Mother silenced my entreaties by telling me she didn’t know anything. However, she didn’t silence herself. Years of endless chastisement by her sister goaded Mother into turning the tables now.
She couldn’t contain herself. A friend would drop by for coffee and Mother would announce that the real reason Sis had wagged her tongue was because Mother had noted that her cotton-wrapped Christmas tree was getting tired. After ten minutes on the horrors of the white Christmas tree, she’d recall how they fought over a cast-iron elephant bank Mom bought for a nickel in 1908. Her supply of anecdotes was tailored to suit the appropriate ears.
Meanwhile Aunt Mimi traipsed to mass and confession so much she wore a path between her house and St. Rose. If a convoy of flagellants from the Middle Ages had appeared in the town square, she would have joined them. Her suffering afforded her a variant of pleasure.
As usual, what I thought and felt about this was overshadowed by their drama.
I knew by this time, 1953, that Mother’s need to be the star superseded her need to be a mother. In a profound way, I also knew I couldn’t depend on her. I was rocked to know that I had a brother, but I wasn’t shaken to learn that Mother hadn’t told me.
I bothered her, bugged her, battled her over this one. Once I knew she was lying to me, I wouldn’t be silenced.
Mother’s retort was “I don’t know” or “Shut up.”
I walked down the hill and harassed Aunt Mimi, which sent them both up in flames.
I pestered Dad, and for once my salvation remained neutral. Mom had the whip hand over him, but I didn’t know why.
Finally Mother, in a gesture of appeasement, cooked me fried chicken and greens with fatback, my favorite dish. As I gobbled away she composed herself. She picked out the fatback from my greens, nibbling while she “explained.” I grew more incensed about the fatback than the news.
“When we brought you home with us, Daddy drove over to your father’s house. I don’t know who your father is because Daddy won’t tell me. But he asked him to come out of the house and they talked in the car. Daddy told him never to come around you. He didn’t want you upset. Apparently, your father was only too happy to comply.”
“What does my father do?”
“He’s some kind of professional athlete.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know. Younger than we are, I guess.”
“Well, what about my brother?”
“He’s your half brother and he’s three years older than you are. That’s why Juliann couldn’t marry your father. He was already married.”
“So he’s a real shit.”
“I didn’t teach you to talk like that.” She pointed her fork at me. “But I would agree he is not a prince among men.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I told you, no.” Another hunk of fatback speared.
“Mom, that’s mine.”
“You can’t eat all this.”
“I can try.” I flared up and whacked at her fork with mine.
Instead of getting angry with me, she laughed. Mother far preferred a fighter to a crier, even if the fight was with her.
“You’d better hop down to cotillion right now, young lady, you need the work.” She laughed. “And your brother isn’t going to be there. I don’t know what gets into Sis. Miss Know-It-All. She’s been like that ever since I can remember. It doesn’t matter if what she says is true or not. She thinks it is.”
However, I knew that Aunt Mimi wasn’t lying on this one.
“Mom, I don’t believe you.”
“About Sis?”
“You know who my father is.”
She paused, then her voice rose in that singsong quality that meant she was fibbing big-time. “I really don’t.” Another moment passed. “Why are you worried about this? Isn’t it good enough here? Do you think it’s better somewhere else?”
“No. I don’t want to end up like Patty.” That was God’s honest truth. I feared being batted around from home to home, and I saw how sad it was for Kenny, Wadie and Terry without a mother. Then there was the example of Gene when he’d come to live with us. Dumped children were a reality.
This reply halfway satisfied Mother, but she would have preferred a paean of praise for rescuing me from the orphanage and being the world’s perfect mother.
“You’re a tough little nut, kid” was all she said.
Some adopted children fervently desire to meet their blood parents. I’d met Juliann. I was curious as to what my father looked like since I barely resembled my mother. Other than that, I didn’t care. Whoever had given me life hadn’t wiped my forehead when I was sick with fever, hadn’t baked me my favorite birthday cake, hadn’t taken me to the library or the foxhunts. Juliann and my natural father had never told me stories at night or taught me basic dance steps or shown me how to prune roses. They’d never taken me to church or taught me right from wrong: “It’s the Ten Commandments, kid, not the Ten Suggestions.” For whatever reasons, no matter how sound, my natural parents had abandoned me. No child is so stupid that he or she doesn’t know when they’re not wanted. Whatever Mother’s faults, and by now I could enumerate every one, she packed my lunch for school, she checked my lessons, she listened to my childish enthusiasms.
Dad drove me to the railroad station so I could wave at the people—why this excited me, I don’t know, but it did. He took me to various stables so I could learn about the different breeds of horses, and a friend of his who had fine harness Saddlebreds allowed us to watch her train them. Whatever I wanted to do. Daddy found a way. He couldn’t buy me things, but he gave me something much better—his undivided attention and love.
I didn’t want to run away to my natural mother or father. I didn’t dream about a perfect family. No matter how mad I’d get at Mom, I remained loyal to her.
Later that winter Mickey, an old boy, began to have trouble urinating. He’d sit in his dirtbox for twenty to thirty minutes. A tidy fellow, he’d cover the few drops he squeezed out. Since Mickey and I were rarely parted, I noticed right away and told Mom.
She watched him for a day, then made a little cardboard travel box for him with soft towels inside. We walked up to the bus stop and hopped the bus to the vet’s.
His office was green and white. We didn’t have to wait long. The vet examined Mickey and told us male neutered cats often developed urinary tract problems. He said he could drain out the urine but Mickey would fill up again. If we were willing to bring him down every day, we could keep him alive, but he was old and getting drained like that would be hard on him.
Mother, usually so glib, was struck dumb. She stared at Mickey.
I piped up, “Will he suffer?”
“He’ll feel good when his bladder is empty and then he’ll feel sick again,” the young vet answered me.
“I can’t do it,” Mom whispered.
“How much is it a visit?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Mom, do we have the money?”
“I’ve got my pin money.”
I looked at my best friend. He purred at me.
“Why don’t we try it once and see what happens?”
We left Mickey and picked him up the next day. He felt great, but by the following day he was struggling to relieve himself again.
I told Mother we had to put him down. I stayed home from school. Mom called Aunt Mimi and she drove over. We took Mickey to the vet and I kissed him goodbye. He purred at me some more.
Then the vet gave him the shot. We put his body in the cardboard box and got back in the car. Mother cried so hard I thought she would pass out. Aunt Mimi, no cat lover, started crying. I cried too, holding my poor Mick.
We buried him under the lovely crabapple tree in the backyard.
When I remember Mother, I remember her with Mickey. I like to think of her that way and not as the woman who would fly up in a fury and fling my beginnings in my face.
That night, going to bed without Mickey, was the loneliest night of my life.