Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  She didn’t have the energy to work at the café, so she left everything in Zach’s hands. One morning he called to go over the menu, and they began debating over the soup du jour. When she started to blather on about Byron, Zach cut her off by suggesting that she sell him her half of the Green Parrot. “Take the money and move back to Taos,” he elaborated. “You’ve never been happy in Crystal Falls.”

  “Was it that apparent?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, and her heart sank. What was the point in staying? To watch Zach and his pretty harpist fall deeper in love? To hear people make fun of her cats?

  “If you want the café,” she told Zach, “ it’s yours.”

  Bitsy

  When Zach told me the news, I drove straight over to Clancy Jane’s house, my old blue Mustang bumping over the waves in the gravel road. I pulled around to the back and hurried up the porch steps. The door was open, so I stepped inside. As I moved through the stripped-down rooms, I could see my reflection in the wood floors.

  I found my aunt in the living room, sitting zazen in front of the empty fireplace. Near the V of her crossed legs, incense burned in a brass cup. She was wearing a white kimono and her hair streamed down one shoulder. Her eyes were closed, palms balanced on her thighs.

  I was afraid to say anything, lest I interrupt some weird Buddhist ritual, but it could have been witchcraft, for all I knew. Clancy Jane opened her eyes. Her face looked smaller and shrunken in. “Have a seat,” she said.

  Where? I wondered and glanced around the room. Sunlight rippled though the bare windows, moving on the floor. So I knelt beside her. “I just heard about you and Byron.” The air smelled chalky, spicy, and it tickled my nose.

  “Did he tell you, or did Violet?”

  “No. Zach.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I should’ve told you myself.” Clancy Jane lifted one hand and waved it through the incense, stirring up gray ribbons. Her wrist looked small as a child’s.

  “But what happened? Zach didn’t seem to know.”

  “Go see for yourself.” Clancy Jane pointed toward French doors. “It’s in the kitchen.”

  As I approached the French doors, I saw the old harvest table. Damask pillows were scattered around—nice fabric, too, beige backed in creamy velvet, with fat gold tassels. It looked like something from a James Bond movie, You Only Live Twice.

  “As you can see, I altered it somewhat,” called Clancy Jane. “But it doesn’t look so bad, does it?”

  “Why don’t you come back to town with me and stay a few days?”

  “I couldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right,” Clancy Jane said. “Dorothy’s filled the house with junk. I need space.” She extended one thin arm, gesturing at the stark room.

  When Clancy Jane and Byron had moved out of 214 Dixie, Dorothy had moved in with a vengeance. Magnets had returned to the refrigerator, holding postcards, memos, snapshots of Jennifer; I had arranged Aunt Clancy’s brass cricket boxes on a shelf and fanned magazines on the coffee table—just the way I had learned from the Ha’vard School of Design. “I know it’s jumbled at our house,” I said, “but couldn’t you stand it for one night?”

  “No.” Clancy Jane lowered her head, and her hair swung forward, hiding her face. “I’ve got all these cats to feed.”

  “We’ll bring them along. It’ll be like old times.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Surely there’s something I can do. Have you eaten? Do you need groceries? Tell me what to do.”

  “You can stop making a fuss.”

  “But I’m worried.”

  “I’m fine. Really I am.” Her thin hand shot out to tousle my hair and remind me who was the grown-up and who was the child. “I don’t need groceries. I just need to get my shit together.”

  When I left I drove straight over to Byron’s medical office and demanded to see him this instant! The receptionist started to protest, but I dashed past her through the side door, into the hall. His rooms were cool and smelled faintly of Phisohex. A redheaded nurse cast a nervous glance in my direction. The receptionist came running up behind me. “Miss? I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

  “I’ll be in his office,” I told her over my shoulder. “Tell Byron that his niece is here.”

  The receptionist shrank back and I walked straight into Byron’s office. It had been decorated by his first wife, and it was a masculine room, filled with books and brown leather. A lamp burned on his desk. Pictures of his three daughters were scattered on the bookshelves, but I couldn’t find a single photograph of Aunt Clancy. What had he done with them?

  Byron hurried into the room, his face flushed. “Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

  I immediately launched an attack. “How could you just leave Aunt Clancy? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Me?” Byron walked around his desk and sat down in the tufted chair. “Did she tell you about the table?”

  “I saw it. It’s not too bad.”

  “Not if you’re a Munchkin.”

  “Byron, it’s replaceable. Buy another one.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Why, aren’t you coming back?”

  “Did she ask you to talk to me?” He leaned forward.

  “No, she’d be furious. But I saw her today, and she looked awful. She’s pale and thin. I don’t think she’s eaten in days.”

  He gave me a stony look.

  Then I understood. “It’s that nurse in the hall, isn’t it?”

  “No, no,” he said emphatically. “It’s the mangled table. It’s no chairs, no social life, no red meat, and too many cats.”

  “She loves you, Byron.”

  “I love her, too.”

  “Then call her. Tell her you’re coming home. You just admitted that you love her—”

  “I can’t live with her.”

  “What about the redhead? Is she next?”

  “I already told you why I left.” His voice was studiedly calm, he might have been speaking to a hypochondriac, someone who would not listen to reason. “And it had nothing to do with another woman. I was a faithful husband to Clancy. But I’m touched that you want to help her. It shows that you’re growing into a fine woman, Bitsy.”

  “What did you do with Aunt Clancy’s pictures?” I asked.

  “Are they gone?” He turned back to the bookcase, his chair squeaking. He leaned forward, poking around his books. “No, I don’t see them anywhere. But I’m glad you noticed. I didn’t even know they were missing.”

  Violet and Clancy Jane

  Around midday August 16, 1977, Clancy Jane showed up in Memphis again. Violet barely had time to unlock her door when her mother barreled inside, hugging two sacks of groceries. “Let me in quick before I melt,” Clancy Jane said. “Is Memphis always this hot?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she rushed past Violet and stepped into the kitchenette. From one of the sacks, she began pulling out carrots, potatoes, onions, and canned beans. “I’m making you a nice pot of lentil soup,” she said. “Would George like to join us?”

  “He hates lentils. But, yes, he’ll be coming over later.” She wasn’t going to address the question of seasonally appropriate food.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Clancy Jane said, opening a drawer and grabbing a potato peeler.

  “About what?” Violet sat on a stool, her chin in her hands, watching her mother rinse the vegetables under a stream of water.

  “Falling in love can be dangerous.” Clancy Jane started peeling the carrots. Orange strips began to fill the sink.

  “Come on, Mama. Talk to me. What’s bugging you?”

  “It’s Byron.” She reached for a potato and began viciously peeling it. “I miss him.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. But you didn’t want him.”

  “I did, too. I was in awe of his education. He was a doctor and I never finished high school. And he loved me. That just blew my mind.”

  “Why are you using the pa
st tense?”

  “Because it’s past. And stop acting like an English teacher. Act like a daughter.”

  When the soup was gently bubbling, Clancy Jane wiped her hands on a towel. “Is there a liquor store around here? I’d like some wine with our soup.”

  “Take a right at the light and go three blocks.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Can’t, I’ve got to study.” Violet grabbed a textbook off the shelf and curled up on the sofa, pretending to read. If her mother hoped to use this apartment as her own personal heartbreak hotel—coming when she wanted, leaving when she pleased—then she was mistaken.

  After Clancy Jane walked out the door, Violet waited five minutes, then she threw down the book and stepped outside. Her mother’s car wasn’t in the parking lot. The hot air smelled faintly of barbecue from the joint down the street. She was thinking of sneaking off for a pork platter, when a little girl walked by, pushing a bike.

  “Hey,” the kid said, “did you hear the news? Elvis croaked.”

  “Elvis Presley?”

  “It’s all over the TV,” said the kid. “The King is dead. My daddy works at Baptist Hospital, and he says Elvis was taking a poop and died. He must’ve strained too hard.”

  The kid put one foot on the pedal and shoved off, her hair bouncing up and down.

  When Clancy Jane drove up, Violet was still sitting on the front porch. She watched her mother climb out of her Karmann Ghia, then curve up to the sidewalk, hugging paper bags to her chest.

  “I bought a burgundy,” she called. “I don’t know what vintage, and who cares. It was marked down twenty-five percent. And I also bought a—”

  “Didn’t you hear the news?” Violet stood up.

  “What news?”

  “Elvis died. We’ve got to turn on the radio. Give me your keys.”

  “Dead? Oh, no!” Clancy Jane held out the keys. Violet snatched them and ran down to the car. When the radio clicked on, Violet twirled the dial, stopping on WMSU. A disc jockey was saying, “It’s true, Memphians. Elvis Aaron Presley, dead at the tender age of forty-two.”

  “I feel like I’ve lost a boyfriend!” Clancy Jane sat down abruptly on the curb, the paper sack resting between her knees. In the car, Violet turned up the volume, and the announcer’s voice boomed through the parking lot. People stepped out of their apartments and gathered around the car.

  “Is this for real?” asked a guy with long brown hair and small green eyes.

  “Has it been confirmed?” asked a girl with frizzy hair.

  “It’s true, guys,” Violet said.

  “But there’s gotta be a mistake,” cried the guy with green eyes.

  On the curb, Clancy Jane began rocking. At first Violet thought her mother was moaning. The crowd stepped back, and a few people murmured, “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Elvis,” someone answered. “He just bought the farm, man.”

  Clancy Jane’s voice began to rise, loud and strong and mournful, rising up into the muggy afternoon. It sounded so pretty, Violet turned down the radio.

  “Is it ‘Amazing Grace’?” a boy in cutoff jeans asked.

  “No, it’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love,’” said the guy with green eyes.

  More and more people were drawn from their apartments, attracted by Clancy Jane’s singing. When she finished one stanza, she barreled on to the next, and when she ran out of words, she began to hum. A huge crowd was gathering around her. Violet climbed out of the car and made her way toward her mother. Clancy Jane was singing about fools rushing in and crazy old humans who can’t help loving each other.

  Then everyone began to sing, their voices rising and falling.

  From the corner of her eye, Violet saw George’s red car turn into the parking lot. He got out, then stared. Holding Beau by his leash, he threaded his way through the crowd. The people stepped aside to let him pass. The Irish setter looked up at them and whined, his lips waffling. George tugged the leash so hard that Beau stood up on his hind legs and bawled. “Violet, did you hear the news?” he asked when he got to her side.

  “Shhh,” Violet said, holding his face in her hands. “Mama is singing.”

  Clancy Jane

  September 15, 1977

  Dear Byron,

  We were together for almost six years. I hope you’ll remember the good times, not just the bad. I’m willing to try again if you are. Please call.

  Love,

  XX OO

  Now that she’d broken the silence, Clancy Jane had to follow the rules of love and wait for his reaction. She had an idea he’d call; at least, she hoped he’d call—or write. Once a day she trekked down to her mailbox. It stood at the end of a twisty gravel lane. The Long and Winding Road, she called it. Finally she opened her box and found a letter inside—it was typed, no stamp or postmark. She ripped it open, sending tiny pieces of paper spinning into the air.

  Dear Clancy Jane,

  Meet me tonight at El Toro Restaurant at 7:30 P.M. and all will be explained.

  Byron

  She called his office twice, but each time a youthful voice explained that Dr. Falk couldn’t come to the phone. Both times Clancy Jane left messages. Then she called Bitsy and said, “Help. I’m meeting Byron for dinner at El Toro. What should I wear?”

  “A little black dress,” said Bitsy. “Do you even have one?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ve got several. I wear a six, but you’ve lost weight, so you’re, what, a four?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “Bring shoes!” cried Clancy Jane.

  “But I wear a six and a half and you’re a seven and a half.”

  “I’ll grease my feet with Vaseline.”

  Bitsy set her makeup case on the counter. It was a three-tiered, top-of-the-line tackle box given to her last Christmas by Mack, Dorothy, and Earlene—Dorothy herself had thoughtfully filled it with cosmetics from Wal-Mart and Rexall.

  Bitsy made Clancy Jane sit, then she went to work, moving in a blur. Blush, lipstick, nail polish, mascara, smoky eye shadow. She swept Clancy Jane’s hair into a loose twist, picking out tendrils in strategic places. She’d brought along a black dress, sleeveless with a plunging neckline. It showed off Clancy Jane’s collarbones and her bouncy breasts. Bitsy dampened cotton balls with Shalimar and stuffed them into Clancy Jane’s bra.

  “I haven’t worn one of these in years,” Clancy Jane complained, tugging at the straps.

  “Hush.” Bitsy picked up a can of Aqua Net. “And close your eyes.”

  After the hair spray settled, Bitsy held up a mirror. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Oh, my God.” Clancy Jane inhaled. “Bitsy, you’re an artist. You missed your calling. You would have made a dynamite beautician.”

  Bitsy pressed her cheek against Clancy Jane’s and whispered, “Good luck.”

  At six forty-five, Clancy Jane stepped into the restaurant, tottering in Bitsy’s too-small black high heels and walked up to a lectern. A slew-eyed hostess in a prom dress asked if she had reservations. “Yes, Falk, party of two.” Clancy Jane reached up, patted her hair.

  The hostess gave Clancy Jane a wide-eyed look, then she glanced down at her book. Her hair was curled up like a shepherdess’s. All she needed was a ewe and a staff.

  “Anything wrong?” Clancy Jane asked.

  “Did you say Falk?” The girl glanced up, her forehead wrinkling.

  “Yes. My husband will be along any minute.”

  The girl tapped a pencil against her lip as she stared at the reservation book, then she shrugged. “Would you like to be seated?”

  Clancy Jane nodded. Her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the gloom, and she stumbled after the hostess. The girl seated Clancy Jane, then handed her a padded faux-leather booklet with a blue tassel. A swarthy, foreign-looking waiter materialized from the shadows. He lit the candle with a flourish. Clancy Jane ordered a glass of house burgundy. She didn’t think Byron
would care if she started without him.

  She glanced around the room. At a table near the windows, a man with dark hair and graying temples caught her attention. He was facing in the other direction and his shoulders were partially obscured by a Ficus benjamina. The shoulders looked familiar—broad yet rangy. And that swoosh of hair, expertly combed to hide the bald spot.

  It was Byron. He was sitting at the best table, with a 180-degree view. Poised across from him was a redheaded woman, her face illuminated by the flickering candle. She rested her elbows on the table, smiling and nodding at something Byron was saying. With one hand, she flipped back her long, straight hair.

  Clancy Jane reached down, lifted the red candle, and blew it out. A small stream of smoke drifted into the dark air above her head. From the neighboring table, a couple shot her a disapproving look. She ignored them and gazed at Byron and his date. He held out a forkful of cheese-cake and slid it into her mouth. Then she fed him a spoonful of mousse. In their entire marriage, Byron had never fed Clancy Jane a crumb. Food had been a source of tension between them, a bone of contention, you might say. She glanced away as the waiter set down the wineglass, its contents swaying dangerously. His dark hands hovered over it, as if commanding the liquid to settle down and behave. While he bustled around her, she recognized the redhead. She was a nurse at Byron’s office.

  Clancy Jane drank the last of her wine. Byron looked smitten. She didn’t have a chance of winning him back. The foreign-looking waiter appeared and asked if she was ready to order.

  “No, but I’d like a screwdriver.” Clancy Jane squinted up at him, hastily wiping her eyes. Whoever had put that leter in her mailbox had meant to cause irreparable damage.

  She stole another look at Byron’s table; he was handing his credit card to a waiter. This was a real bummer, the worst bummer in the world. Clancy Jane leaned back when the waiter returned with her screwdriver. Without hesitation, she picked it up, draining the glass in four noisy gulps. Then she held it out, exhaling loudly. The waiter’s eyes bugged slightly.