Mad Girls In Love (26 page)

“Good isn't a reason to get married,” said Violet.

“I might be making a mistake,” said Bitsy, “but I won't sit here and let y'all run him down.”

“She's right, hon,” Earlene said, picking up a tile. “Who knows? He might change Bitsy's life.”

“Sugar lump, it'll take more than a man to do that,” Violet said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. She picked up a few tiles, spelling out ROMANCE. “Try education.”

“College isn't for everyone,” Clancy Jane said.

“It all depends on what you want out of life.” Violet shrugged.

“I want a husband who reads the morning paper while I fry his bacon,” Bitsy said.

“I'm confused,” said Violet. “You want to be a personal chef? Wait, how 'bout doormat?”

“Doormat?” Dorothy and Bitsy said together, looking baffled.

“Fry his
bacon
? Scramble his eggs?” Violet shuddered. “Go on, then,
be
Donna Reed again!”

“Do not judge lest ye be judged,” said Dorothy, stifling a belch.

“I just want to be loved,” said Bitsy. “I want a man who's kind and honest.”

“You want a
little
too much, honey,” said Clancy Jane, but her voice was tender.

“I'm scared to death.” Bitsy reached across the table, over the board, and grabbed Violet's hand.

“You don't have to be,” Violet said. “Nobody says you have to get married right away. You can have the world's longest engagement.”

“You really shouldn't offer advice,” Clancy Jane said. “You've never been married.”

“By the grace of God,” Violet said.

“You'll probably end up with a well-educated man,” said Earlene. “You could never be happy with a blue-collar guy.”

Violet turned to her mother. “Don't you wish someone had talked to
you
about blue-collar men before you married my daddy?”

“No, indeed not,” said Clancy Jane. “Then I wouldn't have you.”

Violet's chin wove, but Clancy Jane kept on talking. “You were my anchor. Even when you were small, you held me together.”

“Let's don't get into this,” Violet said in a shaky voice.

“Hush, y'all. Look at the board,” said Dorothy, busily arranging new tiles. “The oracle has spoken.”

On All Saints' Day, Fiona Saylor drove to Kmart, thinking about the Northern tissue sale. Despite the fact that Walter had filed for divorce, she still held out hope that he would return. Just in case he did, she wanted to be prepared. She had an idea that something was desperately wrong with his bowels, considering how much time he used to spend in the john, so when she heard about the sale, she'd hurried over to the store. She turned her cart up an aisle and came face to face with two of her nosiest nosy neighbors.

“Fiona!” cried Mary Sue Parks. Her hair looked freshly styled and she was wearing a red peacoat over black pants. “I'm surprised to see you out and about.”

“Why? I haven't been sick.” Fiona looked past Mary Sue, into the eyes of her other neighbor, Leslie Adams. She lived in a red brick split level on Appomattox with her husband and three loud children.

“I'm just so sorry,” said Mary Sue, patting Fiona's arm. “I had no idea.”

“About what?” Fiona blinked. She was starting to get mad.

“Why, the awful news,” replied Leslie Adams, her large green eyes bulging.

“About Walter's engagement.” Mary Sue leaned closer, watching Fiona's face. “Are you all right? You look pale, Fiona. Are you fixing to faint?”

“I'm fine, I'm
fine
!” Fiona said, pushing the woman's hands away.

“He's marrying a cute little strawberry blonde,” said Mary Sue, obviously enjoying herself. “Petite, but curvy. I saw her at the beauty shop. She was getting a French twist. I think her name is Betsy. Or maybe Becky? Works at the Green Parrot Café? And she's got a little daughter, but I don't think the child lives with her…”

“I'd really love to chat,” said Fiona, “but I'm in a rush.”

“Well, wait a minute,” said Leslie. “You and Walter haven't been divorced very long, have you?”

“We're
not
divorced,” snapped Fiona, pushing her cart around the Northern tissue display. She broke away from the women and scooted her cart down another aisle. She rounded a corner, then shoved the cart as hard as she could. It wheeled crookedly, then crashed into a display of Nair hair remover. All of the jars tumbled to the floor. Fiona pressed her fingers to her lips, imagining unspeakable things. She knew every inch of Walter's body, the limbs all covered with springy orange down, the long, freckled penis hanging between his legs. She imagined a hand snaking up, tenderly cupping his genitals. The hand belonged to a goddess, a composite blonde with a face like Brigitte Bardot, breasts like Marilyn Monroe, teeth like Farrah Fawcett-Majors, and legs like Cheryl Tiegs.

She ran out of Kmart, into her car. If those women at Kmart knew about Walter's engagement, then the whole town knew. Still, she had to hear this straight from Walter himself. She drove across town, swerving from lane to lane, honking at slowpoke motorists. Five minutes later, she pulled up to his office, climbed out of her car, and ran up the sidewalk. The waiting room was empty. She strode past the goggle-eyed receptionist, an old, mothbally thing that Fiona hadn't seen before.

“Miss? Can I help you?” called the woman as Fiona stomped into the hall. Oh, she knew how she looked in her baggy blue jeans, the waist cinched with frayed clothesline. Well, Walter had taken all his belts when he left, and they'd fit her perfectly; he had also taken his Fruit Of The Looms, but she'd planned to buy more at Kmart.

Fiona found Walter in room 3, which featured a waterfall mural. He was bent over Mrs. Edward Crane, whose husband owned the hardware store. A new dental assistant looked up, an older woman with jowls.

When Walter saw Fiona, he froze. The drill stopped whining. Mrs. Crane lifted her head, and looked from Walter to the assistant.

“What are you doing here?” Walter spoke in a casual voice, but his pupils were dilating with fear.

“I want the truth!” Fiona stepped closer. “The truth about that woman.”

“Who, me?” asked the patient, glancing at Walter.

“No, not
you.
” Fiona began to tremble. She snatched up a tray full of instruments and threw it against the wall.

The assistant turned to Walter. “Doctor, should I call the police?”

“Not just yet,” said Walter. He reached down and patted Mrs. Crane's arm. “Sorry for the interruption. I'll be right back.” He pushed the drill aside, got up from his stool, and strode out of the room. Fiona hurried after him.

“All right,” she said, grabbing his sleeve, yanking him back. “Start talking. Tell me about the strawberry blonde.”

With her free hand, she began to punch Walter's head, her fist sinking into the red hair.

“Fiona, stop!” Walter put his arms in front of his face. “Stop! You're making a scene!”

“I want to know what's going on.” She smacked him again.

“All right, all right.” Walter turned pale. “I-I've met someone.”

“So…” She stepped forward, her fists raised in the air. “It's
true
you're engaged?”

He nodded.

“But you're still married to me,” she cried. Sure, they'd had spats—spatula spats, she called them, but nobody was perfect. Living with another person could try the patience of a saint. “This is bigamy!” she added.

“It's perfectly legal,” he said. “I can be engaged to one person and still be technically married to another. I'm not breaking any laws.”

“You might not have broken a law,” Fiona said, her eyes filling, hands dropping to her sides, “but you've shattered my heart.”

Walter stared down at the floor. Fiona stared, too. Long ago she had picked out those tiles, thinking they would hide dirt. And
this
was how he'd thanked her.

“You could've told me!” Fiona balled up her fists, preparing for a fresh onslaught. “But
no
. I had to hear about it at Kmart. Our
neighbors
knew before
I
did!”

“Fiona, I can't discuss this now.”

She responded by raising her fist and cracking it on his head. He backed up, his orange eyes wobbling. “You're in a lot of trouble, Fiona. I'm filing a complaint against you.”

“For
what
?” She spat out the words.

“Assault and battery. My office staff saw your little outburst. I'm getting a restraining order against you.”

“It was self-defense!” she cried.

“No, it wasn't. This time, I've got witnesses.” He rubbed his scalp. “I can feel knots everywhere,” he added. “You're abusive, Fiona.”

“You poo-poo head. You mama's boy.” She reared back to slap him, then she froze and stared at her hand. She wanted to smack him but not in public. No, she would wait. She had time. She ran out of his office, down the hall, into the waiting room, past the startled patients. Then she hurtled out the door, into the chilly November afternoon. Thanksgiving was sometime this month, but there would be no family around
her
table, much less a husband to carve.

Down by the curb she climbed into her car, cranked the engine, and headed toward town. Well, she'd show him and that pigmy blonde. She swerved her car into The Utopian parking lot and hurried into the shop. She waved at Anita, who was giving a permanent to an elderly woman. “Did you have an appointment?” Anita called.

“No, but this is an emergency. I need the works,” Fiona said. “Manicure, pedicure, and a new hairdo.”

“Fiona, I'm swamped. Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow's too late!” Fiona shrieked.

The laughter and gossip snapped off, and everyone turned to stare at her. “Please, it's life or death. You've just got to squeeze me in.”

“I'll try.” Anita frowned. “Just have a seat.”

Fiona grabbed an armful of magazines and carried them over to a wicker chair. She flipped through the pages, staring at women with long blond hair. A long time ago, Fiona herself had been a sight for sore eyes. When she'd met Walter Saylor, she'd weighed only 140 pounds and wore a size 10; her hair was dark brown and stick straight. No small wonder that she'd attracted Walter. They got married the summer before he started dental school. Fiona had fought with her mother over her bridal gown. Her mother had picked out a dress that resembled a lampshade, and Fiona had wanted a simple A-line, no lace or seed pearls. Instead of a bouquet, she'd wanted to carry her pet rabbit, Mr. Moffett, down the aisle, but her mother had reacted as if Fiona had said she wanted to carry a stool specimen.

Her mother cried, “What will people think?”

Fiona shrugged. It wasn't as if the wedding would be featured in
Town & Country.
Walter's parents were so backward, they might have thought a bunny bouquet was chic.

On their Panama City honeymoon, Walter bought Coca-Colas from the hotel's machine, then he'd bring them back to the room and leave the half-empty bottles on the tables. It got worse when the honeymoon ended, and they moved to an apartment in Memphis. Every morning, before Fiona drove to her job at the bank, she spent ten minutes picking up Walter's empty Coke bottles. She began to notice white circles all over the tops of their nice Drexel furniture. “This has got to stop,” she told him, pointing to the rings. “If you leave
one
more Coke bottle on the table, I'm going to throttle you.”

One night, she was frying hamburgers and from the corner of her eyes she saw him put an empty bottle on the coffee table. She reached for a spatula, flipped the burgers, then walked out of the kitchen. She raised the spatula and lunged for Walter. He sprang off the sofa, into the hall. She chased him from room to room, her hot, greasy spatula making a whooshing noise. She had hoped the episode would force him to change his slovenly ways, but it seemed that Walter would rather get a beating than obey a woman. He continued to leave the bottles, and the rings on the furniture multiplied.

She had thought about moving out, but Memphis was an evil city. The paper was full of rapes, murders, muggings. No, she'd stay married and make him change his slatternly ways.

After they moved to Crystal Falls and he set up his dental practice, Fiona rarely saw him. But she was glad that he was drinking his colas elsewhere. She amused herself by watching the people next door, who were getting their house painted. The workers had beards and long hair and shot each other birds or else flashed the peace sign—they looked to Fiona like Charles Manson's family. She was afraid they'd stick a fork in her chest and write PIG on the walls. Then one afternoon she was in the bedroom and heard muffled footsteps on the stairs, each one saying, I'm coming to get you. From the night table, she picked up a silver fingernail file. “I've got a weapon,” she called. “And I'm not afraid to use it.”

When the man stepped through the bedroom door—dammit, she'd forgot to lock it—she screamed and ran at him, her arm jabbing like the mother in
Psycho
.
Whack, whack, whack
. Sweat was in her eyes, but she kept on stabbing. She chased the man all the way back into the hall.

Then he cried, “Stop it, Fiona! It's just me. For the love of God, stop!” Her vision cleared and she saw Walter. The shock caused her to take a step backward. Her foot missed the landing. Screaming, she plunged down the stairs, blackening both eyes and bruising her buttocks, arms, and legs. For a week, she was forced to wear sunglasses, long-sleeved blouses, long trousers, a floppy hat. It was summer, and she nearly burned up. Walter showed no remorse. He refused to discuss it with her, other than to say he was an abused man, and if she ever cut him again, or even used a fingernail file in his presence, he was going to call the police. But he never did. He was too much of a pussy.

Now Fiona was too nervous to sit in the beauty salon chair. She threw down the magazines, causing the girl at the cash register to stare. Fiona knew what that girl was thinking.
Divorce
meant the same as unwanted. There was a certain dignity to widowhood, but losing your husband to a bleached, brainless strawberry blonde was embarrassing—and she was certain that
all
blondes lacked brains and morals. Just look at Jayne Mansfield and Marilyn Monroe. And yes, she'd read in
Photoplay
that Jayne Mansfield was supposed to be a genius, but Fiona thought it was a lie. She didn't know what was worse—having your husband leave you for another woman or having him accuse you of assault and battery. Either way, she'd be ruined.

Glancing out the Utopian's front window, she saw a darkening sky, one that would make Bobby Vinton proud, blue velvet, soft and cushy as the robe her mother used to wear. Fiona was not fond of the color blue. After she'd whip Walter, the welts on his back and arms turned indigo, but he hid them from the world. In the hottest part of summer, he would roll down his shirtsleeves so no one could see. The bruises turned purple, fading into a sour, hateful yellow that lasted several weeks and seemed to mock her.
Hit me again,
the color used to say.
I dare you to hit me again.

He would undress in front of her, and the marks seemed louder than any admonishment.
This, too, will pass
, she told herself. She marveled at the resilience of the human body. Every second it was working toward health, breaking down the spilled blood, reabsorbing the overflow, carrying it away to the lymph glands—the body's way of flushing its crap down the toilet. She had read all about it in Walter's books. He could have been a doctor if he'd wanted. He could have been a lot of things, including a good husband.

She got up from the chair and walked over to the Coke machine. She couldn't take it if Walter's blonde was a girlie sort of girl—perfume, hair bows, lipstick, ruffles, silk stockings, pink princess phone. “Pink!” she said, spitting out the word. Pink was worse than blue. It was a dainty color, and it smelled like a pussy. She dropped a coin into the slot and listened as it jingled down. She started to hit the Orange Crush button, but then remembered how it never seemed to work, so she punched 7UP instead and waited for the bottle to roll down the chute. When that didn't happen, she kicked the machine. Still, it would not give up the 7UP bottle. Somehow it reminded her of Walter, hanging on to his old habits, not caring if she was inconvenienced. Her face contorted, and she made a fist and began pounding all the buttons, then she grabbed the rounded top and rocked the machine back and forth. Behind her, the beauticians began to yell, but Fiona didn't hear what they were saying. She was getting into a rhythm, dancing with her rage. It just felt so good to manhandle something. She let out a war whoop and lunged forward. She wrapped her arms around the machine and it tottered, then fell forward, smack on top of her.