The Bad Women

Episode 2: The First Encounter

The memory of the first time I ever laid eyes on Zelda remains as vividly etched into my mind as a fresh engraving on silver. It was late autumn, barely a month and a half after Sean and I had returned from our honeymoon, and the air in Savannah had taken on that crisp, biting quality that makes you want to draw your wool shawl just a little tighter around your shoulders. I was still floating in that strange, disorienting limbo of being a new bride. Every room in the Vance estate felt like a museum where I wasn't entirely sure if I was allowed to touch the furniture. I spent my days walking on eggshells, trying desperately to memorize the unspoken laws of my new family, terrified of making a single clumsy misstep that might invite the quiet, chilling disapproval of my in-laws.

On that particular afternoon, the house was filled with the rich, deep aroma of spiced chicory coffee and black tea brewing on the stove. My sister-in-law, Beatrice, had practically drafted me into the kitchen to help prepare the afternoon refreshments, a daily ritual that the matriarch of the house, Grandma Abigail, demanded with the regularity of church bells.

I was standing by the large, double-hung kitchen window, waiting for the water in the copper kettle to come to a rolling boil. Outside, the backyard was a manicured expanse of dormant flowerbeds and ancient oak trees draped in long, ghostly tresses of Spanish moss. But my gaze wasn't drawn to the scenery. Instead, my eyes were locked onto a scene unfolding just past the threshold of the sunroom door, right in the cozy alcove where the afternoon light hit the house.

There, sitting on a low wooden stool at Grandma Abigail’s feet, was a woman I had never seen before.

She was a plump, heavy-set woman, perhaps thirty-four or thirty-five years old, though her sheer physical presence made her seem much larger. Despite her thick, stocky build, there was an undeniable, almost aggressive energy to her movements. She was hunched forward, her large, fleshy hands working with practiced, rhythmic intensity as she massaged Grandma Abigail’s calves and feet. Abigail was leaning back against a plush leather cow-pillow, her eyes half-closed in a rare state of absolute contentment, nodding along as the woman spoke to her in a low, rapid, and unceasing stream of flattery.

I leaned closer to the windowpane, my breath fogging the glass, utterly fascinated.

"Who is that woman, Beatrice?" I asked, keeping my voice low so it wouldn't carry through the open hallway.

Beatrice didn't even look up from the tray she was meticulously arranging. She was busy opening a fresh sleeve of expensive imported biscuits, placing them in a flawless, staggered pattern on a small silver platter. She glanced out the window for a fraction of a second, her lips instantly tightening into a thin, hard line of pure distaste.

"That is Zelda," Beatrice muttered.

Her tone was cursory, sharp, and dripping with an icy, structural disapproval that told me everything and nothing all at once. I wanted to ask more—I wanted to know why a woman who looked like a walking explosion of cheap fabric was sitting at the feet of the most fearsome matriarch in the county—but Beatrice’s rigid posture made it clear that the topic was officially closed.

Turning back to the window, I decided to conduct my own visual investigation. The more I looked at Zelda, the more my mind struggled to reconcile her presence in the Vance home.

In the middle of a dry, freezing Savannah winter, Zelda had decided to dress as if she were attending a loud, chaotic summer carnival. She was wearing a floral silk dress that was entirely too tight for her heavy frame. The fabric stretched precariously across her stomach and hips, and as she shifted on the low stool, she had casually hitched the hem of the dress up around her lap, completely indifferent to the concept of modesty that this house held so dear.

Her complexion was naturally fair, but her facial features were prominent, almost harsh. Her nose was broad and square, and as the afternoon sun caught her profile, I could see the distinct, pitted scars of old smallpox marks peppering her skin. Yet, she had tried to mask her flaws with an abundance of cheap cosmetic adornment. Her full, heavy lips were painted with a thick, melting layer of bright sandalwood lipstick that had begun to bleed into the fine cracks of her skin. Her dark hair was heavily oiled, slicked back into a tight, severe bun that was held together by a garish, shiny plastic butterfly clip that looked like it belonged to a teenager.

Despite the bitter cold, she had dusted her neck and chest with an absurd amount of white scented talcum powder. It sat on her skin like a layer of dry, unblinded chalk, stark against the tight neckline of her dress. The dry winter wind had taken a toll on her face; a white, flaky dryness was visible around her scarred nose, and her painted lips were visibly parched, splitting slightly as her half-open mouth moved continuously, pouring out a non-song of endless sweet-talk.

She was loud, she was bright, and she was draped in jewelry that practically screamed its lack of value. Large, imitation gold earrings dangled from her earlobes, clinking softly against her neck with every shake of her head. A cheap silver ring was pierced through the side of her nose, catching the sunlight, and both of her fleshy wrists were stacked high with dozens of colorful, clashing glass bangles that jingled like wind chimes every time her hands massaged Abigail’s feet.

It was an overwhelming display of decoration, a desperate attempt to look beautiful and cared for. But then, my eyes traveled down past the brilliant silk dress, past the jingling bangles, and landed on her bare feet.

A wave of sudden, involuntary discomfort washed over me. Her heels were severely cracked, the skin torn and calloused in deep,

Painful-looking fissures that looked as though they had never known a drop of lotion in their existence. Her toes were completely exposed, peeking out from beneath the low stool. Just a few inches away on the floor lay her slip-on shoes; they looked brand new, stiff and unworn, as if she had bought them specifically for this visit but couldn't bear to keep her swollen, aching feet trapped inside.

them for long.

I stood there, completely bewildered. Who on earth could this woman be?