“Quit scaring her, Daddy,” said Walter.
“I thought I was funning her.” Rooster’s face fell.
Lacy clapped her hands together and smiled at Jennifer. “Come over here and see me, baby.”
Jennifer gave Lacy an imperious look, eyebrows raised, nostrils flaring. Bitsy cringed. She looks just like Miss Betty, she thought.
“What’s the matter with her?” Lacy frowned.
“She’s tired,” said Bitsy, reaching over to pat the child’s shoulder. Jennifer scooted away, giving her mother a baleful stare.
“She might need a spanking.” Mrs. Saylor rocked on her heels, dipping close to Jennifer. The child picked up a blue pillow and threw it at the woman. Mrs. Saylor yelped and ducked, and the pillow hit the Lego city, sending the red and white pieces flying.
The Saylor sisters laughed. “Hit ’er again,” said Lacy, holding out another pillow. Jennifer scowled and pushed it away.
“In my day, children were kept in playpens,” said Mrs. Saylor.
“She’s not a baby, Mama,” said Walter. “She’s three.”
“That’s not too old for a pen,” said Mrs. Saylor. “She looks like a handful.”
“She’s cute,” said Lacy, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “Don’t you think she’s cute, Jobeth?”
Jennifer ran to the bedroom and slammed the door. Bitsy started to go after her, but Walter touched her arm. “Let her be,” he said.
“He’s right,” said Mrs. Saylor. “You have to ignore temper tantrums.”
“She’s a spitfire, all right,” said Jobeth. “But she is mighty cute. Her daddy must’ve been good-looking. Was he good in bed, too?”
“Cut it out, Jobeth,” Walter said.
“I will not.” Jobeth stuck out her chin. “It’s not my fault that another man planted his seed in Walter’s girl’s womb.”
“Don’t say womb,” said Lacy. “That’s ugly. Say twat.”
“I’ve certainly had lots of seeds planted in mine,” Jobeth said, reaching for a tin of peppermints. “And I bet Walter’s girl has, too.”
“Bitsy,” Walter said. “Her name is Bitsy.”
Mrs. Saylor ignored him and said, “I will bet you that her you-know-what’s been stretched to hell and back.”
“Mine’s as loose as the belt on a vacuum cleaner,” said Jobeth.
“I bet Walter’s girl’s twat is too big for him,” said Lacy.
“Don’t you know it is,” said Jobeth. “You could probably drive a Mack truck through it. Did you see the size of that baby’s head? It’s huge.”
Walter’s eyebrows came together, and he stood up. “Jobeth, if you can’t shut up, then leave. Besides, you can’t talk. You’ve had a child.”
“But its head was smaller,” Jobeth said.
“Every vagina is different,” said Lacy. “Anyhow, Jobeth’s kid doesn’t live with us.”
“I couldn’t help that, my goddamn boyfriend got custody,” Jobeth cried.
“You gave it to him,” said Lacy.
“Bitsy’s child doesn’t live with her, either,” said Walter.
Bitsy cringed, waiting for them to quiz her, but Lacy kept on talking about vaginas. “All the women in our family have extra-small twats,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” said Mrs. Saylor. “When I go for my yearly Pap smear, the doctor has to use a child-size specimen.”
“It’s speculum,” Jobeth corrected, rolling her eyes.
“You ought to know,” Mrs. Saylor shot back. “You’ve had thousands of them stuck up inside you. Especially afer that truck driver infected you with—”
“We get your drift, Mama,” said Jobeth, holding up her hand, her face turning red beneath the freckles.
“Well, you liked to never got cured,” said Mrs. Saylor.
“Put a lid on it, Mama,” said Jobeth. She turned to Walter. “Hey, you got any free samples to give us? Free toothbrushes, dental floss, Darvocet N-100s or Percodan?”
“Not here at home,” Walter said.
“I don’t need a toothbrush,” said Lacy. “I need me a rich boyfriend. Don’t roll your eyes, Mama. I need one bad. Walter, can’t you fix me up with one of your dentist friends? I don’t care if they’re divorced, separated, or married.”
“All the dentists I know are ready to retire,” said Walter.
“I wouldn’t mind being an old fart’s sugar baby,” said Lacy.
“Especially if he makes you his beneficiary.” Jobeth laughed.
“Then you could buy me a new house,” said Mrs. Saylor.
“No, I’m buying me a Corvette,” said Jobeth. “Anyhow, Walter’s the one who promised to buy you a house, not me.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Saylor.
“Don’t you worry, Mama,” said Jobeth, patting Mrs. Saylor’s leg. “We’ll get you a fine house someday. Even if I have to whore and steal and write bad checks.”
“If there was one dime left in our house, we’d all get a share,” said Lacy. “If there was one cookie left in our kitchen, we’d break it up evenly. Everybody would get a piece.”
“Don’t be too hard on Walter,” Jobeth told her sister. “He paid for your last two abortions. And you got to keep your extra-tight twat. That’s the only thing men want, when it’s all said and done.”
“I’d hoped that his tooth degree would be our salvation.” Mrs. Saylor sighed. “I told him this every morning after I crawled in his bed and woke him up with kisses.”
This got Bitsy’s attention. “You mean, when he was a baby,” she said. All the women turned to stare, and Bitsy felt her cheeks hotten up.
“No, when he was married to Fiona. Sometimes he’d sleep over at my house, and I would bring him coffee in bed.” Mrs. Saylor flashed a thin-lipped smile, obviously enjoying herself. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course she doesn’t mind,” Walter said. “Mama, are you trying to stir up trouble?”
“Me? Honey, I’d ne-ver do such a thing.” Mrs. Saylor’s lower lip slid forward. “Ne-ver in a million, zillion years.”
After Thanksgiving, the weather warmed up and Clancy Jane went outside to rake leaves. They lay in deep drifts between her yard and Dorothy’s. “Come and help me,” she called to Bitsy, who was hiding in the kitchen.
“I would, but what if Walter’s family sees us?” She was afraid to go outside, in case the Saylors should drive by and see her there. They cruised down Dixie Avenue several times a week, and if they spotted Bitsy in the front yard, they considered it an invitation to come in, opening the refrigerator, making fun of the food. Bitsy loathed and feared them the same way she loathed and feared black widow spiders—except she could not smash Walter’s family with her shoe.
“Yes, I know they’re horrible, but you shouldn’t hate them, honey,” Clancy Jane advised. “It will boomerang back on you. That’s what hate does.”
Bitsy smiled. “Aunt Clancy, you fear bad karma more than anything. Maybe this is a sign.”
“Of what?”
“That I shouldn’t marry him.”
“The path to true love is never easy, baby.” Clancy Jane pressed her forehead against Bitsy’s. “Talk to Walter. He knows them better than anyone.”
Lacy burst into Walter’s office. She found him sitting at his desk, eating a butterscotch doughnut. He stood up abruptly, crumbs falling off his trousers. “I just hope you know how much you’ve hurt Mama,” she cried. “We were a family long before you found Fiona or that other girl. It’s her or us, buster. Who’s it gonna be?”
“But I’m getting married in a few weeks,” Walter said. He sat down so hard his chair rolled back and hit the wall.
“When did you get so stingy?” Lacy glared. “You were raised to share.”
“Please don’t start that again.” Walter sighed. He was sick of the family motto, share and share alike. When he was in high school, stricken with cystic acne, Lacy used to sit on his chest, straddling him, and squeeze his pimples. After she’d mashed all of the b
umps on his face, she’d roll him over and search his back.
Now Lacy glowered at her brother. “Pick one!” she cried. “Us or that girl.”
“It’s not right to make a man choose.”
“Pick!”
“Her, I guess.” He swallowed.
That afternoon, Bitsy began getting prank telephone calls. “Sorry, wrong number,” a woman would say. Bitsy told Clancy Jane she recognized Jobeth’s twang.
Sometimes a voice, plainly Mrs. Saylor’s, would ask for First National Bank. “I’m sorry,” she would say. “I must’ve dialed the wrong number. I can’t see good anymore, ever since…oh well, never mind. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
Whenever Byron or Clancy Jane answered the phone, the caller was silent for a few moments, then the connection would snap off. Although once, Clancy Jane distinctly heard someone hiss, “Bitch!”
“We’ve got to get an unlisted number,” she told Bitsy.
“I’ll do it first thing tomorrow,” the bride-elect promised.
Walter was sitting at his desk, studying honeymoon brochures—he was keen on taking Bitsy to Niagara Falls, but they were getting married in the wrong season for that trip. He heard a knock at the door and when he glanced up, he saw his office manager. “Dr. Saylor, your mother’s on the phone again,” she said. “She says it’s urgent.”
“It’s always urgent,” Walter muttered, glancing at the phone. Line one was frantically blinking. He wearily switched on the speaker and said, “This is Walter. What do you need, Mama?”
“Well, it’s about time,” she screeched. “Why won’t you take my calls?”
“I’m at work, Mama,” Walter said. “I’ve got teeth to fill.”
“I can’t call you at home. And I can’t call that little witch at her house, either. Y’all went and got un-listed numbers!”
“So it was you calling,” Walter said. “Bitsy was right.”
“Do not mention that whore to me!” hissed Mrs. Saylor. “I can play this game. We’re getting us an unlisted number, too.”
“It’s all her fault.” It was Lacy, on the extension. “She’s got you by the balls.”
“How can you turn on your blood kin?” cried Mrs. Saylor. “Ignor-ing us. Not caring if we live or die or have bad teeth—” She broke off, sobbing into the phone. “And me, with bleeding gums. My mouth is falling apart, I tell you, and my son, the dentist, doesn’t even care.”
“I care, Mama.”
“No, you don’t!” Mrs. Saylor’s whimpered. “I’m old and broke and I’ve got a toothache. Meanwhile you lay up in that house with that girl, drinking gin rickies. I am your goddamn mother. I brought you into this world. I fed you and diapered your ass. And I deserve a little respect.”
“You deserve more than that,” scoffed Lacy. “You deserve a brick house with an attached garage.”
“He isn’t giving me shit,” said Mrs. Saylor. “It’s all going to Walter’s girl.”
“Mama, just calm down. If your tooth is bothering you, come by the office. I’ll check it out.”
“Do I have to make an appointment?” Mrs. Saylor was all business now.
“No, Mama. Just come over any time.”
“To your office or to your house?”
“To my office. That’s where the X-ray machine is.”
“You can’t brush us off,” cried Lacy. “We have a right to visit you anytime we want.”
“I need my privacy,” Walter said. “I’ve got a life.”
“I’ve got news for you,” said Mrs. Saylor. “You’ve got a family, and we’re your life.”
Bitsy
Crudités
Soup à l’Oignon Gratinée
Coq au Vin
Tart de Poireaux
Choux de Bruxelles
Haricots Blancs
Tart Tatin
Gâteau au Chocolat
We were in Byron and Aunt Clancy’s living room helping them string colored lights on the Christmas tree, when Walter presented me with the crumpled sheet of paper. “I’ve drawn up a menu,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Walter,” said Aunt Clancy, lifting a tiny silver angel from the box. “Zach and I have already started freezing ahead. But if you want something special, we can serve it.”
Walter blushed. “I was talking about another party. A family get-together.”
“Family?” I asked, glancing at the paper.
“Yours and mine,” Walter said. “A before-the-wedding get-together. In fact, we could have it here.”
“Here?” I cried, a bit too loud. I was fed up with Walter’s mother and sisters prowling around the house. Aunt Clancy fastened the angel ornament onto a branch, then she grabbed Byron’s hand and they left the room. After they’d gone, I said, “That’s not a good idea, honey. See, Aunt Clancy and I are still cleaning the house for the wedding, and a party will just make things harder.”
“Then we’ll just have it at my house,” said Walter.
I laid the menu aside and picked up a red ornament. A get-together at Walter’s house for his family and mine? Not if I could help it. “Please don’t take offense,” I began, “but I’m not the party type.”
“Sure, you are,” he said. “Look, I know my family has given you a hard time. But I was thinking if we invited them to something, they might back down.”
“Does it have to be a party?” I hooked the ornament onto a branch. “Couldn’t we take them to El Toro?”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Can I think about it?” I reached into the box and pulled out a tiny snowman ornament, so old, the color had worn off in places.
He reached for the menu and thrust it into my hands. “This is just suggestions for what to serve. Nothing’s set in concrete. But I was hoping you could try something French since you speak the language and all.”
I glanced at the paper—I didn’t know what half the items were. A long time ago, Miss Betty had accused me of macerating all things French, whether it was a sauce or a delicate phrase, but whenever I whispered certain words to Walter, he swelled with pride. “My fiancée speaks French,” he told all his patients. “She’s a real classy lady.” At night I would whisper ma puce, my flea, or mon chou, my cabbage, making it sound romantic and naughty. But when it came to cooking, I was an All-American girl.
“Will you do it?” asked Walter, the orange eyebrows moving up and down.
I looked at his menu again and sighed. “Won’t you reconsider El Toro?”
“If that’s what you want. But it would make me so happy if you’d impress them with the French food, French wine, and French talk.” He picked up my hand and kissed the knuckles. When he looked up, I could see my whole future reflected in his eyes. And to some extent that future included his family.
“Say yes, Bitsy.” He began kissing my other hand. “Please, please say yes.”
“Oui,” I said.
On the afternoon of the party, Walter stood on a ladder, stringing colored lights into the bare branches of his dogwood trees. I directed from the ground, saying, “Move left. No, higher, HIGHER!”
Then I ran back into the kitchen and pulled a casserole out of Fiona’s old oven. My family hadn’t been invited—at their request. I was dreading the dinner, having to make small talk with the Saylors and ignoring their jabs. I would have preferred to spend the evening curled up on the sofa with Walter, watching the original Christmas Carol.
Instead I was searching for ground cinnamon in a top cabinet. I found the spice mixed in with a stash of old medicine—dozens of plastic pill bottles. Valium, Nembutal, Demerol. FIONA SAYLOR was typed across each bottle. TAKE AS DIRECTED. I shook a Valium bottle. Maybe one might calm my nerves. My mother took it daily, and it seemed to help her. I dropped the bottle into my pocket and hurried back outside.
After the lights were hung, Walter dragged the ladder over to Fiona’s wisteria arbor, where I thought more twinkly Christmas lights should go. “The best way is to just toss the lights higgledy-piggledy,” I
called up to him. “Coil them up like barbed wire and toss them. Yes, that’s it!”
“It looks good.” Walter rubbed his chin, his fingers rasping over the dirty red stubble. From the top of the ladder, he grinned down at me. “Hey, drill sergeant. Think I have time to shave?”
“You have time for more than that,” I promised, returning his smile.
I stood in the living room window, watching the road. A stack of Billie Holiday records was on the turntable and “You’re My Thrill” was playing. I wore a black dress that I’d found at a garage sale, and Miss Gussie’s pearls. Even though my hair was swept into a French twist, and it was bitter cold outside, my neck felt sweaty. My chin was red, as if I’d been repeatedly kissed by a man with a day-old beard. The culprit came up behind me and kissed my bare neck.
The Saylors’s station wagon was turning into the drive, tearing up the gravel. It stopped next to Walter’s T-bird. “They’re here,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the pill bottle.
“Hell, I broke a goddamn fingernail,” cried Lacy, coming up the porch steps. She stared with horror at her right hand. “You got a emery board on you, Jobeth?”
Mrs. Saylor helped herself out of the station wagon. She wore a red pantsuit and red leather boots. A red pocketbook swung from one arm. Pinned to her lapel was a little jeweled Santa Claus.
Walter gave my hand a squeeze. “It’ll be all right,” he said. I wanted to believe him, but from the porch I could hear Jobeth saying, “Hell, yes. I’ve got everything, even disposable douche.” I remembered what Miss Gussie used to say before stressful social gatherings: “They can kill me but they can’t eat me.”
I silently repeated this, but the mantra held little comfort as Walter opened the door and I looked into those freckled, toothy faces.
“Hey, y’all,” said Walter.
“Hey, yourself,” said Jobeth.
Mad Girls In Love Page 26
