‘Cannibal Mothers’

Some women are unforgetable, some indelible, some avatars of pure poison. When they become mothers, the swath of their damage lasts for generations. Years ago, I met one such vortex and the stain of her presence has lasted to this day– etched by acid on the window of time that framed her.

The occasion was an invitation to Christmas in Massachusetts by a close friend and colleague. I was forewarned that I would be the only 'outsider.' Little did I know, nor realized, the extraordinary priviledge of seeing my friend's soul so close to the bone.

I would be acceptable to them: white, educated, reasonably well-bred, knew my way around the dinner table as an experienced 'extra man', and felt secure in suits and tuxedos. The draw backs were: male, Catholic, divorced, and the very worst– from California. These later deficencies were politely accepted under the scrim of plausible deniability.

It was an interesting group into whose maw I was about to enter. On the father's side was an old Huguenot family, who centuries earlier, fled France to the Netherlands, then protestant England, and finally to the New World. They brought with them an energetic bourgeois energy, that blossomed in full glory with the advent of the Industrial Revolution.

They settled in Lowell, Mass., one of the first industrial centers in North America. Perhaps better known as the birth place of actress Betty Davis. Even today, one can see mile after mile of multi-storied red brick factories dating back to the early nineteenth century.

Although Lowell is known as one of the first textile centers in the North East, it was also home to one of America's earliest paper box factories– the source of wealth for my friend's family. They, like others of their commercial class, made great fortunes early in the explosive growth of American industry. The original family factory still stands producing boxes. In its cavernous red brick bowels built on the Lowell River, a huge paddle-wheel and rusted antique steam works testifies to an earlier energy source.

The family seat became enshrined in a large rambling white Victorian that had an unusual addition– a three storied tower that contained an enormous organ upon which, my friend's grandfather played Bach and Buxtehude into the wee hours of the morning. The family, educated, cosmopolitian, well-traveled and cultured, mourned the death of the grand old gentleman, who hanged himself from the third floor balcony after the death of his wife from cancer.

I remember peering through the three-storied Elizabethian windows to see the dusty relic of the organ and an acre of white-sheeted furniture. Although not as grand as the decayed Bouvier Grey Gardens, the old house was considered haunted by local kids, who tresspassed on the property– shutdown and overgrown with a thicket of lilac bushes, rhodendrons, and creepy with the smell of feral cats.

The mother's family were second-generation German farmers. She, the subject of our memory, was never accepted by the in-laws. With the intelligence of a gnat, the cunning of a weasle, and the arrogant certainity of the ignorant, she had snared her dim witted, gentle husband at a spring cotillion, hosted by the exclusive finishing school to which she had been given an athletic scholarship.

Her side of the family were German fanatics and ardent supporters of Hitler until war was declared and they pretended to be Swiss. This offense certainly added to the decline of relations between the families. Slights, large and small, were held dear, like poisoned jewels, to be recounted over and over in the tiniest detail a half-century later. Her family, with heavy lidded eyes, had grown used to the waves of acid resentment rolling from her fevered accounts of events.

Meeting the first time was memorable. She was barely five foot high. Her youthful boy-like body, frightening pale blue eyes, and curly blond hair had turned with age and hate into a picture of Dorian Grey. Her nose was beaked, and her talon fingers crabbed with arthritis. Her wispy dyed dull brown hair was pulled back in its habitual chignon. Her long drooping ear lobes were clipped with two large faux pearls. Around her neck however, were several strands of tiny, lustrous, pink pearls, which provided the only light in her presence. Dressed in black, her sagging breasts made her look like a Kali Durga–a golem goddess from the dark realms.

We arrived late Christmas Eve to the house- a dead ringer for that which haunted the 'Amityville Horror'. I was shown a room on the second floor wing of bedrooms, which I had all to myself. It was a small space– a boy's room. The walls and ceiling were paneled in yellow knotty pine, lacquered to a high shine.

The bed cot was covered in a cowboy Howdy Doody print to match the curtains. At its end, was folded a white and maroon Exeter blanket, dated 1952. Along one wall, a bronze lamp with baby shoes at its base was shaded in stiched parchment covered in a cactus print. The other wall, containing the closet, had a built-in desk and bookshelves filled with ancient 'National Geographics', 'Hardy Boys' mysteries, and stacks of 'Boy's Life'.

We were the last to arrive. The rest of the family had taken to their rooms to prepare for the following day's holiday ordeal. I got a singular tour of the house. The sitting room was characteristic of all the other rooms: it was filled with elegant old world antiques salvaged from the big house, mixed among practical stacked TV trays; brocaded, uncomfortable seating; gilded do-dads on every surface; and photographs of former proms and debutant glories. On the walls were wasp versions of velvet paintings– ornately framed Norman Rockwell prints of American life. The occasional Hudson River Valley landscape from the old house provided the only authentic elegance in that Republican showpiece room.

We retired and the house fell silent. Then, about three in the morning, I heard a creak; then a stomp-shuffle; stomp-shuffle; thwak-thwak-thwak; thwak-thwak-thwak; thwak-thwak-thwak –then silence. I discreetly peeked out my door–the only one to do so. Apparently, I was experiencing what everyone else knew as old custom. Santa Claus had arrived. Depending on gender, there was tossed unwrapped, against the doors- either blue pin-point cotton dress shirts (all the same size it turned out), or a pair of black ladies' gloves.

Nobody rose for breakfast, because Christmas dinner was scheduled for 11:00 sharp. It must have been hell for that martini crowd of dour family, craving coffee. The dinner was to have been cooked and served by Mary Shay.

Mary Shay had come to the house as an endentured servant about the time my friend's parents were married. Half of her family were already working in the box factory. She came over from Ireland with a purchased ticket and a contract to do house work. She stayed with the family for the rest of her life. In essence, she was my friend's nanny, his one source of affection and love, his mother's slave, and her poor family's salvation.

The trouble was Mary didn't show up for Christmas, and some strange woman and her helpers were bustling about the kitchen. No one said a word. It wasn't the first time Mary's independent rebellion had visited mutiny on the best of planning. Mary and her employer had spent the better part of sixty years loathing and needing each other.

Dinner was served precisely at 11:00. We all dressed in black, except my friend, who appeared at table wearing a tan Western jacket, cowboy boots, jeans with a big, brass Peter Built belt buckle, and bola tie. The first course was grey soup; the entre was grey meat, grey vegetables enlivened by bleached carrots, and grey potatoes. The salad course was iceberg lettace with some Kraft orange dressing drizzled over the top. Dessert was dry German stollen and rancid Folger's coffee.

Twelve people sat silent, and bravely picked at the lumpen meal. It was, as Oscar Wilde might have said, : "The ridiculus eating the impossible." The only conversation consisted of a "sit up straight" and "chew your food slowly" issued from the head of the table. At finish, the group rose as one and headed for the sitting room, where they sat silently dying to escape. Our hostess, flush with the success of another controlled event, held sway in the court of frozen captives, and told us the parable of 'The Ant and the Grasshopper.' It was her version of the 'Night Before Christmas.' Silence fell as she finished. I made the terrible gaff of opining that I had heard a different ending: the grasshopper didn't actually die in the frozen New England winter, but had gone to Key West for seasonal work.

The room rose at once as if by a lemming magic between them, and hastened on to their real holiday celebrations. There were no children present of course. Such a presence would have occasioned heart attacks. We left too. The car had been pre-packed the night before. On the way out of town, headed for the deep snow and quiet drifts of Provincetown, we stopped at the edge of Lowell. It was a shabby rundown part of the city. We pulled up to a tiny cottage, rang the bell and went in. Seated at a bright oil cloth kitchen table was Mary Shay and her equally ancient sister, behind a half-fifth of rye wiskey and a quart of egg nog. We had some: a shot–then a swig of egg nog, and sang carols until the two old ladies nodded off.

It was a strange memorable holiday, stifled by the evil shadows of a cannibal mother, but ended with rebellious joy.