Mad Girls In Love (32 page)

I was worried about Aunt Clancy. I asked Violet if she'd come home, but she told me no because she and George were going to New York and besides, she had no control over her mother's life. She pointed out that her mother hadn't batted an eye when she, Violet, had gone off to college in '71. That might be what Violet thought, but I remember when we'd helped Violet move into her Memphis apartment in the summer of '75. Aunt Clancy broke out in a sweat while hanging Violet's curtains; my cousin kept rolling her eyes, asking us when we'd be through.

I remembered that day so clearly. Once we pulled out of the apartment complex, Aunt Clancy had a meltdown. First she let out a shrill cry, then she began sobbing so hard that she couldn't drive. She had to pull off the road. Then she turned to me and said, “Don't get me wrong. I'm so proud of Violet. But the bottom of my world has fallen out.”

“Memphis is only five hours away, and we'll come and visit her all the time.”

Clancy Jane pressed her hand against her chest and said, “It just went too fast. I wish she was small again.”

Then I said something unintentionally cruel. I said, “Why didn't you cry when she went to U.T.?”

Her bottom lip slid forward. “Because I didn't know what it meant. I didn't know that everything would change. The whole time Violet was in college she kept coming home. It was easy to believe that U.T. was no different than summer camp. That she would eventually come home for good. But now I know different. She will never again live with me full-time. I have lost her.”

We drove back to Crystal Falls. She cried most of the way. I knew just how she felt. But after we got home she continued to cry. Her eyes stayed red and swollen like she'd had an allergic reaction. I kept hoping that Byron would pull her into his arms and baby her just a little. But he never did.

I wanted to tell Violet not to be too hard on her, but I couldn't. She just wasn't in the mood to understand.

 

Dorothy and I were sitting at Aunt Clancy's harvest table, pasting photographs of Jennifer into an album.

We'd just finished the next-to-last picture when the back door opened and my aunt ran into the room, trailed by three yellow cats. “Guess what? Byron and I might be moving.” She reached down, scooped up a cat. “Isn't that groovy?”

“Moving?” I almost dropped the Elmer's glue bottle. “Where?”

“I found a dream house way out in the sticks, near the county line. It's near the Caney Fork River; I can hear it from the upstairs bedroom. We just left the real estate agent's office. Byron made a low offer, but the house has been on the market awhile.”

“Not to burst your bubble, but there's no such thing as a perfect house.” Dorothy's eyes moved around the empty kitchen.

“Well, this one is close to it,” said Aunt Clancy. “It reminds me of the ranches in Northern California—-wood, glass, and stone. With cathedral ceilings and a wraparound deck with a hot tub. It's got so many rooms I lost count. And sixty-nine acres. The view reminds me of the Rocky Mountains. Well, the baby Rockies.”

“I thought you said it was like Northern California.” Dorothy raised a faux eyebrow.

Aunt Clancy shrugged.

“Would the Buddha need that much room?” I asked.

“No, but Byron does.” Aunt Clancy pulled out a chair and sat down. “Oh, I just love it. The kitchen has a wall of glass and looks out into the woods. Right now it's a little overdecorated. Too much wallpaper, too many colors. I'm hiring Mack and Earlene to do the painting.”

“Don't ask Earlene,” said Dorothy. “Unless you want a House of Ill Repute design scheme. You'd better get Bitsy to help. She has exquisite taste.”

“I said I was hiring Earlene to paint, not decorate,” said Aunt Clancy.

“What will happen to
this
house?” Dorothy asked.

“Violet owns half already, so I guess I'll deed my part to Bitsy.”

“Well, isn't that generous.” Dorothy pressed her lips together and reached for the Elmer's bottle. She squirted glue onto the back of a picture, then she slapped it against the scrapbook page. “I don't suppose you'll be taking any of this tacky old furniture with you.”

“No,” said Aunt Clancy, burying her face in the cat's neck. “Guess not.”

Dorothy's eyes bugged. “Even your dishes and forks and whatnot?”

I just sat there trying to absorb the information. I hadn't even known that she'd wanted to move, especially to such a remote place. “I'm surprised that someone would build a dream house near the county line,” I said. “No wonder it hasn't sold.”

“When you see it you'll understand why I want it,” she told me. “I'm only taking my clothes and Byron's. And this harvest table, of course.”

“You're not taking Byron's television set? Or his La-Z-Boy?”

“Less is more. It is peaceful out there.”

“It's none of my business, but Byron's never home,” I said. “You'll be stuck in the country all by yourself.”

“She'll have her cats,” Dorothy said.

“Yes, I'll have my fur kids.” She stroked the cat's head, then she set him on the floor. “I never dreamed I'd end up married to a workaholic.”

“At least he's not an alcoholic,” said Dorothy. “Because Mack is drinking way too much. And I blame it all on that tasteless hussy he married.”

“We can't help who we love, Dorothy.” Clancy Jane walked across the room and opened the refrigerator. She gathered green peppers into her arms, then crossed back to the table and dumped the vegetables onto the surface. One rolled dangerously close to the scrapbook. Dorothy snatched up the pepper, then set it down with a flourish.

“Can't you chop somewhere else?” Dorothy scowled at Aunt Clancy. “We're pasting.”

“I won't get in your way.” Aunt Clancy reached for a pepper and balanced it on her palm. “I'm fixing gazpacho.”

“Doesn't Byron hate that?” I asked.

“Yes, but he hates everything from cats to cold soups.” She began peeling an onion. “Y'all better leave the room, or the onion fumes might make y'all cry.”

“I never cry,” said Dorothy.

Byron's offer was accepted almost immediately, which made me wonder if the owners were desperate. Aunt Clancy perked up. I'd never seen her so happy and vivacious. Even though they hadn't closed on the house, she began to pick out a color scheme.

“I've narrowed the general color to ecru. The one I like is called Lace Napkin,” Aunt Clancy told Violet, who drove home when she'd heard the news. “Bitsy likes Oyster Bisque, but I also favor Old Porcelain.”

“I like Old Porcelain, too,” I said.

Byron did not seem jubilant. The dream house was practically in the next county, and he would have a twenty-five-minute commute twice a day. He was sitting at the table, thumbing through a
New England Journal of Medicine
. Aunt Clancy walked over to him, nudging away the magazine. She spread an array of color chips on the table. “Sweetie, which one do you like?”

He shrugged. “They're almost the same.”

“No, they're not. Are they, Bitsy? If you look closer, you'll see how different they are. I wish you'd pick one.”

“Okay, okay.” Byron glanced down at the cards. He tapped his fingernail on a square. “This one.”

“Powdered Sugar?” Aunt Clancy's face fell. “Are you sure?”

“Pick what
you
want, honey. It doesn't matter to me.”

“Well, it
should
. After all, it's your house, too.”

Byron scratched his head, then he ran his hand over his face. He glanced down at the table, reached for the swatches. “Okay.” He tapped one broad fingernail against the darkest chip, a muddy cream. “Here, I pick Old Porcelain.”

“Oh, sure. I can
see
how much you like it, too.”

“What do you want from me?” He scooped up the chips, held them out. “Are we fighting about colors or something else?”

Aunt Clancy's mouth fell open.

“You're a living contradiction,” he continued in a cold voice. “No, you don't want
things
, yet you're dithering over colors. And you don't seem to have any qualms about taking on a thirty-year mortgage.”

“I am not a contradiction. Sure, I have a lot to learn about Buddhism, but I think I know a little more than you.”

“See, you're mad. I can't talk to you when you're like this.” He got up from the table, strode across the room, and pushed open the screen door.

He was acting strange, as if suffering from a severe case of buyer's remorse.

“I'm not mad,
you
are,” she called after him. He didn't respond. His footsteps clapped against the stone walkway, then dropped off, muffled by the grass. Aunt Clancy spun around, fanning her color chips.

“What do you girls think? Is Oyster Bisque too beige? Bitsy, come here a second, sweetie. You've got an eye for colors.”

I craned my neck to see. “It's more of an off-white.”

“If you ask me,” Violet said, “off-white is hideous. You might as well paint the walls with Gerber's oatmeal.”

“Hush, Violet. Pick a color, Bitsy. I trust your opinion.”

“They're all pretty,” I said.

“But which one?” Aunt Clancy held up the chips.

“Well, it's hard to know—the colors are never the same once you get them on the wall.” I hesitated, then tapped my nail against Linen Napkin. “I'll bet this is gorgeous.”

“Beechnut pablum, you mean,” Violet said.

“Stop criticizing my taste.” Aunt Clancy threw down the chips. Several cats shot out of the room.

“Oh, Mama, come back,” Violet yelled. “It's just a
color
. If you don't like it, you can paint over it.”

“They're all nice,” I called. “Really, they are.”

Aunt Clancy wouldn't answer. Silence filled the house, stirring in the corners like something poured. Violet and I stared at each other. “Mama's in trouble,” she said. “She's drinking on the sly. I can smell it on her breath.”

“Maybe this new house will help.”

“Oh, it will.” Violet rubbed a towel over a plate. “For a while. But it won't last. She'll just pack up her problems and take them with her. She'll chase off Byron, then she'll be left alone on that mountaintop. And she'll regret it. I think she loves him more than she knows.”

“She acts like she hates him.”

“That's the trouble. Mama doesn't know how to give love. She was brought up to take it.”

I put my arms around Violet, drawing her close, the way I held my small daughter. We gazed out the window to where Byron was fiddling with Walter's old telescope. He pointed it toward the sky and bent over, one eye closed, searching for only God knew what.

 

FROM THE CRYSTAL FALLS
DEMOCRAT

—from Mrs. Rayetta Parson's column, May 25, 1977, page 6

The wedding of Claude Edmund Wentworth IV and Miss Kara Lynn Ketchum is slated for July 4th at First Presbyterian Church. The bride-elect is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Hoyt P. Ketchum Jr. of Crystal Falls. She attended Tennessee Technological University, where she was a cheerleader and a member of Alpha Delta Pi. The groom is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Claude Edmund Wentworth III. The bride has been feted at a series of miscellaneous showers and luncheons. A rehearsal dinner will be held on July 3rd, in the Iris Room at the Crystal Falls Golf and Country Club. The Wentworth-Ketchum wedding promises to be the highlight of the midsummer nuptial season, with a festive red-white-and-blue color scheme. The event will culminate in a firework regalia.

It was eighty-six degrees in Memphis, the humidity so thick you could reach up into the air and stir it with your fingers, but Violet wanted a hot cup of tea. Her grandmother had raved about its curative effects, that it literally warmed the spirit. While she waited for the water to boil, Violet pictured her mother standing at the sink, filling her copper pot. As the water pattered against the metal, Clancy Jane would begin to hum. In this memory she did not look like a bad mother. But Violet knew better.

Her outlet had been academics. She had hoped that medical school would become the perfect Mama-buffer, because up close, Clancy Jane was too colorful, almost painful to the eyes, like peering at psychedelic op art. Even at a distance Clancy could get to her. Like late last night when her phone had rung, and even before Violet could say hello, her mother's voice had streamed out of the receiver. “So, are you roasting down in Memphis?”

In the background, Violet could hear cats meowing, and Led Zeppelin was singing about a hurting in their heart. Violet thought,
It can't compare to the pain in my ass.
“Why aren't you asleep?” she asked her mother, balancing an anatomy textbook on her knees. It was uncanny how Clancy always called the night before an exam. According to Bitsy's reports, Clancy Jane was becoming known as Catfucius. Violet politely asked how the felines were doing.

“A lady down the street complained about them,” Clancy Jane was saying. “Well, I tried to be nice, but she started yelling. She threatened to buy a Havahart trap to snare my babies.”

“But you'll be moving soon,” said Violet.

“Not soon enough for me. Apparently someone pooped in the neighbor lady's tomato plants.”

“Some
one
? Or some
thing
?”

“She implied it was one of my cats. I don't see how she could tell. I mean, there's no way to DNA cat shit. But she screamed at me, Violet. She said, ‘Lady, if I want my vegetables fertilized, I'll buy Miracle-Gro.'”

“Well, it
is
good fertilizer,” Violet said, trying to make her mother laugh.

“What can I do but keep them inside?” Clancy Jane cried. “Then Byron just complains about his allergies.”

“Nobody's pur-rrfect,” said Violet.

“Go on, join the club. Make fun,” Clancy Jane said.

Violet sighed. When her mother got like this, there was nothing else to do but hang on and listen. She held the phone against her ear, thinking her mother was sounding more and more like Aunt Dorothy. They were sisters, after all. People will succumb to genetics, the same way madras will bleed.

Clancy Jane sighed. “I need a break from this horrid town.”

“Yeah, I need to get away, too. George has next weekend off. He's taking me down to New Orleans for jazz and gumbo.”

“Groovy.”

“Nobody says groovy anymore,” Violet chided.

“I'm not a lemming. I'll say what I want.” Clancy Jane yawned. “So, how is old George?”

 

The next Saturday, while Violet was packing for the trip to New Orleans, she glanced out the bedroom window and saw her mother's car angle into a parking space. As Violet shut her suitcase, she felt something fall inside her chest. She cursed and ran to the front door as Clancy Jane climbed out of the front seat carrying a honey-colored Samsonite suitcase. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt printed with If You Don't Talk To Your Cat About Catnip, Who Will? When she saw Violet standing in the doorway, she waved. “What a pretty dress you're wearing,” she called. “You look so
good
in purple.”

Violet murmured an ungracious thank you and touched her silver earrings—a birthday present from George. Then she smoothed her dark hair. Earlier she'd washed it in beer and let it dry naturally, one of Bitsy's old beauty tricks. Halfway up the sidewalk, Clancy Jane abruptly stopped. “Is anything wrong?”

Violet shook her head.

“You don't look real happy to see me.”

“Of course I'm happy.” Violet touched the earrings again. “It's just…who's keeping your cats?”

“I bribed Byron. Why?” Clancy Jane looked at her daughter's earrings and her shiny hair. “You're hiding something.”

“It's nothing sinister, Mama. George and I are going to New Orleans this weekend. Remember I told you that when we talked the other day?”

“You never told me.” Clancy Jane's forehead wrinkled.

“Yes, I did.”

“I'm so sorry. I guess I forgot.” She swung her suitcase back and forth. A piece of blue fabric stuck out the side. “Do you want me to leave? I will. Just say the word and I'll go.”

“You know you're always welcome. It might even do you good to get away from Kittyland. I'll give you an extra key.”

“Thanks. I think.” Clancy Jane walked up to the little porch and hugged her daughter awkwardly, giving off whiffs of chamomile tea and curry powder. Then she stepped into the small apartment, dropping her suitcase on the floor.

“Are there any decent vegetarian restaurants in Memphis? I'm famished.”

“There's lettuce in the fridge.” Violet gestured at the kitchenette. “I could fix you a salad.”

Clancy Jane sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs. The bones in her knees were visible. “You know what? I should go. I don't feel welcome.”

“What have I done now?”

“I don't blame you. I'd be mad, too, if
I
was leaving for New Orleans and my mother showed up. Do you remember when we lived there, me and you and your daddy?”

Violet crossed her arms but said nothing. She remembered those days all too well.

“I can stay in a motel.” Clancy Jane scrunched up her face. “Can you recommend one?”

“Don't be silly. You're perfectly welcome to stay right here.”

“Am I?” She gave her daughter a quizzical stare.

The front door opened and George poked his head inside. “Violet? Ready to go?”

“Almost,” said Violet.

“You must be George,” said Clancy Jane, rising from the sofa.

“Yes, ma'am.” He stepped forward, tilting his head to one side. “And you're…”

“I'm Clancy Jane, Violet's mother.”

“Ah.” George nodded, then shook her hand. “You're much younger than I expected.”

“What's Violet been telling you?” Clancy Jane laughed. “That I'm Old Mother Hubbard?”

“Oh, no ma'am.” He blushed. “I just assumed it.”

“Well, I
did
have her when I was quite young.” Clancy Jane sat down on the sofa, curling one leg beneath her. Violet knew that posture; she knew her mother was getting ready to tell George everything about her life, starting with the time she'd jumped into Bayou LaFourche. Then she'd tell about Violet's father getting blown up in Vietnam, working up to her sojourn in California as a hippie, and continuing all the way up to her marriage to Byron and their upcoming move. Violet wouldn't put it past her mother to start chatting about virginity—it had been a mistake telling her about George.

Violet lifted a lace shawl from the back of a chair—it was one of Bitsy's famous thrift store finds. It was too hot to wear it in Memphis, so she wouldn't possibly need it in New Orleans, but it was so delicate and pretty, she wanted it with her. She threw it around her shoulders and turned to her mother. “I hate to run off, but George and I need to get on the road.”

“Yes, we really should. Good-bye, Mrs. Jones,” said George, his hand touching Violet's arm. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Actually, it's Mrs. Falk, Clancy Jane Falk. Violet's name is Jones, and I used to be one, but I remarried a doctor? He hates my cats. I told him, ‘I thought you liked pussy, Byron.' Sometimes I think he'd prefer to live in a condo. A catless condo, I might add.”

Violet could see that her mother was getting started. “We really should go.” She nudged George to the door.

“Wait, I've hardly talked to—what's your name again?”

“George.” He glanced nervously at Violet.

“I'm sorry, I'm just so forgetful.” Clancy Jane patted the sofa. “Come here, George. Tell me about yourself. What are you studying?”

George started to move toward the sofa, but Violet grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “He's going to be an English professor,” she said.

“I'm a teaching assistant at Memphis State,” he put in.

“Violet's real bright, too. But I guess you already noticed. She scored so high on her MedCat, they couldn't keep her out of medical school. But if you want big money, go into plastic surgery. That's what Byron always says. Although I expect that Violet could tell you more about the various specialties than
me.
I don't care how much or how little Byron makes, but I wish he had more time off. Maybe we could travel. I always loved New Mexico.”

Violet cringed, knowing that the next chapter in her mother's saga was her years as a hippie.

“Well, you two kids run on,” Clancy Jane said. “And don't worry about me. I'm tired from all that driving. And I'm a little depressed, too, but I'm not suicidal. Far from it. Although I do get that way from time to time. It runs in the family.”

George turned to Violet and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Is she always like this?

“'Bye, Mama.” Violet took his hand and pulled him out of the door, into the steamy Delta afternoon. As soon as they reached the sidewalk, they took off running to his car, the lace shawl fluttering behind them.