She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (10 page)

Vilma asked seriously, “Where is he?”

“Not here,” Mom replied.

Dad knew he was in serious trouble. To escape the wrath of not just his wife but her mother and sister as well, Dad was hiding at a fishing camp in Lockport, Louisiana. There were three quotes my dad lived by: “The best defense is a strong offense;” “Never bullshit a bullshitter;” and “A hard prick has no conscience.” Well, his conscience must have caught up with him this time, as he’d tried to soften the blow by telling all to my mother the night before that
fateful phone call. But he’d misjudged Hurricane Gayle, and hoped to ride out the storm from a distance.

Vilma continued, “What are you going to do?”

“Damn men can’t keep it in their pants. Do you want a drink, honey?” Moozie inquired.

“No, I want my life back—and, yes, a Chivas Mist with a twist.”

“Who doesn’t?” Vilma added.

As always, Oralea was one step ahead. The ice had been crushed, the scotch poured, the lemon twist forthcoming. She met Moozie’s questioning stare, and handed over the remedy for the mother hen to administer.

Moozie raised an eyebrow as if to suggest that Gayle should dismiss the hired help.

“Mother, please, Oralea knows, she’s family. Hell, I bet everyone knows. Johnny and Tommy and their entire crowd have done it; it’s like some stupid fraternity. His own father has done it, for crying out loud, and it was mentioned in that
Figaro
newspaper when he was spotted coming out of the House of the Rising Sun on Bourbon Street. But we don’t talk about it or dare mention it or dare buy that paper. Boys in Jay’s class at Newman were teasing him about it; some tacky parents must have a warped concept of proper dinner conversation or have forgotten about the skeletons dancing in their own closets. When Jay-boy asked Johnny if it was true, he was so furious that he actually couldn’t find the words to explain the embarrassment, so he marched Jayzee two doors down and said to Da-Dee, ‘Dad, would you please explain to your grandson what this incident is all about?’”

Da-Dee was an extreme presence, a self-made man of considerable wealth and accomplishment. A voracious reader and world traveler, he could converse brilliantly on almost any topic, and he possessed an almost flamboyantly dapper manner of dress and style. A personal favorite of his was the classic black and white houndstooth fabric that adorned his hat, his jacket, and the upholstered roof as well as the bucket seats of his most recent Cadillac. He owned one of the first vanity license plates in Louisiana, which bore his initials
HJB-SR.
The combination of the houndstooth and the vanity plate were dead giveaways to the
Figaro
reporters, who couldn’t help noticing the affectation-mobile parked directly in front of the brothel.

Without any emotion or guilt, Da-Dee sat with Jay and in a matter-of-fact manner, as if he were telling the boy a time-honored adage, stated, “Son, there are just some things you don’t ask your wife to do.” And that was that.

“Well, I definitely believe in genetics, that’s where he got it from; the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree,” Moozie quoted.

After a few ample sips, Mother sat up, mustered every bit of strength, and announced, “I don’t know how or why, but I don’t want a divorce, I don’t believe in it. I took a vow, and I will stand by it.”

It was at this moment her life changed forever. Some people crumble in the face of betrayal and adversity, but somewhere in her stealthy Southern DNA was the fortitude to survive, no matter what the circumstances. This inner strength would serve her well throughout her life. She realized that she didn’t want to be a victim, but
rather a victor. Not knowing why or how, Gayle Batt was going to survive.

Moozie, still reeling from the news, said, “Damn it to hell, this is an outrage, we have never had anything like this in our family.”

At that, the other three ladies gave Moozie an all-too-knowing look. It was common knowledge that others had stepped out, but of course not her sainted late husband, Dick.

“Aughhhhh!”
Gayle screamed, shocking all in her presence. “I just want him to hurt like I do. This is not fair. Hell, life is not fair, that’s what I keep telling the boys, but this is
… shitty!”

“Gayle, language,” Moozie chided.

“Sorry, Mother, but it is. I want to get even … not in that way, I could never be unfaithful, or could I?”

“Gayle!” Moozie exclaimed, shocked.

“Mother, you know me. Vilma, you too. I just don’t know what to do.”

She started to break down, but instantly she forced herself not to cry. Suddenly stoic, she said, “I’ll be damned if this is going to get me.”

Vilma loved hearing that affirmation. Now, Aunt Vilma always had a wonderfully wicked side; unlike Mom, she could play the game, and her wheels were turning so fast they were audible.

“Sister, I know how to get that SOB where it hurts, in his wallet. If you are sure that this can be worked out, then I say let’s scurry downtown, have a delicious lunch at Galatoire’s, and then you pillage Adler’s.”

For generations, Adler’s on Canal Street was the preeminent jeweler of New Orleans. The finest and most current as well as classic designs were featured at this Southern treasure chest of gold, diamonds, pearls, and every other precious stone or metal imaginable. Mother nodded softly, and Moozie took her hand in her own gloved one, offering Vilma the other, and they were off to seek bejeweled revenge on the man who had done her wrong.

Before entering Galatoire’s, a historic mainstay of cuisine, Moozie whispered to her daughter, “Now, honey, powder your face and fix your lips, you never know who you’re going to see here, and I don’t want anyone to suspect anything, you just pull your shoulders back, lift that pretty chin and give me that smile, you’re going to be fine as wine, just fine.”

Gayle came to a halt as she saw the leaded-glass doors that bore the monogram of the famed classic creole restaurant. As she gazed at the entrance, the very place she and John had spent numerous evenings, Vilma knowingly reached for Mom’s purse, producing a compact and powder puff, then began the translucent application. Next she gently handed her the frosted coral lipstick, slowly turning the mirror so that Gayle’s reflection appeared. She gasped as her eyes started to well.

“Little sister, Mother is right, you have to go in there as if nothing has happened, walk in and smile as if you’ve not a care in the world. If you can’t, we can just go home, but darling, aren’t you just craving some delicious oysters en brochette and shrimp rémoulade?”

She grinned as Moozie chimed in, “And some soft-shell
crab and their divine trout meunière almandine. And Bloody Marys all around.”

With that she accepted the lipstick, arched her back, lifted her chin, and assumed the traditional mouth formation for applying lipstick. Her top lip stretched widely across, covering her front teeth, and the bottom lip pulled up, covering the bottom teeth, all the while dabbing the pigment with tiny feminine strokes. As soon as she’d finished rubbing the top and bottom lips together, she made a little popping sound as the lips parted.

Vilma produced a lace monogrammed handkerchief.
“Voilà! Blot, s’il vous plaît.”

Gayle replied as the sisters had always done, purposefully murdering the French language, “Mercy buckets.”

And together they locked arms, took a deep breath, and just then the doors were flung open for their entrance. Passing the tourists waiting for a seat, Moozie whispered softly in the maître d’s ear. He smiled, gesturing the party to follow, “Of course, Mrs. Mackenroth, and how are you and your lovely daughters today?”

“Just ducky, dear.”

As they made their way into the heart of the bright tiled and mirrored room, they were greeted by numerous friends and acquaintances; there were smiles and waves and air kisses.

Quickly the busboy brought glasses of iced water and hot French bread, and he was followed by Nelson, who had been our family waiter for generations. Nelson served my grandparents, my parents, and later me. Each family had its own assigned regular waiter. He beamed as he spoke
with a hint of a Cajun accent, “Ah, Miss Hazel, and Miss Vilma, and Miss Gayle, how could I be so lucky to have the three most lovely ladies in New Orleans at my table no less, I tell ya,
cher
, my cup she runneth over. So I’m gonna drink from the saucer, now speaking of drinking, what can I get you three for some drinks? Pimm’s Cup, Kir Royale, or some Bloodys?”

“Three Bloodys,” Vilma ordered, “but make mine gin, Nelson, would you please?”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Coming right up. Let me tell you some of the specials. We got a pompano meunière almandine with lump crabmeat on top that is fantabulous, and my favorite, soft-shell crab that are so fresh their little claws are just playing the piano.” Nelson demonstrated by dancing his fingers like a crab playing a piano. “And of course we got trout, all the regulars, and your favorite, Miss Hazel, chicken Clemençeau. Let me suggest soft-shell crabs for the girls, the chicken for you, Miss Hazel, soufflé potatoes béarnaise, shrimp and crabmeat rémoulade, and oysters en brochette to start? Sounds good?”

As was, and still is, the practice for locals, menus are rarely needed, and Nelson knew what they loved because the ladies all nodded.

“Very well,
mon cheri
, I’ll be back in a flash with your drinks.”

Suddenly, Vilma’s face fell as she scanned the noisy room. She whispered quietly through a pleasant smile that never moved, “Oh my hell, here comes the aptly named Doris Strain, I am not in the mood, all she talks about is
herself or something plain awful that befell her dearest and closest friend or money. Tacky witch. My word, she is intolerable. No wonder her husband turned homosexual. Oh yes, common knowledge. Audubon Park shelter number four. Please don’t come over, oh please oh please … Oh, hello Doris dear,” Vilma drawled, pure saccharin.

Doris was the sort of person who read reviews of theatre and books rather than experiencing them herself, then would quote the critics as if their words were her own. Although she was president of the Opera Guild, she knew nothing about opera and actually had to take No-Doz to remain awake during
Carmen
, no less. The only reason she vaguely recognized the melodies was because of reruns of
Gilligan’s Island
that featured the classic Verdi score as the basis for a musical version of
Hamlet
.

“Hello, ladies, Miss Hazel, Miss Gayle, what brings y’all to the Quarter today?”

They all knew better than to answer, because before they could even start, she went on, “I am having lunch with some dear college sorority sisters from Jackson, and then we are going to have a good ol’ time spending our husbands’ money over by Holmes’s for a start.”

A telltale sign of class level in the Big Easy lay in whether one pronounced the name of the popular department store D. H. Holmes in the possessive. Doris continued, “I intend on wearing down the little letters on my New Orleans Shopper Card. Do y’all have one? It’s a dream, I tell you, a modern miracle of a dream. They just put these letters on your plastic card …”

Moozie mentioned that they all had a New Orleans
Shopper Card, but it went unnoticed as Doris continued rambling. So Moozie just buttered the hot French bread before it cooled. She wasn’t about to miss out on one of her favorites because of this overprivileged, underaccomplished twit.

“…
G
is for Godchaux’s,
K
is for Kreeger’s,
MB
is for Maison Blanche, and so on. And they just send the bill. Just like here, don’t you just love having a house charge at restaurants? We have one at all the ones we love, it just makes it so much easier, not having to deal with dirty cash. I love just saying ‘house charge,’ it’s so much more refined, like a country club. Gayle, we missed you at the Crippled Children’s Hospital Guild meeting this morning, and both you girls don’t forget the Protestant Home for Unwed Mothers tea on Thursday. I tell you, my darling hubby is a living doll, he really is, I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sweetie, I honestly don’t. I am a member of a bajillion organizations, president of two, vice president of one, and secretary of another, and he never complains about all the fundraisers and galas and all that jazz. Not a peep. I do declare he is an angel, an angel on earth. Did you all hear about Sue and Pierre? Separated. He was shacking up with something on the side just blocks from here.”

Mother stared past Doris and muttered the word “Angel.”

With this, Doris stopped flapping, pulled her head back, and squinted, saying “I beg your pardon, Gayle dear.”

Vilma took her wounded sister’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as if to revive her from this trance.

Mom smiled and tilted her head slightly, took a sip from her recently delivered drink, and sighed, calling forth ever so slightly Olivia de Havilland’s Melanie. “Well, Doris, it must be just heaven, having an angel for a husband.”

Moozie could stand no more. She’d never liked this woman, no one did. They all tolerated her, but that was about to come to an end. Besides, this was not how she intended to pass this particular luncheon. She said, “I don’t know about you, but I always like a little devil in my men. Get my drift, honey?” She emphasized the word “devil,” raising an eyebrow and buttoning the comment with a wink and a bite of celery.

This retort came as quite a shock to her daughters, but more to Doris, who feigned a giggle that ended as she snorted, “Oh, Miss Hazel, you are a card, and you must be dealt with.”

Moozie’s dander was up, way up, and luckily for all present, Miss Doris quickly spotted another victim across the chatty den whose lunch she saw fit to sour. And with a faux smile punctuated by insincere air kisses, she mercifully fled to a table of unsuspecting oversized-hat-wearing ladies who lunch.

“Well now, it is quite clear she has mastered one-half of the art of conversation,” Moozie said as she buttered another hearty bite of bread, letting the crumbs fall to the white tablecloth, as is the custom at Galatoire’s.

Vilma added, “See, somebody always has it worse than you. I mean, I wouldn’t want to dance in her shoes, even if they do cost an arm and a leg—and that makeup!”