Mom Descending A Staircase

I hardly remember the reason for coming up here now, I mean, in the first place. Isn't that weird? Sometimes things happen, the smallest little thing during a day or a lifetime, and everything else that preceded it--even big, major events--becomes so insignificant or minor in comparison that it just doesn't seem to matter. Or register, even. It doesn't even register with you, not really.

I came up to the attic--it's barely that, actually, more of a crawl space above the back bedroom, which my brother and I had shared all while growing up--to make a routine check, see if there was any water damage or mouse droppings, that type of thing. Find out if it needed to be sprayed or fumigated or whatever. I didn't expect to find anything. I probably should have, though, been prepared, I'm saying, because my mom was a bit of a pack rat all of her life, a serious collector of things--and I'm talking about crap here, not like antiques or fur coats or stuff like that. She used to have just mounds and mounds of magazines and pocket-books (that's what they used to call paperbacks when I was growing up; they'd call them pocketbooks, which was always confusing because that was also another name for a woman's purse--English is a weird language, when you get right down to it), all kinds of shit that she collected, mostly in the bedroom and heaped in that little alleyway created by her side of the mattress and the wall of the room, which would eventually be carted out by my dad to the garage, where he would either dump it all in the trash (if he was pissed on that particular day) or put it in a box and shove it in the closet so that she could sort through it later (if he was feeling benevolent). That's the way it worked in our house; it was a little like living on the coast of some tropical island. One day sunny and mild, the next day Hurricane Dad. When he was in one of his "moods"--which was usually only when he was awake--it was better just to put the plywood sheets up over the windows and evacuate. Mom put up with a lot in her day--her "day" having lasted some 63 years, until Thursday of last week when her heart gave out in the grocery store, near the (where else?) magazine rack. She died before they could get her to the emergency room, a copy of the Enquirer still clutched in one fist--and my wife and I are getting the house ready for sale. My brother, who now lives in Kansas doing God knows what for some software company, couldn't stay on after the funeral because he was saving vacation time for a family trip to Disney World and his company allows only three days off for episodes of grief--he actually called it that all while he was here, an "episode of grief," which finally made me pull him aside and say something during the little get-together we had after the funeral. People were starting to look at him funny, so what else could I do? Anyway, that's how we ended up here, Millie and I (that's my wife, Mildred, but I call her Millie), going through the house I grew up in and getting it ready to be put on the market.

Millie is in charge of the general sprucing up--she loves doing that, spring-cleaning or big projects like putting in a new flower bed--so I've found that it's better just to get out of the way and let her get thing done. It's a pretty good excuse, anyway, for not having to pitch in and help out. I hate housework, lawn jobs, that sort of stuff. Always have. I'm a pretty good worker overall, but domestic chores are not my forte. Not at all. Because of that, and the fact that Millie has one of those take-charge personalities (she really does, even she would say so), I found it more useful to stake a claim on the perimeter of all this activity--call the real estate woman, place an ad in the paper for an estate sale, go through Mom's papers (including several bank accounts and a safety-deposit box) and assorted tasks like that. Basically, keep clear of the Windex. And that's how I find myself up in the attic above "the boys' room," lying on my stomach and searching around with a key-chain flashlight. I'm sure my dad would be doing this if he were here, but he's not. They got a divorce, my parents did, about 20 years ago--they thoughtfully stayed together all while we were growing up so that we could cower in fear and watch them engage in their daily shouting matches, but after I went off to college they decided the time had finally come, and my old man moved out, leaving Mom the house and all the worries that come with owning a property. And besides, he died in a car accident seven years ago last spring. Too bad for him; he should've been watching the road.

I've pretty much made my way to the end of the dwelling now by pulling myself along the length of two boards, laid out side by side, that run across the alternating pattern of rafters and insulation. An insect or two scurry away into the shadows, but the place seems pretty okay other than that. No watermarks on the wood, no pinpricks of daylight shining through above my head. I'm about to start down, crawling back the way I came, when (as I'm turning) my light plays across a shape tucked into one corner of the eaves. Off to my left. Curious, I turn the feeble blue beam of my Chet's Auto Supply light to one side and shine it across the mound. It turns out to be three boxes, all sporting the old U-Haul insignia across them, jammed into an area no bigger than a bread box (it's actually much bigger than that, but the bread box is the standard increment of measurement in our house) and sitting one on top of the other in a squat little stack. A thick layer of what might politely be called dust settled over the whole thing.

"Is everything okay?" rises up from below me like the cry of a phoenix as it claws its way out of the ashes. I drop my flashlight and cringe, totally caught off guard. Millie must be taking a break and has suddenly realized I'm not directly underfoot."I'm up here!" I shout back, knowing that, this is vague and meaningless, but it should be enough to satisfy her. I employ a tone that means "I'm doing something useful," and that usually works. It seems to in this case, atleast, because I hear no more out of her. I can tell she's moved into one of the bathrooms now, as the furious squeak of sponge on porcelain reaches my ears, even up here. I'm telling you, she's hell on wheels, Millie is, when she starts cleaning something.

"What're these?" I say, but barely loud enough for even myself to hear. I scuttle over to them and pull the top one toward me. A second or two later I have the flaps open and find a stack of old clothing staring up at me. I know, I know, clothing can't actually look at you, but I'm just saying that's what's in the box. Clothes. Our old scout uniforms--my brother's and mine--all carefully folded and placed in two rows, with a few little awards and ribbons arranged on top. It doesn't make me sad to see them--I mean, not really--but it's a definite surprise. My brother'll get a kick out of going through it all--see, he did the whole thing, Eagle Scout or whatever, so it was kind of a big deal. I smile at the memories that flood back as I pull the second box over toward me and snap open the lid. Books this time, which I had no idea my parents ever owned. I mean, we had maybe one set of encyclopedias when I was growing up, and that was about it. A Good News Bible that was kept in a drawer in the living room, where my dad could get at it to use when killing a spider, but we weren't exactly a literary family. At all. Well, my mom would read those cheap romances and stuff, which I already mentioned--the pocketbooks--but some kids I knew, families I had visited or had sleepovers with, had mountains of books. Walls and walls full of them, even separate rooms that they called dens or, this on friend of mine, a library. So this was a bit of a shock, to find a bunch of good-quality hardbacks tucked away at our place, even if they were technically hidden up in the attic. And these are nice ones, too, like Hemingway and Steinbeck and those guys, Fitzgerald. It's really hard to believe--my mom must've joined some club or something, Book-Of-The-Month or that type of deal. At least until my old man found out; these had probably been banished up here for her daring to defy him (or spending "good money" on something other than Pabst Blue Ribbon). Smiling, I snatch one off the top, Samuel Butler's The Way of All Flesh--which I've never even heard of--and flip it open to the title page. And there she is. Staring up at me through a piece of tissue paper, but I can tell that it's her, very clearly, having seen other pictures from around that time. Right about when they got married, a year or two after that. It's my mother, her hair still that vibrant red that it was in her youth, looking straight into the camera. What I have here are three photos--old Polaroids, actually--that have been placed inside this one novel and tucked away. Shut up for however many years. Now of course I remember my father and his stupid Polaroid Land camera--I've got about a hundred photos of me as a kid from the 1970s, which are all faded and curled up on the edges--but this is a new one to me. Three pristine color snaps of my mother, sitting on the stairs that are almost directly beneath me, completely and utterly naked. I mean, not a stitch on. Well, except for a pair of pumps. Wow. How can this be?

"You want lunch?" comes Millie's voice up through the opening back behind me. Questioning. "I'm getting kind of hungry."

"Ummm, well, I'm up here now, so I should probably...." I don't really know what to say next, but she saves me by jumping in and taking over, just as she always does.

"I'll run down to Wendy's or something, it's fine. What do you want?"

"Spicy Chicken's good. The meal, okay, but Biggie Size it? And a Diet." This cryptic fast-food language is instantly processed and accepted by my wife in the ensuing silence. (continued on page 146)Mom(continued from page 138)

"You want a Frosty?"

"Yeah, that sounds nice. Small."

"All right, see you in a minute." And then, "Is there anything up there?"

"Ahhhhh, no, not really. Just some... I'm checking for leaks and that sort of thing. I don't want some contract falling through because of a rainstorm or whatever, right?"

"I guess."

"I'll be down by the time you get back. Promise," I say, not really meaning it but knowing that it sometimes makes the difference--women love it when men set deadlines or express certainty. It's supposedly sexy or something. Don't ask me.

"Great. See you!" she calls out.

"Yeah, drive safe, okay? And don't forget that Barber is a one-way."

"I remember. God, what do you think I am, retarded?"

"Ummm, I prefer to think of you as 'special....' " I can hear her laughing from way up here, so that's good. Sometimes Millie takes my humor the wrong way.

"That's me, your 'special' girl. See you, sweetie!" The sound of the door closing a second or two later. I have to say, when that woman gets hungry, nothing stands in the way of her getting her next meal. No way.

"So, Dad, what is the story here?" I whisper, turning the pictures over, almost expecting an apology (or at least an explanation) to be penciled in on the back of each one. But nothing. Not one word. I flip the top one back over, leaning in with the light to study it. In two of the three, my mother--I guess if we're talking about her being all nude and everything you might as well know her name, which is Carolyn--she's leaning back against one stair, holding herself upright with her elbows. Both of these are shot from the waist up, so basically they show her breasts and face. Not close-ups, exactly, but what filmmakers might call medium shots. I guess you could almost say that they're artfully composed, what with the carpet from the stairs and the color of her hair complementing each other and the pale of her skin working as a kind of relief. Flaming scarlet lips that would be beautiful on anyone else but make my stomach flutter a bit as I catch myself thinking it. I don't know if I feel up to describing her bosom, but I'll give it a go--if it was a completely impartial assessment I was making, of some lady in a magazine or with a friend from college or something, then I'd say, without hesitation, that they are great. Almost perfectly shaped--too perfect, really--as if they were drawn by that dude who made Fritz the Cat or whatever. Just really, really lovely. I mean, I don't think I'm saying anything new when I report that women's tits can so easily turn out to be mediocre, or worse even, once you actually get a look at them, so it's still surprising--even at my age--when I see a knockout pair. And I mean especially that, a pair. Often you'll find some that are exquisite, and then, on closer inspection, you'll notice a flaw or imperfection on one or its partner. A leaning to the side or a sort of drooping, a discoloration in the nipple. A birthmark or a mole, even, lots of things that can keep the two from being magnificent when studied together. But here in my hand, sported by my own mom some 40 years ago, is an almost flawless set of mams. Two gorgeous examples of womanly flesh and captured forever in a snapshot. I mean, these are knockout boobs that my mom has, and until this very moment in my life I had no idea that she was built like that. I can only ever remember her in a kind of shapeless floral housedress all while I was growing up, so this newly discovered fact is equal parts disturbing and titillating. Well, maybe it errs a touch on the disturbing side, but still.

As I said, the second photo is almost a carbon copy of the first, so I skip past it and move on to the third, which is the one that really takes the cake. Again, this is a low-quality print I'm looking at, but the woman springs out of the composition, so gorgeous is she at that moment in her life. It's a full-body shot, this one is--and, yes, now I know for certain that she didn't dye her hair--but it's her positioning that's so startling, and not just because she's my mother, either, but from what little I know about that era itself. The 1960s, I mean. I realize there were magazines you could buy back then, pornography and that sort of stuff, but everything I've ever seen or heard of from that period is pretty chaste--at least the first part of the decade, and these pictures are from probably no later than 1963, or 1964 at the latest. Most shots from those times are these "girl next door" types sitting all coy and covered on a blanket, with their tops exposed but that's about it. And here's this woman who used to fix me my Cap'n Crunch every morning with her legs all spread and her fire-engine-red fingernails playing with one nipple, pinching at the tip. Lips puckered up. I really am taken aback by this now, the idea that my mother could've ever done this, even with the help of my father (although I'd bet good money on the fact that he had a lot to do with it; I just know that he did--he always seemed like that kind of man). Now, I realize that all parents have a life, a secret sort of life that exists before we ever get to know them; of course I understand that, but this is still pretty startling to find out about someone you both love desperately and take entirely for granted. The woman I call Mother had the makings of a pinup and a body that would've made Bettie Page weep into her broth. Life is just so damn silly, isn't it? I mean, when you really think about it.

The reason for all this naughtiness reveals itself when I finally put the photos aside and lift the piece of tissue paper they were wrapped in from inside the novel. Beneath it, folded into thirds, is a simple and direct response from the offices of Playboy magazine in Chicago, Illinois--it's not signed by Hugh Hefner himself, unfortunately, or I'd probably sell the thing on eBay--that thanks my father for his submission, mentions how beautiful his wife is and goes on to say that, while she is certainly a worthwhile female specimen, they are sorry to inform him that they will not be pursuing her as a possible Centerfold at this time. What? And then suddenly it all makes sense; the entire enterprise makes itself clear to me as I'm lying there in the dark: Dad wanted to get Mom into Playboy as a model. I mean, I've heard of this notion, that many men's magazines accept amateur photos and that type of thing, but I'm stunned by this new curve in what I already imagined to be a serpentine relationship between my two parents. How could he have done this? And how could she? It really is baffling. Even if they did love each other at one point--and I suppose they had to, I must begrudgingly admit, plus it's a medical fact that they had sex a few times, at least in the early days--this behavior is still so off the charts from what I know about them as a couple that I can feel myself drifting into a kind of shock. Just staring at the company logo at the top of the rejection notice, which is beginning to go slowly out of focus.

"I'm back! Honey?" comes roaringup from downstairs with such force thatI nearly slip off the two-by-12s I'm lying (concluded on page 189)Mom(continued from page 146) on. I sit up quickly and bang my head on the hard edge of a slanting truss. Shit.

"Coming!" I scream and fold the letter quickly into a little square, which I jam into that tiny coin pocket in the front of my jeans as I roll to one side. I steal one more glance at the wide shot of my mom, the third photograph--she seems to be calling out to me with her eyes, begging me to break with convention, the restrictive bonds of polite society, and spend a bit of quality time with her in the sack--then slip all three photos down inside my underwear. Don't ask me why, I'm not sure, but I hide them there and start crawling backward toward the lighted opening. I suppose I'm worried that I'll brush up against Millie during lunch and she'll feel something in my pocket, and I'm just not strong enough for that right now, I'm really not, this big explanation thing, so I figure I'll keep them in my undies and sort through this whole mess some other time. Back home in Seattle. Or maybe even on the plane after she falls asleep (Millie is usually out cold before we even take off). Later.

As I'm inching back toward the top rung of the ladder, feeling for it with each foot as I go, a thought flashes through my head--a sudden awareness, as clear and pristine as if it were a vision sent down from on high--that I will (no doubt) never tell anyone about this discovery: the boxes, the photos, the note. None of it. Not Millie, not my brother. No one. I am also completely certain that I will spend a great deal of time alone with these Polaroids in the near future, sharing a hushed closeness with them unlike anything I ever enjoyed with my mother when she was alive and merely a phone call away.

The woman I call Mother had a body that would've made Bettie Page weep into her broth.