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

  The current season was mounting into full swing; the big extravagant soirées at the country club would soon follow, not to mention the lavish Mardi Gras bals masques. And, although she would be invited to many of these functions, LeeLee would have a simple, elegant ladies’ afternoon tea at home, hosted by her mother and grandmother, whom we all affectionately called Moozie. Vilma saw to it that her daughters had what she never did nor could have, whether they desired it or not. So the sprays of yellow roses matched the pale yellow silk of LeeLee’s hand-sewn gown, and when she was to be queen of a carnival ball, she would most definitely have the pristine white canopy from front door to curbside, even if Vilma had to sew it herself on the Singer. I always admired her graceful determination of will. Like mother, like daughter, like daughter.

  Moments after Mom and I breezed into Aunt Vilma’s parlor, a bright red Volkswagen bug barreled into the driveway, the horn tooting a high-pitched “shave and a haircut, two bits.” A few seconds later the kitchen screen door was flung open by my miniskirted cousins, Paula and Debbie. Paula, with a wickedly bawdy sense of humor and an infectious laugh, was my favorite babysitter. Her older sister, Debbie, was Twiggy-thin, high-strung, and artsy.

  Not a minute later, as if on cue, the front door opened and in sashayed Moozie, a zaftig but handsome woman with the silverest of silver hair intensely teased to create the perfect asymmetrical swoop, framing her heavily powdered face. Affixed on the bridge of her delicate nose—about her only physical attribute that could be described as delicate with the exception of her ankles—were glittering, rhinestone-encrusted, cat-eyed bifocals that she wore religiously until the day she died, thirty years later. Frantic kisses, bear hugs, cheek pinching, long legs, flaming red hair, and waves of Shalimar perfume filled the room as the iced tea, hot chicory coffee, and soft drinks were poured. We all gathered around the kitchen table as if assembling for some monumental news.

  Vilma, tapping her spoon aside a cut pressed glass, called the meeting to order. Mother sat up straight at attention and gave us the tilt, “Yes, Madam Chairman,” to a burst of giggles, which prompted Moozie to exclaim, “Now come on, y’all are just playing ladies.”

  This was Moozie’s usual response whenever anyone was goofing off or being silly, practices for which she had little or no patience. Moozie was a strong but loving woman who, at a very early age, worked to support her family during the Depression and on through the Eisenhower years, in a time and place where “ladies” didn’t labor. Singlehandedly she became the foremost dance maven of the Big Easy, at one time practically teaching all of the city’s children in one of her several successful studios. The iron-clad rules and regulations that she initiated for her schools reflected those she instituted for her family as well as her life. In keeping with her German heritage, they were to be followed and never bent or broken. She never really had the luxury to play, “ladies” or otherwise. I always adored the fact that the German translation of my beloved grandmother Moozie’s name, Hazel Nuss, is “hazel nut,” and adored my great-grandparents even more for having the rare sense of humor to name her just that.

  The room finally settled down long enough for Vilma to announce that her daughter, Alyce Leigh Jefferson, had been asked to reign as Queen of the Spring Fiesta the coming season, and although not a Mardi Gras social club, it was one in which some very “fine” families still participated.

  Annually, on a sultry spring evening, New Orleanian ladies and their daughters of age would, and still do, don antebellum costumes and, with their Ashley Wilkes–attired escorts, parade through the gaslit, decaying, narrow streets of the decadent French Quarter, fruitlessly attempting to revel in the traditions of the Old South. Girls on papier-mâché floats wearing hoop skirts trimmed with polyester synthetic blended fabric, lace and bows, would wave and toss daisies and gladiola stalks to the oblivious, inebriated tourists, the stoned, love-beaded hippies, and the sequin-pastied strippers of Bourbon Street. An odd combination of procession and audience at best. However, beneath the radiant sparkling of a flower-festooned rhinestone diadem, the view can be so much altered. Oh yes, the grand splendor of our long-lost Dixie was recaptured.

  In addition to LeeLee’s invitation, her sisters were asked to wear sherbet-hued gowns and be des demoiselles (ladies in waiting) in the court. But there was more. The monumental, life-altering information was yet to be dispensed. A hush fell over the bustling kitchen for a second time, as all the lightly mascaraed eyes in the room softly shifted and set their gaze upon me. Ceremoniously my mother rose, and I slumped as she announced, with a lump in her throat and a tear in her eye, “Dahlin, now it is my pleasure to announce that you, my sweet gallant son, young Bryan Mackenroth Batt, have been invited to have the honor of being the first-ever male page to the Queen of the Spring Fiestaaaaa!” Her voice rose to an effervescent cry of elation. Hugs from all the fair family femmes followed, as if I had just been inducted into an ancient, mysterious secret sorority. And I most definitely had, for as soon as the proclamation had been made I was instantaneously, and with gravest solemnity, sworn to absolute secrecy. Such information was considered top secret, hush-hush. The slightest slip of the tongue could render these illustrious invitations rescinded, annulling the social coup for which my aunt and mother had covertly campaigned, of having four family members in one court. Nevertheless, it was a court and a coup, and I accepted with pride.

  At school, I skipped through the checkerboard linoleum corridors with an impish grin that declared, I’ve got a secret, and I’ll simply burst if I don’t tell someone.

  The pressure of attempting to contain such vital and valuable data filled me with a fresh feeling of importance and belonging, but as the months gradually crept toward the blessed event, the desire to share my extraordinary information grew from a smoldering simmer into a raging, bubbling boil. But I kept my ever-flapping tongue from uttering a single syllable of my secret through Halloween, Christmas, and Mardi Gras.

  The single incident that propelled me over the edge took place at the home of Miss Inez, my grandmother’s confidante and seamstress for decades. The very moment I gazed upon the sketch of my glorious costume, a mid-nineteenth-century azure satin evening suit with a cutaway coat, a rhinestone-buttoned vest, a frilly white ruffled lace jabot, and a jaunty, deep velvet ankle-length cape, I was a goner. Mr. René, who was an old family friend and had designed numerous costumes and evening gowns for the ladies in our family for years, had created this vision for me. This was my first introduction to the fabulous world of art, fashion, and theatrical pageantry.

  As we sat in Miss Inez’s modestly decorated living room, cluttered with plastic statues of every Catholic saint imaginable, from the blissfully ecclesiastical to the absolutely tortured, the only audible sounds were the breathy whispered oohs and ahhs that accompanied the anticipated revealing, until Moozie broke through the wordless smolder.

  “I hate to tell y’all this, but that Mediterranean blue will just not show up under the dim gaslights of the French Quarter, no, it simply will not. We don’t want him to get lost against the night sky, not our boy, and since LeeLee will be wearing white, naturally, as will the two little girl attendants, I think Bryanny boy should wear the palest of blush pink satin. Yes, yes, yes. That will match the pink papier-mâché roses on the Queen’s float, and the little girls’ pink sashes. We really should phone Mrs. Fitzmorris and Mrs. de La Verne and get samples of the fabric so it all coordinates, there’s nothing I hate more than pastel color clash. Oh, and instead of daises they could toss baby pink carnations, they’re not that much dearer, and there is nothing I hate more than the stench of old daisy water.”

  I don’t recall any form of protestation. Why shouldn’t a six-year-old boy be dressed as a powdered pink pimpernel? Moozie’s vast knowledge of costumes and color palette was indisputable, as was her will. Therefore, Miss Inez mumbled her accord through a pin-filled mouth, and Mother, not one to dissent frequently from her mother’s judgment or the grave lapse thereof, grac
ed us with her signature tilt and smile of concurrence.

  Now there was no stopping me. I just had to tell someone about the parade and my costuming. I had to tell Leann.

  One of my most lasting childhood friends is Leann Opotowsky, a sharp-witted girl whose last name was forever unpronounceable by my parents. Aesthetically, we could have been siblings. She unfortunately shared my wide-mouthed cartoonish countenance. Luckily time and providence allowed us to evolve into more attractive young adults, with the obvious omission of puberty.

  Resolved to impart my most cherished confidence, I concluded the ideal moment would naturally be recess, as opposed to the silence of nap time or the furor of art class, in which I’d been painting crude yet colorful primitives of crowns, flowers, and hoop skirts for months. In retrospect, had Miss Fife, my teacher, been more of a climbing daughter of the Confederacy, she might have detected the glaringly apparent signals. Nevertheless, during cookies and milk I whispered to Leann that I had to tell her a GREAT BIG SECRET and to meet me at the beginning of recess at the top of the monkey bars. Because we were the most fearless scramblers in class, we could be assured of privacy. Secrets and the ability to both keep and share them are of great importance in kindergarten, as I was soon to find out. The hand bell rang out, recess was declared, and we raced to the jungle gym and began our ascent from opposing sides so that we would meet at the very apex, leaving the other children behind and below. There was precious little time for me to spill, so breathlessly I rattled off as rapidly as possible every last detail of the illustrious anticipated festivities, my majestic involvement, and the imperative call for confidentiality. It’s a strange lesson to learn so young, but one man’s fortune is sometimes another’s fertilizer. Leann’s wide-eyed, incredulous stare met mine as she shuddered.

  “That’s it? That’s your big secret? You’re going to wear a tooty-fruity costume and give flowers to complete strangers, and that is supposed to be fun? Whoop-de-do! I’d rather clean erasers.”

  Stunned and shattered, I could only muster a paltry retort. “Oh yeah … well, I get to miss a whole day of school.”

  “That,” she replied, “could be rather groovy.”

  “No duh, but you can’t tell anyone. I mean it. Not Miss Fife. Not even your mom.”

  She promised, but said that she found the entire affair “rather silly” and “rather unimportant.”

  At quite a significantly early age, Leann had modeled her persona after Kay Thompson’s “Eloise.” She had a little pug dog like Eloise, and a turtle like Eloise, and frequently overused the word “rather,” just like the mischievous, bobby-socked heroine of the Plaza Hotel.

  Descending the monkey bars, I felt slightly relieved to have finally told someone, but dismayed by her reaction, disappointed that she hadn’t found my news “rather fantastic and rather extraordinary, don’t you know.” However, Leann always spoke her mind and always kept her promise.

  Finally the anticipated day, April 23, arrived, and by the time I woke up, Jay was already on the bus to school, Dad had dashed off to work, and Mom was in the painstaking process of “putting on her face,” while Oralea, now cooking breakfast, had come to help with the frantic preparations and organization of the day. She was a diminutive, speedy, and dynamic cocoa-complexioned lady with a smartly cropped Afro slightly graying at the temples. The early symptoms of osteoporosis had given her a slight hump and a bowing of the head, so that her dancing eyes always appeared to be looking upward, focused to the heavens. She was the most requested caterer at the finest catering company in New Orleans, and she met my parents while arranging the trays of hors d’oeuvres for their engagement party. They took an instant liking to each other, and had gotten along beautifully ever since. No party or special day was complete without Oralea, and when, in years to come, we moved into a big new home of my father’s design, she decided to work for our family full-time. Although my mother was the “lady of the house,” it was Oralea who singlehandedly ran the entire show. I idolized her amazing coiffeuring skills. Throughout the week, her hair would change in length, cut, and color. I didn’t know then that they were wigs; I just thought she was incredible.

  She made the best sunny side up eggs, coddled in a pan of butter, alongside creamy cheese grits slathered with even more butter, and thickly sliced salty Virginia fried ham. While I lapped it up, she reminded me of my manners, telling me to slow down, this home isn’t a barn, to use my fork and knife, that they weren’t put there just for decoration, and then coyly declared, “So, little mister, tonight’s parade’s the big affair, you’re going to get all done up and ride that big ol’ float with your Nan-Nan’s girl LeeLee. Honey child, every eye in the whole French Quarter is going to be fixed on you.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that while a minuscule part of me was a tad apprehensive of the approaching parade, the vast majority of my small soul was consumed with the idea of being the focus of hundreds, possibly thousands, of adoring eyes. With a small dollop of cheese grits dripping from my chin and with a big inhale of the fresh balmy morning air, I sighed deeply and said, “Oralea, I just can’t wait, this is the most important day of my life.”

  She suddenly burst into peals of hearty laughter, with a cackle that would have silenced a hen house.

  “Ooh baby, I declare, what mess have they got you thinking?”

  She stopped for a moment, then smiled just long enough to show a glimpse of her big teeth, nestled down next to me in the breakfast room banquette, gently placed her forehead to mine, and whispered, “Listen to Miss Oralea, you live your life right, and almost every day can be the most important day of your life, you hear me, and you can take that advice downtown on the streetcar and deposit it at the Whitney Bank, for true.”

  She always had sage life advice that frequently blew right through my ears, but I loved some of her sayings. If someone wasn’t too bright, she’d say, “That child is dumber than a bucket of hair.” If someone would try to pull a fast one on her, she’d say, “Don’t sneeze on my cupcake and tell me it’s frosting.” Or if something struck her as odd or bizarre, she’d say, “’Tain’t natural, it’s like a chicken dating a dog.” Sometimes, though, I just didn’t get it. For instance, if she felt tired, she’d say, “Put tired on top of tired, and get your dancin’ shoes on.”

  “Now let’s get cookin’ with gas, Little Lord Fauntleroy, eat them eggs ’cause we got to get you all hosed down and dressed, then your mama’s taking you with her to the Hair-etage Beauty Salon to get all slicked up for tonight, and take those elbows off the table … Now where did your mama put them little pink roses for her hair?”

  With a flash, the room was filled with an asphyxiating blast of Lanvin’s signature fragrance, Arpege, as my frilly-robed mother swirled in. Restraint was not her forte, especially in the use of perfume; more was more, as was also true of my father with Dior’s Eau Savage cologne. It must have been the last remnant of French ancestry in their blood. In the car, the excess of aroma could prove lethal; we had to have my brother’s window rolled down, his round face to the wind like a pup, despite the raging heat or the gas-guzzling Cadillac air-conditioning system, in order to prevent an asthma attack.

  She had clearly interrupted her makeup ritual, because I could literally see only one eye and one brow painted on the blank canvas of her bisque-toned base. In one of her manicured hands she held a switch of black hair that matched her own color perfectly, and in the other a pair of white-ruffled pantaloons.

  “Lea!” the one-eyed woman exclaimed. “Where did we put the hoop skirt? I thought it was under the bed, but now it’s nowhere to be found, Bryan needs a bath, I look like a Cyclops, and our appointment with Philippe is in less than a half an hour, please Jesus don’t let it rain tonight.”

  Panic had obviously set in.

  “Now don’t get your liver in a quiver, keep your bees in your basket, and the dogs won’t bite.”

  “What?”

  “Keep your girdle on, missy. Go and finish up your pretty
little face, I’ll bathe the boy and find that hoop before you can eat a biscuit, and as for Philippe, let prissy-man wait. It ain’t like he got any more important hair to do all up today but yours.”

  “Dawlin, you’re an angel on earth, I Sewanee you are.” She blew kisses and whisked herself away.

  After my quick rinse, as Oralea went out back to the carport to sleuth the missing hoop, and while Mother was affixing eyelashes, a procedure that demanded the utmost concentration, I slyly retrieved the hoop skirt from underneath my bed. It’s strange, I had absolutely no inhibitions or insecurities about playing with the contraption, or wearing it, whether as a skirt or a giant mushroom-like costume. It was a fascinatingly fun new thing that, although linked to the wonderful world of historic feminine lingerie, could be so much more. But in the end, I unquestionably knew better than to enter my parents’ quarters and amuse myself with their personal effects without permission, so I stealthily returned it to its proper place.

  From the beginning, my parents made it clear that I could always confide in them. They were my parents and they loved me, no matter what. They were repeatedly tried and tested by both sons, and for the most part, they remained true to their promise. But in this case I remained silent. Later, when it was discovered in its proper dwelling back under my parents’ bed, no one bothered to wonder at this miracle amid the scurry and confusion.