Story Girl (30 page)

T
HE THREE OF
us were snug, basking together in our separate worlds.

I was curled into my mother’s lap and Lucy was curled into mine. My existence had settled into something slightly manageable, and all of my own jitterbugs had finally scurried off.

“Did your grandmother tell you her secret?”

Crap
.

“Tracy?”

“No – she didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“She fell asleep.”

“Mary has a great deal of respect for you.”

My mother took a deep breath, about to pick up where Mary had dozed off.

“I don’t need to know, Mom. I mean she had a great life, a solid marriage – a perfect story, really.”

“Tracy – ”

“And she’s still evolving into this whole, spiritual being. So I don’t need to know. Actually, I think it’s best not to know because – ”

“Your grandmother was a prostitute.”

Lucy looked at my mother before I did. And suddenly, staring out the window became the most crucial thing to be done.

“By necessity – not choice,” she continued. “Your grandfather had that awful accident and could no longer work.”

“You mean when that tractor ran over him?”

“Yes, of course. What other accident would I be talking about?”

I tried to shrug but my shoulders felt heavy.

“Anyway,” my mother sighed, “they didn’t have insurance. And the wheat crops had spoiled. So after a couple of months of terrible stress, and living off of now and then charity, she explained her hardship to a couple of people, hoping to get cleaning work or childcare. Well, one of the men offered her a very large sum of money and…”

“And?”

“You
know
.”

I shook my head that I did not know.

“And anyway, Tracy – I’m not going to spell everything out for you… or position a key light.”

“Wait – you know what a key light is?”

“Well, I wasn’t hatched. Plus, last time I was at the library, I borrowed their book on film production.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. But let’s not change the subject.”

“I was kinda hoping we could.”

“Tracy, please.”

“Fine.”

So my grandmother reaches out for help, and some jerk decided it would be the perfect opportunity to exploit her. I wondered when the tingling would start, and what I’d have to slather myself with this time – I remembered seeing a jumbo jar of Miracle Whip in the pantry.

“It must have been terrible for her – I can’t even imagine it,” she said. “There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but they all seemed so inappropriate.”

Horrible prehistoric birds were getting ready to crash through our window. They would lunge first for Lucy but I would sacrifice
myself to protect her, allowing whole chunks of my flesh to be ripped clear off the bones.

“Just imagine how hard it must have been, Tracy.”

No, I didn’t want to imagine it – Mother! Didn’t want the visions of my beloved grandmother in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs, servicing men like they were on a conveyer belt
.

“Are you listening to me, Tracy?”

No, no, no!

More birds were gathering outside – that’s what we’d been watching for, waiting for all along.

“Tracy!”

“Well, Mother – was she a street walker, a call girl, or a member of an escort service?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I know. What else do you want me to say?”

“Just be serious for a minute.”

We both exhaled something akin to a gasp, and I wondered how my skin would react to the mayonnaise. Maybe a teriyaki marinade would better quell the coming prickle.

“Just hours ago, if you had put a whore in front of me, I would have judged her harshly.”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“Grandma’s not a whore.”

“I know that – sshhh, for God’s sake. That’s my point exactly, if you’d let me finish. I’m trying to say that I would’ve judged that person harshly. But not after listening to your grandmother’s story.”

Lucy and I didn’t move, silent witnesses to my mother’s off-the-wall attempt at empathy.

“I even have to admit something else.”

“What more is there to admit, Mother?”

“I felt what she did was rather
heroic
.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you being serious?”

“Very.”

Outside, the birds were changing course.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Was Grandpa’s farming accident after Dad was born?”

“Yes.”

“After Derek?”

“Tracy, relax – Derek’s a dentist.”

“So what?”

“He was able to buy his gal a new face.”

“Are you gonna tell Dad any of this?”

“Of course not.”

“Jenny?”

“No.”

“Probably best.”

She inhaled the skin on my forehead – an instinctive move from our early years – and I knew there’d be no hives tonight. I could only hope that my father was half as safe and warm as I was this instant.

“Tracy?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore. It’s like bickering with oxygen.”

“Maybe you should be the writer.”

Lucy’s purring increased in intensity. It was the most soothing sound I’d ever heard. She was offering us her cat approval, born of deep feline wisdom, assuring us that everything was still okay – just as it had always been.

My mother smiled at me triumphantly, “I’m glad you have a man.”

I smiled back, “Doesn’t mean you win.”

“How about a tie?”

“I can live with that.”

“What does he look like?”

“A Rob Lowe-Patrick Dempsey cross – with a subtle hint of Rick Springfield.”

“The gorgeous one who used to play the doctor on General Hospital?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good grief, Tracy. Wow.”

“I know, Mom – I know.”

I was dreaming before I fell asleep.

And in my dream, my mother and I were waking up. Waking with each other’s watery green eyes, seeing life through the other’s perspective. Back and forth we would pass the eyes, seeing it all again for the first time.

The world that anchored my dreams grew darker; somewhere on the outskirts of my consciousness, I knew that she’d just closed her bedroom curtain.

But soon the world consisted only of Lucy – she was a giant menacing stalker, but there were no more scary birds to chase.

chapter
44

I
SIMPLY COULDN
’
T
see my granny as a hooker.

The silver hair and worn hands kept throwing me off.

And that was a good thing. It meant that she’d neatly stuffed the last of my remaining pigeonholes.

The three of us were sitting around the kitchen table eating scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and things that looked like spongy English muffins. I was trying not to stare at the woman I now considered a bohemian sage, but the latest revelations only strengthened my curiosity. I tried to imagine her as someone other than the pretty dame who was content to sit and meditate beside duck ponds.

Such an intriguing character deserved a script of her own – someone who shatters all pre-conceived notions of, well, everything, and manages to save the universe in the process.

She would be the greatest anti-hero in cinematic history.

“Tracy, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“You’ve either got one eye closed or you stare at me at an odd angle from the side – using your peripheral vision.”

“Oh that. I was just trying to imagine you fighting everyone’s demons.”

“Everyone’s demons?”

“Yes – you help to slay them – because you’ve had experience with your own. It’s a new script I was thinking about writing. The Demon Slayer – metaphorical, of course.”

“Your mother told you about my past?”

“Yes.”

“Are you mad?” my mother asked, holding a dripping spatula of egg.

“No.” She turned to me, “What do you think of me now?”

“You did what you had to do.”

“You did exactly what you had to do,” my mother said. “You paid for all your husband’s needs, and you paid for your kids’ needs, and the mortgage and the utilities and the groceries.”

My mother shook her head in amazement, “You did it all, Mary. And I can’t even comprehend how you did it. How you managed to give away what, you know, what you had to give away. You’re like some sort of superwoman.”

As my mother lavished her former rival with genuine praise, her entire presence seemed to lighten – as if she’d just unloaded a huge burden of invisible bricks.

“Did you have regulars?” my mother asked.

“Yes, I had a very small roster of repeat people.”

“People?” I asked.

“Men, Tracy – I never had any lesbian johns.”

It was such an astoundingly absurd statement to hear – from the same woman who’d once powdered my belly – that I had to pull at a hangnail to keep from erupting in a wild dance and tearing out my hair.

“Where did this happen?” my mother asked.

“There was a local truck-stop. It was very clean, safe. I know you don’t want to hear this, Tracy – but they actually served decent cuts of meat. Fresh vegetables – nothing canned. The owner of the place understood my jam. Kept my cover discreet.”

“Did they all pay the same rate?” my mother asked, as if inquiring about a currency exchange.

“Most did, although one man in particular paid triple. He would also bring fruit baskets and tickets to hockey games and horse shows. He even bought that pram I gave you for baby Tracy.”

“He bought her
pram
?” my mother asked, in awed wonder.

“What the hell’s a pram?” I asked. “It’s not like a prom, is it? Because I never went to mine.”

“We know you never went – you had that tummy upset thing,” my mother said. “Your grandma’s talking about that beige buggy of yours. You slept away half your babyhood in it.”

“That thing with all the ladybugs?”

They both nodded.

“What else did he buy me, Grandma?”

“He bought you a month’s supply of formula when your mother was having a hard time with her nipples.”

“He bought all that
milk
too?” my mother asked. “And here I always thought you were secretly wealthy.”

“What happened to your boobs?” I asked.

“They broke down for a bit, Tracy – too much stress.”

“Why didn’t Dad buy the formula?”

“We had no money that year. Countless problems with the truck.”

I had to wonder what Peter Republican would think of my entire cache of infant needs being so generously supplied by the Christian kindness of my grandmother’s trick.

“Sounds as though he loved you?” my mother asked.

“Oftentimes we would only make conversation. His wife was also very sick – a hardening of the lungs. We had all that in common. And he was so emotionally consumed by her condition that he had odd looking marks all over his body.”

“Were they hives?” I asked.

“Perhaps.”

“He loved her greatly,” she continued. “But when she died, I knew that he relied on my companionship.”

“Is that what you considered it all?” my mother asked. “Companionship?”

“Sometimes, but sometimes it was just sex.”

I was actually starting to feel a good sort of tingling – almost the light, airy feeling one gets after a strenuous cardiovascular workout.

“And he left me a considerable amount of money when he died.”

“Did you ever love any of them, Mary?”

“No, not in that way. My husband was always the one.”

We all took a breather, and I realized I needed to re-create this entire scene – beat for beat.

“Could you pass me a crumpet, Mary?” my mother asked.

“A crumpet from a strumpet,” she said. I watched in amazement as she put a hand over her mouth and adjusted her false teeth.

“I’m so impressed that you can be self-deprecating about all of this.”

“I try to hold things lightly. It’s just life, Joanne. When you see your own curtain preparing to drop, you either find the humor or slog out your final act with Mr. Despair.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Your character – the demon slayer – would bring light to the shadows and depth to the one-dimensional.”

“I can hardly wait. Who’d play me – Vanessa Redgrave?”

“I was thinking Shirley MacLaine.”

“Okay, ladies!” my mother said. “I’m gonna do a little grocery shopping – make us all a big spinach salad and some beet tacos.”

“I think I’ll go with you,” Mary said. “We can try that new coffee shop – heard they have a mean butter roll. We’ll go in my car.”

“Awesome,” my mother said. I had never once heard her use that word before.

“Do you want to come with us, Tracy?”

“I think I’ll just stay home and do some writing.”

“Well then, by all means – we won’t keep you.”

I watched as they gathered their sweaters and purses, bubbling over with a laughter only they could really understand.

“And Tracy?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Make it a block-buster.”

My deconstructed mother closed the door before she could see a smile the size of a crater crack my face wide-open.