That was the closest I had ever gotten to hearing my mother take responsibility for anything she had done wrong. But as usual, I was left feeling confused. Why hadn’t my mother checked with Ruby first before getting the whole neighborhood in an uproar looking for a missing child? She knew I went over to Ruby’s all the time; even if she didn’t remember me telling her I was going there, it only made sense that she’d check with her first. Why hadn’t she?
chapter 8
I was a liar—at least as far as my mother was concerned. Looking back on it now, I probably didn’t lie any more than other children. But my mother didn’t understand children, their behavior, or their psychology. She couldn’t distinguish between what was normal and what was aberrant. All she knew was how she wanted me to behave, and when I didn’t behave in the required way, I was bad—all bad. When it came to me, she wanted perfection, even though anyone who has ever been around kids knows that isn’t possible. And she seemed to lack the ability to empathize with me, to try to figure out why I might behave as I did.
One evening, after my mother had picked me up from Mrs. Jones’s house and she was sitting drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, I said to her, “You’re going to hell, Momma.”
She looked at me in horror. “What do you mean? Why are you saying that?”
“Mrs. Jones told me,” I answered brightly. “She said you were going to hell because you drink and smoke and wear makeup.”
Now, technically, Mrs. Jones had never told me that my mother was a bad woman because she drank, smoked, and wore makeup. She hadn’t told me my mother was going to hell. But she didn’t have to. She’d told me that anyone who did these things was a bad person and was going to hell.
Momma, being the proud woman she was, became indignant. How dare her daughter’s babysitter say these things about her! The next day, instead of dropping me off at Mrs. Jones’s house, she marched into her living room with me in tow and confronted her.
Momma sat me down on the piano bench. It was a place I normally loved to sit and pretend to play, but on this day I felt uncomfortable sitting there—I felt too exposed, as if I were on trial. I was immobilized with fear.
“Tell Mrs. Jones what you told me,” my mother insisted.
“Uh, well . . . that you were going to hell because you smoke and drink and wear makeup,” I stammered.
“I did no such thing. I would never say that!” Mrs. Jones declared. “Why would you say such a thing, Beverly?” She looked at me with a bewildered look on her face.
I didn’t know what to say. I knew Mrs. Jones felt strongly that people who did those things were bad, so I didn’t understand why she didn’t admit it to my mother. “I don’t know . . .” I muttered, holding my head down in shame.
My mother glared at me. “So you lied? You made the whole thing up?”
I felt cornered. And confused. I knew I hadn’t made it up. But I didn’t know how to explain myself. I remembered all those times Mrs. Jones had lectured me about not smoking and drinking and dancing and wearing makeup. She’d even made me sign a contract promising I wouldn’t do those things when I grew up.
My mother wasn’t going to give up. “Why would you say such a thing? What made you do this?”
I couldn’t explain myself and I didn’t want to get Mrs. Jones in trouble with my mother. So I simply looked down at the rug, completely mortified. I imagined myself melting into the rug. Out of sight and out of danger.
Now Momma was apologizing to Mrs. Jones. “I am so sorry for this. I’m sorry I believed a word she said. I should have known. She’s such a liar. Of course this means I can’t have you babysit her anymore. It wouldn’t be right. I’m terribly sorry.”
Mrs. Jones didn’t say a word.
With that, Momma jerked me up off the piano bench and pushed me out the door. I heard Mrs. Jones muttering something about how sorry she was too. She didn’t think it would come to this. She liked babysitting me.
Today, of course, I understand what happened. I must have felt terribly conflicted about what I was learning from Mrs. Jones and the person my mother was. I was likely worried about my mother’s soul—afraid she was going to hell. Perhaps I was even trying to stop her from drinking, smoking, and wearing makeup, so she wouldn’t go to hell. But a child cannot recognize the nuances of adult messages. I guess Mrs. Jones expected me to absorb everything she was saying about what made people bad without becoming confused about the fact that my mother was doing these same “forbidden” things. To Momma, it must have seemed like I was just trying to make trouble. It must have seemed like I was just a liar.
In third grade, I proved to my mother that she was right all along: I became a real liar.
Principal Marshall stood before an assembly of students, teachers, and parents and said into the microphone, “And now it gives me great pleasure to announce the winner of our Father’s Day essay contest: Beverly Engel. Beverly, would you come up here please?”
I stumbled onto the stage in my heavy brown shoes as the audience applauded. Principal Marshall handed me a shiny blue ribbon and the audience once again clapped politely.
“Beverly, would you be so kind as to read your essay to us?”
Like a little robot, I turned to face the audience and lifted my essay almost up to my
