Mother Never Laughed

Mother never laughed and Father never stopped. They had been married after the war. Actually, Mother had fallen in love before the war with a man named Mickey Gerome. Mickey was handsome and flattering, with slick black hair and dancing blue eyes. Grand-Mama says she knew the moment she saw Mother and Uncle Mickey together that Mother would never love another man. Uncle Mickey was Father’s brother, twin brother actually.

“Mikey,” Grand-Mama would say to me as she tucked me in at night, “Having two boys just like each other and yet so different? Well, I reckon it’s God’s idea of a joke. Just like your Daddy and your Uncle‘re special, you and Max are too, ‘cause there’s two of you, just like there was two of them. But you ain’t the same; you ain’t your Daddy and you ain’t your brother, so don’t ever let anyone treat you like you is.”

She would tell me that every night when I was a kid, as if she’d never told it to me before and that it was the best kept secret in the universe. I’ve seen pictures of Mother before Uncle Mickey went off to war. She laughed and smiled all the time. But Uncle Mickey, he didn’t come home from the war. And Mother stopped smiling.

Some of the Aunts (Margie, Lois and Clara to be specific) whispered around the kitchen table that Mother only married Father because he looked like Uncle Mickey. Max actually asked her about it one day at dinner. Father had gone out in the middle of the meal, off to the bar, probably; he went there often in those days.

“Mama, do you love Daddy?”

We were about five years old and yet his tiny voice held no fear. We both watched Mother closely to see what she would do. I had my money on her blowing her top and smacking his head right off. Max said later he thought she’d just give him a baby answer, an ‘Of course, now eat your peas,’ or something similar.

She surprised us both that day. She started to cry. To two five year old boys whose Mother never laughed, let alone cried, her tears scared the daylights out of us. She came over to the table, pulling the chair from the end and pushing it between us. Very quietly, she sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

“Love is a very big idea, Max. If you think loving someone is a matter of yes or no, then I guess the answer would have to be yes. But sometimes it isn’t that easy. I do love your Father, very much. Maybe not enough, maybe not in the right way, but I love him.”

Max and I just stared at her. We had no idea what she was talking about, but it was important to her so we sat and listened and we remembered it, at least the first part of it. She kept on talking, about black and white and grays, about different kinds of love, about settling and about moving on. I didn’t remember most of it past the part about not loving him enough or in the right way. That part stuck with me. After a while, she must have noticed us fidgeting and giving each other strange looks because she patted us each on the head like lost puppies and shooed us up to bed.

Father came in late that night. He and Mother argued, loud and long. Father seemed to be laughing, even as he fought; his voice just had that sound to it.  Max and I laid in bed, frightened and not sure what to do. Pieces of their fight floated up the stairs and got stuck in our ears, even when we put the pillows over our heads.

“I’m not Mickey, Jane!”

“I don’t expect you to be…”

“The way you look at me, the way you talk to me, you want me to be Mickey and I’m just not him.”

“You asked me to marry you, remember?”

“But you said yes to Mickey, even though you were talking to me!”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Mickey is dead!” They yelled at the same time. Max began to cry. I pretended I wasn’t crying, too.

Two weeks later, Mother sent us to live with Grand-Mama.

“Mama, do we have to go?” Max and I whined at her.

“I said get ready. Do you think that means you have a choice? Now get your things or you’ll go with nothing.”

In the car, we continued to complain. “Mama, how long will you be gone?” Max asked.

“Where are you going?” I added.

“Why can’t we go?” We said together.

Mother said nothing. Max and I began to pick and fight at each other in the back seat of the car. Soon we were in a minor brawl and Mother started to yell.

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! You two are just like your father! You never stop talking and fighting and you just don’t shut up! I can’t take it. I hate it! You are just like your father! Why couldn’t you be like Mickey?”

We shut up, stunned and hurt. Mother, realizing she had gone too far, spent the rest of the ride in silence. She left us with Grand-Mama, who didn’t look happy with her but seemed glad to have us there. She sent us into the kitchen and told us to sit, handing us cookies and pouring us milk. Then she stepped carefully into the hall where Mother waited. They spoke in hushed tones for a moment. Grand-Mama came back in, looking pale to our young eyes, and started fussing about making lunch. Mother drove away without another word to us.

Two days later, Grand-Mama called us to the table. “Your Mother has been in an accident. You boys are going to live here with me for a while.”

“Is Mama okay?” Max began to cry.

Grand-Mama looked at him long and hard. Then she looked at me the same way. Finally, she returned to the kitchen stove and wouldn’t look at us. “No, Max, she’s not. But you boys are goin’ to be okay here with me.” I began to cry too.

We were never quite sure but we suspect Grand-Mama was crying with us, or for us. “A while” was 13 years. We were prohibited to speak of Mother’s death. Father would drop by occasionally but it was pretty obvious he wasn’t interested. Grand-Mama was mother, father and grandmother to us and we never lacked. But we never forgot either. Because Mother had loved us, maybe not enough, maybe not in the right way, but she loved us.

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Notes:

This is a pretty old draft, a first draft. It was written off a photo prompt. I'm not sure if I should post the photo or not.

Any and all suggestions are welcome, grammar or content or whatever.