Mad Girls In Love (24 page)

“I warned you,” said Tina. “God in His wisdom knew what He was doing when He made you a blonde. Don't cry. I can fix it. I just can't fix it
today
, because I'm booked.”

“It'll grow out,” said another stylist.

“That's what I love about hair,” said Tina.

 

One hazy afternoon in July, Walter took me for a drive. “I want to show you my old house,” he said, steering his Thunderbird down the Nashville Highway. “I want to show you everything about myself.”

When he said things like that I worried about not having told him the full story about me and Claude and the baby back ribs. So I just nodded. He angled off the highway, into Shenandoah Estates, turning right on Gettysburg Court, then left on Shiloh Avenue. Walter's house stood in a cul-de-sac. I thought about Violet's story of the screams coming from that house, and Fiona appearing the next day wearing sunglasses.

In my mind, I'd pictured it as sad-looking with crooked shutters, dead bushes, trash piled up in the driveway. A place with burned-out light bulbs, peeling paint, missing shingles. Instead, it was well tended. No overflowing trash cans. Zinnias bloomed from a flower bed. Aunt Clancy and I hadn't set out bedding plants. Of course, we didn't need any with all the roses Walter was still sending.

“It's just a shame that we can't live here.” Walter's chin jutted out. He pressed his foot against the accelerator and drove to the end of the street, then he backed into a paved driveway, and cruised by Fiona's house a second time. A wooden sign next to the front door cheerfully announced Welcome to the Saylors! Round stepping stones curved past a forsythia bush. I caught a glimpse of a redwood deck at the back, and a kettle grill, the top portion neatly covered with black plastic.

“I seeded that lawn myself,” Walter said. “I had to get a special shade mix, too.”

“You did a good job,” I said.

“It's not that I begrudge Fiona getting it,” he said, casting one last glance at the house. Then he chewed the inside of his lip. “Well, I guess I do,” he admitted. “I do begrudge her. I wouldn't be human if I didn't want what's mine. Not a penny of hers went toward the mortgage.”

“You'll get another house,” I said.

He pursed his lips and made a
pffft
sound, as if he were spitting out cat hairs. “I doubt it. She'll get so much alimony, I won't have a pot to piss in.”

“I guarantee that you can find peace and happiness without a house,” I told him.

“I sure could use some peace,” he said, a slow smile breaking across his lips.

“You want to spell that last word for me?” I smiled.

“First, let's get out of here,” he said, laughing.

 

Walter wanted me to meet his family, so a week later we drove way out into the country, toward a community called Hanging Limb. He turned up a gravel driveway that gave way to a rutted dirt road, then put his Thunderbird into park and dropped his right hand to my knee. “I want to tell you about my folks,” he said. “Mama's a homemaker, but Daddy's a golf nut.”

Walter glanced up at the house. It was clapboard, painted moss green, with black shutters. The lawn was littered with yellow golf balls. A pink chenille bedspread was airing on the porch railing. I was having trouble picturing a golf nut living here, but Walter's description of his mother seemed accurate.

As if reading my thoughts, Walter said, “He played golf all last summer. He'd set his alarm clock for five
A
.
M
. so he wouldn't have to wait in line to tee off. Mama stayed home and vacuumed. She doesn't even drive. You'll just love her. My sisters live here, too, so you'll meet them.”

“How many do you have?” I asked. The way he said “my sisters” put me in mind of a harem, women with long flowing hair and jeweled belly buttons.

“Two. Lacy's the oldest, and Jobeth's the baby.”

When Walter and I reached the front door, a woman's head popped out. It had grizzled hair and bright blue eyes. It let out a whoop, then the body it belonged to—surprisingly girlish in a red polyester pantsuit that showed off slender legs and a small waist—ran out onto the porch and drew Walter into her arms. She kissed his eyes, nose, and forehead.

“Stop it, Mama,” Walter complained. “I can't breathe!”

Mrs. Saylor released her son and spun around. “You must be Walter's little girlfriend,” she gushed, grabbing my hands. “We've been dead to meet you. His sisters will be out here in a minute. They're in the bathroom douching.” She pronounced it DOO-shin.

I glanced at Walter, but he didn't seem to find anything odd about his mother's comment. He took my arm and led me inside. As I stepped into the living room, I smelled the biting aroma of apple cider vinegar, and my eyes began to water.

“Oh, look, Walter. She's crying!” Mrs. Saylor grabbed my hands again. “How sweet. She's tenderhearted, just like we are. This calls for a drink. Walter, take your girlfriend into the living room, and I'll be right with you.”

Walter led me down a dingy hall with faded green wallpaper, past a heap of dirty laundry and a long pine bench. A cross had been carved into each side of the bench, and I realized it was a church pew, but I didn't have time to ask questions, because Walter was steering me into a paneled room. Here the air smelled of cigarettes and dirty feet. A golf tournament flashed on the portable TV. There were two vinyl sofas—one green, one tan, both of them ripped. Three recliners were angled in the corners. A stubby little man was stretched out in one chair. He had thick forearms, and his dome was bald and gleaming, surrounded by a thatch of graying orange frizz. He didn't even glance our way.

“Hey, Daddy,” said Walter.

“Hold up!” Mr. Saylor barked. He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the television. His ears resembled raw oysters. I gulped, remembering Point Minette. “He's on the thirteenth hole.”

“Who is?” Walter persisted.

“Arnold Palmer, now hush!” Mr. Saylor cried.

Walter pressed his lips to my ear and said, “When he's not playing golf, he's watching it.”

I nodded and glanced around the room again. I thought Walter had been a little too generous in his description of his mother. Wisps of dust hung from the ceiling. Large glass ashtrays were filled with cigarette butts. He led me to the tan sofa and we sat down, our thighs touching. I tried to move away, but he pulled me back. Since I didn't want the Saylors to get the wrong idea about me, I sat primly—hands in my lap, knees together. On the wall behind Mr. Saylor, I noticed a framed print showing the Arc de Triomphe. I froze. Claude's mother had owned a similar picture—not a print but an oil painting. This wasn't a good sign.

From the hallway came the sound of a door slamming, followed by feminine laughter. A moment later, Walter's sisters appeared. They were strawberry blondes, with pale, freckled faces. One sister was tall and willowy, the other was short and curvy. They perched on opposite ends of the green sofa and smiled at me. Their teeth were sharp and tiny, like upholstery tacks.

A door swung open, showing a glimpse of a filthy kitchen—counters heaped with dishes and potato chip bags. Mrs. Saylor bustled in, carrying a tray. “Girls, say hi to Walter's girl,” she told them, handing out Bloody Marys.

“Hi,” the sisters said in unison.

“That's Walter's daddy over there,” said Mrs. Saylor, nodding in his direction. She lifted her drink, the ice tinkling. “We call him Rooster, and he
does
kind of look like one. Rooster, turn off that TV and say hello to Walter's girl.”

“In a minute. Arnold's putting.” Mr. Saylor frowned.

Mrs. Saylor plopped down on the green sofa, bracketed by her daughters. I sipped my drink. The vodka tasted strong and bitter, the tomato juice weak and watery.

“Waltie, do you think it's fair that Fiona gets your house?” Mrs. Saylor gave him a sly look.

“Please don't start, Mama.” He gave her a warning look.

“You're generous as the day is long. But if it was
me
, I'd kick her butt out of that house and make her get a motel room. The way you've had to do.” Mrs. Saylor lifted her glass and drank half of her Bloody Mary, then she sighed and turned to me. “I just love vodka, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said in a polite, eager-to-please voice. I'd only taken a few sips and already I was feeling giddy.

“Feel free to call me Wilma.”

From the television came the sound of the crowd clapping for Arnold Palmer. Now Walter was sitting on the edge of the sofa, rooting and cheering.

Mrs. Saylor looked at her daughters and made a face, as if to say Boys will be boys, then shot a cautious glance in my direction.

“That's a lovely painting.” I raised my glass, as if saluting the Arc de Triomphe.

“Yes, isn't it?” Mrs. Saylor's eyes shifted away from me, and she turned, gazing over her shoulder. “I don't know what it's a picture of—maybe Walter does. He gave it to me last Christmas. Didn't you, Walter?
Walter?
”

“What?” Walter's head swiveled.

“What's that a picture of?” Mrs. Saylor pointed.

“A place in Italy or Greece, I think.” Walter squinted at the painting. “Or maybe Holland.”

“My boy is so smart,” said Mrs. Saylor. Then she thumped my arm. “How did you and him meet?”

“At his office,” I said. I didn't volunteer any details, and neither did Walter.

“When you say ‘at his office,'” Jobeth said, making quote marks in the air with her celery stick, “were you working there?”

“No, no,” Walter said, and he put his hand over mine and squeezed it. “She came to get a tooth filled, and the minute I saw her, I fell head-over-heels.”

Jobeth and Lacy stared at his hand and raised their eyebrows, but they didn't say anything.

“Bitsy, do you work anywhere?” asked Mrs. Saylor.

“The Green Parrot Café,” I said.

“Her aunt owns it,” said Walter.

“When's the wedding?” Jobeth asked Walter.

“That's a stupid question,” cried Lacy. “He and Fiona ain't even divorced.”

“She sure is cuter than Fiona,” said Jobeth.

“And she's got a nice figure,” said Lacy.

“How much do you weigh?” Jobeth asked me.

“Well…” I couldn't answer because I had no idea. The scale in Aunt Clancy's bathroom had a mind of its own. One day I'd step on it and the dial would swirl up to 138, the most I'd ever weighed, and the next day, it registered 122. I liked those days best. I was just about to explain when Walter jumped into the conversation.

“Jobeth, what's the matter with you? You shouldn't ask people their weight.”

“But she's not fat.” Jobeth shrugged. “She's just stubby.”

“Fiona was huge,” said Jobeth.

“No wonder. She couldn't cook nothing but fried chicken and banana crumb cake,” said Jobeth.

“Can you cook, Bitsy?” Mrs. Saylor asked.

“Oh, yes, ma'am.” I nodded.

“She was a home ec major in high school,” Walter said.

“That'll come in handy,” said Mrs. Saylor. “My daughters majored in cigarettes and sex.”

Everyone but Rooster and me laughed. Jobeth wiped her eyes. “We done all right,” she told her mother. “We ain't perfect, but we done all right.”

From the television, a cheer rose from the crowd. Rooster catapulted from the vinyl chair, scurrying forward, planting himself in front of the old Motorola. “Y'all HUSH!” he yelled.

“Well, don't have kittens,” said Mrs. Saylor, grinning at me. The Saylor sisters smiled, too. For a moment, I felt a warm acceptance.

“Shit,” said Rooster. Then he blinked at his son. “Hey, I didn't see you over there.”

“But you talked to me a minute ago,” Walter protested.

“Was that you?” Rooster's eyebrows moved up. “Want to go hit a few balls?”

“
If
he has any balls.” Mrs. Saylor laughed, biting into her celery stick. “I think Fiona took them.”

“You might want to check, son.” Mr. Saylor laughed, then winked at Walter. “Take it from me, sonny. These bitches will cut off your balls and leave you bleeding. And they won't bat one eye. They'll cut off your little woman's balls, too.”

“Jesus, Daddy,” Walter said, aghast. “Women don't have testicles.”

“They do in this family,” he said, clapping Walter's shoulder. “But I wish to God they didn't. Now, how about us going to hit a few?”

 

A TAPED MESSAGE TO BETTY FORD

212 Dixie Avenue
Crystal Falls, Tennessee