She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Read Online Free PDF Page B

highway or straight onward or the short cut. No matter what my response was, she would inevitably do the very opposite. She didn’t do this just with me or with directions; she’d ask almost anyone’s ideas on any subject, it didn’t matterwho it was, a relative, a friend, or a stranger, receive their honest opinion, then take a completely different course of action. I guess she wanted to hear all possible options, make people feel that their views and thoughts truly mattered, then do exactly what she had planned from the get-go. Nevertheless we proceeded straight forth along Bayou St. John and City Park with the faint beginnings of a pink and mandarin sunset ahead.
    Our heavy oak front door opened to the tinkling sound of scotch, ice, and leaded crystal as Dad greeted us in his tuxedo. Obviously he had finished the daily afternoon checkers game ritual with my brother, from which, for reasons of immaturity and inexperience, I was often excluded. Dad bowed at the waist with a waving courtier’s gesture from his left hand, while his right clutched the tumbler holding the last sip of cocktail.
    “Welcome home, my royal family, what the hell took you so long”
    Mom fluttered hurriedly past him with a flash of a kiss, making a breathless comment about “watching the language in front of the B-O-Y.” She trotted down the corridor, glancing over her shoulder, giving her best tilt and lilt.
    “Boo, there’s no time to waste; I can get myself dressed, if Oralea pressed my pantaloons, and all you need to do is zip me, but in the meantime get Bryanny in his costume, it’s hanging in the hall closet, and please, pretty please, pour me a tall stiff one.”
    Dad made some remark about how he had a “stiff one” for her, and after a few moments of explanation, Mother finally understood the low-brow jest, sighed, rolled heroverly painted eyes with disapproval, and disappeared into their bedroom. Although my father was not an active participant in the daily aspects of parenting, when his help was desperately needed, he always stepped up to the plate.
    I had just gotten undressed when I heard the loud, pseudo-operatic bellow of my father. He had obviously located my ensemble.
    “Jesus Christ, Gayle, did you fall out of a tree and hit your head? Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Pink? For crying out loud, what kind of boy—”
    “Honey, hush, there’s no time to argue, I tried like the dickens to get her to change her mind, but this is the color that Miss Le Blanc insisted on. Anyway it’s done, you know you can’t argue with the captain of a parade, much less that biddy. Now be a doll and fix me that cocktail, and dress Bryan, and what about Jay-bird? Is he dressed and ready?”
    She was on a mission of diversion, and in a race with her unyielding nemesis, the clock. She was in fifth gear and rapidly firing off her commands.
    Carrying a fresh scotch, Dad entered my small room with my costume in tow. Resigned, he surprisingly had little difficulty finessing the abundant snaps and hooks, each punctuated by a slight grunt and exhale of eighty-proof. I was soon complete, ankle-length rose-tinted velvet cape and all. The absurdity of my costume must have worn off, since Dad grinned and said, “Son, we are almost done. Hey, I’m a poet and I didn’t know it, but my feet show it, they’re such long fellows.”
    He chuckled, and although the joke was lost on me, I was eager for the opportunity to share a rare laugh with my father. Then he summoned my big brother.
    “Jay-boy, how’s that tie coming, come on in here, son, and show Pops how you’re doing.” Jay lumbered into the room, struggling with a hideous polyester maroon necktie that he had fashioned into what looked more like a hangman’s noose than a Windsor knot. Upon seeing me in full regalia, he gasped and laughed with such intensity that for a moment we feared the start of an asthma attack.
    “Oh … my … God … that is the most pansy-looking outfit I’ve