She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (6 page)

Missing the interaction, Dr. Sugar ushered me into the dull children’s room. Against the dingy beige back wall were waist-high shelves with worn games and ravaged books; on the opposite end was a large roll of drawing paper. In the corner were a box of costumes and an open-floor-plan doll house equipped with pliable rubber dolls obviously representing mommies, daddies, brothers, and so on. These did not remotely resemble the glamour of
Barbie or Madame Alexander. I wondered what these sad dolls did to deserve such an existence, torn clothes, misshapen bodies, and no roof over their dented heads. Obviously they were all visitors from the Island of Misfit Toys. Unfamiliar with the surroundings and the custom of child therapy, I timidly took a seat across from Dr. Sugar at the only table in the room.

“Well, Bryan, what we do here is play and draw, but mainly we talk. Is there anything that you’d like to say or do?”

My eyes wandered for a moment, glanced across the room, and were magnetically drawn in the direction of a large costume box. The radiant glimmer of tarnished sequins whispered to me, “Put me on, wear me now, you know you want to, you know you want it!”

Before I knew it, a tutu was around my waist, and shimmery fairy-princess wings were pinned to the back of my striped knit shirt; the tattered daddy doll was sitting on the table in front of me as Dr. Sugar set up the checkerboard. After one or two games, I would rip a piece of the paper from the big roll and draw, draw, draw. That was to be the basic scenario over the course of the next few months; the costumes would vary depending upon my whimsy and mood. Some days a clown; others, Maria von Trappe. The constant, however, was the drawing and the checkers. The good doctor never let me win; he played a fair game and taught me well the rules and strategies of checkers. Although I had no clue why I was dressing up, drawing, and playing checkers with this man, I actually enjoyed our visits. He was a calming influence, an
even-keeled person with a soft but gravelly voice, without an overly masculine bravura, just a man.

One October afternoon, after my weekly session with Dr. Sugar, Mother, late as usual, retrieved me from in front of the weathered shotgun, with my brother in tow; we raced to my grandmother’s home on St. Charles Avenue to have quick po’boy sandwiches for dinner from Steven and Martin’s restaurant across the street, before heading on to church for the Fall Fair rehearsal.

Every autumn, Moozie would put together a small talent show for our church’s tiny Fall Fair. Basically it was a recital of old dance routines she had staged in her heyday, usually to recordings of “Alley Cat” or “Hey, Look Me Over.” She would kindly find a place for anyone who wanted to participate in the review as long as they followed her strict rules of practicing and punctuality. Unfortunately, much to her chagrin, her immediate family was usually remiss in both. Once in the church recreation hall, Moozie took the young group to a separate area to practice. Moozie’s fabulous sister, Aunt Norma, who dyed her hair blond and wore pantsuits, took the adults to another room, and Mom and I, along with my beautiful cousin Donna-Gayle—or D-G as she was called—went to the nursery-school room to rehearse our special secret dance.

D-G was the eldest of the grandchildren and had the best blond flip hairdo, like Elizabeth Montgomery in
Bewitched
, with whom she was often compared. In 1970, that was a huge compliment. I loved the fact that she dug rock-’n’-roll music, that she dressed fashionably mod, and that her skirts were a little bit shorter and her heels a
little bit higher than the other girls’. She worked at New Orleans’ finest department store, D. H. Holmes, on Canal Street, and it showed.

Entering the Jackson Avenue Evangelical Church of Christ’s nursery school, I felt nostalgic. Strange that a first-grader would have nostalgic feelings; however, I did. But there was work to do. Our dance number was to be the big finish, and it had to be a smash. Once again I was sworn to secrecy so that the special effects would have maximum impact on the audience. D-G and I were to dress up as skeletons and do a comic routine to Mancini’s theme from
The Pink Panther
.

I loved the concept, and was thrilled to have the privilege of starring in the big finale with my cousin, but there was more, much more—the costumes. An artist friend of my dad’s agreed to paint the masks and black leotards with fluorescent paint and to place three large blacklights at the lip of the stage so that when we were illuminated, all the audience would see was dancing bones. Consumed with excitement, I found it hard to concentrate on the steps even though they weren’t that hard, just a lot of flap-ball-changing and heel-step-shuffle-stepping. The best use of the glow-in-the-dark effect was sure to be when we lifted off our large skull masks and tossed them back and forth.

After quite a while we took a needed break. Donna lit a long Virginia Slims menthol, and she suggested while inhaling, “Nan Nan, we ought to jazz up this number a bit, don’t you think? I mean some of these steps are just a little …”

“Square,” I chimed in.

“Exactly,” D-G agreed, with an explosion of mint-scented smoke. Fanning the smoke away, she continued, “I just saw the most fabulous movie,
Cabaret
, starring Liza Minnelli, who was fantastic, and it was directed and choreographed by Bob Fosse. They did these really cool steps like this … and this … and this!”

She demonstrated all the sexy, hip-popping signature movements of Mr. Fosse, each step growing more raucously bump-and-grind than the juicy one before. Epiphany. Once again I had a calling. I couldn’t sit still, I had to try it, so I joined in with Donna and shimmied, pelvis-thrusted, and gyrated my heart out, until Mom gently stopped the phonograph and tilted her head.

“Sweethearts, I have to remind y’all that we are still in a church, so let’s tone the Fosse down. Now you know Moozie will never go for that style of dancing. Okay, maybe the shimmy and sexy walk, but Donna, honey, she’d never let you do all that hip-shaking in front of the congregation, much less Reverend Murphy.”

“But Nan-Nan, you’ve got to see this movie, I know you saw the Broadway show a few years ago, but the film is a blast. Bryan would love it, it’s got all those great show tunes and Joel Grey as the Emcee, and if Liza Minnelli doesn’t win the Oscar, well, something’s wrong with the world. Why don’t you take Bryan to see it? It’s all singing and dancing, you’d flip, let’s all go, I’d love to see it again myself!”

Nothing in the world was going to stop me from seeing
Cabaret
. Nothing. So I glanced upward to heaven, stared
at the portrait of the Savior above me, and quickly and solemnly prayed for divine intervention and permission to make the pilgrimage. As I blinked, he seemed to nod, smiling his approval. My eyes slowly descended from the apparition and focused upon another, more tangible deity in maternal form.

“Mother, please take me. I’ve got to see
Cabaret
, I’ll die if I don’t, please take me, oh mama, pleeease!” This was to be my mantra, until she acquiesced.

Smiling softly and shaking her coiffed head, Mother calmly explained to us that some of the show’s subject matter was most definitely inappropriate for a young boy on the verge of seven, especially the blatant promiscuous
S-E-X,
and especially the blatant
H-O-M-O-S-E-X-U-A-L-I-T-Y
references. Furthermore, she explained, I was more of a
Mary Poppins
or
Sound of Music
kind of boy. But Donna sweetly assured Mom that all that
S-E-X
stuff would fly over my head—which was true—and I would really dig all the singing and dancing and big, splashy musical numbers.

Over the course of the coming weeks we wore down Mom’s resistance to the movie and the new moves for our skeleton dance. I even solicited the support of Dr. Sugar. When Mom would frequently excuse herself to the “little girl’s room” to “tinkle,” D-G and I would run our bawdy alternative steps. She would show me what Joel Grey did in the film, and then she would emulate Liza.

“Bryanny boy, let’s take it from the bridge, and hip, hip, shoulder-roll back, eight-ball corner pocket, and bump it to the other side. Man, I tell you, it’s going to be a gas doing these sexy moves for all those uptight churchy folks,
and when we break out all loosey-goosey and go to town during the funky section, they are going to get so bent!”

I loved the groovy way she spoke, and often tried to incorporate some of her hip words, such as “funky,” into my everyday vocabulary. She never treated me as less than an equal, never as a little boy. I wished that she were my sister.

I suppose our nagging, in conjunction with Dr. Sugar’s input, finally wore her defenses down, for Mom finally informed us that after Sunday school and Sunday brunch at Moozie’s, we would all go see
Cabaret
together. Thus the seemingly endless countdown began.

Rehearsal after that point was a lost cause, and I was grateful that I only had to wait less than twenty-four hours; otherwise the anticipation would have been unbearable.

E
VEN THOUGH IT
was mid-October, we sat sweltering in the unseasonable swampy heat in the back of the station wagon, awaiting my habitually tardy mother. Dad rarely accompanied the family to church; he believed that since God was everywhere, he could worship in the comfort of his bed and watch the game until the morning pains subsided, with his personal hangover remedy, a Heineken. Without any warning, a whirling dervish of coral-tinted shantung silk flew into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and was met by desperate cries for air-conditioning and our favorite radio station, WTIX.

“Boys, hold your horses, I’ve got it covered. Now should I go out the interstate, or the back way?”

Jay said, “Mom, take the highway like we always do, it’s not a school day so there won’t be any traffic. Jesus, Mom! Is there any perfume left in the bottle? I can’t breathe, roll down the windows before I have an asthma attack!”

As he started to wheeze, she retorted, “Dawlin’ I’m so sorry, but let’s not take the Lord’s name in vain, especially on His day, He doesn’t ask us for much and I think it’s the least we can do, to praise His name, not defame it.”

“Okay, Mom, but please roll your window down before I die, and step on it, you know how I hate to walk in late.”

I was in complete agreement. Walking late into church was most embarrassing, as we were obligated to sit in the front pews with Moozie and my uncles and whatever other family members happened to attend on that particular Sunday.

We were always dressed up in conservative coats and ties, even in the deadly heat of summer. Soon we would develop a frightening seventies style, which, thanks to the God to whom we were about to pray, was short-lived. Fashion plate that she was, Mother’s attire was often a bit more outstanding and grand than the rest of the congregation’s lesser sense of style. Today she was a vision in coral, with the perfect matching shade of lipstick, tan ostrich pumps, and a matching handbag. I believe that if she could have gotten away with wearing a ball gown to church, she would have done so in a New York second. In her mind, I’m sure it was one of her ways of celebrating God’s creation, especially all things pretty. Luckily this tendency toward vanity was entirely offset by her selfless generosity.

We arrived mid-procession of the feeble and deafeningly
off-pitch choir, and had to follow behind them in humiliation to the forwardmost pews, only to be met by the stern stares of Moozie and the rest of her brood. Her exasperation didn’t last very long, and she pinched our cheeks and quietly kissed us hello. Under her breath she petulantly asked our mother, “Gayle, can you ever be on time? What was it today?”

“Asthma attack.” Mom looked to Jay and winked, and his eyes rolled as he stifled a grin. Moozie abruptly dropped her accusing tone and reached over to pat Jay’s thigh.

“Oh, tomato, I hope you’re feeling better, because I made you your favorite pie.”

“Banana creme?”

“That’s right, baby doll, banana creme.” With that she leaned back over to Mother and whispered, “Honey, you have an extra cup of coffee at fellowship time, I’ve got to stop by Gambino’s bakery and pick up a banana creme pie.”

Church was more unbearably boring than usual. Reverend Murphy was an inspiring, motivating, and extremely handsome minister. He was commandingly tall, with a resonant baritone, and wore a black pompadour coif with cool long sideburns. He resembled an older Elvis, if Elvis had stayed in shape. He was extremely popular with the ladies of the church, but even more so with the men. I rarely understood the sermon at this age, maybe due to the King James translation. It wasn’t until years later, when Reverend Murphy introduced the congregation and the growing youth group to a more contemporary version of the Bible called
The Way
, that I was able to comprehend his heated and impassioned preaching. Then
I followed along; I would make sure that my soul would never burn for eternity in hell. But today, no parable or psalm could take my mind off
Cabaret
.

The family brunch at Moozie’s after church was typically dysfunctional, but that never diminished Moozie’s determination to keep her family united despite its own reluctance. So almost every Sunday we would commune. Holidays such as Christmas Eve, Easter, and Thanksgiving, when tensions would normally escalate, went surprisingly smoothly, as long as my mother did not have to cook. The other family holidays, like the Fourth of July, Labor Day, and Mardi Gras, were disastrous, maybe because the festivities traditionally took place outdoors; my family did much better indoors and near a wet bar. Happily, today was to be free of any turmoil, and soon we were all filled with anticipation, headed for the Lakeside Cinema.

For the last two weeks, whenever we drove past the theatre, I was mesmerized by the giant cutout of Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles, dressed in her purple halter top, hot pants garter belt, fishnet stockings, derby hat, and huge, spidery eyelashes. And now, with tickets and popcorn in hand, we made our way into the sparsely populated cinema, finding great seats in the center, a whole row to ourselves. It was just D-G, Moozie, Mom, and me. The ladies chattered away about cousin so-and-so’s new hairdo, and what they thought of the sermon, until suddenly the General Cinema’s signature trailer emblazoned the screen. There would be a few previews, then it began—
Cabaret
.