Dancing in the Light by Shirley Maclaine Page B

but I was too busy.”
    “What do you mean, busy? Were you cooking?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. It seemed as though I was always busy. You know, your father never changed a didi [diaper]. It made him sick. And if either one of you upchucked, I’d have to clean it up. So I was always busy.”
    “We must have upchucked a lot,” I said.
    Mother went on. “Your father is like that now. If I’m sick now, he falls apart. So I have to do everything myself. I’m always so busy.”
    “Well, so what did we talk about?” I asked.
    “Oh, the opera. Mother loved opera. But I hated it. She couldn’t get me to go with her. But religion was something we talked a lot about. You were attracted to the Episcopalians and your Daddy and I felt you should stay within the Baptist ranks, which was stupid because people should be able to choose. But frankly, you didn’t really think much of any of them. You didn’t like getting dressed up to go to church. You never thought that should have anything to do with God. That’s why you didn’t go much. You thought people should be comfortable when they worshiped. But really, you didn’t have much time anyway. You were always either at dancing class or rehearsing.”
    Mother sat up in the bed, her hands cupping her ears. “I have to have my ears repierced,” she said, looking ahead to the future. “I’ve been sick forso long, I let them go. And I want to wear those beautiful diamond studs you gave me years ago.”
    There was a flurry at the door. People were greeting someone outside. Ira O. Beaty made his entrance. He sported a cane in one hand and a bunch of flowers and a brown paper bag in the other.
    “Well, there himself is,” I said, chuckling at how commanding he was, even using his early eighties shuffle to the utmost effect.
    “Hi, Monkey,” said Daddy as he walked over to Mother, leaned down, and offered his cheek to her.
    “You brought me flowers, Ira?” Mother exclaimed with incredulity.
    “Yes, Scotch,” he answered. “Flowers from your own garden.”
    “Oh, Ira, did you pick them yourself?”
    “I picked them with my own lily-white hands.” He snuck the brown paper bag under her sheet. She noticed and stealthily looked up at him with grateful, bright eyes.
    As though I hadn’t observed the interchange, Dad began to make a fuss with the chair he would sit in. I said, “No, take my chair. It’s much more comfortable.” He said, “No, it’s too much trouble.” And before I realized what was happening, I, while maneuvering my chair over to him, looked up and saw Mother poke into the brown paper bag under her sheet, unwrap noisy tinfoil, and push a crump of moist chocolate cake into her mouth. Daddy continued with the diversionary tactic of the chair-moving exercise as Mother chewed voluptuously. She made no real attempt to hide what she was doing, apparently knowing that she would continue eating the obviously delicious forbidden food regardless of sugar shock.
    “Daddy,” I said, mockingly reproachful, “you snuck chocolate cake in here?”
    “Yes, Monkey,” he said guilelessly. “It’s real good cake.”
    “There’s not much sodium in this,” said Mother stoutly. Why, whenever I make tollhouse cookies, I always have to add a teaspoon of salt.” She seemed to feel this was an explanation.
    “Real good,” said Daddy. “Sachi had two pieces and Bird Brain ate the rest.”
    “Who’s Bird Brain?” I asked, realizing that now he was using a verbal diversionary tactic in lieu of chair moving.
    “The new woman who takes care of us. Mrs. Randolf.”
    “Why d’you call her Bird Brain?”
    “Well,” said Mother in between chews, “she can’t keep her mind on anything.”
    “ ‘An forgot,’ she says,” said Daddy.
    Mother laughed with Daddy as she fingered a piece of cake to the front of her mouth before the nurse came back. “She forgets the flour out of the gravy,” she said, swallowing a tiny choke as she laughed. “But she’s really a