“Then it was morning, and the sun came up, and the elephants made their way back to a place even more secret than the elephant graveyard. They all dreamed about Old Bet, and wished her well.
“My name is Lucy Simpkins and my story was called ‘Old Bet’s Gone Away.’ Thank you.”
The others applauded her, softly at first, as if they were afraid it was the wrong thing to do, but it wasn’t long before their clapping grew louder and more ardent. Gina sat forward, applauding to beat the band. She looked at the audience, gave a shrug that was more an inward decision than an outward action, and stood. Lucy Simpkins managed something like a smile, then handed me her watercolor. “You should have this,” she said, and made her way out of the room toward the refreshment table.
As everyone was dispersing, I took Gina’s hand and pulled her aside. “My God, did you hear that?”
I thought it was incredibly moving.”
Moving? Maybe in the same way the last thirty minutes of The Wild Bunch or Straw Dogs is moving, yes, but if you’re talking warm and fuzzy and It's A Wonderful Life, you’re way the hell off-base!”
Her eyes clouded over. “Jesus, Andy. You’re shaking.”
Damn straight I’m shaking. Do you have any idea what that girl has to have been through? Can you imagine the kind of life which would cause a child to tell a story like that?” I took a deep breath, clenching my teeth. “Christ! I don’t know which I want more: to wrap her up and take her home with me, or find her parents and break a baseball bat over their skulls!”
That’s a bit...strong, isn’t it?”
No. An imagination that can invent something like that story is not the result of a healthy, loving household.”
Don’t be so arrogant. You aren’t all-knowing about these things. You don’t have any idea what her family life is really like.”
“I suppose, Mother Goose, that you’re more experienced in this area?” I don’t know why I said something like that. Sometimes I’m not a nice person. In fact, sometimes I stink on ice.
Her faced melted into a placid mask, except for a small twitch in the upper left corner of her mouth that threatened to become a sneer.
“My sister had epilepsy,” Gina said. “All her life the doctors kept changing her medication as she got older, a stronger dose of what she was already taking, or some new drug altogether. Those periods were murder because her seizures always got worse while her system adjusted. Her seizures were violent as hell but she refused to wear any kind of protective gear. ‘I don’t wanna look like a goon,’ she’d say. So she’d walk around with facial scrapes and cuts and ugly bruises; she sprained her arm a couple of times and once dislocated her shoulder. People in the neighborhood started noticing, but no one said anything to us. Someone finally called the police and Child Welfare. They came down on us like a curse from heaven. They were of course embarrassed when they found out about Lorraine’s condition—she’d always insisted that we keep it a secret—but nothing changed the fact that people who were supposedly our friends just assumed that her injuries were the result of child abuse. Lorraine had never been so humiliated, and from that day on she saw herself as being handicapped. I think that, as much as the epilepsy, helped to kill her. So don’t go jumping to any conclusions about that girl’s parents or the life she’s had because you can't know. And anything you might say or do out of anger could plant an idea in her head that has no business being there.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I suggest that you go out there and tell her how much you enjoyed her story. I suggest we try to make her feel special and admired because she deserves to feel that way, if only for tonight.”
I squeezed her hand. “It couldn’t have been a picnic for you, either, Lorraine’s epilepsy.”
“She should have lived to be a hundred. And just so you know—this has a tendency to slip out of my mouth from time to time—Lorraine committed suicide. She couldn’t live with the knowledge that she was ‘a cripple.’ I cried for a year.”
I’m sorry for acting like a jerk.”
She smiled, then looked at her watch. “Break’s almost over. If you want to step outside and smoke six minutes off your life, you’d better do it now. I’ll snag some punch and cookies for you.”
I couldn’t find Lucy; one parent told me she’d gone into the restroom, so I stepped out for my smoke. The rest of the evening went quickly and enjoyably. At the end of the night, I found myself with a tie: Lucy Simpkins (how could I not?) and my junior-league Ernie Kovaks who didn’t know no farmers.
Ernie was ecstatic.
Lucy was gone.
* * *
I have only the vaguest memories of my father. When I was four, he was killed in an accident at the steel mill where he worked. He left only a handful of impressions: the smell of machine grease, the rough texture of a calloused hand touching my cheek, the smell of Old Spice. What I know of him I learned from my mother.
His death shattered her. She grew sad and overweight and began drinking. Over the years there have been times of laughter and dieting, but the drinking remained constant, evidenced by the flush on her cheeks and the reddened bulbous nose that I used to think cute when I was a child because it made her look like W.C. Fields; now it only disgusts me.
After my father’s death, nothing I did was ever good enough; I fought like hell for her approval and affection but often settled for indifference and courtesy.
Don’t misunderstand—I loved her when she was sober.
When she was drunk, I thought her the most repulsive human being on the face of the earth.
I bring this up to help you make sense of everything that happened later, starting with the surprise I found waiting on my doorstep when, after coffee and cheesecake, Gina drove me back to my house.
Someone on the street was having a party so we had to park half a block away and walk. That was fine by me; it gave us time to hold hands and enjoy the night and each other’s company. The world was new again, at least for this evening –
– which went right into the toilet when something lurched out of the shadows on my porch.
“...Been waitin’ here....a long time....” Her voice was thick and slurred and the stench of too much gin was enough to make me gag.
“Mom? Jesus, what are you –” I cast an embarrassed glance at Gina.“—doing here?”
She pointed unsteadily to her watch and gave a soft, wet belch. “...S’after midnight...s’my birthday now....”
She wobbled back and forth for a moment before slipping on the rubber WELCOME mat and falling toward me.
I caught her. “Oh, for chrissakes!” I turned toward Gina. “God, I don’t know what—I’m sorry about....”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Mom slipped a little more and mumbled something. I hooked my arms around her torso and said, “My...dammit!...my keys are in my left pocket. Would you…?”
Gina took them out, unlocked the front door, and turned on the inside lights. I spun Mom around and shook her until she regained some composure, then led her to the kitchen where I poured her into a chair and started a pot of coffee. Gina remained in the front room, turning on the television and adjusting the volume, her way of letting me know she wouldn’t listen to anything that might be said.
The coffee finished brewing, and I poured a large cup for Mom. “How the hell did you get here?”
The shock of having someone other than myself see her in this state forced her to pull herself together; when she spoke again, her voice wasn’t as slurred. “I walked. It’s a nice...nice night.” She took a sip of the coffee, then sat watching the steam curl over the rim of the cup. Her lower lip started to quiver. “I’m...I’m sorry, Andy. I didn’t know you were gonna have company.” She sighed, then fished a cigarette from the pocket of her blouse and lit it with an unsteady hand.
“Why are you here?”
“I just got to...you know, thinking about your dad and was feeling blue...besides, I wanted to remind you that you’re tak
ing me out for my birthday.”
My right hand balled into a fist. “Have I ever forgotten your birthday?”
“No....”
“Then why would I start now?”
She leaned back in the chair and fixed me with an icy stare, smoke crawling from her nostrils like flames from a dragon’s snout. “Maybe you think you’ve gotten too good for me. Maybe you think because I wasn’t a story writer or artist like you, you don’t have to bother with me anymore.”
Time to go.
“Sit here and drink your coffee. I’m going to walk my friend to her car and then I’ll come back and take you home.”
“...Didn’t get it from me, that’s for damn sure...does you no good anyway...drop dead at forty-five and no one will care about your silly books....”
I threw up my hands and started out of the kitchen.
“What’s this?” said Mom, pulling Lucy Simpkins’s watercolor from my pocket. “Oh, a picture. They used to let us draw pictures when I was in the children’s home...did I ever tell you about…?”
She was making me sick.
I stormed out of the kitchen and into the front room in time to see Jimmy Stewart grab Donna Reed and say, “I don’t want to get married, understand?”
“Don’t worry,” said Gina. “They get together in the end.” She put her arms around me. I felt like Jason being wrapped in the Golden Fleece.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I said. “She’s never done this before –”
“Never?”
I looked into her eyes and couldn’t make any excuses. “I mean she’s never come here drunk before.”
“How long has she been this way?”
“I can’t ever remember a week from my life when she didn’t get drunk at least once.”
“Have you ever tried to get her some help?”
“Of course I have. She tries it for a while, but she always...always –”
“I understand. It’s okay. Don’t be embarrassed.”
That's easy to say, I thought. What I said was: “I appreciate this, Gina. I really do.” I wished that she would just leave so I could get the rest of this over with.
She seemed to sense this and stepped back, saying, “I guess I should, uh, go....”
A loud crash from the kitchen startled both of us.
I ran in and saw Mom on the floor; she’d been trying to pour herself another cup of coffee and had collapsed, taking the coffee pot with her. Shattered sections of sharp glass covered the floor, and she had split open one of her shins. Scurrying on her hands and knees, she looked up and saw me standing there, saw Gina behind me, and pointed at the table.
“W-where did you...did you get t-that?”
“Get what?”
“...T-that goddamn...picture!”
I moved toward her. She doubled over and began vomiting.
I grabbed her, trying to pull her up to the sink—making it to the bathroom was out of the question—but I slipped and lost my grip –
– Mom gave a wet gurgling sound and puked on my chest--
– Gina came in, grabbed a towel, and helped me get her over the sink –
– and Mom gripped the edge, emptying her stomach down the drain.
The stench was incredible.
Feeling the heat of humiliation cover my face, I looked at Gina and fumbled for something to say, but what could I say? We were holding a drunk who was spewing all over –
– what could you say?
Gina returned my gaze. “So, how ‘bout them Mets, huh? Fuckin-A!”
That’s what you could say.
I didn’t feel so dirty.
* * *
Gina surprised me the next morning by showing up on my doorstep at eight-thirty with hot coffee and croissants. When I explained to her that I had to take Mom’s birthday cake over to her house Gina said, “I’d like to come along, if you don’t mind.”
I did and told her so.
“Come on,” she said, taking my hand and giving me a little kiss on the cheek. “Think about it, if she’s hung-over and sees that I’m with you, she might behave herself. If she doesn’t behave, then you can use me as an excuse not to stick around.”
I argued with her some more; she won. I don’t think I’ve ever won an argument with a woman; they’re far too sharp.
Besides an ersatz-apology (“I feel so silly!”) and a bandage around the gash on her shin, Mom showed no signs that last night had ever happened. Her hair was freshly cleaned, she wore a new dress, and her makeup was, for a change, subtly applied; she looked like your typical healthy matriarch.
We stayed for breakfast. Gina surprised me a second time that morning by reaching into her purse and pulling out a large birthday card that she handed to Mom.
Well, that just made Mom’s day. She must have thanked Gina half-a-dozen times and even went so far as to give her a hug, saying, “I’m glad to see he finally found a good one.”
“Blind shithouse luck,” replied Gina. She and Mom got a tremendous guffaw out of that. I gritted my teeth and smiled at them. Hardy-dee-har-har.
“So,” Mom said to Gina. “Will you be coming with us?”
“I don’t know,” Gina replied, turning to me with a Pollyanna-pitiful look in her eyes. “Am I?”
“You stink at coy,” was my answer.
“Good!” said Mom. “The three of us. It’ll be a lot of fun.”
“Have you decided where you want to go?”
“Yeee-eeessss, I have.”
Oh, good, another surprise.
“Where?”
She winked at me and squeezed Gina’s hand. “It’s a secret. I’ll tell you when we’re on our way.” This was a little game she loved to play—“I-Know-Something-You-Don’t-Know”—and it usually got on my nerves.
But not that morning. Somehow Gina’s presence made it seem as if everything was going to work out just fine.
Our first stop was Indian Mound Mall, where Gina insisted on buying Mom a copy of the new Stephen King opus and paying for lunch. After we’d eaten, Mom looked at her watch and informed us it was time to go.
“Where are we going? I asked as we got on the highway.
Mom leaned forward from the backseat. “Riverfront Coliseum.”
“Cincinnati? You want to drive three hours to--”
“It’s my birthday.”
“But –”
Gina squeezed my leg. “It’s her birthday.”
I acquiesced. I should have remembered that no good deed goes unpunished.
* * *
“A circus!” shouted Gina as we approached the coliseum entrance.
I slowed my step, genuinely surprised. I have been to many circuses in my life, but never with my mother—I always thought she’d have no interest in this sort of thing.
“Surprised?” said Mom, taking my arm.
“Well, yes, but...why?”
Her eyes filled with a curious kind of desperation. “All our lives we’ve never done anything fun together. I’ve been a real shit to you sometimes and I’ll never be able to apologize enough, let alone make up for it. I’ve never told you how proud I am of you—I’ve read all your books. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?” Her eyes began tearing. “Oh, hon, I ain’t been much of a mother to you, what with the…drinking and such, but, if you’ll be patient with me, I’d like to...to give it a try, us being friends. If you don’t mind.”
This part was familiar. I bit down on my tongue, hoping that she wasn’t going to launch into a heartfelt promise to get back into AA and stop hitting the bottle and turn her life around, blah-blah-blah.
She didn’t.
“Well,” she whispered. “We’d best go get our tickets.”
“Do we get cotton candy?” asked Gina.
“Of course you do. And hot dogs –”
“– and cherry colas –”
“– and peanuts –”
“– and an ulcer,” I said. They both stared at me.
“You never were any fun,�
�� said Mom, smiling. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
“I never claimed to be.”
Gina smacked me on the ass. “Then it’s about time you started.” It was a blast. Acrobats and lion tamers and trained seals and a big brass band and a sword-swallower, not to mention the fire-eating bear (that was a real trip) and the bald guy who wrestled a crocodile that was roughly the size of your average Mexican chihuahua (A DEATH-DEFYING BATTLE BETWEEN MAN AND BEAST! proclaimed the program: “Compared to what?” asked Gina. “Changing a diaper?”). All of it was an absolute joy, right up to the elephants and clowns.
Not that anything happened with the elephants; they did a marvelously funny kick-line to a Scott Joplin tune, but the sight of them triggered memories of Lucy Simpkins’s story. I looked at Gina and saw that she was thinking about it as well.
Mom thought the elephants were the most precious things she’d ever seen—and since she used to say the same about my baby pictures, I wondered if my paranoia about my nose being too large was unjustified after all.
At the end of the show, when every performer and animal came marching out for the Grand Finale Parade, the clowns broke away and ran into the audience. After tossing out confetti and lollipops and balloons, one clown ran over to Mom and handed her a small stuffed animal, then, with a last burst of confetti from the large flower in the center of his costume, he honked his horn and dashed back into the parade.
I looked at Mom and saw, just for a moment, the ghost of the vibrant, lovely woman who populated several pages of the family photo albums; in that light, with all the laughter and music swirling around us, I saw her smile and could almost believe that she was going to really change this time. I suspected that it might just be wishful thinking on my part, but sometimes a delusion is the best thing in the world—especially if you know it’s a delusion.
So, for that moment, Mom was a changed woman who might find some measure of peace and happiness in the remainder of her life, and I was a son who harbored no anger or disgust for her, la-dee-da.
It was kind of nice.
We made our way through the crowd and toward the exit. I don’t like crowds, as I’ve said, and soon felt the first heavy rivulets of sweat rolling down my face.
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