My Mother the Cheerleader Read online

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Seems someone forgot to replace his bedpan this morning, and no one was around to bring him a new one when he rang his bell.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry ain’t cleaning these sheets.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  “That’s right.” She nodded. “You will.”

  She stepped away and washed her hands in the regular kitchen sink while I took over washing the sheets.

  “Should I even ask where you were?” she said as she carefully dried her hands with a small blue-striped dish towel.

  “I was just out…riding my bike…and I lost track of the time.”

  “I’ve told you before, Louise: I’d rather you not answer a question than lie straight to my face. Lying straight to someone’s face is hurtful, particularly when it is someone you have a kinship with. Not answering a question is within your right of privacy, even with someone you have a kinship with. It’s called taking the Fifth. You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

  I did want to talk to her about everything, but I wasn’t quite sure what to say. There were so many thoughts swirling around my head that I couldn’t sort out. Should I tell her about Morgan being a Communist? Or my deep and true feelings for him? Or what happened at William Frantz this morning? I didn’t really know where to begin. Not to mention the fact that so much of what I was thinking was brought about because of my snooping and spying, which did not reflect well on my character.

  “I’ll be taking the Fifth,” I finally replied.

  “I thought so,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into everybody, but your mother’s got herself in a nasty mood today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She was stomping around, grousing about this and that before she went to the beauty shop.”

  “Do you know why she was upset?”

  “Why?” Charlotte replied, incredulous. “Since when does that woman need a special reason to be in a bad mood? She just came back this morning all agitated. I’d try to keep my distance for a while if I were you.”

  She grabbed her purse from the counter and headed for the back door. “I’m going to get groceries. There’s sliced ham in the icebox for lunch, and I left the jug of iced tea to brew out in the backyard.”

  She left, and I continued to scrub the sheets. As soon as she was gone, I regretted not opening up to her while I’d had the chance. Charlotte had a level head about most matters. I realized that part of my resistance to sharing with Charlotte had to do with Ruby Bridges and the desegregation issue. Of course I had always been fully aware that Charlotte was a Negro and that my mother and I were white. Yet racial politics had never played into our discussions. We had a primal connection that thrived within the confines of the house. When she wasn’t being my guardian or teacher, she was my ally in labor. Yet some internal defense mechanism warned me that Charlotte might have opinions on integration that threatened the boundaries of our world.

  CHAPTER 19

  A knock at the front door interrupted my washing. I heard the familiar hard-edged voice of Ada Munson calling as she let herself in.

  “Hello,” she hollered. “Pauline, you ’round?”

  I went out front and found Ada standing at the base of the stairs, looking up, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from her lips. Something about her always reminded me of a fire hydrant. She was a stout woman, with dirty reddish-brown hair that she wore in short, tight curls. She had cat’s-eye tortoiseshell glasses on a chain, which magnified her squinty little eyes. One of the things that always drove me nuts about Ada was that she let her cigarettes burn down without ever flicking the ashes off, like she was too lazy to do it. Under the burden of their own weight the ashes would eventually fall off onto the front of her clothes or the floor. To me this was pure insanity. It was like she didn’t care if she got her clothes dirty or lit herself on fire.

  “Where y’at, girl?” she said when she saw me approach.

  “Fine,” I replied.

  “Your mama home?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen her,” I said.

  “She at da beauty shop?”

  “Don’t know. I think. Maybe.”

  “Got anyone staying with you?”

  The question caught me off guard. I instinctively did not want to answer her, but there was no way to completely avoid the question without sounding suspicious.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Who?”

  “A man,” I said.

  “Do you know da man’s name?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “Is he from New York?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of car is he driving?”

  “I didn’t see him drive up.”

  “Well, can you tell me what he looks like?”

  “He’s just a regular man. Not too young. Not too old.”

  “Oh, come on, Louise. You can do better den dat.”

  “He didn’t take a meal with us,” I lied, “so I didn’t really see him much.”

  “Did your mama see him much?” she asked with a smirk.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “You’re not a very useful snitch today, are you?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Be an angel and tell your mama dat she needs to give me a jingle.”

  Just then my mother walked in the front door. Her hair seemed to be styled her usual way. I’m not even sure she went to the beauty shop. She looked distracted and upset. I caught a flash of distress as it crossed her face when she saw Ada standing with me in the entry hall.

  “Well, speak of da devil,” Ada said with a grin. “Where y’at, Pauline?”

  “Ada,” my mother said in greeting as she hung up her light jacket on a coatrack we kept by the door. “This is a surprise.”

  “Just thought I’d come by and say hello, see how da business is going, Pauline.”

  “Same as ever. I’m not making the Hiltons nervous.”

  “I’m a little parched, dear,” Ada said to me. “Could I trouble you for something cool?”

  “Iced tea’s still brewing out back,” I said.

  “Water’ll be just fine,” she offered.

  The three of us moved to the kitchen. I retrieved two glasses and poured water for Ada and my mother.

  “I heard tell you’ve got an interesting guest staying with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Da gentleman from New York.”

  My mother was turned away from Ada, but I could see the look of unease on her face. I could tell that like me, she instinctively did not want to answer any questions about Morgan.

  “Nitty said he sounds like a real gentleman,” Ada continued.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I think you know,” Ada replied.

  “Is there something you’re trying to get at, Ada?”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Pauline. You ain’t da first girl to be duped by a Jew.”

  My mother turned to face Ada.

  “Who said he’s a Jew?”

  “Oh, come on, Pauline. Now, I ain’t no Miss Marple,” Ada continued, “but I suspect dat your gentleman guest was da one who got in da scuffle with Royce and Clem dis morning. Dere were New York plates on his car.”

  “I didn’t see the scuffle,” my mother lied. “So I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Well den, I’m telling you. Be careful.”

  Ada Munson drank down her water in a big long gulp. A small trickle ran down the side of her mouth, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She clapped the glass down on the counter.

  “Just make sure he’s gone double-quick. For his sake more dan yours.”

  My mother just stared at her for a long moment.

  “You understand me, Pauline?”

  My mother said, “Thanks for stopping by, Ada.”

  “Always a pleasure, Pauline. And thanks for da water.”

  Ada Munson let herse
lf out, leaving my mother and me alone in the kitchen. My mother stared out the back window for a long time, lost in thought. Her eyes seemed to be focused on nothing, just staring at a meaningless point on the back fence that bordered our house.

  At that moment I felt close to my mother for the first time in a long time, like we were somehow bonded by our conflicted feelings for Morgan. I desperately wanted to know what she was thinking.

  I watched her in silence for a few moments, then reached out a hand to her to see if I could offer some comfort or at least companionship. Maybe I would talk to her or she would talk to me, woman-to-woman. Whatever happened, I was ready. Gently I touched her back.

  “Mama?” I felt off-balance, even slightly sick, but in some strange way quite grown-up.

  “I’ve got a headache, Louise,” she said, not turning around.

  “But Mama, I—”

  “Louise. Please. My head is throbbing. I need a moment’s peace.”

  A lump rushed into my throat and shortened my breath. I turned and ran upstairs to my room and shut the door.

  CHAPTER 20

  Later that morning low gray clouds moved in over the city, but they just sort of hung there in the sky like a warning. The rest of the day I waited impatiently for Morgan to return, busying myself with little chores and activities around the house. My mother seemed to be waiting too, but she passed the time in a different way. Most days she mixed her lime juleps at one o’clock and then spent the rest of the afternoon listening to the radio. On this day she mixed herself a batch just before noon. She sat herself on the love seat rocker in the backyard. Yet she didn’t listen to the radio. She didn’t fall asleep. She didn’t even really rock in the love seat. She just waited and drank, drank and waited.

  Charlotte returned from shopping just past noon and pushed her granny cart filled with groceries toward the back door. “Afternoon, Miss Pauline,” she said to my mother as she passed. My mother didn’t even look her way. She just stared off into space. Charlotte frowned. “I’m doing fine. Thank you for asking,” Charlotte continued sarcastically as she struggled to pull the granny cart up the back steps. “It’s okay. I got the door. Don’t bother to get up.”

  I saw Charlotte from the kitchen and helped her to pull the cart inside.

  “She’s really in the bag today.” She gestured to my mother outside. I nodded.

  “Something happening with her? She doesn’t usually take to drinking this early.”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Well, you better have some Bromo Seltzer ready tonight. She’s gonna need it.”

  Charlotte and I unloaded the groceries and then spent the rest of the afternoon splitting chores and staying out of each other’s way. I brought Mr. Landroux a sliced-ham-and-pickle po’boy and freshened his bed and then retreated to my room. I struggled to focus on Jane Eyre but couldn’t keep my eyes on the page. I reread all my recent Spy Log entries, trying to gain some new insights into Morgan and the events of the past couple of days. I wound up spending most of the time watching and listening for a sign of Morgan’s return.

  My mother finished the pitcher of lime juleps around one o’clock. With some effort she hoisted herself out of the love seat rocker and walked into the kitchen, where she mixed another batch. Then she went right back to her routine, waiting and drinking, drinking and waiting. Finally, after consuming nearly two pints of cheap bourbon, six limes, and a handful of mint leaves, she passed out. She didn’t look peaceful. Her face was pinched in a troubled expression, like she was squinting, trying to read some fine print on the back of her eyelids.

  Late in the afternoon I helped Charlotte cook up a batch of her famous fiery rice and cheese. Charlotte believed this dish served as a natural hangover remedy, so she made it quite frequently. “The rice helps settle an angry stomach,” she explained, “and the cayenne pepper purifies polluted blood.” Charlotte’s famous fiery rice and cheese recipe went something like this.

  Cook two cups white rice and add the following:

  2 tablespoons cayenne pepper

  1 teaspoon black pepper

  1 tablespoon salt

  ¾ pound of cheddar cheese (grated)

  4 strips of crispy bacon (crumbled)

  ½ cup of green peas

  ¼ cup of milk

  1 egg

  Mix everything together in a cast-iron pot.

  Sprinkle the top with more bread crumbs, cayenne pepper, and grated cheese.

  Bake for 20 minutes.

  Charlotte increased or decreased the level of spice in the recipe depending on my mother’s condition. That day she added an extra heaping teaspoon of cayenne. Charlotte typically hummed and sang gospel tunes as we worked. Sometimes I’d sing along. My mother and I never took much religion, so the words to the songs never really sank in very deep or had much meaning for me. They were just melodies and words that provided a way to pass the time. But on this day everything seemed to take on heightened significance, including the final verse of “Get on Board, Little Children.” She must’ve sung that song a thousand times, but I never really took notice of what the words about the gospel train might imply about her view of the world.

  The fare is cheap and all can go;

  The rich and poor are there.

  No second class aboard this train;

  No difference in the fare.

  So get on board, little children;

  Get on board, little children.

  Get on board, little children;

  There’s room for many a-more.

  By the time we put the pot in the oven to cook, it was already five fifteen and Morgan had not yet returned. The sky darkened as the sun went down behind the heavy clouds. My mother still slept out back as Charlotte packed herself up to leave. Charlotte turned to look at me. I could tell by her expression that she knew something was brewing with me and my mother.

  “What?” I said.

  “You wanna tell me what?” she replied.

  We stood staring at each other until there was a knock at the front door. The sound made me jump.

  “Evening,” Morgan called. “Anyone home?”

  I looked down at myself in a panic. I wore a food-smudged apron and my face and hands were a mess. I couldn’t let him see me like this. I glanced at Charlotte, silently pleading. She understood. She put down her bag and took off her coat.

  “Clean yourself up. I’ll do the greeting. But then I’ve gotta get home. You hear?”

  CHAPTER 21

  I heard Charlotte greet Morgan as I whipped off the apron and tried to scrub myself down as best I could. One question throbbed in my head: Should I attempt to wake my mother? If she was ever going to make it out to Commander’s Palace, she would need to sober up fast. I wasn’t sure if it was better to let her sleep it off for a few more minutes or wake her up to give her longer to sober up. Another more sinister part of me wanted her to just sleep the night away so I could have him all to myself. I’d just tell him she was called away on a family emergency out of town. Maybe he would take me to Commander’s Palace in her place.

  Charlotte returned to the kitchen.

  “Your guest would like some lemonade,” she said. “He’s in the Music Hall.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Now I’m going home.”

  She looked out the window at my mother and shook her head.

  “Don’t let her stay out there too long or she’ll likely catch something.”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  Charlotte put her coat back on and moved to the back door.

  “You sure you’re all right, Louise?”

  She waited for an answer this time.

  “Come on, girl,” she said. “I ain’t got all night.”

  She stared at me another moment until her big cat eyes wore me down.

  “I like him.”

  “Uh-huh,” she grunted in a noncommittal way.

  “There’s nothing wrong with me just liking someone.”

  “No. B
ut I get the sense there’s more going on than you just liking this man.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Louise, sometimes the best thing about being a child is that you don’t have to involve yourself in grown-up things. You understand? You’ve got plenty of time to get mixed up in all sorts of grown-up trouble later.”

  “I’m not getting in any trouble.”

  “Just try not to, all right?”

  I didn’t respond. She shook her head and said, “Don’t forget to take the pot out of the oven.” She walked out the back door and shook her head again as she passed my mother on the way back around to the front of the house.

  When I brought him the lemonade, Morgan was sitting in the wing chair by the front window, reading the sports section of The Times-Picayune.

  “Thank you, Miss Louise.”

  “Sure,” I said, handing him the glass.

  He folded the paper and clapped it on the end table beside him.

  “The Knicks will be lucky to win five games this year. You follow basketball?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” I replied.

  “Good thing you’re not a Knicks fan. They’re just horrible this season. Syracuse beat ’em by sixty-one points a few weeks ago.”

  “Is that bad?” I asked.

  “Worst loss in the team’s history.”

  “You’re a big sports fan, huh?”

  “Everything except hockey. It’s not a good sport for writers. The puck moves too fast. Never enough time to rhapsodize about what you’re seeing. All the best sportswriting is about baseball, because it’s got so many natural pauses, it gives you time to reflect.”

  “You write about sports?” I asked, thinking he might confess his affiliation with the Communist newspaper.

  “Every now and then I write for a small paper back in New York. I don’t make a living at it.”

  Again I found myself struggling for something clever to say. All I could come up with was “Did you have a nice day?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  “Did you see your family?”