She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Page 3

  Like the winds of Hurricane Betsy, we were soon racing southward to the famed beauty salon and antique boutique called Hair-etage, owned by Mr. Philippe. While the ladies waited for their cherished appointments, they could browse and purchase old Staffordshire porcelain figurines, silver Corinthian-column candlesticks, Louis XV crystal chandeliers, or, when seated under the streamlined, state-of-the-art hair dryers, they could experience the comfort of a newly upholstered and puffed-up bergère or a Queen Anne wingbacked chair. The only drawback to this mecca of beauty and art was the presence of a precocious boy dragged by his mother to witness and partake in an afternoon of hair-washing, combing, setting, teasing, and shellacking.

  “Now, doodlebug, when we arrive, please put on your best manners and behave like a good little gentleman, sit next to me and don’t run around the salon like a wild Indian. Mr. Philippe’s store is filled to the gills with very expensive things that we don’t want to break and have to buy and make Daddy very angry, do we?”

  “I promise to be good. Can we go to the Camellia Grill on the way home?”

  “If you wait patiently while I get my hair done, and sit still while Mr. Philippe cuts and styles yours, we will go to the Grill for hamburgers and chocolate freezes.”

  She should have known that even the tempting bribe of Camellia’s was not sufficient to ensure my complete cooperation; nothing on earth could be incentive enough to constrain my bull-in-the-china-shop reputation. These were the days prior to the mass dispensing of Ritalin. I know for a fact that as an infant, tiny shots of bourbon were mixed into my bedtime bottle, so I would not have blamed my parents if they had attempted to further medicate me. In retrospect, I was a super ball of energy, a Tasmanian devil on speed, and my boundless antics often elicited my mother’s highest curse: “Judas priest, son, can you sit still for a cotton-pickin’ minute, is that at all possible? I Sewanee, you and your brother are driving me to distraction!”

  Sometimes I thought that it might have helped release some of her mounting frustration and stress if she could just cry out the occasional fuck, shit, or piss, which I had mastered so effortlessly. Now I know that vulgar language is a nasty addiction for anyone, especially a preschooler, but I’m not completely to blame. Since my birth, I had repeatedly overheard alarmingly florid vocalization flowing from my father after his third J&B scotch on the rocks. He was a handsome, thunderous, imposing, manly man. Sentimental, he drank J&B scotch in honor of his two sons, Jay and Bryan, and by the ripe age of three, I had mastered gutter vocabulary. I didn’t understand the meaning of these words, but I fully grasped their dramatic impact on others, especially my big brother. He would frequently wrestle me beneath his husky frame and tickle me mercilessly until I’d expel a litany of expletives.

  “Shit, fuck, piss … shit, fuck, piss … damn it to hell … biiiiiitch!!!”

  When this would happen, Mother would explain that even though Daddy sometimes spoke like that, it was not proper language for a polite young boy.

  When she was a little girl, she never heard language like that. Her father, who had unfortunately gone to his reward long before I was born, on no account ever raised his voice, much less cussed. Never. Ever. Ever. “You must do as I say, doodlebug, and not as he does. Learn to control your mind, your tongue, and various other parts of your anatomy, and you’ll grow up to be a fine young gentleman, like your papa,” she reminded me. Those conversations never did much to curb my cussing, and I still think the occasional expletive would have done my mother good. But it’s possible her rosebud of a mouth was simply not capable of forming, much less verbalizing, the necessary sequence of consonants and vowels. Besides, if she did use such language, there probably wouldn’t be enough concealer to hide the cracks.

  SOON OUR BEIGE station wagon screeched into the manicured parking area of the Hair-etage’s sky-blue Victorian cottage. The scent of Confederate jasmine that enveloped every balustrade of the filigreed wrought-iron entrance stairway, coupled with the potted gardenia topiaries, topped by my mother’s overpowering perfume, made the air dizzying, and I was forced to hold her hand not just for parental assurance, but for sheer physical support.

  Upon entry, Mother was escorted away by salon minions to be shampooed, conditioned, and rinsed while I was fawned over, patted on the head, and seated in an armchair that was obviously a reproduction, along with many Highlights, Vogue, and Modern Salon magazines. All of these were entertaining, but soon I felt the instinctual desire to explore, and later was discovered with perm rods up my nose, imitating the walruses we had recently witnessed in the Audubon Zoo. Unlike the respective floral and spice smells of my mother and father’s toiletries, I preferred the strident chemical smells of perm solution, turpentine, or, better yet, the pungent and exotic aroma of gasoline. When confronted with a look that seemed to say, Silly monkey, what are you into now? I had no response but to pull the perm rods out of my nostrils and stammer, “Mom, you look beautiful.” To which the room of ladies collectively released an adoring sigh, all except the shampoo wench, Miss Amber, who had just about had it with my antics all afternoon. Mom did look stunning, though, even if she was my mom. Her raven hair was piled high, the swirls punctuated with baby pink sweetheart roses, and cascading down the left side of her neck was a cluster of sausage curls. It was the perfect marriage of antebellum and Vidal Sassoon. As she was seated to have her makeup retouched for the evening, Mr. Philippe swaggered in and made a musky appearance in the doorway. He was the model on which Warren Beatty must have based his character for Shampoo. He stood six foot two, with longish shaggy brown tresses, piercing blue eyes, tight, bell-bottomed, lace-up-crotched suede jeans, and open-shirted hairy chest. He was the antithesis of every woman’s husband in the room. They all secretly lusted for him. He knew it, and worked it. After circling around me at least three or four times, messing and tossing my bangs, his deep voice rasped, “So this is Mr. Bryan. How are you, little man? Fab hair.” He stopped dead in his tracks and started to shake his mane. “Oh, Gayle baby, I can’t do it, please don’t make me, I can’t cut it, you’ve just got to let it grow, grow, grow. If he were mine, this thick hair would graze his shoulder at the least.” He bent down and fixed me with a knowing stare. “You’d dig that, little man, wouldn’t you?”

  Before I could utter a single syllable of agreement, Mom chimed in, “Oh … uh … Philippe, baby, if it were up to me, I’d say … of course … far out … let it all hang … out.”

  Who was this flower-adorned impostor pretending to be my mother? She babbled on, “Philippe … baby … you know me … I’m … hip … hep … cool, but Johnny would never allow it. He’s kind of … you know … square.” Her index fingers tracing the shape in midair, she continued. “He likes his boys to look like boys, and no confusion. Dig? So please, honey … baby, for me, give him a boy’s regular number three, and slick it to the side. And Bryan, please sit still.”

  He complied reluctantly, trimming, cutting, and edging so that my white-walled ears as well as my previously hidden eyes would be completely visible, finishing off the process with pomade and All-Set spray against his will and better judgment. He was a firm believer that the wet head was dead, long live the dry look, but not in this case. Looking in the mirror, I saw my shiny black hair severely parted on the side and plastered down, set and sprayed into a Baby Hitler look. Why couldn’t I have cool hair and long sideburns like Mr. Philippe? But suddenly we were out of the salon, in the station wagon, and racing to the river’s bend. Over the years Mom would have many different hairdressers; it was the one relationship that she had serious trouble with, all her life.

  The Camellia Grill is the last of the countertop service diners in the Big Easy. Its daily specials, like slow-cooked red beans and rice with sausage or pork chops (traditionally served only on Mondays), are enjoyed by multitudes of locals and Tulane students, as are the fluffiest of omelettes whipped to soufflé perfection in blenders, the Camellia’s perfect hamburgers, and my favorite: icy chocolate freezes. But
the main attraction is the white-coated waiters and their grand presentation of drinking straws. With magician-like agility, half of the protective paper wrapping is sheathed away, and the red striped end is presented with a ceremonious flourish to the enraptured customer.

  While devouring what would have to suffice for supper, but not as elegantly and as “pinkies up” as Mother dined, I kept asking her why she suddenly changed the way she spoke and acted when Mr. Philippe winced at the thought of cutting my hair.

  “Dawlin’,” she said, “it’s not really white lies at all, no sirree, it’s like playacting, sometimes you have to pretend a little and tell people what they want to hear in order to get what you need or want. I know that must sound crazy, but it’s true, and it works. If it doesn’t, it sometimes helps to play dumb. Just look at how handsome you look with that perfect young gentleman’s haircut that both your daddy and I adore, if I didn’t quickly say something in a way that Mr. Philippe would appreciate, we might still be at his shop fretting over every last hair on your precious little coconut head and not enjoying these tasty treats.”

  That said, she picked up the crispiest French fry and bit it, smiled, and winked. Her unconventional methods strangely made sense, and in the future I, too, would sometimes call on these wiles to escape and avoid a sticky or possibly confrontational situation. Neither of us seemed to notice or pay any mind to the occasional stares we received from the other diners at the counter. After all, doesn’t every gluey-haired boy have a late-afternoon snack with his overly perfumed, coiffed, and florally adorned mother before dressing in attire one hundred years out of fashion?

  “Jiminy Christmas, lamb chop, look at the time, we’ve got to skedaddle on home or we’ll never ever ever be ready in time! Dear Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I realize you’ve got other situations to contend with, like the war in Vietnam, but please don’t let it rain tonight, not just for me and Bryanny-boy, but for LeeLee and all the other girls whose special night this is, thank you, amen!”

  As soon as she paid the lethargic keeper of the antique cash register and tipped Claude, our regular and masterful waiter, the glass-paneled doors swung open and we were off again, homeward bound at last. Speeding along Carrollton Avenue, Mother repeatedly asked me, as she would do for the rest of my days in the Crescent City, what I thought to be the most efficient route home, the highway or straight onward or the short cut. No matter what my response was, she would inevitably do the very opposite. She didn’t do this just with me or with directions; she’d ask almost anyone’s ideas on any subject, it didn’t matter who it was, a relative, a friend, or a stranger, receive their honest opinion, then take a completely different course of action. I guess she wanted to hear all possible options, make people feel that their views and thoughts truly mattered, then do exactly what she had planned from the get-go. Nevertheless we proceeded straight forth along Bayou St. John and City Park with the faint beginnings of a pink and mandarin sunset ahead.

  Our heavy oak front door opened to the tinkling sound of scotch, ice, and leaded crystal as Dad greeted us in his tuxedo. Obviously he had finished the daily afternoon checkers game ritual with my brother, from which, for reasons of immaturity and inexperience, I was often excluded. Dad bowed at the waist with a waving courtier’s gesture from his left hand, while his right clutched the tumbler holding the last sip of cocktail.

  “Welcome home, my royal family, what the hell took you so long”

  Mom fluttered hurriedly past him with a flash of a kiss, making a breathless comment about “watching the language in front of the B-O-Y.” She trotted down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder, giving her best tilt and lilt.

  “Boo, there’s no time to waste; I can get myself dressed, if Oralea pressed my pantaloons, and all you need to do is zip me, but in the meantime get Bryanny in his costume, it’s hanging in the hall closet, and please, pretty please, pour me a tall stiff one.”

  Dad made some remark about how he had a “stiff one” for her, and after a few moments of explanation, Mother finally understood the low-brow jest, sighed, rolled her overly painted eyes with disapproval, and disappeared into their bedroom. Although my father was not an active participant in the daily aspects of parenting, when his help was desperately needed, he always stepped up to the plate.

  I had just gotten undressed when I heard the loud, pseudo-operatic bellow of my father. He had obviously located my ensemble.

  “Jesus Christ, Gayle, did you fall out of a tree and hit your head? Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Pink? For crying out loud, what kind of boy—”

  “Honey, hush, there’s no time to argue, I tried like the dickens to get her to change her mind, but this is the color that Miss Le Blanc insisted on. Anyway it’s done, you know you can’t argue with the captain of a parade, much less that biddy. Now be a doll and fix me that cocktail, and dress Bryan, and what about Jay-bird? Is he dressed and ready?”

  She was on a mission of diversion, and in a race with her unyielding nemesis, the clock. She was in fifth gear and rapidly firing off her commands.

  Carrying a fresh scotch, Dad entered my small room with my costume in tow. Resigned, he surprisingly had little difficulty finessing the abundant snaps and hooks, each punctuated by a slight grunt and exhale of eighty-proof. I was soon complete, ankle-length rose-tinted velvet cape and all. The absurdity of my costume must have worn off, since Dad grinned and said, “Son, we are almost done. Hey, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it, but my feet show it, they’re such long fellows.”

  He chuckled, and although the joke was lost on me, I was eager for the opportunity to share a rare laugh with my father. Then he summoned my big brother.

  “Jay-boy, how’s that tie coming, come on in here, son, and show Pops how you’re doing.” Jay lumbered into the room, struggling with a hideous polyester maroon necktie that he had fashioned into what looked more like a hangman’s noose than a Windsor knot. Upon seeing me in full regalia, he gasped and laughed with such intensity that for a moment we feared the start of an asthma attack.

  “Oh … my … God … that is the most pansy-looking outfit I’ve ever seen!”

  Dad was in no mood to be reminded of how Liberace I looked. He sipped and grunted, “Son, go check on your mother.”

  “But, Pops, it’s pink, it’s sissy pink, and what kind of boy wears that kind of lacy stuff around his neck?”

  Having a notoriously explosive temper, Dad was now biting down on the back of his teeth, causing his jaw to jut forward in an instinctive reaction of absolute rage, traceable to other species of higher primates.

  “Godammit! Obviously your little brother does! Listen, son, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut up, go check on your mother, fill this glass to the top with J&B with three ice cubes, no more, no less, and fix that sorry-ass excuse for a tie. Now!”

  Jay bolted from the room, tumbler in hand.

  For a few moments there was just silence while Dad just stared at me. He bent down and placed his strong hands, like two huge bunches of bananas, on each of my frail shoulders, raised his head so that we were eye-to-eye, but no words were spoken, just a slight shake of the head, scotch-scented breath, and an expression of confused defeat. Then he asked for a hug. After which he rose to his full height, looked down at his silly son, once again sighing and slightly shaking his head, but no words.

  Jay, panting breathlessly, reentered my small yellow room with a brimming cocktail in hand as a peace offering, and as Dad fixed his tie, he eagerly added, “Pops, if you think Bryan looks stupid, wait until you get a load of Mom, her skirt can’t even fit through the door, how’s she gonna fit in the car?”

  “Trust me, son, knowing your mother, she’ll manage just fine. All right, boys, you know what the shepherd said?” That was our cue, so together we all chimed, “Let’s get the flock out of here!”

  Just then we heard the hysterical cry of my frantic and tardy antebellum-dressed mother, her usual lilting Southern accent now magnified by scotch whiskey and a
ncestral garb. We piled into Dad’s sporty forest-green El Dorado, Mom’s skirt taking up most of the backseat, leaving me just enough room so my cape wouldn’t get mooshed. Jay had to sit in front, and, owing to the high level of perfume, was allowed to roll the window down just enough so his nose could get fresh air, but so that the gusts of wind would not muss up Mom’s hairdo. On the trip down to the French Quarter, my parents discussed possible traffic-avoiding routes while they sipped from their “go cups.” Lead-footed Dad told Mom over and over how beautiful she looked, and like a teenager she flirted back, a pleasant change from the increasing bickering. The tide turned a little when he asked the cost of the new black velvet gown, but she appeased him by adding that she had reused and beaded the lace from her wedding gown as the trim, and the faux-silk clusters of pink roses were from the Oriental Trading Company, and cost less than a song.

  When Mom and I got out of the car, we were whisked away by a similarly dressed older woman. Before she joined her sister and comrades on their float titled “Mammy’s Little Baby,” Mom pulled out her pink lipstick from her dainty petit-point handbag, and, as she painted my naturally red lips pink, instructed me always to wear my white gloves while on the float, always to follow the Queen, cousin LeeLee, and help her with her long train, and, most importantly, to smile, smile, smile. Then she produced a flowery embroidered hanky for me to blot with, and she was off.

  Before I knew it, I was in a room filled with young ladies all dressed in hoop skirts trimmed in lace and flowers with matching frilly parasols in every pastel color imaginable. The scene resembled an explosion in a Deep South sherbet factory. Nothing was dark or severe. Light sky-blue and mint-green powdery eye shadows, frosted cotton-candy pink and coral lips, bashful peach and pale berry blushes were the tones of the fair maidens’ faces and gowns. I was ushered across the room to cousin LeeLee, who was a lacy white wedding cake, on whose bright red ringlet curls rested a rhinestone-encrusted crown laden with white orchids. She gracefully bent down, puddling her massive skirt to kiss me.