Hotheaded Saints

By Taylor Barton

"Mystery, mayhem and humor ensue in Taylor Barton's fabulous Hotheaded Saints. Pull up a chaise, pour a glass of Long Island ice tea, shake the sand out of your shoes and read. A wonderful escape!"
-Adriana Trigiani Best selling author of Big Stone Gap, Lucia, Lucia and Rococo

"Hotheaded Saints is layered and revealing, dark and hopeful at the same time. Taylor Barton has drawn a compelling and fascinating portrait of the underbelly of the Hamptons and the interior life of a woman in search of redemption in it."
-Rosanne Cash Singer, Songwriter, Author of Bodies of Water and Penelope Jane

"Taylor Barton's exceptional debut novel explores, in stunning prose, the cutthroat and catty world of artist rivalry and family wreckage caused by drug-induced insanity. Although Hotheaded Saints is fraught with a myriad of inner and outer demons, at its core lies a transformative faith in the healing powers of destiny."
-Martine Bellen Author of Vulnerability of Order

Hotheaded Saints is a fiery, rip-roaring ride through the overwrought Hamptons; a kaleidoscope of the Bonnackers verses the A-listers. Hotheaded Saints exploits long buried injustices and the inexorable flow of a history that creates a tableau of epic tragedy.

www.taylorbarton.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462033812

Taylor Barton

Taylor Barton is a smart, multi-talented, singer-songwriter, writer, playwright and producer. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, she has spent over three decades traversing the arts and has culminated into a 21st century Renaissance woman. She has written award-winning plays, and released six, critically acclaimed CD?s. Hotheaded Saints is her debut novel.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 2 2

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 2 5

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

Dedicated to Josie

In support of PAX

(Mom’s against gun violence)

CHAPTER 1

Laney yanked out an unwanted Montauk daisy from her garden, which she prodigiously maintained. She had buried her cat of fourteen years there. He would be happy resting between the irises. With an aching back and a pang of loneliness, Laney finished her weeding and headed indoors.

At her ancient kitchen sink, she scraped the dirt out from her fingernails. Thick jet-black hair framed her gorgeous, feline turquoise eyes; her face resembled a relief map. Stress fractures formed ravines—an army of wrinkles forged across her porcelain skin. Laney at forty was a ravaged version of intoxicating beauty.

She segued to her favorite hobby, which was complaining to her husband Frank. Her favorite subject was her sister Sally. "Why is it that every God-damned summer she acts like our house is her motel? I mean Jesus, I told her one week which is already six days too many, and she’s staying for two. She’s just like my father, no is a foreign word to her. She is incapable of understanding words she hates to hear."

Laney’s husband, a should’ve been Buddhist monk, now a woodworking doctor, was strumming a mandolin. When is she arriving?

In a few days. Frank, I can’t handle this.

Frank scrutinized the mandolin he was repairing. He found great joy in working with wood. He was quite fond of objects that made sound other than idle chatter. While shining the top of the mandolin, he gazed dreamily at the inlaid pearl on the perimeter of the body.

"Doesn’t she think that I have feelings?’

Frank reluctantly laid the instrument on the couch beside his other passion, GoGo. Their Maine coon cat was snoozing, curled up in a guitar case. Frank shuffled over to Laney, threw his gentle arms around her and said, I love the way you smell. Let’s go for a walk later. I think I’ll take a shower. Frank ambled off to the bathroom. Hygiene was a big burden for Frank. He abhorred baths and preferred rain showers. A shower meant that he was contemplating sex.

One thing that aggravated Laney was the way Frank could always laugh in the face of trouble. Bad news rolled off him—Laney responded to the least misfortune as if it was a full-fledged catastrophe. She decided to straighten up their living room that was always cluttered with Frank’s prized gewgaws. A sizable coin collection took up one side of the room, and a series of different Coke bottles stood displayed on the other.

Frank, I’d put away your coin collection if I were you. One of Sally’s kid’s has sticky fingers!

* * * *

While driving to the post office Laney was re-routed to the old Town Lane. Laney looked in her rear view mirror and saw a Range Rover tailgating her car. It seemed that everyone in East Hampton owned a Range Rover or Mercedes SUV. Lately, weird giant tanks called Hummers that looked like they were out of Star Wars were cropping up everywhere. Someone from Spielberg’s camp probably opened up a car-dealership to make a profit on the props from his movies. Laney slammed on the brakes to irritate the annoying driver who only sped up.

Bitch! he screamed, as he tried to run her off the road.

Another car was coming out of nowhere in the other lane, so the asshole was forced to pull back behind her. Laney smirked. She knew the guy had a tiny Johnson.

She traveled past her favorite farm and noticed that a horse was holding communion with a spray of little blackbirds. She wished she could worship the fields too, but was jolted back to reality when a biker careened in front of her car. Barely missing him, she pulled into the post office praying for a winning lottery notice.

Morning Jack, where’s Bob? Bob was Laney’s favorite clerk. He let her slide when she was low on cash.

Wainscott, Laney. He got moved up there last week. I noticed you got your insurance bill today.

On the way back home, she stopped at the nail salon. She could always scrape together enough for a manicure. It was superficial but so satisfying. She pulled in.

Who’s available for a manicure?

Martina or Praline, said Amelia condescendingly.

Laney sat down and thumbed through the latest Vogue.

A pregnant woman sitting next to her who was obviously nearing her ninth month was breathing heavily. She had very swollen feet and looked fatigued. Laney envied her belly.

Hola chirped a pretty Mexican named Martina who beckoned her over. Laney and Martina exchanged idle banter in broken English, and then Laney noticed that the pregnant lady was leaving. She eyed her belly and sighed. Martina started speaking Spanish to the Romanian manicurist, and Laney wondered how the Romanian could understand.

The Romanian, who must have been psychic, said without a beat, I grew up in Queens, everyone speaks Spanish there.

Madre de Dios screeched Martina. She pointed urgently to the road.

Laney turned to see that an overturned car was totaled in the middle of Mon-tauk Highway.

Martina cried, Mira, the Senorita with the bambino.

Without thinking Laney flew out the door. The pregnant lady was being pulled out of her upside-down car, through a shattered window by an EMT worker. The rescuer, appearing from nowhere like Superman, was having trouble getting the driver’s round belly through the windshield. Someone who had a cell phone called the woman’s husband. Laney noticed that the woman was holding her belly and grimacing. She hoped the lady would not go into labor right there.

Laney dropped down beside her, and put her hand on the woman’s stomach trying to calm the baby while stroking the woman’s forehead. Breathe, she said, careful not to smudge her newly painted nails. Fortunately, the EMT worker put an oxygen mask over the woman’s nose and mouth. The husband appeared, escorted by the town Texan who was a part-time firefighter, and Laney handed over the woman’s belongings: sunglasses, a wallet, and keys. As far as Laney could tell, the woman turned the car onto the sidewalk, drove it up a wire attached to a telephone pole, and flipped her car.

What a morning! It was time to head back to Frank, who would be unfazed by the story about the accident. Instead, he would excitedly relay a minor trick that GoGo had performed: perhaps that she killed a rare cardinal or crucified a robin egg.

* * * *

Laney felt secretly comforted by Sally's impending visit. She rarely saw her sister, and being around Sally made her feel part of a family. Tidying up the guest room, sifting through Frank's tuners, vintage cases and piles of song scores, Laney set up the room for Sally's children the way her mother would. White eyelet duvets replaced Frank's heavy woolen blankets. Fresh flowers replaced an array of books and amplifiers.

She even polished the photo frames. One showed Sally and Laney in matching bathing suits at their parents’ house at the Lake—Laney’s mother sitting on top of a mountain—the photos happily observing their joy.

She distributed them artfully on the bureau. She re-positioned an old snapshot of herself, triumphant after receiving a gleaming, gold tennis trophy. It had been a long time since Laney felt as confident as she had that day. When growing up, their family spent a lot of quality time together.

Laney pulled out the monogrammed towels her mother gave her when Frank and Laney eloped. Her mother had just married a man with the same last name as Frank’s, so everything down to the matches had been imprinted with the new man’s initials. Laney had balked at her mother, claiming the monogrammed towels and sheets were a recycled gift. Her mother had been too cheap to buy her a wedding present. It was her way of provoking guilt for Laney’s choice to divorce.

I think I did my job by buying you the gazebo at your first wedding.

Laney dusted a gold-plated mirror. She was an exact replica of her mother. Laney wondered what her father thought when he looked at her. Could he love a child that resembled a woman he divorced? She laid out the linens with the pretty butterflies that she had received at her first wedding from her godparents, while hiding Frank’s Preparation H and other embarrassing toiletries.

Laney was supposed to childproof the house. Why would a childless woman have to do that? Wasn’t that job already done?

Sally had lectured Laney. Please remove items that resemble weapons or that are poisonous.

Laney wondered what kind of monsters Sally’s kids had become?

Sally Jr. is what the counselors refer to as a spirited child.

Spirited? mocked Laney. Counselors already? If she’s anything like us, wouldn’t the word be demonic?

Baby Bart is a real charm. He’s a toddler now.

Laney could see china shattering, and Baby Bart being rushed to Southampton Hospital with a huge gash across his forehead.

Turning forty had been unbearable for Laney, as she had an uncontrollable urge to jump any dude. She was afraid her sex appeal was heading south, and felt frustrated every night while tossing restlessly in bed. A good lay would suffice. Frank was oblivious to these newer nuances and was content with his remote control. She could hear him clicking different channels endlessly through his nocturnal hours.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, Laney and Frank took a walk. Frank always brought a cane because he believed he was an old man living in another century. Laney looked prudish and Austrian with her hair in braids. Frank and Laney made a habit of walking in the road where their conversations were overheard by town eavesdroppers.

They passed the Farmer’s Market that was in a brilliant field of marigolds and cosmos. A lot of out-of-place New Yorkers were loitering around the coffee stand, growing impatient because the locals weren’t as jacked-up and couldn’t possibly serve them in the manner to which they were accustomed. They passed the fire station with its American flag at half-mast. One of the old timers probably drowned fishing or fell asleep at the wheel of his car. As they turned left down Old Stone Highway, the picture perfect field reminded Laney of the clay-like terrain in the south of Spain.

The thought of clay produced a slashing ache in her chest. She worked hard to push the thought from her head, the passion she had abandoned. It was too painful. The thought of the last show, where she unveiled the distorted sculptures: bodies sideways, legs crossed elegantly, hands poised gracefully. Rave reviews in the media, talked about for several months. She had spent five years working out her inner demons through clay. Laney, who was so successful at creating bodies with clay, could not now conceive a baby.

She had spent the fall during her junior year in Paris, while on her French sabbatical. She studied sculpting at the Sorbonne. She dreamed of being a great sculptor. Rodin was her king, sculpting her throne. Frank had yet to show up in her life and her world would change two or three times before their fateful union. Frank interrupted her reverie by holding her hand.

When they returned home, GoGo was in a raging catfight with the neighbors’ dog, Governor Frank went ballistic. He ran knock-kneed down the street chasing the mutt with his cane. Laney scooped up the cat that was hissing viciously at her for interrupting the battle. As thanks for her rescue, GoGo engraved a bite mark on Laney’s hand. Frank came back breathing hard, and tore the cat from Laney.

I’ll kill anybody that hurts GoGo, roared Frank.

I think GoGo can do the job herself. Look what that bitch did to me!

She didn’t mean it, she was confused.

Confused, my ass.

Laney thought that GoGo was Frank’s dead-ex-wife reincarnated. Laney couldn’t believe that her own animal could be so vicious to her. Every cat she met before Frank adored her. Granted GoGo was feral, but so was Frank, and he could be diplomatic if he wanted. She went to her bedroom to run a bath. She eased herself into the tub, wincing at the sting in her hand. The cat came up sheepishly, and perched herself on the rim of the tub. Laney pushed her cat into the water. GoGo, a fastidious creature, had an unusual preference; she liked bubble baths.

CHAPTER 2

What happen when you young? asked the inquisitive Chinese herbalist.

Laney cringed in anticipation of an oncoming cramp that was indicative of her pending period. She was sure that it was due to riding on that hideous Rolling Box of Hat, or in other words, The Hampton Jitney.

Laney ignored the question. I thought I was pregnant this time.

You tell Lu truth. Can help-you truthful. You have night sweat?

Laney rarely breathed a word about her truths to anyone. She didn’t trust an ant. Well, yes, I do have night sweats. I’m like a furnace all year round. Don’t even need a heater in the winter.

Ah, well, bad circulation, kidney, very tired: liver, very tired. What IVF? No smart. China, no IVF.

The torture of undergoing in-vitro fertilization had completely drained her. The drugs had propelled her into a hormonal tizzy. Even now, months later, she could barely tolerate the bruising from the two-inch needles. She responded to the Asian herbalist meekly. I went absolutely psycho on my husband for my entire cycle. I was John Doe with my body parts for a personality.

Save that for mind doctor.

Perhaps Laney had lost herself altogether, but there was something very pleasing about her personality’s departure. Laney felt a sense of total freedom when not being held hostage by her own will and haywire chemicals.

Lu prepared an herbal concoction of snake juice. Bad moods?

Bad moods? She had homicidal moods, suicidal moods, and just plain sad moods—rarely joyous moods. She attributed it to losing her career, motherhood, and her dreams. Living with Frank was like trying to move a mule through mud.

They stayed together because it didn’t matter one way or the other—both were too lazy to move on. Their relationship was like sailing: Whenever things got rough they came about, sailed the other way until the currents availed. Lately there was no wind. She tried not to think about that.

You need Western doctor, Chinese theory, abortion very bad for first baby, no more children. Why you not have baby? Lu got up and gave Laney one more jug of foul substance, and then wrote down a number. You go see this man. I can no help.

* * * *

Laney meandered through the Village going nowhere in particular. Walking through Washington Square always evoked memories of her success in her twenties, her thirties, cutting through the park to attend her friends’ openings in Soho back when she was considered an up and coming artist. Life, then, was right on course. Frank had been so supportive and proud of her during that period. Now Frank and Laney had nothing to be proud of except that they survived their own downfalls like two skilled sailors, adrift on a raging sea. There was no use analyzing it. Why figure what makes people hot? It has nothing to do with the artist. It has to do with the people in power, the people with bitter hearts and little minds.

She ducked into Balducci’s for her favorite cookies, those Italian ones with the pine nuts that were so chewy if you bought them on the day they were cooked. Small pleasures were exceptional in such a corrupt world. Stuffing them in her mouth as if there was only one moment left to live, she spotted Miguel, a Spanish prince, who for some reason thought New York City was better than his palace in Spain. Miguel had been a big admirer of Laney’s work, wishing to be a sculptor himself. His artistic desires were secondary to his family obligations. He was expected to take over the country when his father passed on, but he was spending his last decade of freedom in utter decadence, to make up for the impending chains of the throne.

Laney, my love, what are you doing here? He kissed her on both cheeks.

Eating, what else?

How about a royal meal?

Are you on the menu?

Laney had a crush on Miguel ever since she first laid eyes on him at a friend’s house in the North Sea, over fourteen summers ago. Miguel, who was dating another turbulent painter friend of Laney’s, had appeared on a motorcycle, tanned, with blue eyes gleaming behind a pair of Ray Bans. So dear, why haven’t I seen you? Why no more shows? I keep your postcards all over my house.

I’m on a hiatus from sculpting, Miguel.

That’s absurd. He linked his arm in hers and guided her to a little eatery on Cornelia Street. I have my birthday coming up, and this is what I want. I want you to sculpt me, in the nude, for my palace.

Laney was careful not to get too drunk at dinner. Why spoil staring at this beautiful specimen of a man? He was so dreamy. She imagined what it would be like to kiss his well chiseled lips, but got even hotter imagining sculpting him. Not touching him, but touching a clay him.

You’re blushing? Is it the wine?

No, I’m just hot. It’s so hot in New York. It’s too hot in the summer.

So why are you here, and not in the ocean?

Doctor’s appointment. Laney didn’t want to tell Miguel about her infertility because it would disturb the fantasy of sleeping with him and it would solidify her inability to produce an heir for him.

Miguel held Laney’s hand as they walked up Sixth Avenue. They passed a pet shop that showcased Corgis and Scotties at the overrated cost of a thousand dollars a dog.

So where are you spending the night? Miguel asked as he took a drag off his ninth cigarette. I’m going out dancing. This was Miguel’s exit line.

I’m staying with Sarah. Laney hailed a cab.

When’s my date to model for you? He was an incurable flirt.

Laney kissed him American style, a nice wet one on the lips. I’ll consider it for a kingly wage. Have fun, and Miguel, try an older woman for a change. They’re much more passionate.

Miguel looked at her with longing, but it was short-lived, because they both knew that Miguel loved young, free-spirited, air heads that didn’t hassle or challenge him.

* * * *

Sarah was Laney’s favorite friend. Sarah was a hippie who had a brownstone packed with kids and pets. All the kids had names of cities or countries. She even married a man who had the name of a city. Laney greeted Sarah’s stunning daughter who was parked on their steps checking out guys. She had a newly coifed, pink hairdo.

Hi Paris, where’s your mom?

Paris, quick to respond so that no one would catch her talking to a grown-up, blew smoke out of the side of her mouth funneling it to the left. I think she has a crisis with India!

I’ll just go downstairs, and catch her in the morning. I like your hair.

Laney loved spending the night at Sarah’s because of all the