She slammed the refrigerator door, then hurried back to her purple room. Lifting the covers, she eased into the bed and stretched out beside her mother, flinging her arms over her head. Clancy Jane was gently snoring, giving off toxic fumes of sourmash and tequila. Long ago, when they first came to live at Miss Gussie’s house, Clancy Jane had pasted glow-in-the-dark stars onto Violet’s ceiling. They had long since peeled off, except for a dozen or so that still gave off a faint, eerie light, incandescent at the edges. She was glad her mother’s redecorating hadn’t touched her room.
That night she dreamed that Clancy Jane was standing on the edge of an abyss, holding out her hand. “Can I come to Memphis and live with you?” her apparition asked. “No,” Violet said in a sad voice. “I’m in love with George.”
The next morning, she put two cups of coffee on a tray and carried it up to Clancy Jane. Then she slipped into the bed. She both loved and despised this woman with a fierceness that made her feel childlike. “Wake up, sleepy head,” she murmured. “It’s Easter, and I don’t know how to cook.”
“Oh, shit.” Clancy Jane groaned, covering her eyes with one hand. “I hate the fucking holidays.”
“We’ll get through it. We always do.”
“I smell coffee.”
“I brought you a cup.”
“You’re a saint.” Clancy Jane pulled up on her elbows. When she was settled, Violet placed the cup into her mother’s trembling hands. Clancy took a bracing sip, then she leaned back against the cherry spindle head-board. “I guess you’re wondering about last night,” she said.
Violet looked away.
“I’m in trouble.” Clancy Jane took another sip of coffee.
Violet reached for her own cup. Her mother was a binge drinker. A period of abstinence, sometimes a lengthy one, always ended with Clancy Jane’s nose in a wineglass. For Violet, when she was younger, each lapse negated a thousand days of sobriety.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Clancy Jane asked. Pitty Pat leaped onto the bed and began kneading the covers. She reached out to stroke his fur. “I suppose I could blame Byron. He’d blame Buddha and my feline population.”
“Mama, how many cats do you have now?”
“Eight. But they’re indoor/outdoor. That’s not so many when you think about it.” Clancy Jane pursed her lips and blew into her coffee. “Personally, I think Byron’s allergies are an excuse. I’ve had Pitty Pat for most of our marriage, but he never complained until now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know just yet.”
“Just don’t pull a Bitsy and hit him in the head.” Violet winked.
“Honey, if I won’t kill an ant, why would I kill Byron?” Clancy Jane set her cup on her chest, then she stroked the cat. It began to purr.
“That’s right, Mama.” Violet patted the cat’s broad head. “Let fate deal with Byron.”
“You know what? I need a new life.” Clancy Jane ran one finger around the mug’s rim. “But that doesn’t seem likely, so I’ll do what all the other doctor’s wives do—I’ll buy something frightfully expensive.”
“You’ll never do that. You’re not a spend-thrill, Mama.”
Violet turned out to be right. Instead of squandering money, Clancy Jane decided to be miserly with her emotions. She began to ignore Byron, carrying on long, one-sided conversations with her cats. Then she decided to exclude him another way. She emptied the kitchen cupboards. And she stopped drinking. Not that Byron seemed to care. He just ate his meals in the doctors’ lounge or with Dorothy and Mack. Clancy Jane spent long hours at the café, helping Zach with Sunday brunch. They installed a long buffet table with halogen lighting and steam that rose up, curling to the ceiling. She was careful not to stand too close, but she hadn’t given up on him. Then he hired a harpist named Lydia from the Blair School of Music in Nashville to play on Sundays.
Clancy Jane stood next to the espresso machine, waiting for the milk to froth. She cut her eyes at Zach. He was standing next to the trompe l’oeil wall, blending into the painted fronds and primates, and his face
filled with rapture as if entranced by the ethereal sounds. The harpist’s fingers were crooked slightly, like a spider spinning her web. Her long black hair fell like a silk curtain over her shoulder. And Clancy saw he was going to fall in love with her.
After the brunch ended, Zach gave Lydia a green bottle filled with Ganges River water and a statue of Buddha. Clancy Jane locked herself in the restroom and bawled her eyes out. Finally she came to the conclusion that she was damn lucky to have him in her life. She could rejoice in loud arguments about global problems and passionate discussions about how supermarket chains are victimizing America. She could relish their debates over the virtues of buckwheat groats, the versatility of rice, and the nutritional values of falafel and mung beans. It was no crime to secretly love him. As long as she wasn’t hurting anyone, what did it matter? She’d alienated Violet. She’d given up alcohol. Her marriage seemed to be dying. All she had were a few dozen alley cats and an infatuation with a younger man. But it was enough to keep breathing.
Bitsy
I was worried about Aunt Clancy. I asked Violet if she’d come home, but she told me no because she and George were going to New York and besides, she had no control over her mother’s life. She pointed out that her mother hadn’t batted an eye when she, Violet, had gone off to college in ’71. That might be what Violet thought, but I remember when we’d helped Violet move into her Memphis apartment in the summer of ’75. Aunt Clancy broke out in a sweat while hanging Violet’s curtains; my cousin kept rolling her eyes, asking us when we’d be through.
I remembered that day so clearly. Once we pulled out of the apartment complex, Aunt Clancy had a meltdown. First she let out a shrill cry, then she began sobbing so hard that she couldn’t drive. She had to pull off the road. Then she turned to me and said, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m so proud of Violet. But the bottom of my world has fallen out.”
“Memphis is only five hours away, and we’ll come and visit her all the time.”
Clancy Jane pressed her hand against her chest and said, “It just went too fast. I wish she was small again.”
Then I said something unintentionally cruel. I said, “Why didn’t you cry when she went to U.T.?”
Her bottom lip slid forward. “Because I didn’t know what it meant. I didn’t know that everything would change. The whole time Violet was in college she kept coming home. It was easy to believe that U.T. was no different than summer camp. That she would eventually come home for good. But now I know different. She will never again live with me full-time. I have lost her.”
We drove back to Crystal Falls. She cried most of the way. I knew just how she felt. But after we got home she continued to cry. Her eyes stayed red and swollen like she’d had an allergic reaction. I kept hoping that Byron would pull her into his arms and baby her just a little. But he never did.
I wanted to tell Violet not to be too hard on her, but I couldn’t. She just wasn’t in the mood to understand.
May 2, 1977
Dear Bitsy,
I’m back from NYC. George and I got caught in the downpour coming back from a restaurant. It was about 9 P.M. when we reached our hotel. We squeezed into a crowded elevator and the power went out. If we’d been alone, we might have enjoyed it. However, standing cheek-to-jowl with seven other passengers, most of whom were screaming in Italian, isn’t my idea of fun.
BTW, Mama’s suffering from empty nest syndrome. She needs to get over it.
Violet
Dorothy and I were sitting at Aunt Clancy’s harvest table, pasting photographs of Jennifer into an album.
We’d just finished the next-to-last picture when the back door opened and my aunt ran into the room, trailed by three yellow cats. “Guess what? Byron and I might be moving.” She reached down, scooped up a cat. “Isn’t that groovy?”
“Moving?” I almost dropped the Elmer’s glue bottle. “Whe
re?”
“I found a dream house way out in the sticks, near the county line. It’s near the Caney Fork River; I can hear it from the upstairs bedroom. We just left the real estate agent’s office. Byron made a low offer, but the house has been on the market awhile.”
“Not to burst your bubble, but there’s no such thing as a perfect house.” Dorothy’s eyes moved around the empty kitchen.
“Well, this one is close to it,” said Aunt Clancy. “It reminds me of the ranches in Northern California—-wood, glass, and stone. With cathedral ceilings and a wraparound deck with a hot tub. It’s got so many rooms I lost count. And sixty-nine acres. The view reminds me of the Rocky Mountains. Well, the baby Rockies.”
“I thought you said it was like Northern California.” Dorothy raised a faux eyebrow.
Aunt Clancy shrugged.
“Would the Buddha need that much room?” I asked.
“No, but Byron does.” Aunt Clancy pulled out a chair and sat down. “Oh, I just love it. The kitchen has a wall of glass and looks out into the woods. Right now it’s a little overdecorated. Too much wallpaper, too many colors. I’m hiring Mack and Earlene to do the painting.”
“Don’t ask Earlene,” said Dorothy. “Unless you want a House of Ill Repute design scheme. You’d better get Bitsy to help. She has exquisite taste.”
“I said I was hiring Earlene to paint, not decorate,” said Aunt Clancy.
“What will happen to this house?” Dorothy asked.
“Violet owns half already, so I guess I’ll deed my part to Bitsy.”
“Well, isn’t that generous.” Dorothy pressed her lips together and reached for the Elmer’s bottle. She squirted glue onto the back of a picture, then she slapped it against the scrapbook page. “I don’t suppose you’ll be taking any of this tacky old furniture with you.”
“No,” said Aunt Clancy, burying her face in the cat’s neck. “Guess not.”
Dorothy’s eyes bugged. “Even your dishes and forks and whatnot?”
I just sat there trying to absorb the information. I hadn’t even known that she’d wanted to move, especially to such a remote place. “I’m surprised that someone would build a dream house near the county line,” I said. “No wonder it hasn’t sold.”
“When you see it you’ll understand why I want it,” she told me. “I’m only taking my clothes and Byron’s. And this harvest table, of course.”
“You’re not taking Byron’s television set? Or his La-Z-Boy?”
“Less is more. It is peaceful out there.”
“It’s none of my business, but Byron’s never home,” I said. “You’ll be stuck in the country all by yourself.”
“She’ll have her cats,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, I’ll have my fur kids.” She stroked the cat’s head, then she set him on the floor. “I never dreamed I’d end up married to a workaholic.”
“At least he’s not an alcoholic,” said Dorothy. “Because Mack is drinking way too much. And I blame it all on that tasteless hussy he married.”
“We can’t help who we love, Dorothy.” Clancy Jane walked across the room and opened the refrigerator. She gathered green peppers into her arms, then crossed back to the table and dumped the vegetables onto the surface. One rolled dangerously close to the scrapbook. Dorothy snatched up the pepper, then set it down with a flourish.
“Can’t you chop somewhere else?” Dorothy scowled at Aunt Clancy. “We’re pasting.”
“I won’t get in your way.” Aunt Clancy reached for a pepper and balanced it on her palm. “I’m fixing gazpacho.”
“Doesn’t Byron hate that?” I asked.
“Yes, but he hates everything from cats to cold soups.” She began peeling an onion. “Y’all better leave the room, or the onion fumes might make y’all cry.”
“I never cry,” said Dorothy.
Byron’s offer was accepted almost immediately, which made me wonder if the owners were desperate. Aunt Clancy perked up. I’d never seen her so happy and vivacious. Even though they hadn’t closed on the house, she began to pick out a color scheme.
“I’ve narrowed the general color to ecru. The one I like is called Lace Napkin,” Aunt Clancy told Violet, who drove home when she’d heard the news. “Bitsy likes Oyster Bisque, but I also favor Old Porcelain.”
“I like Old Porcelain, too,” I said.
Byron did not seem jubilant. The dream house was practically in the next county, and he would have a twenty-five-minute commute twice a day. He was sitting at the table, thumbing through a New England Journal of Medicine. Aunt Clancy walked over to him, nudging away the magazine. She spread an array of color chips on the table. “Sweetie, which one do you like?”
He shrugged. “They’re almost the same.”
“No, they’re not. Are they, Bitsy? If you look closer, you’ll see how different they are. I wish you’d pick one.”
“Okay, okay.” Byron glanced down at the cards. He tapped his fingernail on a square. “This one.”
“Powdered Sugar?” Aunt Clancy’s face fell. “Are you sure?”
“Pick what you want, honey. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, it should. After all, it’s your house, too.”
Byron scratched his head, then he ran his hand over his face. He glanced down at the table, reached for the swatches. “Okay.” He tapped one broad fingernail against the darkest chip, a muddy cream. “Here, I pick Old Porcelain.”
“Oh, sure. I can see how much you like it, too.”
“What do you want from me?” He scooped up the chips, held them out. “Are we fighting about colors or something else?”
Aunt Clancy’s mouth fell open.
“You’re a living contradiction,” he continued in a cold voice. “No, you don’t want things, yet you’re dithering over colors. And you don’t seem to have any qualms about taking on a thirty-year mortgage.”
“I am not a contradiction. Sure, I have a lot to learn about Buddhism, but I think I know a little more than you.”
“See, you’re mad. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” He got up from the table, strode across the room, and pushed open the screen door.
He was acting strange, as if suffering from a severe case of buyer’s remorse.
“I’m not mad, you are,” she called after him. He didn’t respond. His footsteps clapped against the stone walkway, then dropped off, muffled by the grass. Aunt Clancy spun around, fanning her color chips.
“What do you girls think? Is Oyster Bisque too beige? Bitsy, come here a second, sweetie. You’ve got an eye for colors.”
I craned my neck to see. “It’s more of an off-white.”
“If you ask me,” Violet said, “off-white is hideous. You might as well paint the walls with Gerber’s oatmeal.”
“Hush, Violet. Pick a color, Bitsy. I trust your opinion.”
“They’re all pretty,” I said.
“But which one?” Aunt Clancy held up the chips.
“Well, it’s hard to know—the colors are never the same once you get them on the wall.” I hesitated, then tapped my nail against Linen Napkin. “I’ll bet this is gorgeous.”
“Beechnut pablum, you mean,” Violet said.
“Stop criticizing my taste.” Aunt Clancy threw down the chips. Several cats shot out of the room.
“Oh, Mama, come back,” Violet yelled. “It’s just a color. If you don’t like it, you can paint over it.”
“They’re all nice,” I called. “Really, they are.”
Aunt Clancy wouldn’t answer. Silence filled the house, stirring in the corners like something poured. Violet and I stared at each other. “Mama’s in trouble,” she said. “She’s drinking on the sly. I can smell it on her breath.”
“Maybe this new house will help.”
“Oh, it will.” Violet rubbed a towel over a plate. “For a while. But it won’t last. She’ll just pack up her problems and take them with her. She’ll chase off Byron, then she’ll be left alone on that mountaint
op. And she’ll regret it. I think she loves him more than she knows.”
“She acts like she hates him.”
“That’s the trouble. Mama doesn’t know how to give love. She was brought up to take it.”
I put my arms around Violet, drawing her close, the way I held my small daughter. We gazed out the window to where Byron was fiddling with Walter’s old telescope. He pointed it toward the sky and bent over, one eye closed, searching for only God knew what.
FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS DEMOCRAT
—from Mrs. Rayetta Parson’s column, May 25, 1977, page 6
The wedding of Claude Edmund Wentworth IV and Miss Kara Lynn Ketchum is slated for July 4th at First Presbyterian Church. The bride-elect is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt P. Ketchum Jr. of Crystal Falls. She attended Tennessee Technological University, where she was a cheerleader and a member of Alpha Delta Pi. The groom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Claude Edmund Wentworth III. The bride has been feted at a series of miscellaneous showers and luncheons. A rehearsal dinner will be held on July 3rd, in the Iris Room at the Crystal Falls Golf and Country Club. The Wentworth-Ketchum wedding promises to be the highlight of the midsummer nuptial season, with a festive red-white-and-blue color scheme. The event will culminate in a firework regalia.
Clancy Jane and Violet
It was eighty-six degrees in Memphis, the humidity so thick you could reach up into the air and stir it with your fingers, but Violet wanted a hot cup of tea. Her grandmother had raved about its curative effects, that it literally warmed the spirit. While she waited for the water to boil, Violet pictured her mother standing at the sink, filling her copper pot. As the water pattered against the metal, Clancy Jane would begin to hum. In this memory she did not look like a bad mother. But Violet knew better.
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