Opposite the perfumes there were bath gels so I went along opening many, putting them to Grandma’s nose until she decided which one she liked. As she sniffed she pursed her lips close to the bottle. If I couldn’t be trusted to soap up I didn’t trust myself to choose.
What a finicky woman. On the twenty-third try, a hand lotion, she said, — This.
It didn’t smell like flowers; not candle wax or ocean water. Worst of the lot. It was dank. It smelled like dirt really. Hearth Scented Body Gel by Mennen.
— If you take one that’s too sweet, people will still smell you underneath. This one is strong, but not perfume. It will hide what you have done.
Flipping the plastic tube I squeezed too much on my hands. Rubbed them together until the green paste covered my palms and fingers. First I reached into my shirt to rub up my stomach. I put it on my neck and face then massaged it in long enough that the green color disappeared; only the scent remained. Man of the soil, that’s me.
There was a small glass case near the lotion end of the store. There was jewelry in it; the pieces were pretty but sure to have brief lives. On a few I could see the glue that had been used to affix red or purple stones to the gold-plated rings.
— How about a necklace? I said to Grandma. There was a fine thin one with an orange stone.
— I don’t wear, she said. She scratched behind one ear, gently.
And I realized she was right. Never bracelets, medallions, rope chain or earrings.
— How about a three-finger ring? I offered.
— Not anything.
— Are you allergic?
— I am not.
— Then let me get you one. You can wear it tonight.
I was about to call the man at the counter over to unlock the case, but she slapped my shoulder. I dropped my hand.
— You don’t trust my taste, I said.
— I don’t wear any, Grandma said firmly.
— Is it an African custom?
— African custom? You fool. I stopped wearing them for Isaac when he died.
— Did he wear a lot of jewelry?
— No.
— Was he allergic to jewelry?
— No.
— Then why jewelry?!
— I cannot be pretty since my dear son died.
We found Mom.
But it took two hours.
Sixty minutes of that wasted because Grandma wouldn’t let me ask after Mom in bars. After Grandma did let me Mom’s path lit right on up. Five of them had met her. Dick’s, Dell’s and the Doughboy. Happy Rabbit. Pretty Sue’s.
We had a snapshot of her taken last month, in a department store. Mom stood beside a mannequin at the Macy’s in Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. Both wore long coats with fur collars. Both were just trying them on. Mom’s head was back and she looked at the camera with a predatory gaze. Her tongue stuck half-an-inch from one corner of her mouth. My sister had taken the picture.
When I showed this photo to the bartenders they recognized Mom, but not by the name we gave. That’s your mother? each asked, laughed, smiled, winced then answered. She left here but was going to Dell’s. To the Doughboy. And so forth.
Until we got to the sixth bar, Right Not Left. Where the woman serving drinks hopped on one foot, saying, — She just left. Right out the back door. With an Indian.
— Southern Ute? I asked.
— From Uttar Pradesh.
We found her outside holding hands with an Indian guy who had a twiny mustache so thick he could have been a Bollywood porn star; a brown Harry Reems had his arm over her shoulder. The trunk of his car was open so I could see black plastic bags in there piled a foot high. I wondered what was in them; probably just groceries.
It’s true my mother had become magnetic. The Indian looked at her almost as intensely as Grandma and I did. He wouldn’t step more than five inches far. Without seeing her face I’d have thought this whole scene was criminal because he looked fifty, but Mom was a summery sixteen.
She wore tan capri pants to exhibit her calves. Her cotton long-sleeved jersey was vacuum-wrapped around her torso; this made her look sporty. Forget heels or even shoes, she wore plain green sneakers that reduced her feet to snow peas.
— You really won’t say, will you? He had one of those deep voices that make men who have them always need to be talking.
She said, — If I told you I was a bank robber you might turn me in.
— But first I’d let you tie me up at your hideout. He smiled, it wasn’t even lecherous.
Maybe the plastic bags had the dog figurines; why would she need them if not for me? To decorate a new home? They shut the trunk together; a move that looked cute no matter who the couple was. I stepped back to hide, but if Mom was indeed having another episode she wouldn’t recognize us even if I climbed right in their car.
— Doonay, she said to him. Doonay. I like your name, but it’s not the one your parents gave you, is it?
— Doonay is what everyone here calls me. It’s a nickname.
What if he was a serial killer; this is how that kind of things happens, yes? The scene could have come from Murder Makes Me Writhe or a thousand others. The overtly sexual woman in need of riding. Driven off by a stranger who dismembers. They were always doing that, the young women; being punished I mean.
— Hey, you can’t be angry at me, Doonay said lightly. We met two hours ago and you haven’t said your name at all.
— Mine? It’s like yours. Too hard to pronounce, she said. You just call me Yummy.
They made into the car. My fingers smelled like dirt; I’d put my hands to my face.
He drove a black Monte Carlo, a very fast attraction. He might have had the nitrous oxide cannister attachment in the trunk; it makes the car go even faster for short bursts.
Mom laughed with him; the window was down. Grandma and I had been very close to them, but I walked us even closer. Casually Mom looked out at us.
As we stared she showed surprise, but no recognition. Frightened by this ambling creature to her right, Mom rolled her window up halfway. She stopped when we didn’t attack her. Also Doonay was pulling out. After her shock passed she only gawked at us and started to laugh in an uncomfortable way, turning her whole body in the seat.
She looked back at us again. Doonay looked, too. Mom’s life before this moment had been erased. Unaware that she would ever or had ever done anyone wrong, my mother was like a newborn. My mother was innocent.
— I could go stop her, Grandma.
— You could not.
20
The Blue Ridge Theatre was splendid from all sides. Windows scrubbed and its lights on. With skinny young Marines on duty as ushers; they were nervous boys but the uniforms composed them. And toward the back of a large crowd of parents, siblings and friends was a couple; one standing, one sitting; they promenaded.
The man on his feet, washed and oiled, was me; the woman was Grandma in a wheelchair borrowed from the Hampton Inn. I thought the hotel would charge me extra, but as long as I was registered, apparently, I was trustworthy. Pushing my grandmother instead of carrying her on my back made me respectable. Normal. Which is all I hoped to be. Three different people held doors for us.
I wasn’t rancid anymore. Grandma wore a lumber-colored dress with a black cloche that was loose on her small head. Backstage Nabisase was wearing an orange gown and three brass bracelets on her left wrist. I had seen the outfit in the car trunk, but not on her. There were enough black girls in the contest that at least one of the backstage-beauticians would know how to do my sister’s hair.
We were happy. Grandma, Nabisase and even me.
Of course she would come back, maybe even get to Queens before us. Until that time there was relief. An unfortunate word to use when talking about the loss of a family member, but Mom wasn’t deceased, only departed.