Don't Call Me Mother

by Linda Joy Myers

  Mr. Brauninger gently tries to tease her. “Oh, it’s my fault. I just thought a little girl would like to play marbles. I loved them when I was a kid. Can’t she play with me?”

  He looks up at Gram with a sweet, begging look, as innocent as a young boy, but she holds her line, not unfriendly but stern. “I’ll have you know that I am raising my grandchild to be a lady, and ladies never, ever sit on the floor wearing a dress. They never sit on the floor in the living room. Period. Get up, Linda Joy.”

  I watch this exchange with interest, impressed that he does not simply try to please her, but actually stands up for me. After all, I am only ten and I should sometimes be allowed to play like a child. Still, I’m thoroughly conditioned by Gram’s insistence that I be a small grownup, that I always have the best manners of any kid in town. In the state. In the universe. I get up.

  Mr. Brauninger takes out his violin, caressing the deep red wood that is marked with beautiful patterns. He says, “There’s something I bet you don’t know. The wood that goes into making the violin has to come from trees grown at high altitudes, where it is very cold. They’re blown around by high winds and live through many years of bad storms before they are cut down for violin wood. If the wood grows where it is warm and where things are easy, it isn’t as strong and doesn’t make as good a sound. It needs the storm, it needs the cold to be able to make beautiful music.”

  He pauses for a moment and wipes his violin with a soft cloth. He looks into my eyes and his look goes beyond words. I think he is telling me more than about wood, but I’m not sure what. It gives me a good feeling anyway. Mr. Brauninger is the nicest man I have ever known. Now he takes out a three-record set, recorded at the Prades Music Festival, and wipes each record with a soft cloth.

  “Linda Joy, this is a recording by the greatest cellist in the world, Pablo Casals. He is Spanish and was exiled from his own country because of the terrible Franco regime that killed lots of people. He refuses to go back to Spain, as a protest against all the bad things happening there. Each year he conducts this wonderful festival with other great musicians—Isaac Stern, Alexander Schneider, and Dame Myra Hess—because he thinks that great music can help make the world better.”

  Gram adds from the kitchen, “Dame Myra Hess gave free piano concerts at the National Gallery in London during the war—to cheer people up.” I see that Gram thinks this was a good thing. She and Mr. B. both know about wars and bad times, some more of the hidden history I have come to know all adults have inside.

  Mr. Brauninger puts the first record on the turntable and carefully lays down the needle. Out pours the most sublime music I have ever heard. It fills the thick dusk of the living room—the burgundy Oriental rug, the maroon ceiling, the stern portrait of Rembrandt staring down at us—with light. Mr. Brauninger sits under the brass floor lamp by the piano, a golden glow all around him. Waves of peace, love, and serenity emanate from him. His face is composed, his usual grin replaced by a smile that suggests heaven. I take his cue and quit worrying about my grandmother.

  I relax and let the music create a universe of harmony within me, as it seems to with Mr. Brauninger The hurt I usually feel inside from Gram’s scolding, my frustration from being held back and controlled by her, the deep aching for my mother and father, and my shame about my family—all of this is gone. Replacing it is a smooth, silky feeling. Peace and beauty beyond imagining fill me, and I am brought back to myself, the person that I really am. Mr. Brauninger sighs. I fold my hands over my stomach, sighing in perfect synchrony with him. For a time we are held and healed in this music.

  When he leaves, and regular life takes hold again, I hold these memories inside me to guard against the darker days.

  Who Do You

  Want More?

  One fall day during my tenth year, there is a knock at the door. Gram is still wearing her nightgown even though it’s one in the afternoon. She’s hunched over on the couch, newspapers, books, and letters strewn around her. Two ashtrays holding smashed butts ringed with lipstick overflow onto the stained, glass-topped coffee table. I pause, embarrassed to open the door.

  Gram mutters, “Don’t answer it,” but I have already opened the door a crack. My body knows who it is before my mind absorbs it. An electrical jolt burns through me, leaving me shaky. A woman stands before me. At first she seems like a dream. It’s my mother—wearing a black hat and veil, a fine charcoal suit, silk blouse, and high heels. She carries a wrinkled paper shopping bag and a black leather purse with a gold clasp. On her lovely face is a small, wistful smile.

  I say, “Mommy?”

  I hear the hiss of Gram’s breath. I know what it means. I’m suspended on that thin wire strung between Mother and Gram. Gram is behind me, Mother before me, the screen door another veil between us as Mother waits to be let in. Gram is angry; Mother wants to be welcomed. Already, the battle line has been drawn.

  I ask Mother how she got here; it seems to me that she has dropped from heaven, the answer to my prayers. She gestures toward Aunt Helen’s car putt-putting in front of the house. Aunt Helen waves at me and takes off, wisely deciding not to enter the lion’s den.

  Mother waves her ivory cigarette holder as if to say, “Aren’t you going to let me in?” I open the screen door, watching while they exchange first glances. Gram seems to paw at the earth, itching for a fight.

  Mother steps in and I put my arms around her to prove that she is real, her flesh soft against me, her musky scent a balm. I am overcome with relief, a letting down of tension I didn’t know I had; yet at the same time part of me ratchets up, preparing for what I know will come.

  Mother’s visits all follow the same pattern. She comes in acting sweet, her voice soft and quiet. She unpacks her paper bag, lining up her pots of makeup on the hall table. Gram makes coffee. She and Mother speak to each other like civilized creatures for two or three hours. The details—how long they keep up the friendly façade; the precise content of the fight; the exact number of swear words spoken, and by whom; who cries, how much, and for how long—differ each time, yet I can predict how things will go. The rhythm of their grief, rage, and blame reverberate in my blood.

  Who do you think you are, asking me for money, why do you talk to me like that, don’t you dare raise your voice, I’ll do what I damned well please, no you won’t this is my house, well if you feel that way about it, oh so you’re gonna run away, that’s what you did, what do you mean, oh never mind.

  You don’t understand me, you never did, what’s there to understand, you’re wasting your life away, what’s the matter with you, are you an idiot, stop telling me I’m stupid, you don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re so smart living here in this hell hole, you don’t clean the house, what are you teaching my daughter, well if you can do so much better, take her with you, you know I can’t, well don’t say anything, don’t try to control me, I’ll say what I want, not in my house you don’t, well then I’m leaving, I’ve had it, I’m calling Aunt Helen.

  Smoke swirls. They circle each other, eyes glittering. The room crackles with their overloaded wires. There’s no place for me to go where I’m safe from their sting and burn.

  After one bad fight Mother runs into the hall and throws her makeup, all the pots, liners, powder, and lipstick, into her Neiman-Marcus shopping bag. She folds her pink nightgown into a square, its musky scent rising in a cloud and settling over me. My mother’s aroma threatens to open the flap in my stomach that leads to an abyss of loneliness and sorrow. I don’t want to fall in, so I try to comfort Gram. A tear runs down her cheek, but her mouth is set in an angry sneer. “How dare she talk to me like that, after all I’ve done for her. She has no sense of other people; she just thinks of herself.”

  I don’t want to hear bad things about Mother, so I make coffee, hastening their usual end-of-the-fight ceremony. I know how to make coffee by now, but I let Gram direct me. “Measure the water, exactly eight cups, and nine spoons of Folgers. Be sure to put the percolator top on.�
��

  I dread the next phase, when I’m tormented by questions I don’t dare ask. I get water from the tap, making sure it hits the eight-cup line. I breathe in the fragrant coffee and measure it carefully. Meanwhile, my mind reels. What will happen now? Will Mommy go back to Chicago tonight? Can I go to Aunt Helen’s to see my mother, or would that be a betrayal of Gram? When will I see Mother again? I want to know the precise size and shape of my time with her, exactly when she’ll leave. I don’t want surprises. I don’t want to feel this aching hole in my stomach.

  Soon Aunt Helen’s car coughs and mutters in the driveway. She leaves the headlights on and shuffles into the house wearing bedroom slippers. Her dyed blonde hair is in pin curls, and she wears a bathrobe over one of her working dresses. She is smiling, as usual, but doesn’t seem happy. “Well, well, well,” she says, her eyes taking in the scene: Gram blowing smoke from her chair while Mother smokes and paces, her heels threatening to punch holes in the floor.

  “Josephine. Frances. Now look here. Jo, you can come to my house, and you can come too”—she gestures to me and Gram—“but I’ll have none of these shenanigans. I’m a Christian woman and believe in the Golden Rule, but Maj and I, we’ll have none of this malarkey in our house.”

  “I just want peace and quiet,” Mother whispers as she rolls up her bag. She gathers her cigarettes and cigarette holder.

  Gram glares. “Peace and quiet,” she says sarcastically, implying it was all my mother’s fault. “That would be nice.”

  “I don’t know why I come here if this is the way you’re going to treat me,” Mother says, flouncing toward the dining room to grab a carton of Marlboros.

  “I didn’t invite you,” Gram growls.

  Mother faces her, eyes blazing. “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do. I’m not welcome with my own mother.”

  Aunt Helen is ready to go out, her hand on the doorknob, but after this outburst Mother grabs her paper bag and her purse and her hat with the veil. She storms through the kitchen and makes her escape out the back door, shrieking about how unwelcome she feels, why does she bother. I hear her open the garage door and know she’s already out to the driveway. Panicked, I run after her. Aunt Helen’s car sits there idling, and Mother gets in. The car’s headlights blaze against the thick black night.

  Aunt Helen comes out the front door and pauses beside me on her way to the car. “Are you coming or staying here?” she asks, tapping her foot. I stare at her in a panic. How can I decide that? I love both of them.

  She repeats the question. “Are you coming with your mother or staying with your grandmother?” I just stare at her, speechless.

  She gives up. “Call me,” she says, and gets in the driver’s seat. The car backs out of the driveway. My mother is huddled in the back seat illuminated only by the orange glow of her cigarette. The car climbs the hill and disappears into the night.

  I go back inside the house, knowing that somehow I’ve made my decision, that I belong with Gram now. She sucks on a cigarette, slumping into the couch. The aroma of fresh coffee mixes with the stench of smoke and grief. I pour coffee into china cups, place them with the sugar bowl and creamer on the silver tray. I carry the tray into the dark living room with a smile on my face. Gram’s eyes glitter, as if with anticipation.

  I begin to pour.

  Hate Letters and Harrison

  Gram tears open my letters before I get home. It doesn’t matter to her that the letters are for me. It’s her house, so the mail belongs to her.

  “Why can’t I open my own mail? It’s addressed to me, see?” I wave the envelope at her. She grabs it and lifts her hand, threatening to slap me, her eyes flashing. Her lips are gray, with flecks of old lipstick. I don’t like her right now.

  “Yours? Excuse me, miss, did you say ‘your’ mail? For your information, nothing in this house is yours. You are my guest. You live here because I am kind enough to invite you. Everything here is mine, do you understand? This house is mine; everything having to do with you is mine. So shut your mouth.”

  A dark wave of energy emanates from the green brocade couch where she’s plunked herself down in the usual mess, glowering over the orange tip of her cigarette. The new mail bears my father’s handwriting. I’m afraid to ask her what he says, so I start to play my cello, but as usual she yells at me, telling me that I’m doing it all wrong. “Why can’t you follow what Mr. B. says. You’ll embarrass me at the next concert.”

  After a while, I put down the cello and go to the bathroom with my book, forgetting about time. She comes to get me. “Get out here. We have things to do.”

  I put the book away, a fine Nancy Drew mystery. I can feel the storm brewing, the way you feel a slight charge in the air as a rainstorm builds up. The clouds go from gray to green and then turn an ominous purple. She is at the purple stage now, her face twisted, her eyes dark. She pours herself a cup of coffee and tells me to sit down.

  “You’re going to write to your father.”

  “But I just wrote…”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s time for you to understand who he is.”

  “But…”

  “Shut up!” She waves his letter at me. “He says that he’s not going to pay for any of your lessons. Do you have any idea how much I spend on you? You’re old enough to tell him what you think. Now write this…”

  “But these are your thoughts, not mine.”

  “You shut up and mind me unless you want me to get the yardstick. Listen to this.” She pushes her glasses up on her nose and reads: “Your grandmother wants things for you that you don’t need. You need to be a child, to play and have fun. Forget all those music lessons and concerts and privileges. Fit them into the budget with the money I send…”

  She looks at me and says, “See that? He’s a selfish, stingy son of a bitch, and it’s time you knew it. Pick up your pen and get ready.”

  A rock sits in the pit of my stomach. I pick up the pen and the paper she shoves toward me. I know what she’ll do if I resist.

  “Dear Daddy,” she dictates. “How dare you tell Gram you won’t pay for my cello lessons. Don’t you understand—I mean to make something of myself…”

  My hand stays still. “That doesn’t sound very nice,” I whisper.

  “You shut up! Just write what I tell you. Say, ‘If you cared about me, you would help with my expenses. I take music lessons and need to have nice clothes for the recitals. I am good in school, and… ’”

  “I’m not that good.”

  “Now you stop that. You are going to write what I tell you! Get busy.” She threatens me with the yardstick, and my breath gets shallow. She sits back down with it across her legs.

  She dictates a nasty letter to my father, saying he’s low class and doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t have enough money and takes care of me because no one else will. He owes her money. And so on.

  None of this is what I think, and I would never say it. I object, again.

  She continues with a diatribe about how stingy and mean he is. She’s said this before, but not with this much rage. She paces, smoking and gesturing, thumping the floor with the yardstick. Smoke swirls around her head, and the room is gray and dark. She won’t open the blinds. She forces me to address the envelope and sign the letter “Love, Your daughter, Linda Joy.” I put a stamp on the letter and fasten it with a clothespin on the mailbox.

  That week I go to school, practice, and take my lessons, all the while worrying about Daddy. Will he be mad? Will he hate me?

  Two weeks later when she picks me up after school, a letter is lying on the front seat. She barely stops the car long enough for me to get in. As she whirls away, she starts in. “That son of a bitch. He’s the most horrible man I’ve ever known. And to think that he doesn’t care about his own daughter. That damn father of yours is a selfish man who doesn’t care about you. If he did, he’d help take care of you.”

  “He does too care about me!” I want him to come and see me. He’s the most fun of my t
hree parents.

  “You think he’s so great because he comes around once a year? Well, other girls’ fathers make sacrifices for their daughters. What’s so great about him? Tell me what’s so great?” Her voice rises. I know she wants me to say some particular thing, but what? I’d say almost anything to get her to be quiet.

  “He works. He works very hard, he told me.” We drive by some of the girls from school playing jump rope in their front yard. I wish I could join them.

  “Ha! Sure, he works hard. Him and Hazel, all cozy up there in Chicago. He could come more often. He would if he cared. He could give you more money. Believe you me, he has it. He’s selfish. When we get home you’ll write him another letter.”

  Every two weeks she forces me to write my father a hate letter, and he writes back. When his letters come, Gram flies into a rage, pacing up and down the living room, smoke billowing from her nostrils.

  She reads aloud: “I work damn hard. Young lady, when you grow up, you’ll need to know the value of a dollar. You can’t just expect me to dole it out. I have a budget. I see that you’re getting some bad habits, like Frances. You’ll be an unhappy person if you continue. Just spend what is in your budget and no more. After all, I came up from nothing to earn my money. I decide where it will go and how much.”

  She argues as if he were there with us in the room. “Came up from nothin’! You’re damn right he came from nothin’, and he is nothin’. How dare he tell me to watch my money!” Her voice rises to a hysterical pitch.

  “He said it to me. See, it’s addressed to me.” I point to the salutation, “Dear Linda,” at the top of lined L& N Railroad parchment.

  “You know damn well he’s talking to me. How dare he! He’s a son of a bitch, and I won’t have him taking advantage of me.”

  The dining room grows dark and she doesn’t think to turn on the lights. I’m stuck on the chair next to her. I can’t leave the room. If I move, she yells. I try to become invisible, thinking of more pleasant things. I think about Keith, his warm dark eyes, how he seems to like me. I think about the curve of my mother’s cheek, and how nice it feels when she scratches my back. I wish I could be with Blanche in her garden right now. I’d like to transport myself to Aunt Helen’s house, where she’d make us some nice homemade bread and Gram would calm down, but I’m stuck here with this hateful version of Gram. She doesn’t make dinner and seems to forget that I have to practice and have homework to do. For six hours she reads and rereads his letters, examining each sentence, memorizing his angry replies as night falls.