She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (20 page)

Tom has a knack for experiencing Mom during some of her finest moments. We’ve entertained many a cocktail or dinner party on his stories for years, such as the one about the time during our stay two years previously, when Tom realized that he had omitted shampoo while packing our more than ample supply of sundries and colognes, and ventured down the hallway to ask Mom if he could borrow hers.

“Oh dawlin’, I don’t wash my own hair,” she answered, giggling.

This evening would be no different. Tom realized that he had once again forgotten to bring an essential tool, hairspray, which he was confident Mom possessed in abundance. So once again he made his way to her door
and knocked gently, saying, “Gayle, I hate to disturb you while you’re getting ready, but do you have any hairspray I could borrow? I seem to have forgotten ours in New York.”

According to Tom, Mother opened one of the French doors and showed her honey-colored coif and perfectly painted face. She struggled to just reveal her face and to hide the rest of her ample figure behind the narrow door.

“Oh dawlin’, thank goodness you knocked. Now I know you’ve seen your mother in her slip, so could you please be an angel and help me? I can’t seem to get my dress over my hair.”

Tom entered the lacy, feminine bedroom area with apprehension and trepidation similar to that of a bad scene in a lesser Tennessee Williams play. Mom held out the subtle pink floral silk dress and draping chiffon kimono ensemble designed and hand-painted for her by her dear friend Ray Cole, a noted local designer and artist.

“Now, sweetie, if you could just help me guide the shift over my hair. Skip, the living doll who usually does my hair, is out of town, so Miss Rhonda was the only one available at the salon, and she does my hair all right I guess, it’s not like Skip, no one is. Do you think it’s too big? Too high? Does it look like a blondish helmet? Be honest, lamb, maybe we could tone it down, have you ever done your mother’s hair?”

Tom delicately helped the slippery fabric over the “do,” much to Mom’s delight.

“There, Gayle, you look great, the hair is perfect, not too big, not too small, just right. And no, I can’t say that
I’ve done my mother’s hair before … unless dyeing it counts.”

They shared a chuckle as he retrieved the desired hairspray and headed for the door while Mom bustled about the room, donning the sheer kimono and fiddling with diamond and pearl earbobs.

“Oh, Tommy, I hate like the dickens to ask, but would you be a dear and pour us a glass of wine? I’d do it myself, but my knees are so bad that I can’t maneuver the stairs anymore, and the elevator takes so darn long I’m afraid we’d be late to the wedding, and we’ve got to have a good seat. It’s the Kendall Jackson Chardonnay in the fridge. Now, on the other hand, if you’d rather a martini, I know how you gentlemen love your Ketel One martinis, I wouldn’t be contrary to that notion myself.”

“Two martinis, then. Cold, and dry with a twist all right?”

“You are from heaven above, you simply are.”

Hauling out her jewelry from various secret hiding places throughout her boudoir, Mom tried to move faster than her legs or body would allow, a practice that sadly often resulted in a fall. While she clasped a single strand of South Sea pearls in her right hand, and a double strand of opera-length nine millimeter in her left, Tom reentered the chamber with the drinks poised on a small silver tray.

“You are too much, Tom, you are. This is fit for a queen. I never use the silver anymore, but that’s what it’s there for, to be enjoyed. That’s what Bryanny-boy says all the time. Dawlin’,
merci beaucoup!”

Pearls still in hand, she picked up the cocktail, spilling
a tiny drop from the perfect pour, eliciting her stock response for such occasions, “Well, honey, that’s the wonderful thing about martinis, whatever you spill makes a great astringent. Tom, which do you think, South Sea or double-strand opera?”

“I’d go with the double-strand opera.”

“But I love the South Seas so much, and everyone has seen these before.”

“Then go with the South Seas.”

“Thank you, I will. Sweetheart, you have been such a great help, could I trouble you for one more thing? Would you be so kind as to help me pin on my bees?”

Bees?
thought Tom.

Ceremoniously, Mom revealed two of her most prized possessions: a pair of pavé diamond bee pins. Their sentimental value was far greater than their monetary worth. They were the last gift my father had given her before he died. She gently placed the gem-encrusted insects in Tom’s hand.

Mother and Tom, the bearer of the bees, positioned themselves at her makeup table, he behind her, both gazing into the ornate gilded mirror. With each attempt to attach the bees to the delicate silk dress, the sheer weight of the brooches caused them to fall, pulling the fine material down with them, dangling, unnatural, and unattractive. After a few unsuccessful tries, Mom softly suggested, “Dawlin’, honey, you have to go under the bra strap and attach the bees to the shoulder pad. I do believe that’s the only way these critters will stay on this flimsy silk.”

At this moment, Tom’s only thought besides
Dear God
,
let this moment pass quickly
, was
Bryan owes me sooooo big for this!

Finally, Tom was able to position the bees so that they perched looking outward from each other on her shoulder. As they both stared in the mirror, Mother tilted her dainty head and gestured expressively with her hands as she said, “Oh, Tom, honey. Now I appreciate how you have the bees all aloof like that, but Bryan prefers when the bees are talking to each other!”

The cold, hard fact was that I truly didn’t care how communicative the bees were. This, of course, was her diplomatic way of saying, “No, dawlin’, that’s not it, try again.” Tom took a few more sips of his martini, placed the brooches to Mother’s liking, and at last all was well in her world. After a few more hours of primping, they hopped in a cab, as I had taken the car.

“Oh, driver,” she lilted, “would you mind rolling up the windows and giving that air conditioning a big boost, after all it is a hundred degrees outside, and the wind will muss my hair, thank you kindly.”

As they drove down Metairie Road, Mom pointed out the historic cemetery where her daddy and my father were buried. Then she stopped and leaned forward. “Oh, driver, would you be a dear and turn down the volume on the radio, and while you’re there please change the station to Bayou 107, WBYU, I believe those are the call letters, they play such relaxing music, don’t you agree?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Batt. Maybe you don’t remember me, but I used to work at the Beach, the Zephyr rollercoaster. It’s me, Li’l Ant’ny,” he replied.

“Well, I declare! Little Anthony, you also worked at the Bali Hai Restaurant … yes? Isn’t that something, after all these years. Well, no wonder I didn’t recognize you, sweetheart. The only time I rode the Zephyr, they had to drag me on and then carry me off!”

They both laughed and shared memories of New Orleans’ beloved Pontchartrain Beach. Soon they arrived at the entrance to the temple, and as Tom escorted her while she hurriedly slipped on her white gloves, she whispered softly, “You know something, dear, I don’t think that I’ve ever been inside this temple before, all these years, now isn’t that something?”

Tom replied, “Oh, that’s something, all right.”

The wedding was splendid beyond compare. I teared up as I always do. I actually enjoy the occasional cry, and especially at weddings of those I love. Leann and I had been fast and solid friends since nursery school. It’s a remarkable bond that I cherish.

The breathtaking houppa was figured from vibrant magnolia and legustrum boughs masterfully intertwined with palm fronds and dozens upon dozens of assorted white lilies, roses, and gardenia. The groomsmen sported dashing white dinner jackets; I’ve always loved their James Bond appeal. And since it was the Friday prior to Labor Day, Leann decided that rather than torture her bridesmaids with hideously hued dresses, her attendants would all wear white dresses in a style of their choosing—subject to her discerning approval. All of our high school friends looked stunning.

Soon after the ceremonial glass was smashed, and the
newlyweds kissed, we were rushed to our limousines and whisked with police escort downtown to the Fairmont Hotel, which Mother archaically still refers to as the Roosevelt. A sumptuous cocktail hour ensued while photographers snapped countless candid shots and posed the reluctant crew for even more. Miss Lillian was beaming, but constantly made sure that no one had a drink in hand in any of the formal shots.

Suddenly, from the back of the crowded room, the Olympia Brass Jazz Band started to play the second line. Usually I shy away from New Orleans traditions like the second line as common and hackneyed. The idea of dancing behind a jazz band while twirling an umbrella or handkerchief seems so forced and unnatural to me. Tonight, however, I was completely caught up in the euphoria; I twirled my handkerchief with sheer abandon as we made our way into the lavish grand ballroom.

The food was amazing, pirogue boats brimming with iced oysters on the half shell, shrimp with rémoulade sauces, salmon, and various caviars. There were delicious hors d’oeuvres of every variety, and skirted floral festooned stations serving a multitude of perfectly prepared baby lamb chops, medallions of rosemary pork tenderloin, and peppercorn-encrusted filet mignon. There was too much to recall or describe. Such a wedding feast I’d never seen before.

Rockin’ Dopsie, a famed local zydeco-soul-funk band, started to wail, and the dance floor was instantly packed with couples of all ages gyrating to the hypnotic sound. Toward the middle of the evening they announced the
Horah, and mispronounced some of the Hebrew lyrics. I do believe that in one of the verses I actually heard “Have a tequila” instead of “Hava Nagila.” Fortunately, both Tom and I had been involved with productions of
Fiddler on the Roof
, and were familiar with the dance steps and basically when to lift the bride and groom on their chairs during the climax. Some onlookers, mainly those who hadn’t attended the bar mitzvahs years ago, stared in bewilderment at the pageantry. Personally, I adore and relish other cultures’ ceremonies and traditions, even the questionably mercenary Cajun money dance, in which, while dancing with the bride, cold, hard cash is proudly pinned onto her veil.

After hours of merriment, Leann and Teddy bowed and exited the gala, our cue to leave as well. But never wanting the party to end, my dear friend Leslie and her soon-to-be fiancé, Bryan (spelled just like my own name), decided that we should venture into the French Quarter and make a pilgrimage to Pat O’Brien’s famous yet touristy bar to have our photo taken next to the flaming courtyard fountain in order to preserve the night. I made sure Mom had a ride home, and then Tom and I set out with them.

We crossed the once-beautiful Canal Street, which used to be home to wonderful locally owned department stores such as D. H. Holmes, Godchaux’s, and Gus Mayer. Now they are just a memory, owing to the exodus of retailers from downtown and the area’s subsequent decline. Elegant storefronts were now replaced by T-shirt merchants, athletic shoe shops, and check-cashing joints. Nevertheless,
inebriated, we made our way to Bourbon Street, passing through the crowds of raucous, Mardi Gras–beaded tourists carrying go-cups filled with various alcoholic concoctions.

Although we most definitely did not blend into the raucous, mismatched crowd, no one among the throngs seemed to notice or care. As we passed the Old Absinthe House Bar, a stumbling, tank-topped queen twirled into my path and, laying his hand on my chest, cried sadly in a thick New Orleans-Brooklynese accent, “Oh my Gawd, baby, did ya hear? Princess Di’s been in a bad, bad car wreck, and they think she’s dead!”

One of his comrades pulled him away, but moving deeper into the fray, we heard his pitiful cries over the din. “Oh my Gawd, I loved her … I loved her!”

In an intoxicated haze of disbelief, we continued on to the famed patio. We’d mourn the tragic death of the princess tomorrow. Now was a time to celebrate love and life and friendship. We raised our glasses again and again, willfully drowning anything else but celebration.

“H
ELLO, ANYBODY HOME?
Yoo-hoo! I guess not. Well anyhoo, sweetie pie, how’s my favorite little Broadway actor doing? I need your help if you don’t mind, I am swamped. On the fifteenth—or is it the sixteenth?—now hold your horses, it can’t be the sixteenth because that’s the Mad Hatter’s Luncheon for the Opera Guild. Oh, that reminds me. If you happen to be in Saks or Bergdorf’s and see a fabulous fun hat, you know how they do at the Mad Hatter’s Luncheon—wait a second, have you gone? Maybe that was Jay. No, I think it was you when you were in college and modeled for Saks down here, or was it Rubenstein Brothers? No, it was the Men of Fashion I’m thinking of … Where was I? … Hat? … Oh, hell’s bells I’m having a senior moment, I Sewanee, I think I’m getting ‘old timer’s disease’ like Oralea. Oh puddin’, she’s not well at all, not at all, she can’t remember a thing. Now I know I wanted to tell you something and it was no story … something about … got it … Please, pretty
please, on your way to the theatre would you, as soon as possible, stop by the Feragamo boutique on Fifth Avenue, I think they’re having a sale, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m desperate. Saks down here doesn’t have any of the ‘tuxedo’ pumps like I wear, you know, the ones with the bows on the front. Well, can you believe they’re out of my size in bone and black patent? I’m ashamed to admit my foot has actually grown, even though I’ve lost ten pounds, aren’t you proud? Anyhoo I now wear size ten, and to add insult to injury, the width is now wide, I could just cry, but I’ve bigger fish to fry, can’t worry about that today, I’ll worry about that tomorrow. Just ask for Vincent. He’s a dear, he knows me, and it’s bone and black patent and have him send them overnight. I’ll save the tax, but the shipping always gets ya in the end. There’s something else that I … oh yes, if you happen to be in Saks in the next couple of days, or you could stop by after you go to Feragamo, see Beau. You know Mr. Beau. He’s an angel. I need a smart daytimey suit ’cause I’m getting honored at the Cancer Crusaders’ Tea, I trust your taste implicitly, and an evening … but I don’t think they’re wearing long to the Art in Bloom Ball at the museum anymore, are they? I’ll check because then I could wear one of Ray Cole’s dresses to Art in Bloom, they’re exquisitely hand-painted silk and look really artsy, don’t you think? You know Ray. What am I thinking? But, honey, if you’re in the fashion district, I know that’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from your theatre, please stop by that beautiful fabric shop, I think it’s called B and J. I am walking on air about Jay and Andree’s
engagement, aren’t you, Mister best man? How’s about them apples, I can remember that name because the initials stand for my two favorite sons. I only have you two, Bryan and Jay, B. and J. Anyhoo, if you see any of their beautiful floral silks, you know, the prints that look soft and feminine like a Monet or Renoir, you know what we like, I need five yards. But the most important thing, first thing on the list is the pumps. Thank you sooooo much. I love you hawd, hawd, hawd swear to Gawd. Oh, by the way, it’s Mother.”