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I Remember Mama

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My mother suffered from what I like to call connubial ennui. House cleaning,
laundry and especially my father just weren’t enough to hold her interest. What she
needed was a job, but my father refused to let her work. To her credit, she kept on
trying even though she knew it drove him crazy.

“They’re hiring at the Holiday Inn,” she announced one night at dinner. “I’m thinking
I could put in a few hours now that Susie’s at school.” My father slammed down his beer glass causing foam to fog his glasses.

“How many times do I have to say it Carmela? No wife of mine is going to work!”

“Do you have other wifes that want to work Daddy?” I asked not quite sure what I meant.

“Just be quiet Susannah and eat your supper.”

There just had to be life after ironing – if working was out of the question, what did a
restless housewife do in the 1960s? In my mother’s case, you shopped and fooled
around with the butcher along with other members of the handy, local working class.
This is how flirting, when I was growing up, became a contact sport.

We lived across the street from a firehouse that became a blue collar buffet for my
mother’s extra curricular activities. Their sleeping quarters lined up perfectly with our
living room window where she would lean out wearing a low cut blouse, binoculars in
hand, as if she were ringside at the Kentucky Derby. I’d skip in, dragging my Patty Play
Pal Doll, waiting to see if her boobies were going to fall out of her shirt.

“Mommy, what are you doing?”

“Washing windows.”

“Again?” Even at five I knew she looked awfully good to just be cleaning. I’m sure boredom was also the reason my mother drank, an activity I observed keenly from the age of two.

“Why do you drink so much Mommy?” I’d ask, competing with the sound of her
stainless steel cocktail shaker. “Because then I can make believe your father’s Clark
Gable.” I’d laugh having no idea who Clark Gable was or what she was talking about.
All I knew was, the stuff that looked like water in the tall, clear bottle made her a whole
lot more fun, until the day I found her passed out cold on the kitchen floor.

“Mommy, Mommy – wake up,” I said, whispering in her ear. “Why are you taking
a nap in the kitchen?” I ran around to the other ear in case that one wasn’t working.
“Mommy, is your bed wet? You can sleep on mine.” When she didn’t answer, I ran to
get Fluffy, our cat, who wasn’t very much help. When I asked Fluff what she thought, all
she did was yawn and lap up my mother’s drink that had spilled onto the floor. I then
decided she could be dead since she looked a little like my Uncle Danny did when he
was laid out at the Abriola Funeral Parlor.

My father was at work, my grandparents out, I didn’t know what to do. Who was left? I know, I can pray to the baby Jesus…maybe he’ll come and wake her up. I ran into the bathroom, peed first, then dropped down on my little knees to pray.

“Please don’t let my mommy be dead. I’ll be good – I won’t hide my spinach in my
pocket anymore or make fun of Nana. Please baby Jesus, help my Mommy not be
dead.” I heard my father’s van pull up in the driveway, so I ran outside.

“Daddy, I think Mommy’s dead,” I screamed, sobbing, “and it’s all my fault because
I told her I hated lime Jell-O. I didn’t mean it – I just like cherry better, that’s all.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, carrying me back upstairs.

“See, look,” I said, as we entered the kitchen. “she won’t wake up and
she looks like Uncle Danny, so she has to be dead.”

“The dead don’t snore Susannah,” he said, slapping my mother’s face a few times. “Carmela, wake up.”

“It’s mine – I saw it first,” she muttered, opening her eyes.

“You’re drunk,” my father said, “what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Dinner might be a little late.”

It’s truly amazing what one remembers.

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