“How did your dollies get out there?” Regina’s forehead wrinkled into a hard V. Her fingers tightened, the nails dug into Jennifer’s flesh. “Just look at this! What will my guests think? Don’t you ever make a mess like this again.” Regina shoved open the kitchen door and slung Jennifer onto the porch. “Get out there and clean up your mess. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jennifer poked her thumb into her mouth.
“And get that dirty finger out of your mouth,” Regina snarled. From upstairs, the baby began to wail. “Now look what you’ve done! Oh, you miserable little rat. I can’t wait till your father gets home and sees what you’ve done.”
The next day, when Jennifer returned to her grandparents’ house, she rushed to find Miss Betty in the sunroom and rolled up her sleeves, pointing to the nail gashes. “Regina did this,” Jennifer wailed. “I want my real mother. If you don’t let me see her, I’m showing Dorothy these marks. And she’ll take Regina to court.”
Within ten days Miss Betty had made the arrangements for Jennifer to fly down to New Orleans.
Jennifer loved exploring the DeChavannes’s house. When they weren’t having parties, the dining room was dark and quiet, as if it was recovering from a long and difficult illness. But it was still a beautiful room, with the pale blue silk draperies, streaked with lemon, surrounding deep bay windows that looked out into banana trees, and the ornate wrought-iron fence in the distance. Upstairs, her mother had turned a small bedroom into a closet. It smelled of powder and expensive perfume. Jewelry hung from a pegboard, and wall-to-wall shelves were crammed with shoes and pocketbooks—the purses were gifts from Louie’s mother. Jennifer sat on the floor, examining each bag while Bitsy described its features and events where it would be appropriate. What Jennifer especially loved to do was go to the racks, which were crammed with sparkly party dresses, and press her face into the fabric, breathing in her mother’s smell.
Bitsy was an interior designer, and she worked two days a week with a famous woman called Sister. The famous woman had helped Bitsy dress up her dining room—the table was longer than Regina’s, or Miss Betty’s, for that matter, with sixteen chairs and a lovely organdy and lace cloth that skimmed the floor. Her mother had explained the different fabrics, urging Jennifer rub them between her fingers. When she grew up, she wanted to be a designer, too.
After that visit, when Jennifer returned to Crystal Falls, she spent more and more time with Dorothy. She craved the stillness of a summer evening on her grandmother’s old porch, where the lilacs smelled like an old woman’s neck, and the iced tea glasses didn’t need coasters and none of the fabrics matched. She could spill blue fingernail polish on the floor or a cherry Coke and no one screamed or blanched. Jennifer spent many rainy mornings in Bitsy’s old bed, listening to water pouring out of the overflowing gutters. She wondered if her mother had heard this, too. After breakfast, she would push a pen into her grandmother’s hands and dictate letters to Bitsy, the way she’d seen her grandfather do at the bank. She wanted to know about her mother’s parties, her favorite wines and floral arrangements, and if she’d ever thought of matching her dress to the tablecloth. In due time, Bitsy’s answer would arrive, her handwriting difficult to read, and Dorothy would have to translate. Bitsy listed the food in haphazard order, mixing appetizers with dessert, the entrée with the soup.
Jennifer begged to visit New Orleans again, but the Wentworths, plotting to keep her in Tennessee, had enrolled Jennifer in ballet classes.
“I can take ballet in New Orleans,” Jennifer argued.
“You just can’t go, and that’s that.” Two spots of color flashed on Miss Betty’s cheeks.
“I’m going to visit my mother. And you can’t stop me.”
“Let her go for a week, Betty,” Chick said.
“Two weeks,” the child pleaded.
“Ask your father,” said Miss Betty. “You’ll be seeing him this weekend.”
At dinner with Regina and her daddy, Jennifer broached the subject of a New Orleans visit. “No, absolutely not,” said Claude, shaking his head. “You can’t ruin your grandmother’s plans.”
“Has your mother invited you?” Regina spoke up.
“No, but—”
“Then she doesn’t want you,” said Regina, spooning mashed potatoes into the baby’s mouth.
“You don’t want me, either,” Jennifer cried. “You just want the baby.”
“Don’t be jealous,” said Regina.
“I’m not.”
“Lower you voice,” hissed Claude. “The maids will hear.”
“I hope they do!”
“If you say one more word, little lady,” Claude warned, “I’m taking all your dolls to the Salvation Army.”
“Take them,” she said bravely, even though her voice shook.
“All right, fine.” Claude pushed his chair back and strode out of the room.
“I didn’t say one word, I said two,” she called after him.
Her stepmother’s fork was frozen in midair, a limp strand of asparagus hanging down.
“What are you staring at, Vagina?” Jennifer’s eyes glittered.
Regina put down her fork and reached for her napkin to blot her pale mouth. “You may leave the table,” she said.
Jennifer ignored her and reached for her glass of tea.
“Why, you little…” Regina’s nostrils flared.
On her way out to the door, Jennifer leaned over Regina’s plate and spit a mouthful of tea.
“I’m telling your father. He’ll ground you for a year,” Regina said in a choked voice.
“You aren’t my boss,” Jennifer said. Then, in a faint whisper, she added: “Vagina breath.”
“Claude? Claude?” Regina cried. “Take her back to your mother’s right now!”
“Go ahead, tattletale,” said Jennifer. “But I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
Bitsy
Before we left for England, Louie called up Claude and asked if Jennifer could go with us. “We’ll be there several months, but if you’d prefer, she can visit for two or three weeks.”
“I’d prefer that she stay right here.”
“England will be cultural for her,” Louie said in his soothing, doctorly, I-know-what’s-best voice. Claude shot back, “She’s just a little girl, for God’s sake. She can’t cross the Atlantic without an escort.”
“How old is she now? Nine? She can fly over with us,” said Louie. “We’ll put her in first class going back.”
“Are you crazy?” Claude cried. “A house in Florida, I can understand, but England is too far away.”
Louie began to protest, but I knew he was wasting his energy. For all the Wentworths’ small-town grandeur and their wealth, they had never set foot outside the continental United States. Their idea of a luxury vacation was a week in Destin or Hilton Head, or a shopping trip to Atlanta.
In early July, Louie and I stopped off in Crystal Falls to visit my family. Aunt Clancy invited us for lunch, but Louie said it sounded like a girl thing and that he’d stay home and nap. So Dorothy and I climbed into her old station wagon and took off for Aunt Clancy’s mountain. We drove past a sign that said Cat Crossing, then parked at the top of the hill. When we stepped out of the car, a dozen felines scattered through a grape arbor, past trees where wind chimes dangled from the branches. A black cat with three white paws ran over to me and rubbed against my legs.
“Damn thing probably has worms,” Dorothy said, giving the animal a withering look.
White Adirondacks were lined up on the deck. The front door stood open, and as we passed to the kitchen, we saw furniture—floral sofas and chairs, a bookcase crammed with pretty rocks and albums. In the middle of the kitchen stood a long pine table, its legs intact. Clay pots, overflowing with herbs, were lined up in the sunny window. On top of the large refrigerator, a green-eyed cat sat on its haunches, watching.
Aunt Clancy was standing next to the sink with her hands on her hips, shaking her hea
d at Violet’s asymmetrical haircut—jaw-level on her right side, and three, maybe four inches shorter on the left. “What happened? Did you leave the beauty shop before the beautician was finished?”
“Quit harping,” said Violet. “It’s purposely uneven.”
“Violet!” I cried. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“It was a surprise,” said Aunt Clancy. “Ladies, please have a seat.”
Violet yawned and said, “Where’s Earlene?”
“Who knows?” Dorothy lifted her shoulders. “She said she was helping her mother hoe the garden. Isn’t that funny? The ‘ho’ is hoeing. Personally, I think she’s having an affair. How about you and George?” Dorothy pulled out a chair and sat down. “Is the honeymoon over?”
“Not yet. We’re blissfully happy.” Violet smiled into her cupped hand. “He’s one in a million.”
“What’s your secret?” I asked, sitting down between my mother and Violet.
“I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “In fact, I try not to analyze it too much.”
“I’m glad for you.” I grabbed my cousin’s hand and squeezed it.
“And proud,” put in Dorothy. “My own niece, a future head shrinker. Now if I can just talk Jennifer into being a lawyer, we’ll be set.”
The ladies fell silent. Jennifer had been invited, of course, but Miss Betty had offered a feeble excuse. A vein throbbed in my right temple as I watched Aunt Clancy set down a blue glass platter full of tea sandwiches laid on the diagonal: cucumber, pimento cheese, smoked turkey, and egg salad. She went back to the counter and returned with more platters. Zucchini bread was piled up on a milk-glass dish. Arranged on a crystal plate were bakery petits fours, the pink icing dusted with sugared violets. EAT ME was written on each in white icing.
“So, how’s the decorating business?” Aunt Clancy asked.
I laughed and told them how, since joining Sister’s design firm, I was not only privy to the finest antiques in town, I got to hear the dirt on the créme de la créme of greater New Orleans. All our clients seemed to be politicians’ and physicians’ wives. I launched into a story about an influential allergist who’d given his wife an infection. I finished up by saying, “So the doctor brought home Flagyl.”
Violet laughed and said, “Flagyl is specific to trichomonas.”
“Is that what you get from eating raw pork?” asked Dorothy.
“No, it’s a sexually transmitted disease,” said Violet. “But go on, Bitsy. What happened?”
“Apparently the wife refused to take the pills until the allergist agreed to tell the truth. He insisted he’d been faithful, acting as if the infection had just occurred spontaneously—a virgin birth of germs, so to speak. And the wife said, ‘Look, you can lie all you want, but I’ve got a fulminating infection, and I didn’t get it from a toilet seat. You have been fooling around with pond scum.’”
“The moral of the story is this,” said Violet. “If a man sticks his dick in a whore’s butt, ask for antibiotics, not a confession. After all, you’re not his priest. You’re his wife.”
Violet’s language appeared to agitate Dorothy, and she interrupted with a comment about the rabbits in her garden and how they were eating the lettuce. Then she began complaining about the price of store-bought lettuce, and followed up with a long, chatty recipe for seven-layer salad. I smiled into my cupped hand. Listening to my mother was like stepping through the looking glass, trying to keep up with the White Rabbit.
Dorothy popped a captioned petit four obliviously into her mouth. Aunt Clancy set down an enormous brandy snifter filled with strawberries. She parked a bowl of whipped cream beside it. I knew that my aunt still avoided animal products, and I was deeply touched by this concession until Dorothy leaned over, her mouth full of cake, and whispered, “What if it’s poisoned?”
The copper kettle began to howl, and Aunt Clancy walked over to the stove. “How is Louie?” she called. “Is he being good?”
“He better be,” said Dorothy.
“And if he’s not?” Violet lifted one dark eyebrow.
“Then he’ll be singing in the Viennese Boy’s Choir,” said Dorothy. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Isn’t it Vienna Boy’s Choir?” Violet smiled.
I was glad the conversation had gone off on a tangent. It was difficult for my family to understand why I’d taken Louie back. But all they had to do was listen to Billie Holiday. Billie understood the crushing weight of bad love. When Billie sang “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do,” she was telling the world to go fuck themselves.
While the tea steeped, Aunt Clancy set out mugs with Drink Me written on the sides in gold Magic Marker. She looked happy. I wondered if she and the fireman would get married or if they were content with the status quo.
“Claude ought to let Jennifer go with you guys,” said Violet.
“He’s not,” said Aunt Clancy.
“Maybe he’s scared for her to fly across the Atlantic,” said Dorothy. “I know I’d be terrified.”
“Well, she’s nine years old,” said Violet. “Nowadays the courts are letting children of divorce make up their own minds about where they live and with whom. And the Wentworths have done their best to prevent Jennifer from loving you, Bitsy. They keep seeing this tiny little light in her heart, maybe it’s no bigger than a fingernail clipping, but they’re scared it’ll grow. So they try to annihilate it. But if you stamp out everything in a heart, what’s left?”
We fell silent.
Finally Dorothy patted Violet’s head, jostling the asymmetrical hairdo. “You may not know it, but you got your high I.Q. from me.”
Our flight was scheduled to leave at 10:45 A.M., nonstop from Nashville to Chicago. According to the itinerary, we would spend most of the day languishing at O’Hare, then catch the 7:43 P.M. British Airways flight to Heathrow. When we boarded the plane in Nashville and found our seats in the first class cabin, the stewardess, a perky brunette with freckles scattered across her cheekbones, offered a choice of complimentary beverages. Louie interrupted her litany. “Do you have champagne?”
“Yes!” she said brightly. “Shall I bring two glasses?”
Louie nodded and kissed the tip of my nose.
“I love honeymooners,” said the stewardess with a smile.
Louie gasped, then he sat bolt upright. His eyes were fixed on something in the aisle, past the stewardess.
“What’s wrong, honey?” I grabbed his hand, then followed his gaze. Another stewardess was coming toward us, holding by the hand a little blond girl.
“Jennifer!” I sprang out of my seat, the top of my head grazing the overhead bin. As I stumbled into the aisle, I knocked into a gray-headed man with a leather briefcase. I profusely apologized, then squeezed past him. Jennifer blinked up at me, then took a cautious step forward.
“Your daughter’s tickets,” said the stewardess, handing me a packet. “I’ll stow her suitcase.”
Those tickets couldn’t have weighed more than a few ounces, yet they rooted me to the floor of the plane. I had a million questions, but I didn’t know where to start or whom to ask. The last thing I wanted to do was alarm Jennifer. Maybe someone in the family had abducted the child, then spirited her off to the airport.
“Is anything wrong?” The stewardess looked alarmed.
I shook my head and squatted beside my daughter. “Baby, how did you get here?”
“Daddy,” Jennifer said.
“And you’re going to England with me and Louie?”
She nodded again. The stewardess was starting to look desperate. I knew we were blocking traffic, but I couldn’t move.
“Can we let these passengers by?” the stewardess asked, eyeing the congestion. People were backed up to the cockpit. I leaned over and kissed Jennifer’s head, smelling shampoo, and led her up the aisle to where Louie was standing. I told my daughter to stay with Louie, that I’d be right back. He took Jennifer’s hand and guided her to our seats. When I reached the front of the pl
ane, another stewardess charged in front of me, blocking the doorway with her arms. Behind her, the metal steps plunged down to the pavement. I peered over the stewardess’s shoulder to where I had spotted Claude on the edge of the tarmac, his hair blowing in the wind.
“I’m sorry,” snapped the stewardess, “but you can’t disembark.”
I leaned across the woman’s outstretched arm and lifted my hand into the air, feeling the wind push against my palm, and yelled, “Claude? Over here!”
When he heard my voice, his head swiveled around, straightened up, and he took a tentative step forward. A man with earmuffs shouted something into his face and pushed him back. Keeping his eyes on me, Claude spread his arms up to the sky and shrugged, as if to say I can’t explain it.
Once we were in the Cotswolds, Jennifer became sulky. “When’s it gonna stop raining?” she asked Louie, dragging her finger through a half-eaten egg salad sandwich. We’d only been here a week.
He thought a moment, then shrugged. “How long is a piece of string?”
“What does string have to do with the rain?” She frowned.
“Pretty much everything,” he said.
“I don’t like it here,” she said.
Louie lifted an ironic eyebrow and said, “Would you prefer a trip to Opryland next summer?”
“Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t be silly.” I unfolded a map of Britain and began plotting day trips. The next day we took the train to London and took a taxi to Westminster Abbey, where we walked over the graves of the poets.
“It smells funny in here,” Jennifer said, tugging on my hand. “Can we go? Please?”
Late that afternoon, we bought tickets for a sunset boat ride along the Thames. Most of the sightseers were seated, but Louie insisted we stand at the rail, our coat collars turned up against the biting gusts. He tried to point out landmarks, but Jennifer wasn’t interested. She kept pulling my coat.
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