|
The Motherhead
Theron Montgomery
I MAKE THE SOUNDS IN MY HEAD so Mom and Dad won't hear, shooting cars
through
the rear window of our Buick with the black plastic Luger Dad bought me at
the
filling station for being good. I pretend I'm Audie Murphy or Vic Morrow.
I
imagine cars on the highway exploding and drifting off the road in flames.
In
the front seat, Mother cries as we come into Tuscaloosa. She dabs at her
eyes
under the black veil with Dad's handkerchief while Dad says nothing behind
the
wheel, staring ahead, the muscles of his jaw tight, and his hat low over
his
eyes. I stop shooting and Mother takes her compact from her handbag,
peeling
the veil up and over her hat. Her blue eyes are bleary and red. The
shiner
stands out like a large purple plum on her cheek.
Mother lifted her veil this afternoon when they picked me up in the
school
parking lot, and we were "going to Tuscaloosa again"--as Dad says during
the
week in his nagging voice when he and I are alone in the back yard, where
he
smokes Hav-A-Tampas and makes quiet and serious speeches as I chase
fireflies or
shoot Yankees, Mexicans, or maybe Japs with a stick rifle or stick machine
gun--"So I can be with the Motherhead," he mimics Mother with a sneer. He
gripes about taking off from work, about money going to Tuscaloosa; says
there's
going to be a surprise next time; says these things over and over--things
not
meant for Mother to hear.
Mother smiled when I climbed into the back seat after school with my
books
and sweater, and made me kiss her on her good cheek like I did this
morning
after breakfast. I knew she had packed for us. She looked over her seat
and
asked about school, the shiner pinching up and down on her cheek as she
talked.
"Why are you so quiet, honey?" She studied me with a steady smile,
the car
already too quiet as Dad started the engine, too heavy with Mother's ruby
lips
and nails, her hat and veil, and the sweet smell of Chanel No. 5 my father
gives
her every year for her birthday.
I shrugged, not wanting to talk because Dad wouldn't. But Mother got
me to
by asking more questions: How was lunch? Miss Jones? My math test? She
kept at
it until my eyes were on her and I had to answer her with short, single
words
like Dad would do. Mother smiled at my answers, her eyes said we would be
all
right, fine, normal; Dad's silly mood would come around, and I was just
tired
from school, and once we got to Tuscaloosa, we would act better; and she
would
feel better, too--once we were back with the Motherhead.
THE STINK OF PAPER MILLS grows in the air. We go by stores, a cemetery, a
dorm,
and the football stadium. Dad huffs his breath as Mother turns the
rearview
mirror to inspect her face, reline her lipstick, shoot herself a smile.
Dad
snatches the rearview back into place when she's through.
"Hayden, come here," Mother says, pulling a comb out of her handbag.
She
turns and motions me up to the back of her seat, smiling for me to smile
back.
She begins to part my hair. "We want to look nice," she sings. "Tuck in
your
shirt."
I undo my belt, shove my shirt in, remembering the time in church when
Dad
grabbed Grandmother's arm to stop her from reaching down and pulling up
the
zipper of my Sunday pants. "Woman," he hissed through his teeth, turning
people's heads in the pews around us, "tell him to zip his own zipper."
Mother finishes my hair, then turns and straightens in her seat. She
puts
everything into her handbag and carefully lowers the veil over her face as
our
Buick turns into the narrow alley crowded with houses. But she reopens
her
handbag and pulls Dad's handkerchief to dab her eyes.
I reach over the seat and squeeze her shoulder. Mother makes a brave
smile
through the veil. Dad doesn't say anything. The alley is quiet, empty.
No one
is about, as he turns the Buick before Grandmother's old white house and
into
the rutted gravel drive, stopping past the porch and before the garage and
Grandpa's old red pickup. It's like before. Everything is still. Mother
stares out at the side of the house as Dad cuts the engine and sets her
face
serious, like when we are in church, about to pray or sing a hymn.
"All right, now, come on," she nods to the house, gripping Dad's
balled up
handkerchief in one hand, the handle of her handbag in the other.
I tuck the Luger under my belt, and we get out and shut car doors in
the
quiet, fading afternoon. Dad unbuttons his collar and tugs his tie loose,
and
we wait on Mother as she bends over and strokes wrinkles out of her dress.
Dad
lifts his hat and runs his fingers through his black hair. I catch him
staring
at Mother's rear end as he replaces his hat on his head. He looks off and
around. I smother a laugh in my hand, and look off, too. Dad offers me a
stick
of Beeman's, and I nod. He unwraps it for me, shoving the wrapper into
his coat
pocket. I take it, nod my thanks and chew, touching the Luger in my belt
and
keeping a lookout for Germans.
"Where's Grandpa?" I ask Dad.
He shakes his head, staring at Mother. "I don't know," Dad sighs and
looks
tired. Mother straightens and squares her shoulders. Her pumps crunch in
the
gravel toward the house.
DAD AND I FOLLOW Mother as she turns on the lights in the high rooms of
stained
and cracked plaster, varnished furniture and dark, closed drapes. It's
just
like last week, and the weeks before, our slow parade in floating dust.
In the
family room, Mother flicks on the lights, and her fingers make lines
through the
thin dust on the closed piano. I can remember Mother standing by the
piano with
a closed smile and Grandmother sitting large on the piano bench in a house
dress, her head tilted back, and her mouth opened wide as she pounded the
keys
and sang "When the Saints Go Marching In."
The Motherhead is smiling in the center of the round dining table,
just as
we left it, standing on its neck in the cake pan mother gave the mortician
when
he brought the head back after the funeral. Grandmother's smile is frozen
with
big shiny teeth, red lips, loud rouge; the way the mortician made her up.
Her
silver hair is bright and stiff. Her large, wet and black eyes see you
wherever
you are in the room.
Dad and I stand off and Mom lifts her veil and carefully removes her
hat so
as not to mess her blonde perm, smiling as if to match the smile on the
head.
She goes and brushes something off Grandmother's forehead with her
fingers.
"There," she says. She lays her purse and hat in a dining chair and
surveys the room, the tall mirror above the cupboard, the matching china
cabinet
and the armoire.
"There," she says. She turns to Grandmother's head and steps back,
smiling. It's as if the two smiles are drawing from each other.
Dad and I watch. We have done this many times. Dad parts his coat
and
shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. He forgot to remove his hat
when he
came in. I draw my Luger and go to the hallway to make sure the place is
clear
of burglars, sidle up to the opened doorway, peek right, then left, like
Peter
Gunn on TV. The hall's dark and empty. The phone is in the wall nook by
Grandmother's empty easy chair. I fall back into the kitchen. It's empty,
too;
the counters bare and clean, a plate and a glass in the sink.
In the dining room, my parents' backs are turned to each other.
Mother
studies her reflection in the mirror, touching her hair; Dad has his hands
deep
in his pockets, seeming to study the framed pictures of Grandmother's
chihuahuas
lined on the opposite wall. His nostrils twitch; he keeps shifting his
feet.
"I'm going outside," Dad finally says with a quick nod to Mother, and
he
leaves through the living room.
"All right, Tate," Mom drawls and doesn't turn from the mirror. It's
one
of those things Dad must do, go outside, be by himself, and smoke a
Hav-A-Tampa.
"Hayden?" Mother sings, her eyes finding me in the mirror before I can
say
Dad's words, too.
"Yes, Ma'am?"
"Haven't I told you not to chew gum in the house?"
"Yes, Ma'am." I spit it out into my hand.
"Go find where grandfather is," she says, high and wheedling. She
studies
her face from side to side, the shiner flashing in the mirror: now, you
see it;
now, you don't.
"Tell him I'm here," she says.
"Okay."
I back out of the room, my other hand holding my gun, toward the
hallway,
and watch her back, imagining that if she turns and looks at me, I'm
doomed.
I FLUSH THE GUM down the toilet, and in the hallway, two old-time
gangsters,
like in THE UNTOUCHABLES on TV, ambush me with machine guns. I shoot them
and
continue down the hall. Grandpa is in the guest room at the back of the
house
where he has been every weekend since the funeral: sitting in his rocker,
staring out the window, or building bird houses at the work desk next to
his
bed.
"Y'all here again?" he looks up from his desk. The pinups of naked
women
and calendar girls in swim suits that Mother tore down last week have been
mended with Scotch tape and are back up on the walls. Wood shavings speck
Grandpa's white hair, his glasses, cover his T-shirt and denim overalls.
"Hi, Grandpa." I tuck my Luger into my belt. Grandpa turns back to
nailing roof tile onto a blue bird house with a small hammer. Bird houses
of
different shapes and colors hang from wires in the ceiling. Unfinished
bird
houses, tools and wood shavings litter the floor. Dirty clothes are piled
high
on the unmade bed, the floor, and the opened dresser. Outside the
windows, in
the back yard, bird houses hang off every limb of the large pecan tree.
They
sway or turn in the breeze like mismatched ornaments.
"Got a Norwegian model here," Grandpa winks.
Before I can say anything, Grandpa stops hammering and stares out the
window over his desk. "Drat," he yells, jumping up, dropping the hammer,
and
opening a desk drawer. He whips out a pistol, heavy and steel, and I stare
as he
opens the room's door to the back stoop, aims outside and fires. BOOM.
Bark
flies off the pecan tree. A squirrel dashes around the trunk and
disappears.
"Damn squirrel!" Grandpa yells as he lowers the pistol. "Runs my birds
off!"
"Hayden! Pop!" Mother shrills from the other end of the house.
Grandpa turns. He and I look at each other. "I forgot about her," he
says.
Mother's footsteps sound up the hallway. Grandpa tosses the pistol
back
into the desk drawer and closes it, sending me a nervous grin.
"What are you boys doing?" Mother cries, coming into the room, her
face
stern and curious. She's wearing Grandmother's large red pinafore apron
with
pockets. She has taken off the high heels and put on worn moccasins.
"Hey, Mom," I say, and I smother a laugh in my hand.
"Oh, my god," Mother takes in the room. Her hands rise slowly and
rest on
her hips. "Poppa," she scolds. Grandpa's smile turns sheepish. He looks
at
his feet.
Mother goes and yanks one of the pinups, letting it fall to the floor.
"And why haven't you kept mother's head covered?" Mom demands.
"I forgot," Grandpa shrugs. He keeps his eyes on his feet and hooks
his
thumbs inside his overall straps. "I don't go out there much."
"You owe her at least that," Mother's eyes blaze. "After all she's
done for
you."
Grandpa doesn't answer, holds his eyes on his feet and runs his thumbs
up
and down the inside of his straps.
Mother sighs and shakes her head. "Here I come all this way to fix
dinner,
clean house . . . and this room's a mess," she says.
Grandpa glances up at her and then looks back to his feet. "You don't
have
to clean it," he says.
"Oh, yes I do," she dismisses him with a wave of her hand, "Somebody
has
to." She picks up the pillow on Grandpa's bed and begins stuffing it with
her
fist. "It won't get cleaned if I don't," she says, becoming annoyed.
She drops the pillow on the bed and stares at Grandpa, letting a hand
rise
to her ear, a finger slide over to her shiner. Grandpa doesn't notice,
and she
lets her hand drop.
"I've got to vacuum this floor and wash these clothes," Mom says,
taking in
the room. "Then put down clean bed sheets."
"Umm, clean sheets," Grandpa echoes. He looks up at her, then back to
his
feet. "Your Momma did that for me," he says. He turns teary eyed.
Mother sighs, makes a small smile, goes by me and around the bed to
Grandpa, slipping her arm through his.
"There, now," she says, brushing wood shavings from his hair. Grandpa
gets
choked up. They put their arms around each other. "You are too good,"
Grandpa
says. "You are too good."
They break. Grandpa wipes his eyes, and Mother smiles.
"What happened to your face?" Grandpa says.
Mother blushes, turns shy. "Oh," she says, "it's nothing, a silly
accident." She gives Grandpa a brave smile, and they hug.
They have forgotten about me. I watch them hug and think that, if
they
leave, I might get the pistol out of the drawer, wave it around, and aim
it out
of the windows. Then, for some reason, I imagine walking into the
kitchen, like
Little Joe Cartwright does in BONANZA when he goes into a bar, and
shooting
mother at the stove. Dad would throw away his cigar and come running into
the
house; Grandpa would come hobbling in as fast as he could from a nap on
the
sofa. They would brush by me into the kitchen and stand gaping over her
limp
body with its sweet smile on the linoleum floor. They would kneel, unsure
of
themselves, and afraid to touch. "Call somebody," they would cry out,
before
they realized that I was holding the gun. They would stare at me, then at
her,
and begin to gasp, wringing their hands, looking down at her body, and
feeling
helpless or guilty, or both. Mother would lay there with that sweet
smile, in a
neat puddle of blood--somehow, I think she would like that. Later, I
would have
to run and hide from Grandpa, Dad, and the Law all my life; keep running
away,
looking over my shoulder, just like the Fugitive on TV--do odd jobs and
always
wear a windbreaker.
Outside is dusk. I hold my Luger at ready and creep around the back
yard,
stepping out into the drive where Dad is smoking the stub of a
Hav-A-Tampa,
leaning against the dark front fender, his coat parted and his hat low
over his
eyes. His look seems to go through me. A squashed cigar butt is at his
feet in
the gravel. The chrome of the car reflects the last of the evening light.
"Hayden," Dad says with an edge in his voice, and pushes the brim of
his
hat up with his thumb as he looks off, "what is your mother doing?" He
draws on
the cigar stub and his stomach makes a long, slow growl. I look at him
and
pretend to smoke, too, with an imaginary cigar in my fingers.
"She's fixing dinner," I answer. "And Grandpa's cleaning up."
"I bet he is," Dad remarks with a small scowl. It's like in the
evenings
in our back yard at home. Dad wants to talk to me, more to himself,
sneering as
he smokes. He will get all worked up.
But he stops himself. He stands up off the car and turns to me.
"Did Grandpa see her face?" he studies me and the cigar stops just
short of
his mouth.
I nod.
"What did he say?" Dad's eyes grow wide.
"Oh, he's upset," I say.
"He is?"
"Yeah." I have Dad watching me. "He's real upset." I scowl it, like
Dad
would, and expect his laugh.
Dad grabs my arm, jerks me to him, making me drop my Luger. His face
comes
down, twisted, breathing hot and smoky into mine. "Don't get smart," he
says.
I stare at him and nod fast.
Dad lets go, steps back, straightens, and blinks. He pauses, takes a
deep
breath and then tries a grin. "Here, Hayden," he says, his voice too
friendly.
He digs into his pocket with his free hand, comes out with a quarter in
his
palm.
"Go on," he says.
I shake my head.
"Go on." He shoves it toward me and waits with a grin. His stomach
makes
another long growl. I pick the quarter up off his palm. "Thanks," I
mumble.
I drop the quarter into my pocket, pick up my Luger and go running up
the
drive toward the front porch and shrubbery, keeping my back to him, my
cheeks
hot, my heart pounding. I blink fast to hold the tears back.
The overhead porch light comes on, and Mother comes to the screened
door
and peers out at the yard and the alley. "Hey, Mom," I fake cheer. She
gives
me a smile, disappears into the house. I wipe my eyes on my sleeves.
Behind
me, Dad is walking around the Buick, smoking fast. I can tell he's making
a
speech to himself by the small motions he makes with his hands. I get my
breath
and grip my Luger. I make myself search for Germans in the shrubbery.
Mother
comes to the screened door again and looks out. Her face breaks into a
smile.
I follow her look to a one-headlight car coming down the alley. I back
into the
shrubbery with my Luger and hide as Uncle Larry's car turns in and brakes
before
the porch. In the glow of the porch light, thin smoke rises from under the
hood
and I can see the green paint brush strokes that cover the car.
Uncle Larry waves to Mom as he cuts the one light and the engine.
He's in
his yellow sanitation uniform from work, but without his cap, his dirty
blonde
hair swept behind his ears; and Aunt Louisa is with him this time, looming
large
in the back seat, her big nose, her flabby arms crossed, and her long and
straight dark hair loose about her shoulders. Aunt Louisa's lips are
pressed
into a line. She stares at Uncle Larry's back as Grandpa and Mother come
out
onto the porch, Grandpa cleaned up now, in an old brown suit with matching
shoes
and no tie; Mother smiling and wiping her hands on her apron.
Uncle Larry jumps out of the car in his work boots. He's stick thin
with a
small nose. He smiles broadly as he opens the back door for Aunt Louisa.
"I knew you wouldn't miss Marlene's meal," Grandpa says with a laugh.
He
puts his arms around the column by the porch swing and leans out toward
the car,
grinning and winking at Uncle Larry. Mother smiles and clasps her hands
together. Aunt Louisa sits frozen in the back of the car with her arms
crossed
and her mouth set.
Uncle Larry smiles. "C'mon, now, Lou," Uncle Larry pleads under his
breath, holding the car door open. He waves to Dad, who looks on in the
almost
dark, smoking from our car. "Hey, Tate," Uncle Larry says.
"Oh, c'mon Lou," Mother supports Uncle Larry from the porch in a sweet
song
voice. "C'mon inside and eat."
Uncle Larry makes a laugh and smiles at Mom. "C'mon, Lou," he says.
He
and Mother smile at each other and begin sing-saying the words, "C'mon
Lou,
c'mon Lou," as Grandpa leans out from the column and grins.
It goes on for about a minute, Mother from the porch and Uncle Larry
holding the car door open. Aunt Louisa shuts her eyes. She finally opens
them,
uncrosses her arms, bows her head and offers a hand out the door to Uncle
Larry.
Uncle Larry and Mom stop chanting as he takes her hand in both of his,
braces
in the gravel with his boots and pulls. Aunt Lou's head and leg come out
first.
She's so big, she barely fits through the door. When she heaves out, the
back
of the car rises like a sigh of relief.
Mother claps, and Uncle Larry and Grandpa smile, as Aunt Lou
straightens
and tosses her hair over her shoulders. Aunt Lou's in a large red
sweatshirt,
wide tan slacks and sandals. When she turns toward Mother and Grandpa on
the
porch, she holds her head high, so as not to see them. Uncle Larry sweeps
his
fallen hair behind his ears, shuts the door and follows Aunt Lou's slow
march to
the porch. That's when I jump out of the shrubbery with my Luger and my
meanest
sneer. "Ka-pow! Ka-pow!" I shoot them.
Aunt Lou stops and snorts. Uncle Larry jumps in surprise and clutches
his
chest. "You got me!" he winks. He play punches my ribs and messes my
hair. I
grin and push my hair back and follow them up onto the porch, where Mother
and
Uncle Larry hug and get teary-eyed, and Aunt Louisa stands off to one side
with
a frown. Uncle Larry sniffs when he and Mother break. "I miss--" he
says, but
can't finish. Mother's smile understands. Grandpa gives Aunt Lou a smile.
He
and Uncle Larry hug. Mother wipes her eyes on her apron, goes and puts
her arms
around Aunt Lou. But Aunt Lou doesn't put her arms around Mother.
"Lou," Mother says, "I'm so glad you came."
"Like hell you are," says Aunt Lou.
"Now, Lou," Mother steps back with a smile. She gives me a look. I
put
my Luger in my belt and go and put my arms around Aunt Lou the best I can.
Aunt
Lou doesn't move.
"Well, I'm hungry," Grandpa announces with a grin.
"We're ready," Mother beams. She looks to Grandpa, then Uncle Larry.
She
touches her shiner.
"I noticed that," Uncle Larry says. "What happened?"
"Oh," Mother lowers her hand, "a silly accident." She makes that
brave
smile. "It doesn't hurt much now."
Grandpa smiles, and Uncle Larry hugs her again. "You are too sweet,"
Uncle
Larry says. "You are just too sweet."
"Well, sweetie," Aunt Lou announces, and everyone turns to her, "your
mother said I wasn't welcome in her house." Aunt Lou marches to the wooden
bench
swing in the corner, and turns and lowers herself into the seat. The
swing
creaks as it takes her, and the chains connecting it to the ceiling hum
tight.
"Oh, now, Lou, she did not," Mother says.
Grandpa and Uncle Larry look on and say nothing. Aunt Lou gives
Mother a
mean look. She swings her loose hair over her shoulders with a jerk of
her
head, crosses her arms and stares off.
"Now, Lou," Mother says.
Aunt Lou doesn't answer. Uncle Larry makes a nervous laugh, looks to
Mom,
then to Aunt Lou.
"Oh, come on," Mother's voice fades. She sighs and shakes her head.
"All
right, then," she warns and gives up. She looks at Grandpa, then me.
"You give me that," Mother says, snatching the Luger out of my hand
before
I can protest. "We don't play at dinner." Mother drops it into her apron
pocket, gives Aunt Lou a last look, puts her hands on my shoulders and
steers me
toward the door.
"C'mon," Mother says to the men.
Grandpa and Uncle Larry hesitate and follow us inside. Uncle Larry
comes in
last, catching the screened door and looking back at Aunt Lou.
"Don't worry," Grandpa says with a knowing wink and a grin. "They'll
get
hungry. She and Tate--they'll both get hungry."
The steady creaking of the porch swing sounds throughout the house
while
mother finishes setting the food on the dining table and pouring iced tea
in all
the glasses. The places are all set. Mother has lined the cake pan under
Grandmother's head with jonquils from the garden. She has washed her
hands and
left her apron in the kitchen, and Uncle Larry, Grandpa and I have washed
up in
the bathroom. We seat ourselves at the table with Mother before
Grandmother's
head, which is smiling through the steam of her dishes, her bowls, her
platters
of food. Two chairs are empty: one by me, and one by Mother. We bow our
heads
with Mother to pray as Dad comes into the dining room from the back of the
house. He stands waiting while she says Grace, his coat over one arm, his
sleeves rolled up. When Mother says "Amen," she looks up with a closed
smile.
Dad removes his hat, glances about and nods to everyone. He drops his
hat
and coat into a corner chair, stands and looks at Mother. His hands won't
stay
still. He shoves them into his trouser pockets. Grandpa shakes his head
at him
and grins.
"Go wash up," Mother says.
Dad nods and leaves down the hallway. We wait before Grandmother's
smiling
head and the steaming food. Grandpa hums softly to himself while Mother
sits
with a small, patient smile. Uncle Larry's eyes shift around, and Aunt
Lou
creaks from the porch.
Dad comes back, his face damp, his hair wet and combed. "Sorry," he
mumbles, and offers a grin. He takes the chair next to me. I don't look
at him
as he sits down.
"I'm going to get Lou," Uncle Larry says.
"No," Mother's eyes stop him, her voice slow and stern. "She knows
where to
find us."
Uncle Larry makes a nervous grin and stays in his seat. He looks at
Dad,
then Mother. He runs his fingers over his ears.
Grandpa makes a low chuckle, and Uncle Larry gives him an annoyed
look.
"What's so funny?" he says.
"Nothing," Grandpa says, sadly, "I'm the one with no warm bed."
In the steady creaking from the porch, we follow Mother's lead and put
our
napkins into our laps, begin to pass the food, serve ourselves and eat.
"Pass the biscuits," Dad says to me. I ignore him. Uncle Larry hands
him
the basket of biscuits.
The food is good and everyone is hungry, except Uncle Larry. The
creaking
from the porch continues steady as a clock, and he begins to squirm in his
seat.
He only serves himself a piece of chicken and then looks down at his
plate.
"I'd better go check on her," he says quickly, starting to rise from
the
table.
"You stay right there," Mother warns, her voice sharp like Grandmom's.
She
stares Uncle Larry down over Grandmother's head, pausing to serve herself
lima
beans.
Uncle Larry makes a quiet laugh and sits down. He looks at everyone,
then
at Grandmother's head, and hesitates as he takes the mashed potatoes and
serves
himself. Grandpa watches him with a sad, bemused look as he picks up his
iced
tea and sips.
"Will you pass the butter?" Dad says to me. I pretend not to hear him
and
keep looking away.
Dad waits. "Did you hear me?" he says. I don't move. Grandpa passes
him
the butter.
We're quiet while we eat. The creaking continues. Uncle Larry stares
down at his plate and sighs. "I'd better go," he says.
A forkful of black eyed peas stops halfway to Mother's mouth.
"Larry," she
warns.
Uncle Larry doesn't look at her; he rises, drops his napkin on the
table
and leaves toward the porch.
Mother stares after him, lowering her fork, and Grandpa makes a sad
chuckle. Grandpa, Dad and I keep eating, our eyes down. The front
screened
door whines and slams shut.
"Go get him," Mother says.
Dad looks up from his plate at Grandpa, Mother, and then me. I look
away.
"Which one of us?" he says.
|
|
