Bettyville (12 page)

Wanda slapped Freddy because she was ashamed of him. I didn't want anyone to be ashamed of me. All of this was a long time ago. Maybe people don't understand it now.

In a school play, Freddy and I were cast, fittingly, as best friends, two gentlemen arriving to call on some pretty women on the Riviera. It was a musical,
The Boyfriend
. During rehearsals, Freddy was, as usual, reticent, standing far away as he said his lines to me. Like almost halfway across the stage. Like almost in Cleveland. It was like he was doing
Hello, Dolly!
in another county. But on the night of the actual performance, there we were, in front of everyone. Something was going to happen. I watched the coach's face in the audience and the expressions of some of the other boys as Freddy threw his arms across my shoulders and kept them there, hanging on, drawing me closer to him and not letting go. It was just too much; there, in front of everyone, we were more than chums about to fetch some ladies for an airing on the plage. This was something else. Who were we now, so suddenly? I was suddenly very uncomfortable. My cheeks went hot, just like at football. Embarrassed, I tried to move, but his hand stayed around my shoulders. At that moment, something passed between us. I knew it. The people watching seemed to be aware of it. The other boys felt it. I thought the world sensed it. There was talk, I think. Later. For a while, I guess.

After that night, Freddy never visited our home again, barely spoke to me, moved farther down the hall when I approached. We were no longer close. By that time, I had many other friends; I was popular, a funny guy, a little bit beloved by some, part of things. At last. But I could not understand why there had been this rupture, and I felt ashamed, as if I had done something terrible. For years I was ashamed to think of it.

. . .

I ask Betty, who is just sitting with her cards in her lap, if maybe when it cools down she would want to go sit on the deck for a while. To get some fresh air. She shakes her head. She says nothing. There is much we have said nothing about, and, yes, it is too late now. I kept silent. I didn't tell them who I was. They didn't ask. We didn't know what to do about me. She would have helped me, if she had known how. She just didn't know. I didn't know what to ask for. I was scared. So was she. We never broke open. It was too frightening and we have all paid the price. My father never knew all of who I was. I never gave him the chance.

Betty never says anything, really—about me or herself. She has never told me about anything that ever happened to her. If I could ask her anything, it would be this: “What was it, Mother, that just shut you up, so tight and quiet?”

I hope there was nothing, that this was just her way from the beginning. I hope there was nothing that hurt her, back there someplace.

M
y mother is standing with her purse open, clutching one strap and staring at a framed watercolor of a field of flowers as if it were a window, as if it were her window. She looks as if she were home, surveying the yard and the roses, monitoring Alice's comings and goings, worrying that my aunt has been invited someplace she has not.

But this is not her window. This is just a picture in a frame; the flowers are not pink, not her roses, and this is not her home. This is something else to her; this place for old people to come to is giving up, whatever words I use. This is the stop where everything she knows is left behind and she won't go quietly. She won't let go of home. It is her most sentimental quality, one we share, our attachment to our place. She has not lost this longing: Her mind has not altered radically or broken in two; it's more that the surface, the coating, has been rubbed away a bit. You can see more of what is there, the hard and soft, but she is still my mother and she still does not surrender. Or maybe this is how I need to think about her—unconquerable.

I rush up to retrieve her purse, which is full of dirty Kleenexes, loose charge cards, and an old Vuitton billfold I bought her in the city when she came to see
The Lion King
and I left the tickets in a suit I spilled syrup all over and sent to the dry cleaners. We have argued for hours about this trip to Tiger Place, which I have characterized—to her and myself—as simply an outing for information's sake.

As she sits on the couch outside the administrator's office, she glares at me as if being sold into white slavery, gearing up for a battle I don't have in me. She knows that if she fusses enough, I will fold and give up this whole idea.

Waiting for our tour, Betty rummages in her purse, pretending to disregard the passersby, little ladies in groups, little birds in running shoes, who squint at her, assessing the new recruit. Betty just stares down at her old sandals, slowly pulls her feet back under the chair.

Last evening, Betty was on an upswing. Studying a newspaper column, she yelled, “You're too old” at the page, then looked at me. “She's seventy,” she says, referring to a letter in an advice column. “Says intercourse is too painful. Fix me another gin and tonic.”

“Please be quiet, Judy Garland.”

I think she believed a hint of daring would change my mind about today's mission. She doesn't need to leave her home, not this cantankerous party girl. She looked at me expectantly. “I see through you,” I almost told her, but instead let her carry on until it was time to sleep and she realized I wasn't giving up, that we would have to make this trip. All through the night, I got up, and up, and up again, finally heading up to visit the lonely dog who lay completely stretched out on the concrete floor of the pen, doing his best to cool himself. His yellow eyes shone in the dark as I splashed him with water from a pail I had brought for this purpose.

At the convenience store where I stopped for powdered sugar doughnuts to spruce up Betty's breakfast, I watched a man hand over a five and a one for cigarettes and a tiny Bic lighter. “I need thirty-two more cents,” the cashier said.

“Well, you're gonna have to git it from somebody who likes you more than me,” the man responded.

“Oh, quiet down. I'm trying to do three things at once here. . . . Do you like my new eyebrows?”

He just stared.

“They're tattoos.”

. . .

Everyone thinks Tiger Place is Betty's best option. At the very least, even if she remains at home for a while longer or even permanently, we need a safety net, a plan in case she is suddenly beyond my care. The good places have waiting lists and she needs to be on one, to be prepared. She has always dreaded the idea of winding up at Monroe Manor, the senior citizens' home in Paris where Mammy lived before her death.

Run by the University of Missouri, Tiger Place is a cutting-edge facility that attracts retired professors or the parents of professors. For my mother, who does not see how lucky she would be to get admitted here, this cast is not a selling point. When Jackie, our guide, mentions the lectures by visiting scholars on fascinating contemporary subjects, Betty looks pained, bored in advance. She is not the type to sit and listen. At church, a few ministers back, she developed the habit of holding up her wristwatch when the old man got long-winded. A stimulating roundtable on
The Vagina Monologues
with a women's studies professor is probably not going to make her day.

“What is that?” she asks as I gaze at the lecture schedule. When I explain she asks if she will be able to get a gin and tonic.

She may not even be accepted for admission. Residents must show that they are able to care for themselves and become part of the community. There is a list of criteria that people admitted here must meet. Betty, inclined to fall inside herself, to just not register the goings-on around her, to refuse to do what she is asked, may be beyond assisted living here. But I don't want her to fail further and wind up somewhere dismal. Dementia or Alzheimer's facilities would be the end of her. Without the stimulation of active people, she would fall fast and fade. But I can't say these things to her and she won't see that I am just trying to take care, to be the strong one now. For her.

Last night, I heard her at the piano, when I thought she finally was in bed. The hymn she was playing was “Take My Life and Let It Be.”

“Don't play that,” I yelled out.

“Well, what do you want me to play?”

“Something cheerful.”

“Wait for Christmas.”

At Tiger Place, there are chairs upholstered in cheerful shades that make Betty grimace and carpet that, unlike our own, shows no spills. The residents are mostly younger and in better shape than my mother. Would she mix well, I wonder, try to socialize or hide in her room? Would she dress in the morning or just stay in her robe, as she does if I do not force the issue? Would the ladies, gathered in cliques, understand or shun her because of her eccentricities? I just don't want to see her hurt.

Dragging her feet down the hall, Betty looks a little sad like the kind of old lady she has never let herself become, but steels herself, trying to get through this day, to cooperate a little. My cousin Lucinda has joined us to help out and Betty is more docile with her on hand.

. . .

No matter how I try to position Tiger Place as a fun-filled new lifestyle, as a relaxing relief from burdens, Betty will not participate in these fictions. She will not speak or comment as we are shown the studio, one-bedroom, and two-bedroom units that, empty for display, are okay but not especially inviting. “These rooms are empty,” she tells Jackie, who says that of course she would bring her furniture from home. “I would
never
bring my furniture here,” Betty exclaims. She doesn't want to break up the house. Maybe because there is no place for most of her things to go.

Our basement is piled with stuff. Late at night, I inspect everything as I listen for Betty to call out. I see what is ahead, picture the furniture lined up in the yard, all for sale—the antiques, chests with marble tops and tables, the candleholders, cups and saucers, the cloisonné, the brass tea set, the row of Japanese ladies from the top of the piano.

“Remember,” Betty always says, “those are hand-painted.”

I see the silver butter basket, the love seat my father refinished, the pie safe, Granny's kneeling Buddha, the shiny cranes that Sade gave Granny, the kitchen things: the canisters and plates, the silverware, crocks and pots, cookie jars. Everything is for sale. Off to others. Someday soon. All the old things that witnessed everything, all the days and nights of our lives. I don't have a place for them; this is a regret I have. The life that I've carved out is not equipped with extra rooms or empty cabinets. If Betty moves to Tiger Place, we may have to sell the house for financial reasons, depending on how long she lives.

. . .

I glance at Cinda, who has been the major reason for my maintaining a hint of sanity in the last few months. She looks at Betty and then at me as if to say, “What were you expecting?”

I don't know.
The Golden Girls
?

“Is she a craftsperson?” Jackie asks, but Betty, who rolls her eyes at this, does not knit or embroider. She does not tat or sew and is not the type to linger over the creation of a lap robe. She cannot see well enough, nor does she have the patience. She is irritable, and now sometimes a challenge. Though she tries her best, she cannot always remember names. How can she make friends if she cannot call their names out? Who will come and sit by her? She has no hobbies; she once had friends instead. But now the country club in Moberly, where the couples of her generation once gathered for dinners, is gone, torn down. Moberly is no longer a place where many people can afford a country club. My mother grieved for months.

I try to smile at Betty, but she looks away. I try to walk with her, but she won't let me be The Son. “Please let me do for you,” I want to say. “Please let me help you. Maybe I can surprise you, make this all a little easier.” But she has to do everything on her own or it is cheating, breaking a rule.

She suddenly looks tired and whispers to me that she just wants to go home, but Cinda and I guide her toward the exercise area. She looks dispirited and a fraction of her former height. Unwrapping a tiny Snickers square, I hold it out as Betty eyes an exercise bicycle as if it were a guillotine. Staring at me, perturbed, she shakes her head. Nor does the prospect of yoga in a chair arouse her enthusiasm. “What kind of thing is that to do?” she asks.

“I want to go home,” she whispers to Cinda. “I want to go home.” So do I, but we can't. We have to forge ahead. I have to lead; it's my responsibility.

She stumbles on a stair. She is wearing the terrible sandals, a concession I have allowed today. Braving her resistance to public endearment, I kiss her head, but she pulls it away. “You won't let him leave me here, will you?” she asks Cinda. I realize that she believes I have brought her here to abandon her. This is actually what she thinks. She believes I want to run away and leave her. Clearly I am, in her mind, the Joan Crawford of elder care.

“Tonight,” I tell her, “we'll buy peaches; we'll go to the Junction for prime rib. We'll do whatever you want.” But she will not listen. Perhaps because she feels I hold power over her, I am the enemy. When I turn to face her, she still refuses to look at me at all. She smiles at Cinda, her new ally, the one she considers persuadable, as I resist the urge to fold into the yoga chair and begin a round of chanting.

“Are you aware of the concept of being mindful?” Jackie asks my mother. Spotting a nearby men's room, I wonder if can work in a quick autoasphyxiation.

We see the library, a movie theater where popcorn is served, a beauty parlor. The main room for gatherings is dominated by a huge flat-screen television tuned to a game show. “I hate
Wheel of Fortune,
” Betty says to Jackie. “Is that
Wheel of Fortune
? Every time I turn my back, someone puts on
Wheel of Fortune
.”

Watching Betty at Tiger Place, Cinda looks at me and seems for the most part amused. Again and again, she saves us: She knows the right questions to ask, makes a note or two as Jackie explains the walking tests administered each month, the bus for church pickups and shopping trips, the stages of care: Stage One, Stage Two. There are four stages. I think I may be a Seven.

When I manage to come up with an inquiry that actually seems on point—“Is there anyone to make sure she takes all her pills in the morning?”—Betty interjects, “I can take my own medicine.” But she doesn't, and every time I hold them out she asks the same question: “What are these? Who said I had to take so many?” She acts like taking pills is some sort of hard labor.

Jackie introduces my mother to a woman with a fancy blouse passing by. “Do you play bridge?” Betty asks. When the woman, who looks a little startled, shakes her head, Betty turns away from her, stares at me coldly. I have promised cards. I want to ask the woman if she likes
Wheel of Fortune,
but Betty would tell me I am not as funny as I think I am.

“Older people eat small meals,” says Jackie as we head into the dining room for lunch. “They don't get hungry like we do.” Cinda is a little taken aback, as am I. My mother eats enough for a camp of lumberjacks in the Maine woods. Betty asks of the lunch, “Are they going to charge us for this?” Jackie overhears and assures us that the meal is complimentary. “Well,” Betty says moments later, staring down at what seems only the suggestion of a hamburger, “it better be.

“Don't you offer to pay,” she whispers to me.

After lunch, we sit for a while in a courtyard filled with flowers. Betty, dejected, reaches out to snap a deadhead off a geranium. I like the courtyard and preparations are under way for a party that evening. It is someone's birthday. Jackie tells us that she is so devoted to the residents here that she got married in the courtyard.

I would have chosen Chipotle. “Where did you honeymoon?” I want to ask.

. . .

The Tiger Place courtyard is a lovely place and some of the apartments have screened-in porches that look out onto this area. Sitting by the flowers, Betty rests, focusing on the blossoms. For years she has taken flowers to people from church who are sick and alone. Hour after hour, I have watched her standing by the kitchen table, arranging the stems.

“Who tends to these?” she asks Jackie. “It looks like they do a pretty good job.” It is her one concession.

The trek through these halls has worn her down and lunch has certainly not satisfied. “Did you get a look at that hamburger?” she asks me. I say nothing. “No bigger than a half dollar,” she adds.

Maybe I should just give up and let her be, I think, stay in Paris, see her through for as long as it takes. Then I tell myself I am an idiot for always going soft. That is not what the real Betty, who would have run me back to New York with a pitchfork, would have wanted me to do. She would have ordered me to live my life. Of all the changes that have transpired in my mother, it is this new belief that I should give everything up to stay with her that is the most surprising. This tells me just how worried she is, how much she cannot bear to leave her home.