She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (11 page)

“There is a limit to what a single solitary eyelid can
bear,” Moozie declared as they both giggled like schoolgirls.

“Oh, sister, come on, it’s just a little cat-talk, and honestly, Mother, you were in rare form, two for two!”

Mom thought for a second, and shook her head softly. “You know, I never could gossip, I just don’t like it, ever since I was a little girl and Reverend Storm gave that sermon where he talked about how gossip was like cutting open a down pillow on a windy day, and trying to take it back would be like getting all those feathers back in the casing—impossible, and just because of a few words. Well, I don’t want them to talk about me that way, especially now, so how can I?”

“You know I was just trying to make you laugh, take your mind off things,” Vilma defended.

“I know, and I love you for it, both of you. But that woman is hurting, and so am I, we just show it in different ways.” She took a long sip of her Bloody Mary, then popped an anchovy olive in her mouth and continued, “Dr. Waters calls that compensating; some people go overboard in the opposite direction to avoid the truth. He says it’s a manifestation of—”

Moozie interrupted, “Oh, for crying out loud!” Just as Nelson arrived with their meal, “And thank the Lord, Nelson, you got here just in time.”

While Moozie was diverted by the appetizers, Vilma winked and shrugged to Mom as she had done since they were children, and Mom returned the gesture; it was their code, their mutual comment on their mother.

After the delicious meal and café brûlot dramatically
served flaming from a silver bowl with awe-inspiring ladle dexterity, the ladies made their way to Canal Street, to Adler’s, for the true purpose of the mission.

Mom paused for a moment under the grand bronze clock that landmarked the classic nineteenth-century structure, but instantaneously her cohorts locked arms on either side and marched her through the heavy glass doors, up to the main jewelry counter, where Mr. Wally stood poised for the sale.

He smiled. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Batt, ladies. How may I assist you today?”

Then the feeding frenzy began. Brilliant diamonds and creamy pearls can sometimes take one’s mind off the everyday pains of life, at least for a few minutes. Some women have a weakness for shoes, some for designer clothes, some for furs. My mother’s passion is jewelry; she simply adores it. Mr. Wally presented diamond clip earrings set in gold, composed of many pear-shaped, top-quality stones that fit the shape of her ear to perfection. “Those will do,” she muttered. “To be honest, I’ve had my eye on these for a while.” The suggestions and commentary came rapid-fire, so much that Mr. Wally didn’t know whom to answer first, nor could he get a word in edgewise.

“Those are
heaven.”

“You think so? They’re not too much?”

“John will kill me.”

“Just let him try.”

“Oh, look at those, my stars, they are breathtaking, how many carats?”

This banter and flurry continued for what seemed like
an eternity for Mr. Wally, but it was really under an hour. In the end, the girls decided on the diamond and gold clips, because they could be worn during the day to a dressy luncheon. However, Moozie made it clear that she didn’t care for the new jewel rules; diamonds were not for day-wear, despite what the Duchess of Windsor said. But they were all in agreement on the pearls, a double strand of opera-length with a diamond and gold clasp that complemented the earrings and allowed many options for wear.

Mom nodded. “Thank you, Wally, you have been a dear, I’ll take it. Oh, and ‘house charge’ Pontchartrain Beach. Please make sure the bill goes to my husband’s office.”

“That’ll get him,” Moozie whispered.

When they arrived home, Mom’s face lost all color as she saw my father’s car in the garage. She started to sink, but when Moozie stopped, she quickly hopped out, thanking them for everything but explaining that she had to do this alone, no matter how difficult.

They blew kisses and lovingly told her she would be fine, to just stand her ground, and call as soon as possible. Carrying her handbag on one arm and the small shopping bag on the other, she approached the front door and, rather than ringing the bell, began the characteristic fruitless search for her keys, when Dad suddenly opened the door.

His face was drawn and his eyes glassy and bloodshot, but not from drinking. She stared into his eyes, eyes that she had loved since her junior year at Newcomb College. She stood at the threshold and looked at their home in
a completely different light. She asked softly, “Where’s Oralea?”

“I gave her the afternoon off.”

“Where are the boys?”

“Riding bikes. I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”

She stepped into the foyer, letting the door slowly close behind her, not saying a word.

“She means nothing to me, it was only once.”

“Once was enough.”

“I never meant to hurt you, you are the only woman I’ve ever loved, please forgive me.”

Even though his words sounded clichéd and cinematic, his delivery was sincere. She knew this man, now she knew even more, maybe more than she wanted. She had heard of other men’s affairs, and had thought it could never happen to her, but it had. But that was just it, it had, past tense, and it would not happen again. Somehow the words just came out. Although she had rehearsed a perfect rant in her head, the words were soft but crystal-clear and sharp as razors.

“I will be able to forgive you, one day. But I swear, John, if you dare do it to me again, you will regret the day you were born. Now, we will never speak of it again in this house.”

“Never?” he asked hopefully, questioning his good fortune.

“Oh darling, we will discuss it, once every week, just not in this house. I called Dr. Waters and he has recommended a marriage counselor, so now we will have a
standing appointment. And if you are a good boy, I may one day let you take me to lunch before it.”

“All right.” Dad sighed. He didn’t like it, but it was fair. A few tense moments passed, then he noticed the Adler’s bag.

“Honey, what’s in the bag?”

“Just a few baubles to help ease my pain.” She turned to face the gilded mirror above the console, opened the boxes, and slowly adorned herself with the new gems. “I hope you don’t mind, I sent the bill to the beach.”

“But Gayle, how am I going to explain that to Dad?”

She spoke to the reflection in the mirror. “I honestly don’t know or really care, but somehow I have a feeling he’ll understand, Johnny. Have you taken a good look at your mother’s brooch collection? Look at the fire in those diamonds, five carats total.”

“Okay, honey,” he said, as a sad smile came across his face. He had loved giving her jewelry in the past, having helped design special rings for anniversaries or charms for her bracelet celebrating special occasions, but there was no joy in this.

Mom’s eyes filled with tears as she gently removed the glittering ear clips, tilting her head left to right, as she softly said, “And they go back to Adler’s tomorrow. Every sparkle of every diamond will just remind me of this, and I don’t want to celebrate it, I want to bury it.” She stared in the mirror a few moments longer, lifted her head, and announced, “Except the pearls, they don’t sparkle, they luster!”

M
OM NEVER LET
herself go entirely, but she’d developed a progressive lapse in fashion judgment that weighed heavily on my prepubescent brain. And ever since meeting Aunt Gretchen, I was inspired to transform her. Mom’s hair was teased, coiffed, and varnished, and her makeup and nails were always polished and painted to perfection. She was at the height of 1960s style. Unfortunately it was the Year of Our Lord 1976. An entire decade had passed with unfortunately only a few very minor adjustments. Truth be told, I didn’t want her to be embarrassed, but moreover, I didn’t want to be embarrassed. Puberty and braces are quite enough, thank you. By junior high, I had become extremely clothes-conscious. I had to have the right Izod shirts and the right Wallaby shoes, conforming to the trends set by the Newman upperclassmen. At bedtime I would pick out my ensemble for the next school day before watching Johnny Carson on my tiny black-and-white Sony.

I extended this love of fashion and concern over appearance to my mother. I knew she shouldn’t wear what the kids were wearing, nor should she dress as an identical twin of her mother, but at the same time I somehow knew there had to be a happy medium, a more progressive fashion-forward image for her. It was the age of the natural look, peasant flounced skirts with boots, wrap skirts, and macramé belts. I noticed these fashion trends from the high-end extreme of Aunt Gretchen to the varied looks on the street and in the department stores, and although Mom was in her early forties, her look had become that of a matron. She seemed sadly stuck in a time warp. Double-knit A-line dresses with matching jackets and handbags only Queen Elizabeth would consider. It was crystal clear that Mom was out of step, not herself, and needed a personal stylist, but who could it be?

Remodeling and updating my mom’s look became my personal crusade. Rule number one, the very first commandment: never wear the same dress as your mother. And that rule applies to everyone. Other rules and ideas would come as my fashion education progressed. For example, I soon realized that frosted lipstick was definitely out.

Uncharacteristically, Mom eagerly embraced the chance to change. The self-help movement was sweeping the nation, and books like
I’m OK, You’re OK, Jonathan Livingston Seagull
, and
The Sensuous Woman
were on the best-seller lists. Mom got swept away.

First she tackled her weight. Gloria Marshall lady’s spa, where a multitude of machinery jiggled the fat away, was
contacted and frequented. Soon there were exercise devices at home. One such engineering marvel resembled a chiropractic table where three separate Naugahyde-upholstered platforms would simultaneously gyrate in opposing directions. The other involved a large strap attached to an even larger vibrating apparatus worn around the waist or posterior, which virtually shimmied the excess pounds into oblivion. I think the latter was invented for men’s viewing pleasure just as much as for ladies’ fitness.

But that wasn’t enough. Over the next several months, Mom ingested heaps of an amino acid and liquid protein supplement concoction and was injected weekly with a now illegal dietary substance, administered by a physician of questionable credentials in the far-off suburb of Kenner. Her figure and her long-lost body image eventually returned.

But hers wasn’t the only metamorphosis that summer. I finally started to develop a caterpillar above my upper lip, as well as hair under my arms and “down there.” My whole face started to change for the better. As a child, no matter the season, my complexion was bright white, with flushed cheeks, crowned by a moppish shock of thick jet-black locks that genetically fell straight into my eyes above a red-lipped, oversized mouth. I was a cross between a black Labrador retriever puppy, Jerry Lewis, and a clown. I thanked God that a new look was on its way, even if it did include a uni-brow. I constantly prayed that if I had to be hairy, please let me look like Mark Spitz or KC of KC and the Sunshine Band. The only problem was that my voice had not started to change yet, and it infuriated me when Mom’s
friends would call, and I’d be mistaken for the “lady of the house.”

When I wasn’t just hanging out watching TV, riding bikes, climbing trees, or making tapes with my childhood pal Chucky, I would covertly sneak away and pedal to the Lakefront neighborhood’s overpriced drugstore, Krown Drugs, and “house charge” fashion magazines to “the Beach.” I was sure to say, “They’re for my mom.”

And the gum-smacking checkout chick, with a hairstyle three years even more out of date than my mom’s, would smile and coo in her perfect “Yat” accent. Derived from the phrase “where ya at,” Yat is a colorful vernacular dialect of the Big Easy.

“Na ain’t you a sweet lil dawlin’ hawt you.”

The Yat accent sometimes is reminiscent of Brooklynese, slowed down with a thick, lazy Southern drawl.

Nevertheless, I had my copies of
Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar
, and the most European,
L’Officiel
, and the great work of fashion had begun. I pored for hours on end over the collections, fascinated by the different styles of the designers and the use of fabric, as well as the fantastic photography of masters like Avedon and Scavullo. There was something very provocative and sexy about the editorial photography and the dramatic scenarios on the glossy and addictive pages of these publications. A new, exciting, glamorous world, one that took me away from the sometimes difficult and awkward world of thirteen. Very soon I could identify an Oscar de la Renta even among a grouping of Yves Saint Laurent, Scassi evening gowns, and could tell the difference between Calvin and Anne Klein. They
were not related, you know. Reading these magazines, I noticed all the great stores that advertised in them: Saks Fifth Avenue, I. Magnin, Bonwit Teller, Nieman Marcus, and Sakowitz. Assuming the selection of designer fashion was greater in these bigger cities, I called information, got the numbers, and then dialed long distance. When the operator answered, I asked, “With whom do I speak about receiving your fashion catalog in the mail?”