She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (21 page)

Beeeeeep!

“U
NCLE
M
YRON, ARE YOU UP?”
It was my childhood and lifelong pal Chuck Menendez, who now, although a respected married physician and father of four, still calls me Uncle Myron due to our own “-yron” language we created at six years old and have perpetuated to the present.

“Chyron, what’s up?” I answered, a bit groggy as I awakened with a mild martini hangover. I never kept a phone in the bedroom, but last night was an exception. Mom was visiting New York to see me as Lumiere, the singing and dancing French candelabra in Disney’s
Beauty and the Beast
, and we had early-morning plans to rent a car and drive to the Woodbury Commons deluxe designer outlet mall for a crisp September day of high-end bargain hunting. We could rent a wheelchair there if her hip and/or knee got tired or ached, so we were all set. Tom stirred and made his way to our recently remodeled postage-stamp-sized kitchen, where he could amazingly
produce gourmet dinners for twelve, but making coffee was his sole purpose this morning.

“Turn on NBC or any station; I think a plane hit the World Trade Center,” Chuck said.

“Oh, that’s awful,” I said into the receiver and, flipping on the TV, then, “Tom, come in and see this, a plane hit the Trade Center, do they know anything?”

“They think it was a small commuter plane, but that’s so weird,” Chuck replied.

“I know, are the people getting out? It’s early yet, let’s hope not too many are at work … OH MY GOD!”

“HOLY SHIT, NO!”

“OH GOD, NO!”

The second plane had hit, and Tom and I stood in utter shock and disbelief. The newscasters mentioned the possibility of a terrorist attack. Staring at the screen in fear, we prayed and hoped that people could get out of the buildings, never dreaming the horrible sight we’d witness next: figures jumping from windows, people suffering a horrific death before our eyes, and the nation’s, and the world’s.

“Chy, I gotta go, Mom’s up here visiting, oh my God this is horrible, give my love to Margaret and the kids.”

“Buddy, be careful, if you need anything, just call.”

We started to make frantic calls to family and friends, making sure everyone was all right. In New York, especially in the theatre, your friends become your family. Then the towers went down, and as they fell I crumpled to the ground, screaming. Tom’s big, beautiful eyes were glued to the Sony in complete disbelief. A second or two passed, and he quickly pulled me to my feet. Calmly he said, “Call your
mom at the DoubleTree Suites. Times Square could be a target. I’m going to get water and canned goods, and I should call Leslie and get milk and food for her and the baby.”

Mom usually stayed closer to me, but since she walked with the aid of a cane and was having severe orthopedic challenges, I took advantage of my Broadway connections and discounts to get her a suite right across Broadway from the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, in the heart of the theatre district. Nothing was going to stop her from seeing me in one of my Broadway shows—never had in the past, and never would.

“Mom, have you seen the TV, do you know what’s going on?” I said, with panic creeping into my voice, “Get in a cab and get to my place now. You know the address, just make sure the driver goes east and up, or through the park if it’s open—just not near anything some nut would want to blow up. What am I saying? That’s all of fucking New York!” Obviously, the gravity of the situation had not registered.

“Bryan, my pet, you know I can’t hear you when you use that kind of language.”

“Mother, do you know what’s going on? You are in the Times Square area, it’s a target. Get in a cab and get here NOW!”

“Okay baby dear, but I haven’t put on my face yet.”

“Mom, just take your purse—and for the love of God, come here now!”

“All right, sweetie, calm down, I’ll be there soon. Love you, bye-bye now.”

“Love you too.”

Tom mentioned that if Mom could not get a cab, there would be no way for her to walk, and public transportation might be suspended, so we decided that I would rent a wheelchair at the medical supplies shop on the corner of Second Avenue and 72nd, and Tom would get food and other essentials. As I went to dress, I overheard him talking to our friend Leslie, who had just given birth. Her husband was probably safe in Midtown, but she was in a panic just like the rest of the city. Tom assured her that her husband would call as soon as he could, and in the meantime he would get milk and Pampers for our godchild Audrey.

“I’m off!” I said, running for the door, but as soon as I reached for the knob, I ran back and embraced Tom. We didn’t know what was going to happen, whether our world would end before wheelchairs and milk were acquired, but right now it was not about wheelchairs and milk.

“I love you,” I said. “Love you too,” he replied, and then I was on the streets on one of the clearest, crispest, most beautiful blue-sky days I’d ever witnessed in Manhattan.

Running to the medical supply shop, where I’d purchased numerous knee braces for my ever-failing knees, I watched people’s tortured expressions as they cried and screamed on pay phones and cell phones, either in sorrow or in relief. Within minutes most phone service, including cell phones, was dead, adding even more fear and doubt to the already dire situation. As I rented the wheelchair from a rather calm lady, I explained my situation and she informed me that the subways were not running, so the
best way to get to Times Square—actually Duffy Square, as she pointed out, is the correct name of the area at 46th and 47th Street and Broadway where Mother’s hotel was located—was to take the bus. But who knew how far it would go downtown?

Pushing the empty wheelchair, I walked for a couple of blocks before a bus finally came. I immediately noticed something odd: people were talking to each other. One man was listening to his radio and informing the passengers when there was an update. Then they would comment and discuss. As I struggled to find my Metro card while balancing the cumbersome chair, a pierced and punkish student came to my aid as the bus driver kindly told me that this ride was on him.

We edged our way slowly downtown from 74th Street, only to be halted a few blocks later by a police barricade stopping all traffic. Not knowing what was going on or what buildings or areas to avoid, I thought it safe to walk south and westward across town through Central Park, exiting at Seventh Avenue and Central Park South. Like a salmon swimming upstream, I made my way pushing the wheelchair through the masses marching north to escape Midtown and downtown. Finally I emerged onto Seventh Avenue, where still more people poured out against the usual traffic flow. So many people and sounds and cries and shouts overwhelmed my senses. The whole journey is a blur. Somewhere on the way, I bumped into an old friend, Marc Cherry, who would later create
Desperate Housewives
, and he joined me in case I needed extra help with Mother.

Upon arrival at the DoubleTree, I called room 1023, but there was no answer, and then the front desk informed me that Mrs. Gayle Batt had indeed checked out, and told me what a charming mother I had. Marc went back to his hotel, but gave me his cell phone number in hopes the phones would soon be receiving better service. Then I commenced the long journey back home through the sea of weary, shattered New Yorkers, once again with an empty wheelchair in tow.

I have heard some crazy things in my day, just plumb looney-tunes crazy, but on the walk home I actually heard a woman say with a thick Brooklyn accent, “This is a crying shame, that Trade Center was so nice. They just did all those beautiful renovations and everything, and them nice stores like Ann Taylor and everything. Did you ever see the gorgeous Banana Republic there? I just think it’s tragic that a nice shopping mall like that …”

I wanted to scream and wring her insensitive neck, but of course I didn’t. However, I noticed how people, with the exception of this moron, had been so kind and helpful all day, no pushing, not a foul word or ugly gesture since the towers fell. So instead of telling her off, I simply said, to her utter bewilderment, “Bellevue is to the right.”

After what seemed an eternity, I wheeled the chair out of the park at the 79th Street entrance and straight along the wide thoroughfare that was my home for years. Mixed with anger, despair, and violation was an odd comfort when I saw national guardsmen with automatic rifles in front of various consulates of foreign nations. My feelings would soon turn to horror when tanks lined Fifth Avenue,
and concrete barricades were placed to prevent car bombings of the local churches and synagogues.

Finally arriving at the apartment, I opened the door to see Tom and Mom with big balloon glasses of Chardonnay, one ready to be poured for me. There were frantic hugs and kisses and tears all around. Mom said sweetly, “Bryanny boy, I hope you don’t mind, but I think we needed a little sip to take the edge off.”

“Sip!” Tom said, laughing. “Gayle had three cases delivered.”

I sat, and they filled me in about what they had heard on the news. Tom had gotten an air mattress for us to sleep on, and Mom would take our bed. Tom marveled at how great New Yorkers are, and we all toasted as he recalled his trip to the Gristede’s grocery down the block. Everyone was frantically acquiring canned goods, water, and supplies, but people were actually being helpful and courteous. He was amazed that one customer actually said, “Excuse me, but I believe you were in front of me in line.”

It was the first and only laugh of the day, short-lived but hearty. Luckily the few people we knew who worked in the World Trade Center were either late to work or got out in time. Mom had asked Tom and would later ask me constantly if there was anyone she should pray for, to which I could only reply, “Everyone, us included.” I marveled at her faith, her unswerving faith that had seen her through and would continue to see her through more and more tragedies, illnesses, and heartbreaks. For a multitude of reasons, my faith was on hold.

“Dawlin’, I’ve got to fix my face for dinner. I think it’s
just lovely that everyone is getting together … Oh baby dear, we didn’t tell you?”

Tom chimed in, “Everyone is going over to Rachel and Lenny’s. Leslie and Bryan are bringing gumbo. We are bringing wine. Cliff and Jimmy and John and Jeff are coming, too. Dinner under distress.”

Gayle added, “Tommy, my love, you sure there’s no Southern blood in you? That’s what we do! When things are bad and when things are good and when it’s really bad, bad, bad, and it’s bad, bad, bad now, we get together and eat … I know it’s not just a Southern thing my heart, but I just think gumbo helps everything along.”

These are our best friends in New York, our family; there was no way we would or could not be together this night of all nights. Of course we ran a bit behind schedule because someone couldn’t find the right Ray Cole scarf to match her dinner ensemble, so Tom and I waited while Miss Prissy preened and puffed. Finally she emerged, ready to once again meet, greet, and entertain my friends, who adored her. I walked out with the wheelchair, and Mom said, “Well, I just have the two most handsome escorts; these New York ladies are going to be so jealous, I Sewanee. Dolls, I have a little problem, not big, medium size—with my bad hip and knee, I can’t get into that old high bathtub of yours. Now I think it’s lovely and deep, like a small swimming pool, but I just can’t get in it.”

I quickly thought of many possibilities—all frightening—but the most horrifying was the possibility of actually seeing Mom nude or having to bathe her. I love and adore her, but there are some things a son must never,
ever have to endure if at all possible. So quickly I thought of a solution. “Okay, Mother … how about I draw the bath, you put on a robe, I get a step stool and help you into the tub, then we close the shower curtain, you hand me the robe, and
voilà!”

She countered, “Pet, I just don’t see how I would get out, and it’s slippery, and I’m not too steady. The last thing we need is me with a broken hip. The hospitals are busy enough with … oooh, that reminds me. Were the lines to donate blood shorter, because we must do that, pumpkin, we simply must.”

“Mom, I don’t think they need as much as they thought. It’s so horrible to imagine, but there were not as many survivors as we hoped.” With those chilling yet true words, there came a hush over the conversation as we decided to table the bathtub discussion for now and wheeled east to Madison Avenue and my dear college friend’s glamorously large flat, with a case of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay on Mom’s lap.

She broke the silence. “Petunia, we should stop and get some flowers. I just love that you can pass these entire sweet little corner groceries and they have the most beautiful bouquets, that’s what we need to bring too. Now what blossoms should we get? Tommy dear, what’s your expert opinion?”

Tom and I shared a glance; she was on tonight, clearly diffusing and entertaining, but it was just the start. “Gayle, why not sunflowers? It’s fall and there should be sunflowers at every bodega on the East Side.”

“I knew you’d know. That’s perfect, Tom. Let me tell
you something. That Tom, he’s the go-to guy when you need something done right or the perfect suggestion. I’ll never forget those gorgeous arrangements you did for that beautiful seventieth birthday party you and Bryanny, Jay and Andree gave me at Le Petit Theatre. That just meant so much to me to have it at that beautiful historic theatre I love so much, and the invitation was breathtaking, everyone marveled. Tom, I must ask you a big favor. Aunt Carol is turning seventy next year, and I would love to do a dinner party at the club. Would you mind helping with the invitations? Nobody has such imaginative and fun ideas as you, pet. Now Bryanny boy, what flowers do you think we should get tonight?”