“Clothes
don’t make the queen. The queen makes the queen.”
It’s Santa Saturday in New Hope, Pennsylvania and Mother Asphodel
is trudging through the snow to a gig at the Phoenix Club - her drag queen
couture bundled in a shopping cart - her bony feet stuffed into galoshes. At
seventy-seven plus, Mother has seen the glory days and, in the course of this
evening, she’ll share those memories with a younger queen, Brooks MacDonald
(a.k.a. Simone DeFleurry of The Jade Owl fame). Listen to these stylish dames
as they plan Mother’s return into the spotlight, to shine once again in the
eyes of the community and peers.
Mother Asphodel, a novella by Edward C Patterson, bubbles with the secrets of a
raging entertainer, who has rubbed elbows with the famous. Still, time knows no
friends and Mother cleaves to life’s ornery path on a bleak wintry evening when
hope is as sparse as bread crumbs thrown to the birds. The possibilities are
endless on the road least taken - a kaleidoscope glimpsed only by those who
take it.
Mother Asphodel
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform (November 8, 2014)
ISBN-10: 1503148947
ISBN-13: 978-1503148949
Excerpt:
“I was just rambling, dear - reflecting on the word gay. Just when
did they give us that name?”
“I think we took it
when no one was looking.”
========================
Chapter One
Snowy Afternoon
It was Santa
Saturday in New
Hope
and the Phoenix Club held
its annual fundraiser — AIDS research the worthy recipient. The
Leathermen of the Delaware Valley were the sponsors and, ever since
this plague afflicted the community, much cash was raised and donated. Beyond
the altruism and community responsibility, the event was highlighted by comic
relief, bawdy auctions, including the piece by piece sale of Mr. Leather Cubs’
apparel down past the jockstrap, and, of course, entertainment from the local drag
queen brigade. There was a cake decorating contest, the leatherettes slaving
over confections, each craving the grand prize — a golden spatula and a hundred
dollars, which was always donated back to the cause. There was a leather Santa
and leather Elves and many non-leather gawkers, who were welcomed if they
brought their wallets. In past years, several Keith Harings brought in big
bucks and the promise of another classic graffiti piece would draw the bridge
and tunnel crowd from the moneyed towers of New York and the better-heeled burbs of New Jersey. Drinks would flow and hanky-panky was expected.
Then there were the queens — Flabba Gasted, Brooks MacDonald, Hilly Billy and
some newcomers plus the well-trodden sorts generally drawing more amusement
than praise. Still, Santa Saturday was the destination event for the
drag set year after year ever since the event began in days of post-Stonewall
yore. It was to this magnet, through snow and wind that the legendary Kissme
Asphodel came, struggling from her apartment in Lambertville, dragging her
shopping cart filled with costumes across New Hope’s Delaware River Bridge.
The river burbled in her
ears, blending with the metallic sounds of the occasional car over the steel
trap road. The bridge was older than Asphodel, but not by much. In fact, she
had dropped the Kissme from her stage name years ago, the
community tagging her with the name Mother. At first it was an
endearment, but as sixty waned toward seventy and now waxed to eighty, the pert
name was meant to salute this drag veteran who had become more Mother
Hubbard than Mother Theresa. On this occasion — her
trundle across the bridge drew horn tributes, each honk rattling her nerves and
causing her chattering teeth (those that remained) to chew her blue lips. But
the road went on, the show went on and thus Mother Asphodel managed to cross
into New Hope. Here she briefly paused, gazing through the
snowy veil to the next hurdle on this trip — a hill, which could have been the Matterhorn for all practical purposes to her old bones.
The street was slick and
the curb problematic, the cart’s wheels buckling into the sewer drain.
“Damn you,” Asphodel
muttered, pulling until the cart bolted from the grating, nearly tossing her to
her bony ass. “If you do that again, I’ll abandon you and salvage the
essentials.”
Whether the cart heard
her was hard to tell, but it became kinder on the next curb, navigating over a
low snow bank. Another pause, and then up the hill.
Asphodel recalled the
walk being shorter last year, and even shorter the year before. Of course,
there was a time when she drove and an even better time when she was driven,
handsome beaux at the wheel, escorting her like Tudor Royalty, befitting her
position in the pecking order. Now it was the highway and, even if she used her
thumb, no one would stop.
Thwack.
Something pelted her
noggin, and then another and, when she turned to see, a third, this time smack
on the cheek.
“Damn you,” she cackled
at two youngsters, no more than eleven or twelve, who were fortressed behind a
park car with an arsenal of snowballs. “Stop that. Can’t you see I’m an old
woman?”
“You’re not a woman,”
shouted one, another ball fired. “You’re an old faggot.”
“Does your mother know .
. .”
Thwack.
“Fuck you,” shouted one.
“Faggot,” shouted the
other.
Mother Asphodel huffed,
ducked and then pulled the cart forward as fast as she could, the missiles
zooming past her, and a few landing on her back. She heard an older voice
yelling at the kids and the barrage stopped, but she didn’t. She slipped and
slid, landing on a knee. But the cart, which had been so roundly cursed before,
became her friend now, bucking her up. She peeked over the rise of sparkling
garments. The boys were cuffed by a man she recognized — one of the waiters from Pietro’s
Pizzeria — a witness to this assault, coming to her aid. She once knew
his name. She once knew all their names — all the
waiters in all the restaurants — the young ones and old ones —
the living and dead. But for the life of her, she couldn’t remember this one’s
name.
“It doesn’t matter,” she
muttered, pulling herself up again.
It wasn’t worth going
through the alphabet to recall. The wind bit her cheeks. She pulled her scarf
up high and shivered. The snow worsened and the traffic lessened. She hoped
that Santa Saturday wouldn’t be canceled due to weather. After
all, even if she had to purloin one of the display reindeers from the nearby
toy shop’s display, she meant to arrive at the Phoenix, even if fashionably late. Her public called
her.What they called her had varied from age to age, but at least
she had not fallen into that oblivion — the drag queen footnote in hell.
For Mother Asphodel
breathing was a challenge even on a clear sunny day sitting on her balcony,
watching the sparrows. Trudging up this incline in a wintry mess only proved
she wasn’t dead yet. She could still belt out Loving that Man of Mine —
at a slow tempo, true, but there could not be a successful Santa
Saturday without Mother Asphodel’s Jerome Kern stylings. Despite this
notion, she wondered if this was the last time she’d climb this slope to
entertain the legions of Leathermen, who assembled for no other reason but to
hear her warble. On a mission, she was and meant to achieve it, even if
her faux fur was drenched and her feather boa strangled the
shopping cart’s wheels.
Bridge Street curved
when it met Ferry. Here Mother stopped again to rest. The Mulberry
Diner was closed for the Holiday
and the Holly Bed and Breakfast, where she had always been welcomed
to pop in and while away the time, was as shut as an oyster. But she thought
she spied a drape shimmy and fingers prying between the Venetian blinds — Miss
White, the proprietress, no doubt. If it was Miss White, she’d open up and
extend a piping hot cocoa to the old queen of New Hope. Mother sighed. It was Miss
White. She sensed it to the bone. But the door remained shut — no invitation in
out of the cold.
“I could be dying in the
snowy woods for all she cared,” Asphodel huffed, and then continued on her
course.
The hill flattened, but
the ice roughened. Twice Mother nearly lost her balance, but old friend
shopping cart kept her tenaciously on her feet. Her galoshes were practically
new at six seasons with enough grip for the tricky patches. But with the fresh
snow layer on the pavement, the cart provided the best support. As long as it
held her, she didn’t dare move forward.
“Need help?” came a
voice.
“Just a bit, young man.”
The young man wasn’t
young in the least — a delivery guy, who carried a wreath to the door of the
Glengarry Inn. Still, an offer for a steady arm would not be refused.
“What are you doing out
in this, Ma’am?” the man asked.
“Places to go,” Asphodel
replied, elegantly, eying the delivery van. “You wouldn’t be going my way,
would you?”
“That depends,” the man
said. “I’m not supposed to have passengers. Could get fired.”
“If caught. But you have
a nice face.”
“I’m not sure what that
has to do with it, but I suppose in this weather I could get you home.”
“Not home,” she said.
“I’m headed for the Phoenix. Do
you know the Phoenix?”
The man raised a brow.
No doubt he had heard of the Phoenix. Everyone ‘round these parts knew the place —
perhaps not inside, but rumor and legend held sway in Bucks County’s more
conservative consciousness.
“That’s out of the way,”
he said.
“You’d let me walk all
the way?”
“You were doing that
before I showed up.”
“But you offered.”
Asphodel blinked and puckered. “I’m getting on in age . . . a tad, and winters
are a hardship for us older folk.”
“Are you flirting with
me? I’m not your type.”
Mother giggled like a
school girl.
“It’s not that far.”
“Unless you’re hoofing
it . . . in the snow. And what are you dragging behind you?”
“Oh, my gear. You know.”
The man shrugged.
Evidently he didn’t know. But he grabbed the handle and walked it to the van, stowing it roughly in
the back.
“Do be careful with it,”
Mother carped, slipping toward the vehicle. “The feathers are frayed as it is.”
The man stared at her,
and then caught her before she slammed to the curb.
“I wouldn’t want you to
ruffle your feathers.”
“I really appreciate
this,” she said, opening the door and hauling herself into the front seat.
“It’s not very far and I know it’s out of the way and . . .”
“Enough, lady,” he said,
slipping behind the wheel. “You’ll be my last delivery of the day, so don’t
push it.”
“Well, you offered.”
The man shook his head,
put the van in drive and drove slowly up Bridge Street advising Mother Asphodel that silence was
golden. She didn’t heed the warning, jabbering like a duck on bread. They only
made it as far as The Raven, when the van halted, the doors opening
— the drag queen ejected, feathers, cart and all.
Mother Asphodel once again
was left to her own devices to finish the trek.
“Chivalry is dead,” she
squawked, gathering her dignity from a snow bank.
The distance
between the Raven Bar and Restaurant and the
Phoenix was only a half mile. They were closer in
kind, although the Raven was known for its older gay crowd,
while the Phoenix, a younger set. But when it came to a Leather event like Santa
Saturday, the two establishments were satellites.
Mother was tempted by
the inviting warmth of the Raven, but this was no place for a drag
queen. The place had great food, but otherwise was all pick ups and octopi —
nothing for a stylish gal to get excited about. So, rejuvenated by the short
hop in a warm van, Mother latched to her cart to keep her upright and marched
the half mile to the Phoenix.
Chapter Two
The Phoenix
The Phoenix was surrounded by motorcycles and, from the
boisterous sounds flooding from inside, Mother Asphodel was reassured that the
event was not cancelled — thank God. She huffed through the
crispier snow to the club’s back entrance, the front blocked by leather-types,
smoking and cuddling. Besides, for an entertainer to assault the main entrance
was not becoming. The cart bumped through the crust, and then into the slush,
but Mother had a sudden burst of energy, invigorated by the sights and the
music. By the sound of it, Jasper the Belly Dancer was doing his schtick.
He was a real looker — sleek as a snake, and sequined from hip to thigh. Mother
had enjoyed his show at many venues, especially private parties. But Mother
hadn’t been invited to a party, private or otherwise, in many years. She
hurried, anxious to watch Jasper from the wings, but the chill got the best of
her.
“Whew,” she muttered,
reaching the backstairs to the rear porch. “I’ll see him next year.”
Mother plopped on the
stairs to catch her breath. She noticed a brace of men huddled at one end,
smooching and otherwise warding off the cold. It brightened Mother’s heart,
whose days on the back porch had flown with the last swans of summer. But the
memories were cheering. Still, she had to get the damn cart up the damn stairs.
“Yoohoo!” she harked,
hoping to get a hand.
But passion abated for
neither man nor woman nor drag queen, so Mother righted herself and tugged at
the cart’s handle, managing to get the wheels, one step at a time, up to the
porch. It was a task fit for a younger starlet and it put her on her ass again
on the snow encrusted chaise lounge — a slippery sit at best and a wet one at
worst.
“I’ll never make it in,”
she moaned. “They’ll need to build a fire to thaw me out.”
She tried to get up, but
the ice patch under her feet afforded no purchase and back she went into the
chaise lounge.
“Yoohoo!” she sang out.
The smoochers noticed
her now, laughed, smooched some more, and then raced back inside.
“Oh, Mary Mother of
God,” Asphodel moaned.
She considered sliding
to her knees and crawl for the door. But just as she lunged forward, the back
door opened and a mug popped out — a comely drag mug, cigarette hanging from
her lips.
“Flabba,” Mother said.
“Mother? What are you
doing here?”
Flabba Gasted tossed the
cigarette, and then tip toed out, her stilettos a more challenging platform
than Mother’s flats and shopping cart.
“What do you think?
I never miss Santa Saturday. If I had to crawl here, I’d take my
rightful place among the gals.”
“Well, dear, what do you
need?” Flabba held onto the door. “I’m on next and can’t afford to fall or even
take the ice in on my heels.” She took a step, but then rallied back to the
door. “Can’t you make a try, dear? Or perhaps you should just sit it out. There
hasn’t been much call for you, and the dance card’s full.”
“What do you mean,
there’s not much call for me?”
“Don’t get your panties
in a twist. I mean, look at you.”
“How can I look at me
from here? And my gear is in the cart not on my ass.”
“You aren’t going to
wear that wig are you?”
“It’s on my head,
Flabba. Where else should I wear it?”
Flabba made another
attempt, but then hopped back over the threshold.
“I’m on now, Mother.
Hang in there.”
“Hang in there?”
Mother lurched forward
again, but landed on her knees, the cart keeping her body upright, but standing
would be a feat monumental. So, she pushed back to the lounge, missing it,
landing flat on her chest, the slushy snow biting her nose.
“What a mess,” she
yawked, but could do little to right herself.
“Is that you, Mother?”
came another voice, and then a helping hand.
“Brooks?”
Indeed, it was Brooks
MacDonald, a stunning queen in a sequined black gown with white faux fur
trim. Her goldilocks wig was perfection and her mascara was applied by the
gods. Only her somewhat hooked nose detracted, but even that had its place in a
well crafted suite of elegantly styled preparations.
“Can you get up, dear?”
Brooks asked.
“Not very well,” Mother
uttered, gasping, desperately not giving in to tears.
“Let me help you,”
Brooks said, whose youthful vim lifted Mother to land legs once again. “You’re
wet from head to toe. Did you mean to perform today?”
“Of course.”
“You’d best hurry then.
Let me get the cart in and watch your step over the . . .”
“I know, I know,” Mother
said, exasperated, but relieved to get the support of someone at last.
Through the door, a
blast of steamy heat and smoke struck Mother. It felt like home — the aroma of
sweaty men and cheap perfume — heaven in cabana.
“What’s she doing here?”
asked another drag queen.
It was Hilly Billy, the
vamp of the tramp set.
“Never you mind,” Brooks
replied. “Just help me get her settled.”
Suddenly, a short dude
in a leather vest and panties blocked the way.
“Look what the cat
dragged in,” he said.
“Who are you calling a
cat, Dooley?” Brooks said. “Just get the line up and move it along.”
“Who made you boss?” the
Emcee barked. “The line up’s set and I don’t see no Mother on the list.”
Mother halted, shaking
her wet mop wig until it slid askew.
“I am always on the
list.”
“Not this time you’re
not,” he said. “In fact, you shouldn’t be back here. Get your bony ass out
front and find a seat in the audience.”
There wasn’t much to
differentiate the backstage from the front — a rough curtain separating the wee
platform from rows of folding chairs, strewn on what otherwise would be the
dance floor. Today even the chairs were hard to see, three deep in bikers and
leatherettes, many hefty bears and their fuzzy-wuzzy cubs, boisterous and
bidding — cash flying like kites at Kitty Hawk.
But it was for a good cause. Every one was bidding on cakes, artwork, stripper
clothing and filling the passing jars while Flabba Gasted sang a cheery round
of It’s Raining Men.
Brooks snapped the
clipboard from Dooley’s hands.
“Give me a pen.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making a late
addition to your line-up.”
“I don’t have a pen; and
even if I had one, I don’t take orders from some pushy Jersey bitch.”
Brooks turned to the
assembly of chanteuses, who were in various stages of paint and
prep and pull and tuck and squeeze.
“Anyone have a pen?”
“No pen,” said a young
Latin queen. “But use this.”
“How appropriate,”
Brooks said, grabbing an eyeliner from the señorita. “Now there.
Mother Asphodel follows me and I’m on soon. So dear, you need to get your ass
in gear. Find a spot.”
Dooley grabbed his
clipboard, grumbling, but he knew better than to go against the grain when it
came to the feather boa bevy.
“Yeah, get a move on —
all of you.”
He disappeared to the
front, Flabba finishing her set. The crowd went wild, the jars filling. Leather
Santa came on stage, Flabba Gasted sitting on his lap and making her wish list.
Boots pounded the ground. Whistles blew to the roof. It would be a
memorable Santa Saturday after all.
Mother moseyed into the
slim corridor, which was transformed into a makeshift dressing area — clothes
racks draped with silk and satin and feathers and an assortment of dazzling
displays. Into this, she wheeled her cart, drawing several sneers and more than
one watch out with that thing. How things have changed over the
years. Mother had prepared in crowded spaces before — smaller even, with many
more armpits being shaved and hairlines cinched. But the performers were
sisters all — polite and helpful, sharing and caring. Now these were cats
on the back fence balancing their caterwauling to a wintry moon. How
sad.
“Is anyone using that
mirror?” she asked, spying a small set up in the corner.
“It’s communal,” said
the Latina, Maria Maracas. “But be quick. It’s never free
for long.”
Mother parked the cart
by the wall, and then shod her wet coat and kicked off the galoshes, the things
never fitting correctly in the first place. Her old shift hung loosely and
slipped off with little invitation. She rummaged through the Hefty bags in the
cart, threading out a white chemise and a red velvet and sequined gown, quite
the thing in its time, but now frayed in spots, the hem wavering and the straps
repaired above the snaps. Distance was its friend. It didn’t take long to drape
over her shoulders, a shaggy companion of many shows. It knew where all the
contours lay, even if they had vanished in a cloud of years.
“There,” she said,
sighing, adjusting her falsies. “That’ll do for now.”
She looked about. No one
noticed her; the others busy preparing for their stints. She could hear the
stylings of Brook MacDonald on stage — a heavenly rendition ofSomewhere Over
the Rainbow.
Mother experienced a
pang of jealousy. There was a time when her voice was that sterling. Others
depended on lip sync and preen, but never Mother Asphodel. If the piano man
could play it, she could belt it.
She retrieved her
make-up kit and head cinch. There wasn’t much hair to tame, but she always did
it first, since it was weed gray. No sense drawing comments from the lion manes
of the younger set. Over it went, tight as a drum. Her makeup box was a mess,
having overturned in the cart.
“Jesus,” she said. “I
need a new box. Some day I’ll fix it up again.”
The light around the
mirror was dim, but what she saw was a bit different than what others saw.
While they witnessed a drawn face, bagged and wrinkled, with arroyo canyons
beneath the eyes and deep ravines around the lips, Mother Asphodel saw possibilities.
She had mastered the art of Revlon — the high court of Estee Lauder. With a few
brush stokes, she banished the ravines to mere crags on a precipice. Her powder
puff sent the arroyos to the circus. A bit of rouge brought out the merriment
of a calliope, while the lipstick, shakily applied, managed to highlight lips
where lips were not, even unto the chin. She saw perfection — the resurrection
of a face flown south. Others saw a lesson on how to shove one’s head in a
flour bag and emerge for a comedy shot.
“There,” she said, ready
for final insult.
She raised the wig and
fastened it to the cinch plugs, assuring it would only fall off if her head
should. That head had a slight shake, as did her hands. She would not show her
hands on stage if she could help it — nail polish being a bitch to apply now.
“Where is she?” came a
call.
It was Brooks, who had
finished her number, wild applause following her beyond the front.
“Mother Asphodel. You’re
on,” shouted Dooley.
Brooks was beside her
and, upon getting a glimpse, did a double take. But no comment was made except:
“It was hard to get you
in the line-up, dear, so look alive. Where are your shoes? Let me help you.
Give me that foot.” Brooks grabbed the low heeled, ruby slipper, and then the
foot. “How cold. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Mother heard the others
laughing — comments best left to ignorance, because ignorant they were.
“Yes, dear. The evening
would not be the same without me.”
Brooks finished her
task, and then helped Mother up. She then removed her own string of pearls and
draped them around her neck.
“You must accessorize,
dear. You need something in case of slippage about the breasts.”
Mother nodded, smiled
dimly and proceeded to the curtain’s edge.
Fish Got to Swim
The audience, if she
could term it that, fell silent . . . briefly. Mother considered this.
Certainly it was out of respect for her well-trodden reputation. But no sooner
than her first step onto the platform, twittering began — first from the peanut
gallery, and then, like a wave clapping the jetties, moving to the front, both
sides and up to her ruby-slippered feet.
“What’ll it be?” asked
the piano man, impatiently.
“Oh,” Mother said, and
then shuffled to the upright and whispered; “Do you know Can’t Help
Lovin’ Dat Man of Mine?”
“Bitchin’,” he replied,
cracking his knuckles and playing a dazzling intro.
“Easy tempo,” Mother
said, and then took center stage.
The laughter receded,
but tensely bubbled beneath the surface. She hadn’t warbled a note yet, and
they were already whispering about her misplaced lipstick and falling gown straps.
The piano man began again, even faster. Mother struck a pensive pose and began.
Oh
listen sister,
I love my mister man,
And I can't tell you' why
Dere ain't no reason
Why I should love dat man,
It mus' be sumpin dat de angels done plan.
There was a problem. The
piano man wasn’t playing the verse. He thumped out the chorus and at a tempo
far outstripping Mother’s chanteuse tempo. It was a song to be
fitted like a glove — each finger put on one at a time, and then swell to the
glorious chorus. She stopped and stared at the piano man, who ceased playing.
He shrugged.
“You shoulda told me you
were startin’ there,” he shouted, and the place broke into peels of laughter.
Mother sniffed, cocked
her head and blinked. Three Leathermen were belly over belly in mirth, tears
cascading down their cheeks. Several collegiate types shook their heads,
grinning as if they had seen their first clown act. A little damsel with crayon
red spiked hair and a blue sequined leather skirt began to do a herky-jerky dance.
The piano man began again, this time at the verse. Mother began again, this
time at the chorus.
Fish
got to swim, birds got to fly,
I got to love one man till I die.
Can't help lovin' dat man of mine.
Tell
me he's lazy, tell me he's slow,
Tell me I'm crazy, (maybe I know).
Can't help lovin' dat man of mine
Disaster.
Mother was clearly out
of tune and her sound was shrill, but now tempo and melody didn’t match. By the
time the piano man reached the chorus, he pounded it out in a true buck
and wing. The herky-jerky dancer got the rhythm right and soon a number of
front row rowdies were dancing to the fishies and the birdies also. Added
to laughter now was pointing and a number of noses held.
“Ungrateful,” Mother
murmured, but no one could hear her.
She blamed the piano man
for this. In fact, she wouldn’t put it past Dooley from putting him up to it.
It was a train wreck of the highest order. She nodded her head — a gracious
acknowledgement that she was finished. It was met with cat calls and Mother
Gotohell. But the piano man played on, the place happy with the dancing and
the contribution jar being filled, not by the old hag’s singing, but by the
upstart ivory tickler’s beat. Mother turned, and then shuffled to the curtain.
“You ought to hang it
up,” said one of her cohorts, she couldn’t tell who and could care less.
There were many shaking
heads backstage — the disapproval of the tribe. She brings a bad name
to queens of all ages. We should all know when it’s time to burn the brassiere.
That face was put on with spray paint.
The world was a blur.
Mother felt dizzy. She wanted to run away, but she could hardly walk and where
would she run — to the snow banks? She still needed to trudge home in this
wintry mess. The thought brought her to an even lower point. She reached the
corner mirror and waited for Aida Peach to complete her eyebrows. Aida took her
time. Surely she knows I’m waiting. Surely she did, but Aida was an
eighteen year old newbie and an up-and-comer. What did she care for
a fright in a slipping gown and a frayed wig? But even
eyebrows need their finishing touches. So Aida Peach turned smarmily to the
older queen and looked up.
“Oh, have you been
waiting, dear?” she said.
Mother sighed, not even
gracing the query with a reply. The seat was vacated. It was time to wipe off
and wash out. The mirror seemed less kind now. The laughter was behind her, but
not really. The comments buzzed in her ears, her mind desolate to the moment.
And the face in the mirror wasn’t hers. It was something left over from a weary
life upon the stage. It had seen better days, better lights and better
audiences. But to be brought to this point was unforgivable. Her reputation
alone should buoy up their respect. Certainly her voice was thinning and her looks
needed bracing, but the performance was sabotaged. Now the craggy mask looking
back at her exploded all delusions. It was downright kabuki.
Suddenly, another face appeared in the mirror — a younger, kinder face with a
hatchet nose, but with an angel’s grace.
“Brooks,” Mother said.
“Don’t give them another
thought,” Brooks urged. “They’re a jealous lot.”
“They are, aren’t they?
And it wasn’t my fault. The piano was ahead of me and behind me and never at
the right place in the song.”
“That’s so like Milton. Give him an audience and spotlight and he’ll
steal the thunder from right under you.”
Mother brightened.
“So you did hear
me try, dear.”
“Yes.”
“And my voice is still
in tip top shape.”
“Well, I would be lying
if I agreed with that.” Mother frowned, “Do you want me to lie?”
“No, no, dear. At my
age, the voice can be a bit spindly . . .”
“And shaky.”
“Yes, that’s what I
say.”
“And somewhat out of
tune.”
Mother turned.
“Are you trying to bring
me down?”
“No, no. Not a bit. I’m
just saying perhaps you should rethink your act. Evolution and all that. If it
was good enough for Charles Darwin, it should serve Mother Asphodel just fine.”
Mother sighed, and then
returned to the mirror.
“I’m shabby. I admit it.
I need a new compact and a better wig. Next week’s the New Year’s Eve gig and I
intend to join in the fling.”
“Perhaps the fling is
not the thing.” Brooks hunkered down, her gown stretched to the limit. “Perhaps
a quiet New Year’s Eve with a glass of the bubbly and watching the ball slide
down the pole might suit better.”
“I’ll not be alone at
New Year’s.”
“No. You should invite
over some friends.”
“All my friends are
glitter gals and they’ll all be here performing. No, I must take my place among
the . . .” She streaked her mascara with her fingers. “. . . among the . . . I
look more like Halloween than New Year’s or Christmas, don’t I?”
“It’s not that bad. Let
me help you wipe off.”
Brooks applied the cold
cream and wiped gently. There were tears in the repellant. Suddenly, Mother
began to cry in earnest, her head shaking, her wig jittery.
“There, there,” Brooks
said.
Flaba Gasted came over.
“Does she need an
Alka-Seltzer?” she asked.
“She needs some peace
and quiet, Flabba,” Brooks snapped.
Mother slowly recovered,
but when she glanced in the mirror, she renewed the waterworks.
“We need that mirror,”
said Ada Tude.
“Suffer,” Brooks said.
“Unless you mean to perform a procto, this mirror’s in use.”
Snarls. Fiery
glances. But Ada Tude
receded to another mirror bumping another queen aside.
“I need to go home,”
Mother blubbered.
“Yes, yes. Have a nice
cup of tea or perhaps a belt of scotch.” Brooks glanced at the shopping cart.
“Oh, you walked here,
didn’t you? Where do you live?”
“Lambertville.”
“That’s too far a walk.”
“I got here, didn’t I?”
“Barely. I saw you on
the porch. You looked like a snow queen. No. I’ll drive you home.”
Mother gazed up at this
angel.
“You would do that?”
“Of course. Have car,
will travel. Besides, you can brew me a cup of tea or pour me that hooch. Now,
pick up the pace.”
“We’re leaving now?”
“Right after they
auction off Mr. Leatherman’s jock strap. Wouldn’t miss that for the world. And
don’t you want to see who takes home the cake prize? But hustle now, dear. I
can only fend off the girls so long before the gloves come off and the nails
are sharpened.”
Mother agreed. She stood
and let the gown drop. She looked in the mirror no more.
