Mad Girls In Love (39 page)

Violet Jones and George Abernathy
Invite you to their Wedding on June Twenty-Third
Nineteen Hundred Seventy-Nine at Seven o'clock in the evening
First Unitarian Chapel
Memphis, Tennessee
Reception following at Peabody Hotel

In lieu of gifts, please send a donation to
The American Psychiatric Foundation

Violet walked down the aisle wearing a white silk shantung pantsuit, culled from the bargain rack at Rich's Department Store. She reached up to adjust her floppy straw hat—a last-minute find at Goodwill Industries, complete with a rumpled grosgrain ribbon and old-fashioned veil. She and George had decided no bouquet, bridesmaids, or best man and no schmaltzy piano music. Looking over her shoulder, she nodded to a guy with long black hair, whose hand was poised over a rather elaborate PA system. He pushed a button, and Queen began to belt out “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

A side door opened, and the groom stepped out, followed by the minister. Both men had chosen unorthodox clothing—George wore faded jeans and Earth shoes, the minister a black, floor-length cape. Violet strode toward them, stopping beside each pew for a little tête-à-tête with friends and family. A guy in a white intern's jacket kissed her cheek and handed her a long-stemmed rose. When she reached the DeChavannes's pew, Violet lifted the rose and, in the manner of a fairy godmother waving a wand, tapped Dr. DeChavannes on the head; then she hugged Bitsy, exclaiming over her cousin's frothy blue chiffon maternity dress. When she reached the front of the chapel, she gave the thumbs-up signal to Dorothy, Mack, and Earlene, then she smiled at her future in-laws. George's parents didn't respond. His father looked stonily ahead; his mother pressed both hands over her nose and mouth, her fingers forming a tent. She appeared to be either praying or hyperventilating.

Violet stopped beside her mother's pew. She made a fist and socked Tucker's arm, then grabbed Clancy Jane's hand. They walked to the altar and faced the minister. He opened
The Book of Common Prayer
and said, “Who's giving this chick away?”

“I am,” Clancy Jane said, steering Violet toward George.

Violet reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled paper, held it aloft, and read an Edna St. Vincent Millay poem. George's turn was a little more lively, having elected to recite Carl Sandburg from memory. Instead of promising to love each other, they pledged to give each other room to grow, with “no ties that bind.” The minister smiled and said, “You're hitched. Dig it?”

 

Clancy Jane had wanted a room with a romantic view of the Mississippi River, but the window looked out onto a gravel roof and the other half of the Peabody Hotel. Tucker went down to the front desk and sweet-talked the clerk into switching them to a room just below the penthouse. Clancy Jane opened the draperies. The dark water appeared oily under the lit-up bridge. How did they change the burned-out bulbs? she wondered. The river made her think of that old song by Creedence Clearwater Revival. She pulled off her clothes, trying to cool off, and threw herself onto the king-size bed. Then she looked at Tucker. He was a pretty man, his dark hair cut short, in the armed-forces style. He wore a St. Christopher's medal around his neck. All the firemen did, he said. It would keep him safe.

He crossed the room and climbed on the bed, his right knee between her legs. His medal swung back and forth, brushing against her breasts. She tugged on his belt, pulling him closer. He moved on top of her. Proud Mary keep on rolling, she thought. Rolling down the river.

“I love how we fit,” he said.

“Are you comparing me to the ill-fits in your life?” Clancy Jane traced her finger around his lips. “Short women whose little heads didn't quite reach your chin? Or tall ladies with real long necks, and you'd climb up on them like a fly crawling on a calla lily?”

“You're an original, Clancy Jane.”

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“Yes” he said. “But keep on telling me.”

The clock radio clicked on, and the room filled with Jimmy Buffett's voice. He was singing “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes.” Keeping my eyes closed, I began to sing, mixing up the lyrics, changing latitudes to lassitude. The baby kicked, as if lodging a protest. “I'm sorry, darling. Your mama can't carry a tune,” I whispered. Then I slid my leg over to Louie's side of the bed, finding nothing but cold linen.
This is a sign
, I thought.
Empty bed, empty heart. He is leaving me. He is running off with a flat-bellied woman.
I suddenly flashed back to the scene in the alley behind Le Cordon Bleu in Point Minette.

I sat up, looked out the window. It was going to be another hot July afternoon in New Orleans, one hundred degrees, no rain in the forecast. Last week, during the sonogram, my doctor had pointed to the screen. “The fetus is in breech position, too late for him to turn.”

“Him?”

“See? There's the penis.” The doctor pointed. Then he'd moved the wand lower. “But over here, your placenta is too low. It's not a previa, so don't get alarmed, but it's attached very low on the uterine wall. Better get Louie mentally prepared for a C-section.” Get
Louie
prepared?

From the kitchen, he was calling me. “Bitsy, are you coming? We're going to be late.”

“One second!” I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. I didn't want to be late for Honora's birthday party in Point Clear. I hurried in the bathroom and yanked a black maternity smock off a hanger, then flung it over my head. The dress smelled of perspiration and perfume—Robert Piaget's Bandit. Inside the maternity smock, the aromas were suffocating, and I began to panic. The more I struggled, the more tangled I became. With a desperate shove, I pushed my head through the opening. When I saw my reflection in the dresser mirror—the gargantuan belly, the navel pushed out like a valve on an inner tube—I grimaced. The dress was still bunched up around my neck, resembling a frilled Elizabethan collar, and my queen-size pantyhose were tight and glossy from the strain. I pulled the dress down, painfully mashing my breasts. My hair was carelessly braided down my back, and short strands had escaped, frizzing around my temples. In disgust, I flipped one hand at the mirror, then reached along my back, groping for the zipper. I grabbed it, sawed it up and down, wincing as the zipper rasped over bare skin.

Louie stepped into the bedroom and I gestured to the back of my neck. “Sweetie, can you zip me?”

Our eyes met in the mirror. “It's going to be hot this evening,” he said, giving my long-sleeved dress a doubtful look. “Can't you wear something cooler?”

“No.” I shrugged. “After this baby is born, I'm going to burn this dress.”

“Oh, Bitsy.” He squeezed me. “It's just one afternoon. You'll get through it.”

 

The hummingbird thermometer on Honora's patio registered ninety-one degrees. As we stepped around the swimming pool, I saw a blonde in a frilly green dress sitting on the diving board, flicking cigarette ashes into the water. Her long hair was artfully streaked several shades of blond, and was tossed back over her shoulders.

“Who is she?” I whispered.

“Mrs. Dickie Boy McGeehee.”

“That name sounds so familiar. Didn't she send us a silver tureen when we got married?”

“If she did, it was probably one of Honora's. Mrs. McGeehee lives in one of Mother's bedrooms.”

“Why haven't I met her?” I asked.

“Darling!” The blonde waved at Louie, then climbed off the diving board, showing a flash of thigh. “Come over here and give me a kiss. I haven't seen you in ages.”

We walked around the pool, toward the deep end. The blonde opened her arms wide, and Louie stepped into them. She kissed his cheek, leaving behind a pink smudge. Louie reached for my hand and said, “Isabella, have you met my wife?”

“No, I haven't had the pleasure,” the woman said, smiling. “But I've heard about you, dear. All
good
things, of course. Aren't congratulations in order? I understand you're expecting another little DeChavannes? How utterly thrilling.”

“Where are your Yorkies?” Louie asked.

“Honora made me shut them up in a room.” Isabella turned to me. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your handsome hubby for a moment?”

Before I could reply, Isabella took Louie's hand and pulled him toward Honora's gazebo, which was nestled in the live oaks. Louie gave me a helpless look as he stepped inside. I lifted my braid off my neck, then eased into one of the wicker chairs. The cushion made a whooshing noise, like escaping gas, and I hoped Louie and the blonde hadn't heard. The afternoon sun was slanting over the azaleas, and the air was buzzing with midges. I remembered a time when I'd cultivated the sun. Violet and I would stretch out in the backyard on a quilt, with a bottle of homemade suntan lotion, a mixture of baby oil and iodine, which gave our skin a golden hue, even if it tinted our palms orange. In those days, my body was hard and lean; I never thought one second about growing old. “Age isn't ugly,” Miss Gussie used to say, with a shrug. “It's just age.”

The French doors opened, and Honora poked out her head. She looked elegant in a sleeveless beige linen dress with a double strand of pearls around her neck. “Bitsy, you're going to flambé out here. Come on inside and have some birthday cake. I'm afraid I've already blown out the candles.”

Through the French doors, I could see into the dining room. In the center of the polished rosewood table was a floral arrangement—bells of Ireland and wild sea grasses. On the far end was a massive sheet cake, decorated like a nine-hole golf course, with miniature tees, fairways, and greens. Honora was an enthusiastic golfer, and a present to herself stood off to the side—a new set of Patty Berg clubs nestled in a Louis Vuitton golf bag.

I rose from the chair, bracing my stomach with one hand, casting a furtive glance toward the gazebo. “Some woman has shanghaied Louie,” I complained.

“Oh, that's just Isabella D'Agostino.” Honora squinted. “Dickie Boy McGeehee's widow? I've mentioned her haven't I?”

“How did her husband die?”

“It was his liver. Dickie Boy's drinking was legendary—and that's saying a lot. He didn't look terminal till the end. But then, he'd never looked healthy. Anyway, at the funeral, Isabella wanted a closed casket, but Dickie Boy's mama had a fit. So they laid him out on pale gold satin, which clashed horribly with the jaundice. But he left Isabella with a net worth over two hundred million.”

Out in the gazebo, Isabella laughed at something Louie was saying. She crossed her legs, and the green dress rode up past her knees. Despite her beauty, she was way too old for my husband. I started to relax. Then Honora said something that sent my pulse racing.

“I love her to death, but don't let Louie linger with her,” Honora said, then she guided me into the house. Gifts were piled up on the sideboard. Louie's uncles—the DeChavannes males—were holding court around the punch bowl, flirting with Honora's friends from Point Clear. Uncle James was a leading neurologist on the Gulf Coast, and he had aged gracefully, the way brunet men so often do—a light misting of gray around the temples. Uncle Nigel, known to everyone as “Boo,” was a general practitioner. He was recovering from a face lift, and his eyes were still a little swollen and slanted like a Chinaman's, but the bruises had faded. His face looked taut and shiny.

To the women, who begged to see his scars, he complained, “Had to get off my Coumadin before the surgeon would touch me.” Honora's friend Desirée, in spiked heels and a black dress, pranced into the living room. “Welcome!” Honora cried. “I thought you were still in Scotland.”

“And miss your party?” cried Desirée. “Lord, I saw enough sheep to last me a lifetime.”

“Did you meet any titled chaps?” asked Uncle James.

“No, but I saw a Kerry blue terrier with undescended testicles.”

“Did you bring him back?” asked Boo, laughing.

“Honey, I've already got one man without balls. Do I need another?”

 

At twilight, I stepped out into the backyard, looking for Louie, and spotted him at the edge of the pool, sitting on a blue lounge chair, directly opposite Isabella. Their heads were inclined, their knees touching. They looked up, saw me approaching, and broke apart. I suddenly thought about when Violet had read Casanova's memoirs—twelve volumes of relentless womanizing. Now I wondered where I could find a copy so I could read it myself.

On the drive home, I aimed the air-conditioning vent between my legs. “What was going on out there?”

“Where?” Louie's forehead wrinkled.

“Don't play dumb. With you and that actress. Y'all were a little too cozy.”

“You're getting upset for no reason, and it's not good for the baby.” Louie lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rubbed the back of his neck. “It's supposed to rain next week. Maybe it'll cool things off.”

That night, I lay next to Louie, watching a
National Geographic
rerun. It was soothing to see Jane Goodall cavort with her chimpanzees. Somehow Jane had found love in the wilds of Africa. And she was especially close to her mother. When the show ended, I climbed rather gracelessly from the bed, trying my best not to disturb Louie, and lumbered into the kitchen. My feet were painfully swollen, and I had to creep slowly. I opened the French doors and stepped out onto the patio, past the swimming pool, into the garden. The air was still uncomfortably warm, but the grass felt cool and damp against my toes. I squatted down, legs splayed rather awkwardly, and began to pull weeds.

I worked until dawn, and I was still working when Louie, leaving for the hospital, poked his head out the back door.

“You been up all night?” he asked, jingling his car keys.

I nodded, then flashed a look that said
I can't help this. Please don't harass me
.

“You look a little puffy. You feeling all right?”

“I'm fine, Louie. I'm just having trouble sleeping.”

“Then let me drive you to the beach tonight. I'll make you a pot of gumbo.”

“And you'll stay the whole weekend?”

“I'll need to make hospital rounds, but that's no problem. I'll just drive back and forth.”

During the sticky hot, interminable morning, I thumbed through my dictionary, then stretched out on the living-room sofa and pondered the conundrum of love. An answer eluded me the way sleep had.

At midday I got dressed and drove the long way to my doctor's office. When I checked in at the desk, the nurse waved me into the hall. I stepped on the scales, and they rattled. The nurse clicked her tongue with disapproval. “You've gained five pounds in one week!”

“That's impossible. I haven't eaten anything but salads.”

“Scales say otherwise, dear.”

The nurse led me into a windowless room with fuchsia wallpaper. It was a hideous shade, the color of mashed fruit. I could almost hear the buzz and hum of flies. The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm. The bulb made a whooshing sound, and my arm began to ache. The nurse's thin eyebrows shot up.

“Your pressure is way too high. We don't need it going up any more,” she said in a stern voice.

“Well,
I
didn't do it,” I snapped. True, I might have eaten a little cheesecake, but my vital signs were totally beyond my control.

“Slip off your panties, dear, and climb up on the table,” said the nurse. “Dr. Savat is going to be so upset.”

The nurse stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. The overhead fluorescent light crackled. I swayed, then reached out and grabbed the table, steadying myself.
Slip off your panties, dear
. Those words suddenly struck me as obscene.
Not unless you take yours off first.
The raspberry walls were making me wild and reckless. Any minute now the doctor would come into the room and make small talk while he squirted ice-cold jelly onto my stomach. Then he would push the ultra-sound's wand over my abdomen. I'd love to tell him the truth about having babies. It
hurt
to have a watermelon inside your body. I thought of that Led Zeppelin song, the big-legged woman, the juice running down her legs.

Still holding on to the table, I shut my eyes, tried to ignore the nausea. Pink dots swirled behind my lids. I needed rest, not another damn ultra-sound in this hideous room with its pink and sour and boiling hot walls. I felt an urgent need to see Louie, to put my head on his chest. Maybe we could drive down to the beach right now. I lurched toward the door. When I reached the Mercedes, I cranked the engine. The air conditioner came on, giving off a musty smell, with the hint of sun and new leather. As I drove across town, the nausea vanished, and I began to crave a sirloin steak salad with crumbled bleu cheese. Or fried shrimp with lots of cocktail sauce. I turned off St. Charles, toward Louie and his beautifully decorated office—he'd given me carte blanche, and I'd gone out of my way not to choose any color associated with heart surgery—red might have scared off the patients. Hadn't Dr. Savat's wife more sense than to choose womb-colored paint for his examining rooms?

Suddenly the road seesawed, and instead of four lanes of traffic I saw eight. As I turned into the parking lot at Oschner, I rolled over a curb. The tires shuddered, and the baby beat its little fists in protest. I found the medical arts building and circled it twice. I parked the Mercedes in the shade of a magnolia, its branches studded with blossoms, each one the size of a dinner plate. “Lunch,” I thought, feeling those fresh five pounds dragging behind me.

Heaving myself out of the front seat, my legs splayed like an old woman's, I stood up, weaving slightly. It was difficult to move my wide, bloated feet, but I shuffled forward, tilted backward like a penguin. Several pedestrians stepped aside to let me pass. When I entered the air-conditioned Medical Arts building, my vision narrowed. Red spots churned in the air. I felt light-headed, and I placed one chubby hand against the wall and waited for the dizziness to pass. After a minute my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I headed down the corridor with its swimmy green walls. What wife had picked
that
color? I stumbled ever so slightly—not a stagger but more of a dance, the pregnant woman's dance. The elevator was out of order, but Louie's office was on the second floor, so I climbed a flight of wide stairs. When I reached the landing, I was breathless and dripping wet. I staggered into a windowless corridor. This would shock the hell out of Louie, I thought. Since I'd gotten pregnant, I'd rarely stopped by his office. I entered a door marked
PRIVATE
and stepped into the hall.