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

  “Okay, honey,” he said, as a sad smile came across his face. He had loved giving her jewelry in the past, having helped design special rings for anniversaries or charms for her bracelet celebrating special occasions, but there was no joy in this.

  Mom’s eyes filled with tears as she gently removed the glittering ear clips, tilting her head left to right, as she softly said, “And they go back to Adler’s tomorrow. Every sparkle of every diamond will just remind me of this, and I don’t want to celebrate it, I want to bury it.” She stared in the mirror a few moments longer, lifted her head, and announced, “Except the pearls, they don’t sparkle, they luster!”

  Fashion = Porn

  MOM NEVER LET herself go entirely, but she’d developed a progressive lapse in fashion judgment that weighed heavily on my prepubescent brain. And ever since meeting Aunt Gretchen, I was inspired to transform her. Mom’s hair was teased, coiffed, and varnished, and her makeup and nails were always polished and painted to perfection. She was at the height of 1960s style. Unfortunately it was the Year of Our Lord 1976. An entire decade had passed with unfortunately only a few very minor adjustments. Truth be told, I didn’t want her to be embarrassed, but moreover, I didn’t want to be embarrassed. Puberty and braces are quite enough, thank you. By junior high, I had become extremely clothes-conscious. I had to have the right Izod shirts and the right Wallaby shoes, conforming to the trends set by the Newman upperclassmen. At bedtime I would pick out my ensemble for the next school day before watching Johnny Carson on my tiny black-and-white Sony.

  I extended this love of fashion and concern over appearance to my mother. I knew she shouldn’t wear what the kids were wearing, nor should she dress as an identical twin of her mother, but at the same time I somehow knew there had to be a happy medium, a more progressive fashion-forward image for her. It was the age of the natural look, peasant flounced skirts with boots, wrap skirts, and macramé belts. I noticed these fashion trends from the high-end extreme of Aunt Gretchen to the varied looks on the street and in the department stores, and although Mom was in her early forties, her look had become that of a matron. She seemed sadly stuck in a time warp. Double-knit A-line dresses with matching jackets and handbags only Queen Elizabeth would consider. It was crystal clear that Mom was out of step, not herself, and needed a personal stylist, but who could it be?

  Remodeling and updating my mom’s look became my personal crusade. Rule number one, the very first commandment: never wear the same dress as your mother. And that rule applies to everyone. Other rules and ideas would come as my fashion education progressed. For example, I soon realized that frosted lipstick was definitely out.

  Uncharacteristically, Mom eagerly embraced the chance to change. The self-help movement was sweeping the nation, and books like I’m OK, You’re OK, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, and The Sensuous Woman were on the best-seller lists. Mom got swept away.

  First she tackled her weight. Gloria Marshall lady’s spa, where a multitude of machinery jiggled the fat away, was contacted and frequented. Soon there were exercise devices at home. One such engineering marvel resembled a chiropractic table where three separate Naugahyde-upholstered platforms would simultaneously gyrate in opposing directions. The other involved a large strap attached to an even larger vibrating apparatus worn around the waist or posterior, which virtually shimmied the excess pounds into oblivion. I think the latter was invented for men’s viewing pleasure just as much as for ladies’ fitness.

  But that wasn’t enough. Over the next several months, Mom ingested heaps of an amino acid and liquid protein supplement concoction and was injected weekly with a now illegal dietary substance, administered by a physician of questionable credentials in the far-off suburb of Kenner. Her figure and her long-lost body image eventually returned.

  But hers wasn’t the only metamorphosis that summer. I finally started to develop a caterpillar above my upper lip, as well as hair under my arms and “down there.” My whole face started to change for the better. As a child, no matter the season, my complexion was bright white, with flushed cheeks, crowned by a moppish shock of thick jet-black locks that genetically fell straight into my eyes above a red-lipped, oversized mouth. I was a cross between a black Labrador retriever puppy, Jerry Lewis, and a clown. I thanked God that a new look was on its way, even if it did include a uni-brow. I constantly prayed that if I had to be hairy, please let me look like Mark Spitz or KC of KC and the Sunshine Band. The only problem was that my voice had not started to change yet, and it infuriated me when Mom’s friends would call, and I’d be mistaken for the “lady of the house.”

  When I wasn’t just hanging out watching TV, riding bikes, climbing trees, or making tapes with my childhood pal Chucky, I would covertly sneak away and pedal to the Lakefront neighborhood’s overpriced drugstore, Krown Drugs, and “house charge” fashion magazines to “the Beach.” I was sure to say, “They’re for my mom.”

  And the gum-smacking checkout chick, with a hairstyle three years even more out of date than my mom’s, would smile and coo in her perfect “Yat” accent. Derived from the phrase “where ya at,” Yat is a colorful vernacular dialect of the Big Easy.

  “Na ain’t you a sweet lil dawlin’ hawt you.”

  The Yat accent sometimes is reminiscent of Brooklynese, slowed down with a thick, lazy Southern drawl.

  Nevertheless, I had my copies of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and the most European, L’Officiel, and the great work of fashion had begun. I pored for hours on end over the collections, fascinated by the different styles of the designers and the use of fabric, as well as the fantastic photography of masters like Avedon and Scavullo. There was something very provocative and sexy about the editorial photography and the dramatic scenarios on the glossy and addictive pages of these publications. A new, exciting, glamorous world, one that took me away from the sometimes difficult and awkward world of thirteen. Very soon I could identify an Oscar de la Renta even among a grouping of Yves Saint Laurent, Scassi evening gowns, and could tell the difference between Calvin and Anne Klein. They were not related, you know. Reading these magazines, I noticed all the great stores that advertised in them: Saks Fifth Avenue, I. Magnin, Bonwit Teller, Nieman Marcus, and Sakowitz. Assuming the selection of designer fashion was greater in these bigger cities, I called information, got the numbers, and then dialed long distance. When the operator answered, I asked, “With whom do I speak about receiving your fashion catalog in the mail?”

  And inevitably the operator would respond, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll connect you,” or “Please hold, ma’am.”

  This time I didn’t mind too much being mistaken for my mother; I was getting what I wanted and using what I had to get it! The fashion catalogs would come. I noted when the mailman dropped the post, which directly entered my father’s home office, and slyly retrieved them. No one knew or ever complained about the unusually high phone bill, either.

  I would rip out the pages of the fashion magazines and tape them on the refrigerator with my comments made in red marker: “This could work for you,” or “Gaucho’s, take a chance?” At first she was a little hesitant, but after the salesladies in practically all the designer and better-dresses departments commented, “Mrs. Batt, your son has excellent taste,” or “I’m so impressed that a thirteen-year-old knows who Geoffrey Beene is,” she was sold.

  The clincher was a big supper dance for the International Amusement Park convention, which was to be held in New Orleans. It was a black-tie event, and Jay and I were included. Mom was so flustered with renting us tuxedos that she really didn’t consider what she would wear. Her closet was amply filled with evening gowns that she wore to the carnival ball. When she told me what she was planning to wear, I was in shock.

  “Mom, are you kidding? Dad’s like some host for this big huge event and you are going to show up in a burgundy chiffon with a beaded top? It’s April, for God’s sake. You need an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse with a taffeta skirt, you know, like the Russian peasant thing Yves Sain
t Laurent is doing—only in spring colors.”

  There wasn’t much time, but we headed to Canal Street and within minutes I picked out the perfect dress, and the saleslady confirmed my choice. At the dinner dance Mom received a multitude of compliments on her dress, especially from Dad. After they came back from dancing to “Tenderly” (their song), Mom came over and kissed my cheek and whispered, “Thank you, monkey, you have no idea how good I feel tonight.”

  ONE PARTICULARLY STEAMY July afternoon, on a jaunt to Krown Drugs, my eyes were drawn to the men’s magazines. There, on the cover of GQ, was a Greek god. Next, a huge young Austrian bodybuilder on the cover of Muscle & Fitness. Jackpot! But I could not buy these; somehow I knew people would find it strange. The checkout charmer would surely catch on. “They’re for my mom” just wouldn’t cut it this time, but I was on fire, my knees shaking. I simply had to possess those magazines. I had to look more closely at those forms. I didn’t have long to think about why I felt this way because something else was happening, something that had never happened before in public, and certainly never from gazing at a male cover model or an Austrian bodybuilder—full-blown wood.

  I quickly grabbed the two magazines and shoved them down my pants. Thank God I had worn my brother’s old oversized Lacoste shirt, as it helped to cover both my sins. With overwhelming guilt and near-exploding hormones, I walked awkwardly to the checkout counter. Miss Dawlin’ smacked out, “Just a Vogue? Why dontcha getcha mama one of dem Cosmos for a change, huh?”

  “Maybe next time, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Don’t sweat it, baby—sign here.”

  And I was the Tasmanian Devil on my ten-speed, pedaling like mad to get to my room as quickly as my skinny legs would take me. Up the concrete sidewalk, onto the oil-stained brick driveway, into the garage, bike slung to the floor like an abused Apache dancer. Just then I was stopped by the ever-present Oralea.

  “Chile, you straighten up that bike, I swear, don’t you think I’ve got better things to do than pick up after you boys, I’m telling your mama that I ain’t touching your room no more, it’s plain disgusting. And why are you holding your stomach? You don’t feel well? Let me go get the thermometer.”

  “No, no … sorry, I’m fine, really … I just have to … go to the bathroom. This is for Mom.”

  With that, I plopped down the Vogue on the Formica countertop, ran through the den, flew up the stairs into my room, locked the doors, and searched for a place to hide my new treasure.

  As the weeks passed and the beastly hot days of summer were coming to an end, my paternal grandparents, Mom-ee and Da-Dee, invited the whole family, as they often did, to the Sazerac Restaurant at the Fairmont Hotel, which locals, my family included, defiantly referred to as the Roosevelt, for that’s what it had been called for decades prior. It was an old grand hotel and a sight to behold at Christmas, but its crowning glory, besides the famed Blue Room, where, years before, I’d seen Carol Channing in a life-altering cabaret show, was the famed Sazerac. It was one of my favorite restaurants in the city because of the sheer theatricality of the décor. Deep red velvet bunting and draperies adorned the walls, and tremendous, opulent floral creations graced the tops of pillars throughout the space.

  But the piece de la resistance was the individual ice-sculpted swan used to serve the glacé that was served to cleanse the palate before the entrée. It was presented to the patrons upon a velvet stand containing a disguised battery-operated light that illuminated the swan from underneath, creating a magical vision. I loved to order the most adventurous appetizers and entrée to get a rise out of Da-Dee. At ten years old I ordered escargot because I saw Lucy do it on her Parisian trip on I Love Lucy. Da-Dee chided, “Son, do you even know what that is? Have you ever tried it?”

  I replied, “Yes, Da-Dee, it’s snails, but I want to try it and use the cool clamp thingy that’s supposed to hold the shell and not your nose.”

  He loved it that I would try any kind of cuisine; he had no tolerance for people who eschewed anything without at least experiencing it first. Because of his influence, I added to my favorites not just escargot, but Oysters Rockefeller and Bienville, fois gras, and my favorite, sweetbreads. He also loved and encouraged my theatricality, and every time we passed the Blue Room to dine at the Sazerac, he would ask me to do my Carol Channing imitation, which tickled Da-Dee but worried my father.

  After the culinary feast, we all made our way to the parking garage directly across the street, passing a newsstand. Da-Dee gave me a few dollars and said, “Bryan, pop in there, son, and get Da-Dee a copy of the Wall Street Journal, and keep the change.”

  So I did. The crew ambled to retrieve their respective cars, the men discussing city politics and the women admiring Mom-ee’s latest jewelry acquisition.

  The ramshackle kiosk was filled with every kind of newspaper and periodical, and smelled of menthol cigarettes. As I walked toward the rear, I noticed fashion magazines I’d never seen before, some in French and Italian. Who knew such treasures could be found in such a dismal hole? My eyes kept scanning the rows and rows until they came across the male-for-male porn section. Honcho, Blue Boy—names I’d never seen before or even understood. I was flushed and shaking now. Then my retina literally burned as I saw images beyond my wildest imagination. Preoccupied, I jumped when the crusty shopkeeper muttered, “Whatchoo want, son?”

  I stuttered, “A Wall Street Journal, please.”

  The toothless man forcefully presented the paper with his nicotine-stained hands. His nails were filthy, and on his wrinkled forearm was a distorted tattoo that, due to his age and lack of sunscreen or hygiene, made the figure indecipherable. He gave me the change, and I hoped our hands would not touch. I put a quarter in the tip tray and quickly began my exit as he said, “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

  “No thank you,” I said nervously, quickening my gait, never glancing back.

  For the next two days the only thought on my mind was those magazines at the newsstand next to the Fairmont, rather the Roosevelt. It wasn’t as if I could charge them to the Beach or pilfer them under my shirt. Mr. Crusty would certainly notice. What randy images lived on those pages? The cover models alone were enough, but if what lurked inside was the male version of my father’s Playboy collection, I had to see. I simply had to.

  I tried to divert these pangs by poring over the collection of catalogs, deciding what Mother should purchase for her fall wardrobe. Then—inspiration on page seventeen of Neiman’s. The model in the earth-tone-patterned Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress told me exactly what to do to get those magazines. It was as if she spoke from the page, “Make the call, make the call,” with her lips pursed and pouty.

  Checking to see if the coast was clear and that neither Jay nor Oralea was in sight, I quickly dialed information on the Mickey Mouse phone in the upstairs playroom and asked the operator for the telephone number of Bon Marché News on Baronne Street, the one next to the Roosevelt. I nervously dialed the extension, and when Mr. Crusty answered, I more than imitated Mother’s voice:

  “Hello. Is this the Bon Marché News, the one next to the Roosevelt? … Yes, well, I honestly cannot believe I am making this call, but anyhoo, my niece is getting married shortly, and her bridal party and sisters are actually having one of those bachelorette parties. To tell you the truth, I’d never heard of such a thing until I watched it on Donahue. They got a crazy notion to put me in charge of getting some gag-like things, like the bachelors do, so I asked like what, and they thought it would be a hoot and a half if I got … you know … dirty magazines, you know … as a joke. I Sewanee, in my day we never did such a thing. I think they’re just trying to make me blush, their ‘square aunt’ … well, we’ll just show them, won’t we?”

  It was a masterful channeling of her voice and manner, if I do say so. Continuing the charade, I asked Mr. Crusty to please put aside Playgirl, Honcho, Blueboy, and a French Vogue magazine, but be sure to wrap them up well, and mark them “do not open,” as
“she” was too embarrassed to come fetch them herself, so she was sending her young son as courier.

  “What name shall I hold them under, ma’am?” he asked.

  “Well, uh … Bouvier, thank you,” I replied.

  The next morning, after barely finishing my frosted blueberry Pop-Tart, I announced that I was off to play and would not be home for lunch. Instead, I raced via the public service bus to the newsstand to pick up my prize.

  Upon arrival, I looked at Mad magazine and Sports Illustrated until the store was devoid of other patrons, then I approached Mr. Crusty, and gave what I thought to be a deeply genuine and nuanced performance.

  “Excuse me, sir, my mom sent me to pick some package up for her. She didn’t say what it was. The name is, uh, Bouvier.”

  Mr. Crusty grinned, showing his lack of teeth, as he handed over the brown-paper-wrapped bundle. My hands trembled as I accepted it, fumbling for the money to pay him. And when he gave me the change, he looked me directly in the eyes and winked. “I hope these are enjoyed.”

  His hand touched mine for a second longer than it should have, and I turned and ran out of the store. Behind me I could hear his raspy, sinister laugh, and nearly was sick.

  Then I headed straight for Lake Vista, and the levees of Lake Pontchartrain. I loved playing games on the vast promenades and climbing the endless number of trees in the park. But there would be no tree-climbing or game-playing today, just covert reading of fashion and porn, one fraught with beauty and couture, the other with sex and guilt—so much guilt that within days I had burned the magazines and flushed the remains down the toilet, only to cause severe plumbing issues that were never traced to me. It would be many years before mine eyes would see that glory again.

  THERE HAD BEEN some changes that summer. Mom was no longer on the road to dowagerville, but had become a triumphant butterfly that I had helped to emerge from her style-lapsed cocoon. I too had undergone a transformation, physically becoming a man. Although I had instinctively sought to visit a world so foreign to me, fear caused a retreat to the world I thought I should live in, the one I was raised to live in, the only one I knew.