Madam Mom

by Lynda Rees

  Tisha drew a deep breath. Mom bathed here two days ago using her signature scented bath gel, shampoo and conditioner. The fragrance Tisha adored lingered still yet. She leaned on the door jam, breathing in her mom’s perfume, the last tangible experience of Mom’s essence like an enchanted ghost.

  Roberta favored sensual, spicy, wild ginger and Madagascar® vanilla scent of Ava Blue® with its warm amber undertones. Lifting the blue crystal bottle, she sniffed. The lid lay on the table where Roberta failed to replace it on the bottle.

  Had she sprayed it as her last act?

  Tisha closed her eyes wishing the whiff would never dissipate, a living memory of her presence alive in her domain allowing Roberta to live on. Mom’s toothbrush rested on a rack beside a tube of toothpaste. One wrinkled towel hung ajar on the heated towel rack like it had been used the fatal night. Tisha covered her face with the plush towel inhaling Roberta’s essence. Running a bare foot across plush rugs she slid a foot into Roberta’s silk, ice-blue, high-heeled slippers. Roberta had deserted them there entering the tub. Evidence of her life surrounded Tisha in the suite made for a queen.

  “Mom, I pictured you as the queen of my universe. Gran and I played your court minions. How will we manage without you?” She expected Roberta’s answer. Death scared her.

  Had Mom thought of her as she died realizing what happened? Or had it been instant? Did she cry unheard or struggle for a last breath? Morbid thoughts needed putting to rest.

  Inconsolable, she plopped onto the bed perusing the room, trying to figure out what to do next. Tackling drawers filled with luscious creams and cosmetics in front of chrome mirrors circling the top where ball-shaped, lighting softly glowed. The cushioned bench crooked at an odd angle where Mom’s life ended.

  An evening gown lay on the bed. She slid a finger along the elegant, floor-length, satin creation bought on Mom’s last Paris trip. High neckline and long sleeves regally draped Mom’s curves. The side slit appeared daring, yet stylish. A plunging back dipped below the waist with a hint of what hid beneath the dazzling, bold garment typical of Roberta.

  Heading where and meeting who—business or lover? Had they tried reaching her when she didn’t arrive? Who missed Mom besides her, Gran and the uncles?

  She dabbed her eyes sobbing into her hanky. She must stop torturing herself.

  “Mom, how could you leave? I need you.” Frustration filtered with anger embellished her argument. Helplessly engulfed in Mom’s world where life ended and an overpowering omnipresence governed, she relished pervasive misery. Surrendering and weeping exhausted sleep came.

  Happy dreams provided relief and flittered from one to another, making no real sense. Tisha awoke unable to remember them. They had left a peaceful sense of wisdom.

  Forcing herself up to be useful, she smiled into the mirror and brushed hair from her face. Grabbing a pen and notepad, she went through Mom’s closet making scribbles. She attached Post-It Notes to garments, marking ones she wanted to keep and those to give to particular people. She would keep the furs and made a note to ask Ms. Nelson to pack them properly and ship them to her loft.

  She chose a couple of her favorite evening gowns and hung tags on their hangers. She did the same with the drawers selecting a few cashmere sweaters and designer blouses, shirts and suits.

  As a child Tisha loved to sit at Mom’s makeup table before the lighted mirror watching as she brushed her long, auburn hair. She treasured the time. As a teen, Mom taught Tisha the art of applying makeup and how to achieve a classic look, perfect but understated.

  Tisha chose bottles of perfumes to keep and remember her scent. She found a few important pieces of jewelry Mom would’ve wanted her to have and checked her jewelry box. She would lock it up for now and take it with her when she moved home.

  She noted Ms. Nelson, the housekeeper, Ms. Flanagan, the cook, and Nurse Hensley could go through the unmarked clothing, free to take anything they wanted. The rest could be trashed or donated to charity.

  Tisha explored the desk removing Mom’s onyx and gold engraved letter opener and matching pen set. These items joined the rest on the bed. They would move to Tisha’s desktop in the gallery.

  A gleaming Glock nine-millimeter pistol hid in the bedside table. Removing it from the holster, she inspected. It was unloaded. A full clip lay next to it. She tossed the magazine filled with shells and the holstered weapon on the bed, discarding everything else in the bedside table into the trash.

  Her phone rang. “Hello, Kelle. Things okay at the shop?”

  “Sure thing, I wanted to check in though, and find out what you’re up to.”

  “I’m knee deep in Mom’s stuff. I’ve gone through Dad’s and Uncle Jason’s. I’m doing Mom’s suite now. The sooner I get through this stuff, the quicker I can get home.”

  “It’s a big project. You want me to help?”

  “Nope, got this under control, and the housekeeper can pack for me. I’m marking what goes where. By the way, when you arrive you can sort through Mom’s shoes and see if anything fits you. Her size is too large for me, but might work for you.”

  “It’s generous of you.”

  “You can browse through her clothes too. I’m taking some things, but not much. I don’t have use for most of it.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. Roberta was a classy dresser.”

  The bed had provided a safe base for Tisha, as a teen often flopping on it confiding about whatever bugged her, while watching Mom dolled up for work or a night on the town.

  “Yeah, known for high-quality, fashionable clothing, she never bought cheap items and appeared in public dressed to the nines—whatever it means. Other mothers picked children up in jeans, sweats, or shorts and tees. Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in public in such attire. She never wore anything frayed, torn, worn or stained and never bore shoes with scuffed heels or toes. Class and style, she set an example.”

  “She was never less than spectacular.”

  “So lovely, I wanted to be like her.” Tisha dabbed at a new fallen tear. Never would she measure up to the woman Mom was. “Her thick, wavy, raven flocks never ceased to bounce with body. No hair out of place—it wouldn’t dare. Makeup applied to perfection never leaving home without it and rarely exiting her suite barefaced. She strove for understated, but everything about her presence stately.”

  “You idolized Roberta.”

  “I could never measure up. I dreamed of becoming half the lady Mom was.”

  “It’s natural being oblivious to our mother’s flaws. You’re a fabulous woman in your own right.”

  “Thanks, Kelle. I’ve come a long way from a kid considered downright homely. Limbs and knees, angles and freckles mortified me as a teen; my brows grew too large framing my goofy face. Big ears protruded through stringy, lifeless hair. I looked like Dumbo the elephant.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself. Your thick brunette hair looks lovely and suits your complexion.” Kelle, a true friend, saw her best side.

  “I envied Mom’s magnificent auburn hair with its classic, chick, and sophisticated cut. An awkward, shy teenager, I never grew into my large, bumpy nose, an unwelcome gift from Dad. It was okay on a man. On a young girl wanting to appear feminine it came across obscene. My ears continued out sizing my face. No matter how thick my hair grew, they protruded through. I hated my hideous looks.”

  “You don’t look it now. You’re beautiful, Tisha. You know it. Right?”

  “I know I worked hard to look better. Christmas when I became sixteen, Mom gave what I wanted most in the world. Over Christmas break I had surgery to fix my big, ugly ears. I had a nose job and returned to school in January without looking like Dumbo in a wig. I no longer had the appearance of an alien or a freak, and could glance in a mirror without cringing. I finally felt proud of my looks and hoped others, especially boys, might appreciate it. I didn’t aspire for popularity. I simply wanted to fit in.”

  “You’re a knockout. Everyone has awkward teen years where we lo
ok gawky—some of us more than others.”

  Tisha tugged the painting on the wall beside the bed exposing the safe. Spinning the dial by memory she opened and checked the safe. She made a note to empty it before going home to New York. A couple bundles of hundred-dollar bills still had paper wrappers. She removed a black velvet case from the safe and replaced the jewelry pieces found on the dressing table, returning the heavy velvet jewel box to the safe. She shut and locked it.

  Nothing surprising there, Mom always kept cash in the house.

  She examined items for her to keep lying on the bed. “I’m making progress.”

  “Don’t over-do, Tisha. Anything too taxing, give it a break. I’ll help.”

  “Thanks, Kelle, you’re a true friend. I’m going to finish this room, then take a break. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  Tisha sighed closing her eyes and enjoying the soft fabric of her mom’s evening gown against her face. She opened her eyes, looking up. The top shelf held hat boxes. Oddly, Mom rarely wore hats except in winter. Those usually matched furs in the temperature controlled safe. Curious, she pulled down the large, round boxes

  CHAPTER 8

  Tisha dropped the box, and it awkwardly toppled to the floor. The lid popped off as it fell. A false bottom toppled out. The strangely shaped hat inside must prop on the side of a head. Flashy, scarlet sequins with a big fluffy feather protruded from it. Spying a shiny item beneath it, she plopped on the dressing room floor exploring contents. She removed sparkly fabric. Mom didn’t go in for such fabrics, wearing elegant classics. Filmy sequin-embossed material didn’t fit her style.

  She stretched them out on the floor in front of her to inspect the strange garments, maybe costumes of sorts. Various colored sets of G-strings and pasties with tassels, some filmy and see-through. Filmy items matched costume colors and looked like coverings. It appeared to be a stash of exotic dancer costumes.

  Why would Mom have such things hidden in her closet?

  Tisha started folding them to replace them in the box and noticed an article beneath. Removing a couple of faded glossy posters advertising performances by an exotic dancer, someone named Crystal Illusion. The photos were a younger version of her dead mother.

  Pulling the box down, she’d had no idea a hat box would change her life forever. Dazed, Tisha gently placed the costumes back in the box. She topped them with the hat. Keeping the poster, she closed the box and replaced it where she found it.

  Her brain went numb. Crazy thoughts bounced around, making no sense. Lost in thought, full of questions, she sped down the stairs to Gran’s room. Awake, sitting at her dressing table, Gran repaired her makeup.

  “Hello Sweet Thing. What put the stunned look on your face?”

  Tisha unfolded the poster, exposing the photo with the question clearly written in her eyes.

  “Did Mom participate in a show or charity event? There’s a logical explanation.”

  “Oh dear, sit, Tisha. We need to talk.” Gran ran her tiny hand through her perfectly cropped hair.

  “You’re scaring me, Gran. I don’t understand. What’s this about?” Sitting across from Gran her hands shook visibly.

  Gran straightened, as if to draw strength, bracing herself. “Roberta should have told you the long story herself. She never found the right time and hoped she wouldn’t need to. I didn’t realize she kept the stuff. I hoped we wouldn’t need to get into it and you would never know. Anyway, here we are and you do.” Gran grimaced.

  “I don’t understand. This poster and strange costumes hid in a hat box in her closet. It had a false bottom under a hat. They appear to be stripper costumes.” She choked on the words as her eyes filled with dread and tears.

  “Yes, dear. I’ll tell you what I know.” Lola began the sordid story. “This starts with me, a young woman alone in a wild location during a violent time. Newport, a rowdy, wicked and unruly place controlled by the Mob. Cops accepted bribes looking the other way. Government involved and part of it allowed gambling and prostitution to operate in the open.”

  Tisha slumped against the seat, letting air rush from her body. Her head ached, but she listened quietly.

  “Raised in an orphanage, turning eighteen, I struck out on my own with no skills. I found a receptionist job in a small insurance company barely making enough for rent on a shabby, furnished efficiency apartment on the third floor of a slum house in downtown Newport. I struggled to make ends meet and survive.”

  She paused as though drawing strength.

  “A man attacked me one night on my way home in the unsafe neighborhood where I lived. He dragged me into an alley and raped me on the dirty, concrete ground.”

  Gran paused looking into the distance, as though visualizing the young girl she had been, desperate, scared and alone. Tisha clung to her hand and kissed it, tears filling her eyes.

  “Oh Gran, I’m sorry. I can’t bear thinking of someone hurting you.”

  Gran shook herself and straightened to go on. “Thank you, dear. There’s no need for tears. The distant past ceased to hurt long ago. Anyway, two months later I discovered my pregnancy with your Mom.”

  “Oh, Gran, no,” Tisha exclaimed. “It must’ve been awful for you. How did Mom bear knowing she was conceived in violence?” Tisha dabbed tears.

  “Yes, dear, it was difficult. At my wits-end trying to make ends meet, I applied everywhere for extra work. I asked my office manager for overtime. I don’t know how I figured I’d care for a baby working two or three jobs or overtime. Not thinking straight, I struggled for answers. No extra work existed. He knew another way to make real money. I told him I wasn’t a hooker and refused to turn tricks. He owned part of a strip club. I needed to dance for patrons. No touching. No tricks. Dancing and stripping on stage. I could make enough to live on. I made more money—so much more money—we lived well on it.”

  Tisha’s breath caught. She couldn’t believe it. Precious Gran had been raped. Bad enough, but learning she undressed stark-naked in front of strangers for cash was difficult to believe.

  “At first I didn’t want to do it. After the baby came, I grew more frantic. I couldn’t afford a sitter for Roberta while I worked one job, much less two or three. I approached him again and accepted a role dancing in his club. The dumpy little dive had a bustling crowd on a regular basis. They tipped well. It was profitable.”

  She took a breather and studied Tisha silently crying. “At first I found it scary and difficult taking my clothes off in front of strange fellas. I soon learned a trick making it easier. I hypnotized myself into a state where I didn’t see them ogling me. I focused on music to the point all I heard and felt was the beat, listening and moving to the rhythm. I tuned out bar noise and guys watching throwing bills at me for tips. I even danced close, so they slid bills into my G-string. We went down to nothing in those days—bare-assed. I showed it all.”

  “Gran, I can’t believe you danced naked for a living. You must’ve been desperate. I’m sorry you had to do it.”

  “It’s awful. I know it. It wasn’t bad. I made a lot of money dancing. The club bouncer protected me. I could afford a baby sitter for the hours I worked and could be with your mom during the day to care for her properly, it enabled me to be a good mother.”

  “Yes, Gran, you were way better than most.” Roberta worshipped the tiny old woman as did Tisha.

  “It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I met nice folks. Mostly I met lots of powerful men. Some of them helped me when I needed it most. I even enjoyed the dancing. I got used to the stripping part. After a room full of strangers sees you naked, it gets easier each time. Eventually it didn’t bother me. I ignored the faces and got over the fear. I stopped accepting guilt. I’m no longer ashamed. It became a job like any other. You may not understand, but I see it that way.”

  “Gran, I’m sorry you had to go through it.” Tisha could hardly believe it. Her sweet, feminine and adorable Gran had been a strip-tease artist.

  “It is what it is. It’s over.
I cared for my child and myself, saved more money than I spent, and we lived well, considering. It turned out for the best.”

  “I don’t understand. This poster isn’t you. It’s Mom. She’s in the poster—not you.”

  “Dear, my stage name, Candy Cane retired at forty. I saved a lot of dough and invested in a small club in partnership with a young man. I retired from dancing and tended bar in our club.”

  Tisha couldn’t keep her hands from trembling. She tucked them under her arms.

  “When your Mom graduated college, she swore only wanted to work with me. She wanted to dance and learn everything about it, and eventually she wanted to manage it. I didn’t want her involved, but she insisted. If I didn’t help her, she would’ve gone elsewhere and learned the business one way or another, with or without my help. She had a head for business that one. Yes, she surely did.” Lola shook her head laughing. “Stubborn, she meant it.”

  Tisha nodded. Roberta had been stubborn.

  “A lot of strip joints operated then, the Pink Cat, The Hat Club, The Wild Mustang Club, and many more. Any one of them would be happy having a dependable, good looking dancer. I hired her to work at my bar. I couldn’t talk her out of it. I could watch over her if she worked at my place. I couldn’t if she danced elsewhere.”

  Almost more than Tisha could bear, she closed her eyes listening.

  “I believe she feared not being involved in my venture, too profitable to give up and all I had and knew. She watched out for me. I wanted to keep her close and an eye on her as well. We were a case. I tell you, Mom and daughter, together forever.” Gran laughed bawdily.

  Tisha patted the old woman’s hand tongue-tied and afraid of what might come out if she spoke.

  How did Mom keep this a secret? In her wildest dreams Tisha wouldn’t have guessed her prim, proper mother or sweet, frail Gran were strippers. She’d existed under a cloak of secrecy.

  “Roberta danced under the name Crystal Illusion, the girl in the poster. The Tipper Top Club, our place located on Monmouth Street in the heart of the stripping mecca.”