“Fine. I’ll leave.” I stepped out into the hall.
“Get some rest,” he called after me. “I’ll see you tonight. Then we’ll go to the beach, okay?”
I turned. “I might just go by myself.”
“I wish you’d wait,” he said. “But I know how you are.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, shocked that he’d even consider letting me drive all that way alone. I didn’t want to go without him—didn’t he know that?
“Call when you get there safely,” he said.
Without bothering to respond, I spun around and walked down the hall. Thank God this pregnancy was portable. Otherwise, I’d have left it behind. Actually, most of the weight had settled in my behind. I waddled into the parking lot, climbed into the Mercedes, cranked up the air conditioner, turned up the radio. The Doobie Brothers were singing “What a Fool Believes.” As the chilly air blew around my face, I felt like a fool, but I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
I drove on old Highway 90, and when I passed through Slidell, I remembered that Jayne Mansfield had died on this road, and even though she’d been buried elsewhere, beneath a heart-shaped headstone, her ghost might still be lingering in the kudzu. I didn’t wish to join her, so I drove below the speed limit, ignoring the impatient motorists who honked then zoomed around me.
The minute I pulled up to our shingled white cottage, with its peaked, witch-hat roof, I knew I’d made a mistake. My feet were swelling, and my head ached. I felt a strange pounding in my ears, and I wondered if it meant my blood pressure was rising. I turned the car around and drove back to New Orleans, feeling like Hera coming down the mountain, sniffing Zeus’s trail.
Several hours later, I pulled up in front of my house and parked next to Louie’s black Jaguar. I rubbed my eyes. The pink dots had returned. I got out of my car and waved to our next-door neighbor, Mr. Harkreader, who was watering his potted ferns. From my backyard, I heard splashing, and I walked toward the sound. It was early evening, but the air felt heavy and hot. I just wanted to lie down with a cold rag over my eyes. When I reached the patio I glanced at the pool. A long-limbed naked woman was swimming underwater, blond hair fanning behind her, a stream of bubbles curving over her head. Sirens, I thought, dumbstruck. Sirens in the pool, sirens below sea level. Her head shot out of the water, and I recognized the face. It was Tiki, the hussy I’d seen on my husband’s desk. Louie stood beside the wrought-iron bar, wearing blue swim trunks. Ice cubes rattled as he stirred a pitcher with a long silver spoon. A pile of fresh mint leaves lay stacked on the bar. How dare he make that home wrecker a julep with my mint.
The pool sweep sent up a jet of water, pattering on Tiki’s bleached head. I stood with my mouth open, breathing in chlorine, bourbon, mint, and coconut suntan oil. My Chanel pocketbook, a gift from Honora, hit the brick pavers, spilling out lipstick, Rolaids, keys. Louie, reaching for a mint sprig, saw me and dropped the pitcher. The crystal exploded on the pavers. The girl was in the center of the pool, treading water.
“Bitsy?” Louie said in a strangled voice. His eyes rounded in alarm. “Honey, listen. This isn’t what you think. She doesn’t mean a thing,” he said, waving one hand at the girl. “Honey, wait!”
Weight broke the bridge down, my mother used to say. I felt a cramp low in my spine and my uterus tightened. I staggered back to the walk-way and hurried around the house. The pink dots caused me to walk into a banana tree. The leaves made a whuffling noise and I clawed my way free. Again, pain knotted in my back and stomach. I somehow made it to the driveway, but halfway to my car, I fell. The ground felt surprisingly hard and I threw out both hands, trying to protect my baby. From a long way away I heard Mr. Harkreader yell. Then he was looming above me, shouting my name.
“My baby.” I clutched his arm. “Don’t let anything happen to my baby.”
Mr. Harkreader’s head moved, and I saw Louie hobbling over to me. Satisfaction. That’s what I felt when I saw that his right foot was pouring blood. I was glad he’d stepped on the broken glass. Louie’s face was contorted, and it was impossible to know the source of his pain.
A TAPED MESSAGE TO ROSALYN CARTER
July 25, 1979
Dear Rosalyn,
I am writing to tell you that my daughter lost her baby after she found a naked woman in her swimming pool. My son drove me down to New Orleans, but by the time we arrived, the doctors had already done an emergency C-section and Bitsy was still in the recovery room. Louie was pacing in the hall, his shirt untucked, tears streaming down his face. On his foot was a bloody bandage. I couldn’t feature what had happened. Then his mother took me aside and explained about the swimming pool lady. Then she said that Bitsy had been sick with swelling and high blood pressure. And her womb split wide open and cut off the baby’s air supply. If you ask me, it wasn’t blood pressure that brought this on, it was my son-in-law’s philandering. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a Republican. This is not to say that all conservative men are liars and infidels, or that they don’t have the People’s interests at heart. My son-in-law is probably a Republican because he’s filthy rich and wants tax cuts. Come to think of it, he wants too damn much. I wanted to slap him down but he just looked too distraught.
I was wondering if you could write to my daughter, just to cheer her up and maybe give her some pointers about men. The President is just crazy about you, I can tell. So you must have some secrets. I’ve enclosed my daughter’s address in New Orleans. Don’t worry if she doesn’t write back. She’s out of her head with misery, and her husband has taken her to recuperate at the beach and I’m taking the nursery apart.
Yours truly,
Dorothy McDougal
A NOTE FROM HONORA DECHAVANNES
August 11, 1979
Dear Bitsy,
I’m sitting on your front porch, trying to decide if I should ring your doorbell and possibly disturb your rest, or if I should just leave a note. So here I am, writing on the back of a Rib House menu. My dear girl, I know your heart is breaking, and you’re facing difficult questions about your marriage, but I felt the urgent need to offer you a little advice about wayward husbands.
Long ago, my friend Desirée—she’s a doctor’s wife, too—made up a Rule of Three. One affair is a fluke. Two might be wild oats or even misadventures. But three means a pattern is forming. You are probably too stunned to make decisions right now, but it behooves you to decide if you love him enough to forgive his transgressions—and look the other way when his eye wanders, as it surely will. Living with an unfaithful man takes a toll. It hardens the heart. You might consider building a life of your own—and I still recommend Sister’s shop in the Quarter. If you are “out in the world,” which is filled with all sorts of gorgeous people, you will keep your sanity.
Now for the hard part: If you decide to leave, then go. Do not look back. You’ll need distance, and lots of it. Otherwise he will try his best to squirm back into your good graces, and be forewarned, he has many tricks at his disposal. If you decide to stay, then be prepared. Finding him in flagrante will be a way of life. Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I am here for you. I’m on your side. When you’re feeling stronger, I do wish you’d come up to visit. I’ll teach you to play bridge—and we’ll have a long talk about my son.
All my love,
Honora
A NOTE FROM BITSY
September 19, 1979
Dear Violet,
When I woke up from the anesthesia, I saw Louie’s dark head pressed into the hospital mattress. His shoulders convulsed, causing the IV bottle above my head to sway back and forth. I knew then I’d lost the baby. Dorothy was sitting across the room, her head bent over a needlepoint canvas. Come home with me, she kept saying. Then she told me that the whole time I’d been on bed rest, Louie had been dillydallying with Shelby—to what extent, no one knew. My mother threw down her needlepoint and lit into him. She said: Don’t you pee on my head and tell me the roof is leaking.
She couldn’t under
stand how I could think about returning to him after I’d caught him with a naked woman and then miscarried. But I don’t believe the shock brought on the labor; I am to blame for not taking care of myself. Dorothy said, don’t waste your life on this man. Come back home with me. I know you love him, but he will do it again. His mother sort of said the same thing.
I asked the nurse for a dictionary and I turned to the Fs and looked up the definition of forgiveness. I’d ached for it after I lost Jennifer. In those days I had a childlike belief that atonement would lead to absolution. But it didn’t. Then it occurred to me that if I expected to be forgiven, then I must forgive.
Love,
Bitsy
A NOTE FROM VIOLET
9/25/79
Louie:
Yes, I know she’s back. Just remember that if you give in to your every desire, then you will be left with nothing of value.
My nickel,
Violet
Part 6
A TAPED MESSAGE TO NANCY REAGAN
February 25, 1981
Dear Nancy,
That sure was a nice suit your husband wore to the Inauguration. Yours wasn’t half bad, either. I have been reading all about you at the beauty shop, and it’s a relief to have a First Lady who doesn’t get along with her own children. I know you’ve been criticized for being too close to Ron, but I admire what you’ve done. Children leave, but husbands are supposed to stick with you. And they generally won’t if you put the kids first. That was a lesson I learned too late.
Since you and I have family strife in common, I was hoping we could console each other with letters. Oh, and by the way—where do you get those cute little suits? I think they’d “suit” me. Ha ha.
Regards,
Dorothy McDougal
A LETTER FROM BITSY
800 Pytrania Avenue
New Orleans, Louisiana
March 1, 1981
Dear Violet,
Louie has decided to take a leave of absence from his medical practice. He rented a stone house in England, in a village called Stow-on-the-Wold. The house comes with a gardener, housekeeper, and several acres full of sheep. We’ll be leaving the country on July 7. But first we’re flying to Tennessee to spend a few days with Dorothy. I would love to see you before I go, but I know your schedule is chaotic.
You won’t believe this, but I myself am a working woman. I took a job with Honora’s friend, Sister—she’s the designer I told you about—and we’ve been refurbishing several gorgeous old homes off St. Charles. Sister’s a talented woman, and I’m lucky to be her assistant, even if her work habits rival Louie’s—Sister puts in eighteen-hour days. We’ve racked up scads of frequent flier miles going back and forth to Atlanta. I’ve been so busy that I put the renovation of my house on hiatus. Actually, I’m relieved. It was getting harder and harder to work up any enthusiasm over Bombé chests and granite countertops. These things are lovely, no doubt, but in the end, they’re just stuff. When you read this, you’ll probably fire off one of your famously cryptic, one-line letters saying I’m depressed. But don’t. I’m not. I’m just getting philosophical in my old age.
Your evolving cousin,
Bitsy
Jennifer Wentworth
Jennifer came home from Grandparents Day at Crystal Falls Elementary School and threw herself on Miss Betty’s floral chintz sofa, wailing that she was the only child in Crystal Falls who didn’t have a family. She raised her head and glared at Grandmother. “You forgot me!” she growled.
“I thought it was next week,” said Miss Betty, wringing her hands.
“It was today,” yelled Jennifer, pushing away from the sofa. “I’m through with you. I want to see my other grandmother this instant!”
“That’s not a good idea,” said Miss Betty.
“It is too.” Jennifer crossed her arms and glared.
Miss Betty sighed, opened a chest, and pulled out a thick pile of newspapers. She set them in front of the child. The papers were curled and yellow, and the dust made Jennifer sneeze, but she didn’t let this deter her from reading all the juicy stuff. On the top paper, the headline blared:
DERANGED HOUSEWIFE JUMPS OFF DIME STORE’S ROOF. A smaller headline read: DEATH AVERTED BY FLOODED STREET. Underneath was a grainy black-and-white picture of Dorothy being carried away on a stretcher, the paramedics wading through surging water. Her hair was wild, and she appeared to be screaming. Behind her was the courthouse square, flooded by Town Creek.
The other papers weren’t about Dorothy, they were about Jennifer’s mother. Jennifer traced her finger under each word, keenly aware of Miss Betty’s watchful gaze. Her grandmother was always saying that it was a blessing that Jennifer hadn’t grown up around those people. It was a godsend that the child didn’t remember her atrocious babyhood. Yet her grandmother seemed hell-bent on re-creating it for her. “She left your father for dead,” Miss Betty cried, thumping one of the newspapers. “She put you on the roof of a car and then drove off. You came within an inch of dying.”
Miss Betty held up two fingers, a tiny space between them. “Do you still wish to see Dorothy?”
“Yes!” Jennifer said, then screamed.
“Oh, all right.” Miss Betty stiffened. “I’ve no idea what brought this on. Surely not my absence at Grandparents Day. Did you know that Dorothy never really liked Bitsy? She preferred Mack. So why on earth would she like you?”
“Because she does!”
Miss Betty yelled for Papa Chick and told him to hurry up and take Jennifer over to the crazy house—her pet name for 214 Dixie Avenue.
“Come on, sugar.” Papa Chick stood in the doorway and waved his arm.
Jennifer grabbed the top newspaper from the stack and shoved it under her shirt. “I’m ready,” she called in a sweet voice. “I’ll be right there.”
Later, when she showed the paper to Dorothy, all her grandmother would say was, “The baby back ribs were frozen, not barbecued—at least not yet. It must’ve been your daddy who got that rumor started.”
After this visit Jennifer whined to visit the crazy house. She was doing it to annoy her paternal grandmother. In fact, she preferred the luxury of the elder Wentworths’ home on Jefferson, with its gated driveway and manicured lawn that stretched the length of one city block. There she could do what she pleased, and the maids gave her anything she wanted. “Poor little motherless child,” they’d say when Jennifer passed through the room. She was fatherless, too, but everyone seemed to overlook that. Her daddy was preoccupied with his new family: His third wife, Regina, had recently given birth to a cone-headed daughter.
Two weekends a month, Chick drove her three blocks to her daddy’s house, a Victorian with a picket fence around it. In the spring, red tulips flopped through the slats. There was a pool in the backyard, surrounded by another fence, and off to the side stood an elaborate swing set—this belonged to Jennifer’s half-sister, Millicent Ann, who was only a month old. On a visiting Saturday, when Jennifer stepped into the house, the air smelled of dirty diapers and Lysol, and her stepmother was yelling at her housekeepers. “I’m having a formal dinner party in five hours,” Regina shrieked from the head of the stairs, “and I want this dawdling to stop. Open some windows, make this house smell like a garden.”
Jennifer was standing in the marble entry hall, holding a pink Barbie suitcase. She loved it when the maids poked fun at Regina, who hadn’t lost the weight she’d gained during her pregnancy. Most of it had collected in her hips and thighs. They called her “Miss Regina” to her face, but when she was out of earshot, she was dubbed “Big Mama Woo Woo.”
Jennifer set down her suitcase and followed the women into the dining room. They let her help polish the silver and set it out in precise patterns on the polished table. Jennifer had learned party planning at Miss Betty’s knee, and she loved setting out the crystal salt dishes with teeny tiny doll-size spoons beside each. She was just placing the last one when Regina swooped into the dining room, her cheeks flushed.
“When did you get here, Jennifer? Oh, never mind. Just run on outside and play. I can’t think with you standing here!” Regina rubbed her temples.
Jennifer snatched up her Barbie suitcase and hurried out to the back porch, one of those old-fashioned ones, deep enough to hold an entire set of wicker furniture, including a glider. She unzipped the suitcase, took out her paper dolls, and arranged them beneath the glider. From inside the house, she heard her half-sister’s screech, followed by footsteps. Jennifer wanted to love her new sister, but her daddy and Regina were always slobbering over it. She abandoned her dolls and wandered into the kitchen. The caterers had started to arrive. Outside, the wind began blowing, sucking up Jennifer’s play pretties, blowing them off the porch toward the swimming pool. Regina ran into the kitchen, over to the door. “I just pray it’s not going to storm—” She broke off, staring at the paper dolls, whirling in the air. She turned, her eyes narrowed, and grabbed Jennifer’s hand.
Mad Girls In Love Page 39
