She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Read online

  “Mom!” I screamed from the top of the stairs, “I found the show!” Bounding down into the den with the magazine in hand, I announced, “It’s got to be Gilda Radner Live from the Winter Garden.”

  “Okay, pet, I’ll call right now.”

  The show was a limited summer engagement and had been sold out for months, and seats were impossible to get, which was not sitting well with Gayle Batt. Never one to give up, she assured me that she would do everything to procure seats.

  Finally our travel day arrived. As usual, Mom was running late primping and last-minute packing, so there was some tension in the air as we got ready to go to the airport for our flight. People still dressed to fly in those days. I wore a tie. Eventually every bag was loaded in the massive trunk of the silver blue Fleetwood, and thanks to Dad’s lead-footed driving, we made it to Moisant Airport just in time to board the Eastern Airlines nonstop evening flight to New York’s LaGuardia Airport.

  “Jesus Christ, Gayle,” he sighed, “y’all have enough luggage for a grand European tour. You’re just going for a few days.”

  She smiled as she retorted, “Johnny, the Lord’s name, and it’s four days but six shows.”

  He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and said, “Son, whenever your grandfather would travel, he’d say, ‘Before you leave, make sure you’ve got your spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch.’”

  I chuckled, but of course Mom and Moozie each just raised an eyebrow. As we all hurried down the terminal to board the plane, Dad slipped me some cash and said to treat the “ladies” to a drink on the plane and to pay for all the cabs. Giving me a big hug, he told me to watch out for them and keep my eyes peeled, New York was a dangerous city. In a flash we were seated and airborne, holding hands as the plane rose over the orange and pink sunset-lit swamps and the dark waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

  As instructed, I treated my ladies to their cocktails, receiving adoration for my chivalry from the stewardess, and although we chatted about what we would see and Moozie and Mom recalled their many wonderful trips to the city, the flight seemed to take forever. I must have dozed off for a short while, only to be awakened by Mother tapping my knee softly, saying calmly but with a thrill in her voice, “Son, look at the lights.”

  It was a clear summer’s night, and the lights of New York glistened and twinkled more than the stars in the heavens, but it was just the beginning of the sparkle and wonder I felt. On the cab ride to the Plaza, Mom had the taxi driver pass Bloomingdale’s and designer boutiques and other famous locales, so that we would arrive at the Plaza’s front steps via glamorous Fifth Avenue. We had two adjoining rooms on the fourteenth floor, with breathtaking views of Central Park and the towers of the Manhattan skyline. I looked over at Mom, and she smiled. “Do you love it?” she asked.

  And without hesitation I answered, “One day I’ll live here, I’ve got to be here.”

  Her classic smile grew, maybe because there was yet another joy we could both share, or, more likely, that I was gently releasing the apron strings I had tied so tightly. After Camp Chippewa, the odds that I would ever stray from the side of Gayle Batt’s hoop skirt were slim, but all it took was a trip to the Big Apple and a Broadway show to snip them.

  At 10:00 a.m. sharp, we had a room-service breakfast and then we went to the Winter Garden Theater, where we were first in line at the ticket window. The marble lobby was much smaller than I’d imagined it would be, and I was taken by the photos of Gilda and Father Guido Sarducci on the walls. The blind rose on the advance ticket sales window, signaling Mom to make her move.

  “Hello, we would like three seats for tonight’s performance, please.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, the run is sold out.”

  Turning up the syrup factor on her Southern accent, she lilted, “Oh, dear sir, this is my son’s very first trip to New York and his little heart is set on seeing Miss Gilda Radner. Is there anything you can do? There must be some seats somewhere.”

  “Ma’am, it’s sold out.”

  “But we flew all the way from New Orleans just to see this show, and if we don’t, his little ol’ heart will just break. I remember my first show, Joan of Lorraine …”

  As she went on and on, telling the story in her most charming way, batting her lashes, I noticed him softening until finally he said, “All right, all right. Let me see what I can do.”

  He stepped away from the window back into the office, while Mom turned to me smiling and crossing both sets of fingers.

  The man returned. “Ma’am, this is your lucky day. I can give you three in the house left box.”

  “Give? Oh, you sweet thing, I insist on paying for them.”

  They both shared a laugh, and she paid for the seats and we were off to meet Moozie at Saks for a day of shopping. Mom never gave up, no matter what. Even if the answer was no, she would just keep on trying. Nothing was ever impossible, she’d say; just try a different approach. She could and still can get whiskey from a rock, as Oralea once noted.

  The rhythm and energy of the streets flowed through me like electricity. I’d never felt anything like it before. Not having had sex yet, New York was the closest thing. Saks was a revelation, with floor after floor of designers’ collections. Even the best stores back home were small, with only a few pieces from the runway shows, and here was the whole enchilada—every designer I had ever heard of was represented in a big splashy way. Amid the frenzy, and drunk with retail, we realized it was nearing five-thirty and the curtain was at eight, so we rushed to get a taxi, a futile attempt at that hour on Fifth Avenue. So we hoofed it back to the hotel to the strains of Moozie’s complaints about her knees and feet and why didn’t we think ahead, but I was high on New York, and was loving every rushed, wonderful moment.

  We arrived at the Plaza starving and exhausted. Moozie suggested that we order a light snack and get dinner after the show, so that’s what we did. She put her feet up for a moment, and then the flurry of the Southern belles preparing for a big night in the big city began. I showered and shaved the caterpillar over my lip, and hopelessly tried to make the part stay in my thick mane. I dressed in a pair of bright red sailcloth summer pants, a white button-down oxford shirt, and a red plaid madras tie and a navy blazer; I looked like a preppy nightmare. Uncharacteristically, Mom emerged first into my room with a waft of Trigère perfume she’d acquired earlier in the day at Bergdorf’s.

  “Darlin’, would you zip me, please?” which I did. “Now what about jewelry?”

  I quickly answered with transparent insincerity, “Mom, really, whatever you want, it doesn’t matter to me. Okay, triple-strand pearls, South Sea pearl and gold clips and brooch …”

  “Thanks, pet. Mother, are you almost ready? Bryanny boy, why don’t you go downstairs and get in the queue—that’s what they call it up here, it’s not a line, it’s a queue—for a taxi. As I recall, it’s murder getting a cab this time of night.”

  “Yes, but please hurry, I don’t want to be late.”

  She winked as she handed me the tickets. “Yes sir.”

  I was next in line—sorry, the queue—when the two magnolias appeared at the top of the red-carpeted stairway of the Plaza. They stood out from the crowd, but in a good way, a softer way. I couldn’t believe that Moozie was wearing white kid gloves.

  The taxi whisked us to the corner of 50th Street and Broadway under the great marquee with its enormous pictures of Gilda with her frizzy wild hair. Moozie took one look at the photos and said, “Oh God, I hope we are not seeing this show. That child is a mess. Does she even own a comb? Who in heaven would let themselves be photographed looking like something the cat dragged in, much less place it on the marquee of a Broadway theater?”

  Mom tried to intervene by softly whispering, “Now, Mother …”

  But the cabdriver beat her to it. “I hear ya, lady, I hear ya,” he said.

  The houselights were already blinking when we arrived, and we were guided to our seats by the lace-collared usherette. We passed
through the velvet curtains and up a set of stairs to the box seats. There were three freestanding chairs covered in the same velvet as the curtains; the usherette handed us our Playbills, and told us to enjoy the show before she closed the curtains behind her. Mom insisted that I push my seat to the front, and she and Moozie would sit behind. Meanwhile, Moozie went on about how she remembered seeing Al Jolson at this very theater, and Mom mentioned that they also saw West Side Story here as well, to which Moozie replied, “Oh, the dancing was just fantastic in that show, but talk about sad sad sad, I thought I’d cry my eyes out, remember we had to go to the Astor roof for a drink to shake it off?”

  Mom thought for a second, “No, Mother, I believe that was Death of a Salesman.”

  “You are right, how could I forget that giddy little romp! I don’t know why people write such depressing things. When I go to the theatre or movies, I want to be entertained and see beauty, not tragedy or, worse, vulgar language. Why can’t people say what they have to say nicely?”

  “Moozie, everyone’s taste is different,” I chimed in.

  Mom added, smiling coyly, “That’s right, Miss Hazel, something for everyone.”

  “Well, that’s all fine and dandy, just give me something pretty, that’s all I ask for, and please don’t make me think too much, let me just sit back and be entertained.”

  Just then the lights dimmed and the orchestra started to play. A rush of excitement shook me as I felt Mom’s hand gently patting my shoulder. The short overture stopped abruptly, a white-hot spotlight hit the curtain center stage, and out came Gilda to thunderous applause, wearing pink overalls and sporting frizzy pigtails. She began to sing a simple, juvenile-sounding little ditty, about talking dirty to barnyard animals:

  “Fuck you, Mr. Bunny, eat shit, Mr. Bear,

  If they don’t love it, they can shove it, frankly I don’t care. Oh …”

  At this very moment there was crazed laughter and more applause, but I feared that Moozie was going to grab me by the scruff of my neck with her gloved hand, drag me down the stairs, and put me in a cab home to New Orleans. Good-bye, city life. With great trepidation, I slowly turned my head to see both Mom and Moozie laughing so much that they were dabbing their eyes with their hankies. Safe. And so Gilda continued talking dirty to the animals, from the birds in the trees to snakes in the grass, and warning how never, ever to tell an alligator to bite her snatch!

  And thus my Broadway musical theatre cherry was officially popped.

  The rest of the show consisted of highlights of her great SNL characters like Emily Latella and Rosanne Rosannadanna. We all stood for the ovation, and laughed nonstop in the cab back to the Plaza.

  Years later, when Moozie was nearly bedridden and her memory was failing, she often asked me how that cute girl we saw in New York was doing. I never had the heart to tell her she had died so young.

  Spent from the day of endless shopping and sidesplitting laughter, we stumbled into our rooms and simultaneously realized we were starving. Mom suggested we call the famous Carnegie Deli and order some delicious pastrami or corned-beef sandwiches. This brilliant idea was unanimously and instantly approved. She called and ordered, then turned to me, tilted her head, and said, “Bryanny, would you be a heart and walk over and pick up the sandwiches? The gentleman—well, I really shouldn’t call him that, judging how short he was with me on the phone—well, pet, they are short a delivery boy, so honey, would you mind?”

  Moozie said sternly, “Gayle, are you going to let that boy out on the streets of New York at this hour? Have you lost your mind?”

  Mom replied confidently, “Mother, he is a young man. He is fifteen years old. Besides, it’s just around the corner on Seventh Avenue. He’ll be fine, won’t you, pumpkin-eater boy?”

  “Mom, if I’m a young man, then don’t you think ‘pumpkin-eater boy’ can be retired? Moozie, I’ll be fine. I’ll put on a tough New York City face. See!”

  I made the face that I’d been practicing in the mirror, like the glower of the GQ models I admired.

  “Oh, tomato, that will ward off the robbers,” Moozie laughed.

  Mom handed me the money from her handbag, and I was off. I crossed the street in order to catch another glimpse of the fabulous window display at Bergdorf’s. The streets were considerably quieter and less manic than during the daylight hours. As I progressed west on 57th Street to Seventh Avenue, the people on the street seemed to change a bit. This was the New York City of the late seventies, and two blocks west of Fifth Avenue was not what it is today. With each block I walked, I became more and more apprehensive under the stares of the citizens of the night. The moody model-man glower was not really working.

  At last I crossed the avenue and arrived at the Carnegie Deli, paid for the order, and started back to the Plaza, this time on the west side of Seventh. As I walked, taking big steps and increasing my pace, I noticed three tall figures coming toward me, and suddenly a great blanket of fear passed over me. I couldn’t turn and run, and there was nowhere to go but forward, but as they came toward me I realized they were women in extremely high-heeled platform shoes. As we passed, I tried like hell not to make eye contact, but somehow I was unable. A raspy voice growled, “Hey there, sweet meat, you want some sugar?”

  I kept on walking.

  “Hey, Mr. Red Pants, Mr. Little Red Riding Hood Pants, I’m talking to you, honey.”

  With that, I stopped dead in my tracks. They had to be talking to me. No one else on Sixth Avenue had Little Red Riding Hood pants on. Trembling, I turned slowly, losing my serious model glare, and I saw three of the most stereotypical New York City hookers in classic Sweet Charity poses, staring me up and down. They looked as if they had just walked off the set of Baretta.

  “Come on, baby, we won’t charge you that much.”

  Now visibly shaking and almost unable to speak, I stammered, “I-I-I beg your pardon?”

  “Ooooh, chile, this motherfucker got manners.”

  “Ummm, I, ahhh, well, I don’t think so, thank you anyway,” I managed to mutter as I turned to make a rapid exit.

  “Maybe you don’t like dark and lovely girls, is that it, baby? You don’t want my brown sugar?”

  Not wanting to offend her, and not knowing if they had weapons—not that they would need them, since I was as street-savvy as a debutante—I said quickly, “No, ma’am, that’s not it at all, actually I prefer … the uh … brown sugar, but I’ve got to bring these sandwiches to my grandmother.”

  The moment I said this, I realized that I was Little Red Riding Hood, as did my dark and lovely ladies of the night. They screamed with laughter as I ran away as fast as I could, and in the distance I heard her holler, “That’s okay, baby, I’ll take a rain check—and welcome to New York Motherfuckin’ City, have a nice day!”

  Mom’s on Five

  BY JANUARY of my sophomore year of high school at my beloved Newman School, I had evolved into a complete preppy, wearing colorful wide-wale corduroy pants even in the languid heat and humidity of New Orleans, Lacoste shirts under my oxford button-down, monogrammed starched shirts, penny loafers, and needle-pointed belts. Nothing, especially the elements, was going to stop my fashion drive. The look was safe and accepted in the Deep South in 1979, and at that point in my life, that was all I wanted. I continued to be my mom’s secret fashion adviser, though, and with her I was anything but conservative, pushing for a high-fashion Vogue look in every aspect of her appearance.

  My advice was paying off. For the first time in ages, her hair was capable of actual movement and, she confided in me, she felt attractive—and noticed by Dad and other men. A few months earlier, the Saks Fifth Avenue catalog arrived at home while Mom was in New York City accompanying Jay to his postgraduate year at the Lawrenceville School in New Jersey. This arrival was second only in anticipation and importance to that of the September issue of Vogue. I immediately called her to describe the outfit on the cover that she just had to have: a perfect fall-toned silk foulard paisley. She
did buy it, claiming Dad would kill her when he got the bills. The next day, she wore the stunning Anne Klein silk suit and Calvin Klein heels. Walking down Fifth Avenue with her, my brother was so stunned by some of the stares she received that he exclaimed, “Mom, did you see that? That man totally checked you out! No, really, top-to-bottom checked you out!”

  Even better, she wore the same ensemble for her flight home. Walking with confidence, she passed right by Dad in the airport terminal. He did a double-take, saying, “Baby, is that you?”

  Though she remained gracious and feminine, Mom had transformed herself inside and out. Her makeup, hair, and clothes had been updated, but so had her self-confidence. She knew it and loved it, saying to me several times, “Until you learn to love yourself, you really can’t love anyone else.” Dad’s health had also taken a turn for the better, and their relationship seemed much improved and more secure than it had been during the last few tumultuous years. Though my stomach turned a little whenever I saw their increasing displays of physical affection—the lingering kisses, pats on the tush, snuggles in front of the television set—I knew it was a good thing, especially for Mom. Finally, she was in the best of all possible places.

  Then, late that fall, Mom was scheduled for a “procedure” and had to spend the night in Baptist Hospital. She primped and packed her valise, and as I left for school, my parents told me to call the hospital at lunch or during my free period. The time came, and I called as requested, with no worries whatsoever. When I was connected to her room, Dad answered, and I noticed something strange in his voice, something I’d never heard before. He was crying. Nothing could have shaken me more.

  “Daddy, what’s the matter, tell me,” I gasped.

  “Your mother, she …”

  “What? Tell me!” I screamed, to the surprise of everyone in the Newman library.