You get to Thornton by flying through Dallas–Fort Worth, usually with a long layover. From there, you take a Royale Air Lines commuter plane, which does not even have a bathroom. There isn’t a big demand for flights to my hometown. I can’t imagine why.
During my layover at DFW, I locate the non-sectarian chapel. It’s a small room with about eight wooden benches that face this huge oil painting. Someone received divine inspiration and probably a hefty commission from the Port Authority to paint a Boeing 747 flying through a terrible storm. Flying right alongside the plane is this huge figure of Jesus. His hands hold the plane up, like if it weren’t for Him, that plane would crash in a second and kill everybody involved. His hands curl under the belly of that plane, like the Boeing engineers had designed the body of the plane with just such a thing in mind. I stand in front of the painting for so long that it finally stops looking like the sentimental trash that gets sold on the side of the highway and begins to make a deep kind of sense to me.
I am really losing it, I think, and go to sit on one of the benches. I swallow half a Xanax, then take a People magazine out of my carry-on, but I cannot get too worked up about Madonna’s latest exploits. I keep thinking about Thornton in October. I haven’t been back to Louisiana in three years, and my heart starts pounding and my breathing gets ragged every time I picture the streets of that town. I put down People and take the worry dolls out of my purse, checking to make sure my asthma inhaler is still there. I pour the tiny figures out of their little blue striped handmade pouch into my hand. Six of them—one each for Mama, Daddy, Little Shep, Lulu, Baylor, and me. I walk up to the painting and line them up along the frame like little offerings.
Here, J.C., I think, You take care of them. I’m tired.
It’s nighttime when my plane lands in Thornton. I get off the plane and walk across the cracked tarmac to the terminal. I can see the same tired hair-netted waitresses still serving hamburgers in the airport café. Or maybe these women are their daughters. Every Sunday night when I was seventeen, I used to drive out to the airport to watch planes and dream about where they would someday deliver me.
I can still smell that chemical-sweet, faint aroma of cotton poison hanging in the autumn air, exactly the way it smelled twenty years ago. There is the forgiving coolness in the air that Louisiana gets in late October, a coolness that seems kinder than anywhere else in the world—if only because the heat and humidity which preceded it were so cruel.
Baylor comes forward and hugs me. Welcome home to Wackoville, he says. See? I told you it’d be nice when you got here. It’s football weather!
He checks me into the Theodore Hotel, the restored 1920s hotel downtown on the river. It’s a gracious old building with potted palms and ceiling fans in the lobby. There are desks where you can actually sit and write letters, like people used to do when they were away on a trip and thinking of the folks they had left behind. Mama and Daddy had their wedding reception in the huge hotel ballroom with the mirrors and the crystal chandeliers. There are very few pictures of that event, however, because the photographer got as smashed as the rest of the guests.
After Baylor carries my bags and unlocks the door to my room, he turns on one of the brass lamps above the bed. See, Sidda? he says. There’s a ceiling fan even in the room! He turns it on and its whirring freshens the stale hotel air. Bay walks over to the French doors and pulls open the curtains, and we step out on a small balcony that overlooks the Garnet River. I can smell the water and the loamy earth.
Baylor says, It’s not so bad, huh? I mean, it’s not the Plaza, but it’s not bad for Thornton.
Then he opens up the antique armoire that holds a huge color TV. He turns the TV set on for background noise and walks into the bathroom to break the toilet-seat banner—our ritual as kids whenever Mama and Daddy took us to hotels.
It makes me laugh. Aw, why didn’t you let me do it?! I say.
He walks over and leans down to open the small refrigerator. Look, he points out proudly: Anything you want. You’re uptown, baby. Toasted almonds, Godiva chocolate, they even got a split of champagne in here. You want anything else, just call room service and charge it.
Then he turns to me and asks, Is it okay? I mean, the room and all?
Oh sweetie, I assure him, it’s lovely. It must be costing you a fortune.
This is not New York, he says. Don’t even think about it. These are to the rental car, he explains, and hands me a set of keys. It’s down in the parking lot. A red Tempo. It has a good air conditioner. I checked. And FM. No tape deck, sorry.
Thank you, Bay, I tell him.
He sits on the bed awkwardly and examines my luggage. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave. He stares at the 1930s suitcases I bought at a thrift store in upstate New York. They’re plastered with decals from all over the country, so I can feel like an old-time vaudeville artist when I job-out to direct plays.
Have you been to all of these places? Bay asks.
Uh-huh, I tell him in my best Chaney voice. Been ever’where. Done ever’thing.
He looks up at me and smiles.
I love you, Baylor, I say.
Thanks for coming back for the baptism, he says.
Well, I’ve never held my godchild in my arms. It’s a big deal.
Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, Baylor says. Then he kisses me and says: Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bedbugs bite! Like Mama said to us eighty-four thousand times when we were growing up.
The next day, I almost faint when I pull the Tempo into the circular drive of Baylor’s new house. He’d sent me photos, but still, I had no idea! It’s a mini-mansion straight out of Southern Living! Columns running the length of the porch. Ten white rocking chairs lined up, with pots of flowers next to them. A manicured lawn that must take scads of workers to keep up. There is something almost embarrassing about how new Old South it all is.
The twins, Jeff and Caitlin, run out to greet me.
They haven’t seen me in three years, but they yell out, Hey! Aunt Sidda! Hey! I talk to them on the phone every Sunday morning from wherever I am, so it’s not like we’re strangers. But still, I almost burst into tears to see how much they’ve grown since I last visited. How can they change like that without me being here?!
Their accents are thick as Louisiana coffee. I love it. I drop my cultivated Yankee accent right then and there and relax into my mother tongue.
Angel-twins! I call out. Come here! Oh, I’ve missed-missed-missed yall!
They hug me and say, We missed-missed-missed you too, Aunt Sidda!
They’re dressed to within an inch of their lives. Melissa loves dressing them up. It’s her art form. She comes out and gives me a small kiss on the cheek.
Oh Siddalee, she says, we’re so glad you could come. Now come see Lee! She’s been waiting for you.
Melissa gives me a quick peek of the house on our way to the nursery. Huge formal dining room, a pool with a deck that I can see through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Live oaks lining the yard. At least Bay built on an old lot, I think. Jesus, French doors everywhere. A master bath the size of my studio apartment in Manhattan. A study with 1840s mahogany and glass bookcases and antique butler’s tables. A handsome antique globe of the world. Mile-high carpet everywhere you step. Baylor’s kind of house.
The nursery is straight out of a dream catalog. But who can look at the decor? It’s Lee who pulls me in. Lee with the huge black eyes that stare straight up at me, as if to say: Okay, introduce yourself, Godmother. Lee of the dolphin forehead. Lee of the jet-black hair and thick eyelashes. Lee, the only force on earth that could make me move back to Thornton just to be in the same room with her every time she wakes from a nap.
We waited until you got here to dress her, Melissa says.
Baylor’s in the doorway knotting his tie. He comes over and hugs me, Hey God-mama! he says. Is your goddaughter a doll or what?
A white linen and ecru lace baptismal gown is laid out on the changing table, along wit
h a pair of white satin booties and a little white cap that ties under the chin.
I can hardly believe all this stuff! I exclaim. You guys don’t kid around.
Melissa says shyly, The gown was my great-grandmother’s. I bought the booties and cap in New Orleans. You don’t think they look too new, do you? she asks me worriedly.
I look at my sister-in-law, who I used to consider beneath my brother, who I once described as a “classic Southern bimbo who reads only dime-store romances.” I was wrong about her. She is kind. One time, in a pique of jealousy, I called her “mindless” in front of Bay. He didn’t get angry with me. He just said: Sidda, what can I tell you? When I wake up with nightmares, she holds me and she doesn’t ask any questions. She loves me. Don’t talk bad about her.
I shut up after that.
I look at Melissa and say, The hat and booties are beautiful, sweetie. Everything is beautiful. Thank you for waiting to let me dress her.
I lift Lee and begin to put the gown on her. I’m so awkward, I keep saying under my breath, Forgive me, Lee, I’m new at this. She helps me (I swear) put her little arms into the sleeves of the gown and she doesn’t squirm when I slip the tiny socks and satin booties on her feet. I hold one of her feet before I slip the socks on. Her toes are so pink and perfect. Her tiny foot sits in my hand like a new potato just out of the ground. I pick her up in my arms and for a moment the wisdom of fairy tales sparkles through: We all need blessings in our cribs, we all need protection from the witches.
I hear a phone bleating down the hall. A moment later, Bay sticks his head in the nursery. It’s our alleged mother, he says, and hands me a portable phone. I put Lee down and step out into the hall. I need to focus all my concentration when I attempt a conversation with my mother.
Dahling! Mama says breathlessly. Why didn’t you call us as soon as you got in last night?
It was too late, Mother, I tell her.
Oh well, anyway—I simply must ask you a crucial question.
I can picture her in the bathroom, rushing to get moisturized and made up, cigarette perched in the bathroom ashtray with “Vivi Dahling, Happy Forty!” engraved on it. The Ya-Yas love giving anything that’s silver and engraved.
Is it too late in the year to wear aqua?! my mother asks. I’ve got to know!
She says this like she has 9-1-1 on the line and is asking for instructions on how to give CPR.
I’ve got eighty-four-thousand things to wear, she gasps, but I just feel called by the aqua!
Mother, I reply, you’ve got to be kidding! Aqua was made for this time of year. You will be the belle of the Baptism.
Oh, thank God, she says. I am so relieved to have you home! I didn’t know who I was going to ask for advice! All the Ya-Yas are down in Baton Rouge for the LSU-Auburn game. What are you wearing?
Oh, I tell her, I just thought I’d go with my basic rhinestone tiara and my green sequin Mardi Gras Queen gown. You know, the complete fairy-godmother look.
You crazy fool, she said. Sounds perfect.
You can say a lot about my mother. Jungians, Freudians, Reichians—you name it, they’d all have a field day with her. But she is funny. She is quick and she is funny.
At our Lady of Divine Compassion Church they’ve moved the Baptismal font up to the side of the altar. Mama’s wearing the aqua with a matching hat, her hands still shaking like always. She hugs me and whispers: I think you’ve lost weight!
Daddy is shifting his weight from one foot to another the way he has always done inside a Catholic church.
Hey babe, he says, you looking good. New York not treating you too bad, I guess.
I hardly recognize Little Shep. He’s gained about forty pounds and his face is all puffy, like a middle-aged man, which I suppose he’s moving in the direction of being. (Strange, I never think of myself as anything near middle-aged, but when Mama and Daddy were in their late thirties, that’s certainly what they were called.)
Little Shep gives me a starched hug and says, Hey, Miss Broadway, how you doin?
Kane looks tall and tailored as usual. I’ve always liked her because I’ve never once seen her wear high heels, which is a monumental statement of individuality for a woman in the Gret Stet of Loosiana.
She shakes my hand and says, Welcome home, Sidd. Dorey and Kurt, do yall remember Aunt Sidda?
No, Kurt says.
I try not to die.
Dorey says, I remember you. You’re the movie star in the picture on Uncle Bay’s desk.
Uncle Bay has a picture of me on his desk? I ask.
It’s one of the glamorous ones from the big play you directed, Kane explains.
I’ve directed a “big play?” I think.
Oh right, I say. The head shot where I looked gorgeous for one hour after spending a hundred dollars for a professional makeup job? Looks sort of like I’m auditioning for Dallas?
Kane laughs and says, Glad you could make it, Sidd. Then she turns to say something to Melissa.
Then Lulu shows up in a mauve silk suit with a slit up the side of the skirt, and heels so high she stands six inches taller than me, which she is definitely not. Her hair is about three inches long—far shorter than her fingernails. We hug and her perfume is so strong it makes my eyes water.
So you made it down, huh? she asks.
How could I miss it? I say. I’m the G.M.
Right, she says. I figured you would be. I’m Dorey’s godmother, you know. She adores me.
Yes, Lulu, I remember.
I’d kill for a cigarette, she says, wouldn’t you? Being in a Catholic church still gives me the fucking willies. Reminds me of all those lesbo penguins.
Still sweet-lipped after all these years, I remark.
I try, Lulu says, and rolls her eyes. Think anyone’ll mind if I light up in here?
Hell no, I tell her. The Catholic Church now actively encourages smoking in church, just to try and bring stray lambs back into the fold!
Lulu laughs and gives me a kiss through the air and says, Love your hair color.
Thanks, I tell her. I like yours too. What there is of it.
My new approach is just to cut off all the damn gray.
How are you? I ask her.
Like the Ya-Yas, she says: Simply mahvelous, dahling. Couldn’t be better.
Oh God, you can smell her perfume throughout the entire church. Her makeup is perfectly done, her blush applied like a Lancôme ad. Isn’t she going to just die standing in those heels for the whole ceremony? I want to run and get her a chair.
Calm down, I think. You do not have to take care of Lulu.
I hear Mama squeal, and I turn to see Willetta and Chaney slip in through the side door of Divine Compassion. Willetta is wearing one of her glorious hats and Chaney has on a suit of Daddy’s I remember from Bay’s law school graduation.
Mama crosses over to them at the same time I do. I didn’t know yall were coming! she says.
Yas’m, Willetta says, Mister Bay say we better be here.
Then Willetta gives me one of her hugs. This is the woman who invented hugs. When Letta and I hug, my arms reach right about at her sternum—that’s how tall she is. She hugs me with every cell of her body.
Oooh, Miz Siddy, I done missed you so much! It ain’t the same just talkin on the phone. Babygirl, you looks good. You looks real good.
Willetta still smells the same: like Lipton tea and Ajax. As far as I’m concerned, if you could bottle that smell, all the companies that make Xanax, Prozac, and Valium would be out of business. You could just open the bottle and smell Willetta and never feel panicked or depressed again.
Chaney takes my hand in his and says, We sure glad to see you, Miz Siddy. Been too long. You be lookin healthy.
He has gray curling through his hair and he is more stooped over than the last time I’d seen him. Even though I call them twice a month, I never realized they were actually getting old. Time is a strange thing when you live so far away from your home soil.
Mid-afternoo
n light shines through a large stained glass above the baptismal font. Even though that glass has been there forever, seeing it in that particular October afternoon light, it looks all new to me. Like I’ve never seen it before. In blues and purples, it’s a window of Our Lady holding Baby Jesus. The infant has a round baby belly and the slightest of dimples. The Virgin looks as holy as ever, but I have never noticed the sadness in her eyes before. They are eyes that have seen all the suffering in the world and have managed to still stay open.
Maybe that is a new stained glass, I think, I don’t remember those eyes. Maybe some artist has changed those eyes.
Monsignor Messina appears just like priests do, silently, out of nowhere. Short and chubby as ever, he smiles at us and actually reaches up and knuckles Baylor’s head the way he used to do when we were little. Monsignor Messina was a green young priest when he was first sent to our parish. Back then he was in the shadow of Monsignor O’Ryan (or “Pig-face,” as we lovingly called him). Pig-face was the man of God who snowed Mama for awhile with the idea of becoming a saint right here on earth. But Monsignor Messina was the kind of priest who always reminded me of spaghetti dinners and bright purple and gold satin robes and Blessed Virgins all smothered in jewelry and flowers.
Then I am holding Lee in my arms, with her body facing out so all can witness her baby beauty. Her baptismal gown falls in perfect folds against my hip. This is a princess baptism. My mother is recording it all on the video recorder. I feel Lee’s tiny, fragile hand curve over my finger. I wonder who held me like this when I was baptized. I can’t remember my godmother. Surely it must have been one of the Ya-Yas. Lee’s godfather stands next to me, a shy CPA, one of Melissa’s brothers. He looks to me for his cues.
Monsignor Messina pours the holy water over Lee’s baby head. She lets out an indignant little cry as the water drips over her sweet, defenseless brow.