by Mickey Brent
Then she glanced at her half of the paper.
“Since when do you read in English? You hate English.”
Wincing, she poked her fork into her quiche Lorraine, which was just like her feelings toward her husband—stone cold.
Darn him. Everything’s lost its flavor. As she chewed, Hélène tried to ignore the screeching sounds of race cars over an obnoxious TV announcer’s voice. Chaussette sauntered back in and rubbed against her mistress’s leg. Heavy purring sounds erupted from under the table.
Hélène smiled weakly. “Bonsoir, bébé. Maman will make you dinner as soon she’s done, d’accord? At least you like what I fix for you!” She reached down to caress Chaussette’s furry ears. Sitting on Marc’s half of the torn newspaper, the cat’s bushy tail camouflaged the headlines.
“Move, bébé, Maman wants to see something.” Hélène gently pushed the cat away to read the title. “Mother kills eight-year old son with baseball bat.” She cringed. “Yesterday, in Yorkshire, a thirty-eight-year-old mother killed her only child, an eight-year-old boy, with a baseball bat. She crushed his skull…”
Shuddering, Hélène shut her eyes. Marc’s pale face appeared as he was reading this page. Not only was he pale, he was trembling. This thought made her feel queasy. I shouldn’t have been so hard on him. He’s such a sensitive soul. And what did I do? I called him a pig! I’m such a beast.
Under the title was a picture of the boy standing next to his mother. The boy was wearing a baseball uniform. They were both smiling at the camera.
Hélène continued, “…with his favorite bat on Monday afternoon, at approximately five p.m., at their residence in Yorkshire. The boy died instantly. As for a possible motive for the crime, it appears that rumors had reached his mother that…
“‘Reached his mother that’ what?…What rumors?” sputtered Hélène, holding up the ripped article. “Where’s the rest of this?” Dropping to her knees, she dipped her head under the table.
A fluff of fur swayed before her, obscuring her vision.
“Pousse-toi, Chaussette!” She thrust her cat’s tail from her face. Without knowing why exactly, Hélène desperately needed to know the rest of the story.
Chapter Eleven
Hélène tweaked her cat’s ear playfully. “Breakfast time, ma petite,” she whispered. Chaussette took a satisfying stretch, then followed her mistress to the kitchen as she did every morning. Hélène smiled at the pitter-patter of delicate kitty paws crossing the tiles behind her.
As the coffee percolated, she stretched her legs against the kitchen counter and let out a yawn. I’m so glad it’s Saturday. She entered the dining room with two breakfast trays.
Guess he’s eating by himself, she decided, digging into her cereal. As she sipped her herbal tea, she made a face. A sour odor entered her nostrils. “What’s wrong with this chamomile?”
Then she saw the vase before her, full of wilting, yellow daisies. It’s time for you to go.
Just then, Chaussette, lying in Hélène’s lap, perked up her ears. Heavy footsteps followed. Marc wandered into the dining room, wearing one of his flashy Saturday morning sports outfits.
When he opened his mouth to yawn, a belch popped out.
Bon appétit, thought Hélène, scrunching her nose. No morning kiss needed today.
Marc ran his fingers through his stringy hair and glared at Chaussette. The cat ran for cover.
He plopped in a chair and grabbed a slice of bread, fumbling with his knife as he spread Nutella chocolate over it.
All of a sudden, Marc looked around his plate, then under the table. His face grew red.
When his eyes met Hélène’s, he started to say something but stopped. Instead, he downed his first cup of coffee. Before he could put his mug down, Hélène poured him another cup and slipped out of the room.
*****
Hélène reappeared in an old T-shirt and jeans, with freshly combed hair and light makeup. She pecked Marc on the cheek. “Au revoir, chéri.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” Marc’s eyebrows knitted as he scrutinized his wife clutching her bicycle helmet. “It’s Saturday, remember? We’re going to the market.”
Hélène inhaled deeply. “I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t feel like it?” Marc’s voice rose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I made you a list of things to buy.” She thrust a piece of paper at him.
Instead of retorting with a furious reprimand, Marc swallowed his anger, mumbling like a child, “But we always go together on Saturdays.” His eyes were pleading.
Hélène pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to give in. “I know, chéri, but today, I’m going to check out the shops—by myself. I need some alone time,” she stammered, squeezing her hips for stability.
The hazel eyes stopped pleading. Their pupils contracted; a cool glare replaced their softness. His voice was rough. “Ouais, I get it. Do whatever you want.”
Hélène’s body relaxed; her husband hadn’t changed after all. It was easier to bounce off a hard, abrasive rock. “Super. See you later, then,” she announced, pecking him on the cheek.
“Mon Dieu, you need a shave,” she hollered, rubbing her face as she skipped toward the garage.
*****
After pedaling for fifteen minutes, Hélène stopped before a plastic neon sign, “Jimmy’s Cuts,” adorning a bright pink building. She pressed her nose to the window to take in the hair salon’s familiar kitsch interior. The owner, Jimmy, referred to it as his original “faux macho” design. Clashing colors—pastel pink and blood-red burgundy—bounced off paisley walls, creating a vibrant palette to jolt the eyes of delicate customers or, worse yet, virgins of kitsch.
Two young male customers sat beside each other in pink swivel chairs, each with their preferred hairstylist. One stylist sat in a wheelchair, wearing a tight T-shirt exposing the rugged contours of his chest and solid biceps. The other stylist was tall with broad shoulders, a square, stubbly chin, and a distinct Mediterranean nose.
Hélène paused before opening the door. She always felt out of place, given the stark contrast between her plain appearance and the salon’s décor, the stylists, and the trendy clientele. For years, she fought against these self-conscious thoughts, even when Jimmy sent her home with a friendly kiss and freshly coiffed hair.
But today, Hélène felt different. She worked up a confident smile and squeezed past the heavy door. As it opened, funky music straight from the seventies boogied its way into her ears. As soon as they caught sight of her, the two hairstylists, Paul and Ramon, stopped snipping.
“Ma chérie!” Paul hollered, sitting up straight in his adjustable wheelchair. Even though he was twenty-six, he still had a baby face, milky skin, fine blond hair, and huge chestnut eyes that appeared as if they had just been lacquered. All his customers—both men and women—fell under his spell. The fact that his ears stuck out like butterfly wings only added to his charm.
“Look what the wind blew in. Salut, ma puce,” gushed Ramon in a thick Castilian accent. Ramon Gutierrez came from Madrid and was two years older than his boyfriend / colleague, Paul. His gorgeous dark brown hair and eyes blended perfectly with his tan skin. Rectangular, red glasses sat firmly over his sturdy nose; they matched his glittery red jacket, part of his eccentric clothes collection in honor of his idol, Elton John. A lone diamond shimmered from his left earlobe.
Hélène did her best to act cool as she waltzed over to the stylists. “Salut, les mecs.”
The two men planted kisses on her cheeks.
“Jimmy!” belted Paul. Within seconds, the owner of the salon appeared behind Hélène. Pursing his lips, he smacked exaggerated kisses into the air. “Darling! What a surprise! How’s my favorite translator?”
Jimmy Black hailed from the outskirts of London. With reddish brown hair, cobalt blue eyes, Ivory soap skin, and a spray of freckles, he looked much younger than his forty years. His face was as clean-cut as a guy�
�s could get, and his witty charm made him buddies with all his clients.
Hélène smiled at her old friend, who sported faded army pants and a bright rainbow shirt. She adored his accent in French, the way he modified her language with his own British twist—sprinkling it with original sayings. Now, at least, he had fully mastered it, not at all like when they first met, twenty years ago, at translation school.
“I’m desperately in need of a haircut,” Hélène stated self-consciously.
“You’re telling me.” Jimmy winced as he ran his fingers through her windblown hair. “Hate to say it, but this mop looks like used cardboard, it’s so frayed. What in God’s name have you been up to? Never mind. We’ll fix it, doll.”
Jimmy grinned, lifting the freckles across his cheeks. “Where’s your hubby?”
“At home.”
Pouting, Jimmy crossed his arms. “But you always go to the market on Satur—”
“I decided to come to town on my own. He can do the shopping by himself—for once.”
Jimmy lifted an eyebrow. “How daring of you, my dear. You’re so right. Stagnation’s to be avoided at all costs.” He shook his head. A slight crack erupted in his neck. “Right.”
Wincing, his hand went to his neck. “It’s healthy to switch channels once in a while.”
Hélène snickered. “You’d know about that, wouldn’t you, Jimmy?”
“I wasn’t cut out to be a translator, Hélène. You know that as well as—”
“You’re right. You’d hate my job.” The thought of him twiddling his thumbs at her desk, piled high with dictionaries, made Hélène chuckle.
Jimmy winked at her. “Let me tell you, woman, you’d hate mine too.”
Hélène glanced at Paul and Ramon, who were busy snipping tufts of hair off their clients’ scalps. “Probably. I’d be awful—I have absolutely no creativity.”
“Don’t say that, honey. Everyone can be creative. What about all those poems you’re concocting?”
Hélène blushed. “They’re just for me. They don’t count. If I mess up on a word or a phrase, it’s no big deal. My little literary escapades can’t ruin people’s hair. Or their love lives.”
“You’ve got a point, my dear.” Jimmy nodded. “Before I get the hives from this mess, let’s get to work on yours.”
Hélène’s eyes bulged. “My what?”
“Your hair, silly. What did you think I meant?” Jimmy smirked. “That is, unless—”
“My love life never changes. You know that, Jimmy. How’s yours, by the way?”
“My what?”
“Ah, don’t worry about our sweet boss!” Paul called out gingerly. “He’s having the time of his life.”
“Certainly is. N’est-ce pas, lover boy?” Ramon waved his scissors emphatically.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “Come on, gals. Back to work. We’re supposed to focus on our customers, remember?”
Paul and Ramon frowned and went back to snipping.
“I’m proud of you, sweetie,” said Jimmy, draping his arm around Hélène. “Those mandatory Saturday morning excursions with your hubby to the market were tedious, weren’t they? Good riddance.”
He leaned closer to analyze her face. “That’s not the only thing you tossed, is it? You seem different.”
Hélène peered at him nervously.
“No, really. Don’t take me wrong, honey, but…” Jimmy clicked his tongue. “It’s like you got an upgrade. Despite that scary nest on your shoulders, you look good. Younger or something. New glasses?”
Hélène bit her lip. “Non. But I’ve lost some weight. I’m biking to work now.”
“You rock, baby!” Jimmy wrapped a fuchsia frock around his client. “I had no idea you were an athlete. I even feel a hint of muscle. Right here.” He tweaked her bicep.
Giggling, Hélène jerked her arm away. “You kidding? I’m no athlete. It’s just that the doctor said I—”
“Doctor? Oh, I hate doctors. You’ll never get me near a hospital. I swear, I’d rather…Hmm, what have we here?” Jimmy twisted a blond strand around his finger, then held it to his nose. “You changed your shampoo! What’s this cheap brand? Reeks like some sort of disinfectant. I told you never to sacrifice quality for—”
“Chlorine. You see, I’m—”
Like a toy, he swiftly twirled Hélène in her chair, frowning as he scrutinized her locks.
“So, sugar, same cut as usual?”
Hélène shook her head. “Non. For once, I agree with you. Stagnation’s no longer an option. Let’s try something totally new.” She flashed him a brave smile.
“What a novel idea! Modifying Madame’s looks after nearly two decades,” Jimmy quipped. “Normally, I would jump and clap my feet, but since I’m already forty,” he brought his hand to his forehead, “it’s safer just to faint!”
“Such a drama queen,” Paul snickered as his boss hit the floor with a theatrical thud.
*****
“So when are you bringing your hubby to the salon?”
Hélène glanced up. “What?”
“Don’t you think it’s time you introduced us?” asked Jimmy, rinsing Hélène’s hair. “Or is it too soon? I mean, it’s only been twenty years.”
Hélène shut her eyes tightly, searching for an excuse, but came up with nothing convincing. Finally, she murmured, “I don’t think he’s your type.”
The red-haired stylist squeezed shampoo on Hélène’s scalp. “Honey, you mean we’re not his type.”
“Jimmy! I’m waterlogged!” moaned Hélène, trying to keep her nose above the flooding sink.
“Sorry, love.” Jimmy cut the tap and lifted Hélène’s head. Water streamed off her fuchsia frock, trickling onto her jeans. She wiggled uncomfortably. Just what I need, wet pants.
Jimmy whistled as he combed out her tangles. “So, what should we do with these precious locks?” He rubbed some strands between his fingers. “At least we got rid of the cardboard effect. That’s a start. Now what, love?”
Hélène felt her heart skip. An adventurous thrill crept under her skin. “Let’s do something completely wild.”
“Wild you want, wild it is,” Jimmy purred, aiming his scissors at Hélène’s scalp. “But seriously, I’ve been cutting your locks for two decades. You’ve never once let me snip off a hair more than—”
“I’m so sick of this.” Grabbing a handful of hair, Hélène flashed a disgusted look at the mirror. “It’s so outdated. Like my life. So stagnant. Doesn’t this remind you of a wilted flower?”
“More like a stale piece of bread,” offered Jimmy with a chuckle.
“Make me younger. And less bookwormy.”
Jimmy brushed a stray strand from her face. “Fasten your seat belt!” he ordered, hacking away at Hélène’s head. “That hubby of yours won’t know what hit him!”
Chapter Twelve
The noon sun remained high in the sky—a rarity in Belgium. At the marketplace, vendors belted out their cheapest prices while clusters of shoppers scurried over cobblestones to snatch summer sale prices. Young couples pushed strollers laden with newborn babies; elderly gentlemen—in compact hats to conceal musty, greasy hair—clasped their wives by the elbows, anxious to escort them past pricey stands; children raced around stacks of multicolored vegetables.
The enticing aroma of free-range roasted chickens dripping on spits enticed shoppers to return home to satisfy their ravenous stomachs.
Like all Saturday market shoppers—a blend of Bruxellois, Eurocrat expats, and immigrants from faraway lands—Sylvie rushed around the stands before the market shut down. When she finally reached the flower stand, she realized her heart was fluttering under her tie-dyed T-shirt. It hadn’t fluttered like this for ages. She began to sweat as her dark eyes scanned the rows of plants, flowers, and trees, searching…
A man in a flashy sports outfit was heading toward the other side of the market. He was jerking a grocery cart over the cobblestones. He seemed angry. She watched him until
he reached the café and sat down at an empty outside table. She took a last look around the flower stand, then headed in the flashy sportsman’s direction. Weaving through the thinning crowd of shoppers, she scanned each of the stands. But her eyes kept going back to the man. His head was cocked backward as he guzzled his beer.
It’s him all right. Her fingers gravitated to her throat, suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
*****
Hélène checked her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. Still nothing. Sighing, her eyes diverted from the wilting daisies on the table, settling on two plates piled with plump tuna sandwiches. Her stomach growled.
She squinted at a pair of furry ears protruding behind the dining table. “Bébé, where do you think he is?”
Her cat—comfortably settled in Marc’s chair—replied with a yawn.
“That’s not very helpful, Chaussette.” Hélène’s voice was tense. “Where do you think he is?” This prompted a “maaad” meow sound.
“Ah.” Hélène searched her cat’s eyes for confirmation. “So you think he’s mad at me.” She picked up her sandwich. “Enfin, too bad for him. I’m starving.”
As Hélène chewed, she played with the alfalfa sprouts dangling off the bread crust. Dangling tangles…tangling dangles…dangles? “I’m getting just as bad as Jimmy.” She chuckled, recalling the hairstylist’s witty puns. “Speaking of tangles, how do you like my new do?” She twisted a few strands of her shorter hair.
Chaussette meowed.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Hélène shut her eyes and rolled back her thoughts to a few hours before. Vivid images appeared at once.
Beaming with joy, she had sprung out of Jimmy’s Cuts. Her new hairstyle was the epitome of modernity—short, voluminous, and glistening with silky cranberry highlights. Jimmy, Paul, Ramon, and their customers had stood gaping as she waltzed down the street, hair swishing like an actress in a fancy shampoo commercial. As she mounted her bike, Paul blew her kisses and Jimmy growled like a wild dog: “Grrr! Grrr! You go, girlfriend!”