Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  She ran out of Kmart, into her car. If those women at Kmart knew about Walter’s engagement, then the whole town knew. Still, she had to hear this straight from Walter himself. She drove across town, swerving from lane to lane, honking at slowpoke motorists. Five minutes later, she pulled up to his office, climbed out of her car, and ran up the sidewalk. The waiting room was empty. She strode past the goggle-eyed receptionist, an old, mothbally thing that Fiona hadn’t seen before.

  “Miss? Can I help you?” called the woman as Fiona stomped into the hall. Oh, she knew how she looked in her baggy blue jeans, the waist cinched with frayed clothesline. Well, Walter had taken all his belts when he left, and they’d fit her perfectly; he had also taken his Fruit Of The Looms, but she’d planned to buy more at Kmart.

  Fiona found Walter in room 3, which featured a waterfall mural. He was bent over Mrs. Edward Crane, whose husband owned the hardware store. A new dental assistant looked up, an older woman with jowls.

  When Walter saw Fiona, he froze. The drill stopped whining. Mrs. Crane lifted her head, and looked from Walter to the assistant.

  “What are you doing here?” Walter spoke in a casual voice, but his pupils were dilating with fear.

  “I want the truth!” Fiona stepped closer. “The truth about that woman.”

  “Who, me?” asked the patient, glancing at Walter.

  “No, not you.” Fiona began to tremble. She snatched up a tray full of instruments and threw it against the wall.

  The assistant turned to Walter. “Doctor, should I call the police?”

  “Not just yet,” said Walter. He reached down and patted Mrs. Crane’s arm. “Sorry for the interruption. I’ll be right back.” He pushed the drill aside, got up from his stool, and strode out of the room. Fiona hurried after him.

  “All right,” she said, grabbing his sleeve, yanking him back. “Start talking. Tell me about the strawberry blonde.”

  With her free hand, she began to punch Walter’s head, her fist sinking into the red hair.

  “Fiona, stop!” Walter put his arms in front of his face. “Stop! You’re making a scene!”

  “I want to know what’s going on.” She smacked him again.

  “All right, all right.” Walter turned pale. “I-I’ve met someone.”

  “So…” She stepped forward, her fists raised in the air. “It’s true you’re engaged?”

  He nodded.

  “But you’re still married to me,” she cried. Sure, they’d had spats—spatula spats, she called them, but nobody was perfect. Living with another person could try the patience of a saint. “This is bigamy!” she added.

  “It’s perfectly legal,” he said. “I can be engaged to one person and still be technically married to another. I’m not breaking any laws.”

  “You might not have broken a law,” Fiona said, her eyes filling, hands dropping to her sides, “but you’ve shattered my heart.”

  Walter stared down at the floor. Fiona stared, too. Long ago she had picked out those tiles, thinking they would hide dirt. And this was how he’d thanked her.

  “You could’ve told me!” Fiona balled up her fists, preparing for a fresh onslaught. “But no. I had to hear about it at Kmart. Our neighbors knew before I did!”

  “Fiona, I can’t discuss this now.”

  She responded by raising her fist and cracking it on his head. He backed up, his orange eyes wobbling. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Fiona. I’m filing a complaint against you.”

  “For what?” She spat out the words.

  “Assault and battery. My office staff saw your little outburst. I’m getting a restraining order against you.”

  “It was self-defense!” she cried.

  “No, it wasn’t. This time, I’ve got witnesses.” He rubbed his scalp. “I can feel knots everywhere,” he added. “You’re abusive, Fiona.”

  “You poo-poo head. You mama’s boy.” She reared back to slap him, then she froze and stared at her hand. She wanted to smack him but not in public. No, she would wait. She had time. She ran out of his office, down the hall, into the waiting room, past the startled patients. Then she hurtled out the door, into the chilly November afternoon. Thanksgiving was sometime this month, but there would be no family around her table, much less a husband to carve.

  Down by the curb she climbed into her car, cranked the engine, and headed toward town. Well, she’d show him and that pigmy blonde. She swerved her car into The Utopian parking lot and hurried into the shop. She waved at Anita, who was giving a permanent to an elderly woman. “Did you have an appointment?” Anita called.

  “No, but this is an emergency. I need the works,” Fiona said. “Manicure, pedicure, and a new hairdo.”

  “Fiona, I’m swamped. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s too late!” Fiona shrieked.

  The laughter and gossip snapped off, and everyone turned to stare at her. “Please, it’s life or death. You’ve just got to squeeze me in.”

  “I’ll try.” Anita frowned. “Just have a seat.”

  Fiona grabbed an armful of magazines and carried them over to a wicker chair. She flipped through the pages, staring at women with long blond hair. A long time ago, Fiona herself had been a sight for sore eyes. When she’d met Walter Saylor, she’d weighed only 140 pounds and wore a size 10; her hair was dark brown and stick straight. No small wonder that she’d attracted Walter. They got married the summer before he started dental school. Fiona had fought with her mother over her bridal gown. Her mother had picked out a dress that resembled a lampshade, and Fiona had wanted a simple A-line, no lace or seed pearls. Instead of a bouquet, she’d wanted to carry her pet rabbit, Mr. Moffett, down the aisle, but her mother had reacted as if Fiona had said she wanted to carry a stool specimen.

  Her mother cried, “What will people think?”

  Fiona shrugged. It wasn’t as if the wedding would be featured in Town & Country. Walter’s parents were so backward, they might have thought a bunny bouquet was chic.

  On their Panama City honeymoon, Walter bought Coca-Colas from the hotel’s machine, then he’d bring them back to the room and leave the half-empty bottles on the tables. It got worse when the honeymoon ended, and they moved to an apartment in Memphis. Every morning, before Fiona drove to her job at the bank, she spent ten minutes picking up Walter’s empty Coke bottles. She began to notice white circles all over the tops of their nice Drexel furniture. “This has got to stop,” she told him, pointing to the rings. “If you leave one more Coke bottle on the table, I’m going to throttle you.”

  One night, she was frying hamburgers and from the corner of her eyes she saw him put an empty bottle on the coffee table. She reached for a spatula, flipped the burgers, then walked out of the kitchen. She raised the spatula and lunged for Walter. He sprang off the sofa, into the hall. She chased him from room to room, her hot, greasy spatula making a whooshing noise. She had hoped the episode would force him to change his slovenly ways, but it seemed that Walter would rather get a beating than obey a woman. He continued to leave the bottles, and the rings on the furniture multiplied.

  She had thought about moving out, but Memphis was an evil city. The paper was full of rapes, murders, muggings. No, she’d stay married and make him change his slatternly ways.

  After they moved to Crystal Falls and he set up his dental practice, Fiona rarely saw him. But she was glad that he was drinking his colas elsewhere. She amused herself by watching the people next door, who were getting their house painted. The workers had beards and long hair and shot each other birds or else flashed the peace sign—they looked to Fiona like Charles Manson’s family. She was afraid they’d stick a fork in her chest and write PIG on the walls. Then one afternoon she was in the bedroom and heard muffled footsteps on the stairs, each one saying, I’m coming to get you. From the night table, she picked up a silver fingernail file. “I’ve got a weapon,” she called. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

  When the man stepped through the bedroom
door—dammit, she’d forgot to lock it—she screamed and ran at him, her arm jabbing like the mother in Psycho. Whack, whack, whack. Sweat was in her eyes, but she kept on stabbing. She chased the man all the way back into the hall.

  Then he cried, “Stop it, Fiona! It’s just me. For the love of God, stop!” Her vision cleared and she saw Walter. The shock caused her to take a step backward. Her foot missed the landing. Screaming, she plunged down the stairs, blackening both eyes and bruising her buttocks, arms, and legs. For a week, she was forced to wear sunglasses, long-sleeved blouses, long trousers, a floppy hat. It was summer, and she nearly burned up. Walter showed no remorse. He refused to discuss it with her, other than to say he was an abused man, and if she ever cut him again, or even used a fingernail file in his presence, he was going to call the police. But he never did. He was too much of a pussy.

  Now Fiona was too nervous to sit in the beauty salon chair. She threw down the magazines, causing the girl at the cash register to stare. Fiona knew what that girl was thinking. Divorce meant the same as unwanted. There was a certain dignity to widowhood, but losing your husband to a bleached, brainless strawberry blonde was embarrassing—and she was certain that all blondes lacked brains and morals. Just look at Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe. And yes, she’d read in Photoplay that Jayne Mansfield was supposed to be a genius, but Fiona thought it was a lie. She didn’t know what was worse—having your husband leave you for another woman or having him accuse you of assault and battery. Either way, she’d be ruined.

  Glancing out the Utopian’s front window, she saw a darkening sky, one that would make Bobby Vinton proud, blue velvet, soft and cushy as the robe her mother used to wear. Fiona was not fond of the color blue. After she’d whip Walter, the welts on his back and arms turned indigo, but he hid them from the world. In the hottest part of summer, he would roll down his shirtsleeves so no one could see. The bruises turned purple, fading into a sour, hateful yellow that lasted several weeks and seemed to mock her. Hit me again, the color used to say. I dare you to hit me again.

  He would undress in front of her, and the marks seemed louder than any admonishment. This, too, will pass, she told herself. She marveled at the resilience of the human body. Every second it was working toward health, breaking down the spilled blood, reabsorbing the overflow, carrying it away to the lymph glands—the body’s way of flushing its crap down the toilet. She had read all about it in Walter’s books. He could have been a doctor if he’d wanted. He could have been a lot of things, including a good husband.

  She got up from the chair and walked over to the Coke machine. She couldn’t take it if Walter’s blonde was a girlie sort of girl—perfume, hair bows, lipstick, ruffles, silk stockings, pink princess phone. “Pink!” she said, spitting out the word. Pink was worse than blue. It was a dainty color, and it smelled like a pussy. She dropped a coin into the slot and listened as it jingled down. She started to hit the Orange Crush button, but then remembered how it never seemed to work, so she punched 7UP instead and waited for the bottle to roll down the chute. When that didn’t happen, she kicked the machine. Still, it would not give up the 7UP bottle. Somehow it reminded her of Walter, hanging on to his old habits, not caring if she was inconvenienced. Her face contorted, and she made a fist and began pounding all the buttons, then she grabbed the rounded top and rocked the machine back and forth. Behind her, the beauticians began to yell, but Fiona didn’t hear what they were saying. She was getting into a rhythm, dancing with her rage. It just felt so good to manhandle something. She let out a war whoop and lunged forward. She wrapped her arms around the machine and it tottered, then fell forward, smack on top of her.

  Walter and His Family

  Clancy Jane was cleaning her house for Bitsy’s wedding. It was scheduled for December 28, but Clancy had a bad feeling about it, because Walter was still legally married. According to Bitsy, the divorce would be final after Thanksgiving unless Fiona contested. Clancy stood next to her bed, struggling to flip the mattress, wishing she hadn’t offered to throw a home wedding.

  “Look, I’ll plan everything, if you’ll let me,” she’d told Bitsy.

  “I wish Jennifer could be the flower girl,” Bitsy had said. “Think Claude would allow it?”

  “Probably not, but it won’t hurt to ask.”

  Clancy Jane had decided to use her living room for the ceremony—the fireplace would be a lovely backdrop. That room could hold twenty-five people, maybe thirty; and she’d get someone to play the ancient piano. A local violinist was also lined up for the evening. At Flowers by Joy, Clancy Jane ordered an arrangement for the dining table, potted poinsettias to set about, and hurricane globes with candles to stake along the driveway. For the bride’s bouquet, she and Bitsy decided on three dozen red roses with crimped lace inserts, ribbons streaming down. Zach made up a menu: cheese straws, mints, strawberries dipped in chocolate, punch, and champagne. Finally, a three-layer traditional cake was ordered at Ralph’s Bakery. This was a Crystal Falls tradition. You could not get married or have a birthday without one of Ralph’s cakes.

  Still struggling with the mattress, Clancy Jane heard the doorbell ring. She hurried downstairs, opened the door, and looked up into Walter’s bloodshot eyes. “Is Bitsy here?” he asked, his teeth chattering.

  “She’s next door.” Clancy Jane took a closer look at Walter. His eyes didn’t seem right, and she wondered if he was coming down with a cold. “She’ll be right back. You want to come inside and wait?”

  “I don’t know what to do. Oh, God. Fiona’s dead. I never meant to cause this. I didn’t.” He began to shake all over. Clancy Jane was afraid he’d faint, so she pulled him inside the house and up the stairs to Bitsy’s bedroom where she got him to lie down. As she pulled the gauzy blue curtains across the window, she glanced outside. It was getting dark. Soon the moon would be on the rise.

  “Thank you,” he said without opening his eyes. “Why did this happen? Is there a purpose to it?”

  “Sleep,” Clancy Jane said. She wanted to ask what had befallen Fiona, but Walter looked too distraught. “Just sleep. You’ll feel calmer after you’d had some rest.”

  Walter stayed in bed, wrapped in a quilt, stirring only when Bitsy brought him chicken noodle soup and crackers, glasses of ginger ale, bowls of lime Jell-O. He slept all night and awakened the next morning in a pensive mood. He picked at his breakfast tray, a sick child’s meal: a three-minute egg, toast, and tea.

  “What an awful way to get my house back,” was the first thing he said to Bitsy, after he’d explained about Fiona and the Coke machine. The next was, “I want to go over there. Maybe she won’t haunt me if you’re with me. You will spend the night, won’t you?”

  Bitsy hesitated. Only hippies and movie stars spent the night with a lover. No one in Crystal Falls would understand, except Aunt Clancy. “Let me think about it,” she said.

  “If you don’t go,” said Walter, “she’ll get me for sure.”

  That night, Walter moved back into the orange split-level. While Bitsy helped him rearrange the bedroom furniture, the doorbell rang. Before they reached the foyer, the front door opened and Walter’s mother poked her head inside. “Yoo-hoo, anyone home?”

  She gave Walter a kiss and smiled at Bitsy, then she hurried toward the kitchen. Lacy and Jobeth stepped into the foyer, followed by Rooster. “God, I’m starving,” said Lacy.

  “Me, too,” said Jobeth.

  The sisters barged into the kitchen. Bitsy peered through the doorway. Drawers and cabinets were slung open, as Fiona’s china and flatware was gathered. Jobeth dug into a chicken casserole that Fiona had apparently made earlier. Lacy opened the fridge and found a pecan pie in a bakery box. Meanwhile, Mrs. Saylor rummaged in the cabinet, pulling out a box of Mystic Mint cookies. They kept talking about Fiona and the awful way she’d died.

  “I didn’t invite them,” Walter told Bitsy. “Maybe they won’t stay long.”

  “I heard that,” cried Mrs. Saylor. “Let’s go, girls. We’r
e not welcome. We just came to pay our respects to Fiona, but that’s just fine, we’ll leave.”

  On their way out, Lacy shot Walter the bird. He closed the door and locked it. Bitsy glanced back at the kitchen. Cabinet doors stood ajar. The cookie box—empty except for crumbs—sat on the counter, next to the gutted chicken casserole. The Saylors reminded her of locusts—they arrived in a swarm, ate up all the food, and then flew off.

  Now that Fiona was gone, the Saylors were determined to reclaim Walter. Just as Bitsy had once felt their approval, now she sensed their dislike—eight thumbs down. They did not mention Fiona’s funeral or Walter’s wedding; in fact, they had stopped speaking directly to Bitsy. Mostly they referred to her as “Walter’s girl,” putting the same emphasis on the words as if they were saying “Walter’s virus” or “Walter’s tumor.”

  One Sunday they crashed into the split-level, and looked surprised to see Walter and Bitsy on the floor with Jennifer, who was visiting for the afternoon—Clancy and Byron had dropped her off. Walter was helping her build an elaborate Lego city.

  “Who’s this child?” Mrs. Saylor locked her hands under her chin and smiled.

  “Jennifer, Bitsy’s daughter,” said Walter.

  “What pretty eyes you have,” said Mrs. Saylor, crouching down. “And what pretty hair.”

  Bitsy immediately thought of Little Red Riding Hood. As Mrs. Saylor leaned closer, brushing her fingers through Jennifer’s white curls, Bitsy smelled bourbon. Rooster got down on the floor beside Jennifer and pawed the carpet like a bull, giving off gusts of whiskey. Then he began to bark and meow. Jennifer’s eyes widened. She looked up at Bitsy, then she scrambled to her feet and flung herself facedown on the sofa.