The Wisdom of Hair Page 11

  “Cops is bad,” she said. “They lie. They say I took prescription papers out of Dr. Hess’s office. I got back problems, in pain all the time. Pain…lots of pain.” She wiped her forehead like her fingers weren’t dripping wet.

  “Ellen doesn’t think I’m in pain and her daddy don’t, either, but I am.”

  She buttoned her lip for as long as she could.

  “They say I’m a drug addict. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous in your whole life?”

  I shook my head and worked faster.

  “I have all kinds of aches and pains, especially in my back. Got that one when she come along. Clovis says that’s not so, but what does he know? He ain’t never had a baby.”

  I’m sure I must have set some kind of record for the fastest manicure and pedicure. “All done,” I said with a big smile.

  “There’s no paint on my fingernails,” she whined.

  “Your nails are filed and shaped and your cuticles look good. That’s the best I can do today, Mrs. Snellgrove, with your hands shaking like that.”

  “I want paint.”

  She picked out the ugliest color of orange, and her hands looked awful because she couldn’t be still. Her toenails looked better, because her feet were the only part of her body that didn’t shake. She paraded out toward Ellen’s station barefoot, sashaying and waving her hands about, trying to make everybody laugh, but nobody did. It took her a few minutes to realize Ellen wasn’t there.

  “I want my cut and perm.” She pounded on the back of Ellen’s chair with freshly manicured nails.

  Mrs. Cathcart marched out from her office, took that woman by the arm, and threw her out the door and into the street, where she proceeded to give Nadine Snellgrove a piece of her mind. Ellen’s mama defended herself at first, going nose to nose with Mrs. Cathcart, who I am sure after everything was said and done was appalled that she had participated in such a display. By the time it was over, Mrs. Snellgrove was on her hands and knees crying, right there in the middle of the street with cars honking and people cussing at her. Mrs. Cathcart just walked back inside and left her there.

  Nobody asked where Ellen was, although later I found out that Mr. Cathcart had driven her to her daddy’s feed store. She didn’t come back to school until a few days later.

  “Thank you for putting up with my mama,” she said. “I couldn’t do it anymore. Me and Daddy put her away.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope she gets better.”

  “Mama don’t get better. She just steps out of the mire so she can take a running jump right back in,” she said dryly.

  If Ellen had a choice between never being and living with the woman, who regretted the very day she was born, I’m sure she would have chosen to just never be.

  “I bet your mama’s normal, not crazy like mine,” she said as she swept the hair from her last appointment into a dustpan.

  I wanted to put my arms around Ellen Snellgrove and tell her she wasn’t the only child who wanted to swap out her mother. I know I would have given anything to trade mine for one like Mrs. Farquhar or Mrs. Cathcart. I wanted to tell her about seeing Mama in front of the mirror primping to go out to the roadhouse so that a bunch of drunks would fawn all over her. I wanted to tell her about the time I spent down on my knees praying she’d never come back and then, after she was gone for days, praying she would come home.

  But I didn’t say anything. I just smiled my Bo Derek smile and acted like I already had a TV mom while that poor girl went right on thinking that she was the only soul in the world who felt the way she did.

  17

  Raymond O. Hawkins was the great-great-granddaddy of Mrs. Farquhar, and even though he was long gone, he was honored every year by Mrs. Farquhar’s people for being one of the founding fathers of near-perfect barbecue. The Annual Raymond O. Hawkins Barbecue was a big to-do with “connoisseurs” sampling barbecue and the biggest spread of food I’d ever seen.

  Since they would have nearly two hundred people milling around their backyard waiting to sample the sacred pig and all the fixings, Sara Jane offered to pick her grandmother up from the nursing home in Myrtle Beach. I saw Sara Jane’s car pull up out front and Mama Grayson with her big old Dolly Parton wig, but when Jimmy got out of the backseat, too, I knew there’d be trouble.

  Mr. Farquhar dropped his basting mop and stomped toward the house. “Now, Jerry, this is a special day. It comes once a year just like Easter and Christmas. Let’s not ruin it,” Mrs. Farquhar said. “Please.”

  He looked helpless and fired up all at the same time, but the poor man could do nothing when she spoke to him like that. I knew it, he knew it, and so did every soul in that room. It wasn’t like she was pleading or demanding; she was just letting him know what was important and what was not. I’d seen this before at the Farquhar’s house, but I never saw Mr. Farquhar just wheel around like he did and walk away from her. Judging from the look on Mrs. Farquhar’s face, I don’t think she had, either.

  “Mama’s in here, Grandma,” I heard Sara Jane say.

  “Watch your step, Gracie,” Jimmy said.

  Even Mrs. Farquhar looked a little unnerved when she heard Jimmy call her mama “Gracie,” but she rinsed her hands off, wiped them with a dishrag, and met the three of them at the door.

  “Mama.” Mrs. Farquhar wrapped her arms around her mother and closed her eyes.

  “Who are you?” the old woman said, with the most surprised look on her face.

  “It’s me, Nettie, Mama. I’m your baby girl, remember?”

  “Well, Nettie, this is my beau,” she said, as she gripped Jimmy by the forearm.

  “You’re my girl, Gracie,” Jimmy teased.

  “Don’t you be taking my boyfriend now, Grandma,” Sara Jane said. “You look so pretty today, though, I don’t stand a chance.”

  Mrs. Farquhar stepped back and surveyed the situation. Her mama, who wasn’t quite right, was standing there holding on to Jimmy like they were courting. Sara Jane was teasing her grandmother and looking at Jimmy like she could eat him up.

  “It’s good to see you, Jimmy,” Mrs. Farquhar said, as she surprised us all by hugging him, too. “I like your new beau, Mama.”

  “Well,” Mama Grayson snapped, “don’t you be hugging on him, either.”

  We all laughed, even the churchwomen. Mrs. Farquhar pried her mama’s hand off of Jimmy’s arm and told her she was taking her to the bathroom to freshen up a bit. Sara Jane introduced Jimmy to everybody in the kitchen, and I guess he must have melted every heart there with the kindness he showed Mama Grayson, because all of them were polite to him in a very real sort of way.

  “I’m gonna go speak to your daddy,” Jimmy said, and the whole room went silent again.

  Sara Jane didn’t say a word. She just raised her eyebrows like she wasn’t too sure he should do that just now. But Jimmy looked so strong inside and out, he wasn’t about to let anything deter him from becoming a part of that family, not even Sara Jane’s daddy.

  She came over to where I was slicing onions and gave me a hug, but the whole time she had her eyes on the backyard.

  “Your mama already spoke to your daddy,” I whispered. “She told him to behave himself in not so many words. I don’t know, though, he just walked off in a huff.”

  We stood at the window and watched Jimmy walk across the yard to the tables where the men had just set the pigs on large wooden slabs. He extended his hand to Mr. Farquhar, who didn’t offer his at first. But the preacher was standing right beside him, and he shook Jimmy’s hand, so I guess Mr. Farquhar felt like he had to.

  “Jimmy brought his books to show Daddy,” Sara Jane said, keeping her eye on Jimmy.

  “What’d you say, honey?” Mrs. Farquhar said, as she ushered her mama into the kitchen.

  “I was just telling Zora that Jimmy brought his books to show Daddy. He’s got a good business, Mama.”

  “I’m sure your father will be impressed,” Mrs. Farquhar said, “whether he likes it or not.”
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br />   “Where’s my Jimmy?” Mama Grayson called out real loud.

  “He’s right out back, Mama. I’ll take you to see him,” Mrs. Farquhar said.

  “He’s such a sweet man. Has the prettiest brown eyes.” Mama Grayson smiled.

  “Such a sweet man,” Mrs. Farquhar echoed.

  There were so many people at the barbecue that Sara Jane’s daddy could avoid Jimmy all day and half the night without making himself look bad. But poor Jimmy was so anxious to get to know his future father-in-law he didn’t get the message. I was glad that some of the guests had begun to leave because judging from the look on Mr. Farquhar’s face, I don’t think he could have taken being shadowed for another minute. Everybody offered to help clean up the aftermath, but Mrs. Farquhar was adamant that the cleanup was as much a part of the family tradition as the barbecue itself.

  Sara Jane said this was all new to her, but I suspected Mrs. Farquhar was exhausted from feeding two hundred guests and watching her husband stew all day. At any rate, nobody put up a fight when they were told to go on home and not worry about cleaning up.

  Sara Jane was tired. Jimmy told her to sit down and prop her feet up, but she refused, which made Jimmy work all the harder so there would be less for her to do. Every once in a while I would see Sara Jane’s mother speak to her daddy without turning her head toward him and looking at him. She didn’t seem happy. Mama Grayson sat in a big rust-colored Barcalounger the men brought outside for her, sound asleep.

  It took almost two hours of hard work to get the yard back to normal. The rental company would come and take the tent down Monday, according to Mrs. Farquhar, and there were only two things left to do—wake Mama Grayson up and take her home, and carry the Barcalounger back inside the house.

  “Mr. Farquhar, I’ll help you get this chair inside,” Jimmy said when he came back from loading bags of garbage onto the Red & White grocery truck parked out front.

  “Sara Jane and I’ll get it. You go on home now,” he said without even so much as a thank-you for all Jimmy’s hard work.

  Sara Jane and I were standing there with Mama Grayson while she stretched her legs a bit. Sara Jane just looked at her daddy and walked off. If she had not left me there holding Mama Grayson’s arm, I would have left, too, because I didn’t want any part of what was coming.

  “Well, sir, I’d like to finish up here and maybe if you got a minute—”

  “I don’t have a minute,” Mr. Farquhar said dryly. “You get now. Go on home.”

  “Show him your books, honey.” Mama Grayson sounded like Jimmy really was her boyfriend. “Jerry, hush up and listen to Jimmy.”

  Nobody ever looked at Mama Grayson like she was a senile old woman. She was loved and revered by everyone, but just then her son-in-law cut his eye around at her like she’d better not say another word if she knew what was good for her.

  “Books,” he said with a laugh, “you say you brought your books?”

  Now even Jimmy’s patience was wearing thin, and rightfully so, but he didn’t let up. “Yes, sir. I thought we could sit down and you could take a look and see—”

  “See nothing.”

  “See that I can take good care of Sara Jane.”

  Mr. Farquhar’s face was full of meanness from holding back all the ugly words he wanted to say. He reared his head back and laughed at Jimmy again. That was when he first noticed his beloved wife and daughter standing beside Mama Grayson and me with their hands on their hips in disgust, and their feet set apart like they were ready for a fight.

  We stood there and watched Jimmy and Mr. Farquhar walk out to Sara Jane’s car.

  Mrs. Farquhar closed her eyes several times, I am sure to pray. I think we all did except for Mama Grayson, who was getting a little miffed at Jimmy for leaving her alone. Sara Jane looked at me, but neither of us said a word. Jimmy and Mr. Farquhar must have stood under that streetlight for an hour. It was too late to drive all the way to North Myrtle Beach to the nursing home, so we all went back inside and put Mama Grayson to bed.

  Sara Jane and her mama took turns standing at the picture window watching the two men by the curb. Nobody could tell how things were going, but Sara Jane made the comment that things must be going all right because her daddy was still out there. Finally the two men walked into the house.

  “Sara Jane,” Mr. Farquhar said gruffly, “Jimmy here has something to say, and you better listen and listen good.”

  The color drained from her face. She grabbed my hand. I felt her trembling all over.

  Jimmy looked her straight in the eyes. He pulled a little black velvet box out of his pocket, got down on one knee, and offered himself to her for the rest of his life. Sara Jane looked at her daddy, who was so taken by the moment he couldn’t speak. He just looked at her and nodded his head, then held his own beloved wife and cried.

  18

  I remember Daddy buying Mama a new dress he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t fancy, but pretty, light, flowy cotton with little flowers on it. She stood there holding it up to her, squealing like a little girl at Christmastime, as she twirled about in front of the full-length mirror. It was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. He bought it to take her to Rock City for their anniversary. I guess that was about a month or two before he died. They’d never been anywhere before, and with those see rock city billboards all over the mountains, I guess he thought he’d take her there to see what all the fuss was about. I remember asking, then begging him to take me along. Nana set me down and told me that this was their time. That night, I sneaked into Mama’s room while everybody sat on the front porch. I twirled around in that dress myself, wishing it were my time for such things.

  That’s how I felt about Sara Jane and Jimmy getting married. I was truly happy for them and considered it a bona fide miracle that the Farquhars had given them their blessing. Between the run-in with Ellen’s mama and my own wanting, I wasn’t feeling so all-powerful anymore. I was back at that blamed window every day whenever I heard Winston’s car coming or going, wondering if my time would ever come.

  I didn’t go to church that Sunday. I phoned Mrs. Farquhar, who fussed at me for not calling her “Mama” again, and told her I wasn’t feeling well and that I wouldn’t be there for dinner, either. She was happiest when she was planning things, especially events that involved fancy food, so she was thrilled over the prospect of a big wedding.

  “You rest, Zora dear,” she said. “I know you’re tired; you worked yourself to death yesterday. But you take care of yourself, you hear, and clear your calendar for next weekend, because me and you and Sara Jane are going to Atlanta to find the perfect wedding gown.”

  “Atlanta?”

  “Now, hush. You sound just like Jerry.” She laughed. “I told him we can’t just go down to the Bridal Barn in Davenport or that trashy little Chéz I Do over in Myrtle Beach and pick out a dress. We have to have the most perfect, which Jerry says means the most expensive, bridal gown in all the land.”

  “I’d be honored to go.”

  “Oh, just the thought of shopping with my girls makes me so happy. Now, how are you feeling?” She went on, quizzing me about my symptoms, like one of those TV mothers, before she said good-bye, and I loved her for that.

  I lazed around, and didn’t really do anything other than cook Sunday dinner for Winston, who wasn’t home. I fried chicken, opened a can of corn, and made a box of instant mashed potatoes for the first time in my life. I’d gotten caught up in Sara Jane’s theory that love is just like it is in her romance books; it was easy for her to believe that because life had worked out that way for her. That night, my offering to Winston reflected my new view of reality.

  It was nice that day, cool fall weather but bright and sunny. I put a sweatshirt on, took my own dinner down to the picnic table, and sat right across from his plate. I also brought a bottle of red wine and one of the wineglasses that Sara Jane and I borrowed from a little bar in North Myrtle Beach. Still stuffed from yesterday, I just picked at my chicken, but t
he wine was good and sweet, and I felt, I don’t know, grown up there having drinks and dinner by myself.

  After a while, I pushed the plate aside, balled my knees up to my chest, and pulled my sweatshirt over them like I did on cold winter mornings back home. I sipped my wine, watching the birds flying south, and then there were some that were going the opposite way. I wondered if they knew this or if somehow they would miraculously end up where they were supposed to be before it was too late and winter had set in.

  I’d had just enough wine in me not to move when Winston’s little MG drove up into the yard. It was dusk. He politely turned the headlights off when he saw me sitting there.

  “A picnic,” he said, standing there looking at me. I couldn’t tell whether he was drunk or sober. I didn’t know which I was, either.

  “It is a picnic table.”

  He smiled, sat down, and took the tinfoil off of the plate. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said, as he started to eat.

  “You don’t seem to mind,” I said, as I filled my glass a little too full.

  He picked up the glass, took one sip, and winced over my choice of wine. Before I could say anything, he went into the house. He came back with an expensive-looking bottle of red wine and a real corkscrew.

  I screwed the top back on my bottle. “Imagine that,” I said as he poured my wine onto the ground and filled the glass half full with his. I swirled it around and sniffed it like I had seen Robert Wagner do on that TV show Hart to Hart. Taking a dainty little sip like I was Stefanie Powers, I nodded in approval. I can’t describe the taste: It was so many flavors from the earth, but then I couldn’t pronounce the name, either, because it was something French, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself during my TV moment.

  He took the glass out of my hand and took a sip.

  “This is good,” he said, turning the glass up. “Very nice.”

  If I’d been sober, I would’ve been worrying about silly things like what my hair looked like or what I was wearing, but my head was light, and I felt bold. He sat across the table from me and refilled our glass. It didn’t take more than the very idea of our lips touching the same glass to arouse me. More than once we reached for it at the same time. Our hands brushed against each other. If the table had not separated us, I would’ve touched him and aroused him, too.