My Mother the Cheerleader (8 page)

I
must confess that I felt a small rush of pride when I discovered Morgan's Bel Air parked across the street from Friendly Market on St. Claude. I really would make a good spy, I thought. Just as before, Morgan sat behind the wheel of his car smoking a cigarette and staring through the window of the store. I parked my bike and found a good observation post behind a milk truck.

I didn't see Morgan's brother, Michael, inside the store. A teenage boy with curly red hair stood behind the cash register reading a Green Lantern comic book. Again I made detailed notations in my Spy Log.

Morgan watched his brother taking inventory for a few minutes. Finally he stepped out of the car.
He waited for some traffic to pass before crossing St. Claude, heading straight for the front entrance of the grocery. I needed to hear what they said to each other—watching them through a window simply would not do. I quickly rode my bike across the street and through the alley between the Chinese laundry and Friendly Market. I leaned my bike against a Dumpster and carefully approached the back door of the store. I moved close and ever so slowly opened the screen door, which squeaked and groaned like a tiny siren, wailing, “Look back here!” “Here I am!” and “There's a snoop in the store!” But once I slipped inside and gently let the door rest against its frame, I knew they hadn't heard me. I could hear their voices from somewhere in the front of the store. I didn't want to risk being seen, so I crouched behind a stack of cases of Dr Pepper at the end of an aisle, cocked an ear, and listened.

“When did you get into town?” Morgan's brother was asking.

“Yesterday,” Morgan replied. “Morning.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Little inn on Desire and North Galvez.”

“Big green house?”

“Yeah.”

“I've passed it before.”

They fell into an uncomfortable beat of silence.

“The place looks good,” Morgan said.

“Hasn't changed much.”

“How're Edie and the kids?” Morgan asked.

“Fine.”

“How're you?”

“Can't complain.”

“You going to give me anything besides short answers?”

“I wasn't expecting to see you, Morgan.”

“I was going to call first, but…” His voice trailed off.

“But?”

“But I wasn't sure what I would say on the phone,” Morgan said.

“Do you have something to say now?”

“I wanted to see you, Michael.”

“Not much has changed, has it?”

“I don't know,” Morgan replied. “Things have changed for me.”

“Well, you always liked change.”

“I suppose I did.”

Another awkward pause.

The way this conversation was going, it was difficult to imagine these two sitting in the same room for very long, never mind ever playing games together.

Morgan continued.

“I went by William Frantz this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Pretty big mess, isn't it?”

“You could say that.”

“She's a brave little girl.”

“Who?”

“The little Negro girl.”

“Yeah, right,” Michael said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Morgan.”

“What?”

“She's a puppet.”

“That's pretty harsh.”

“You really think she's got any idea what's going on?”

“I don't know. But that doesn't mean she's not brave to stand up to that mob every day.”

“That mob has got a rooted interest in what goes on at that school.”

“Oh God, Michael.”

“It's easy for outsiders to come in and tell people what to do if they don't have to live with it.”

“Outsiders?”

“You've been away a long time, Morgan.”

“Don't tell me you agree…?”

“Well, I don't disagree.”

“How is this different from the Nazis, Michael?”

“Oh, please.”

“No, really.”

“It's very different.”

“How?”

“You're being melodramatic.”

“Am I?”

“No one is rounding up and killing Negroes, Morgan.”

“Some people are.”

“There's nothing wrong with separate schools.”

“What about sending Jews to separate schools? That's how it started in Germany.”

“This isn't Germany.”

“Not yet.”

“Give it a rest, Morgan.”

“No. How is it different?”

“I don't want to hear one of your political speeches.”

“Negroes are fighting for their rights as men just like the Jews did—”

“There's a big difference between Jews and Negroes, and you know it.”

“No, I don't. Explain it.”

“Is that why you came down here? To teach us backward yokels a lesson in morality?”

Morgan let the question settle for a moment before responding.

“No,” he finally replied.

“Then why are you here?”

“I'm just here to see you.”

“Why?”

“We're still family,” Morgan said.

“Family.”
Michael repeated the word as if he didn't comprehend its meaning or use in the sentence.

“Yes. Family.”

“So what does that mean exactly?”

“It means enough time has passed,” Morgan said.

“Passed for what?”

“Well, for one thing, for me to forgive you.”

“Forgive me?” Michael gasped.

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“You know what,” Morgan said.

“No. I honestly don't.”

“Oh, come on, Michael, can we stop playing games?”

“I'm not playing a game. I can't for the life of me think of what
you'd
need to forgive
me
for.”

Morgan exhaled and then replied. “How about for giving the committee my name?”

“I answered the questions they asked me,” Michael responded, too quickly.

“Maybe you didn't have to give such complete answers.”

“I didn't tell them anything they didn't already know.”

“But you were happy to confirm things.”

“Look, I wasn't happy about anything. I didn't have a choice.”

“We all make choices, Michael.”

“I wasn't gonna jeopardize my family just because you dragged me to a couple of meetings when we were barely out of high school. They had my name. I've got a life here. I could've lost everything. And I never joined anything.”

“But you had no problem fingering your own brother.”

“You were a Communist. Hell, you probably still are.”

“So?”

“So, there's a war on.”

“There wasn't then,” Morgan replied. “Do you realize that if Joe McCarthy had been around in thirty-nine, I could've been blacklisted? Hell, I could've been thrown in jail.”

“Those were bad times, Morgan.”

“So it's okay to throw away the Bill of Rights during bad times?”

“Will you get off the goddamn soapbox already?”

“I'm not on a soapbox,” Morgan said. “A lot of good people got hurt.”

“And that's my fault?”

“If enough people had stood up—”

“Stood up for what? Stalin?”

“What I'm talking about has nothing to do with Stalin.”

“Oh no?”

“Everyone should have the right to express their own political—”

“Oh, will you knock it off with the rhetoric? It's enough, Morgan. We've all had enough. Mama
and Papa had enough. And now I've had enough. Okay?

“Don't bring them into this.”

“Why not?”

“You don't speak for Mama and Papa.”

“And you do?”

“I never claimed to.”

“Got that right.”

“What's that supposed mean?”

“Don't go there, Morgan.”

“No. Say it.”

“You pissed on everything they gave you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You don't think so?”

“You have no idea what they—”

“No. You're the one who's got no idea.”

“You're crossing a line, Michael.”

“What line?”

“You're crossing a line!”

“What the hell line are you talking about? Crossing lines? You're the one who came waltzing in here with all this bullshit about forgiving me for
something you brought on yourself.”

“That's enough.”

“Do you really think Papa was proud of his Communist son?”

“Enough…”

“Poor old fool came over from the old country to give us better than he had—”

“I said that's enough!” Morgan snapped.

“They believed in this country. And so do I.”

Then Michael added, half under his breath but loud enough for me to hear, “Maybe they
should've
thrown you in jail.”

A long beat of silence followed. I heard both men breathing. Finally Morgan spoke.

“God, Michael, do you really hate me that much?”

Michael exhaled. “I don't know what I feel.”

“We're still brothers,” Morgan said.

“Why this sudden interest in reconnecting with family? Are you going to try to get us to join a protest outside of William Frantz?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing down here, Morgan?”

“I don't know.”

“You're about thirty years too late to help out around the store.”

I heard Morgan move toward the front door. “I guess you're right,” he said. “Sorry I bothered.”

I yearned for Michael to call out for him to stop, but he didn't. Did Michael know that Morgan's son had died in Korea? And did he know that Morgan and his wife had split? Why didn't Morgan say that he looked up to Michael when they were kids? And that he missed having an older brother? I couldn't understand why someone as articulate as Morgan could be so tongue-tied when it came to his own brother. Was he really going to walk away? After twenty years of silence, how could he let it end like that? I heard the front door slam open and shut, and I knew Morgan was gone. I slowly peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of Michael leaning over with one hand on the counter and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. He seemed deflated.

I didn't want to risk losing Morgan, so I turned to rush out the back door and ran straight into the red-haired kid, who was walking in carrying a big box of toilet paper rolls. I knocked the box to the floor and fell over.

“Hey!” the boy said.

Toilet paper rolls spilled out of the box. I tripped over them as I scrambled to my feet and ran out the back door.

B
y the time I got back to St. Claude, Morgan's Bel Air was already gone. My legs ached from all the heavy pedaling I'd done that morning trying to keep up with him, so I don't know if I could've followed very far even if he had been within eyeshot. The sun beat down, and I reckoned it must've been around ten thirty by the time I started to walk my bike back home.

When I arrived, Morgan's car was not parked out front. Upon entering the kitchen, I found Charlotte hunched over the tub sink in the corner that we used for laundry, scrubbing a set of sheets.
She glared at me over her shoulder.

“Mr. Landroux had himself an accident.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Seems someone forgot to replace his bedpan this morning, and no one was around to bring him a new one when he rang his bell.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry ain't cleaning these sheets.”

“I'll do it,” I said.

“That's right.” She nodded. “You will.”

She stepped away and washed her hands in the regular kitchen sink while I took over washing the sheets.

“Should I even ask where you were?” she said as she carefully dried her hands with a small blue-striped dish towel.

“I was just out…riding my bike…and I lost track of the time.”

“I've told you before, Louise: I'd rather you not answer a question than lie straight to my face. Lying straight to someone's face is hurtful, particularly when it is someone you have a kinship with. Not
answering a question is within your right of privacy, even with someone you have a kinship with. It's called taking the Fifth. You sure there's nothing you want to tell me?”

I did want to talk to her about everything, but I wasn't quite sure what to say. There were so many thoughts swirling around my head that I couldn't sort out. Should I tell her about Morgan being a Communist? Or my deep and true feelings for him? Or what happened at William Frantz this morning? I didn't really know where to begin. Not to mention the fact that so much of what I was thinking was brought about because of my snooping and spying, which did not reflect well on my character.

“I'll be taking the Fifth,” I finally replied.

“I thought so,” Charlotte said. “I don't know what's gotten into everybody, but your mother's got herself in a nasty mood today.”

“Yeah?”

“She was stomping around, grousing about this and that before she went to the beauty shop.”

“Do you know why she was upset?”

“Why?” Charlotte replied, incredulous. “Since when does that woman need a special reason to be in a bad mood? She just came back this morning all agitated. I'd try to keep my distance for a while if I were you.”

She grabbed her purse from the counter and headed for the back door. “I'm going to get groceries. There's sliced ham in the icebox for lunch, and I left the jug of iced tea to brew out in the backyard.”

She left, and I continued to scrub the sheets. As soon as she was gone, I regretted not opening up to her while I'd had the chance. Charlotte had a level head about most matters. I realized that part of my resistance to sharing with Charlotte had to do with Ruby Bridges and the desegregation issue. Of course I had always been fully aware that Charlotte was a Negro and that my mother and I were white. Yet racial politics had never played into our discussions. We had a primal connection that thrived within the confines of the house. When she wasn't being my
guardian or teacher, she was my ally in labor. Yet some internal defense mechanism warned me that Charlotte might have opinions on integration that threatened the boundaries of our world.