Title: Sharon van Ivan
Genre: Memoir
Author: Sharon van Ivan
Website: www.cygnetpress.com/juggle-and-hide
Publisher: Cygnet Press
Find out more on Amazon
Juggle and Hide is award-winning writer Sharon van Ivan’s dizzying
story of her unconventional, often harrowing, and
sometimes hilarious
life. With a childhood split between time with her alcoholic mother in
Akron, Ohio and her gambling dad in Brooklyn, New York, as well as other
challenging family members along the way, she was destined to find comfort
on the edge and in the company of highly creative and
self-destructive individuals.
Hers is a story of getting drunk and
getting sober, of triumphs and failures in her work as an actor and
screenwriter, and of exhilarating love affairs, including her twenty-year
relationship with the renowned artist Charles Pfahl. The book is quirky and
compelling, and engaging on many levels. Sharon takes the reader on a roller
coaster ride into the depths of personal tragedy with unexpected outcomes.
Part I
Chapter 1
Mommy’s Home
I cannot remember a time when I was not my mother’s keeper.
I stare at the back of my mother’s head. I sit on her bed. I look
over her shoulder and see in the three-sided dressing table mirror that her
face is slightly puffy from having her teeth pulled earlier in the day… all of
them… and insisting the hack dentist fit the dentures over her raw gums.
“Reach in there and
get me my lipstick.”
I dig around in her navy blue leather
purse, find a shiny black tube and hold it out to her.
“Revlon. Persian
Melon.”
When she reaches for it, I see how beautiful her nails are. Also,
Persian Melon.
She slathers the orangish-red lipstick
on, under and over her swollen lips and then smacks her lips together.
“You are damned lucky. You got your
father’s lips. Get me a Kleenex.”
I hand one to her and she gently blots
her puckered lips. I continue to gaze at the back of her head while she
finishes putting on her going-out-tonight face.
“Get my shoes, and don’t ask which
ones.”
A bit of rummaging in her overflowing
closet and I find the new navy blue sling-back pumps she bought to match the
dress she is wearing tonight.
She slips the shoes on, stands up and
looks at herself for a long time in the distorting full-length mirror on the
wall next to her closet.
”You’re beautiful, Mommy.”
“I make myself beautiful. See how
everything matches: shoes, purse, dress, everything. Blue. Promise me you will
never, never buy cheap makeup.”
And without looking at me, she hisses,
“Stop biting your nails or you won’t
ever get a husband. Do I have any lipstick on my teeth?”
She bares her new false teeth in sort
of a smile.
I shake my head. She looks like a movie
star. I wish I had long curly auburn hair and creamy white skin. My hair is
straight and dirty blonde like my father’s.
On the way to the front door, she
reminds me to not ask her again what time she will come home.
“I lost my keys. You’ll have to let me
in.”
Then she is gone.
The sweet smell of Arpege cologne or toilet water or perfume—it annoys her that I
never knew which is which— is all that is left of her.
I clean up her getting-ready--to-go-out
mess.
Afterward I go to bed fully clothed not
knowing whom she might bring home or whether I will even hear her when she
bangs on the door. I pray aloud to someone—to anyone—to keep her safe.
At three a.m., I walk the two long
blocks to Pete’s.
I stand outside for a few minutes
beneath the neon sign flashing “Pete’s View Lunch.” There is no view. There is
no window. And I don’t think they serve lunch.
The door is propped open with an old
brown wooden chair. Taking a deep breath and walking into the crowded bar, with
the sickening smell of stale beer, cigarettes and misplaced rage all around me,
I search for Pete.
Pete spots me right away.
Pete has no teeth. Not even one.
“Looking for Mommy?”
I nod.
He winks at me and points with his
middle finger toward the back. I want to ask him why he has no index fingers,
but my mind is on finding my mother.
I push my way through the drunks to the
back of the dark narrow room to the bathroom.
Ladies.
I open the door and there she is lying
face down on the filthy floor, near the once white toilet.
She has on one navy-blue shoe, but her
purse is gone. I roll her over with some difficulty and see that the Persian
Melon is all but gone, too.
I wet my hands in the disgusting sink
and splash cold water on her face.
“What the hell are you doing here, you
goddamn little spy? Always watching me.”
In an attempt to sit up, she bangs her
head on the empty toilet paper holder.
Pete knocks on the door.
“You girls decent?”
He sticks his head in and holds the door open.
“She was in rare form tonight. Caused a
real stink with Carney Wells and Crazy Marie.”
“Come on. Mommy, let’s go home.”
“Leave me alone. What are you doing here
anyway?”
Then she sees Pete.
“Pete, honey, get me a Seven and
Seven.”
Pete looks at me and winks again.
“You’ve had your last drink for
tonight. I called you and your kid a cab.”
Pete and I pull, push, and shove her
into the yellow City Cab. He gives the driver our address on Jewett Street and
a couple of dollars.
“Thank you, Pete.”
He leans into the cab and gives me a
sloppy wet kiss.
On the way home, my mother puts her
head in my lap and curses me over and over again for ruining her night, her life.
At our place, I ask the driver to
please help me get my mother inside. He is a nice guy. He helps me.
Once inside, she wrenches herself away
from us and stumbles and lands on the couch.
The cab driver looks at me like I’m a
sideshow freak.
“What are you about six years old?”
“Eight.”
I quickly lock the door after he
leaves.
Then I hear my baby brother cry out
from his crib in my bedroom.
“It’s okay, Bobby. Go to sleep now.
Mommy’s home. Mommy’s home.”
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