Don't Call Me Mother (13 page)

She mutters her endless instructions in a monotone of criticism that sets my teeth on edge: “Speak up. Read that with expression. What do you mean, you don’t want to read? I would have given my right arm to have my grandmother do this for me. You’re so ungrateful. I spend my time doing this when no one would take you. You have the nerve to tell me you don’t like it. Who the hell do you think you are?”

I mutter something back and make a face. Suddenly my face is stinging, she’s screaming, and my hair is being yanked by the roots. My scalp is on fire as she drags me across the room to the bathroom, screaming that she’s going to wash my mouth out with soap. This can’t be happening. What happened to my regular Gram? She grabs the Ivory soap and forces my head back, pressing the soap between my teeth. I choke and try to spit out the bitter pieces that bring tears to my eyes.

“That’ll teach you to mouth off at me. You are not to talk to me like that; you are to obey me, understand?” Her fingers are still entwined in my hair, so I can’t move. She yanks my head back hard until I say yes. I’ll say anything to get her to stop.

Afterwards, she goes into the kitchen and makes coffee. When she comes back with her cup, she is the picture of serenity. Shaking, I pick up the book and begin to read.

I write her a note before bed that night.

Dear Gram, I love you very much. I’m sorry I was bad. I love the watercolor set, and I will paint you some pictures. I’ll try harder to learn lots of new words so we can read books. I love you. You sure do make good coffee.

I hope the note will make her like me again.

The next day my sore scalp tells me that it wasn’t all a bad dream. I ease down the hall and slip around the table to spy on her. I need to know who she will be today—the good grandmother or the bad one. Last night my real grandmother was gone. Gram looks up at me now and lifts her arms. “Sugar Pie,” she whispers with a smile. I take a breath. All is well. She goes to the kitchen and pours fresh-perked coffee into our best cups and saucers. She adds real cream and sugar. This wonderful ritual means we are friends again. The good Gram lifts her cup for a toast.

Lemon Meringue Pie

A few months later, we’re back at Aunt Edith’s house in Iowa on a hot June afternoon. The wind flaps the sheets and towels that Edith pinned to the clothesline in the morning. Chocolate chip cookies that I helped to make are baking in the oven. Edith announces, “Now we’re going to make a lemon meringue pie!”

She measures the flour and the Crisco into a bowl, mixes it into crumbly pieces, and pours in just enough cold water to gather it into a ball. She shows me how to roll it into a circle with the rolling pin. She smoothes it one way, then another, turns it over, sprinkles it with flour, then shifts it again to keep its shape even and round. Once the crust is a big circle, she slides it into a pie pan. We crimp the edges, pinching the dough between our fingers until the fluted crust is high and proud.

While the crust bakes, we make lemon pudding to fill it with, and then make the meringue. Edith teaches me how to break the eggs so not a speck of yolk gets into the bowl. With the mixer, I whip the egg whites into high, white peaks. We fill the baked crust with pudding, mounding the meringue nice and high on top. It goes into the oven to brown for a few minutes. Through the oven window we watch the peaks turn golden. With great ceremony, Edith and I take the pie out of the oven and place it in the middle of the table. Everyone gathers around to admire it.

“See, you can make pie. This is your first pie!” I’m so thrilled that I grab Edith, hug her, and do a little dance. She blushes a little and turns away, but there’s a sweet smile on her face.

I love learning to cook with Edith. Her working-woman hands are always busy, just like Blanche’s and all the Iowa women’s hands. She’s always making some delicious dessert: cookies of all kinds, pies like lemon meringue, apple, peach, and banana cream. She makes cakes from scratch. I love licking the bowl and making frosting with powdered sugar and butter. And Edith cooks delicious suppers: fried chicken and mashed potatoes, roast, stew, homemade potato salad. Edith and her sisters do the canning in August, sharing recipes, tomatoes, peppers for relish, and peaches. The only female person out of the food-preparing loop is my grandmother—she sees herself as too much of a lady to take part. She sits alone, reading and smoking, while everyone else bustles happily in the kitchen.

I love being more like Blanche and her kids than Mommy or Gram. Neither of them knows how to cook, but all my great-aunts are homemakers. Food is the hub around which the wheel of family moves. Fresh coffee is started whenever a car drives up. Every visitor is offered a homemade dessert. The unspoken rule is that when people come, you feed them out of what you have, even if it’s not very much or very fancy. These Iowa women are always apologizing for their offerings: This gravy is lumpy, this cake wasn’t baked today. No one could ever come into the house, not even for a few short minutes, without being fed. How different Blanche and Edith and the rest are from Gram, who doesn’t want people to come to our house, who acts put upon if she has to be a hostess. My Iowa family knows true hospitality. It’s hard to believe that the same blood flows in Gram’s veins, but she smiles when she lifts the fork to her mouth, just the way all of us do. Lemon meringue pie is the way you make a great summer’s day even better.

Mother’s Shadow

At Aunt Edith’s, there is a time for everything and a rhythm that drives the day. The family knows this rhythm, which begins with the chiming of seven clocks at six in the morning. I burrow into the featherbed, Blanche’s warm body rousing beside me. I hear the clink of her false teeth against the glass and peek out from under the sheet, seeing the folds and ripples of her flesh, the hump on her back stretched thin, like pie crust over the bumpy backs of apples. It’s strange that her body seems both young and old, wrinkles everywhere along with smooth, white skin. The rooster next door announces the beginning of the day. Thin necklaces of sunlight shine on the elm trees outside, making leafy shadows on the flowered wallpaper of the bedroom.

As I watch Blanche, I think about my mother’s body and Gram’s—the three of them, the bodies of the mothers of each generation. Seeing them as older women gives me a glimpse of how I will look one day. I can’t imagine getting that old, yet getting old doesn’t seem so bad when I see that Blanche still works hard and does everything she wants to do. The rooster crows again.

“You hear that rooster?” Blanche says cheerily. “It means get up, get the fire started, the milkin’ started. In winter it means when you first get up, you have to break the ice in the water barrel. Oh, shut up, you red devil,” she says to the rooster, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m already up.” She turns back in my direction, holding her waist with one hand, bending over and clutching the bed railing with the other.

“Are you all right, Grandma?”

“Oh, don’t worry ’bout me. I’m just catchin’ my breath.”

I lie back in the feather mattress, hugging the whole bed. The aroma of fresh-perked coffee filters upstairs. I don’t know it yet, but today my mother will sweep across this peaceful landscape like a wildfire.

She calls just after breakfast, while all of us are still sitting around the kitchen table. Willard is lighting his first pipe of the day. Edith grabs the phone on the third ring. All eyes go to her and the phone.

“Josephine? Where?”

“She’s at the bus stop in town,” Edith whispers to the rest of us, holding her hand over the receiver.

“Let me talk to her,” I say, grabbing at the phone. She is my mother. I can see by her face that Gram is already irritated. “Mommy?”

Mother’s voice is all business. “Who’s coming to get me?”

“I don’t know,” I say. A spark of anxiety fires in my stomach.

Mother’s imperious voice shouts over the line, “Well, get someone over here to pick me up right now!”

I hand the phone to Billy, who placates her by agreeing to pick her up in a few minutes. Wincing, he holds the phone away from his ear. We can all hear Mother’s rage: “What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you leaving right now? Get over here!”

Edith giggles and shrugs. Gram mutters something under her breath, and Blanche shakes her head. Billy, winking at me, tells Mother he’ll be there as soon as he puts on his pants.

I beg Gram to let me go. I’ll jump out of my skin if I have to wait an extra minute.

Willard says, “I’ll drive ya. Come on, Billy, let’s go get her before she bites somebody’s head off.” He brushes pipe tobacco off his shirt.

“That Jo’tine. Haven’t laid eyes on her for a while,” Blanche murmurs. She sounds almost sad, but her face doesn’t give any clues as she continues her embroidery work.

Gram has a familiar look on her face, the oh-hell-my-difficult-daughter-has-arrived look. I wave bye and rush through the screen door before she can change her mind about letting me go.

Mother stands beside what serves as the bus stop: an abandoned gas station with a drooping sign and chipping, mustard-colored paint. She looks fresh and beautiful in a beige suit, open-toed shoes, dark hose, and red lipstick. My heart beats faster at the sight of her. Gravel spits as Willard pulls the car to a stop.

“Watch out, for God’s sake,” Mother cries, stepping back.

Willard stays at the wheel. I am first to approach my mother, suddenly shy, drawn to her despite her shrill voice. I wrap my arms around her waist, waiting for her to squeeze me back, but she only touches my shoulder and pats my head, looking over at Uncle Willard.

“Uncle!” she laughs. “Aren’t you going to get out of the car?”

“What for? I’m just the chauffeur.”

Billy gets out though, and gives a little bow.

Mother smiles. “Well, Billy, you look just like your papa.”

“That’s what they say. Let’s not stand around jawing. Get in the jalopy.”

Mother holds her cigarette holder aloft and says, “Aren’t you a gentleman?”

“Hell, not any more’n I can help it.”

“I’m sure Edith taught you to open the door for a lady.”

Billy puts his hands on his hips and looks around. “Lady? I don’t see no lady. Oh, excuse me. Linda, you get on in.” He bows and opens the door, gesturing toward the back seat. I know he’s kidding, but Mother looks irritated.

“Mommy, you’re the lady.” I want her to feel happy, so I stand aside to let my mother, the uncrowned queen of the day, into the back seat. I feel unsettled by her act-like-a-lady routine that echoes Gram’s haughty attitude. Nevertheless, all the cells of my body are switched on. My mother is next to me; it’s like a miracle.

“When are you leaving?” I ask, worried already about when she’s going to leave.

“You mean how long am I staying?” Mother teases, with a smile. She doesn’t answer my question.

At the house, Edith has already laid out lunch. Blanche is at the head of the table, as always.

Mother chats on about being a legal secretary in Chicago, about how wonderful Chicago is, the best city in the world. Around the table we pass the baloney, liverwurst, and Velveeta cheese. Edith has put Wonder Bread, coleslaw, and sliced tomatoes on the table. A variation on this menu is served every day during the summer. It will be the same for forty years.

Mother talks on about antiques before launching into her inevitable topic, men. This is the part that always gets Gram mad—Mother’s hour-long monologues about the men in her life. I watch Gram’s anger rising on her face.