My Mother the Cheerleader (9 page)

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 herself 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.

L
ater 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:

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.

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?”

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. But 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?”

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.

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.”