”
“Doormat?” Dorothy and Bitsy said together, looking baffled.
“Fry his bacon? Scramble his eggs?” Violet shuddered. “Go on, then, be Donna Reed again!”
“Do not judge lest ye be judged,” said Dorothy, stifling a belch.
“I just want to be loved,” said Bitsy. “I want a man who’s kind and honest.”
“You want a little too much, honey,” said Clancy Jane, but her voice was tender.
“I’m scared to death.” Bitsy reached across the table, over the board, and grabbed Violet’s hand.
“You don’t have to be,” Violet said. “Nobody says you have to get married right away. You can have the world’s longest engagement.”
“You really shouldn’t offer advice,” Clancy Jane said. “You’ve never been married.”
“By the grace of God,” Violet said.
“You’ll probably end up with a well-educated man,” said Earlene. “You could never be happy with a blue-collar guy.”
Violet turned to her mother. “Don’t you wish someone had talked to you about blue-collar men before you married my daddy?”
“No, indeed not,” said Clancy Jane. “Then I wouldn’t have you.”
Violet’s chin wove, but Clancy Jane kept on talking. “You were my anchor. Even when you were small, you held me together.”
“Let’s don’t get into this,” Violet said in a shaky voice.
“Hush, y’all. Look at the board,” said Dorothy, busily arranging new tiles. “The oracle has spoken.”
Fiona
On All Saints’ Day, Fiona Saylor drove to Kmart, thinking about the Northern tissue sale. Despite the fact that Walter had filed for divorce, she still held out hope that he would return. Just in case he did, she wanted to be prepared. She had an idea that something wa
s desperately wrong with his bowels, considering how much time he used to spend in the john, so when she heard about the sale, she’d hurried over to the store. She turned her cart up an aisle and came face to face with two of her nosiest nosy neighbors.
“Fiona!” cried Mary Sue Parks. Her hair looked freshly styled and she was wearing a red peacoat over black pants. “I’m surprised to see you out and about.”
“Why? I haven’t been sick.” Fiona looked past Mary Sue, into the eyes of her other neighbor, Leslie Adams. She lived in a red brick split level on Appomattox with her husband and three loud children.
“I’m just so sorry,” said Mary Sue, patting Fiona’s arm. “I had no idea.”
“About what?” Fiona blinked. She was starting to get mad.
“Why, the awful news,” replied Leslie Adams, her large green eyes bulging.
“About Walter’s engagement.” Mary Sue leaned closer, watching Fiona’s face. “Are you all right? You look pale, Fiona. Are you fixing to faint?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Fiona said, pushing the woman’s hands away.
“He’s marrying a cute little strawberry blonde,” said Mary Sue, obviously enjoying herself. “Petite, but curvy. I saw her at the beauty shop. She was getting a French twist. I think her name is Betsy. Or maybe Becky? Works at the Green Parrot Café? And she’s got a little daughter, but I don’t think the child lives with her…”
“I’d really love to chat,” said Fiona, “but I’m in a rush.”
“Well, wait a minute,” said Leslie. “You and Walter haven’t been divorced very long, have you?”
“We’re not divorced,” snapped Fiona, pushing her cart around the Northern tissue display. She broke away from the women and scooted her cart down another aisle. She rounded a corner, then shoved the cart as hard as she could. It wheeled crookedly, then crashed into a display of Nair hair remover. All of the jars tumbled to the floor. Fiona pressed her fingers to her lips, imagining unspeakable things. She knew every inch of Walter’s body, the limbs all covered with springy orange down, the long, freckled penis hanging between his legs. She imagined a hand snaking up, tenderly cupping his genitals. The hand belonged to a goddess, a composite blonde with a face like Brigitte Bardot, breasts like Marilyn Monroe, teeth like Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and legs like Cheryl Tiegs.
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