She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Page 5

  One October afternoon, after my weekly session with Dr. Sugar, Mother, late as usual, retrieved me from in front of the weathered shotgun, with my brother in tow; we raced to my grandmother’s home on St. Charles Avenue to have quick po’boy sandwiches for dinner from Steven and Martin’s restaurant across the street, before heading on to church for the Fall Fair rehearsal.

  Every autumn, Moozie would put together a small talent show for our church’s tiny Fall Fair. Basically it was a recital of old dance routines she had staged in her heyday, usually to recordings of “Alley Cat” or “Hey, Look Me Over.” She would kindly find a place for anyone who wanted to participate in the review as long as they followed her strict rules of practicing and punctuality. Unfortunately, much to her chagrin, her immediate family was usually remiss in both. Once in the church recreation hall, Moozie took the young group to a separate area to practice. Moozie’s fabulous sister, Aunt Norma, who dyed her hair blond and wore pantsuits, took the adults to another room, and Mom and I, along with my beautiful cousin Donna-Gayle—or D-G as she was called—went to the nursery-school room to rehearse our special secret dance.

  D-G was the eldest of the grandchildren and had the best blond flip hairdo, like Elizabeth Montgomery in Bewitched, with whom she was often compared. In 1970, that was a huge compliment. I loved the fact that she dug rock-’n’-roll music, that she dressed fashionably mod, and that her skirts were a little bit shorter and her heels a little bit higher than the other girls’. She worked at New Orleans’ finest department store, D. H. Holmes, on Canal Street, and it showed.

  Entering the Jackson Avenue Evangelical Church of Christ’s nursery school, I felt nostalgic. Strange that a first-grader would have nostalgic feelings; however, I did. But there was work to do. Our dance number was to be the big finish, and it had to be a smash. Once again I was sworn to secrecy so that the special effects would have maximum impact on the audience. D-G and I were to dress up as skeletons and do a comic routine to Mancini’s theme from The Pink Panther.

  I loved the concept, and was thrilled to have the privilege of starring in the big finale with my cousin, but there was more, much more—the costumes. An artist friend of my dad’s agreed to paint the masks and black leotards with fluorescent paint and to place three large blacklights at the lip of the stage so that when we were illuminated, all the audience would see was dancing bones. Consumed with excitement, I found it hard to concentrate on the steps even though they weren’t that hard, just a lot of flap-ball-changing and heel-step-shuffle-stepping. The best use of the glow-in-the-dark effect was sure to be when we lifted off our large skull masks and tossed them back and forth.

  After quite a while we took a needed break. Donna lit a long Virginia Slims menthol, and she suggested while inhaling, “Nan Nan, we ought to jazz up this number a bit, don’t you think? I mean some of these steps are just a little …”

  “Square,” I chimed in.

  “Exactly,” D-G agreed, with an explosion of mint-scented smoke. Fanning the smoke away, she continued, “I just saw the most fabulous movie, Cabaret, starring Liza Minnelli, who was fantastic, and it was directed and choreographed by Bob Fosse. They did these really cool steps like this … and this … and this!”

  She demonstrated all the sexy, hip-popping signature movements of Mr. Fosse, each step growing more raucously bump-and-grind than the juicy one before. Epiphany. Once again I had a calling. I couldn’t sit still, I had to try it, so I joined in with Donna and shimmied, pelvis-thrusted, and gyrated my heart out, until Mom gently stopped the phonograph and tilted her head.

  “Sweethearts, I have to remind y’all that we are still in a church, so let’s tone the Fosse down. Now you know Moozie will never go for that style of dancing. Okay, maybe the shimmy and sexy walk, but Donna, honey, she’d never let you do all that hip-shaking in front of the congregation, much less Reverend Murphy.”

  “But Nan-Nan, you’ve got to see this movie, I know you saw the Broadway show a few years ago, but the film is a blast. Bryan would love it, it’s got all those great show tunes and Joel Grey as the Emcee, and if Liza Minnelli doesn’t win the Oscar, well, something’s wrong with the world. Why don’t you take Bryan to see it? It’s all singing and dancing, you’d flip, let’s all go, I’d love to see it again myself!”

  Nothing in the world was going to stop me from seeing Cabaret. Nothing. So I glanced upward to heaven, stared at the portrait of the Savior above me, and quickly and solemnly prayed for divine intervention and permission to make the pilgrimage. As I blinked, he seemed to nod, smiling his approval. My eyes slowly descended from the apparition and focused upon another, more tangible deity in maternal form.

  “Mother, please take me. I’ve got to see Cabaret, I’ll die if I don’t, please take me, oh mama, pleeease!” This was to be my mantra, until she acquiesced.

  Smiling softly and shaking her coiffed head, Mother calmly explained to us that some of the show’s subject matter was most definitely inappropriate for a young boy on the verge of seven, especially the blatant promiscuous S-E-X, and especially the blatant H-O-M-O-S-E-X-U-A-L-I-T-Y references. Furthermore, she explained, I was more of a Mary Poppins or Sound of Music kind of boy. But Donna sweetly assured Mom that all that S-E-X stuff would fly over my head—which was true—and I would really dig all the singing and dancing and big, splashy musical numbers.

  Over the course of the coming weeks we wore down Mom’s resistance to the movie and the new moves for our skeleton dance. I even solicited the support of Dr. Sugar. When Mom would frequently excuse herself to the “little girl’s room” to “tinkle,” D-G and I would run our bawdy alternative steps. She would show me what Joel Grey did in the film, and then she would emulate Liza.

  “Bryanny boy, let’s take it from the bridge, and hip, hip, shoulder-roll back, eight-ball corner pocket, and bump it to the other side. Man, I tell you, it’s going to be a gas doing these sexy moves for all those uptight churchy folks, and when we break out all loosey-goosey and go to town during the funky section, they are going to get so bent!”

  I loved the groovy way she spoke, and often tried to incorporate some of her hip words, such as “funky,” into my everyday vocabulary. She never treated me as less than an equal, never as a little boy. I wished that she were my sister.

  I suppose our nagging, in conjunction with Dr. Sugar’s input, finally wore her defenses down, for Mom finally informed us that after Sunday school and Sunday brunch at Moozie’s, we would all go see Cabaret together. Thus the seemingly endless countdown began.

  Rehearsal after that point was a lost cause, and I was grateful that I only had to wait less than twenty-four hours; otherwise the anticipation would have been unbearable.

  EVEN THOUGH IT was mid-October, we sat sweltering in the unseasonable swampy heat in the back of the station wagon, awaiting my habitually tardy mother. Dad rarely accompanied the family to church; he believed that since God was everywhere, he could worship in the comfort of his bed and watch the game until the morning pains subsided, with his personal hangover remedy, a Heineken. Without any warning, a whirling dervish of coral-tinted shantung silk flew into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and was met by desperate cries for air-conditioning and our favorite radio station, WTIX.

  “Boys, hold your horses, I’ve got it covered. Now should I go out the interstate, or the back way?”

  Jay said, “Mom, take the highway like we always do, it’s not a school day so there won’t be any traffic. Jesus, Mom! Is there any perfume left in the bottle? I can’t breathe, roll down the windows before I have an asthma attack!”

  As he started to wheeze, she retorted, “Dawlin’ I’m so sorry, but let’s not take the Lord’s name in vain, especially on His day, He doesn’t ask us for much and I think it’s the least we can do, to praise His name, not defame it.”

  “Okay, Mom, but please roll your window down before I die, and step on it, you know how I hate to walk in late.”

  I was in complete agreement. Walking l
ate into church was most embarrassing, as we were obligated to sit in the front pews with Moozie and my uncles and whatever other family members happened to attend on that particular Sunday.

  We were always dressed up in conservative coats and ties, even in the deadly heat of summer. Soon we would develop a frightening seventies style, which, thanks to the God to whom we were about to pray, was short-lived. Fashion plate that she was, Mother’s attire was often a bit more outstanding and grand than the rest of the congregation’s lesser sense of style. Today she was a vision in coral, with the perfect matching shade of lipstick, tan ostrich pumps, and a matching handbag. I believe that if she could have gotten away with wearing a ball gown to church, she would have done so in a New York second. In her mind, I’m sure it was one of her ways of celebrating God’s creation, especially all things pretty. Luckily this tendency toward vanity was entirely offset by her selfless generosity.

  We arrived mid-procession of the feeble and deafeningly off-pitch choir, and had to follow behind them in humiliation to the forwardmost pews, only to be met by the stern stares of Moozie and the rest of her brood. Her exasperation didn’t last very long, and she pinched our cheeks and quietly kissed us hello. Under her breath she petulantly asked our mother, “Gayle, can you ever be on time? What was it today?”

  “Asthma attack.” Mom looked to Jay and winked, and his eyes rolled as he stifled a grin. Moozie abruptly dropped her accusing tone and reached over to pat Jay’s thigh.

  “Oh, tomato, I hope you’re feeling better, because I made you your favorite pie.”

  “Banana creme?”

  “That’s right, baby doll, banana creme.” With that she leaned back over to Mother and whispered, “Honey, you have an extra cup of coffee at fellowship time, I’ve got to stop by Gambino’s bakery and pick up a banana creme pie.”

  Church was more unbearably boring than usual. Reverend Murphy was an inspiring, motivating, and extremely handsome minister. He was commandingly tall, with a resonant baritone, and wore a black pompadour coif with cool long sideburns. He resembled an older Elvis, if Elvis had stayed in shape. He was extremely popular with the ladies of the church, but even more so with the men. I rarely understood the sermon at this age, maybe due to the King James translation. It wasn’t until years later, when Reverend Murphy introduced the congregation and the growing youth group to a more contemporary version of the Bible called The Way, that I was able to comprehend his heated and impassioned preaching. Then I followed along; I would make sure that my soul would never burn for eternity in hell. But today, no parable or psalm could take my mind off Cabaret.

  The family brunch at Moozie’s after church was typically dysfunctional, but that never diminished Moozie’s determination to keep her family united despite its own reluctance. So almost every Sunday we would commune. Holidays such as Christmas Eve, Easter, and Thanksgiving, when tensions would normally escalate, went surprisingly smoothly, as long as my mother did not have to cook. The other family holidays, like the Fourth of July, Labor Day, and Mardi Gras, were disastrous, maybe because the festivities traditionally took place outdoors; my family did much better indoors and near a wet bar. Happily, today was to be free of any turmoil, and soon we were all filled with anticipation, headed for the Lakeside Cinema.

  For the last two weeks, whenever we drove past the theatre, I was mesmerized by the giant cutout of Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles, dressed in her purple halter top, hot pants garter belt, fishnet stockings, derby hat, and huge, spidery eyelashes. And now, with tickets and popcorn in hand, we made our way into the sparsely populated cinema, finding great seats in the center, a whole row to ourselves. It was just D-G, Moozie, Mom, and me. The ladies chattered away about cousin so-and-so’s new hairdo, and what they thought of the sermon, until suddenly the General Cinema’s signature trailer emblazoned the screen. There would be a few previews, then it began—Cabaret.

  I was never again to be the same boy I had been when I entered the theatre. The musical numbers were different from any musical movie I’d ever seen, spectacularly raw, frightening, comic, and definitely sexual. I felt a tingle downstairs, the beginning of an erection. Unlike my experience at church, I was never bored watching Cabaret. Even though I couldn’t understand all of the words, I somehow sensed the emotional life behind them and it carried me through to the next musical sequence. The only sign of trouble came toward the end, when Michael York screams, “Oh, fuck Maximilian.”

  Then Liza quips back, “I do.”

  Then Michael York smiles and adds, “So do I.”

  Audible gasps from Mom, and even louder from Moozie. “That wasn’t in the play, in fact there was no Maximilian.” Mom looked down at me and said, “Honey, we don’t use that word. That’s a very naughty word.”

  She had worked tirelessly at trying to rid me of my foul mouth. Even my father had toned down his vulgar expletives. Now Bob Fosse had put them back in her little angel’s head. But I assured her, “Like you told me, Mom, I shouldn’t use words that I don’t understand.”

  “That’s my sweet little man.”

  Soon the film was done. While the audience applauded, Moozie huffed and briskly exited our aisle, saying, “I don’t see why they can’t make more happy movies like they did in my day, not with all that cussing, there’s no need for that, it’s just common, I’m going to the ladies’ room, I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Under her breath, Donna whispered to Mother that in Moozie’s day, movies didn’t have sound yet.

  • • •

  ON MONDAY I came tearing into Dr. Sugar’s session room and, without a word, raced to the big roll of drawing paper, ripped off an unusually long piece, spread it on the floor, then lay on top of it, pleading, “Trace me, please, Dr. Sugar, trace me!”

  He agreed and traced me, pausing a few times to ask me what this was about and telling me to keep still or the silhouette would not resemble my form at all. Finally, when he’d finished, I jumped up, grabbed the crayons, and proceeded to color on my body’s own outline. We talked about why I loved Cabaret so much, and how I couldn’t understand why my father had no desire to see it; in fact he said he thought the Broadway show was stupid. And I said how I thought football was stupid.

  As we discussed my feelings, a seed of understanding was planted that would help me later on. Basically, he helped me to see that my father and I were complete opposites; it didn’t mean that he loved me any less. We were just different. Dad and Jay were football and sports; Mom and I were theatre and fashion, and that was all right. All men didn’t have to like sports. In fact, Dr. Sugar said that he really didn’t care for football whatsoever.

  At the end of our session my masterpiece was complete. Upon my traced form I had drawn a purple halter top, hot pants, garter belts, fishnet stockings, a derby hat, and big spidery eyelashes just like Liza.

  Rudolph

  “BRYANNY BOY, you are just not concentrating, it’s flap-step, step, shuffle-step, ball change, then hop-hop-hop. Got it? O-kay, from the top … Gayle, play the record … five, six, seven, eight …”

  Moozie and her sister Norma were seated in the armed Danish Modern dining chairs upholstered in turquoise bouclé, both wearing cat-eyed glasses, with their legs crossed at the ankles, and both fiercely watching my every move. They were, after all, the famous Nuss sisters, founders of the Nuss School of Dance. At the tender ages of twelve and fourteen, they had been put to work teaching dance by their mother, Grandma Katie, who I’m told made “Mama Rose” look like a wallflower. Their first revue at the French Opera House was a smashing success, and to this day I am stopped on the streets of New Orleans by elderly women who recall that Miss Nuss taught them how to dance as well as to be ladies. Norma retired after marriage, but helped Moozie when she was needed.

  The word partiality was and still is used often in my extended family. Katie was partial to Norma, Moozie was partial to Gayle, but what could have torn the sisters apart made them closer despite the shortcomings of their parents. Norma was
everything to Katie, but Moozie was the daughter who cared for her until her dying day. When confronted by this rampant favoritism, Moozie just shrugged, eyes raised to the sky, saying, “You can’t help who you love.”

  Although the famous Nuss sisters were the closest of siblings, they were very different. Moozie, whose nickname often varied, but always contained the syllable “moo,” was large and loathed anything to do with cooking. Norma was thin and a gourmet. Hazel had let her hair turn silver, and dressed conservatively. Norma was a bottle blonde who was the first to bob her hair and become a flapper in the 1920s, and now the first to wear a ladies’ pantsuit. But both felt unswerving love and devotion to their family. Aunt Norma called me “heart.” She taught Sunday school and always made sure to include Jay and me when her class made holiday presents so that my parents would always receive something handmade from us.

  The Nuss sisters were here to assess and perfect Mom’s choreography for my third-grade spectacle. The music started, and the strains of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” reverberated through the room as I started tapping across the gray terrazzo floor, slipping every so often because of the high polish and wax buildup. That didn’t stop me. I was Rudolph, the soon-to-be star of the third-grade Christmas play, The Night Before Christmas.

  Now, you may be saying to yourself, there is no Rudolph in The Night Before Christmas. Well, let me tell you there was going to be one in the Henson Auditorium on December 18, 1971, for two performances only! My teachers had noticed my spark of theatricality and created this part just for me. Now that I had Moozie and Norma to guide me professionally, and the promise of a lit-up red nose, this performance was going to slay all of Isidore Newman School. Newman is one of the most respected private college preparatory learning institutions in New Orleans and the entire Mississippi Delta region. It’s alumni is a who’s-who of New Orleans, and since my father attended until he was sent to Culver Military Academy, he insisted that Jay and I would be Newman Greenies.