Have I said that, behind the wheel of the lime-green Impala, Mummy was eager and hopeful as a young girl?—or, for that matter, a young boy? Her mood was adolescent, yearning: you would not want to thwart such yearning.
Have I said that Mummy had beautiful (anxious, glistening-wet, somewhat close-set) brown eyes that, fixed upon me, Skyler, seemed to penetrate me, to the (modest) depths of my child-soul? That I loved Mummy desperately before even there was desperation in our lives?
Those little drives! Naturally, you’re a kid, you think what is will go on forever. That dreamy spell when Mummy’s “little man” was at last old enough to be a companion to Mummy yet not quite old enough for kindergarten. When Daddy was a “rising” young executive at Baddaxe Oil headquarters a mere fifteen miles away and so returned home for dinner most nights by 8 P.M. When Skyler’s baby sister was so young—so small—you could pretend she—“it”—did not matter. And Mummy was eager to escape the big white Colonial house in which the phone so often rang and yet: it was never the call for which Mummy waited.
“Skyler! Tell me one true thing.”
Inside the quilted red coat, Mummy must’ve been perspiring. As Mummy drove the Chevy Impala in choppy waves—pressing down on the gas pedal and then releasing it, again pressing down, again releasing it—so the engine seemed to be hiccuping, or starting to stall. Skyler’s sensitive nostrils picked up a familiar talcumy-briny smell of Mummy’s underarms and the shadowy crevice between Mummy’s breasts that was a dreamy comfort like a smell of baking bread or his own slept-in bedclothes when he pulled them over his head.*
Sharply Mummy said, “Skyler? Are you listening? Tell me: why don’t people like me?”
Skyler stammered, “Mummy, I l-like you.”
“You? You’re my son. What do you know.”
Mummy laughed to signal this was meant to be funny. But it didn’t seem funny. For already at age four—more precisely, four and a half—Skyler was forced to understand that love from such a source just wasn’t enough.
Mummy said, sighing, “It’s petty, I know. I try to pray each morning God let me rise above this, Jesus help me for I am not just a sinner but a ridiculous person and yet: people are crazy for Bix Rampike—why not me? I mean, wouldn’t some of it spill onto me? Wouldn’t you expect that? I’m Bix’s wife. Of course I don’t mean ‘crazy for me’—nobody has ever been crazy for me except some sex-crazed boy and that isn’t ‘liking’—there’s no dignity to that. (Excuse me for speaking frankly, Skyler, I realize that you are a boy, and I hope that you will be a normal, healthy boy but not a ‘sex-crazed’ boy. Not my Skyler! Not my little man!) What torments me is why don’t women like me. In Parsippany, I had friends. I had a few friends. Your daddy is ‘moving up the corporate ladder’ so damn fast, we never stay in one place long enough to ‘sink down roots’—you can’t count the wives of Bix’s business colleagues, those are not friends. Here in Fair Hills, all these women I meet, and I give them my telephone number, and I call them, or try to, why don’t they call me back? Fair Hills is so hateful, these women are so cruel, we’ve been here almost four months, men look at me, at least some men look at me, but the women just look through me. Skyler, why?”
Poor stunned Skyler could only repeat, weakly: “But Mummy, I l-like—”
Mummy interrupted, “God damn I try so damn hard. Always smiling, always ‘good-natured’ and ‘fun’—and ‘nice’—I am sick and tired of being ‘nice.’ Back in high school I was a popular girl. I had girlfriends not just boys trailing after me. I had nice girlfriends. I was voted second runner-up in the Queen’s court at our senior prom, Hagarstown High School ’81, of a class of forty-two girls. That is not just nothing, Skyler! Popularity contests like that in high school are sheer hell. When I was fourteen—Skyler, this was the most exciting day of my life!—I qualified for the Tri-County Girls’ Figure Skating Challenge. Next year I skated in the Adirondack All-Girls’ Regional Tournament and didn’t do bad at all considering how scared I was, and practically fainting from starving myself to fit into my skating costume. It’s known how judges are prejudiced against ‘plump’ girls—by ‘plump’ it’s meant a just-normal weight, in a skating costume tight as a swimsuit every bulge and fat-roll shows. On the ice you don’t want whistles, you want applause. If I’d been encouraged, I would have done better—if I hadn’t sprained my ankle—but, Skyler, I did try. You believe me, honey, don’t you?” Mummy fumbled for me, riskily removing her eyes from the narrow graveled roadway that might have been Charlemagne Pass, or Monument Lane, or Bear Mountain Road. A single tear ran down Mummy’s flushed cheek. Mummy’s crimson lips were twisted in a bitter-brave smile.
Skyler mumbled Yes! Yes Mummy.
(Must’ve, don’t you think? Though I had not a clue what the subject was, or what any of the subjects were, of such crucial significance to the adults looming over me.)
“In Hagarstown, my family had a ‘known’ name. Your great-grandfather Sckulhorne who’d been a ‘decorated World War II hero’ was mayor while I was in high school and our family owned the largest textile mill on the Champlain River, that made women’s and children’s knitted clothing, it was like royalty living in such a small town where everyone knows you. In Hagarstown people looked up to us Sckulhornes and had expectations of us and, well—that could be kind of, what’s it, ‘clausta-phobic’—you know, where it’s hard to breathe. Which was why I had to run away, I mean I almost ran away!—to the State University at Albany, I had part-time jobs to pay my own tuition, you know I majored in ‘Communication Arts’ and worked at the SUNY Albany TV station, it was my dream to be a TV news ‘anchor’—till I met your dad, at the wildest frat-party weekend at Cornell, I pray you will never behave with the recklessness of Bix Rampike and his lunatic Ep Phi Pi brothers, Skyler! Anyway,” Mummy sighed, smiling, with a sudden faraway look, “the rest is history. I guess.”
Behind us, a horn sounded rudely. Mummy’s foot had been easing up on the gas pedal and a pickup truck had come up to within a few inches of the Impala’s rear fender. Mummy, the most unaggressive of drivers, the most easily intimidated, quickly swerved off the road and onto the shoulder to let the pickup pass.
I had a glimpse of the jut-jawed driver, a burly man in a carpenter’s cap, glaring over at Mummy but then, when he actually saw her, relenting, casting her a sidelong, forgiving smile.
It was true that men seemed to like Mummy. Skyler could understand why.
“SKYLER! YOU WILL REMEMBER THIS DAY FOREVER: YOUR FIRST DAY ON the ice.”
Mummy’s voice quavered with excitement. Skyler stared. Somehow it had happened that we were at Horace C. Slipp Memorial Park, in a part of Fair Hills new to me. Here was a skating rink that must have been, in warm weather, a children’s wading and swimming pool. Overhead, loud tinkly music was playing. On the rink, where ice glittered meanly, dozens of people were skating, predominantly children and teenagers. The children appeared to be years older than Skyler. A gaggle of boys were shouting, pushing and shoving one another like ice hockey players. Teenaged girls in jeans, heavy sweatshirts, bareheaded with long gleaming straight hair cascading over their shoulders. Amid these were a scattering of adults including feisty “senior citizens” skating in defiance of stiff joints and breakable bones. There were young mothers and Maria-like nannies urging children on skates out onto the ice and, when they fell, helping them up. Squeals, cries, peals of wild laughter. If there were cries of pain, dismay, fear these cries seemed to be muffled. The general mood was one of gaiety, festivity. Skyler’s kiddy-sized heart shrank even smaller. Skyler’s mouth had gone dry. “Mummy, I d-don’t—”
Mummy was calling, “Is the ice smooth? Is it—safe?” but the girl skaters to whom Mummy dared to speak scarcely glanced at her, a stranger in a balloon-like red coat, with a kooky knit cap on her head. And a tremulous little boy at her side, whose hand she was gripping. Mummy was in too elevated a mood to take notice of the girls’ rudeness but urged Skyler onto a bench, tugged his boots off, and repl
aced them with his “nifty new” Junior Olympics skates, “exact replicas” of adult-sized skates, made of a dark red fabric with zigzag lightning bolts on the sides. “Aren’t they beautiful, Skyler? Your surprise pre-Christmas gift, for being such a good boy. Mummy can’t wait to see you perform in them!”
Also in the mysterious satchel with Skyler’s skates had been white-leather Lady Champ skates for Mummy, too. For Mummy was going to skate with Skyler.
Skyler protested, “Mummy, I’m afraid,” wiping his leaky nose on his mitten, “Mummy, I d-don’t feel good—” but Mummy paid him no heed saying, “Skyler, you will love the ice. At your age you’ll learn fast. Children are natural athletes. My handicap as a skater was that I’d started too late. Not until I was thirteen and ‘mature’ for my age. I attracted lots of attention but not for my skating. You will start young. It looks like you’re the youngest here! And Daddy doesn’t need to know anything about it until you’re skating well enough to perform for him. Skyler, I promise!”
What was Mummy promising? Skyler had no idea.
Mummy was lacing the Junior Olympics skates up tight. By his feet, Skyler knew himself trapped.
Mummy laced up her beautiful white Lady Champ skates and stood, letting the quilted red coat fall like a negligee onto the bench, revealing herself, to Skyler’s astonished eyes, in a costume he had never seen before: a beautiful, clearly brand-new purple cable-knit sweater, a pleated tartan-plaid miniskirt with a large ornamental brass safety pin at the side, and textured purple tights that displayed Mummy’s shapely legs, plump knees, and something of her chubby thighs. And there was the knitted cap in vivid rainbow colors with the floppy tassel intended to lift behind the skater as she flies across the ice. Though Skyler was too young to have been yet subjected to the cruelty of school-age barbarians immediately Skyler sensed that his gorgeous Mummy would attract the wrong kind of attention here at Horace C. Slipp Park, Fair Hills, New Jersey, as she’d attracted the wrong kind of attention in Hagarstown, New York, as a girl. But Mummy only clapped her hands with childlike enthusiasm: “Sweetie, come on. Look at all these skaters having fun.”
When Skyler held shyly back, Mummy half-lifted him from the bench and led him hobbling and fearful on his skates—as if you could walk on skate blades!—onto the ice. Oh but Skyler didn’t want to skate! Skyler didn’t want to fall down and hurt himself and be laughed at, which had been the culmination of more than one of his “playdates” on solid ground. The loud tinkly music had become fiercer. “Like this, Skyler! Don’t stand so stiff. Move your right foot. Just a few inches, Skyler, c’mon try.” But Skyler’s ankles were weak, as if boneless. The skates were too high, it was natural to fall off them. And Skyler’s knees were buckling. And Skyler’s damn nose was running like a leaky faucet. “Mummy, my stomach feels funny,” Skyler whimpered, “Mummy, my feet are so cold.” Mummy scolded: “Skyler, are you my little man, or are you some sniveling baby?” and at this Skyler felt the terrible insult, that Mummy would speak of him as a baby, as just another sniveling baby, when there was a sniveling baby-girl back at the house Mummy had fled, and Skyler was four and a half years old and walked upright.
As Mummy, inching backward on the ice, was trying to tug Skyler forward, a passing skater nearly collided with Mummy, muttering, “Excuse me, ma’am,” and Mummy called out apologetically, “Excuse me. I haven’t skated in twenty years…” A second skater, a rail-thin girl with long straight shimmering chestnut hair, in a Fair Hills Day School jacket, swerved to avoid missing Mummy; and Mummy called after her, “Oh I am sorry. I haven’t skated for twenty years, I’ve had two babies and these are new skates.” Skyler would have liked to crawl on hands and knees off the rink, his small face throbbed with embarrassment for Mummy, and for himself. It seemed that a continuous stream of skaters came flying by, some of them ignoring the struggling mother/son duo, some staring rudely. Several noisy twelve-year-old boys lurched by shoving and elbowing one another, someone’s swinging arm struck Skyler a blow on the back causing him to stagger on his skates, to lose his precarious balance and fall; in an instant the ice had flown up to strike Skyler’s bottom and the sensitive bone Mummy called Skyler’s tailbone, hard. Skyler, accustomed to falling on softer surfaces, like a carpet, or grass, was astonished how hard ice is. Too surprised to cry, Skyler sat gaping on the ice as Mummy struggled to pull him up. A burly boy came flying by narrowly missing Skyler’s bare hand on the ice—Skyler’s mitten had come off, somehow—with the terse remark, “Asshole!” If Mummy heard, Mummy gave no sign. By now Mummy’s fleshy cheeks were blazing as if they’d been slapped. The silly rainbow-yarn tassel was swinging in Mummy’s face. Mummy was pleading for Skyler to get up: “You aren’t hurt, honey. A child’s bones are made of rubber, practically. Your bones will bend, not break. You just had a little spill. Sweetie, this is only your first day, sweetie this is so much fun.” How strong Mummy was, lifting Skyler’s limp and boneless body up onto his feet, his feet still trapped in those terrible skates, and for a dazed several seconds like a cartoon character who has rushed off a precipice into thin air, not yet aware that it’s air and not solid ground he’s standing on, doesn’t fall, so Skyler managed to remain upright and keep his balance. Mummy instructed: “See how I’m moving my foot, Skyler? You do the same. Just push, this foot, sweetie, your right foot, like you’re in your stocking feet sliding along the floor, okay now your left foot, sweetie don’t tense up like that, Mummy’s got you.” Mummy laughed breathlessly. Mummy held Skyler beneath the arms, like a sack of something, and for several amazing seconds Mummy and Skyler “skated”—it was fun!—then again, with rude abruptness, the damn ice flew up to strike Skyler’s bottom, hard. Also Skyler’s right elbow, his right leg, and the right side of his head. Luckily the hood of Skyler’s parka was still covering his head. “Skyler, are you hurt? Oh, dear. What will I tell Bix if…” One of the white-haired old-lady skaters paused to help. In a kindly voice she said: “Your little boy is so little, dear. How old is he?” Quickly Mummy said, “Skyler is four and a half. His birthday is in June. He’s precocious for his age. His ‘physical co-ordination skills’ are advanced for his age. He loves all sports, and he loves the outdoors. He takes after his daddy. He’s doing just fine.” The grandmotherly skater provided Skyler with a tissue out of her pocket, for Skyler’s nose was running horribly. Mummy thanked her, but you could see that Mummy was annoyed. As the white-haired old old-lady skater moved away, with surprising ease, she shook her head doubtfully. “Your son does seem rather small for ice-skates, dear.”
Under her breath Mummy murmured, “Nosy old busybody. Whyn’t you mind your own business.” To Skyler she said brightly: “You are not small, honey. Not for your age. This is just your first ice-skating lesson, for heaven’s sake.” When Skyler was upright, Mummy brushed at his clothes, examined the side of his head, frowned and kissed his pug nose. “Oh wouldn’t it be my damn bad luck, that nosy old lady turns out to be some ‘very important person’ in Fair Hills, or one of our neighbors, or she’s head of the membership committee at the Sylvan Golf Club, wouldn’t that be fate.” Shrewd Skyler complained that his leg was hurting, his elbow was hurting, his stomach felt queasy, so Mummy relented all right he could sit down for a few minutes, and catch his breath; and Mummy could show him a few simple moves. With Skyler for an audience Mummy skated in stiff tentative lunges like one fearful that the ice might crack beneath her. “This is a ‘glide’—see? You just kind of—glide.” Several times Mummy nearly slipped and fell, Skyler shut his eyes in dread. But Mummy managed to right herself, laughing. “Oh I am out of shape! Twelve pounds at least since—last winter. All I need is a little practice…” Skyler winced to see how passing skaters glanced at Mummy, some of them amused, some of them frankly curious, a few downright rude. Boys sniggered and nudged one another but the worst were the snotty teenaged girls giggling at Mummy as they glided effortlessly past her. Skyler was indignant: what was so funny about Mummy? Mummy was the nicest-looking woman at the damn old ice r
ink! Mummy was a sight like a woman in a movie, or on a giant billboard, with her large “moon-shaped” face and smooth warm-flushed skin, her prominent crimson lips and her skating costume that was so much nicer than the drab old boring jeans and dull-colored parkas the other skaters wore. Mummy’s new sweater fitted her ample torso snug as a glove and Mummy’s tartan-plaid miniskirt swirled about her hips showing her legs in purple tights, her knees and thighs. Skyler wished though that Mummy would not call out to Skyler so loudly as she did, laughing and chattering, as if wanting to attract attention, or anyway unconcerned that she was attracting attention: “Skyler, see? Are you watching? This is your lesson, honey. Mummy is ‘gliding’—this is a ‘glide’—see how easy it is? Here is my first ‘figure-eight’ in twenty years. Ooops!” Somehow, Mummy seemed to lose her balance. Or one of Mummy’s ankles turned. For suddenly, with a cry, Mummy fell, onto her bottom on the ice, hard. Mummy sat spread-legged on the ice with a look of stunned hurt and you could see that Mummy was wearing just the purple tights beneath the miniskirt and that there were rolls of flesh on Mummy’s upper thighs. The rainbow-knit cap was crooked on Mummy’s head and Mummy’s breath came in harsh steaming pants.
My Sister, My Love Page 4
