While the crust bakes, we make lemon pudding to fill it with, and then make the meringue. Edith teaches me how to break the eggs so not a speck of yolk gets into the bowl. With the mixer, I whip the egg whites into high, white peaks. We fill the baked crust with pudding, mounding the meringue nice and high on top. It goes into the oven to brown for a few minutes. Through the oven window we watch the peaks turn golden. With great ceremony, Edith and I take the pie out of the oven and place it in the middle of the table. Everyone gathers around to admire it.
“See, you can make pie. This is your first pie!” I’m so thrilled that I grab Edith, hug her, and do a little dance. She blushes a little and turns away, but there’s a sweet smile on her face.
I love learning to cook with Edith. Her working-woman hands are always busy, just like Blanche’s and all the Iowa women’s hands. She’s always making some delicious dessert: cookies of all kinds, pies like lemon meringue, apple, peach, and banana cream. She makes cakes from scratch. I love licking the bowl and making frosting with powdered sugar and butter. And Edith cooks delicious suppers: fried chicken and mashed potatoes, roast, stew, homemade potato salad. Edith and her sisters do the canning in August, sharing recipes, tomatoes, peppers for relish, and peaches. The only female person out of the food-preparing loop is my grandmother—she sees herself as too much of a lady to take part. She sits alone, reading and smoking, while everyone else bustles happily in the kitchen.
I love being more like Blanche and her kids than Mommy or Gram. Neither of them knows how to cook, but all my great-aunts are homemakers. Food is the hub around which the wheel of family moves. Fresh coffee is started whenever a car drives up. Every visitor is offered a homemade dessert. The unspoken rule is that when people come, you feed them out of what you have, even if it’s not very much or very fancy. These Iowa women are always apologizing for their offerings: This gravy is lumpy, this cake wasn’t baked today. No one could ever come into the house, not even for a few short minutes, without being fed. How different Blanche and Edith and the rest are from Gram, who doesn’t want people to come to our house, who acts put upon if she has to be a hostess. My Iowa family knows true hospitality. It’s hard to believe that the same blood flows in Gram’s veins, but she smiles when she lifts the fork to her mouth, just the way all of us do. Lemon meringue pie is the way you make a great summer’s day even better.
Mother’s Shadow
At Aunt Edith’s, there is a time for everything and a rhythm that drives the day. The family knows this rhythm, which begins with the chiming of seven clocks at six in the morning. I burrow into the featherbed, Blanche’s warm body rousing beside me. I hear the clink of her false teeth against the glass and peek out from under the sheet, seeing the folds and ripples of her flesh, the hump on her back stretched thin, like pie crust over the bumpy backs of apples. It’s strange that her body seems both young and old, wrinkles everywhere along with smooth, white skin. The rooster next door announces the beginning of the day. Thin necklaces of sunlight shine on the elm trees outside, making leafy shadows on the flowered wallpaper of the bedroom.
As I watch Blanche, I think about my mother’s body and Gram’s—the three of them, the bodies of the mothers of each generation. Seeing them as older women gives me a glimpse of how I will look one day. I can’t imagine getting that old, yet getting old doesn’t seem so bad when I see that Blanche still works hard and does everything she wants to do. The rooster crows again.
“You hear that rooster?” Blanche says cheerily. “It means get up, get the fire started, the milkin’ started. In winter it means when you first get up, you have to break the ice in the water barrel. Oh, shut up, you red devil,” she says to the rooster, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m already up.” She turns back in my direction, holding her waist with one hand, bending over and clutching the bed railing with the other.
“Are you all right, Grandma?”
“Oh, don’t worry ’bout me. I’m just catchin’ my breath.”
I lie back in the feather mattress, hugging the whole bed. The aroma of fresh-perked coffee filters upstairs. I don’t know it yet, but today my mother will sweep across this peaceful landscape like a wildfire.
She calls just after breakfast, while all of us are still sitting around the kitchen table. Willard is lighting his first pipe of the day. Edith grabs the phone on the third ring. All eyes go to her and the phone.
“Josephine? Where?”
“She’s at the bus stop in town,” Edith whispers to the rest of us, holding her hand over the receiver.
“Let me talk to her,” I say, grabbing at the phone. She is my mother. I can see by her face that Gram is already irritated. “Mommy?”
Mother’s voice is all business. “Who’s coming to get me?”
“I don’t know,” I say. A spark of anxiety fires in my stomach.
Mother’s imperious voice shouts over the line, “Well, get someone over here to pick me up right now!”
I hand the phone to Billy, who placates her by agreeing to pick her up in a few minutes. Wincing, he holds the phone away from his ear. We can all hear Mother’s rage: “What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you leaving right now? Get over here!”
Edith giggles and shrugs. Gram mutters something under her breath, and Blanche shakes her head. Billy, winking at me, tells Mother he’ll be there as soon as he puts on his pants.
I beg Gram to let me go. I’ll jump out of my skin if I have to wait an extra minute.
Willard says, “I’ll drive ya. Come on, Billy, let’s go get her before she bites somebody’s head off.” He brushes pipe tobacco off his shirt.
“That Jo’tine. Haven’t laid eyes on her for a while,” Blanche murmurs. She sounds almost sad, but her face doesn’t give any clues as she continues her embroidery work.
Gram has a familiar look on her face, the oh-hell-my-difficult-daughter-has-arrived look. I wave bye and rush through the screen door before she can change her mind about letting me go.
Mother stands beside what serves as the bus stop: an abandoned gas station with a drooping sign and chipping, mustard-colored paint. She looks fresh and beautiful in a beige suit, open-toed shoes, dark hose, and red lipstick. My heart beats faster at the sight of her. Gravel spits as Willard pulls the car to a stop.
“Watch out, for God’s sake,” Mother cries, stepping back.
Willard stays at the wheel. I am first to approach my mother, suddenly shy, drawn to her despite her shrill voice. I wrap my arms around her waist, waiting for her to squeeze me back, but she only touches my shoulder and pats my head, looking over at Uncle Willard.
“Uncle!” she laughs. “Aren’t you going to get out of the car?”
“What for? I’m just the chauffeur.”
Billy gets out though, and gives a little bow.
Mother smiles. “Well, Billy, you look just like your papa.”
“That’s what they say. Let’s not stand around jawing. Get in the jalopy.”
Mother holds her cigarette holder aloft and says, “Aren’t you a gentleman?”
“Hell, not any more’n I can help it.”
“I’m sure Edith taught you to open the door for a lady.”
Billy puts his hands on his hips and looks around. “Lady? I don’t see no lady. Oh, excuse me. Linda, you get on in.” He bows and opens the door, gesturing toward the back seat. I know he’s kidding, but Mother looks irritated.
“Mommy, you’re the lady.” I want her to feel happy, so I stand aside to let my mother, the uncrowned queen of the day, into the back seat. I feel unsettled by her act-like-a-lady routine that echoes Gram’s haughty attitude. Nevertheless, all the cells of my body are switched on. My mother is next to me; it’s like a miracle.
“When are you leaving?” I ask, worried already about when she’s going to leave.
“You mean how long am I staying?” Mother teases, with a smile. She doesn’t answer my question.
At the house, Edith has already laid out lunch. Blanche is
at the head of the table, as always.
Mother chats on about being a legal secretary in Chicago, about how wonderful Chicago is, the best city in the world. Around the table we pass the baloney, liverwurst, and Velveeta cheese. Edith has put Wonder Bread, coleslaw, and sliced tomatoes on the table. A variation on this menu is served every day during the summer. It will be the same for forty years.
Mother talks on about antiques before launching into her inevitable topic, men. This is the part that always gets Gram mad—Mother’s hour-long monologues about the men in her life. I watch Gram’s anger rising on her face.
Mother turns to Willard and Billy as the male experts in the room. “You’re men, so you know how men are. After all, you’re all alike. If this man comes by my desk every morning and talks to me—talking about himself, personally—don’t you think it means something? Listen, listen, he even took me to lunch! At an expensive restaurant! The lights were low—very romantic. Now why else would he be giving me all this attention?”
“Is he married?” Gram asks.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything? If he’s unhappy with his wife, it’s no business of mine.”
“Look, Josephine, what are you doing? We’ve been through this.” Gram paces and smokes.
“Oh, Mother, you’re so old-fashioned. You don’t understand.”
“Nonsense. I worked in Chicago. I’ve been to England.”
“Lula has been around the world,” Blanche says, the sting of irony in her voice.
“Oh, Mama,” Gram says with annoyance, “you know better than that. I was only in Europe.”
“Anyway, as I was saying…” Mother goes on about the man. Finally, she pauses in her monologue to ask Willard, “Well, what do you think, Uncle?”
“Hell, Josephine, I don’t know nothin’. Been married to Edith here all these years, and that’s it.”
“You need to pay attention to money,” Gram says, pulling out another cigarette.
“Money? Ha. Money’s not important,” Mother says dismissively. “Love is the most important thing in the world.”
“Money’s not important? As long as I keep sending it to you it’s not.” Gram’s sting is felt around the room. Blanche watches the two of them snipe at each other, lips caught between her teeth in disapproval.
“Well, Mother, you have more than I have. Why shouldn’t you help your daughter?”
“Because you aren’t going to make anything of yourself! I’m never sending you another red cent as long as you…”
“Now, now, you two.” Willard stands up decisively. “Let’s have dessert and not worry about money right now. We don’t got none, and we don’t need to hear about it.” He gets the cookies, and Edith takes the ice cream out of the freezer. We eat dessert in an uneasy hush.
Afterwards, Mother and Gram talk-fight all afternoon, chain smoking until the room fills with gray. Edith drops a bowl on the floor; Blanche pokes her finger with her embroidery needle. The men try to take refuge in outdoor work, but Mother follows them for a flirtatious tour of the mink pens, a scarf over her nose.
Back in the house, Mother teases, “Gonna give me a mink collar, Uncle?”
“No, ’fraid not.”
“Why not? You’ve got lots of mink out there.”
“I don’t even have a mink collar. I should get mine first.” When Edith jokes, she smiles sidelong and shy, but she means what she says.
“Well, your man will give you one some day, but I don’t have a man. No man, no mink, no diamonds.” Mother throws her head back and laughs hard, takes a breath, then keeps laughing, seemingly on the verge of hysterics. Everyone stares at her.
“Josephine,” Gram commands after a minute or two. “Stop it. Come to your senses.”
“I, ya-ha-ha, can’t help it…”
My face flushes with embarrassment. Other people don’t laugh this way, so loud and long.
“Josephine,” Billy says, attempting to bring Mother back to earth, “all you need to do is get married again, and you’ll get your diamonds.”
“Yeah, well,” she says, bringing her laughter under control. “Mother thinks I’ll never grow up. Mother thinks I’m a child, but I just need someone to take care of me.”
“Would you take Linda Joy if you got married?” asks Billy. The room suddenly fills with a hollow silence. Everyone stares at their hands in their laps. Gram is the first to speak. “Linda Joy has her music lessons now.”
I know that underneath she is saying that I will be staying with her, and mother won’t be taking me away. I can tell that neither of them is sure of anything regarding where I belong.
Mother goes into the bathroom, the rest of the family heaves a sigh. Everyone leaves to attend to chores. The drama carried by my mother’s energy comes to a halt, but the rest of the day I worry. I worry about Gram, wondering what would happen if I wasn’t with her. She’d be lonely and sad, but Mother is alone, too. Is she sad? Does she miss me? How can I make them both happy? I follow Mother around, wanting to touch her, wanting her to talk to me, but she is either arguing with Gram or following Willard around like a lost puppy.
After dinner that night, we all sit out in lawn chairs in the yard. The sun has set behind the bluffs to the west; a golden haze still hangs over us. The elm trees that surround the yard rustle gently; cicadas and crickets throb in the warm evening. The air smells of the Mississippi River, thick with moisture, making me think of the fish in the river, the herons, squirrels, and raccoons that live near the water. Soon the stars come out, filling the sky with small lights all the way to the horizon. I take the spot next to my mother on the swing, leaning into her warmth. Gram’s and Mother’s cigarettes glow in the velvet blackness. The fireflies wink on and off. The night is thick with longing and history: the land where Blanche’s mother was born only three miles away; the house where Gram was born just a bit farther, near Grandview, the town where Lewis, Gram’s father, was born.
Blanche knows all this history. She keeps her eye on her granddaughter Josephine and on her own daughter, who act more like enemies than kin. They keep picking at each other with small, sharp implements, unconsciously honing the tools that will someday tear them apart.
Birthplace in
Wapello
The next morning, I get up early. Mother and Gram have slept in the living room, Gram on the couch, Mommy lying on a mattress on the floor. My mother’s eyes are closed, and she seems so peaceful now. I kneel beside her, admiring her beauty even at rest—her dark hair and beautiful skin. Seeming to sense my presence, she blinks and smiles. “Good morning.” She stretches out her arms to me. Thrilled with happiness for this closeness, I crawl in beside her. She’s softer now, not the tense, terse lady she appears to be during the day. I curl into her and soon persuade her to scratch my back. Her fingernails give my skin goose bumps. I feel so close to her, irrepressibly happy as the smell of fresh morning coffee sails into the living room. She asks me to scratch her back. I love touching her bare skin, looking at each mole and bump, memorizing her. She asks for a massage and shows me how to rub hard.
“You’re really good, Linda Joy. You should be a masseuse!” Mother laughs, pleased with me. My real mommy is back.
Soon the house is bustling with activity. Mother tells me that we are going to Grandpa’s house today. Gram is decked out in her maroon silk dress, makeup, and opal rings. On the way to Wapello they fight again, but I keep my attention on the landscape sweeping by—rolling hills of corn, wide patches of blue sky, dollops of white clouds. Later in the day, I know, great mountains of clouds will grow in the sky. I wonder if Gram and Mother will notice. They don’t see the Jersey cows grazing or the crows on the fence posts. They are in their own world, noxious smoke pouring from them the way it does from factories along the Mississippi.
When we arrive, Grandpa puts his arms around Mother; she kisses him on the cheek. Gram watches warily, and I wonder if she’s sorry she divorced him. Bernie surprises me by hugging my mother.
> In the kitchen after Gram leaves, Mother lights one cigarette after another, chatting on about her life and the same man she’d gone on about yesterday. She doesn’t tell them she was fired from her job. Bernie and Grandpa politely let her go on for awhile, then Bernie busies herself fixing dinner—bacon grease in the green beans, whipped potatoes, fried chicken. The evening is peaceful, the sounds of cicadas and crickets drifting in from outside. Then suddenly Bernie slams down a bowl.
“Need some help?” Grandpa Blaine asks, interrupting my mother’s monologue.
Bernie says, “Well, your daughter isn’t offering. All she thinks of is herself.”
“Bernie, that’s not very nice,” Mother huffs. “I haven’t seen my father for two years.”
“Well, it’s hot, and I have a lot to do. Even your daughter knows enough to help out, don’t you, Linda?” I smile and keep folding paper napkins, hoping the fight won’t escalate.
Grandpa puts the potatoes in a bowl and pours the iced tea while Mother sits and smokes, still talking fast and loud. Questions dart through my mind like bats. Why doesn’t she do anything to help? Can’t she see that she’s making things worse? My mother just does whatever she wants, I conclude, and it’s obvious she doesn’t want to help Bernie in the kitchen.
At the dinner table Grandpa launches into one of his long prayers. I peek to see if Mother takes the prayer seriously. She sits with her eyes open, staring across the room. Bernie’s anger still simmers, and Grandpa talks about forgiveness.
“Bless us, Lord, that we have our family with us—Josephine and Linda Joy. It’s been a long time since you’ve blessed us like this. Help us honor you and remember your commandments to love and forgive. Amen.” I glance at Bernie and Mother to see if the prayer makes a difference, but they eat in heavy silence.
Don't Call Me Mother Page 9
