The Music of Your Life (8 page)

“Mother of the bride?” Kimber asks.

“The groom,” I volunteer, cutting to the chase. “My brother.”

Kimber steps back to survey Mother. “I'd say you were a winter, is that right, ma'am?”

“Yes, I believe that's right,” Mother answers, but sounding none too certain. She quickly looks at me for help.

“Yes, Mother, you're a winter,” I say, trying to keep it under my breath.

Kimber smiles. “Great. I'm thinking some kind of a nice, deep blue, or a light gray,” she says.

“Well, OK, that sounds fine,” says Mother. “But if I don't find something soon, I believe I'll just have to wear a potato sack.”

Kimber laughs politely; I'm thinking she's probably heard that one before. She leads Mother over to a rack of formals in the back part of the shop. I would follow, of course, but outside the store, in the mall, I have noticed a very attractive guy, about my age, sitting by himself on a bench. I don't think it was my imagination that I saw him smile at me as Mother and I walked in, and I have kept a watch out of the corner of my eye ever since.

He's still there as I drift, ever so subtly, back over to the front of the shop. Of course, for the sake of appearances, I have to pretend to be doing something, and, unfortunately, the only thing I can do is to look interested in a display of large, crushy velveteen belts. I keep my attention divided between Mother and the salesclerk, the cute boy, and the crushy belts. I can't help but notice that the mall's Muzak machine is currently playing “How Deep Is Your Love.”

I pick up a gold belt. The guy uncrosses his legs and leans over on the bench, forward, hunched, looking at me looking at the belts. Oh, this is great, he'll probably think I want one of them for myself, a big, crushy velveteen belt. Jesus. In the back, I can see Mother holding up a sparkly peach-colored gown. I pick up an orange belt and pretend to have an internal opinion about it. The guy gets up from the bench. Is he coming over? Oh God. Mother holds the dress up in front of her, modeling in the three-way mirror while I divert my attention from the orange belt to a skinny leather turquoise belt; maybe he'll think I'm a boyfriend of some girl and I'm out shopping for her birthday; boyfriends do that, I believe. But then I think: No, wait, if he thinks I'm the boyfriend of some girl, he'll be less likely to make a move on me. But then: What would I do with Mother if he does make a move on me?

The guy is now walking over to me, glancing sideways out into the mall the whole time, in the shifty way someone looks around before committing a crime. But he's smiling, looking expectant, like he's about to speak; oh, but then I think: What if he has me confused with somebody else, that he simply thinks he knows me and here I have been cruising him all this time like a fool, like the Gay Village Idiot who didn't know when to cruise and when not to, and he's probably about to scream out, “Please stop cruising me, you Gay Village Idiot!” But—oh dear Jesus, what is this?—he's almost at the edge of the tasteful Montaldo's carpeting. Oh God—

“Hampton?” Mother suddenly calls out from the back of the store.

The guy is almost inside. He's about to make a gesture toward me—is he going to speak to me or hit me?

“Hamp?” Mother calls, now turning in my direction to see where I've gone to.

And like a Three Stooge, I wheel around and knock over the entire standing rack of crushy belts. Oh, this is a disaster. Because what if I'm wrong and what if he actually was going to come over to talk to me because he was interested, what if he was an unmoored person like myself, looking for someone to share his life with, to set up house with, to love forever, to have and to hold till death do us part? And now, like a circus clown, I have knocked over a display rack and he's thinking: “Oh, he's cute, but klutzy—better not,” and there goes an entire lifetime of love and romance down the drain because I couldn't control my own motor skills when faced with the unbeatable combination of having to feign interest in a rack of ladies' crushy belts while playing hard to get with a potentially desirable suitor. So I drop to my knees as if overcome by the Catholic need to pay penance, which makes no sense as I am a dyed-in-the-cashmere Presbyterian, but I know I have blown it anyway, and I have to pick up these goddamn crushy belts before the salesclerks uniformly decide to kick my mother and me out of Montaldo's because I'm a liability to the merchandise, and then Mother really will have to wear a potato sack to Topher's wedding, just as she feared all along, and it will be all my fault because I couldn't handle myself with decorum in a women's dress shop in Crabtree Valley Mall when I saw a cute boy who might be interested in me and—OH GOD!!!!

The guy stands at the entrance of the store for a moment as I hurry to replace the belts on the rack. I deliberately don't look at him, because if I did, I know I would be forced to scream out: “No, go away, save yourself! You don't want to date a Three Stooge! Run!” And when I right the rack, I see sideways that he has turned his back on me at the edge of the store and gone back out into the mall, presumably—now that it is clear our relationship will never work out—to trawl again among the great milling masses of the unloved. I want to call out after him: “Good luck! He's out there! You'll find him!” and then just hang myself from the Montaldo's ceiling with the orange velveteen crushy belt.

Mother walks over to me as I stand holding the rack, gazing out into the mall, lost in thought and staring like a hypnotized person into the gleaming red and white lighting of the Chick-fil-A.

“Hampton, what do you think of this, honey?” She has traded the peach dress (which, even in my panic state I knew was the wrong color) for a light silver-gray, knee-length satin brocade dress with a low round neckline encrusted ever so subtly with faux mini-pearls. This one has potential.

“Oh, I'm so glad you picked that one, that's one of my favorites,” gushes Kimber, coming up beside us. “Don't you think so?” This is directed at me, though I'm sure she hasn't got the foggiest clue as to the dynamic of my being here in this store. She's probably just glad she didn't have to pick up the belts.

“It's beautiful, Mother,” I tell her. “You should definitely try it on.”

“There's a fitting room right here,” says Kimber, taking the dress from Mother and leading the way.

So now I have, what, four, five minutes of free time? Mother has to take off her sweater, her skirt, and get zipped into the dress. And then she will quickly fluff her hair, say “I look like the Wreck of the Hesperus” to the mirror before walking back out onto the floor to model the dress for the salesclerk and me. Maybe it's not too late to find My Hero again, and convince him that I'm really worth it, after all …

I have five minutes.

I dash out into the mall. I look quickly into Spencer Gifts, then World Bazaar, then Baskin-Robbins. No sign. A quick glance into The Hub menswear. Zip.

Oh, what did I expect anyway? This is stupid, infantile behavior; I clearly have lost my mind. And that's when I see him— about three yards ahead of me, walking hand in hand with some girl. A girl! Aha. Well, isn't that interesting. I gain on them, then slow down, then deliberately walk past them. I turn around to catch his eye, and our gazes do lock in a boy-to-boy stare for something like a quick second. But then his eyes glaze over—reflexively? intentionally? both?—under the intensity of my high beams. His look and his message are clear:
Now's not the time
. I smile at him, of course; I may be the Gay Village Idiot, but I'm a gentleman, too, and really—isn't a simple smile the least of kindnesses one can offer when an affair comes to an end? I pause at the window of Crate & Barrel, pretending to gaze at the gleaming display of new copper cookware, and allow the couple to pass me.

I walk back into Montaldo's just as Mother is coming out of the dressing room. Suddenly, in this instant when I catch sight of her, I forget about the guy in the mall, about Robbie, about New York, about all the minutiae of my life, about everything. Because I see Mother emerging from the dressing room with the regal bearing and immaculate glamour of a ′50s movie queen, and for a moment, casting aside family bonds, ages, and sexual orientation, I feel like nothing more than just a guy gazing at a beautiful woman in a gorgeous dress. The silver-gray color offsets her dark hair and blue eyes perfectly, the neckline is exactly right for her graceful, feminine neck, the length of the skirt shows off her still-shapely legs to great advantage. All my childhood fantasies of having a mother who looked and dressed like a combination of Grace Kelly, Jackie Kennedy, and Marlo Thomas, with a little June Cleaver thrown in for reality, suddenly come rushing back to me. I'm so proud of her. I'm so proud she's mine.

“Hey,” I say, finally.

“What do you think?” she asks, expectant, clearly hoping I will say yes. I would, even if I didn't like it, because for her, it is already yes.

“Mother, it's gorgeous. You look … fabulous.”

“I told you he'd like it,” says Kimber to Mother, then back to me: “We were hoping you would.”

“Do you think Daddy will like it?” Mother asks, turning away to make slight adjustments in the mirror.

“Of course.”

“What about Topher? Think he'll like it?”

“I'm sure he will. Especially when he finds out how close you were to a potato sack.”

“Oh, Hampton. Well … I guess …”

“Definitely get it, Mother. It's the best one we've seen all day.”

I move up into the mirror and stand next to her, and we look back at our reflections. For a second, her sudden glamour casts its glow on me, too, and I get to be Tyrone Power or Cary Grant taking her arm. And then what I think is: Has Mother, at any time today, wondered if this is her only chance to ever be the mother of a groom?

After Mother and I do a late lunch at the mall's food court—I at the Chick-fil-A, she at Salads 'n Such—we stop into Grant's of the Hill, which is Crabtree's best men's clothing store. She buys me a sweater and tells me how grateful she is that I was here to help her today. I feel a little guilty, because of course I had wanted something for myself all along, but I can tell that buying this for me is something she wants to do, and she knows, anyway, that I always have a good time shopping in a mall, no matter what I'm looking for. It's always been this way between us, thirty-three years of small, silent understandings. Besides, it's a great sweater: it's teal! Maybe I'll have at least one date this winter where I can wear it. I almost say this to her, too. Almost, almost, almost.
A date, Mother. I'll wear this on a date. Maybe he'll like it as much as we do. Maybe he'll like me—almost—as much as you do. Maybe, if he stays, you'll like him—almost—as much as you like me. Maybe, if he really
stays, I'll love him, Mother. And he'll love me—almost—as much as you love me
. Almost, almost, almost I say this. And I almost see her looking at me with a clear-eyed look of expectancy, as if she knows what I'm going to say. Is it too obvious for me to even proclaim it? Is it too obvious for her to even acknowledge it?

“This is a beautiful sweater, Mother,” I say, slowly, my breath coming in choppy waves, though maybe only I can hear that. “Thank you.”

“Oh, you're welcome, honey.”

“Mother … it's so beautiful … that maybe I could … even wear it … on a date.”

I'm afraid I might just fall to the floor of Crabtree Valley Mall right at this moment and conk my head on the hard surface and pass out for eternity, clutching a teal sweater to my chest and dreaming of Prince Charming.

She looks at me, right in the eyes. I'm still standing. So is she.

“Well, yes, Hampton,” she says, also slowly. “Maybe you could. And wouldn't that … person … be lucky to be on a date with you? With you and your sweater.”

And we both turn away from each other, as if cued, keeping our gazes fixed at the exit sign, but walking side by side for as long as it takes to reach the doors.

Outside, it has grown almost dark, and the tall, fluorescent lights of the parking lot are starting to flicker against the navy blue sky. Mother looks suddenly panicked.

“Oh, I wanted to be home before dark,” she says, fumbling in her purse for her keys. “I wanted to get home before Daddy does.” And I know what's coming next, because I have heard it many times before:

“So he doesn't have to walk into an empty house while I'm still alive.”

“Oh, Mother,” I say impatiently, as she starts up the car and begins to navigate us out of the Crabtree parking lot. “It's one day. I think finding your dress was a little more important than making sure Daddy gets dinner on time.”

And after a moment, or two, she says, quietly: “Nothing is more important than Daddy, Hampton.”

That stops me; I don't say anything after that. At least not for about five hurt, brooding, selfish minutes. But then I realize that she includes me and my brother in that remark too, and Mary Beth; nothing is more important than
us
. I lean my head back against the headrest, and we ride in silence for a while. But soon after we turn onto the Beltline, I pop the Ferrante and Teicher tape back into the tape deck, and the car reverberates with their instrumental piano “stylings” of “Moon River.”