My Mother the Cheerleader (11 page)

I
t was probably only around seven thirty. The rain made it seem much later than it actually was, because most people had escaped indoors. The streets were empty and the thick clouds and fog blotted out any light from the sky or surrounding houses. The only light in the immediate vicinity was the yellow-gray haze thrown from the window of Morgan's room and the greenish glow from a small bulb that lit our sign advertising Rooms on Desire.

As I stood beside Morgan's Bel Air, staring at the sign, I believed it might be the last time I'd ever see my house. The rain soaked through my shoes and
socks, and my toes were getting numb from the cold. I had thrown a few essential clothes, my Spy Logs, and Morgan's copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
into my small suitcase and run out the door while my mother's bathwater was still running. I didn't want to risk her hearing me leave. I'd forgotten an umbrella, but I had resolved never to go back inside the house again. I figured I could tolerate a few minutes of being wet for a new life.

The light went out in the second-story front bedroom, and a moment later Morgan walked out of our house carrying his suitcase, his briefcase, and an umbrella. He closed the front door and came walking toward me. I straightened up my posture in a small but pathetic attempt to present the most inviting picture possible, not really comprehending how much I must have resembled a scrawny, wet sheep-dog with glasses. Due to the darkness, he didn't even see me until he reached the car. His face registered a small sad grin when he laid eyes on me, stringy hair matted to my head and glasses all fogged up. I picked up my suitcase.

“Take me with you,” I said.

“Oh, Miss Louise.”

“Please.”

“You heard everything?”

I nodded. “There's no reason for me to stay.”

He bent down next to me so his umbrella covered both our heads.

“Honey, I can't take you.”

“Why?”

“Well, first of all, I'd be arrested for kidnaping.”

“She wouldn't care.”

“I think she would.”

“She's not even my mother.”

“Well, she may not have given birth to you, but—”

“She doesn't give a lick about me,” I interrupted.

“I don't think that's true.”

“You don't understand.”

“No, I probably don't. But I think she needs you.”

“Of course she needs me! I do all the work!”

“Look, she's your family. You've gotta hold on to
that. And like I said before, you just wait. Life is going to open up for you, Louise. Never think that your prospects are limited to the borders of the Ninth Ward. I never did.”

“Please. Take me.”

“Oh…Miss Louise. You know I can't.”

So I broke down and started bawling. I must confess that at least a small part of the crying was a last-ditch play on his sympathies.

“I don't want you to leave.”

He hugged me tightly.

“You can call or write me anytime,” he said. “I'm a great correspondent. And I'm expecting you to let me know what you thought of
The Grapes of Wrath
when you're finished.”

My eyes were downcast. A cross-country pen pal was not what I'd been hoping for.

He gently lifted my chin with his hand.

“I mean it, Miss Louise. You're a special girl. You haven't heard the last of me. I promise. Here's how to reach me.”

He removed a business card from his wallet and
handed it to me. I wiped my eyes and slipped the card into my pocket.

“Now you'd better go dry off or you'll catch something.”

He stood up and kissed me on the forehead in almost the exact spot where I'd seen him kiss my mother. Then he moved away, threw his bags in the trunk, and got behind the wheel. I held my ground. I wasn't going to make it easy for him. So I posed like the sad wet dog that I was and watched as he started the engine, gave me a final wave that seemed to be saying both “good-bye” and “sorry,” and drove off toward St. Claude.

I'd always been a lonely kid. I always felt like I was an adult running around in a kid's body and like all the other kids knew it. I wasn't fooling them. Despite thirteen years of solid loneliness, I'd never felt as desperately alone as at that moment.

As I watched Morgan's taillights disappear into the fog on Desire, all the energy seemed to drain out of my body. I literally couldn't find the strength or motivation to move from the spot I was standing on.
My feet were completely soaked and stiff from the cold, as if they were frozen to the sidewalk. As the rain continued to pelt me, I thought I just might stand there and let myself catch pneumonia or die of exposure. I must have stood like that for at least twenty minutes, until the top of my head started to go numb from the cold and the rhythm of the rain.

I truly believe I might've stayed like that until I collapsed if it hadn't been for the small familiar sound that cut through to my chilled brain. At first I was in such a haze that I couldn't identify what the sound was, even though my body was already reacting to it. The noise was light and slightly musical. Some deeply ingrained Pavlovian response caused my feet to move back toward the house to answer the muffled tinkle of Mr. Landroux's bell coming from the third floor.

I
dropped my jacket and suitcase in my room before proceeding to the top floor. My mother's door was shut when I passed, but I knew she was in there because the light was on and I could here the faint buzz of her radio—Rosemary Clooney's pidgin Italian, “Botch-a-me, I' botcha-you and ev'rything goes crazy.” She always ignored Mr. Landroux's bell when she knew I was around. My hair was still dripping wet when I entered his room. I remember for the first time in my life experiencing a small sense of relief at the sight of Mr. Landroux.

“I thought you'd forgotten about me, Four Eyes,” he said. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be in the midst of one of his spells.

“Sorry. I was downstairs.”

“Looks like you took a bath in your clothes.”

“I had to go outside.”

“Ever hear of a little thing called an umbrella?”

“I couldn't find one. You need something?”

“I've got an itch dat's been bothering me something fierce.”

He leaned forward, gesturing to his lower back. Because he spent all day in bed, he was prone to developing bedsores. They often became extremely irritated, because he would incessantly scratch them. Sometimes he scratched so hard, he would break the skin and his dirty fingernails would cause them to become infected. We kept a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a glass jar filled with cotton balls on his dresser for when this happened. I wet a cotton ball with alcohol as he hiked up the back of his pajama shirt. Several small red sores the size of nickels ran across the bottom of his back, just above the elastic
waistband of his pants. The skin was raised in the sores, in strange swirling patterns, but luckily he hadn't broken the skin. I gently dabbed at the sores with the alcohol. He let out small moans of pain and relief with each swipe. After I'd gone through several cotton balls, he lowered his shirt.

“Thanks, Four Eyes,” he said. “I'll tip you at Christmas, okay?”

This was what Mr. Landroux would say whenever he truly wanted to show gratitude, and he was grateful. He needed me. I believe that he honestly thought he would, in fact, tip me at Christmas. And he always waited for me to acknowledge the offer.

“Okay,” I said. “Christmas it is.”

He gave me a small smile and laid his head back against his pillow.

D
espite his physical ailments, Mr. Landroux tended to sleep soundly through the night. Even under the best conditions I did not. As I lay in bed that night, the downpour tapered off to a slow drizzle. I heard the runoff in the gutter that ran down the side of the house beside my window decrease to a trickle. In contrast with the rain outside that was drying up, a newly secreted venom was coursing through my body like an out-of-control river about to burst a dam. Every few moments my body shuddered in an involuntary reaction to the poison. Several toxic hates fed the venom. I hated
my father for being a junkie, and for being completely absent. I hated my natural mother for having me and abandoning me and being a junkie and for dying. And I hated the lost opportunity to hate. And I hated myself for being the child of such wretched souls.

But most of all I hated my mother, or Aunt Pauline, or whoever she was. Not for the way she had raised me, not for making me work since as far back as I could remember. Not for her being a drunk or a racist. No, I hated her for driving away the first person who had ever offered me a small beacon of hope in my dreary little world. For the briefest moment Morgan Miller had been my ideal father, brother, teacher, friend, Edward Rochester, and Prince Charming all rolled into one. And life had seemed a little less bleak. But just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, and at her request. And why had she driven him away? Because Ada Munson and Nitty Babcock would talk? Because he was a Jew? Because he believed that little black kids should go to school with little white kids?
What did any of that really matter?

A sudden noise from outside made me snap to attention. A car or truck pulled to a stop in front of the house. At first my pulse quickened at the thought that Morgan had returned. But then I heard at least two doors open and shut and two sets of heavy footsteps walking toward the house. It must have been nine or ten o'clock, which was usually too late for new business. A moment later the front door crashed open, and I heard two bodies stumble inside.

“Pauline!” Royce bellowed. “Pauline, where da hell are you at? We want to have a party with one of your guests.”

I heard Clem's strange throaty giggle. Even though he was a big man, Clem had an unusually high-pitched speaking voice, and he giggled like a dumb little kid who'd just got caught writing dirty words in a hymnbook. They both sounded like they had been drinking for quite a while.

“We brought some homemade beignets and jam,” Royce continued.

“And little party hats,” Clem added.

“Pauline!”

I heard my mother's door open.

“Will you quit shouting like that!” she yelled down at them, descending the stairs.

“Don't want to disturb your guest?” Royce asked.

“I don't have any guests right now,” she said.

“Dat's not what we heard.” Clem giggled again.

“We heard you've got someone special staying over,” Royce added. “Real special.”

“Well, whoever you're talking about is gone now,” she said.

“Really?” Royce asked sarcastically.

“Really,” my mother replied.

“Oh, what a shame,” Royce said. “'Cause we're throwing a real nice party for him.”

“It's BYOR,” Clem said. “Bring Your Own Rope.”

Clem and Royce laughed.

“Like I said, he's gone,” she said.

“Gone?” Royce said.

“Yes. I made him leave,” she replied.

“Why'd you go and do dat?” Royce asked. “You trying to spoil da party?”

She didn't answer.

“Where did he go?” Clem said.

“How am I supposed to know?” she replied.

“Well, I'm sure you showed him some of your usual Southern hospitality. People who get all intimate like that tend to share personal details.”

“We didn't get intimate,” she said.

“Not what I heard,” Royce countered.

“Well, whatever y'all heard ain't true,” she said.

“Nitty Babcock's pretty reliable when it comes to these things.”

“Nitty Babcock doesn't know everything that goes on around here.”

“Well, I've got a pretty good idea,” Royce countered.

“Look, he's gone. And I don't have any idea where he is. Y'all can keep asking, but it isn't gonna make me know something I don't know.”

“It don't matter none,” Royce said. “We got his
car make and plates. Everyone knows what to look for. We'll find him.”

“Well, I don't want to keep you,” she said. “And if you don't mind, I need to get some shut-eye.”

“Oh, we were hoping to get us a little motivation while we're here,” Royce said.

“Yeah. We need someone to grease our wheels.” Clem grunted and giggled.

“I'm not really feeling so well tonight,” she said.

“What?” Royce gasped in mock surprise. “Did dat Jew wear you out, Pauline?”

“Really, nothing happened between me and him. And I just need to go to bed—”

“Oh, no you don't,” Royce snapped. I heard a sharp slap, and my mother gasped in shocked pain.

“Royce, please—”

I heard them shuffling and furniture moving.

“Stop,” she pleaded.

“Shut up!” Royce roared.

I heard clothes ripping.

“Oh yeah.” Clem clucked.

I pressed my hands over my ears as hard as I
could, but I couldn't block out the noise from below. I knew that unlike the other times, she did not want to be part of what was happening down in the Music Hall tonight. My mind scrabbled with panic for my mother but also for Morgan. They had his car make and plates. They knew what to look for. “We'll find him,” Royce had said with absolute certainty. Behind my closed eyes I saw images of burning crosses and Morgan's bloody body swinging from a tree like the black-and-white newspaper photographs of teenage Negro boys after a lynching.

Another loud crash from downstairs caused my eyes to snap open again. She was in real trouble. I had to do something, but I didn't know what. I rose out of my bed and opened my door. As I moved toward the stairs, the noise from below grew louder and more menacing.

I paused at the top of the stairs and looked into the darkness below. Then I took a deep breath and walked down. When I reached the bottom step, I softly called out, “Mama? Are you all right?” She did not reply.

I walked to the entrance to the Music Hall and called again, a little louder, “Mama?” I stopped in the doorway and stared into the room. She was lying across the couch, with Royce on top of her with his pants bunched down at his ankles. Clem stood over them, watching and waiting. As soon as I came into sight, Clem laughed.

“All right! Now we've got a party!”

Royce ignored me and kept grunting. My mother's head turned and her eyes met mine. Her face was pinched in pain and streaked with tears. She shouted, “Get out of here!”

I hesitated for just a moment. She screeched at me again.

“Get
out!
”

I turned and ran out the back door of the house. I pulled my bike out of the shed and fled down the street as fast as my feet could pedal.