She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (9 page)

“Son, you were just great up there on that stage today.” He shook his head, not knowing what else to say, started to walk away, but turned and added, “Go put on your costume and tap shoes, and that red clown nose.”

I was a bit confused. Feeling a little trepidation, I asked, “Okay, but … why, Dad?”

“We’re going to show your grandfather just how that damn Rudolph dance is done!”

I
T CAN HAPPEN
at any time in a life, in early childhood or late adulthood, but it will happen, the moment when a son or daughter realizes that their parents are human and therefore subject to all human frailties, that the myth of “happily ever after” or even just “ever after” is forced by life itself to crash and burn at some point. As a possible coping mechanism, I feel it’s best to straddle the worlds of reality and fantasy, keeping one foot firmly planted in each so that when necessary, one can escape with just a simple shift of weight. The willing of the molecules. The information surrounding my father’s short-lived dalliance are sketchy at best. No names or places were ever discussed with me, although mysterious heated arguments were heard from behind closed doors when children were thought to be outside, climbing trees like good monkeys. Only time can heal the inevitable painful realization that our parents are mortal and capable of all human frailties and failings. The wonderings and embellishments of this
youthful adolescent’s overactive imagination are the following. This is how it all went down in my mind’s eye.

T
HE PHONE CALL
was uncannily reminiscent of the call from Norma Desmond to Betty Schaefer at the climax of Billy Wilder’s
Sunset Blvd
. Although the names and situation were different, the malicious intent was the same.

“Gayle, dear, do you know where your husband is? Do you know what he does when he tells you he’s working late? I thought you’d appreciate my letting you in on his sordid little secret …”

Mother had suspected the dalliance, and had some evidence, but nothing concrete until this pivotal moment. Unfairly, any sort of sexual revolution of the sixties had left her in its wake. Years before, Moozie’s wedding-night advice was that of her mother and generations before: just lie on your back and pretend to like it. And she did try, but the double standard of the 1950s and her upbringing never allowed for any sexual exploration. “Good” girls just didn’t do “that,” and “bad” girls didn’t get to marry “quality boys.” A whole new world of sensuality was exploding all around, but her ears, eyes, and legs had remained firmly closed.

Mother was on the verge of ultimate collapse, but rather than acquiesce to this home-wrecking trollop, she summoned every fiber of her granite Southern ancestors and snapped back with steely grace. “Betty, I hate to spoil your twisted little game, because from the tone of your voice you seem to be enjoying this, but I do know, he confessed last night. Maybe because he sensed that you,
given your depravity, would pull such a cruel and common stunt. Let me be crystal clear, he is mine, understand me, and
mine
to deal with. But as for you …”

Her voice lowered uncharacteristically, and with calculated articulation she continued as her fevered face reddened and her extremities trembled with rage at what she felt as the most devastating of betrayals.

“Don’t ever call my home again, erase this number from your evil sick mind, and when I see your pathetic face anywhere in this city, don’t you dare speak to me. You have no right! Go to hell!” With that, she slammed the Princess phone down, actually hoping to hurt the shrew’s ears on the other end of the line.
How dare he?
she thought.
How dare he turn me into this whimpering housewife, acting out a sordid soap-opera scenario? How dare he?
Even though the marriage wasn’t at its best at the time, how could he ruin whatever chance they had left with a disgusting fling with that dirty tart? She cried to break her heart. She relived every moment leading up to the shattering of her life as she saw it, lists upon endless lists of her devoted, supportive, kind acts. She was clearly wronged and knew it, and she wanted revenge. While contemplating the trauma and agony of divorce, the potential irrevocable impact on her boys, she realized that she somehow, in some way, still loved my father, and bawling like a child, she prayed, “Where were you? How could you let this happen to me? What have I done to deserve this, except try to be a good Christian wife and mother? Goddammit all to Hell!

“Oh, dear Lord, I am sorry, I am so sorry, but I just don’t see
why!”

Suddenly an avalanche of profanity flowed from her. This shocked and terrified her to her very core.

“Now he’s got me cursing like him, and to the Lord. Oh, Jesus Christ!”

She cried out louder than a mortally wounded animal, and crumpled to her knees on the marble floor of her beautiful bath suite. “Sweet baby Jesus, forgive me. Help me, please. Lamb of God, Lord, hear my prayer, what do I do? What do I do? What the
hell
do I do?” Gasping in disbelief, she screamed, “This really has to stop!”

She played out the horrors of what a divorce would do to her life as she had come to know it, and that of her cubs. Everything she had ever heard or read reiterated that the worst effect of divorce was on the children, especially at this stage of development. Thanks to the latest round of family counseling, my brother and I were finally somewhat civil. A separation and divorce could ruin everything. Her pumpkins could become potheads or heroin addicts or bums; look what had happened to Art Linkletter’s child. Furious as she was, she knew deep in her heart that leaving wasn’t an option; she was trapped. Besides, some debris of their love remained, and that single excruciatingly debilitating fact infuriated her even more.

Today her ritual whirlwind of preparation for an outing had a different air. Rather than the usual random flurry into painted perfection, now every move was considered, every effect contemplated. As she tried to outline her full lips, her elegantly monogrammed towel dropped, as did the cherry-toned pencil liner, and she was assaulted
with a cruel, unforgivingly reflected glimpse of her now more-than-ample figure.

“Oh my God!” she wailed. “When did I get cellulite, it looks like I’ve been sitting in cottage cheese!”

Then, in rapid succession, she noticed every minute physical imperfection. With one glance she saw the beginnings of crow’s feet. Another look and instantaneously there was a double chin, a roll of back fat, flabby upper arms, and three—no, five—gray hairs. Sadly, the mirror is not a liar, but rather a painfully honest friend, the kind that tells you your husband has been cheating on you and you’re getting fat and old. Although still beautiful, she had definitely let herself go.

Assessing her now glaring flaws, she cried out to the mirror, her half-lined lips almost cartoonish against her pale countenance, and grabbing her stomach just above her cesarean scars, she screamed, “Stretch marks! Is this why, John? Is it? Don’t like what you see anymore? Sorry, honey, this is what happens when you have two ten-pound boys ripped from your womb!”

Now just plain furious, she slammed her fists on the marble basin, causing a jar of fine translucent power to rocket above her, leaving a trail like a sky-writing airplane overhead, and through her foggy eyes she could see in the mirror that it was spelling out
FOOL.
The jar suddenly hit the floor, shattering in a mushroom cloud.

Hopelessly reaching for a towel to cover herself, her painted nails grasped like claws on the center of the exquisite hand embroidery that bore her married monogram,
the name she accepted upon sacred matrimony. Then, with an unyielding clenched fist, she beat the pale blue
B
on the plush towel as if it were the letter itself that had betrayed her, before crumbling in slow motion to the floor with a flood of tears.

“Miss Batt? Miss Batt? Miss Gayle? You all right?” Oralea asked as she repeatedly knocked on the door. “What is going on in there?”

Oralea pushed the bathroom door the slightest bit open, and it took only a moment for their eyes to meet, and Oralea knew. Her eyes began to fill, but Oralea wisely withheld her tears as her heart broke for her Miss Gayle.

Their sad eyes never broke contact as Oralea consoled her. “Men are men, that’s all they are and ever will be. Believe me, Mr. John loves you, you and I both know it. Whatever else is going on, I don’t need or want to know about, but I do know this, I been by both your sides since day one, since I served the champagne at y’all’s engagement party on Fontainebleau Drive, got you dressed for your wedding, and we ain’t giving up, not without one hell of a fight. You hear me, child?”

Mom nodded like a little schoolgirl.

“Now, Miss Gayle, you are going to be fine; let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll get this room looking brand new.”

She offered her calloused hand to my mother, and helped her to her feet. The stare was finally broken, only to be followed by a desperately weary hug, until the sobbing stopped.

“We got to put ourselves together. I’ll call Miss Hazel and Miss Vilma, and they’ll be here in a flash. Now, you
don’t want your mama and sister to see you all bleary-eyed. Remember who you are.”

She knew deep in her bones exactly who she was. It was
what
she was at this moment that frightened her so. What she had allowed herself to become, and what she had foolishly allowed others to lead her to be. No more the doormat, no more the good little wife. Gayle stood as tall as she could, arched her back, looked sternly into the mirror, and vowed to her reflection that she would never betray herself or allow herself to be betrayed ever again. With that affirmation freshly and deeply expressed, the hurried process of painting and patching the streaks and puffiness began. Sadly, some cracks could never be covered; there is no creation by Estée Lauder that could ever conceal her shattered heart and broken life.

As she applied a final spray of All Set hairspray to her outdated ’do, the doorbell chimed, startling her. I ran to get the door and greet Moozie and Aunt Vilma. As always, I gave Aunt Vilma two kisses and allowed Moozie to pinch and stretch my cheeks as she referred to me as her “little tomato-eater boy.” Even though I was growing up, I loved her babying affection.

Mom entered the room somberly, without her usual flair, and everyone immediately sensed something gravely wrong, including me. Then I realized what it was: Mom and Moozie were wearing the exact same dress! The same matronly polyester jacket and A-line dress!

“Mom! Why are you and Moozie dressed like twins? No offense, Moo, but Mom, you are like how many years younger, and you are dressing just like a grandmother.
Maybe you should go shopping and try something a little cooler.”

Oralea scurried me out, telling me that my buddy Chucky had called and to get on my bike and get over to his house. “You go on over by the doctor’s house and climb them big oak trees and see if you can see the top of the Zephyr roller coaster when you reach the tippy-tippy top, now get on, I’ll take care of everything, go!”

“Okay, okay, I’m going, but Mom, really, you really should think a little more ‘now,’ it is the seventies, and you’re still like kind of pretty.”

I was almost out the door when I added, “And hair that actually moved really couldn’t hurt, either.”

Suddenly the lionesses, with the omission of my stunned mother, instantly joined forces to rush me out, practically placing me on my banana-seat bike and pushing me out the driveway. As I peddled to Chucky’s through the labyrinth of lanes that connected the midcentury homes of Lake Vista, I thought more and more about my mother’s alarmingly archaic fashion choices. She clearly needed my help, and I knew I had a flair for fashion. I could do this, I thought. I could make over my mom.

The summer before, Jay and I had taken a wild trip up north to tour many different amusement parks with our grandfather Da-Dee, a larger-than-life showman. He was forceful and imposing, with charisma that could illuminate the entire midway. The vacation was amazing, with lots of hotel breakfasts and swimming pools, and the best roller coasters in the country. We stayed with old family friends
in Chicago when we visited Marriott’s Great America, and I became infatuated with Aunt Gretchen. She had modeled for Coco Chanel in Paris, and currently modeled most frequently for Marshall Field’s.
Au courant
, she smoked clove cigarettes from a gold cigarette holder, had cropped jet-black hair and more muted natural-toned makeup with burgundy-lined lips, and everywhere we went, everyone commented on her fabulous style. She knew how to work a look, from top to bottom. Still peddling toward Chucky’s, I decided that as soon as I got home that evening, I would find Aunt Gretchen’s number and call her for advice. Mom didn’t know it yet, but the plan for her full transformation was brewing.

Back at the house, Vilma and Moozie were enraged and torn by the scandalous news. They loved my father, despite his rough edges and his often excessive drinking. He was a kind, generous man. They somehow imagined that it was bound to happen, but the deep gut feeling of “don’t fuck with my family” prevailed.