Susan Henderson "Applause" creative nonfiction in LitPot

APPLAUSE

Creative Non Fiction by Susan Henderson

Mom keeps the dress hidden in the back of her closet, slips it over her head when Dad’s away, tugs it past her hips. Fiery pinks aren’t recommended for redheads, but the ruffles angled along the bottom are sexy. She begins to cut the security tag off the neckline, but decides it doesn't matter because the lights will be dimmed, and she likes how it draws the neck lower.

Her rheumatologist would scold her about the heels. She rolls back the rug in front of the mirror, pushes the couch aside, then pours the wine. This is the night club.

She turns up the salsa music, removes her glasses, applies stage makeup. With her eyes on the mirror she starts to dance. The wine sinks in and the room closes tight around her. Dad would disapprove, but he’s on his business flight by now, and Mom smiles as if just asked to dance. She turns her eyes down and blushes, checks to see how it looks when she blushes. Members of the band watch her, jealous women at small tables, men leaning against the wall. She wants to kiss someone, wine does that to her. She starts to cry, this also happens when she drinks.

Once she let me watch her dance. It was spring break and we were drunk on hurricanes in New Orleans. Mom had taken me there so I could quit Lithium cold turkey, she insisted I didn’t need it. Quitting meant the diagnosis was a mistake and I was fine. It meant Mom hadn't failed to raise a happy child, and I wouldn't be telling any more secrets to some man who clicked a pencil against his teeth as I talked.

“What you need is girl-time,” Mom said.

We were both beautiful that trip, Mom still young, still allowing people to take her picture without putting a hand over her face. We were buzzed all day, drinking on the sunny porches of cafés in between shopping and telling each other we looked great in everything we tried on. “How about these beads?” she said, almost giddy how we encouraged each other, chatting up the staff in the shops about what fine merchandise they had and how happy we were to visit their town.

We stumbled back to our hotel, drunken boys whistling at us right to the entrance. I yelled, "Stop it, that's my mother!" but neither of us wanted anyone to stop.

In the elevator, we giggled about how we'd decorated the room, then unlocked the door: Mardi Gras beads and scarves over the lampshades and rainbow colored voodoo candles from the Chicken Man. I binged on chips from the stocked fridge while Mom emptied her bag of stolen items on the bed: a small dress folded like a handkerchief, barrettes decorated with big cloth flowers, random knick-knacks-- things that twirled when you blew them, perfume. She sprayed some my way, then changed in front of me--wouldn't if she had been sober--and asked me to pin a flower in her hair.

I'd helped her shoplift for years. My job was not to tell on her, not judge her as she power-walked out of the store trying not to giggle and her neck turning splotchy red. It would always end with hiding the bags from Dad afterward. But this was the first time she’d shown me the catch, first time she’d gotten something for me. She looped a handful of strung beads over my head.

She lit the voodoo candles, twisted her red hair over her sunburned shoulder and moved her hips to the music playing outside our window, looking at her reflection above the dresser as if all the shouts and ruckus were for her. She danced on the bed so she could see her pretty vacation sandals in the mirror.

The hurricanes were wearing off, and Mom danced more self-consciously, suddenly acted silly, pretending her dance had all been in fun. She tumbled on to her single bed, the flower slipping lower in her hair.

“I do this when Daddy goes out of town,” she said.

“You’re a pretty dancer, Mom.” I was listening and turning the bottle of Lithium, watching the pills roll through the yellow. “Do you think I should taper off with the medicine, have maybe one today?”

“No, just toss them. You’re not depressed.”

That was the moment I remembered sobering up from the hurricanes and seeing Mom with her makeup sweating off, our hotel room like an affair caught in the light. I’d had things to tell her-- what it was like before the pills, things that bothered me. I’d thought we were taking turns sharing secrets, but she didn’t want to know mine.

I walked to the dresser, slipped the beads off and gingerly dropped them into a drawer filled with pajamas. I let her go that trip, made a quiet decision to give her back to Dad.

She got out her camera and we held our heads together and took the picture too close up. Mom still wore her beads. My smile was forced and tired. You could see it in the photo, how I had turned from her, decided not to save her anymore but to save myself.

Over the phone, Mom tells me she’s hurt her knee. She’s cupped her hand over the bottom of the phone now and tells me about moving the rugs in the pink dress and the too-high heels.

Her knee is swelling, but she’s afraid to call the doctor. “What if he asks how I hurt it? What if he tells me to stop?”

She’s telling her story like she can’t stand to be alone with it. Like she’s got to get it all out before Dad returns from his latest business trip and she’s back to her plain life at home on the couch. I don’t know if she remembers dancing in New Orleans, if she knows I’ve heard this secret and kept it safe.

It’s been years since that trip, since we giggled while holding hands, years since she could fit into the items she stole. I remember catching her eye as she dropped the tiny dress into her bag. She had that buzz I don’t get, holding that dress like it would fix everything.

She is speaking to me in a way that makes me realize no one ever stepped in to take my place. It is only me to whisper with, to adore her. Even over the phone, I can see her in front of the mirror: blurry and beautiful. I want her to dance. I tell her that. All around her is this crowd. I’m there too. And we’re applauding.

§ § §

Susan Henderson is a recipient of an Academy of American Poets award and Managing Editor of the Massachusetts-based print magazine, Night Train. Her work has appeared in Oakland Review's 25th Anniversary Anthology, Zoetrope: All-Story Extra (December 2000 and September 2001), Today's Parent, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Eyeshot, Alsop Review, Happy, Opium (January 2003 and November 2003), Carve Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Hobart, The MacGuffin, Zacatecas: A Review of Contemporary Word, Word Riot, Pig Iron Malt, Mid-South Review, Eleven Bulls, Insolent Rudder, Ink Pot, Moondance, North Dakota Quarterly, The Edward Society, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Bellevue Literary Review, as well as in a number of pamphlets and training manuals used at Pittsburgh Action Against Rape.

This piece was first published in INK POT #2 - 2003, a literary journal.

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	APPLAUSE Creative Non Fiction by Susan Henderson Mom keeps the dress hidden in the back of her closet, slips it over her head when Dad’s away, tugs it past her hips. Fiery pinks aren’t recommended for redheads, but the ruffles angled along the bottom are sexy. She begins to cut the security tag off the neckline, but decides it doesn't matter because the lights will be dimmed, and she likes how it draws the neck lower. Her rheumatologist would scold her about the heels. She rolls back the rug in front of the mirror, pushes the couch aside, then pours the wine. This is the night club. She turns up the salsa music, removes her glasses, applies stage makeup. With her eyes on the mirror she starts to dance. The wine sinks in and the room closes tight around her. Dad would disapprove, but he’s on his business flight by now, and Mom smiles as if just asked to dance. She turns her eyes down and blushes, checks to see how it looks when she blushes. Members of the band watch her, jealous women at small tables, men leaning against the wall. She wants to kiss someone, wine does that to her. She starts to cry, this also happens when she drinks. Once she let me watch her dance. It was spring break and we were drunk on hurricanes in New Orleans. Mom had taken me there so I could quit Lithium cold turkey, she insisted I didn’t need it. Quitting meant the diagnosis was a mistake and I was fine. It meant Mom hadn't failed to raise a happy child, and I wouldn't be telling any more secrets to some man who clicked a pencil against his teeth as I talked. “What you need is girl-time,” Mom said. We were both beautiful that trip, Mom still young, still allowing people to take her picture without putting a hand over her face. We were buzzed all day, drinking on the sunny porches of cafés in between shopping and telling each other we looked great in everything we tried on. “How about these beads?” she said, almost giddy how we encouraged each other, chatting up the staff in the shops about what fine merchandise they had and how happy we were to visit their town. We stumbled back to our hotel, drunken boys whistling at us right to the entrance. I yelled, "Stop it, that's my mother!" but neither of us wanted anyone to stop. In the elevator, we giggled about how we'd decorated the room, then unlocked the door: Mardi Gras beads and scarves over the lampshades and rainbow colored voodoo candles from the Chicken Man. I binged on chips from the stocked fridge while Mom emptied her bag of stolen items on the bed: a small dress folded like a handkerchief, barrettes decorated with big cloth flowers, random knick-knacks-- things that twirled when you blew them, perfume. She sprayed some my way, then changed in front of me--wouldn't if she had been sober--and asked me to pin a flower in her hair. I'd helped her shoplift for years. My job was not to tell on her, not judge her as she power-walked out of the store trying not to giggle and her neck turning splotchy red. It would always end with hiding the bags from Dad afterward. But this was the first time she’d shown me the catch, first time she’d gotten something for me. She looped a handful of strung beads over my head. She lit the voodoo candles, twisted her red hair over her sunburned shoulder and moved her hips to the music playing outside our window, looking at her reflection above the dresser as if all the shouts and ruckus were for her. She danced on the bed so she could see her pretty vacation sandals in the mirror. The hurricanes were wearing off, and Mom danced more self-consciously, suddenly acted silly, pretending her dance had all been in fun. She tumbled on to her single bed, the flower slipping lower in her hair. “I do this when Daddy goes out of town,” she said. “You’re a pretty dancer, Mom.” I was listening and turning the bottle of Lithium, watching the pills roll through the yellow. “Do you think I should taper off with the medicine, have maybe one today?” “No, just toss them. You’re not depressed.” That was the moment I remembered sobering up from the hurricanes and seeing Mom with her makeup sweating off, our hotel room like an affair caught in the light. I’d had things to tell her-- what it was like before the pills, things that bothered me. I’d thought we were taking turns sharing secrets, but she didn’t want to know mine. I walked to the dresser, slipped the beads off and gingerly dropped them into a drawer filled with pajamas. I let her go that trip, made a quiet decision to give her back to Dad. She got out her camera and we held our heads together and took the picture too close up. Mom still wore her beads. My smile was forced and tired. You could see it in the photo, how I had turned from her, decided not to save her anymore but to save myself. Over the phone, Mom tells me she’s hurt her knee. She’s cupped her hand over the bottom of the phone now and tells me about moving the rugs in the pink dress and the too-high heels. Her knee is swelling, but she’s afraid to call the doctor. “What if he asks how I hurt it? What if he tells me to stop?” She’s telling her story like she can’t stand to be alone with it. Like she’s got to get it all out before Dad returns from his latest business trip and she’s back to her plain life at home on the couch. I don’t know if she remembers dancing in New Orleans, if she knows I’ve heard this secret and kept it safe. It’s been years since that trip, since we giggled while holding hands, years since she could fit into the items she stole. I remember catching her eye as she dropped the tiny dress into her bag. She had that buzz I don’t get, holding that dress like it would fix everything. She is speaking to me in a way that makes me realize no one ever stepped in to take my place. It is only me to whisper with, to adore her. Even over the phone, I can see her in front of the mirror: blurry and beautiful. I want her to dance. I tell her that. All around her is this crowd. I’m there too. And we’re applauding. § § § Susan Henderson is a recipient of an Academy of American Poets award and Managing Editor of the Massachusetts-based print magazine, Night Train. Her work has appeared in Oakland Review's 25th Anniversary Anthology, Zoetrope: All-Story Extra (December 2000 and September 2001), Today's Parent, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Eyeshot, Alsop Review, Happy, Opium (January 2003 and November 2003), Carve Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Hobart, The MacGuffin, Zacatecas: A Review of Contemporary Word, Word Riot, Pig Iron Malt, Mid-South Review, Eleven Bulls, Insolent Rudder, Ink Pot, Moondance, North Dakota Quarterly, The Edward Society, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Bellevue Literary Review, as well as in a number of pamphlets and training manuals used at Pittsburgh Action Against Rape. This piece was first published in INK POT #2 - 2003, a literary journal. Send the URL for this work to a friend! GO TO NEXT PAGE