“What about the cholesterol?” he would joke.
For the first couple of years, my mama and I would chat at commercial breaks about the show, butneverabout our lives.
Then, one Saturday, after the show had ended, she said casually, “Your Daddy died last night. Stroke.”
“Good riddance,” was all I could manage to say at first, before finally asking, “Are you okay?”
“Best night of sleep I’ve ever had,” she said.
I went home alone for Christmas that year to see her. John had to work, and we didn’t have much money. I was finally allowed back now that Trudy had moved out and Daddy was gone. First night home, I went searching for some comfort (Southern Comfort, that is), and I was shocked to discover the liquor cabinet—and Windex bottles—were empty. See, Mama used to pretend to clean the windows and bathrooms every single day. But I knew those Windex bottles were filled with vodka, and Mama was just trying to erase her life.
“How’d you finally give up drinking, Mama?” I asked.
“Just listen,” she said, cocking her head.
The old windows creaked in the wind. Birds chirped outside in the snow.
“I don’t need to silence your father’s demons anymore,” she continued. “His pain is no longer mine.”
“What do you do with all your spare time now that you used to spend washing the windows?”
“Why, you little sumbitch,” she said. “You always knew!”
She laughed so hard she spit up blood.
That’s when we knew the end of her show was near. I came home to stay with her the next fall ’til her finale.
First Saturday I was home, my Mama looked over at me and said, “We can finally watch the showtogether.”
My God, my mama was strong. Gave up drinking. Fought cancer. Refused to leave her home. I got all that fire, too, deep inside. I just wish she’d used an ounce of that strength to protect me when I needed it most.
One Saturday when we sat down to watchThe Golden Girls, Mama finally asked what my life had been like after I’d been kicked out of the house after being discovered taking a literal roll in the hay in the barn with a local farm boy who’d been hired to bale. I didn’t pull any punches. I told her I hitchhiked my way across the country to a place I’d heard of called Palm Springs. I told her what I had to do to survive. I told her I’d nearly died many times because of her. Told her I wanted to die many times because of her. Slept in a shelter. Slept around. Sneaked into bars. Finally met an old queen everyone called Madame Q who told me I’d be dead in a year if I continued living the way I was.
“Murder or AIDS, you pick,” he’d told me, sipping a Rose Kennedy.
He let me stay in his casita for free, helped me get my GED and a job. I thought he wanted to sleep with me. One day, I walked into his bedroom shirtless and asked how I could pay him back.
“Oh, my dear, I don’t eat chicken,” he said with a laugh. “I was just like you when I was young. Too many of us have the same sad story. Kicked out. Unwanted. Unloved. It’s not fair, but life never is, straight or gay. Want to pay me back? Love yourself. Be good to yourself. Be proud of who you are. Don’t walk around in shame. Find your community. And give back to your community when they need it most, and—believe me—they will always need it. When you go to a bar, seek out a friend, not a fuck buddy. Now, shoo. And eat a burger and some fries.”
My mother didn’t cry or apologize. She just listened.
“Palm Springs,” she finally said. “Your father called it the land of fruits and nuts.”
“That’s not funny, Mama. No child should ever endure what I did,” I said, looking her right in the eye. “You had the power to stop it, and you didn’t do a thing about it. And you will face God with that decision. And if He tells you that you did the right thing, well, then, I’ll be on a different cloud watchingThe Golden Girls.”
“Your Great-Aunt Dizzy sent me a bracelet from Palm Springs years ago when she vacationed there.” That was her response to me. Didn’t protest or deny a thing. “Prettiest thing I ever saw. She told me it was the color of their sunsets over the mountain.”
When she looked at me, I saw one tear.
One tear.
I got my Mama’s one and only tear in life. God, I’m just like her.
“Ssshh!” she then said when the theme music started. “It’s on!”
My mother’s death rattle reared up every time Dorothy landed a zinger.
“You’re just like her,” my mom would say without looking over, jamming a bent finger toward the television. “Damn spitfire.”
