give me strength, confidence, as if she can't hit me. This is after she has taken a job at the beauty parlor, and instead of her nursing whites, she wears fashionable clothes to work–like the pedal pushers and turquoise blouse she is wearing now. These clothes show off her figure. I hate them.
"I am taking these away, " she yells, grabbing the cigarettes. And you are not going out, mister!"
"I don't care!" I glare at her. "And why do you have to dress like that?
You make me sick!"
"I what?" Now she is on me, slapping my face. "I WHAT? I make you"-shpl-"sick? I make"-shpl-"you SICK? "slap!–"Is that what you"-slap!- "said?"-slap, slap!–"Is it? Is that what you THINK OF ME?"
"No! No!" I yell. "Stop it!"
I cover my head and duck away. I run down the stairs and out the garage. I stay away until well past dark, When I finally come home, her bedroom door is closed and I think I hear her crying. I go to my room. The cigarettes are still there. I light one up and start crying myself.
Embarrassed Children
ROSE HAD HER HEAD TIPPED BACK in the sink, and my mother was gently spraying her with water from a faucet attachment. Apparently, they had a whole routine worked out. They propped pillows and towels until Rose's head wasjust so, and my mother could run her free hand through Rose's wet hair.
"Is that warm enough, hon? " my mother said.
"Oooh, yes, dear. It's fine. " Rose closed her eyes. "You know, Charley, your mother has been doing my hair since I was a much younger woman. "
"You're young at heart, Rose," my mother said. "That's the only part. "
They laughed.
"When I went to the beauty parlor, I would only ask for Posey. If Posey wasn't there, I would come back the next day. 'Don't you want someone else?' they'd say. But I said, 'Nobody touches me but Posey.'
"
"You're sweet, Rose," my mother said. "But the other girls were good.
"
"Oh, dear, hush. Let me brag. Your mother, Charley, always made time for me. And once it got too hard for me to go to the beauty parlor, she came to my house, every week.”
She tapped her shaky fingers on my mother's forearm. "Thank you, dear, for that."
"You're welcome, Rose."
"Such a beauty you were, too. "
I watched my mother smile. How could she be so proud of washing someone's hair in a sink?
"You should see Charley's little girl, Rose," my mother said. "Talk about a beauty. She's a little heartbreaker."
"Is that so? What's her name?"
"Maria. Isn't she a heartbreaker, Charley?"
How could I answer that? The last time they had seen each other was the day my mother died, eight years earlier. Maria was still a teenager. How could I tell her what had happened since? That I had fallen out of my daughter's life? That she had a new last name? That I had sunk so low I had been banished from her wedding? She used to love me, she honestly did. She used to run at me when I came home from work, her arms raised, yelling, "Daddy, pick me up!” What happened?
"Maria is ashamed of me," I finally mumbled. "Don't be silly," my mother said.
She looked over at me and rubbed shampoo between her palms. I lowered my head. I wanted a drink in the worst way.
I could feel her eyes. I could hear her fingers kneading Rose's hair. Of all the things I felt disgrace about in, front of my mother, being a lousy father was the worst.
"You know something, Rose? " she suddenly said. "Charley never let me cut his hair. Can you believe that? He insisted on going to a barbershop. "
"Why, dear? "
"Oh, you know. They get to an age and it's 'Get away, Mom, get away.'
"
"Children get embarrassed by their parents," Rose said. "Children get embarrassed by their parents," my mother repeated.
It was true, as a teenager, I had pushed my mother away. I refused to sit next to her at movies. I squirmed from her kisses. I was uncomfortable with her womanly figure and I was angry that she was the only divorced woman around. I wanted her to behave like the other mothers, wearing housedresses, making scrapbooks,
"I am taking these away, " she yells, grabbing the cigarettes. And you are not going out, mister!"
"I don't care!" I glare at her. "And why do you have to dress like that?
You make me sick!"
"I what?" Now she is on me, slapping my face. "I WHAT? I make you"-shpl-"sick? I make"-shpl-"you SICK? "slap!–"Is that what you"-slap!- "said?"-slap, slap!–"Is it? Is that what you THINK OF ME?"
"No! No!" I yell. "Stop it!"
I cover my head and duck away. I run down the stairs and out the garage. I stay away until well past dark, When I finally come home, her bedroom door is closed and I think I hear her crying. I go to my room. The cigarettes are still there. I light one up and start crying myself.
Embarrassed Children
ROSE HAD HER HEAD TIPPED BACK in the sink, and my mother was gently spraying her with water from a faucet attachment. Apparently, they had a whole routine worked out. They propped pillows and towels until Rose's head wasjust so, and my mother could run her free hand through Rose's wet hair.
"Is that warm enough, hon? " my mother said.
"Oooh, yes, dear. It's fine. " Rose closed her eyes. "You know, Charley, your mother has been doing my hair since I was a much younger woman. "
"You're young at heart, Rose," my mother said. "That's the only part. "
They laughed.
"When I went to the beauty parlor, I would only ask for Posey. If Posey wasn't there, I would come back the next day. 'Don't you want someone else?' they'd say. But I said, 'Nobody touches me but Posey.'
"
"You're sweet, Rose," my mother said. "But the other girls were good.
"
"Oh, dear, hush. Let me brag. Your mother, Charley, always made time for me. And once it got too hard for me to go to the beauty parlor, she came to my house, every week.”
She tapped her shaky fingers on my mother's forearm. "Thank you, dear, for that."
"You're welcome, Rose."
"Such a beauty you were, too. "
I watched my mother smile. How could she be so proud of washing someone's hair in a sink?
"You should see Charley's little girl, Rose," my mother said. "Talk about a beauty. She's a little heartbreaker."
"Is that so? What's her name?"
"Maria. Isn't she a heartbreaker, Charley?"
How could I answer that? The last time they had seen each other was the day my mother died, eight years earlier. Maria was still a teenager. How could I tell her what had happened since? That I had fallen out of my daughter's life? That she had a new last name? That I had sunk so low I had been banished from her wedding? She used to love me, she honestly did. She used to run at me when I came home from work, her arms raised, yelling, "Daddy, pick me up!” What happened?
"Maria is ashamed of me," I finally mumbled. "Don't be silly," my mother said.
She looked over at me and rubbed shampoo between her palms. I lowered my head. I wanted a drink in the worst way.
I could feel her eyes. I could hear her fingers kneading Rose's hair. Of all the things I felt disgrace about in, front of my mother, being a lousy father was the worst.
"You know something, Rose? " she suddenly said. "Charley never let me cut his hair. Can you believe that? He insisted on going to a barbershop. "
"Why, dear? "
"Oh, you know. They get to an age and it's 'Get away, Mom, get away.'
"
"Children get embarrassed by their parents," Rose said. "Children get embarrassed by their parents," my mother repeated.
It was true, as a teenager, I had pushed my mother away. I refused to sit next to her at movies. I squirmed from her kisses. I was uncomfortable with her womanly figure and I was angry that she was the only divorced woman around. I wanted her to behave like the other mothers, wearing housedresses, making scrapbooks,
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