She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (8 page)

She gave me a gentle kiss on my forehead, and as I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought to myself,
I am Rudolph and I will play in the reindeer games
. Although I looked like a living TV antenna, I could only see Rudolph the young buck. Mom peered grandly out in front of the walnut study doors and announced, trying to imitate a heralding bugle, “Ta-ta-ta daaaaaa, ladies, I give you Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer!”

The music started, and I was flapping and tapping my heart out, turning the nose on and off, getting applause and cheers from my beloved audience of three. As the routine grew, with Moozie’s suggested key changes to heighten the excitement, my showbiz gene kicked into full throttle, and I was flying, but forgetting to turn off my very shiny nose. By the time I arrived at the headstand, inebriated with performing, I smelled something burning.

“AUGHHHHHH, GET IT OFF!” I cried, yanking the contraption from my face, revealing my own blistered red nose. Suddenly I felt so stupid, this whole thing was stupid, and to top it all off, my nose was ruined.

In the panic, the ladies rushed to my side, scurrying me into the kitchen to get the burn salve, arguing over the latest first-aid treatment for burns. Just then, Dad burst through the den door.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on in here?”

“Johnny, it’s all right, we have it under control, Bryanny’s nose got burned a little during the dance, that’s all. Baby dear, I am so sorry, does it hurt much? You don’t have to wear the light-up nose if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, let me see.” Dad took my rattled little face into
his big hands and announced, “Looks like you’ll live, son. But a word of advice—scrap the light-up nose, you don’t need it.” Dad gave me a wink, and then came back with, “Any of you ladies care for a cocktail? I’m bellying up to the bar.”

“John, really, another?”

There was a peculiar silence completely foreign to our home during their steely stares.

Norma was first to break the chill. “Johnny, sweetie, I’d love a highball.” Moozie chimed in with a request for a Brandy Alexander, and of course Dad knew what Mom always drank. She smiled insincerely, and a Chivas Mist with a twist was added to the tab. Dad produced a triumphant grin and stumbled ever so slightly, enough that only Mom would notice, as he threw aside the swinging kitchen door and bellowed, “Jaybird, get out the shaker and the ice crusher, and bring out the hooch.” He turned back to catch Mom’s glare, and there was no trace of a grin remaining on his face, but only an expression of contempt. Then he let the door close, flapping back and forth, as we all stood in silence.

“Well, hell’s bells,” Norma said, trying to break the awkwardness of the moment, “this child needs some ice.” And in a flash she produced an impromptu dish-towel ice pack. “Now, heart, put this on your boo-boo nose and rest in the living room, and maybe go over the routine in your head, and we’ll be right out.”

The three women watched as I made my exit, but instead of resting in the living room, I sat near the door and put my ear against it just like on
I Love Lucy
.

“Gayle, what is going on? Why is Johnny drunk in the middle of the week?” Mom was a dam about to break. She took a deep breath with the hope of buying time to come up with a respectable answer, but there was none. Moozie continued, “Maybe it’s not all that bad; he is a good provider.”

With that, Mom broke down. I could hear crying.

“My God, Gayle, get ahold of yourself, it will be okay, tell me what he has done,” said Moozie. “Has he hit you? ’Cause if he has, I will knock his lights out.”

Then Mom spoke softly through intermittent gasps. “No, he hasn’t hit me, he would never do that. He just drinks all the time, from the minute he gets home till he goes to bed or passes out, whichever comes first. Everything is my fault. He blames me for it, and all I’ve done is try to be a good wife and mother. He barely has time for the children. He’s plastered by seven-thirty. Jay wants so much to play with him or do homework with him and be a good son for him, and he doesn’t even know Bryan. That child is scared of him. Scared of his own father. We never know what mood the scotch will put him in. Some nights he’s actually fun, but on some he’s a horror.”

“Well, you’ve just got to put your foot down and tell him that you will not put up with his shenanigans anymore, now march right in there.”

“Mother, you don’t understand, Dr. Waters says it’s a disease, that he is sick.”

“Baloney sausage! And please don’t tell me you are still seeing that psychologist, you are not crazy.”

“No, I assure you I’m not crazy now, but I’m getting
driven there and fast, and Dr. Waters is one of the finest psychiatrists not psychologists in the entire city of New Orleans.”

“Psychiatrist, psychologist, it’s a bunch of hooey. Why do you always have to go see a doctor and tell other people, complete strangers, your problems? This is a private family matter. In my day we didn’t just go air our dirty laundry to any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Is this the same doctor that put Jay on the Ritalin drug? The child was just being a boy and—”

“Mother, this is not helping at all. The fact is that Johnny’s doctor—” And before Moozie could utter another word, Mom quickly continued, “His cardiologist—” That silenced the room entirely.

Norma, who had remained silent throughout the heated exchange, knew when and when not to interfere, and now was the perfect moment to interfere. In the most calming of tones, she tried to calm the battling mother and daughter. “Gayle, dear, I thought John’s heart was all right. That scare a few years ago was only a scare, right, sweetie? Isn’t that what you said? Honey?”

Mom started to speak, but uncharacteristically faltered.

“No one, myself included, but especially Johnny’s daddy, wanted to believe big, strapping John Batt had a heart attack, not the son of Harry J. Batt Senior, founder of Pontchartrain Beach!”

“Now, Gayle I will admit he can be a bit much,” Norma chimed in, “but would he really …”

“At thirty-five years old he had a myocardial infarction,
which, as you remember, kept him in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Harry thought that by calling it by its technical name, it would lessen the stigma of a heart attack, which in reality it was,” Mom said. “Dr. McCurley said that it was nothing to fool with, and John should cut down on salt and drinking, and quit smoking, none of which he has done. Oh yes, he did switch to Heineken for a year, but he was back on J&B in no time.”

Moozie exclaimed, “Well, dear, you are his wife, you just have to make him. I would never have tolerated this sort of behavior from your father, or from any man for that matter.”

“Mother, you can’t ‘make’ anyone ‘do’ anything. Dr. Waters said that all I can do is change myself and how I deal with it, that’s part of Al-Anon.”

“They meet at my church,” Norma added. “Isn’t that for …” She suddenly lowered her voice to a whisper. “… alcoholics?”

“No, Aunt Norma, it’s a group for the spouses of alcoholics.”

Moozie announced, placing a hand above her bouffant, “I have had it up to here. John is not an alcoholic, and you are not going to meetings and telling complete strangers he is. I don’t give one iota what this Dr. Waters says, it’s not proper.”

“Well, Mother,
I’ve
had it up to here,” Mom said, placing her hand mockingly at an even higher mark. “I am not sure whether he is or is not an alcoholic. All I do know is that I can’t live like this.”

Unintelligible as all this was to a third-grader, I knew
something was wrong. The ice for my fried nose had melted away, and just then Jay emerged from the den with the tray of libations, followed by Dad, who quickly dove into the master bedroom. As Jay approached the kitchen door, he signaled for me to open it, which I did with great hesitation. The heated discussion came to an abrupt halt when they gazed at the boy cocktail waiter and Rudolph the Burnt-Nosed Reindeer.

Jay offered the tray to Mom first, saying, “Dad told me to tell you to finish without him. He kept spilling stuff, so he went to bed.”

Mom told Jay how gallant he was to bring the drinks to them, and that it was time for bed.

“But, Mom, I get to stay up a half hour longer than Bryan, and
Laugh-In’s
coming on.”

“All right, Bryanny, time to bathe and it’s lights out, okay, angel? Now give Moozie and Aunt Norma a kiss good-bye.”

Jay was quick with the kisses and off to the den in record speed. As they bent down to kiss me and pinch my cheeks, offering words of encouragement for tomorrow’s performance, I felt as though once again I was privy to top-secret information. This would not be hard to conceal. Finally, Mom hugged me a little longer than usual, whispering in my ear, “Just like Rudolph, you are a very special boy.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I was awakened by my mother wearing a lace-covered housecoat with a pale blue satin ribbon and a red clown nose clipped to her pale powdered face, gently singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

“Pumpkin-eater boy, it’s time to get up, today’s the big day. If you and Jayzee are extra quick getting dressed, we can stop at Royal Castle for breakfast. When you’re ready, come by our room and give your daddy a kiss good-bye.”

In a flash we were dressed and waiting by the door.

“Dammit, John, you
have
to go, it’s your son’s school play. You barely do anything with the boys. You have to, and that is that!”

We knocked in hopes of ending the argument, and Dad told us to come in. He was still in bed, his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

“Come give your Pops a hug and a kiss,” he said, and as we did so, smelling the stale scotch on his breath and feeling his scratchy whiskers, he said in a hoarse tone, “How much do you love me?” And as was the drill, mimicking the pose of the funny-faced dime store statue with its arms stretched out wide that we had given him for Father’s Day, we said in unison,
“This
much.” As I was leaving the dark room, I looked back and asked, “Daddy, are you coming to my play today?” He rumbled, “I’m not sure, sport, but I’ll try.” I shrugged and started for the door, but turned back as I touched the brushed-nickel doorknob. “Okey-dokey, Pops, but I still love you
this
much.”

T
HE MAIN REASON
Mom wanted to stop off at Royal Castle was to kill two birds with one stone. I never understood that expression; either way you end up with two dead birds. The same with catching more flies with
honey than with vinegar; you still end up with flies. The short-order cook, Miss Darlene, was always so nice to us, complimenting my mom on her hair or outfit, and she always made the best silver-dollar pancakes. Miss Darlene sported a nearly foot-high, fire-engine-red beehive do, which she would decorate for various holidays, and on this day, flocked sprigs of holly sprang out from the numerous caverns, hills, and dales of her hair. One of Mom’s outfits, a groovy multicolored silky raincoat, had been the subject of Miss Darlene’s praise. The last few visits, Miss Darlene had been blue about her son in Vietnam, and had thoroughly forgotten to decorate her hair for Thanksgiving. So while going through her closet a few days prior, which was a rarity, Mom noticed the coat. She hadn’t worn it much, and thought that since Miss Darlene loved it so, she should have it. At first Mom had second thoughts about giving someone a used coat—it might be considered tacky—so she also placed a pair of season passes to Pontchartrain Beach in the pocket. Mom loved the fact that the business brought so much joy to people of all ages, and even more she loved sharing it with her family and as many people as she could. Dad often said Mom suffered from an identity crisis: she thought she was Santa Claus.

Miss Darlene was ecstatic to receive the coat and the passes. She hugged and thanked Mom profusely, and as we were driving to school in the new Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser, adorned with a big red velvet bow on its front grille, making notes of new, overly decorated homes to visit on our nightly caroling jaunts, I saw Mom brush away
a single tear. “Okay, my Mr. Frosty and Mr. Rudolph. ‘Jingle Bells’! Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh …”

T
HE MOMENT HAD
come. Of course there were a few remarks about my singed nose from some of the other third-graders, but backstage I awaited my cue, butterflies churning in my stomach. Then, hearing David Lane, who was playing the Papa in “The Night Before Christmas,” say quite loudly yet with an uncommitted tone, “And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer … plus one more,” I started prancing with the two rows of four boys dressed identically, except for the non-illuminated clown nose, pulling Santa in his sleigh. My music started and the choir section in the orchestra pit began their singing, and I went to town. I smiled and sold the routine to the back row of the Henson Auditorium.

It came time for my headstand, and the entire audience burst into thunderous applause. With every choreographed upside-down foot and leg movement, the crowd went wild. From my reversed perspective, all I could see were lights and smiles, I didn’t know what it was, or if it would last, but I loved this feeling. On a reindeer high for the rest of the day, I welcomed the praise of my classmates and teachers. Even Jay made a point of announcing on the school bus home, “How about my brother as Rudolph!” and there was even more applause.

At home, Oralea had said Mom would be coming home
soon, but that I should get a special treat for my “stupendous” performance. When Dad came home, shortly after five, as the orange winter sun was setting over Lake Pontchartrain, he poured his crystal double old-fashioned glass with a more-than-ample serving. Instead of setting up the checkers set as he usually did in the evening, he bellowed for me to come to the den. I guessed he was going to tell me that he couldn’t get away from work to see me. Our eyes met, and he beamed. It seemed like an eternity before he spoke, but when he finally did, there was warmth in his voice, a deep timbre that resonated a pure affection. Of course, he had displayed such emotions before, but not like this.