Mad Girls In Love

by Michael Lee West

  He emerged from the bathroom, trailed by wisps of steam, rubbing his head with a towel. “Lovely day,” he said, grinning. I had forgotten how cheerful he was in the mornings. “You look positively crestfallen,” he added. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m worried about tonight. I don’t know how I’ll get through it.”

  “The only advice I’m authorized to give is editorial,” he said. “But it might behoove you to float above the fray—a distanced, omniscient observer. Actually, I should say limited omniscient.”

  “That might work.” I smiled.

  “Say, I do like your hair. Scoot over, I brought you something.”

  He unzipped his suitcase, reached inside, and lifted out a white box with Spode stamped in red across the lid. He put it in my lap and sat down beside me while I opened it. “Queen’s Bird!” I placed the cup in the saucer. “Oh, Ian. How absolutely sweet.”

  “It’s not the same, of course; but still, you might grow fond of it.”

  “I already am. I’ll take it everywhere I go.”

  “There’s one condition,” he said, drawing me into his arms, taking care not to dislodge the cup.

  “What’s that?”

  “You must take me, too.”

  Clancy Jane

  Rain picked at the screen in Clancy Jane’s bedroom window. Deep in the woods, an animal howled, making the hair stand up on her arms. She’d been lying in bed, eating mangoes, surrounded by a dozen felines, but now she sat up, tilting her head toward the window. She heard the cry again. It didn’t sound like a wolf or coyote; in fact, in all the years she’d lived on this mountain she’d never heard such a mournful sound. It frightened her—what if this creature ate cats? It shrieked again, and the kittens stood on their toes and arched their backs. Only Jellybean seemed unalarmed. Her paws were folded beneath her chest, green eyes focused on Clancy Jane’s mangoes.

  “Maybe it’s a banshee,” she told the cat. Jellybean closed her eyes and purred. Clancy Jane set the mango dish on the floor, licked her fingertips, and rolled onto her side, dragging a pillow over her ear. From the woods, she heard another cry and wondered if she’d get any sleep. Tomorrow was Jennifer’s wedding, and truth be told, she’d rather stay home, all comfy in her cotton pajamas, her cats perched all around her, waiting for her to open the bedside drawer and pull out the small tin of liver treats. She used to believe that her cats adored her, but now she had their number. Cats were in it for the food.

  From the bedside table, the phone rang. No one but her daughter ever called this late, so Clancy Jane flung off the pillow and groped to pick up the receiver. “’Lo,” she whispered.

  “Hi, Mama,” said Violet. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, I’ve got insomnia.”

  “Drink some hot milk and you’ll feel better.”

  “I’d rather have a Valium.”

  “Too addictive.” Violet laughed. “Listen, I didn’t tell you before because I wasn’t sure I could make it, but I’m coming to Jennifer’s wedding. My flight arrives in Nashville at two o’clock tomorrow, barring unforeseen complications.”

  “When you were little, I never dreamed you’d grow up and say things like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m still in my therapeutic mode.”

  “Well, lose it quick. I can’t wait to see you, baby. I haven’t driven to Nashville in years, but I’m sure I can find the airport. What time does your flight get in?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve rented a car, and—please don’t get mad—I’ll be staying at the Holiday Inn.”

  “You’re staying at a motel?” Clancy Jane swallowed. “But I’ve got plenty of room.”

  “Stop trying to make me feel guilty.”

  “Then stop shrinking me.” Clancy Jane twirled the phone cord. She knew this was Violet’s way of saying that she could end up staying at Cat Crossing, but she’d booked the room as an escape route. “By the way, don’t expect a wedding like yours.”

  “It wouldn’t be a Wentworth event if it weren’t pretentious.”

  “Miss Betty wouldn’t have it any other way.” Clancy Jane laughed. “Will George be coming with you?”

  “We’re an evolved couple, Mama. I don’t need a man to hang on to. Besides, he’s fencing our backyard.”

  “You’re getting a dog?”

  “No.”

  “Too evolved for pets, are we?”

  “It hurt us too much when Bojangles passed on.” Violet paused. “How many cats do you have?”

  “Four,” Clancy Jane said, her standard answer. No matter how many felines were lolling around the house, she claimed to only own four. Any more than that and people would talk.

  “So,” Violet said. “When I see you, I’m not going to hear you say, ‘Why don’t you visit more often?’”

  Clancy Jane’s put one hand over her eyes. Her fingers were sticky and smelled of mangoes. “Stay where you want. Visit when the spirit moves you to visit. It’s your life, not mine.”

  “Thank you. I’ve waited thirty-nine years to hear you say that.”

  “Besides, there’s a banshee howling in my backyard, and it’ll just keep you awake.”

  “A banshee?”

  “It could be a coyote.” Clancy Jane peered out the window. The sky was packed with clouds, and she couldn’t see the stars. The rain had slacked off, but the Channel 5 radar map had shown a jagged green patch moving over Kansas, Arkansas, and most of Oklahoma. The weatherman had predicted a downpour late tomorrow evening, and Clancy Jane hoped it would arrive after Jennifer’s nuptials.

  “Just because I’m staying at the Holiday Inn doesn’t mean that I don’t love you,” Violet said.

  “Are you still harping on that?” Clancy Jane bit her lips. “I know you love me.”

  After Clancy Jane hung up the phone, she snuggled beneath the down coverlet. The banshee cried again. It sounded a bit farther away this time. Perhaps it was on the move, bad luck in transit. Only God knew where it would go next.

  Bitsy and Jennifer

  The late-afternoon sun dipped behind a cloud, throwing Hammersmith Farm into shadow. Just off the main road, five teenage boys sullenly directed traffic into the pasture: Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs, Cadillacs, and Lincolns. After parking their cars, the men strode forward, but the women picked their way around the cow flops, their gowns held above their ankles. They headed toward a path outlined with hundreds of white balloons, each printed with Jennifer & Pierre.

  “I don’t like outdoor events,” Dorothy said as Bitsy angled the Jeep under the banner that read Wentworth-Tournear Nuptials, as if to differentiate it from the hundreds of other weddings taking place on this mountain, and parked next to a black Lincoln. Ian was riding shotgun, looking elegant in his tuxedo. Dorothy leaned forward from the backseat, edging between them. “Did you talk my sister into coming?” she asked.

  Bitsy turned to Ian. “My aunt Clancy isn’t family-oriented.”

  “And you are?” Dorothy cocked her eyebrow, which had been drawn in brown pencil—Mocha Frost by L’Oréal. Bitsy didn’t respond, so Dorothy reached inside her jacket, where she’d safety-pinned a ten-dollar bill to her slip—her just-in-case-there’s-trouble money.

  “We could get bitten by ticks and come down with Rocky Mountain spotted fever,” she said. “The bride and groom could get bitten.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Bitsy said.

  “I wish Mack had come with us.” Dorothy sighed.

  “He’ll be here,” Bitsy told her. “He’s picking up his date.”

  “You said the keywords—pick up.” Dorothy sighed. “I hate to see what this one looks like.” She sighed again and brushed lint from her jacket. Dorothy watched as Ian helped Bitsy out of the Jeep and wondered if he had any uncles. She looked damn good in this Chanel suit. She just hoped that Ian didn’t know where she’d gotten it, or about her time in the asylum.

  Ian turned to Dorothy and offered his hand. She took her time easing out of the Jeep, thanked him, then s
teadied herself and watched him turn back to Bitsy. The way they looked at each other made Dorothy’s heart lurch. If only a man had ever looked at her like that…well, it might have helped if she’d had an hourglass figure and nicer features. Maybe then her life would have been different.

  “Well,” she said, “we’d best get a move on. We don’t want to be unfashionably late. Speaking of which, let’s pray that Bitsy hasn’t over-dressed.”

  Bitsy was wearing a black, off-the-shoulder top with a long pewter-and-cream skirt. Dorothy reached out, as if to pat her daughter’s shoulder, but slid her hand down Bitsy’s blouse and grabbed the tag.

  “Chetta B?” she said, mimicking Jennifer’s voice. She released the tag, feigning disgust. “What kind of no-name designer is that?”

  They looked at each other and laughed. Bitsy grabbed a handful of tulle and lifted her skirt. Ian took one look at her silver evening shoes, then lifted her into his arms again and carried her across the pasture to the path. It was damp because of last night’s rain—and more was expected tonight—but Claude’s hired hands had laid down clear rubber mats.

  At the top of the path, six little girls were holding hands and running in a clockwise circle. “Ashes, ashes,” they sang. “All fall down.” A few yards away, two little boys were juggling lemons. Smoke curled up from behind a lattice screen, giving off the scent of grilled steak and shrimp. A telephone pole stood near the edge of the hill, with wires running to the tent and to the Porta-Johns, each one the size of a caboose. Claude had electrified the mountain. He probably would have moved it if Jennifer had asked, Dorothy thought. They passed the Porta-Johns and one door stood ajar, showing black-and-white marble tile floors, gold faucets, marble sinks, glittering chandeliers. Two men hurried by, carrying a board—a giant ice carving surrounded by curly endive. The carving appeared to be a chipmunk.

  “What is the significance of the rodent sculpture?” Ian asked.

  “It was supposed to be a heart,” Dorothy told him.

  “Perhaps they’ll sort it out.” Ian watched the two men disappear behind the lattice screen into the catering area. Waiters were rushing around with trays, sidestepping the children. Inside the tent, more chandeliers hung from the pleated ceiling. Tear-shaped bulbs cast light on the black-and-white marble dance floor and the makeshift stage. The tables, each one with an elaborate floral arrangement, formed a C around the checkerboard floor.

  As Dorothy wove among the tables, looking at the place cards, the violinist followed behind her playing “Evergreen.” Ian and Bitsy followed her. Beyond the tent, on the fescue, white wooden chairs were laid out in a symmetrical pattern reminiscent of the white marble crosses in St.- Laurent-sur-Mer, the hilltop cemetery in Normandy overlooking the sea.

  Over by the fountain, the groomsmen were jostling each other. Tonya stood near them, patting her huge white corsage. Resembling a tidal wave in her silk seafoam suit, she stepped over to Pierre and straightened his bow tie in a proprietary way. Claude, looking pale and haggard in white tie and tails, stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back. Behind him, leaning over the bar was Chick, watching the bartender mix a scotch and soda. He wore a glossy black tuxedo, and a massive cummerbund was stretched over his abdomen like a surgical bandage.

  “Chick’s got mud on his shoes,” Dorothy said with a sniff. “They’re Gucci, I’ll bet. I’ve seen his old ones at the thrift store. Is he jaundiced, or is the light too harsh? They say he needs a liver transplant. But it could be a rumor. Look—there’s Miss Betty.”

  Holding her ever-present glass of wine, Miss Betty struck a regal pose. She wore a long beige taffeta dress—a traditional color for the mother of the bride. Her corsage was askew—white sweetheart roses mingled with orchids and satin ribbons. Emerald-cut diamond earrings peeked through her chin-length, lacquered hair. And she was wearing tinted sunglasses, even though the sky was rapidly filling with clouds.

  “What, no corsages for us?” Dorothy whispered.

  “An oversight, no doubt,” Bitsy whispered back. “Shhh, she’s coming this way.”

  “Well, hello again,” Miss Betty said in a grand voice. She appeared sober and had no trouble recognizing Bitsy this time. “You look younger than springtime with that choppy hair. I’m sure it’s the latest style in…where are you living now?”

  “England,” Dorothy said. “She lives in London, England.”

  “Yes, I believe Jennifer mentioned that you’d moved. She said you were running away from another husband.”

  “She left right after his funeral,” Dorothy said. “The poor dear.”

  Ian laughed, and Miss Betty gave him a sharp look. She lifted her glass, tossed down the wine, then said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re Bitsy’s parole officer?”

  “Indeed I am,” said Ian in his crisp, British accent.

  “He’s her boyfriend,” Dorothy said. “And he’s a real famous editor.”

  “Well, I’d be careful if I were you,” Miss Betty said in a flat voice. She started to take another sip of wine then realized her glass was empty. “Have either of you seen Jennifer? I suppose Samantha’s helping her get ready. You do know Samantha, don’t you, Bitsy?”

  “We met last night,” Bitsy said. And thought, You old bitch.

  “Yes, yes. That’s right. You all met at the rehearsal dinner.” Miss Betty turned to Ian. “You missed the gorgeous dress that Bitsy wore last night. Why, I’ve never seen anything quite that purple, except in a lingerie store.”

  “No, I saw it,” Ian said, reaching for Bitsy’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

  “It’s an Oscar de la Renta,” Dorothy said.

  “Dorothy, I’ve got to give you credit,” said Miss Betty. “You might be insane, but you have a great sense of style. By the way, your suit is gorgeous.”

  “It ought to be, it was yours.” Dorothy flashed a triumphant grin. Miss Betty seemed dumbstruck. She took off her sunglasses, and glared at the suit. But before she could speak, Dorothy put one hand on Ian’s elbow, her other hand on Bitsy’s and steered them toward the opposite side of the tent. Behind them, the violinist closed in on Miss Betty and began to play “We’ve Only Just Begun.”

  After Ian took off toward the nearest bar with their drink orders, Dorothy nudged her daughter. “There’s your brother. And just look at that thing hanging on his arm.”

  “What thing?” Bitsy thought Mack looked stunning in his rental tuxedo. He was standing at the opposite end of the tent, near another bar, holding hands with a tall redhead in a slinky orange dress.

  “Don’t ask me her name,” said Dorothy, “but she works at the Kroger deli. And she has three children—each one by a different husband. At least I think they were husbands. I hope she doesn’t try to trap Mack.”

  The wedding planner hurried by, wearing a whispery beige gown, the hem already stained by the grass. She clutched a sheaf of papers, and her forehead was creased with a deep, V-shaped wrinkle. When she saw Dorothy and Bitsy, she stopped. “The most terrible thing has happened,” she said. “The ushers’ tailcoats don’t match.” The woman looked up into the tent’s puckered ceiling, shaking her head. The huge beige bow at the back of her head wobbled. “How can this be?”

  “I didn’t even notice,” Bitsy said.

  “I hope Jennifer doesn’t,” said the wedding planner, her eyes growing wide with alarm.

  “She probably will,” Dorothy said. “She made me order Mack’s tux months ago.”

  “What about the ice sculpture?” Bitsy asked. “Has Jennifer seen the chipmunk?”

  “What chipmunk?” The wedding planner froze.

  Bitsy started to explain, but the woman rushed off, pushing her way through the crowded tent. Over by the bar, Bitsy caught sight of a woman in an electric blue dress, the fabric stretched over an enormous stomach. Dorothy saw her at the same time. “That can’t be Violet,” she squinted. “Lord, she’s gotten hefty.”

  “She’s pregnant,” Bitsy said.

  “Don’t be silly.
” Dorothy punched Bitsy’s arm. “Violet’s too old. I bet she has gray pubic hairs.”

  In the distance, Clancy Jane trudged up the path. Perspiration slid down her face, and her long silver-blond hair had stuck to her neck. She was trailed by three little girls in white organdy dresses.

  “Good lord, it’s my sister. And look how she’s sweating.” Dorothy shook her head. Then, in a singsong voice, she said, “She’s melting, Auntie Em.”

  “Keep your voice down.” Bitsy shook her mother’s arm, and the upper flesh jiggled. “Just for today. Just for me.”

  “I’ll try.” Dorothy sighed. “But I can’t give a guarantee.”

  Clancy Jane and the children moved across the field, pausing beside the buffet. She snatched up a handful of green mints, causing the caterer to scream. “Oh, don’t be so anal,” yelled Clancy Jane, throwing candy to the little girls.

  Dorothy raised her eyebrows. “And you’re telling me to keep my voice down?”

  “I want to see Violet,” Bitsy said.

  “No fair. I saw her first,” Dorothy cried, scuttling forward. She caught up with Violet at the bar and let out a whoop. She grabbed her niece’s arm and pulled her into an awkward embrace. Violet barely had time to shift her massive stomach out of the way.

  “Nice to see you, too, Aunt Dorothy.” Violet laughed. “Is Bitsy here?”

  “She’s right behind me.”

  “I suppose she looks wonderful—as always.”

  “Better than wonderful,” said Dorothy. “I suspect plastic surgery, but she denies it. Maybe you can tell if she’s lying. Although she could be a witch. Witches never age.”

  Bitsy rushed past Dorothy and threw her arms around her cousin. Dorothy drew back, as if scrutinizing Violet’s shape. Bitsy could almost read her mother’s thoughts, It could be a tumor, Or middle-age spread gone haywire. She knew she’d been right when Dorothy blurted, “Violet, have you gained a little weight?”

  “Thirty pounds.” Violet placed her hand on the curve of her abdomen, staring at it reverently. “Eight is baby weight, I’m guessing. But I’m afraid the rest is fat.”