Mad Girls in Love

In her colorful first novel, Crazy Ladies, Michael Lee West brought to life three generations of unforgettable G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South), creating a world the Washington Post Book World called "sharp, wry, and utterly convincing." In Mad Girls in Love she's brought some of the Ladies back and also added a whole new wacky and lovable cast. You'll want to join them for a glass of sweet tea or punch spiked with pure grain alcohol and get the real gossip. At the center of the group is Bitsy, who, when the novel opens in 1972, is a self-proclaimed girlie-girl who "couldn't name the presidents in order, but ... knew the name and manufacturer of every lipstick and eye shadow in Rexall Drugs." Mad Girls in Love follows Bitsy from our first glimpse of her as an eighteen-year-old wife and mother on the lam with her baby daughter through two decades as she develops into a worldly blond beauty. Every milestone in Bitsy's life seems to be marked with something shattering: Starting with her teenaged husband's nose, the damage includes Fostoria goblets, a baby blue Mustang, a crystal cocktail pitcher, a champagne bottle, fingernails, perfume flasks, Spode teacups, and, of course, hearts. Bad luck with men is a birthright -- maybe it's because eccentricity runs in her family. Bitsy's mother, Dorothy, spent years in the local mental hospital and still writes to First -- and occasionally Second -- Ladies. Her aunt Clancy Jane was, for a long time, the town's only hippie and eventually became the local Crazy Cat Lady. Michael Lee West writes about these women of Crystal Falls, Tennessee, and their men with the expertise of a down-home cook who knows just how much hot sauce to add so the cornbread isn't too sweet. Reading Mad Girls in Love is like settling into a chair on a porch or at the Utopian Beauty Salon -- only much better.

Mad Girls In Love

Chapter One

Bitsy

To-Do List
October 17, 1972

Get out of bed.

Or stay in bed and write down my side of the story.

Find an inexpensive (but smart!) lawyer.

Buy Summer Blonde to touch up my roots.

Notorious. That's what the Times-Picayune called me. And the Atlanta Journal-Constitution wrote, "Wicked Bitsy Wentworth looks like a blond Barbie—shapely on the exterior, but underneath the plastic is the razorsharp brain of a teenaged criminal."

My name is Lillian Beatrice McDougal Wentworth—Bitsy forshort—and this is my side of the story: It began two months ago on a hotafternoon in August. The day started out normal. First, I washed mybaby's hair in the kitchen sink. Jennifer has quite a lot of hair for an eightmonth-old, so it took a while. I wrapped her in a towel and we dancedaround the room. From the top of the refrigerator, the radio was playingStrauss's "On the Beautiful Blue Danube." Normally I would be listeningto Neil Diamond, but ever since Claude and I had renewed our marriagevows—six weeks ago, to be exact—I was determined to improve myself.After all, Claude was a Wentworth, and his people have been cultured forthe last hundred years. Which shouldn't be confused with buttermilk orbacterial cultures; I'm talking about sophistication. I'd tried to sound stylishby memorizing words from the dictionary, but sometimes I mispronouncedthe words, and Claude's mother, Miss Betty, would call medown. But I could stand to listen to classical music, as long as I didn'thave to say the composers' names.

The baby stirred in my arms, sending up sweet gusts of baby shampoo,and we waltzed to the other side of the kitchen, stepping throughpuddles of sunlight, which poured through the long windows. Jenniferlaughed. It came from her belly and sounded a little like Phyllis Diller,but in a cute sort of way. After I fluffed the baby's hair and dressed her ina pink sunsuit, I carried her into the living room. I picked up a blanketand was just starting to play peek-a-boo, when I happened to glance atthe clock. It was nearly three P.M., and Claude liked his supper on thetable by five sharp. I put the baby in the playpen, hurried into thekitchen, and flung open the freezer door. All I could find was an enormouspackage of ribs. Hoping they'd defrost faster, I shoved the rubberstopper into the sink drain and turned on the water, then I tossed in thepackage. Next, I changed the radio station to one that played love songs.The Fifth Dimension was singing "One Less Bell to Answer," and I askedmyself why men leave and what did fried eggs have to do with it?

From the living room, I could hear Jennifer banging on her toyxylophone—she sounded extra-talented to me—and then I grabbed thecharcoal bag and a tin of lighter fluid. I stepped outside and hunkerednext to the hibachi. It was too soon to light the briquettes, but I thoughtI'd get them ready. As I piled them into the bottom of the hibachi, I triedto remember my mother's recipe for barbecue sauce—did it call for honeyor brown sugar? I couldn't ask because she was in a psychiatric hospitalgetting cured of paranoia and in no condition to exchange recipes.

The kitchen phone rang and I hurried back inside, skidding across thelinoleum, my polka-dot dress swishing around my legs. I just love anythingwith polka dots, although gingham is awfully sweet, too. I grabbedthe receiver and answered in my breathless Julie Christie voice, the oneClaude liked. I'd copied it from Dr. Zhivago.

"Is Claude there?" It was a woman. I didn't recognize her voice, but itreminded me of sticky hot summer nights on my grandmother's oldscreened porch, mosquitoes humming in the damp air.

"No, but I'm expecting him any minute." I waved my hand, as ifshooing a bug.

"I'm sure you are. Never mind, I'll catch up with him later." Thewoman laughed and hung up. I frowned, trying to place the voice. Ithummed in my ear in dizzy circles. I wanted to slap it and draw blood.But maybe the caller was one of Claude's customers. He was a loan officer at Citizen's Bank where his daddy, Claude Wentworth III, was the president.People were always wanting to borrow money.

From the radio, Petula Clark began singing "My Love." I stared at thephone a minute. Then I dialed the bank. My love for Claude was deeperthan the deepest ocean, and nothing in the world could ever change thatlove—unless he was up to something.

When the receptionist answered, I pinched my nostrils to disguise myvoice. "May I speak to Claude Wentworth IV?" I put emphasis on thenumeral, so the woman wouldn't put me through to Claude III, myfather-in-law.

"I'm sorry," said the receptionist. "He isn't in his office this afternoon.May I take a message?"

"What do you mean, not in his office ?" I cried in my real voice.

"He'll be here tomorrow," said the woman. Then in a more suspicioustone, "Who is this?"

I hung up and walked in a daze to the living room. I sank down into ateal blue plaid chair. I'd bought it at Goodwill, then Claude's mother hadher upholsterer recover it in some of her leftover fabric. From this, I hadput together a teal-and-white color scheme. Claude said he loved it. Butthen, he said a lot of things. If he hadn't been to the bank today, thenwhere had he gone? Across the room, Jennifer had abandoned the xylophoneand was busily fitting nesting cups together. She looked up andgrinned—the spitting image of the Wentworths, with their high foreheadsand curly blond hair. Then she tossed the cups into the air andscreeched ...

Mad Girls In Love. Copyright © by Michael Lee West. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Mad Girls in Love by Michael Lee West
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