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

  The third-grade Christmas play (yes, it was still called a Christmas play) was one of the big three events of the year, along with the fifth-grade play and the high school musical. Three years before, Jay had made a respectable Frosty. Now I, the singing and tap-dancing Rudolph, was poised and ready to go down in grade-school theatrical history. But how? The dance was good, but secretly I wanted great. My Rudolph needed to be as good as the Ernie Flatt dancers on The Carol Burnett Show. As I was tapping, flapping, and ball-changing my heart out, Mom stopped the routine.

  “This number needs something with more pizzazz, something show-stoppy, something acrobatic. Baby, can you do a cartwheel?”

  “Of course I can, Mom.”

  Challenged, I started to prepare to do a cartwheel and all was going fine, the jump, each hand perfectly placed, legs straight and toes pointed, but what neither one of us realized was that because of the metal taps and highly buffed stone flooring, I had no hope of a smooth landing. I slid across the floor and careened into Aunt Norma, causing her to collide into Moozie, sending her hot cup of Sanka flying. At this point it occurred to all of us that this trick was not a viable addition to my performance. Unbeknownst to us, Dad, with scotch number three in tow along with Jay, had been spying on our rehearsal during a commercial break, and my flailing fall sent him into peals of laughter.

  “Encore! Mr. Astaire!” he shouted. And Jay said, “Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”

  Norma was at first shocked by the display and by the sight of her sister dripping in Sanka, but instantly she joined the chorus of laughter. Soon Moozie, too, joined in.

  The only person not laughing was Mom. Holding back her own giggles, she noticed the tears forming in her little deer’s eyes. She tried to explain that no one was laughing at me, but with me, and that my wonderful pratfall was just as good as Dick Van Dyke and those comedians I loved to watch on TV.

  “Baby dear, you are very talented and are a natural comic, that’s why everyone is laughing.” Then, to Jay and Dad, “Okay, you two, cut it out, I bet neither of you two galoots can do that or have any better suggestions.” Jay snorted, “I don’t know, Mom, but the best part was the upside-down landing. Dad, the game!”

  With that they bolted to the den, shut the door, and were glued to the tube for the duration.

  Norma and Moozie joined Mom in reassuring me as we got back to the task at hand. They agreed that future rehearsals were closed to anyone but us, the artists. The music started, the flapping and ball-changing followed, and when I arrived at the dance break, the very place where the ill-fated cartwheel was to be, I stopped and, without knowing what else to do, stood on my head. In an overwhelming response, my artistic directors exclaimed, “That’s it!” “Now we’re cooking!” “Hot diggedy!”

  Mom flew to my side and, like a swan, enfolded me in her wings. “See my little red-nosed reindeer, see what you can do? Now let’s perfect it.”

  For the next hour, my terpsichorean muses created extensive leg choreography while I was performing the headstand. Legs together, right leg extends, left leg extends, both together, and then clap the feet to the beat. This new addition was a surefire show stopper, and every night for the next two weeks after my homework was done, we drilled the routine, sometimes with Moozie and Aunt Norma, but primarily it was just Mom and me, fine-tuning the dance.

  The school year for a mother must be quite taxing, playing chauffer, disciplinarian, chief cook and bottle washer, and spiritual guide, but now mine was also obsessed with figuring out how the light-up nose would (a) work and (b) remain on my face. Mom’s brother, Uncle Dick, was talented with a hammer. He could hang paintings and artwork to perfection, and anything electrical as well as small carpentry tasks were his specialty, but my light-up nose baffled him. So never able to accept defeat until every possible avenue was explored, Gayle contacted the head electrician at Pontchartrain Beach. “The Beach” was my father’s family business, and, obviously, there were a few perks. If Mr. Gephardt could make the multicolored lights chase in myriad formations all over every thrill ride of the park, even with missing fingers, he could create an illuminated red nose for a third-grader.

  Some of his early attempts with an extension cord were beyond disastrous, but finally, just a few days before the performance, he rigged a battery pack that worked. My mother thought that if someone could create an entire light-up costume for the stripper character of Electra in Gypsy, a Rudolph nose should be a cinch. And he did it! Inside the very shiny red clown nose was nestled a small Christmas tree light. The wires were fitted around the front of my face, attached to tight-fitting, crescent-shaped behind-the-ear metal eyeglass frames. The dark wires were then disguised and woven through my antler headdress, designed by Miss Inez, then to a battery pack for which the on-off switch was in my pocket.

  Another pressing issue was how the antlers could be constructed so as not to be crushed or broken during the big trick. Trial and error proved the best system for determining what fabrics and supports to use. The final result was black felt-covered wire similar to the type used for a Slinky, so that the antlers could bend but return to their original shape. Every last detail was taken into consideration; even the wires that went across my face were painted by Norma to match my skin tone. There was a motto in our family: If you are going to do something, do it right! The underlying and unspoken message was “pull out all the stops and take no prisoners.”

  The day before the dress rehearsal at school, the grandes dames of dance convened in our extravagantly decorated Christmas home. This year Gayle went overboard, with all my support, as we both loved decorating for every holiday. We often joked that guests must always be in constant motion, because if someone sat too long, Mom would affix a red velvet bow to them. The chairs were in place, the record on the hi-fi, poised for playing. As was the drill, the ladies sat, legs crossed at the ankles, all smiles, their colorful rhinestone Christmas brooches gleaming as the tree lights across the room glistened in the facets. Norma’s was a modern golden angle with a starburst diamond halo. Moozie’s was an elegant emerald-and-ruby tree. And Mom’s, which was a gift from Norma, was a bust of Rudolph with a big ruby for the nose. I hid in the study, assembling my brown polyester and corduroy ensemble, and trying desperately to get the nose and antlers on right. Finally I had to call Mom in for assistance, and as she adjusted the venison-inspired regalia, I noticed the brooch.

  “Mom that is so beautiful.”

  “Your sweet Aunt Norma gave it to me, I Sewanee she is so thoughtful. Okay, mister love bug, now don’t forget to use your clicker to turn the light in your nose on and off, and remember you are special. Just like Rudolph can light up the sky, you can light up the stage.”

  She gave me a gentle kiss on my forehead, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought to myself, I am Rudolph and I will play in the reindeer games. Although I looked like a living TV antenna, I could only see Rudolph the young buck. Mom peered grandly out in front of the walnut study doors and announced, trying to imitate a heralding bugle, “Ta-ta-ta daaaaaa, ladies, I give you Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer!”

  The music started, and I was flapping and tapping my heart out, turning the nose on and off, getting applause and cheers from my beloved audience of three. As the routine grew, with Moozie’s suggested key changes to heighten the excitement, my showbiz gene kicked into full throttle, and I was flying, but forgetting to turn off my very shiny nose. By the time I arrived at the headstand, inebriated with performing, I smelled something burning.

  “AUGHHHHHH, GET IT OFF!” I cried, yanking the contraption from my face, revealing my own blistered red nose. Suddenly I felt so stupid, this whole thing was stupid, and to top it all off, my nose was ruined.

  In the panic, the ladies rushed to my side, scurrying me into the kitchen to get the burn salve, arguing over the latest first-aid treatment for burns. Just then, Dad burst through the den door.

  “Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on in here?”

  “Johnny, it�
��s all right, we have it under control, Bryanny’s nose got burned a little during the dance, that’s all. Baby dear, I am so sorry, does it hurt much? You don’t have to wear the light-up nose if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, let me see.” Dad took my rattled little face into his big hands and announced, “Looks like you’ll live, son. But a word of advice—scrap the light-up nose, you don’t need it.” Dad gave me a wink, and then came back with, “Any of you ladies care for a cocktail? I’m bellying up to the bar.”

  “John, really, another?”

  There was a peculiar silence completely foreign to our home during their steely stares.

  Norma was first to break the chill. “Johnny, sweetie, I’d love a highball.” Moozie chimed in with a request for a Brandy Alexander, and of course Dad knew what Mom always drank. She smiled insincerely, and a Chivas Mist with a twist was added to the tab. Dad produced a triumphant grin and stumbled ever so slightly, enough that only Mom would notice, as he threw aside the swinging kitchen door and bellowed, “Jaybird, get out the shaker and the ice crusher, and bring out the hooch.” He turned back to catch Mom’s glare, and there was no trace of a grin remaining on his face, but only an expression of contempt. Then he let the door close, flapping back and forth, as we all stood in silence.

  “Well, hell’s bells,” Norma said, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment, “this child needs some ice.” And in a flash she produced an impromptu dish-towel ice pack. “Now, heart, put this on your boo-boo nose and rest in the living room, and maybe go over the routine in your head, and we’ll be right out.”

  The three women watched as I made my exit, but instead of resting in the living room, I sat near the door and put my ear against it just like on I Love Lucy.

  “Gayle, what is going on? Why is Johnny drunk in the middle of the week?” Mom was a dam about to break. She took a deep breath with the hope of buying time to come up with a respectable answer, but there was none. Moozie continued, “Maybe it’s not all that bad; he is a good provider.”

  With that, Mom broke down. I could hear crying.

  “My God, Gayle, get ahold of yourself, it will be okay, tell me what he has done,” said Moozie. “Has he hit you? ’Cause if he has, I will knock his lights out.”

  Then Mom spoke softly through intermittent gasps. “No, he hasn’t hit me, he would never do that. He just drinks all the time, from the minute he gets home till he goes to bed or passes out, whichever comes first. Everything is my fault. He blames me for it, and all I’ve done is try to be a good wife and mother. He barely has time for the children. He’s plastered by seven-thirty. Jay wants so much to play with him or do homework with him and be a good son for him, and he doesn’t even know Bryan. That child is scared of him. Scared of his own father. We never know what mood the scotch will put him in. Some nights he’s actually fun, but on some he’s a horror.”

  “Well, you’ve just got to put your foot down and tell him that you will not put up with his shenanigans anymore, now march right in there.”

  “Mother, you don’t understand, Dr. Waters says it’s a disease, that he is sick.”

  “Baloney sausage! And please don’t tell me you are still seeing that psychologist, you are not crazy.”

  “No, I assure you I’m not crazy now, but I’m getting driven there and fast, and Dr. Waters is one of the finest psychiatrists not psychologists in the entire city of New Orleans.”

  “Psychiatrist, psychologist, it’s a bunch of hooey. Why do you always have to go see a doctor and tell other people, complete strangers, your problems? This is a private family matter. In my day we didn’t just go air our dirty laundry to any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Is this the same doctor that put Jay on the Ritalin drug? The child was just being a boy and—”

  “Mother, this is not helping at all. The fact is that Johnny’s doctor—” And before Moozie could utter another word, Mom quickly continued, “His cardiologist—” That silenced the room entirely.

  Norma, who had remained silent throughout the heated exchange, knew when and when not to interfere, and now was the perfect moment to interfere. In the most calming of tones, she tried to calm the battling mother and daughter. “Gayle, dear, I thought John’s heart was all right. That scare a few years ago was only a scare, right, sweetie? Isn’t that what you said? Honey?”

  Mom started to speak, but uncharacteristically faltered.

  “No one, myself included, but especially Johnny’s daddy, wanted to believe big, strapping John Batt had a heart attack, not the son of Harry J. Batt Senior, founder of Pontchartrain Beach!”

  “Now, Gayle I will admit he can be a bit much,” Norma chimed in, “but would he really …”

  “At thirty-five years old he had a myocardial infarction, which, as you remember, kept him in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Harry thought that by calling it by its technical name, it would lessen the stigma of a heart attack, which in reality it was,” Mom said. “Dr. McCurley said that it was nothing to fool with, and John should cut down on salt and drinking, and quit smoking, none of which he has done. Oh yes, he did switch to Heineken for a year, but he was back on J&B in no time.”

  Moozie exclaimed, “Well, dear, you are his wife, you just have to make him. I would never have tolerated this sort of behavior from your father, or from any man for that matter.”

  “Mother, you can’t ‘make’ anyone ‘do’ anything. Dr. Waters said that all I can do is change myself and how I deal with it, that’s part of Al-Anon.”

  “They meet at my church,” Norma added. “Isn’t that for …” She suddenly lowered her voice to a whisper. “… alcoholics?”

  “No, Aunt Norma, it’s a group for the spouses of alcoholics.”

  Moozie announced, placing a hand above her bouffant, “I have had it up to here. John is not an alcoholic, and you are not going to meetings and telling complete strangers he is. I don’t give one iota what this Dr. Waters says, it’s not proper.”

  “Well, Mother, I’ve had it up to here,” Mom said, placing her hand mockingly at an even higher mark. “I am not sure whether he is or is not an alcoholic. All I do know is that I can’t live like this.”

  Unintelligible as all this was to a third-grader, I knew something was wrong. The ice for my fried nose had melted away, and just then Jay emerged from the den with the tray of libations, followed by Dad, who quickly dove into the master bedroom. As Jay approached the kitchen door, he signaled for me to open it, which I did with great hesitation. The heated discussion came to an abrupt halt when they gazed at the boy cocktail waiter and Rudolph the Burnt-Nosed Reindeer.

  Jay offered the tray to Mom first, saying, “Dad told me to tell you to finish without him. He kept spilling stuff, so he went to bed.”

  Mom told Jay how gallant he was to bring the drinks to them, and that it was time for bed.

  “But, Mom, I get to stay up a half hour longer than Bryan, and Laugh-In’s coming on.”

  “All right, Bryanny, time to bathe and it’s lights out, okay, angel? Now give Moozie and Aunt Norma a kiss good-bye.”

  Jay was quick with the kisses and off to the den in record speed. As they bent down to kiss me and pinch my cheeks, offering words of encouragement for tomorrow’s performance, I felt as though once again I was privy to top-secret information. This would not be hard to conceal. Finally, Mom hugged me a little longer than usual, whispering in my ear, “Just like Rudolph, you are a very special boy.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I was awakened by my mother wearing a lace-covered housecoat with a pale blue satin ribbon and a red clown nose clipped to her pale powdered face, gently singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

  “Pumpkin-eater boy, it’s time to get up, today’s the big day. If you and Jayzee are extra quick getting dressed, we can stop at Royal Castle for breakfast. When you’re ready, come by our room and give your daddy a kiss good-bye.”

  In a flash we were dressed and waiting by the door.

  “Dammit, John, you have to go, it’s your son’s
school play. You barely do anything with the boys. You have to, and that is that!”

  We knocked in hopes of ending the argument, and Dad told us to come in. He was still in bed, his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

  “Come give your Pops a hug and a kiss,” he said, and as we did so, smelling the stale scotch on his breath and feeling his scratchy whiskers, he said in a hoarse tone, “How much do you love me?” And as was the drill, mimicking the pose of the funny-faced dime store statue with its arms stretched out wide that we had given him for Father’s Day, we said in unison, “This much.” As I was leaving the dark room, I looked back and asked, “Daddy, are you coming to my play today?” He rumbled, “I’m not sure, sport, but I’ll try.” I shrugged and started for the door, but turned back as I touched the brushed-nickel doorknob. “Okey-dokey, Pops, but I still love you this much.”

  THE MAIN REASON Mom wanted to stop off at Royal Castle was to kill two birds with one stone. I never understood that expression; either way you end up with two dead birds. The same with catching more flies with honey than with vinegar; you still end up with flies. The short-order cook, Miss Darlene, was always so nice to us, complimenting my mom on her hair or outfit, and she always made the best silver-dollar pancakes. Miss Darlene sported a nearly foot-high, fire-engine-red beehive do, which she would decorate for various holidays, and on this day, flocked sprigs of holly sprang out from the numerous caverns, hills, and dales of her hair. One of Mom’s outfits, a groovy multicolored silky raincoat, had been the subject of Miss Darlene’s praise. The last few visits, Miss Darlene had been blue about her son in Vietnam, and had thoroughly forgotten to decorate her hair for Thanksgiving. So while going through her closet a few days prior, which was a rarity, Mom noticed the coat. She hadn’t worn it much, and thought that since Miss Darlene loved it so, she should have it. At first Mom had second thoughts about giving someone a used coat—it might be considered tacky—so she also placed a pair of season passes to Pontchartrain Beach in the pocket. Mom loved the fact that the business brought so much joy to people of all ages, and even more she loved sharing it with her family and as many people as she could. Dad often said Mom suffered from an identity crisis: she thought she was Santa Claus.