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Legacy, After a Fashion

Cheryl Hicks

    Mamma has always had a love for other people’s possessions. When the Glaspies two houses down bought a Thunderbird, she had to have one, too. (It was ice blue and just unconventional enough to be a little naughty.) And when Aunt Bessa Lee died and the cousins were rifling through her stuff, Mamma became an avid collector of carnival glass, not because she liked its iridescent sheen, but because the cousins did.
    For a strong woman, she was constantly swayed by the desires of others. Or maybe she just wanted to belong. Unsure of how to satisfy, or perhaps even how to identify, her own needs, she got by the best way she knew how—by borrowing. Even her personality seems to have been a loaner. It’s as though when identities were handed out, she copied hers down and used it, like a detailed set of stage directions. Her margins were overflowing with braced instructions such as: [followed by a reproving silence], [shuddering with revulsion], and [as though she has lost her reason]. She was flexible and a quick study, so this technique would work for a while. But then a better set of personal guidelines or a new method of acting would come along, and she’d turn her back on her old characteristics.
    She was always in a hurry, almost comically eager to cast off the old Glenda and don the new whoever. In effect, she became a human palimpsest on which her former self was partially rubbed away, but still visible to the most observant. Especially if you could ever sneak up behind her without her knowing you were there. As the quiet, middle child in a family of five, I was often able to blend into the background and just watch. Sometimes I could tell she had nearly reached her expiration date and was about to become a different entity. Sometimes I had no idea what she was up to.
    The year before I started school, I remember watching her one Tuesday morning from the kitchen table where I had parked myself with books and crayons to wait for the milkman. I always sat there and waited for him to appear, waited for the light unanswered rap on the door that would announce the entrance of the blond man all in white, rattling through the back entrance with bottles of bright future in their no nonsense cages.
    “Well, good morning, pretty lady!”
    No answer but the almost silent scuff of a wax color.
    On to the refrigerator he would stride like a master magician never needing an assistant. There, undaunted by the lack of applause, he would decide how many bottles to leave and which ones deserved the top shelf. And then [as though obviously unrehearsed] Mamma would suddenly and unexpectedly be there, caught of course, unaware in her not-so-terrible black gown.
    There was no question of them speaking. An accomplished performer herself, she would glide barefoot, stage left, brushing back sleepy auburn hair, to remove a tablet-shaped roast from the freezer and toss its thudding white mass into the sink.
    Seemingly unaware that she was oozing music, she broadcast around the clock, a regular symphony of contraries. Too full-blown to be a princess, too small to be a queen, she was an indrawn breath, a glamorous vulture with wild blue eyes under spiked lashes. In other words, she was a showstopper. She would venture about with her chin down, eyes up, and her creamy cheeks stained faint, fairy tale blush, while her well-trained waist, rounded knees and hips, all testified to childbirth, implying experience and somehow, conversely, her lack of it. With hair too long to be gamine and lips too full to be still, she was so cool, so secure in her indifferent potential.
    And men like the milkman lapped up her music like cream. Men like him and unlike. Men of all kinds.
    And so it was I noted that on Tuesday of each week, the magic milkman loaned his eyes to her silent performance, always playing his part with just the right mixture of menace and nonchalance, watching her dance across the floor, both half pretending to be lashed by desire and only half-heartedly offering more than either he or she really hoped to satisfy.
     And each week as though by coincidence, I would be there [seemingly unaware] at my observation post, where barely moving my head and scarcely raising my eyes, I would look up from my uncolored book, at my penciled in future, and sigh.
    Of course, reruns of Mamma’s performance in what I came to think of as the “Milkman Show” came to a screeching halt after a few weeks, as soon as she learned that he was in fact not having a fling with Mrs. Johnson. That was about the same time Mamma quit spending time at home and started managing the real estate offices of Dominic Delgado.
    I am not sure why or how she got that job, but somewhere in her amalgamation of personalities, she seems to have stored the facsimile of a receptionist-slash-typist-slash-whatever it is secretaries are supposed to be. She preferred to refer to herself, however, as the office manager. I had a suspicion that what she really did was file her nails a lot, cross her legs meaningfully, and look generally appealing.
    Of course, this new job required subtle changes in her wardrobe and habits. She could never have succeeded in her new position if she had continued to present herself as a fashionably bored housewife who slept until ten and didn’t get dressed until noon. I saw her briefly each morning, about the time Romper Room started, as she swooped past leaving a scent trail of Chanel No. 5, gathering her gloves, handbag and keys, before exiting the back door to the garage.
    Her wardrobe was new. And monochromatic. Some days it was off-white. Some days stark black. And some days (this was my personal favorite) lipstick red. This meant that her figure flattering, short-jacketed dresses, high-heeled pointy pumps and mandatory multiple accessories were all the same color. And I’m pretty sure she changed her hair color slightly. It was so dark that when the sun hit it, the highlights were midnight blue. The changes in hair color and style of dress were subtle, but she was as deliberate and as focused as a wavelength when she set her sights on something.
    She had never been the hug-and-kiss-goodbye type of mom, and since the housekeeper took care of my creature comforts, I was a little relieved each day when she went swishing on her way and left me to my routine. Most of my preschool mornings were spent with Captains Krunch and Kangaroo. I didn’t connect with others easily, and like an undiscovered planet with no known satellites, I kept to myself whenever possible. I’m sure my parents found me to be perverse and strangely stoic. I, however, thought of myself as brilliantly transparent, like a rare jewel meant to be viewed only through protective glass.
    I’m not sure when my fascination with things Indian began. I do know that the first time I saw a photo of the Taj Mahal, I was amazed by its onion-shaped dome and surrounding minarets, and I was morbidly intrigued by the idea of it being a mausoleum. I admit I had a secret longing to be exotic. And with blond hair, pale skin and water colored eyes, I was about as far from exotic as a child could be. Not one to be thwarted by the circumstances of my heritage, however, it was not uncommon for me to wrap myself in a homemade sari. Wrapped in the luxury of red and gold drapery fabric, I would glide about the house as though only tangentially tacked to reality. And sometimes with a less than semi-precious plastic stone pasted tentatively to the center of my forehead, dead center, I would stand on my head, propped against the family room wall for stability, with my sari rubber-banded to my ankles for security, and to keep the billows from coming between me and the constant changes on the TV screen.
    To the casual observer taking in my inverted stance, from pointed toes above to dotted brow below, I must have seemed like a bizarre exclamation mark. In my own way, I was developing my own form of self-discipline and devotedly practicing the art of making a statement without opening my mouth.
    But even the dependability of a routine doesn’t always offer adequate protection. Propped upside down in my weird pursuit of vertical realignment, I can’t say I remember any interruptions of my TV shows that specific Friday in late November, but with most of the things we claim to remember, what we really recall is the retelling of the tale in years to come. I know the cumulative replay of J.F.K.’s brutal slaying marked me. The slow motion pictures of a grown man being tossed violently to then fro by invisible forces, and the images of a dark-haired wife and confused children held captive in the margins of history as a casket was ceremoniously paraded past.
    Maybe I shouldn’t have been left alone, standing on my head, watching such events unfold. Such experiences leave lasting impressions. Even now, when I see the Zapruder film start to unwind, I automatically take on the posture of a dumbfounded puppy, head slightly tipped to the side, as though my body is angling involuntarily toward inversion, as though I am physically trying to understand the deepest symbolism imbedded in such seemingly senseless acts.
    Maybe being a witness is just a step in the loss of innocence, a necessary step in discovering how truly topsy-turvy life can become. I have learned that comprehension can take years to develop, and that it is not necessarily inevitable, unlike disappointment and compression of the spine...
    Those preschool years, before I was shuttled off to the safety of public school, were often tinged with mysteries and things I simply didn’t understand. For example, I vaguely remember once that spring when two agents from the F.B.I. came to live with us. All of our phones disappeared, except the one in my mother’s room, and it was attached to a large tan recording device of some kind. I didn’t really know what was going on, only that I was no longer allowed to answer the phone.
    I thought it had something to do with her job. I had heard my father talking about Delgado’s “questionable business affiliations” and his Italian heritage, kidding her that she would have to quit work if her boss started expecting her to “go to the mattresses....” But the jokes ended abruptly with the arrival of our houseguests.
    At first, Mamma seemed disoriented, like she didn’t know what to do, or who to be. She no longer dressed up and left each day. And she couldn’t really lounge about in the layered clouds of her chiffon peignoirs. But she was resilient, and after a brief exploratory period, settled on a pretty good impersonation of Mary Tyler Moore, complete with a short pageboy, black turtleneck, flats, and slim charcoal slacks. (I attributed her wardrobe’s lack of color to the fact that the Dick Van Dyke Show was also in black and white.) It was during this time of real-life crime drama that the maid quit. But that didn’t deter Mamma. After all, if Laura Petrie could manage without help....
    I’m still not sure how the investigation resolved itself. I don’t remember hearing that a meeting had been arranged between Mamma and Delgado, but I heard about it later that week. And about how the F.B.I. agents hid in the back seat of her car that Friday evening. And how they jumped out and nabbed the menacing man on a dark and deserted back road. I never heard why, or what they did to him. But I was sure life was somehow about to be different. Again.
    It didn’t take Mamma long to rebound. By the following Monday, she had bleached her hair blond (probably having convinced herself that it was a necessary step in acquiring a new identity) and darkened the beauty mark beside her lip, which only days before she had struggled to obscure. Since she had gained almost celebrity status in the neighborhood, she was always going off somewhere for coffee or lunch, undoubtedly giving each new audience a vivid recounting of the recent dangerous events.
    Of course, being around all of those new people was bound to stir to life the fires of longing within her. No matter how exciting, the status quo of our daily lives was a faintly burning ember in contrast to the blaze of glory that loomed like a bright promise just over the horizon. Change, whether drastic or almost undetectable, was usually signaled by a period of pouting on Mamma’s part, a warning that something or someone was about to be revamped. During these times of imminent transformation, I would instinctively maintain a low profile, watching the process from a safe distance, and hope the changes would be ones that would fulfill my own fantasies. I would have welcomed a new game room, a pool, or a vacation to Disney Land. But instead we got new carpet in the den, and a more modern dinette set. This was somehow connected with the fact that my brother had joined the Cub Scouts and Mamma had been designated the Den Mother.
    Those who didn’t know Mamma well might think she was self-absorbed and maybe even cold. But I have memories of quiet times when just the two of us would snuggle on the sofa in the family room. It was usually in the evening after dinner, after baths, before bed. And though the television was always on, it was mostly background noise. She never offered a bedtime story, but instead would talk to me just above a whisper about what my life would be like someday. The whole time she talked, she gently brushed my hair back from my face again and again, tucking it behind my ear over and over as though silently reinforcing the predictions and possibilities she was sharing with me.
    Life with Mamma revolved around potential. I went to sleep each night firmly believing I could be a doctor, an artist, or the commander of a space station. More importantly, I learned how to be resilient, self-sufficient, and how to survive the disappointments that would pepper my life.
    These times with Mamma were special, maybe in part because I knew they were fleeting. I always knew that the next day I would be left on my own again, tethered loosely to a new housekeeper. Left alone to stand on my head, eat my midmorning cereal snack, and watch a vertically inverted Jack LaLane go through his daily exercise routine. Left alone to connect numbered dots, practice my blossoming reading skills, and wait for a glimpse into the mystery of the milkman. Left alone on my swing in the backyard, belting out “Red Roses for a Blue Lady,” as I pumped my legs melodramatically to a trapeze beat. Left alone to imagine a future where I could be anything, or anyone, anywhere I might want to be.

(Previously published in The Best of the First Line and The Best of the First Line: Editors’ Picks 2002-2006)

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