Big boy? This was how he saw her—a nurturing, let-me-take-care-of- you sort of woman. She wasn’t motherly—look how she’d botched it with Violet. It occurred to her that he was pretending. Maybe that was the Buddhist way. Her way was the fool’s way. Now she couldn’t even love him from afar, because, no matter how he was acting, he knew what was in her heart, and he was embarrassed for her. If only she could take it back, if only she hadn’t been so grabby; but God, she hadn’t been able to help herself.
“I have to go,” he said and dashed out the door. The rain beat hard against his shirt. He leaped over a puddle, then ducked into his car. The Toyota swung around, leaving tire tracks in the damp grass, then sped down the hill, into the street, and off into the downpour.
The first week in December, Byron went to a medical conference in Kansas City, and when he returned, he felt as if he’d come back to someone else’s house. First, he walked toward the back door and glanced up for the wind chimes; they were gone. Instead he saw several copper-eyed cats sitting in the trees. They gazed down at him as if he might be edible. The largest meowed. Byron wondered if Pitty Pat, Clancy’s elderly Persian, had somehow replicated himself.
Byron hurried into the kitchen and started to holler for Clancy Jane, but stopped and set down his suitcase. He didn’t recognize the room. Before he’d left, the kitchen had been pleasantly jumbled with plants and polka-dotted crockery. The Welsh cupboard had been packed with platters, dishes, and covered bowls, with mail tucked behind saucers, but in his absence, everything had disappeared but eight polka-dotted dinner plates. The counters were bare except for the radio. Heart was singing “Barracuda.” Byron rubbed his eyes. Over by the sink, a crooked line of water bugs moved to the music, winding their way across the counter.
He walked into the hall, into the living room. Clancy Jane was lying on the sofa, a red afghan tucked around her, reading a hardback, a new translation of the Tao Te-Ching. Stacked beside her on the floor were Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Large Sutra on Perfect Wisdom. She looked at Byron over the book. “Hey, back already?”
“I’m thrilled to see you, too.”
“How was Kansas City?”
“Fine. But what happened here?” He glanced around the room. All the pictures had been taken down, leaving nail holes in the Sheetrock. The matchstick blinds were gone, and through the windows, he could see early evening gathering under the trees. “Where are your wind chimes? And what happened in the kitchen?” He pointed over his shoulder. “Are you getting ready to redecorate?”
“No, I just got sick of the clutter.” She set down the book and sat up, brushing her hair from her face. “Bitsy helped me box up everything.”
“I liked it. It was pretty.”
“We had too many possessions, Byron. Too much to worry about. Too much upkeep. So I pared down.”
“Had?” Byron asked. “Did you say had?”
“I took a few things to Goodwill.”
“Without consulting me? It’s human nature to develop attachments to objects.” He started to sit down, but a cat screeched and leaped over his shoulder, digging its claws into his shirt. He whirled around. “What the hell?”
“That’s Jellybean,” said Clancy Jane. “Someone dumped her off while you were gone.”
“What about the cats outside, the ones in the trees? Do they have names?”
“Stella, Moksha, and Calcutta,” she said.
“And where’s Pitty Pat?”
“Hiding. He doesn’t like the new people.”
“Neither do I. Call the animal shelter.”
“That’s a death sentence.”
“But you just said you wanted to pare down. If dishes are too much responsibility, what the hell are these cats?”
“Dishes are inanimate objects, Byron. These cats might have been humans in another life. I was just reading about something called samsara. In Sanskrit that means wandering from one life to the next. I believe Jellybean and the others might be doing that.”
“You could have waited till I got back. I live here, too, you know.” Byron started to sit down again, but he froze. The cushion was missing. He eased into the hollowed-out space.
“I didn’t think you’d mind.” Clancy Jane shrugged.
“Did Zach have anything to do with this?”
“Well, he let me borrow these books. We haven’t discussed anything yet.”
“But you will. Right?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached down and picked up Jellybean, touching her nose to the cat’s nose. “Are you hungry, girl? Shall I pour you a saucer of milk?”
“What about me?” Byron cried. “I’m starved.”
The next morning, Clancy Jane caught Byron spraying the kitchen with Raid. She ran over and knocked the can from his grasp. “Murderer!” she yelled.
“What’s your problem?”
“Stop killing the ants!” She rushed over to the counter and pointed to an ant that was desperately trying to reach a crack in the Formica. “This could be a transmigrating soul, not just a bug crawling on the counter.”
“Oh, fuck,” he said.
“What we do in this life has a bearing on the next.”
“Next what?”
“Life! Your next life. This ant could be your grandmother.”
“Maybe it’s just a bug, Clancy Jane.”
Three days later, Byron broke out in welts and began sneezing. “If you don’t get rid of those cats, I’ll have to move out,” Byron said, blowing his nose into a Kleenex. The trash can was filled with wadded-up tissues. “I’ve already spoken to an allergist. He says we should find homes for these cats.”
“You probably just have a cold.” Clancy Jane picked up a knife and began viciously chopping green onions.
“I can’t breathe,” Byron said. “You’re killing me.”
“Maybe you’re allergic to onions, not cats.”
“You don’t understand, I’m suffering.”
“No, you don’t understand.” She stopped chopping and waved the knife. “Those cats are involved in the cycle of rebirth. I am not getting rid of them. The humane shelter would kill them. And if I set them loose, they might get hit by a truck or bitten by a dog. It’s bad karma.”
“Fuck karma. I want those goddamn cats out of here.”
“This isn’t about allergies.” She narrowed her eyes. “First, you hated my café, and now it’s cats. Why can’t I have a pet?”
“Pets, Clancy Jane. P-e-t-s.”
“I can spell.”
“You had Pitty Pat, and I didn’t complain. But a fucking pride is something else.”
“So, this is about your pride?” Clancy Jane yelled.
“I’m referring to a pride of lions.” Byron shook his head. “As in pack of dogs, school of fish? Or is that over your head?”
“Oh,” she said, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks, “that kind of pride.”
“Right,” Byron said. “Like you knew.”
A TAPED MESSAGE TO ROSALYN CARTER
January 21, 1977
Dear Rosalyn Carter,
You don’t know me from Adam—or is it Atom?—but I voted for your big-lipped hubby. I watched y’all on TV yesterday and it looked like his suit was straight off the rack. I don’t know how he got a pretty little thing like you. Of course, a lot of people said the same thing about me and Albert—he’s my ex-husband. A lot of people said, Dorothy, we don’t understand how Albert ended up with you! I just guess it was my feminine wiles, not to mention my 36-D chest, but even worthy men go bad.
Which brings me to my point: how did you handle it when your Jimmy admitted to having lust in his heart? Did you go into shock? Did you first hear about it in Playboy, or did he tell you beforehand? Walk up to you and say, Rosalyn, I’ve got the hots for a short-skirted tart? Somehow, I think Playboy was the first to know. Men don’t spill their guts to a woman. Men lie. Men cheat. Rosalyn, don’t be a fool. If lust is in the heart, you can be sure it’s in the loins. Y
our Jimmy was all but saying that his pecker gets hard around pretty women. If he was a plumber, no woman would want him. I say this to comfort you, not to accuse the president of being ugly. If he’d ever done more than lust, you probably would have forgiven him. You might have cried and made him go to a Christian marriage counselor, but in the end, you would have stayed.
I never got a chance to forgive my skirt-chasing husband. Albert divorced me while I was in a hospital, then he up and married a woman he worked with. Only he forgot to change his life insurance policy. I was his sole beneficiary. I guess it just slipped his mind—or maybe his mind slipped first—but that was lucky for me, because guess what? Last month Albert went sledding up in the Smokey Mountains—I just wonder where the heck his wife was—and he crashed into a tree and broke his neck. He had one of those policies that pays double if you die in an accident. The next thing I knew, I was rich. Woo-hoo! The wife pitched a fit and hired a hick East Tennessee lawyer who didn’t know doodly squat. My lawyer had a Vanderbilt degree. So I got all the money. It’s vulgar to say how much, but it’s six figures. Not that I’m glad that Albert’s dead. Well, maybe a little. Actually, he had it coming to him. He started out a prince but turned into a toad. Maybe I didn’t kiss him enough, because he hopped onto another lily pad.
Now that I’m no longer living hand-to-mouth, I would like to make a contribution to the charity of your choice. Please write back and tell me which one.
Best wishes,
Dorothy
Violet and Clancy Jane
Violet hadn’t planned on coming home for Easter, but when her mother called, talking excitedly about her menu—instead of a traditional ham and the usual spring vegetables, Clancy Jane had bought a pig—Violet felt homesick.
“Mack’s bringing over his domed grill, and we’re going to smoke the piglet all day long.”
“I thought you didn’t eat flesh,” Violet said, laughing
“I don’t. But Byron does.”
Since Violet wasn’t quite ready to introduce George to the family, she came by herself. Besides, she’d already told her mother about the deflowering, and Clancy Jane had made cracks about blood on the sheets.
It was night when Violet reached Dixie Avenue. She pulled into the long driveway and her headlights picked out two figures huddled in the dark. It was Clancy Jane and Mack. They were watching smoke billow from the outdoor cooker. Clancy Jane smiled and waved. Her blue eyes looked unusually small and shiny, and her cheeks were red and fleshy, with jowls beneath her chin.
She hugged Violet then she turned back to Mack who was squatting down, feeding hickory wood into the grill, and said, “Like I was saying, the man may be a proctologist, but he doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” Clancy Jane tonged up smoldering charcoal bricks. She turned to Violet. “I’m referring to one of Byron’s colleagues. He’s a real butthole.”
Mack snorted. A transistor radio sat on a metal table, playing “The Israelites” by Desmond Dekker and the Aces. Violet noticed that her cousin’s hair was thinning, and he had a chunk of fat around his middle. She tactfully shifted her gaze.
“Where’s Aunt Dorothy and Bitsy?” Violet asked. She didn’t mention Byron because she was used to his absences.
“I wrote you a letter,” said Clancy Jane. “They’re in Cozumel.”
“Together?”
“Well, they’ve got closer since Daddy died,” Mack said.
“Albert’s dead?” Violet cried.
“From a sledding accident,” said Mack. “He crashed into a tree.”
“I’m so sorry,” Violet said. For the longest time, she hadn’t opened any letters from home. When she wasn’t dissecting cadavers, she was in bed with George. So far anatomy was her favorite subject.
“When Mama found out, she nearly fainted,” Mack explained. By the time Dorothy McDougal had thought to inform Bitsy and Mack of their father’s passing, the funeral was over and his remains had been laid to rest in a Pigeon Forge cemetery. “Then she nearly fainted again when she found out about him leaving her his insurance,” Mack added.
“It was a $250,000 policy,” said Clancy Jane. “But since it was an accidental death, she got double indemnity.”
“I’m surprised that she isn’t in Zürich,” Violet said, “setting up a numbered account.”
“She didn’t keep it all,” Clancy Jane said. “She gave $50,000 to Mack and $50,000 to Bitsy. The rest went into the bank. And I’ve got to give Bitsy credit. I thought she’d squander it. You know how she loves shoes and pocketbooks. But she bought a used Mustang and new set of tires. Then she bought CDs—but not at Claude’s bank.”
“Hell, I went hog wild,” Mack said. “Me and Earlene bought his ’n’ her motorcycles. And we took a few trips to Vegas.”
“Bitsy signed up for a home study course,” said Clancy Jane. “The Ha’vard School of Interior Design. Not to be confused with Harvard, of course.”
“She always had a knack for decorating,” said Violet.
“But not a knack with men,” said Clancy Jane. “She isn’t dating anyone. She studies all the time.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” Violet shivered. “Where’s Earlene?”
“She’s up in Monterey,” said Mack. “Her mama’s sick.”
“These days, she’s always sick,” said Clancy Jane.
“Hope it’s not serious,” Violet said, blowing into her hands. “Burr, it’s too cold out here for me. I’m going inside.”
She stepped into the kitchen and was startled by the order. Her mother had never been terribly neat—in fact, she was a slob—but the counters were clean and empty, except for a tray of Fostoria goblets. Violet got a glass of water, then headed toward the living room. The gold velvet chairs were missing, along with Gussie’s marble tables. No art hung on the walls except for a red floral Georgia O’Keeffe poster. Cats were lounging on the back of the sofa, and Pitty Pat was sleeping on Byron’s console TV, one paw curled over his face.
She wandered upstairs, into her old room, and saw that her mother’s austerity program hadn’t reached there. She flopped facedown on the cherry spindle bed and smoothed her hands over the lilac comforter. Her bookcase was pleasantly jumbled with old textbooks and folders. The door to her closet was ajar, and she could see little plaid dresses that she’d worn in high school. Violet never had cared about clothes. She’d wear anything as long as it fit. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was the middle of the night. She heard footsteps on the creaky staircase, followed by Byron’s voice. “One more step, Mack. No, no, don’t turn right. That’s good, buddy. You’re doing fine.”
Violet got out of bed and hurried into the hall, blinking in the harsh light.
“Your cousin’s too drunk to walk home,” Byron explained, leading Mack down the hall. “I’m putting him to bed.”
“Where’s Mama?” Violet glanced into the hall, trying to see into their bedroom.
“Downstairs,” Byron said, but he wouldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry I woke you, Violet.”
Mack’s eyes fluttered. He looked at Violet and grinned. “Hey, cuz!” he said brightly. “I been drinking burning roses with your mama.”
“Turn left,” Byron said, steering Mack into the spare bedroom. Violet padded back to her room, changed into a nightgown, and got in bed. She switched off the light, lay back, and shut her eyes. No sooner had she drifted off to sleep when she was awakened by a crash. She sat bolt upright, straining to listen. There was nothing but silence, followed by a muffled groan, a woman’s groan. She tensed her stomach muscles, waiting for Byron’s footsteps, but the whole house was eerily quiet, except for the clicking of the furnace and wind blowing around the eaves. She threw back the covers and crept downstairs. Clancy Jane was sprawled on the kitchen floor, surrounded by broken goblets.
“Mama!”
Clancy Jane lifted her head. “I slipped.”
“Are you hurt?” Violet crouched beside her mother.
“I don’t k
now.” Clancy Jane rubbed the back of her head. “I’m not cut anywhere, just a little stunned. But just look at my kitchen.”
“I’ll clean it later. Let’s go upstairs.” Violet helped her mother up.
“I’m not a bit sleepy,” Clancy Jane said, then she reeled backward, throwing out one arm.
“Be careful walking through this glass,” Violet cautioned, slipping one arm around her mother’s waist, feeling ripples of loose flesh. She might not be eating meat, Violet thought, but she was certainly eating something.
“I don’t need to sleep, I need to cook,” Clancy Jane said. She took another step, her leg rising at an exaggerated angle. “I’m not sleepy in the least.”
“Yes, I know,” Violet said in a soothing voice, but she felt angry and frightened. She wished she’d stayed in Memphis. She and George could have eaten a turkey dinner at Morrison’s Cafeteria, and she wouldn’t have known that her mother was drinking.
When they reached the landing, Violet hesitated, blinking at Byron’s shut door. She tried to remember if it had been open or closed. “Come on, Mama,” she said, leading Clancy Jane down the hall to her own purple room. Violet helped her mother into the spindle bed, then she drew the covers up to her chin. Drunk people everywhere, she thought. Falling down drunk people.
“I’ll just rest a minute,” Clancy Jane said, her eyelids fluttering. “Just a minute is all I need.”
Violet went back downstairs, found a broom and dustpan, and swept up all the broken glass. She saw where Clancy Jane had made a bar on the counter—bottles of scotch, bourbon, tequila, rum, tonic water. Cans of Coke and Canada Dry were stacked on the floor. Inside the refrigerator were long-necked bottles of Mexican beer and little bowls filled with maraschino cherries and sliced limes. An ugly voice inside of Violet said, Throw it all out, Violet. Pour out every stinking drop. If she did that, her mother would accuse her of being wasteful. Also, she didn’t want to get her mother in trouble with Byron. From the looks of the kitchen, Clancy Jane had apparently turned against her dietary principles, and now she was courting Byron with food. A red velvet cake sat on a glass pedestal, next to a homemade fruitcake that reeked of whiskey. There were also three pies—chocolate, pecan, and lemon chess. The fridge held cartons of half-n-half, packages of bacon, and little parcels of smoked salmon.
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