The Wisdom of Hair Page 10

  Thank God we had a visiting preacher that day because if Jimmy had had to sit through one of Reverend Lynch’s marathon sermons and Sunday dinner, he might have walked out on Sara Jane no matter how much he loved her. During the benediction, right before the preacher ended his prayer, Jimmy crossed himself quickly so no one would see. I shouldn’t have been looking, but I was. Sara Jane must have known he did it, too, because she smiled. As soon as the preacher said “Amen,” Jimmy let out this huge sigh.

  Miss Lucy Mae Brown nearly knocked some poor lady over trying to get to us before we got out of the sanctuary. Just when it looked like we might slip out the side door, she hollered, “Sara Jane. Is that my yard boy you’re with?”

  Well, most people would have just turned around and told the old biddy where she could go for hollering such a thing in the middle of a crowded church, but Sara Jane didn’t.

  “Now, Miss Lucy Mae,” Sara Jane said with that silky voice of hers, “you know good and well that this is Jimmy Alvarez. He’s my beau.”

  “You don’t say,” Miss Lucy Mae said with the most amazed look on her face, like Jimmy couldn’t do anything but rake leaves and cut grass. “Sir, you are one lucky man to have found such a fine girl, and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you are an excellent yard boy.”

  “No, ma’am,” Jimmy said, “I don’t mind you saying so. I know I’m a lucky man.”

  Sara Jane looked at me as we walked to the parking lot and breathed a heavy sigh. “Round one,” she said under her breath.

  Jimmy’s Toyota was just big enough for him and Sara Jane, so I rode to the house with Mr. and Mrs. Farquhar. I would gladly have walked the six or seven miles, but Mrs. Farquhar insisted. The tension in the air of that great big Lincoln made it feel as crowded as a clown car, but nobody was laughing. Mr. Farquhar’s face and neck were bright red, and it had been that way ever since Sara Jane sashayed down the church aisle with her fiancé. He looked like he might explode at any moment. I know Mrs. Farquhar was a little miffed, too, because she had been kept in the dark over the whole Jimmy thing, but the two of them were so proper, they were trying not to say anything about it in front of me.

  “What did you think about the preacher, Mr. Farquhar?” I asked, to break the silence before the poor man burst right there in the car.

  “Not enough bite in his sermon, if you ask me,” he said.

  “I did miss Preacher Lynch today.” There was no doubt that Mrs. Farquhar was trying hard to figure out a way to make peace out of Sunday dinner. Even her voice was different, more soothing than usual, the way you might talk to a frightened animal. I remembered hearing that same tone in Sara Jane’s voice when I was sick over the baby’s rattle and she was dabbing my face with the cool washrag.

  “I can’t believe—” he started.

  “Jerry,” his wife said, for my benefit and for his. “This is not the time or the place.”

  His breathing was deep and angry. He ran a stop sign, which I don’t think he knew, and neither did Mrs. Farquhar, because she was putting all of her energy into keeping him from breaking loose and doing irreparable damage to their family. As he pulled into the driveway and looked at the woman he loved, he surrendered.

  “Nettie,” he said, “how can she do this to us?”

  I don’t know what she said because I got out of the car then and met Sara Jane and Jimmy by the curb. I did look back over my shoulder to see Mrs. Farquhar put her arms around her husband and rock him gently. I think she honestly believed that she could love him toward tolerance and acceptance, but, judging from the way he slammed that car door, I had my doubts.

  Sara Jane had her little Villager pumps in one hand and Jimmy’s hand in the other as they walked across the lawn to meet me. She didn’t seem to notice her daddy’s display, or if she did, she didn’t care. I fully expected her to quiz me as to what her parents said about Jimmy, but she didn’t. At first I thought it was because Jimmy was standing right there and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But Sara Jane had come to a place where she really didn’t care one way or the other whether her parents accepted Jimmy, because she did, and that was all that mattered.

  “It was Sara Jane’s idea to surprise them like this,” Jimmy said to me under his breath.

  “Hey, y’all,” Mrs. Farquhar hollered as she held the screen door open. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready.” Right away, she hugged Jimmy’s neck like he was already family. I believe that somehow she must have known that he was the one, just like Sara Jane knew the first time she laid eyes on him.

  Mr. Farquhar didn’t even bother to get out of his chair to shake Jimmy’s hand. He nodded our way but didn’t crack a smile as he mumbled something about the Falcons game not being on Channel Three like they were every blame Sunday.

  Sara Jane was smart enough not to throw Jimmy into her daddy’s den, although I am sure he could have held his own. So the three of us went into the kitchen where Mrs. Farquhar was finishing up dinner. Jimmy entertained us all with stories about Mexico and fussy customers, while I set the table and Sara Jane poured sweet tea in the good crystal glasses. I could tell Mrs. Farquhar was charmed right off.

  “How long have you lived in Davenport, Jimmy?” She handed him a glass of sweet tea.

  “Not long. I lived with my aunt and uncle; we used to come through here with the migrant camps. I helped them open a landscaping business in Raleigh. Then I started my own company here about six months ago.”

  Mrs. Farquhar was almost as smitten as Sara Jane. She put her very best bowls and platters on the table so that it looked like the cover of Southern Living’s Thanksgiving issue. We stood there behind our chairs, waiting for Mr. Farquhar, who had to be called to dinner three times. Just when it looked like his wife was going to lose her composure, he lumbered into that great big formal dining room with his lucky black Falcons T-shirt on and a look on his face like the big game had already been lost.

  I’m sure Sara Jane seated Jimmy to her left so that when we said grace, he wouldn’t have to hold her father’s hand. I could tell she was anxious about the whole situation because I saw her nearly squeeze Jimmy’s in two when her daddy said grace. As soon as Mr. Farquhar said, “Amen,” I took one look at Sara Jane and thought it might be a good idea to take cover.

  Mrs. Farquhar had outdone herself again, and for a few minutes Mr. Farquhar seemed distracted by all the food. Everybody was passing bowls or platters, dipping this or that onto their plates, everybody except Sara Jane. I saw Jimmy look at her out of the corner of his eye and ever so slightly shake his head, but it didn’t do any good. Once Sara Jane set her mind on something, there wasn’t much anybody could do. Later on when we rehashed the whole thing over a bottle of wine at my apartment, I told her that at the very least I thought she could have waited until after dinner.

  “Mama, Daddy,” she drew in a deep breath, then said the words real fast, “me and Jimmy are getting married.”

  Well, even Mrs. Farquhar was taken aback. Mr. Farquhar dropped the big meat fork on the china platter, and then slammed it down hard on the table. Sara Jane’s eyes raced back and forth between her parents like she was waiting to see who was going to fire the first shot, while poor Jimmy just stared quietly at his empty dinner plate. I fully expected all of them to start fussing over Sara Jane’s announcement, but nobody said a word.

  Then Jimmy looked up from his plate, cleared his throat, and looked Mr. Farquhar straight in the eyes. “Mr. Farquhar, Mrs. Farquhar, I wanted her to wait until dinner was over, but I guess now’s as good a time as any. I love Sara Jane.” He took her hand in his. “We want to get married. I promise I’ll take real good care of her. She’ll never want for anything, and—”

  Mr. Farquhar laughed out loud.

  “What makes you think you can give our Sara Jane the kinds of things she’s had all her life? Why, you’re just a…a yard boy.”

  “I think what Jerry is trying to say,” Mrs. Farquhar said, “is that Sara Jane is our only child. We’ve spoiled her
rotten, always giving her whatever she wants. I, we are just concerned that you might not be able to give her those things, and that it might cause both of you a lot of heartache.”

  “Well, the yard business is a whole lot better than you think, and—”

  “Let me just ask you one thing, boy,” Mr. Farquhar said. “Do the two of you have to get married?”

  “Yes, sir, we do.”

  “My God, Nettie, she’s pregnant with this…this wetback’s baby.”

  “There ain’t no baby,” Jimmy said. “Me and Sara Jane have to get married because we love each other, that’s all. We just love each other.”

  15

  I was running so late I nearly stumbled out the front door of the garage apartment and didn’t even notice Winston until I got to the bottom of the steps. He was striding toward me with purpose, a slight smile on his beautiful face. He had something in his hand, a letter. My heart flip-flopped in my chest like crazy over the very notion that finally this man had noticed me. Maybe he couldn’t say it out loud, but he was an English professor, for Pete’s sake, and he’d written down his feeling for me on paper. The first chapter of our happily every after.

  “This was in the mail for you,” he said without so much as a hey or how are you. “If you want your own mailbox, I can have a handyman put one by your door.”

  “No,” I squeaked, “thanks.” I don’t know what was worse that Monday, Winston’s idea of playing Post Office or Mama’s letter coming back to me with return to sender written in her scrawl.

  I was wounded before I got to school, but when Sara Jane came and got the few things together that were hers before she said her good-byes, that did it. I wasn’t the only one affected by Sara Jane’s leaving. Anybody could see Mrs. Cathcart’s face was full of mixed emotions. She held Sara Jane in her arms like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but one thing was for sure, Mrs. Cathcart was going to miss Sara Jane Farquhar.

  “Oh, she takes things like this hard,” Mr. Cathcart said with a deep sigh as he watched Sara Jane go from station to station. “She wants everybody to finish and get their license, you know. Makes it even harder if they got the smarts Sara Jane has.”

  “Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me,” she said, as we put our arms around each other. “I’ve got a wedding to plan, and you’ve just got to be my maid of honor.”

  “Oh, Sara Jane,” I whispered through tears. “I love you.”

  She held me at arm’s length and looked at me. I don’t know why I felt so weak and broken in her gaze, but I did.

  “Thank you for getting me as far as you did. I’ll never forget that.”

  It wasn’t like she was leaving town or anything; still, her leaving was hard to take. I must have looked peaked because Mr. Cathcart came by after Sara Jane left and told me to go straight home before I infected the whole school with whatever it was that I had. But the truth was that nobody there could catch what I had.

  I went home straightaway and contemplated my own heart. I don’t know if it was love or destiny or genetics that made me pant for Winston Sawyer, but I had a wanting inside me that could not be satisfied by school or good grades or even a best friend like Sara Jane Farquhar.

  When I walked through my front door to my apartment that day, I left it wide open. I slipped out of my uniform and underclothes, got down on my hands and knees, and pulled the box out from under the bed marked Serendipity. Folding back the bronze-colored tissue paper carefully, I gathered up each side of the dress, and let that whisper of silk that had shamed me once before glide across my naked body.

  There was no need to look in the full-length mirror I had bought a couple of weeks before. I was beautiful. I stood on my porch so the whole world could see me, including Winston Sawyer. The wind blew my hair about, making me feel light, lighter than air. I closed my eyes, caught hold of the breeze that made the curtains in his drinking room stir, and filled that room with my essence. I felt his touch on the hem of my dress and then on my ankle as he held me fast in wonder. Then his hand slid up my thigh and his lips kissed my belly before the wind picked me up again and levitated me back to my perch.

  When I opened my eyes, the fantasy was over, and he was standing at the drinking room window. I have no idea what happened during the time I left my body and invaded the space he had reserved for himself and Emma, but I knew that, for a moment, Winston Sawyer was watching me.

  16

  Winston started me up every morning, whether he knew it or not, just by cranking up that little MG and giving the motor three short revs before pulling out of the driveway. Normally, I sat bolt upright, peeked through the curtains, and felt desperate that he was leaving me.

  But that morning, as I lay there under that flimsy cotton sheet, I was aware of my own special power, something I never even knew I had. I felt like Bo Derek when she jogged down the beach in the movie 10, or like a comic-book vixen whose superpower was beauty. I got out of bed, ate a little breakfast, and dressed in no particular hurry. The world waits for women like Bo and me. We move at our own pace.

  I arrived about eight o’clock, just in time to see Ellen Snellgrove almost die right there in front of the whole beauty school when her mama fell into the foyer. Mrs. Snellgrove crawled over to the brass coatrack and pulled herself up gradually, nearly tipping the rack over twice before she was on her feet. Her bottom half was firmly planted, thanks to the coatrack, but her torso gyrated about, trying to keep pace with the spinning room, I suspect. Being no stranger to stumbling mamas, I went straight to my station and got busy doing anything I could think of to keep from gawking with the rest of the students at Mrs. Snellgrove.

  “Mama,” Ellen hissed as she went over to her and put her hand on the woman’s arm to keep her from spinning.

  “Ellen,” she said, pushing it away so she could resume.

  Ellen looked around the room and saw everybody looking at her, even me, I am ashamed to say. She turned her back to us and grabbed her mama again, only this time she got a better grip.

  “What are you doing here, Mama?”

  “Get your hands off of me!” she hollered, as she pretended to smooth her blouse, which was buttoned as cockeyed as possible. “I come for my cut and perm.”

  By this time, Mrs. Cathcart had seen enough. She came over and tapped me on the shoulder, and I followed her over to the foyer. I felt like I was invading the poor girl’s nightmare. Ellen looked so ashamed that Mrs. Cathcart was stepping in.

  “Mrs. Snellgrove,” Mrs. Cathcart began. “This is Zora Adams, one of our best and brightest, and she needs some work on her manicures before the State Board examination. Would you mind terribly if she practices on you?”

  The woman looked me up and down.

  “And a pedicure, too. There’d be no charge,” Mrs. Cathcart added.

  “I want my Ellen,” she answered, grabbing Ellen and whining in a mocking sort of way.

  I tried to look like I’d certainly never witnessed anything that crazy from my own mother, but Ellen never saw my face or anybody else’s. She just stared at that terrazzo floor, wishing it would open up and swallow her whole.

  “Mrs. Snellgrove, have you ever had a pedicure before?” Mrs. Cathcart managed to loosen the woman’s grip on her daughter and steer her toward the manicure station in the back of the school.

  As I turned to follow Mrs. Cathcart, I heard Ellen whisper, “Sorry.”

  I wanted to look at her and smile so that she would know that I’d walked in her shoes, but I couldn’t. It was too much like looking at my old self.

  “Sorry,” I said back.

  I don’t know why Mrs. Cathcart chose me, because I had a customer waiting for a haircut. I guess she figured if I could handle old Ethyl, I could handle Ellen Snellgrove’s mama.

  I sat down at the table and asked her twice to slip her shoes and socks off. She didn’t. So I bent down and slipped them off for her, and before I could raise up, she propped her legs up on my back and cackled as loud as she could.
I rolled my chair to the side and let her feet fall to the floor and pretended like nothing had ever happened.

  “Mrs. Snellgrove, would you please put your feet in the tub? It’ll feel real nice.”

  She put her feet in and wiggled her toes around in the bubbly pink solution like a little child. I poured a green solution into two finger bowls and placed her fingers in them. She fussed because the solution wasn’t pink, which she said was her favorite color.

  “Ellen’s mad.” She looked at me with a wicked smile.

  I didn’t say anything. I thought if I didn’t contribute to the conversation, there wouldn’t be one. I was wrong.

  “I hate Ellen,” she said, waving her hand around for effect.

  I put her hand back in the solution.

  “Ellen hates me,” she said, loud enough for everybody to hear.

  “Shhhh,” I said, real soft, the way I had heard mamas quiet their children during church.

  “Don’t you shush me.”

  Mrs. Cathcart rushed over to the table. “Nadine Snellgrove.” Mrs. Cathcart got right in her face and whispered so loud, anybody could have heard her. “You can either be quiet or leave, because if I hear another word out of you, I’m gonna call the cops.”

  “Don’t let her call the cops. You stop her, you hear? I’ll talk pretty; I swear I will.”

  Mrs. Cathcart walked away in a huff.

  “Nobody’s calling the cops, Mrs. Snellgrove. You just have to quiet down, that’s all.”

  I put her hands back in the solution. Her fingers jumped about so it looked like the solution was boiling.