Southern Discomfort

by Tena Clark

  Often she was doubled over with painful pancreatitis, curled up in a fetal position on the couch. On the nights I did stay with her, I’d turn off the light on the end table and take the smoldering cigarette from her fingers, just as I had when she lived above the dry cleaners and in Mobile. And those were the nights she came home. I’d frequently have to call Georgia or Elizabeth at two or three in the morning because Mama still wasn’t home from the VFW dance or from having a few drinks with a “male friend.”

  I was never entirely free of fear, the fear that she would get hurt, or hurt herself, or not wake up after a particularly bad night, or drive her car into an oncoming train, or set herself and her house on fire. My self-imposed job of making sure she was safe was exhausting, and seemingly endless.

  Oddly, and against all reason, she could also be a happy drunk, the life of the party, funny and engaging. So much so, that after she left Daddy, I thought, Well, maybe it’s not so bad now that she’s not getting drunk and pulling out her gun and threatening to kill Daddy. At least the drinking seems to cheer her up. She was also a great audience, drunk or sober. When Petula Clark’s “Downtown” came out, I learned the words by heart and without too much provocation would get my hairbrush, jump up on the couch, and give Mama a one-woman show while she yelled, “Let me hear it, girl!” from her recliner, legs crossed, drink and cigarette in hand.

  But, she was still a drunk. Sometimes I would grab the bottle away from her, and she would rail against me, swinging while she tried to grab the bottle back and screaming, “Leave me the hell alone!” To which I would yell back, “You think I want to be here, watching you drink yourself to death? Being your babysitter?!”

  Those were the ugly days. Like any drunk, she had her share of them. Unlike other suspected drunks in our town, she did nothing to hide what she had become. She didn’t give a rat’s ass who knew. She wasn’t the town’s only drunk, but she was one of its most visible. She had left the richest man in Wayne County and ended up penniless and hammered in a run-down shack behind the grocery store, weaving her Cadillac through the streets of Waynesboro with the radio blasting. And yet she still walked into Petty’s or Blaine’s or the Humdinger like a queen into her castle. Waynesboro didn’t know what to do with her. They loved her, but she had, quite simply, become an embarrassment.

  Once, and only once, she came to one of my basketball games. For months, I had begged her to come watch me play full-court ball, but she always said she was too busy or tired or just plain “not feelin’ well enough” to come. But I knew what she meant: The games were played in the late afternoon or early evening and she was too drunk to come. Then one game, there she was. The minute I saw her, I instantly regretted having pushed her into coming. Her purse over her arm, her cigarette in her hand, she was already wobbly drunk, her eyes glazed, her smile loose.

  I ran up and down the court, taking shots and passing the ball, and watched as she greeted people too loudly and laughed with a great swoop of her arm, her handbag swinging widely, almost hitting a few folks in the head. When she stumbled and nearly fell on top of Georgia and Bobby as she tried to climb up to a seat in the bleachers, Daddy, who’d been watching nearby, leapt up and stormed over to her. He grabbed her arm and said something, inches from her face. She jerked away, again nearly falling. What I couldn’t hear was his telling her to “Git your drunk ass outta here,” that she was embarrassing herself, and me, and to “Git on home.” And she did.

  She never came to another game. And, I was glad she didn’t.

  There were two things Daddy cared about: making money and his reputation. By this time the entire town was tsk-tsking Lamar Clark’s inability to control his ex-wife. It was bad enough that Vivian had walked out on him. Now, years later, he still couldn’t put her in her place, couldn’t force her to stay home and drink behind the curtains, like you were supposed to do. In short, she had become an embarrassment to him.

  So Lamar Clark came up with a plan.

  Chapter Twenty

  * * *

  Whitfield. The name struck cold fear in the heart of every Mississippian, particularly those old enough to remember its history. Named for the small town in which it was located, about ten miles outside of Jackson, the Mississippi State Hospital had a century-old reputation as a barbaric penal colony even before it became the state’s “lunatic asylum.” Whitfield was, in short, the last stop for many of the state’s criminally insane, drug addicts, alcoholics, and the just plain “nervous,” as those who suffered some sort of mental breakdown were called. Inmates, those who survived, would come out thinner, sometimes even shorter, and all around lesser souls than they were when they went in. And those were the ones who made it out alive. Years later, when the hospital built a new service road, more than one thousand bodies were unearthed. There were gruesome stories of ice-water baths, electric shock therapy, unauthorized lobotomies, patients defecating in buckets in the corners of dark, dank isolation cells, and hollow screams that echoed through the stone hallways and staircases, day and night.

  Mississippi had its share of rehab and detox centers, but they were all private, and all expensive. Daddy wanted Mama to quit drinking and stop being an embarrassment to him in Waynesboro, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to bankroll an expensive rehab. Not while there was Whitfield. Lamar Clark had waited a long time for revenge on the wife who walked out on him, and now was his chance. That man could hold a grudge.

  After a weekend in Jackson billed as a shopping spree for the five Clark girls—me, my three sisters, and our mother—we were all headed back to Waynesboro. The car windows were open, letting in the spring air, which was warm and sweet. I was in the backseat between Mama and Penny, and Elizabeth was up front with Georgia, who was driving. My sisters were uncharacteristically quiet. But Mama, who at lunch had had even more to drink than she normally did, which was saying something, was in a good mood and she and I sang along to all our favorite songs on the radio, “King of the Road” being our absolute favorite. After a few songs, she decided she’d waited long enough and, with her little secret smile on her face, without warning or provocation, she began:

  “Trailer for sale or rent . . .” she crooned in her smokiest voice.

  I knew my cue.

  “Rooms to let, fifty cents . . .” I joined in, pushing gently into her body with my shoulder.

  We sang through the song, then both took a big deep breath for our finale.

  “I’m a man of means by no means, KING OF THE ROOOOOOOAD!”

  “Okay, okay,” Elizabeth said. “Georgia and I have heard enough.”

  Mama and I giggled, and Elizabeth turned up the radio to drown out any ideas we might have on singing another round.

  Even though I had my own car, Daddy strictly forbade me from leaving the town limits. Even so, I knew the roads heading in and out of Waynesboro well and was proud of my ability to read and follow maps. So I noticed when we turned off Highway 49 and were no longer headed back to Waynesboro. Instead, we were on a rutted dirt road; Spanish moss hung from the trees and the heavy stink of swamp gases filled the car. Mama noticed too.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, her eyes darting from window to window. “Georgia, where are we going?”

  I knew the answer as soon as we pulled into a driveway and saw the redbrick buildings and the sign: MISSISSIPPI STATE HOSPITAL.

  “NO!!!” My mother’s scream was that of an animal. It sounded like the panther that had prowled the riverbank behind the farm.

  I saw what was happening. My sisters, and I, it seemed, were committing our mama to Whitfield. Putting her away. Locking her up. Treating her like a violent criminal, or an insane monster. I was powerless, and full of panic. My mind raced with the surreal horror of it all—This can’t be happening!! What can I do to stop it? And with the panic, I also felt dread. Even though I knew nothing of their plan to bring her here, I would be part of it. Forever.

  “Now, Mama, just calm down,” Elizabeth said, turning around in her seat t
o pat Mama’s leg. “Everything’s gonna be all right. This is for your own good.”

  Mama slapped Elizabeth’s hand away with a vicious swipe.

  “DAMMIT! YOU TURN THIS CAR AROUND, RIGHT NOW, AND TAKE ME HOME! Y’ALL HEAR?” Mama yelled, her hands clutching the back of the front seat so hard I could see the bones of her knuckles and the purple veins under the skin.

  Georgia kept driving.

  “NO, NO, NO!” The words came out in short little gasps as my mother beat the back of the seat with her fists.

  I looked at my sisters to figure out how this had all happened, but none of them would look at me. Then I knew. Daddy. He had done this. And my sisters, Georgia and Elizabeth, at least, had no choice but to help. While Whitfield was drastic, they knew Mama needed help. What they hadn’t figured was that in getting her to Whitfield, Daddy had finally gotten his revenge. They agreed to having her committed to Whitfield, but only because Daddy had promised she’d get the best care his money could buy.

  “Mama, it’s for the best,” Georgia said. “You’re gonna get the help you need in there.”

  Mama grasped the door handle, pulling ferociously on it, like an animal desperate to claw its way out of a cage, but Elizabeth was able to hold down the lock from where she sat in front. In a terrible duel, they started slapping at each other’s hands, trying to gain control of the button. I’m sure if Mama had been able to open the door, she would have leapt out and started running. But she was trapped. She started screaming and then rolled down the window, trying to squeeze her way out of it.

  “Tena! Grab ahold of her!” Elizabeth yelled at me.

  I didn’t budge. More than anything in the world I wanted her to get away. I didn’t grab her, but I didn’t help her either. I’m not sure I could have, but I didn’t even try. I just sat there, sobbing.

  Seeing I wasn’t going to help, my sister turned around in her seat and pulled Mama back in the car by the waistband of her skirt, like a dog by its collar.

  Just then, we rounded the last bend in the long driveway, and I saw two orderlies in white coats trotting toward the car; one of them held a white cotton jacket with leather straps and steel buckles, its arms already spread wide. I’d never seen one before, but I knew that it was a straitjacket.

  The car stopped, the doors were unlocked, and the men were on our mother like linebackers, pulling her out of the car and tackling her to the ground. She kicked and screamed, her dress bunching up high on her thighs revealing her garter belt, and her high heels screeched across the paving stones as she twisted and squirmed to free herself.

  “Let me GO! NOOOOOO!” She looked up at us in the car as she struggled. “Girls! Don’t let your daddy do this to me!”

  All four of us sat in the car watching the nightmare and crying, but no one moved. We were set as if in stone. After several horrible, brawling moments, the orderlies wrestled her arms into the jacket’s sleeves, crossed them in front and then around her, and buckled the row of straps behind her back. It was a sound I won’t soon forget in this lifetime: the leather straps pulled tight and their buckles secured with a series of loud clinks. The men dragged her to her feet. Her stockings were torn and her high heels were left lying on the cold pavement. Mama’s thick black hair had come loose and hung over her face. For one of the few times in my life I saw the scarred remains of her ear, her greatest physical shame laid bare for the world to see. Her mascara was smudged down her cheeks, but her eyes were dry. Normally dark brown, they flashed with a fury that turned them black.

  “I will never forgive you girls. EVER. Do you hear me?” she screamed, looking at Georgia and Elizabeth, knowing they must have gone along with Daddy’s plan. Whether cooperative or conned, they were its lynchpin. I was too young and Penny too disliked by our father to have been part of it. But Mama’s words stung me as well.

  We knew she meant it. Through all of her wild behavior and erratic mothering and miserable life with Daddy, our mother always said exactly what she meant. Georgia and Elizabeth looked away. Penny and I stared from face to face, shocked and helpless, not knowing what to say or do.

  The only thing I knew about Whitfield was that people sometimes didn’t return from it. And now I watched as my mother was half dragged, half pushed up its stairs. She disappeared through its heavy front doors that closed behind her like a vault.

  I looked at Georgia and Elizabeth in the front seat, both of them crying into their hands, and for the first time in my life, I realized how much power Daddy had over all of us. Although they had planned this with him, he had told them it would be “just fine!” That he’d “paid extra, so she’ll be treated extra special.” But he had sent her to a place that put her in a straitjacket, dragged her through its doors, and locked her away, and it was too late to do anything about it. Mama was headed to a cell, probably a padded cell, until she calmed down. She was utterly powerless. No matter what she was saying to those orderlies, or to the nurses and administrators who’d check on her for the foreseeable future, somebody else would determine her fate. She had no voice. But along with the shock and horror, I also felt a flicker of hope: Maybe he’s right. Maybe this is a good place. Maybe Daddy does care about Mama and only wants what’s best for her. Also, I felt some relief. Knowing for a little while, at least, it wouldn’t be my job to keep her from harm. Others were in charge of her safety and for that I felt enormous relief.

  There is a moment in every girl’s life when she stops being a child and begins to grow up. Despite all I’d seen in my thirteen years, I lost any remaining sense of a child’s innocence the day I watched my mama being dragged through Whitfield’s doors in a straitjacket, every ounce of dignity being torn away from her. That was the day I realized the difference between those who wielded power and those who had none. And that as much as I loved my mama and wanted to protect her from harm, there was nothing I could do to save her from the men in white coats, or from whatever was waiting for her behind those solid oak doors.

  Georgia dried her eyes, collected herself, and turned the ignition.

  “Daddy says it’s all for the best. She has to stop drinkin’ and she will. She’ll come home and everything will be all right. It will be all right.” Her words faded off, as if she didn’t entirely believe them.

  As she drove down the hospital’s driveway and back onto the highway headed east to Waynesboro, I turned around in my seat and looked out the back window to the front doors of Whitfield.

  “Oh, Mama,” I whispered, low and quiet so my sisters couldn’t hear me, “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save you, Mama.” A sob escaped my lips, and I buried my head in my arms against the backseat. “Daddy tricked us, Mama. We didn’t know. I promise, we didn’t know.”

  And so it was. Our daddy had once again made sure he triumphed. This time, in doing so he had locked our beautiful mother behind bars, in a straitjacket, like a wild animal caught in a hunter’s net. None of us knew when, or possibly if, we’d ever see her again. We’d all been duped and betrayed that day.

  On that drive back to Waynesboro, none of us spoke a word. I sat behind Elizabeth with my chin resting on my hands on the window frame, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  As I watched the sleepy towns go by, I wondered, Will I ever see Mama again?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  * * *

  In the time Mama was away at Whitfield, I worried constantly. Were they taking good care of her? Was she getting better? What if she never came back? What if she now blamed me, as well as my sisters, and hated us as a result? I knew she was particularly mad at Georgia and Elizabeth, but what if after a few days at Whitfield, she hated me too?

  I tried to imagine what it would be like to have her back, and to have her back sober. I’d forgotten how it was when she was not drunk, just sitting and talking and eating and laughing without a drink in her hand. I could barely remember a single day that hadn’t ended with her falling onto the couch or being carried to bed half-conscious. She had been so drunk for so long I’d forgo
tten what her sober smile looked like and what her sober voice sounded like. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be held in her sober arms.

  Six weeks to the day after being hauled away, my mother was released from Whitfield. My sisters and I had not been allowed to visit her, and she hadn’t written. She refused to let any of us come to get her. Instead, she arranged for one of her boyfriends, Bernie, from Mobile, to pick her up and bring her back to Waynesboro.

  Because we didn’t want her to return to her rat-nasty shack behind the grocery store, Georgia was able to convince Daddy to buy her a small cinder block house in a better neighborhood. She wouldn’t have to worry about rent ever again. But, she wouldn’t own it either. Daddy was adamant that the title remain in his name, never hers. And it never was, until long after he’d been gone.

  My sisters and I had furnished the place and put flowers in the window, hoping to make it feel like home. We had a party waiting, but even with the balloons and a WELCOME HOME, MAMA! banner above the door, the house didn’t feel festive and my stomach ached with nerves. I had seen her black eyes as they dragged her away, and I knew that kind of anger just doesn’t fade like you hope it would, particularly where Mama was concerned. She had been betrayed by her own blood and she wasn’t about to forget it.

  We all took turns pacing by the front window, waiting for the car to turn into the driveway. It was close to suppertime by the time it did. Even though we’d been waiting all day, when the car finally arrived, we all stayed put, as if we had been nailed to the floor.

  Mama came up the front stairs, opened the door, walked into the little living room, and stood there with one hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette. Bernie lingered in the doorway. She wore a pretty dress and high heels, scuff marks marring the leather. Her mink stole was around her shoulders and her purse was over her arm. They weren’t the clothes she had been wearing six weeks earlier when she’d disappeared into Whitfield, and I had no idea how or where she’d gotten them. She looked better, maybe tired and pale but she’d lost weight and her face was less bloated and her eyes less bleary than when she left, although her expression could have been carved in marble for all that it revealed.