Dry Your Smile Read Online Free Page A

Student citation framed in rose velvet matting, the New York State piano competition medal for first prize (third-year students), two acting awards, a ballet competition trophy, the Golden Record earned by sales of my one and only recording, and the “Ideal American Girl” special citation from the American Federation of Women’s Auxiliaries. The doll collection was arranged on what had been my bed, all their glass and plastic and painted eyes still wide with unblinking wonder, their legs stiffly spread for balance, their arms rigid and outstretched. No, enduring the clutter of the living-room was preferable to entering the bedroom.
    She hung up the phone. But I knew I was safe when she began to talk about the market. I had long ago ceased to declaim, “But Momma! The rights of labor! Deforestation, strip mining, multinationals!” I had quite given that conversation up by the time I was twenty-three, exhausted. It was ceded terrain now, all hers. In that sense, safe for me. Now she was off on the bastard at Trackill et al . not having informed her in time about a hot new issue, and how she dropped a bundle on that one but was going to make a killing this time.
    â€œMake some tea, Baby,” she finished cheerfully, not waiting for my response. “You shouldn’t smoke. I have to call my other broker. ‘Never hide all the silver in one hole.’ Then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
    Washing the kettle, the pot, the cups and saucers and spoons before using—all this bought more time. I could hear her chattering cozily away on her life line, content that I was simply here. How long had it taken to learn such an obvious thing? That it was my mere physical presence she required, not who I was, most especially not who I had become. But the what of me still delighted her. She alone could see baby teeth in my adult smile, child-star long blond curls in my short brown hair, fear and love still fighting each other for supremacy in every glance I paid her. Danger to talk about anything, anyway: politics, religion, sex—all the subjects forbidden for polite dinner conversation in 1890—were still off limits with her in 1980. But so was her health. So was my writing. So were her friends (almost all turned away now from pride), my friends (“hippies and bohemians”), her liaison with my father, and my marriage to Laurence. The weather was a safe subject. Also Old Times—although less safe for me. Danger to think she’d ever be proud of anything I’d accomplished since Old Times. Danger to try to show her my writing. Whether she was afraid she couldn’t understand it or afraid she could, she would transform the shy gift of a manuscript into a bedtable coaster for her water glass; I could watch it lie there, gathering dust and accumulating glass-rings, pages beginning to curl, until I would by unspoken agreement quietly remove it when she wasn’t looking. A published book, on the other hand, would be propped up on the paper-strewn cardtable as if on display for friends who rarely were allowed to visit. A published book would at least be examined in my presence, the jacket criticized (“They could’ve printed your name bigger; you still have fans out there, you know, who might buy books”). A published book laid as an offering before the bedclothes of the throne would at least elicit a kiss, a “Congratulations, dear,” and momentarily misty eyes—though whether misty with pride or loss one couldn’t tell—before the advance copy was handed back.
    â€œBut it’s yours, Momma. This copy is for you. See? I inscribed it for you, and—”
    â€œThat’s lovely, Julian, that’s nice. Put it on the cardtable, Baby. I’ll look at it later.”
    Which would close the subject.
    Maybe standing in the kitchen and watching the kettle come slowly to a boil did it, the water gathering heat so that its molecules