My Mother the Cheerleader (2 page)

M
ost of the men I observed in the Ninth Ward walked with just the slightest limp of defeat, as if the heat and their limited prospects had permanently hobbled them. Right away I could tell there was something different about this one. Something about the easy confidence of his stride, the way his arms dangled free, like he was unusually comfortable in his own skin and with the world in general.

He shut the front door of the Chevy with a friendly little shove, like he was patting an old friend on the back, and then he stretched his arms
up over his head. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and let the sun fall on his face, then rolled his neck like he was trying to work out some kinks.

He wore beige chinos, a blue cotton shirt, and brown lace-up shoes, not flashy by any stretch, but not too plain either. In those first moments I probably would have put his age somewhere north of my mother's, late forties or maybe fifty. Neat furrows ran through his dark-brown hair, but it was his eyes that really gave me pause. They were sharp blue and rimmed by crow's-feet that gave him a genial expression even though he wasn't smiling.

His Chevy was practical but sporty. The chrome trim showed he possessed a sense of style. He opened the trunk and pulled out a cloth suitcase and a worn leather briefcase. As he moved toward the house, I instinctively patted down my ratty old capri pants and white button-down shirt, trying to will my hands into a hot press. He knocked on the door and stepped inside. I held back a second, watching from a distance. He looked up the staircase.

“Hello? Hello?”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Yes, sir?”

He smiled as I approached.

“You're the innkeeper?”

“Among other things.”

“I'm looking for a room to rent. You have anything available?”

I tried to catch a whiff of his accent. He didn't sound like a Yankee. His voice carried traces of a rounded Southern lilt, but not a full-blown Louisiana drawl.

“Are you a reporter?”

He looked at me funny and replied, “Are you?”

“No.”

“Well, neither am I,” he said.

“Good. My mother doesn't allow reporters. Stir up too much trouble.”

“Probably a smart policy, then.”

I hesitated before asking the next requisite question, because it always embarrassed me to ask. But then I asked, because if I didn't and it turned out to be the case, I'd catch hell from my mother.

“Are you with the FBI?”

He laughed hard at that one and replied, “Are you?”

“No.”

“Well, neither am I,” he said. “But between the two of us, I'd say you'd be the more likely candidate, given your inclination toward interrogating people.”

I blushed. “I don't like to ask, but my mother doesn't want any trouble and we've gotta be careful these days.”

“I'm a visitor. Visiting family. My brother and his family live on St. Claude, not too far from here.”

“Are you from New Orleans?”

“Originally, but I haven't been back in quite a long stretch of years.”

“How many days will you be needing the room?”

“Three, maybe four.”

“It's $2.50 per night, not including meals.”

“That sounds fine.”

“Breakfast is fifty cents extra. Dinner's available on request.”

“I think I'll just start with the room before I order my entrée, if that's all right?”

I giggled.

“Do you have any bags you need help with?” I asked.

“Just these,” he said, lifting his bags. “And I think I can manage.”

He gestured at my book. “How do you think things will wind up for Jane at Thornfield?”

“Huh?”

“Jane Eyre,” he said, nodding at the book.

“Oh, I've already read it twice. So I know what's going to happen.”

“Pretty advanced stuff for a girl your age.”

“My mother said I was reading headlines from
The Times-Picayune
when I was two and a half.” As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I regretted saying them. I didn't want to appear to be bragging.

“Good that you moved on to literature. The news can be fairly depressing.”

“The room's right up here.”

I led him to the big room on the second floor at
the front of the house, overlooking Desire. It wasn't much, but it was the best room we had.

“You've got towels in the closet. And the privy's just down the hall on your left.”

He walked to the window and looked out. He breathed in the air, as if he were trying to capture something in his nose that was just out of reach.

“I'm going to need the money for the first night up front.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, fishing his wallet from his back pocket. He counted out three dollars. “Consider the fifty cents a down payment on some eggs.”

I tucked the money into my back pocket.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Well, it'd be good to know my innkeeper's name.”

“Louise. Louise Collins.”

“Morgan Miller,” he said, extending his hand. I was just starting to enjoy the feel of his warm firm grip when I heard the first ring of the bell from upstairs. My face and heart sank. The bell rang again, more insistent. And again.

“I get the impression that bell is ringing for you.”

“Duty calls,” I said.

The ringing continued to sting my ears as I exited the room.

My mind raced as I climbed to the third floor. Who was Morgan Miller? He seemed completely unlike any man who had ever stayed with us. I wanted to know everything about him.

When I reached his room, Mr. Landroux angrily shook the bell like he was wringing a chicken's neck. I noticed with sharp relief that the bedpan was empty and resting on his nightstand. Then my mind froze as I realized he might've soiled the bed outright. It had happened before.

“It's about time!” he said as I entered. “I've gotta get to Louisville!”

“Louisville?”

“A scout from da Red Sox called my pa and said dey were interested. Giving me a contract with deir Triple A club for da rest of da season as long as I can pay my own way to Louisville.”

Charlotte used to call Mr. Landroux “a little off
his nut,” which never made a lick of sense to me, but it sounded funny whenever she said it. Is anyone ever “on their nut”? My mother called these episodes in which he retreated into his past “spells.” The more he embraced the past, the more distant the present became. He frequently forgot our names and more and more often referred to Charlotte and me as Mammy and Four Eyes respectively.

“I need to get up da money for my bus fare to Kentucky.”

“Mr. Landroux, it's me, Louise. You're not living with your pa anymore. You're in my mama's rooming house in New Orleans.” Whenever these spells took hold, Charlotte recommended that we keep reminding him of the most basic elements of his present-day life to try and coax him out of the past. “Your son, Dennis, brought you here to live with us.”

“Don't you see what kind of opportunity dis might be? Dey've got no hitters on da big club.”

“Mr. Landroux, it's 1960…”

He picked up the bedpan and threw it at me.
I ducked and it clattered against the back wall. He used his arms to maneuver himself out of bed.

“Please, Mr. Landroux…”

I tried to pin him down, but it was too late. Despite his failing health, he still had some power in his upper body when he got his anger up. He twisted himself out of bed and landed on the floor with a thud.

“Now I'm never gonna make da bus,” he wailed.

“It's 1960, Mr. Landroux. Please…”

I attempted to lift him up, but his resistance made it impossible. Mr. Landroux's face reddened as he fought me off. Thick veins bulged from his neck under the strain. My nose pressed against his back as I tried to lift him. He smelled stale, like the inside of a musty old steamer trunk.

Suddenly I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder and turned to see Morgan Miller. He gestured for me to step aside.

“Steady there, old-timer,” Morgan said.

Mr. Landroux attempted to slap him away, but Morgan grasped him firmly under both armpits and
gingerly lifted him off the ground. Mr. Landroux writhed in his grasp and even landed a light slap across Morgan's face as he placed him back on the bed. Mr. Landroux continued to fight, but Morgan held him down, firmly pinning his arms and shoulders.

“Get your hands offa me!”

“Just calm down now,” Morgan said.

Finally, some of the energy seemed to drain out of Mr. Landroux and he stopped flailing and just stared hard at Morgan, his eyes all wild and angry.

“Here you go,” Morgan said. “Let's just simmer down, okay?”

“Simmer down? How am I ever going to show dem Cardinals what a mistake dey made if I don't get down to Louisville?”

“The St. Louis Cardinals?”

“Yes, dem goddamn St. Louis Cardinals. Is dere another one?”

“So you hate the Cardinals?” Morgan asked. “Well then, you'll be pleased to know they took a good whoopin' today.”

“Really?” Mr. Landroux replied, relaxing enough
so that Morgan could release his grip.

“Thirteen to two, Chicago,” Morgan answered, stepping back and straightening his shirt.

“Hot damn.”

“Third loss in a row.”

“I knew dey were due for a skid.”

“Not only that,” Morgan added, “Stan Musial contracted a parasite and may have to miss the rest of the season.”

“Musial may miss da rest of da season?”

“That's right.”

“Dat's the best news I've had all week.”

“How about a glass of water?” Morgan offered.

“Dat would suit me fine.”

I quickly poured a glass and handed it to Mr. Landroux. He took a sip, which seemed to snap him back to himself a bit.

“I think I need to rest a spell, Four Eyes,” he said to me, placing the glass on his nightstand.

“If you need anything,” I said, nodding, “just ring the bell.”

Morgan and I exited the room, shutting the
door. Once we were in the hall, I turned to him.

“I could've handled that,” I said, thrilled and embarrassed.

“I know.”

“But thank you.”

“Don't mention it.” He winked. “I'm a Giants fan.”

I laughed.

“Any chance of scaring up a glass of lemonade?”

R
ain comes fast, hard, and often in New Orleans. And rain it did as Morgan and I made our way back downstairs. There was no prelude: The wind and rain arrived together, sweeping in against the roof and windows like a bag of marbles dropping against a tile floor. We both stutter-stepped at the sound and laughed.

“I almost forgot how much the rain can take you by surprise down here,” he said. “Where I live, the rain can practically come and go without anyone even noticing.”

We continued down.

“Where do you live?”

“New York City. Manhattan, to be specific.”

“I always wanted to go to New York.” I searched for something clever to say but drew a blank. The best I could come up with was “It sure looks like something.”

Ugh. I wanted everything I said to be interesting or provocative. I cursed myself for being so dull. Dull, dull,
dull
.

“It
is
something,” he replied, “but sometimes I'm not sure what.”

Just before we reached the kitchen, I heard her voice.

“Louise!…Louise!”

I entered the kitchen to find my mother drying her hair with a small dish towel. The rain had flattened her hair and soaked through her red pineapple-print dress.

“Louise, honey, could you run up and get your mother a proper towel before I flood the whole downstairs?”

She noticed Morgan standing behind me and straightened up.

“Oh, excuse me, sir. Louise, why on God's green Earth did you not tell me we had a guest? Please forgive my daughter's rudeness, Mr….?”

“Morgan Miller.” He stepped forward and shook her hand.

“Charmed,” she said, holding his grip for an extra moment.

“And let me assure you, your daughter has been a wonderful and very professional hostess.”

A miniature sun glowed inside me.

“Yes, she is quite a child.”

I hated her at that moment for calling me a child.

“I'm Pauline Collins,” she continued. “Welcome.”

The moisture from the rain made the dress cling to the contours of my mother's curvaceous figure. I noticed Morgan's glance quickly travel up and down her body, then just as quickly return to her face. She flashed a grin.

If I could've asked the Lord for one miracle at that very moment, it would've been to sprout woman-size breasts on the spot. Not even the most desperate adolescent boy would be caught staring at my washboard.

“Will you be staying with us?”

“Just for a few days.”

“He's visiting relatives,” I chimed in, desperate to prove that I knew things about him that she didn't. “He grew up here.”

“How lovely—you're a native.”

“I was just going to get Mr. Miller some lemonade.”

“What a charming idea,” she said. “Why don't you fetch us both a glass after you get my towel, while I show Mr. Miller the Music Hall.”

With that she took Morgan by the arm and left me alone in the kitchen. The blood rushed up my neck and into my face. The thought of my mother and Morgan in the Music Hall made me tingle with outrage. I didn't know much about Morgan Miller at that point, but I did know that he was handsome,
kind, and witty, and he lived in New York City. That was more than enough for me. All my instincts made me want to do whatever I could to keep my mother away from him.

I entered the Music Hall carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade, three glasses, and a towel, trying to look poised and professional. I carefully placed the tray on a side table. My mother stood by the piano, spinning one of her repertoire of dubious family legends. She almost always greeted a new guest with a story about the origins of the piano.

“This piano has been in the family since before the Civil War. According to family lore, my great-granddaddy used to play ‘Dixie' for the soldiers as they marched off to join the fight. Many of those boys who came back used to seek out my great-granddaddy to tell him that the memories of his sweet melodies helped get them through the worst battles—Gettysburg, Antietam, Bull Run…”

I rolled my eyes, thinking, She's on her own
bull run
right now, wishing I could say it out loud.
I didn't know very much about my family history. Most of what I knew came from Charlotte Dupree, not my mother. According to Charlotte, my mother's grandparents arrived in New Orleans from Ireland at the turn of the century, a good thirty-plus years after the war had ended. She varied the story of the piano depending on the audience. Sometimes it came from her grandfather's burlesque house. Sometimes it was a gift from a member of the French aristocracy who gave it to her after staying at Rooms on Desire. I believe she gave it the Civil War spin this time around because it had the greatest historical depth and she sensed Morgan had an education.

“I've always been a great believer in the healing power of music,” she continued.

“I'm a music lover myself.”

“Please tell me you like Peggy Lee.”

“Why sure,” he said. “She's a very fine vocalist.”

“I just love, love, love Peggy Lee. We share a birthday. May twenty-sixth—I won't tell you the year. I've always felt that we were kindred spirits,
she and I. Both being blond and both being born on May twenty-sixth. Everyone will tell you: I'm a real nut when it comes to music. Radio's almost always on in here.”

“I'm a big fan of the Weavers. Ever listen to them?”

“‘Goodnight Irene'! That one's a beauty. I'm not sure how partial I am to the rest of their stuff. It's a little too folky for me. I mean, I don't know why anyone would want to sing about having a hammer and hammering in the morning and in the evening and all that. Never made much sense to me at all. I mean, who in their right mind likes to hammer all day?”

Morgan chuckled, charmed. I handed my mother a towel.

“Why, thank you, dear,” she said, “but I'm almost completely dry.”

She dabbed her forehead once and handed it back.

I poured three glasses of lemonade.

“I hope you'll be joining us for dinner, Mr.
Miller. I'm known far and wide for my paneed chicken and creamy garlic greens.”

Of course, she meant to say that she was known far and wide for Charlotte's paneed chicken and creamy garlic greens.

“Well, I'm planning to drop in on my brother and his family this afternoon,” he said. “But they don't know I'm coming, so maybe it'd be a good idea to have dinner plans.”

“Wonderful,” my mother said. Then she noticed me taking a seat on the edge of the couch.

“Aren't you meeting your little friend Jez Robidoux this afternoon?” she asked.

“No,” I replied flatly.

“Well then, it's probably a good time for you to check the larder to see what ingredients we need to pick up for tonight.”

Reluctantly, I slunk off to the kitchen. Once inside, I pressed my ear hard up against the door.

“When was the last time you visited New Orleans?” she asked him.

“It's been more than twenty years.”

“Twenty years! Why, you must hardly recognize the place.”

“Hasn't changed much, from what I can tell so far.”

“Well, if you'd like me to show you around…”

“I might take you up on that,” he said. “But right now I think I'm gonna try to catch up with my brother.”

“Of course. I usually serve dinner around seven.”

“That suits me fine.”

I heard them rise and move to the door.

I reacted quickly, bolting out the back door and grabbing my bike out of the shed. I had a light-blue 1955 Schwinn Spitfire that I used for surveillance missions. As I mentioned before, I was a first-class snoop, and Morgan Miller was worthy of my highest level of observation.

A small path ran from the shed along the side of the house to the street. I ran with my bike to the edge of the front of the house and peered around the corner just in time to see Morgan get back behind
the wheel of the Bel Air. I waited for him to pull out before emerging from my hiding spot. The car drove toward St. Claude. I heard my mother calling for me from inside as I pedaled with all my might in hot pursuit.