Q: 11/11/02

Work Diary, 11/11/02

My paternal grandmother was a former prostitute who lived in Freeport,
Texas. Her name was Josephine French, and it would be years before I
saw the humor in both her name and the city in which she lived. I'd
like to write her story, but there is no one left who knows the
details. I find this both sad and typical.

Before she died of liver failure, she nursed her last husband until his
death. He was an unlikely husband, an obese homosexual who did not
share my grandmother's bon vivant lifestyle. His greatest talent -
performed from his bed - was thumping out the Lone Ranger theme on the
wall with his fingers, a skill that left me cold but which my younger
sister found fascinating. He had the thick, sausage-like fingers of
nightmares.

Grandma French had hennaed hair like Lucille Ball, though the
resemblance ended there. She kissed on the lips, her hands cupped
around our upturned faces like some sort of fleshy vise, and she drank
smelly brown drinks with ice. Her house was immaculate and decorated in
the scratchy avocado colors of the sixties. There was not a book in
sight.

She hadn't really raised my father; her own parents handled that job.
Being raised by his grandparents didn't seem to bother my father. He
liked to visit them when he could. Each time we drove up to their
house, they'd be sitting on the porch swing, barefoot and stunned. They
were so old that their hair was an identical wispy white; their
toenails were the same consistency as a horse's hooves. I liked her
cackle, and the way he spoke in gravelly whispers. I liked how neither
of them could focus on one thing for very long.

Grandma French ignored her provincial parents, waving good-bye to us as
my father backed out of her dirt driveway to go visit them. When we'd
return to her house, Grandma French wouldn't ask about her parents'
health, or how they were holding up. Sometimes my father would argue
with her about this. The house was small, so we'd hear every word when
we were sent out of the kitchen. If he was up to it, Grandma French's
bed-ridden husband would scream from his room, telling everyone to shut
up.

During one visit, I sat on Grandma French's orange rug playing with the
toys I'd brought with me. My sister lay groaning on the couch, overcome
with boredom. Our mother sat in her usual chair, clicking her
fingernails and smiling politely at the tense conversation between my
father and Grandma French. It was a scene that would have made Norman
Rockwell put away his paints forever.

"Boy!" Grandma French called to me, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I answered, which was true, really.

"Come over here," she said, "I've got something for you."

I got up and approached her cautiously. I wasn't afraid of Grandma
French, but like most adults, she didn't realize that the best way to
grab a child's attention is to ignore the child completely.

"Here you go!" she said, handing me a small black statue, "That's an
old man head my first husband gave me. It's yours now! What do you
think? It's from Africa!"

Six-year-olds don't normally have epiphanies, but at that moment, I
did. It was this: The old woman who'd just said "man" in front of
me, my sister, and my parents was someone I would never know. What's
more, I would never be required to know her, a fact that left me
breathless and somewhat heady with power.

I took the statue home and covered it in multi-colored clay. Its
general shape remained but it was no longer an African holding a spear.
Instead, it stayed on my dresser, a lumpy Rainbow Man whom I'd re-shape
according to my moods or if a need arose for some of the non-drying
clay that surrounded him.

Years later, when I was twelve, my father sat on our living room couch
for the last time. He was talking to Grandma French, his voice low and
desperate. He'd just learned that my dying mother had given custody of
her kids to my aunt, who would be arriving soon to take us to Colorado.
In fact, my aunt had already been to the apartment, which explained
some of the desperation in my father's voice.

"Don't worry, Mama," he said, "I'm not going to let them take my
children away."

The phone erupted in the tinny, cracked voice of Grandma French, who
was obviously shouting. I moved closer to the front door of the
apartment.

"I know, I know," my father said into the phone. Then he looked up, and
our eyes met. I'd moved even closer to the door, pulling my younger
sister along with me. My father said nothing, but he knew.

"I need to go," he told Grandma French, whose voice continued
broadcasting from the phone until it was back in its cradle.

When he stood up and moved towards us, I considered my options. And for
the first time in a long while, I had options. I wanted the new life
that would come with moving to Colorado. I wanted to live with my aunt,
whose sudden presence promised a way out of the muck and unhappiness of
Houston. That was new, too - wanting something that could happen.

Did my father see it on my face? Was he just weighing his own options?
Either way, he stopped in front of my sister and me. He was smiling,
but shyly. He looked vulnerable. With one hand he patted my sister on
the head, and with other he squeezed my shoulder. Before he left, he
said, "Now, y'all stay here until I get back."

But of course we didn't.