Don't Call Me Mother (14 page)

Mother turns to Willard and Billy as the male experts in the room. “You’re men, so you know how men are. After all, you’re all alike. If this man comes by my desk every morning and talks to me—talking about himself, personally—don’t you think it means something? Listen, listen, he even took me to lunch! At an expensive restaurant! The lights were low—very romantic. Now why else would he be giving me all this attention?”

“Is he married?” Gram asks.

“What the hell does that have to do with anything? If he’s unhappy with his wife, it’s no business of mine.”

“Look, Josephine, what are you doing? We’ve been through this.” Gram paces and smokes.

“Oh, Mother, you’re so old-fashioned. You don’t understand.”

“Nonsense. I worked in Chicago. I’ve been to England.”

“Lula has been around the world,” Blanche says, the sting of irony in her voice.

“Oh, Mama,” Gram says with annoyance, “you know better than that. I was only in Europe.”

“Anyway, as I was saying…” Mother goes on about the man. Finally, she pauses in her monologue to ask Willard, “Well, what do you think, Uncle?”

“Hell, Josephine, I don’t know nothin’. Been married to Edith here all these years, and that’s it.”

“You need to pay attention to money,” Gram says, pulling out another cigarette.

“Money? Ha. Money’s not important,” Mother says dismissively. “Love is the most important thing in the world.”

“Money’s not important? As long as I keep sending it to you it’s not.” Gram’s sting is felt around the room. Blanche watches the two of them snipe at each other, lips caught between her teeth in disapproval.

“Well, Mother, you have more than I have. Why shouldn’t you help your daughter?”

“Because you aren’t going to make anything of yourself! I’m never sending you another red cent as long as you…”

“Now, now, you two.” Willard stands up decisively. “Let’s have dessert and not worry about money right now. We don’t got none, and we don’t need to hear about it.” He gets the cookies, and Edith takes the ice cream out of the freezer. We eat dessert in an uneasy hush.

Afterwards, Mother and Gram talk-fight all afternoon, chain smoking until the room fills with gray. Edith drops a bowl on the floor; Blanche pokes her finger with her embroidery needle. The men try to take refuge in outdoor work, but Mother follows them for a flirtatious tour of the mink pens, a scarf over her nose.

Back in the house, Mother teases, “Gonna give me a mink collar, Uncle?”

“No, ’fraid not.”

“Why not? You’ve got lots of mink out there.”

“I don’t even have a mink collar. I should get mine first.” When Edith jokes, she smiles sidelong and shy, but she means what she says.

“Well, your man will give you one some day, but I don’t have a man. No man, no mink, no diamonds.” Mother throws her head back and laughs hard, takes a breath, then keeps laughing, seemingly on the verge of hysterics. Everyone stares at her.

“Josephine,” Gram commands after a minute or two. “Stop it. Come to your senses.”

“I, ya-ha-ha, can’t help it…”

My face flushes with embarrassment. Other people don’t laugh this way, so loud and long.

“Josephine,” Billy says, attempting to bring Mother back to earth, “all you need to do is get married again, and you’ll get your diamonds.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, bringing her laughter under control. “Mother thinks I’ll never grow up. Mother thinks I’m a child, but I just need someone to take care of me.”

“Would you take Linda Joy if you got married?” asks Billy. The room suddenly fills with a hollow silence. Everyone stares at their hands in their laps. Gram is the first to speak. “Linda Joy has her music lessons now.”

I know that underneath she is saying that I will be staying with her, and mother won’t be taking me away. I can tell that neither of them is sure of anything regarding where I belong.

Mother goes into the bathroom, the rest of the family heaves a sigh. Everyone leaves to attend to chores. The drama carried by my mother’s energy comes to a halt, but the rest of the day I worry. I worry about Gram, wondering what would happen if I wasn’t with her. She’d be lonely and sad, but Mother is alone, too. Is she sad? Does she miss me? How can I make them both happy? I follow Mother around, wanting to touch her, wanting her to talk to me, but she is either arguing with Gram or following Willard around like a lost puppy.

After dinner that night, we all sit out in lawn chairs in the yard. The sun has set behind the bluffs to the west; a golden haze still hangs over us. The elm trees that surround the yard rustle gently; cicadas and crickets throb in the warm evening. The air smells of the Mississippi River, thick with moisture, making me think of the fish in the river, the herons, squirrels, and raccoons that live near the water. Soon the stars come out, filling the sky with small lights all the way to the horizon. I take the spot next to my mother on the swing, leaning into her warmth. Gram’s and Mother’s cigarettes glow in the velvet blackness. The fireflies wink on and off. The night is thick with longing and history: the land where Blanche’s mother was born only three miles away; the house where Gram was born just a bit farther, near Grandview, the town where Lewis, Gram’s father, was born.

Blanche knows all this history. She keeps her eye on her granddaughter Josephine and on her own daughter, who act more like enemies than kin. They keep picking at each other with small, sharp implements, unconsciously honing the tools that will someday tear them apart.

Birthplace in
Wapello

The next morning, I get up early. Mother and Gram have slept in the living room, Gram on the couch, Mommy lying on a mattress on the floor. My mother’s eyes are closed, and she seems so peaceful now. I kneel beside her, admiring her beauty even at rest—her dark hair and beautiful skin. Seeming to sense my presence, she blinks and smiles. “Good morning.” She stretches out her arms to me. Thrilled with happiness for this closeness, I crawl in beside her. She’s softer now, not the tense, terse lady she appears to be during the day. I curl into her and soon persuade her to scratch my back. Her fingernails give my skin goose bumps. I feel so close to her, irrepressibly happy as the smell of fresh morning coffee sails into the living room. She asks me to scratch her back. I love touching her bare skin, looking at each mole and bump, memorizing her. She asks for a massage and shows me how to rub hard.

“You’re really good, Linda Joy. You should be a masseuse!” Mother laughs, pleased with me. My real mommy is back.

Soon the house is bustling with activity. Mother tells me that we are going to Grandpa’s house today. Gram is decked out in her maroon silk dress, makeup, and opal rings. On the way to Wapello they fight again, but I keep my attention on the landscape sweeping by—rolling hills of corn, wide patches of blue sky, dollops of white clouds. Later in the day, I know, great mountains of clouds will grow in the sky. I wonder if Gram and Mother will notice. They don’t see the Jersey cows grazing or the crows on the fence posts. They are in their own world, noxious smoke pouring from them the way it does from factories along the Mississippi.

When we arrive, Grandpa puts his arms around Mother; she kisses him on the cheek. Gram watches warily, and I wonder if she’s sorry she divorced him. Bernie surprises me by hugging my mother.

In the kitchen after Gram leaves, Mother lights one cigarette after another, chatting on about her life and the same man she’d gone on about yesterday. She doesn’t tell them she was fired from her job. Bernie and Grandpa politely let her go on for awhile, then Bernie busies herself fixing dinner—bacon grease in the green beans, whipped potatoes, fried chicken. The evening is peaceful, the sounds of cicadas and crickets drifting in from outside. Then suddenly Bernie slams down a bowl.

“Need some help?” Grandpa Blaine asks, interrupting my mother’s monologue.

Bernie says, “Well, your daughter isn’t offering. All she thinks of is herself.”

“Bernie, that’s not very nice,” Mother huffs. “I haven’t seen my father for two years.”

“Well, it’s hot, and I have a lot to do. Even your daughter knows enough to help out, don’t you, Linda?” I smile and keep folding paper napkins, hoping the fight won’t escalate.

Grandpa puts the potatoes in a bowl and pours the iced tea while Mother sits and smokes, still talking fast and loud. Questions dart through my mind like bats. Why doesn’t she do anything to help? Can’t she see that she’s making things worse? My mother just does whatever she wants, I conclude, and it’s obvious she doesn’t want to help Bernie in the kitchen.

At the dinner table Grandpa launches into one of his long prayers. I peek to see if Mother takes the prayer seriously. She sits with her eyes open, staring across the room. Bernie’s anger still simmers, and Grandpa talks about forgiveness.

“Bless us, Lord, that we have our family with us—Josephine and Linda Joy. It’s been a long time since you’ve blessed us like this. Help us honor you and remember your commandments to love and forgive. Amen.” I glance at Bernie and Mother to see if the prayer makes a difference, but they eat in heavy silence.

After dinner, Grandpa and Mother go outdoors and pace back and forth across the lawn. Grandpa’s voice drones, Mother’s pierces the air. I help Bernie with the dishes and then play with my dolls, wondering why my mother’s presence always provokes disharmony.

Later, Grandpa paces up and down the driveway. Bernie shadows him, trying to talk to him, but he keeps pacing. She begs, “Please, Blaine. You’ve come so far.” His face is crumpled up—he’s either angry or sad. When Bernie tries to touch him, he jerks away and slams his fist against the car, swearing. What has happened to the holy man? He has turned into a different person, too, just like my mother is wont to do. I start to shake, anticipating disaster. Grandpa gets in the car and sits behind the wheel, his head in his hands.

Bernie comes over to kneel in front of me, looking at me kindly. “Don’t worry, Linda Joy. Your grandfather is all right, but he gets these spells. He’s much better than he used to be. He has a sickness called alcoholism; it makes people drink too much and hurt those they love. He was saved by taking the Lord as his savior, but he still feels bad at times. Don’t be afraid; he’ll feel better soon.”

She soothes my nerves and we go into the house to have peach cobbler. She sits me down, cuts into the steaming cobbler, scoops on vanilla ice cream. The light of the day is seeping away, taking with it the clutch of tension in my stomach as Bernie kindly tends to me. Crickets and birds sing.

That night is soft and silent as I lie close to my mother, inhaling her smell, brushing against her in the night. I make a memory package to take away from here with me: the cobbler, Bernie’s soft eyes, and Grandpa’s prayers. The love I feel all through me.

I will leave behind the parts I don’t want to remember.

The Music Man

Mrs. Rockwell’s fourth grade classroom smells of polished wood, chalk dust, and pads of Red Eagle tablets. Twenty-five of us are sitting at our school desks, books and papers tucked neatly—or messily, as mine are—in the well beneath the desktop. The boys are noisy. Some have dirty fingernails, and their hair is cut in a flat top or slicked to the sides with Brylcreem.

I soon notice that there are the “in” kids and the “outs,” and that the girls’ hierarchies are more complex than the boys’. The most popular girls sit in clumps (if the teacher doesn’t keep rearranging them throughout the room), their perfect hair swinging and shiny on their shoulders, wearing saddle shoes and white socks. These girls’ fathers own car dealerships, or they are accountants, teachers, or school principals. Their mothers belong to the PTA, drive them to school and pick them up in polished cars, and visit the school dressed nicely, often towing another couple of children.

The most “in” girls are on the honor roll. At recess, they lead the games on the concrete slab behind the brick school, the wind blowing their skirts tight against their legs. All of us kids know that these girls will marry well and live in the best houses on the west side of town. Their muscular husbands will come home at night to barbecue in the backyard with neighbors, wearing a chef’s hat. In 1954, that is the best life we can imagine.

The lowest-class boy or girl is easy to spot, with dirty or frayed clothes, yellow teeth, furtive eyes. These kids will probably never get anywhere, and they are ignored at best or sniggered at openly. Their mothers have to work as waitresses or housecleaners. Their tattered houses ruin the perfect look of decent, tree-lined streets. Old cars and disemboweled washing machines lie listlessly in dead grasses around their houses. You don’t befriend those kids because their bad luck will rub off on you.