So, Lucy wasn’t just an old lady – she was my aunt, that is,
my grandmother’s sister-in-law. Lucy and her husband Lofland lived in an old house
in Shreveport. Lucy was a pianist, had been all of her life. She started her career as a teenager playing piano in movie theaters to accompany
the silent movies.
For me, as a kid living a very normal, respectable life in
suburban Richardson, every trip to Aunt Lucy’s house was a journey to
wonderland. There were two grand pianos in the living room, one white, one
black. And there was still room for furniture – a white tufted couch, satin draperies in the
window, pastel rugs on the floor. There was a big old-fashioned kitchen and a big black woman who came in
to cook for the family. There was a den with walls covered in cork where we
would sit in the evenings, watching Monty Python movies, my cousins sitting barefoot on
the floor, rolling joints and getting high, Aunt Lucy with a glass in her hand.
I didn’t realize until years later that she was a chronic alcoholic.
I spent one summer in Shreveport. I don’t remember exactly how old I
was, about 11, but I do remember the intoxicating feeling of freedom that I
felt there. During the days, I would wander Shreveport with my younger cousin
Chris Valentine, roaming the streets, visiting various hippie friends, going to the park on old rusty bikes,
heading over to the health food bakery the older cousins ran together
(Valentine’s Bakery of course) for a breakfast of fresh bread and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
In the evenings, I went to the theater with Aunt Lucy,
where she was playing piano for a local theater group. I sat in the empty
theater watching the rehearsals for hours on end. The play was “The Pajama
Game.” I was amused that the male lead
seemed to need to practice the kissing scene repeatedly – it being obvious
that he was thoroughly enjoying himself. I sat in that theater through the
dress rehearsal, watching the actors learn their lines, watching a random group
of people become a finely tuned team. Sometimes when the rehearsals became tedious, I would wander
around backstage or join another kid who was hanging out there for unauthorized excursions
into town. I guess one of those could be called my first date, since he treated
me to dinner at a local café. At that age, I didn’t think anything
much of it, except I remember there was chocolate pie, which I thought then and
still think is disgusting.
Years later, I took little Emily and Dan to Shreveport to
visit Aunt Lucy. Lofland was long since dead, Valentine’s Bakery had closed, only
one piano remained in the living room, and Lucy was a frail little woman
recuperating from a badly broken arm. We spent a quiet weekend, chatting about
old times, watching movies, watching Aunt Lucy drink. At one point, in spite of
her broken arm, she went to her piano and played, her gnarled, arthritic hands
still making magic on the keyboard. At one point during the weekend, Lucy
looked at me cuddling Emily and said “My parents never hugged us and
kissed us like that. I can’t remember them ever telling me that they loved me.”
Then she offered to French-braid Emily’s long blond hair. I watched them
together with my heart breaking.
When we left, Lucy held my hands and told me “This is the
start of a beautiful friendship.” She died about a year later. It was Emily’s
first experience with death, and she sobbed uncontrollably while I held her in my
arms, at a loss as to what to say. There is no comfort to offer without lies
that I’m not willing to tell. In the end, saying “I love you” is all that I
have.
