Mother.
My father really disliked the telephone. I never saw him use it except in his office and rarely did he ever pick it up when he was home, but when he did, it always gave me a laugh, while causing surprise and confusion for the caller. You see, Dad didn’t waste time when it came to the phone, and if he was forced to answer it, he did so by simply stating, “Speak.” There was no greeting or pleasantries. Speak, and tell him what you want.
A telephone call to my home could prove to be quite frustrating because it was literally impossible to know who you were speaking to, and the choices were endless. When I was fifteen or so, I came running up from the lake to get fresh towels and picked up the ringing phone in the kitchen to hear Dad say, “Hello, Lorraine. Is your mother around?”
I tell him, “It’s not Lorraine.”
He says, “Lucy Lea?”
“No”
He gives it another go, trying to ascertain which one of his many daughters he is speaking with: “Rosemary?”
“No, Dad”
“Well, let’s see, Pollyannie?”
“Oh come on, Dad!”
Then with good humor tingeing his Southern drawl in sweet frustration, he gives up. ” I’m workin’ right now, so whoever the hell you are, would you please go and get your mother? I need to talk to her.”
Six: Sisters
Most of my family gathers at Mother and Dad's, for Sunday supper. One week in nineteen eighty-six while eating at the large indoor picnic table, we hear the front door slam, echoing up the vaulted foyer, and brace ourselves for my sweet sister Lorraine. She is as pretty as her name, feisty as the day is long, and there is a good, clear picture of her next to the words high strung in the dictionary.
"Mom? Mom is? Where are you?" Before anyone has time to answer, Lorraine is standing in front of us, all flustered.
Throwing a quick glance around the room for me, Lorraine then looks back at Mom and is all in a tizzy. Mother smiles, while encouraging the vent which is brewing behind my sister’s dark brown eyes. As if she needs any extra encouragement.
"This is insane! Oh my God! Are you serious? It's not funny. Tell me she is not doing this again, the second divorce isn't even final yet. Oh, Mom! Have you talked to her? Where is Dad?"
No, she is not finished.
"Not to mention, the order is messed up. It is all messed up! I thought we were supposed to get married in birth order one after the other, you know, like first Lucy then Ivey, then me, then Rosemary, but oh no. No. No. No! Our family order is Lucy, Ivey, Ivey, Ivey. This has got to stop. I don't even want to get married now, but if I did there would be no time because we are all tied up, going to Ivey's weddings! You need to talk to her!"
Lorraine continues, flipping her long chestnut hair with each wave of her hand, emoting like a cartoon character. We are so obviously sisters. But don't tell her that. It makes her mad.
After mother’s knee replacement, a few years back, Lorraine was drafted to run errands and do odd jobs for Mother. Lorraine decided to forgo the full makeup routine for waiting in line at the post office and picking up prescriptions.
Just before running into the grocery store, Lorraine looks in the mirror and decides a little makeup is needed. She dots both of her under eyes with whitish concealer. Carefully, she creates a crescent from one side to the opposite corner of each eye.
Typical for both of us sisters, in a heartbeat she gets distracted and forgets to blend it in. The white semi-circles dry exactly where she placed them, beneath her eyes. Then she proceeds to shop under the harsh fluorescent lights in the grocery store. As Lorraine walked the aisles of the grocery store she was getting aggravated by all the puzzled looks from strangers. It wasn't until she walked through Mom's front door, bags in hand, that she got a clue as to why the other shoppers were staring. As we all know, Mother does not mince her words.
"Lorraine, I appreciate your help so very much, but you look ridiculous. What are you wearing? Is that a shirt or a necklace? And go look in the mirror—there is something wrong with your makeup."
Last night Bond and I spent the evening at an exclusive club. Smoky lights morphed their colors, while masked silhouettes fuel the imagination, and sexy tunes play a steady beat. Shortly after arriving, Bond went to buy cigars, and I freshen up my kisser.
I pop a mint. Searching high and low through my bag, it seems I left my personal mirror at home. The way I figure it, I have been putting on makeup for well over thirty years, so I should be able to fix my lipstick in the dark without a mirror, no problem, and I go for it.
The dim club lighting makes it impossible to see much but I feel for my slim, rosy lip pencil, and find it in the bottom of my bag. Then as carefully as possible, I smooth the color along the rim of my lips, following the natural edges of my mouth. After lining them, I fill the middle with a shimmery gloss.
Three hours later I looked in the mirror after arriving home and turned to Bond while uttering in disbelief, and stare. What is wrong with him! I did not have a mirror all night, but he was looking right at me.
"What?" He says, made instantly defensive by the scowl in my eyes. So I stand and stare at him longer, because even in the bright clear lights of our kitchen, he still doesn’t see it! Turns out, I had carefully lined my lips with a brown eyebrow pencil.
I thought people were staring because I looked hot.
Wrong again.
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