My Mother the Cheerleader Page 10

  I dangled the question out there, hoping he would reveal himself. A rush of adrenaline hit me as I asked the question, as if I were completing the most illicit dare. It felt dangerous even to ask, given what I knew about what had happened, like I was risking something for both of us.

  He gave me a sad smile.

  “Yeah. My brother. But things didn’t turn out quite the way I’d hoped.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Michael and I don’t really get along, and we haven’t for a long, long time.”

  “Why not?” I asked, emboldened by his honesty.

  “It’s complicated. I guess we both hurt each other over the years. And then we had a big fight and never made up. I guess that when you have a falling-out with someone, like we did, you can’t wait too long to try to make up or it just gets to be too late. It feels like too much time has passed to get back to anywhere near where we used to be.”

  “Why would it be too late?”

  “You ask tough questions.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s all right.” He paused a moment to think. “I suppose we both just can’t shift off the feelings that have set in over the years. You know, one of the things they tell you when you get married is ‘Never go to bed angry at each other,’ because if you do, your angry feelings harden overnight and become that much tougher to shake off the next morning. Well, my brother and I have been going to bed angry at each other for twenty years.”

  “Are you going to try to see him again?”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know quite yet. We make each other so mad, neither of us is thinking straight. I’m trying to settle my mind before I make any decisions about what to do.”

  “Well, it seems to me like if you came down all this way just to see him, it’s probably worth another try. You know, just to see. Because maybe he’s thinking about you right now. And feeling bad about things.”

  “You may be right about that.”

  “I bet I am. Really. You shouldn’t give up.”

  “Did you ever think about becoming a psychiatrist?”

  “I’m not quite sure I know what that is.”

  He laughed.

  “It’s a doctor who helps people work through their problems. You seem to have a knack for it.”

  “Thank you…I guess.”

  He laughed again.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me how your day was?”

  “It wasn’t bad, I guess.” I felt a deep pang of guilt that I had spent the most interesting part of my day searching his room and eavesdropping on his private conversations.

  “How was school?” he asked.

  “I don’t go to school.”

  “No?”

  “Well, not right now. There’s a boycott on. No one really goes.”

  “Do you know why there’s a boycott?”

  “Integration,” I said.

  “What about integration?” he asked.

  “Folks around here are against it. And the federal government wants it.”

  “Are you against it?”

  No one had ever asked me this question before.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Do you think it’d be wrong to go to school with Negro kids?”

  “I don’t know that it would make any difference. We don’t have the best teachers at my school.”

  He chuckled.

  “Do you ever play with Negro kids?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t really play with many kids at all,” I confessed.

  “That’s a shame,” he said. “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m not that interested in the stuff that most kids are interested in around here.”

  “You’re just more mature than they are.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know it. When I grew up here, I felt the same way,” he said. “I was always good at school-work and bad at sports. And for a boy that’s a terrible combination. Guess that’s why I’m such a big sports fan. I love watching people who are good at something I’m not. But let me tell you, there’s a world of people out there, Louise. All sorts of people who are more like you than you can imagine. You’re gonna grow up and find a whole bunch of friends who like to read and do all the things you like to do and then some. Never ever be ashamed of being smart, Louise. That brain of yours will take you places and show you things. You trust me on that.”

  At that moment I had never felt such a powerful connection to another human being. I was ready to declare myself a sports fanatic, a Communist, or anything else to solidify my allegiance to Morgan. Perhaps we could move to the Soviet Union and work on some farming commune together.

  “Hold on just a sec. I want to give you something,” he said, suddenly rising.

  He ran back outside to his car, which was parked in front of the house. He opened the trunk and rummaged around for a minute before he found what he was looking for—a book. He tucked it under his arm and closed the trunk. When he returned, he handed me a hardbound copy of John Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath.

  “Have you read it?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “It’s probably his best. Although I wouldn’t tell him that. It’s also a long one, so stick with it to the end.”

  “I will.”

  “Look inside,” he said.

  The book felt heavy and important.

  “Go on, open it,” he encouraged.

  I opened the book and saw the following message written in black ink on the flyleaf.

  Dear Morg,

  You’re a lousy drinker, but a damn good friend.

  Thanks for putting up with all of my BS.

  All the best,

  John Steinbeck

  I gently ran my index finger across the page, awed by the fact that Steinbeck’s hand had touched it.

  “You sure you want me to have this?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “But he gave it to you.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” He nodded.

  “I don’t know how to thank you for something like this.”

  “You can thank me by reading and enjoying it.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  He checked his watch. “And now I think I’d better find your mother.”

  “My mother…”

  “We’ve got dinner reservations at six thirty. I hear the folks at Commander’s Palace can get awfully fussy if you’re late.”

  CHAPTER 22

  When I walked back into the kitchen, a small trail of smoke leaked out the top of the oven. It wasn’t the first time I’d let my mind wander and burned the supper. I rushed over, grabbed two oven mitts, took out the pot of fiery rice and cheese, and laid it on the stove. The bread crumbs on the top were burned, but the rest was salvageable. Looking out the window, I saw my mother slumped over in the love seat rocker. She typically slept in a fairly dignified, upright position, like a lady of leisure taking an afternoon nap. Now she looked more like a drunk who had passed out. She was in no condition to trot off to Commander’s Palace or anywhere else, for that matter.

  I ran out the back door and tried to shake her awake.

  “Mama!” I hissed at her. “Mama—wake up!”

  But she wouldn’t stir. I felt her hot breath on me as I pushed my body against her shoulder in an attempt to hoist her back to a normal sitting position. Unfortunately, her body tilted over in the other direction until she tipped over and hung off the side of the rocker like the old Howdy Doody puppet I kept on top of my dresser. I ran around and pushed her back the other way, managing to balance her in something resembling a sitting position.

  “Mama…please wake up!” I pleaded.

  I ran back inside and retrieved a glass of ice water, reasoning that if I could get her to take a drink, it might revive her. I wasn’t sure how I would get the water d
own her throat. So first I fished a piece of ice out of the glass and ran it across her forehead. She jerked and twisted her neck and made a small grunt in reaction to the cold, but her eyes remained closed. I raised the glass to her lips and tilted her head back.

  “Here, Mama. Drink.”

  I attempted to slowly pour some water into her mouth. As soon as the water hit her throat, she coughed so violently that her right arm jerked in a spasm, knocking the glass from my hand. It shattered on the ground beneath my feet. Her coughing escalated until she started gagging. Her throat emitted a horrible, bubbled wheeze. Then it happened—she vomited all over the place, covering herself in yellow bile flecked with half-chewed pieces of mint leaves.

  I grabbed her as she heaved again, hoping to direct the vomit onto the ground, but I wound up covered myself, all down the front of my clothes. This was not the first time I’d seen my mother sick from drinking, but it was the first time I had been caught in the line of fire. The violence of the vomiting shook her awake a little. She tried to steady herself on the love seat. I’m sure the motion of the rocker wasn’t helping right then. She heaved and vomited a third time and was at least able to direct it away from herself and me and into the flower bed beside the rocker. When she was finished, she gasped for breath.

  “Louise…goddamn…” she rasped.

  She heaved again, but nothing came up this time, just a gurgling sound and then a dry rasping gasp. Her face was as red as a firecracker, and her eyes looked like they might pop out of her head.

  “Water…” she said.

  I ran back inside to get another glass, and I discovered Morgan standing in the kitchen. I froze when I saw him. He looked me up and down.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  Here I was, covered in my mother’s vomit, in the midst of trying to revive her so she could go on a date with him—a Communist who might be a full-blown spy or a least an agitator. Nothing was all right.

  “No,” I replied, running past him.

  “My God, what happened?”

  I ignored the question and ran back outside with the glass of water. Morgan followed. Again I attempted to feed my mother a drink of water. Morgan rushed over and helped prop her up. He steadied her while I poured a small amount of water into her mouth. She gagged a bit but was able to swallow it. She took another sip and her breathing calmed. Her eyes finally began to focus. She recoiled when she saw that Morgan was holding her.

  “Get your damn hands off me!” She twisted away from him and even managed to stand up.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he said.

  “No! It’s not okay!” my mother snapped back.

  “Just relax,” he said, genuinely surprised.

  “Mama, he was only helping.”

  “Shut up, Louise!”

  “But Mama…”

  “I said shut up. And get upstairs!”

  “Pauline,” Morgan tried to reason, “aren’t you being a little—”

  “Get upstairs, Louise! Now!”

  Overwhelmed by shame, hurt, and my pure helplessness in the situation, I burst out crying. I couldn’t speak. Like my mother’s jagged demeanor, my tears came out raw and ugly.

  “You heard me,” she rasped. “Git!”

  I blubbered for another moment and ran inside the house and up to my room.

  CHAPTER 23

  When I got to my room, I threw myself on my bed, sobbing in big hearty gusts. I could hear their voices carrying up from the backyard. I remember thinking that for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to spy. I didn’t want to hear anything that my mother might say, because I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. But I couldn’t move; something compelled me to listen, like when people rush over to see a house burn down or watch bloody victims pulled from a train wreck.

  “Are you a Jew?” my mother said, slurring.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t want to be deceived anymore.”

  “I haven’t deceived you.”

  “Are you a Jew?”

  “I don’t practice any religion.”

  “I haven’t choked down a Communion wafer in ten years, but that don’t mean I’m not half Catholic.”

  “What difference does—?”

  “ARE YOU A JEW?”

  “I was born Jewish,” he said. “Does that matter?”

  “Does that matter?” my mother gasped. “Of course it matters.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “What are you doing here?” she countered.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I needed a room.”

  “In New Orleans. What are you doing in New Orleans?”

  “I came down to see my brother.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Then what were you doing at the school this morning?”

  “Were you there?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was there,” she said. “And I saw you.”

  “Are you one of the Cheerleaders?”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then what were you doing at the school?”

  “I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I didn’t quite believe it.”

  “Believe what?”

  “Everything,” he said.

  “You’re one of the Northern Jews who’re stirring up the niggers and making all this trouble.”

  “I wasn’t making any trouble.”

  “You’re some kind of organizer.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re lying again.”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m certainly not against what’s happening.”

  “So you just went over there to look around, like a tourist waltzing down Bourbon Street.”

  “I went over there to get a look at what real courage looks like. It’s not every day you get to see that.”

  “Real courage.”

  “That little Negro girl has got more courage than anyone I’ve ever seen. And I felt like I needed to find a little courage to face my brother.”

  “You mean to tell me that’s the only reason you were there?”

  “Yes. Why were you there?”

  “What do you mean, why was I there? This is my neighborhood. I belong there.”

  “No one belongs taunting an innocent child.”

  “Innocent,” my mother scoffed.

  “She’s only six years old.”

  “She’s part of the whole conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy?

  “The niggers and the Jews trying to take control.”

  “Take control of what?”

  “Everything.”

  “She just wants a better education. Doesn’t everyone deserve an education?”

  “Nigger-loving propaganda.”

  “It’s not propaganda.”

  “Why do you care so much about the niggers?”

  “I try to care about everybody.”

  “Isn’t that just dandy. You know what I think?”

  “No.”

  “I think everybody should just mind themselves.”

  “What kind of harm would it do if that little girl went to school in the same building with your little girl?”

  “I don’t want to get into a political conversation.”

  “But it’s not political to you, is it? It’s personal, right?”

  “Damn straight it’s personal,” she snapped back. “We oughta be able to decide what kind of school we want for our own children. The government’s got no right coming in here and telling us how to live our lives.”

  “Don’t you think Negro parents feel the same way?”

  “I don’t give a goddamn what the hell Negro parents think. Of course they want what we’ve got. White people build up everything, and then Negroes just come along and think they can take it and dirty it up. We’ve got a right to control our own neighborho
od.”

  “It’s their neighborhood too.”

  “It’s not their neighborhood. White people built this city when most of them were swinging from trees in Africa. I know how they live. They drink like fish and breed like monkeys in the jungle. And they’re violent like angry cats.”

  “You don’t really believe what you’re saying.”

  “Damn right I do. I’ve seen them up close. Human life just doesn’t mean as much to the niggers. Most of them are barely human.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I’m ashamed of nothing.”

  “Do you want your daughter growing up thinking like that?”

  “Keep her out of this.”

  “You’re responsible for raising that child. Lord knows what kind of hateful ideas you’re putting in her head.”

  “Don’t talk to me about responsibility!” My mother’s voice cracked. The entire conversation she had been slurring and angry, but managed to keep her voice somewhat level. Now her voice became more and more strained, rising in pitch like a boiling tea kettle. “I’ve done right by that child,” she continued. “No one’s gonna tell me I haven’t, goddamn it. I’ve done more right than any woman would’ve in my situation. I’ve given that girl a proper home. I’ve fed her. I’ve clothed her. I’ve raised her up from a baby. Changed diapers. Taught her to talk. Oh, and the money I’ve spent. New shoes! Haircuts! Clothes! Notebooks! Pencils! Lunch boxes! Glasses! Presents at Christmas! You name it. Goddamn it! I did it! Do you hear? I did it!”

  “Isn’t that what a mother’s supposed to do for her daughter?” Morgan asked.

  My mother’s response shook me more than I ever thought a simple sentence of the English language could.

  “I am not her mother.”

  Those five little words hit my brain like a bucket of freezing-cold water, sending a chill through my entire body. My mind raced back over my previous thirteen years, and snippets of memory rose up and hit me in the face, a thousand little moments that made me know instantly that what she said was absolutely true.

  “What do you mean?” Morgan asked.

  “I mean what I said,” my mother responded, her voice softening but cracking under the weight of a small sob. “I’m not her mother.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She paused to catch her breath. The anger drained from her voice like the confession had blown it out of her. “She’s my sister’s child.”