THE LAWYER TRIED to find someone who remembered seeing a very tall girl in a black hoodie waiting in the bus shelter that day, but no one came forward. As it turned out, that particular route didn’t run on Mondays, and I waited in the shelter for ages. I saw Fran drive by—she didn’t look my way—and then come back with Celeste, who leaned over the seat and waved at me. I was in the shelter an hour later when the ambulance sped past. I was in the shelter when the police came for me. That’s the truth, no matter what Angela said under oath.
THE LAWYER SAID there were no grounds for an appeal. Physical evidence and Angela’s eyewitness testimony supported the prosecutor’s case—that I had plugged my hair dryer into an extension cord and dropped it into the bathtub where Fran lay soaking. The circuits in that old house had no ground fault interrupters, and Fran was electrocuted instantly. My handprints were on the tub, my footprints on the floor, it was my hair dryer and extension cord. I had a history of reacting excessively when things didn’t go my way. The lawyer told me to plea not guilty by reason of insanity; she wanted to try a crazy fired-nanny defense, but I told her I just plain didn’t kill Fran.
The jury disagreed.
Guilty, murder in the first degree. Sentenced to life without parole.
YOU LEARN TO treasure any change of routine—Sunday services when you can play your music, earning a cosmetology license, a job in the prison beauty parlor. You explain to the guard about depilatory cream and soon she’s mustache-free, whispering “breakfast, Brea” instead of barking it. Her name’s Emma and she has grandkids already, even though she’s only thirty-eight. She likes to sing, she says, and we kick around the idea of a prison band.
You flee less often. You never think ahead. You live day by day.
SIX YEARS INTO my sentence a letter comes, written in a wobbly hand. The signature makes my heart pound.
Hola Brea,
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you with deep sorrow and great regret. It was a terrible thing I did, to say you killed Fran, when I know you didn’t. My days on earth are short and I need to be right with God. I confessed to my priest and he told me to do what was right. So I am willing to say to anyone that you did not kill Fran, that I lied, and may God forgive me.
Vaya con Dios,
Angela
This letter surprises me. When I think about showing it to the lawyer, I get a sick feeling in my gut. I don’t know who killed Fran, and I don’t care. What bothers me? That they decided to throw me under the bus. Let’s say Brea did it! Yeah! Brea did it! That works!
I talk it over with Emma. Emma’s a wise woman with a voice like molten gold. (You should hear her sing “Crazy”—you’d think Patsy had risen from the dead.) Emma’s seen a lot, she knows how I am. “What do you want?” she says. “Ask for it.”
What do I want?
THE LAWYER’S HAD her hair cut in a chin-length bob but otherwise looks the same mousy self in a baggy beige suit. When she reads Angela’s letter her cheeks turn pink. “This is great. I’ll depose her right away and file an appeal.”
You better, before she dies, I think, lacking the energy to be bitter with the lawyer and besides, I have a future now. The most I can summon up is, “You didn’t believe me.”
“It wasn’t my job to believe or not believe, Brea. I wanted what was best for you.”
“How long will it take?”
She shrugs. “Much longer than you’d like. Six months at least.”
Six months, six days, six hours. Six of anything is better than life without parole.
I think about my release all the time.
IT TOOK ELEVEN months, but one morning I walk out of prison, carrying my banjo and a suitcase, the one I’d packed when I left Cy and Fran’s house. I try on the black hoodie and it’s snug. Guess I gained weight on prison food.
The lawyer is waiting for me. She hands me a bunch of newspaper clippings, all saying about the same thing: “Innocent Woman Exonerated.” Innocent. I like that.
Her black shiny car has new smells and a computer dashboard. But once we’re on the road, the car’s fast jerky movements terrify me and the flashes of sunlight give me a headache so it’s a relief when she pulls into a grocery store parking lot. Inside there are too many choices and I freeze, unable to decide. I tremble as I wander the aisles. Picking up an eggplant, I burst into tears, stunned by all the colors—purple, orange, yellow, red. When the lawyer realizes she’s dealing with an idiot overwhelmed by re-entry, she steers me back to the car.
By the time we get to the apartment complex, I’ve calmed down. We drive through trees, past picnic tables. It’s peaceful here, and quiet. A refuge.
The lawyer points past some tennis courts. “Over there’s the pool and fitness center.” We walk to a door, climb stairs, and she hands me a key. “Here, it’s yours.”
I insert the key into the lock and the door opens.
The. Door. Opens.
I laugh, wondering how long it will take to get used to unlocking my own door.
“Your rent will be paid and a stipend will be deposited monthly,” the lawyer says, handing me a checkbook as she leaves. “The accountants who set it up can’t tell you—or me—who it’s from.”
So someone owes me. True. I don’t care who it is. I wander around, opening cupboards and closets. There’s a balcony, sunny enough for a tomato plant. A mirror over the fireplace reflects a dark-haired woman with lots of pale freckles and not even a speck of lipstick. No pageant princess, she. I sit down on the bed—a cloud covered with a floating silky quilt.
Through the bathroom door I glimpse a white tub and exhale the breath I’ve been holding for seven years. I dig around in my suitcase, find my bath oil, and twist off the top. The scent of freesia, like strawberries in a rose garden, fills every crevice of my poor cracked soul. “Free,” I say aloud. Free.
Make Me Beautiful
SONYA WAS MORE confident today, her second day as a shampoo tech, because of the dress she wore—a silver shift that she’d bought from a vintage clothing shop on Melrose. Yesterday she’d been underdressed in jeans and a cami. Marigold had spoken to her about her clothes in a quiet way. Still, Sonya had been embarrassed, thinking a client must have said something about her low-class clothes.
Sonya’s job was to chat up the clients, assist the stylists, shampoo, and sweep. She loved the salon. Spot lighting, European-style leather chairs, cobalt blue basins, the latest kind that tilted so clients could lie completely flat. Duman’s Salon was a universe away from the cramped apartment in East Hollywood that she shared with her overworked mother, a billion brown roaches, and five younger sisters who rummaged through her clothes the minute she left for work. Here was order, light, perfume.
Marigold, the salon manager, wasn’t much older than Sonya, maybe twenty-five. She had slithery blonde hair and teeth so perfect and white you yearned for her rare smile. She’d bestowed one on Sonya when she handed her the thirty-five-page policy manual, covering everything from flowers at each station (replace regularly) to showing up high (you’re fired). “Wrote it myself,” Marigold had said. “This pack of prima donnas won’t argue when it’s in writing. You read every word, be sweet, and don’t take sides. Or any shit. Keep me informed.”
This morning, Sonya’s first task was to unpack cartons. She was crouched in the supply closet next to the reception desk when she heard Marigold say, “Uh-oh. Here comes Duman’s nine o’clock. She’s early and he’s late. Where the hell is he?”
Duman was the salon owner, the star stylist, the stylist of stars, or near-stars. Sonya had heard about his client list—directors’ wives, reality show housewives, B-list celebrities. And since tonight was the Oscars, they’d be lining up for him. She peeked over Marigold’s shoulder—breathing in her sweet citrusy smell—at Duman’s schedule. He was booked solid, nine till four.
“Omigod, it’s Payton Beatty.” Marigold ducked under the counter. “You greet her. She tried to have me fired last month. I couldn’t pronounce her name
. I said Beatty like Warren Beatty? Only it sounds like ‘beet. Beety.’ ” She sat on her heels and grinned up at Sonya.
Payton Beatty looked familiar, maybe a character from Law and Order or CSI. She had the frozen expression of the frequently Botoxed and white, white skin that must have come from melanin suppression and peels. Her hair was red, thick, and wavy, with a fine stripe of graying brown roots. Except for the gray, Payton could pass for thirty. She wore a clingy black jersey dress and her breasts looked softly real as she pressed against the counter.
“Where is Duman?” Payton’s eyes swept the room. “I need that raghead to make me beautiful.” Under the counter, Marigold filed her nails.
“He’ll be here soon, Ms. Beatty,” Sonya said. Beety. She settled Payton in Duman’s chair with a magazine and went back to the reception desk. “What’s a raghead?” she whispered, leaning down as though she were tying a shoelace.
Marigold looked horrified. “Don’t say that! It’s because Arabs wear turbans.”
Duman didn’t wear a turban, but more questions would sound stupid. Sonya hadn’t even realized he was Arab. Impressive, that he’d come so far in this business. Her parents were also immigrants—illegals, from Mexico. They had not gone far. Her mother scavenged for jobs, everything from hotel housekeeping to chicken processing, after her greatest accomplishment, giving birth to six US citizens in a decade as though she needed to get them out quickly before she was deported. Her father worked on a ranch; doing what was never clear. He was the most silent man ever born and only came home once a year.
Payton Beatty crooked her finger at Sonya. “Water?”
Sonya brought her a glass of Pellegrino with a lime slice.
“Thanks. Those cheekbones of yours. Indian?”
Sonya wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Pardon?”
“Or Chicano? Same thing really. Only they’re usually short. You know, dumpy. And you’re not.”
Maybe Payton was joking so Sonya half-laughed and decided not to answer. “Are you going to the Awards tonight?”
“Yup. It’s daytime lighting, the worst.”
“Well, Duman is a master.”
“I’ve been coming to him since dinosaurs walked the earth.” Payton’s rubbery smile didn’t reach her dead eyes. “He makes it shimmer, like red wine with gold flecks. I just hope he’ll be quiet. He chatters in that annoying Turkish accent, I don’t understand half. I had a rough night. I don’t want to hear about his twinkie boyfriend or dog or leaky hot tub. Here, give him this, tell him to be quiet.” She handed Sonya a hundred-dollar bill and fingered the silvery fabric of Sonya’s dress. “I think I wore this to my senior prom.”
Just then Duman came in the door, dressed in all black, his tanned face hidden by wrap-around shades and a two-day stubble. “Hello, darling, see you in five minutes,” he said to Payton, walking through the salon and out the back. The women’s eyes followed him.
Marigold squinted at Sonya. “See what’s going on and bring him back.” Sonya, unsure, trailed after.
OUTSIDE, THE WINTER sun fell in slanted stripes. Smells of exhaust smoke and roasting beans from the coffee shop next door filled the air. Marigold had planted a garden, labeled each plant. Peach roses, orange blossoms, scarlet bougainvillea. A table held pots of succulents with fat waxy leaves and funny names: red-spiked golf balls, hen and chicks, string of pearls.
Duman slumped onto a bench, took out a cigarette, tapped it on the table. “I must quit this filthy habit. Tomorrow, perhaps. What’s your name, sweetheart?” He had a delicate high-pitched voice.
“Sonya.” She flushed, feeling very young in her shiny dress, and handed him the hundred-dollar bill. “The money’s from Payton Beatty. She asked for no talking.” She tried to apologize with her eyes.
Duman waved his hand in dismissal. “It’s an insult, right?” He lit his cigarette, took a slow draw, and exhaled a giant sigh of smoke. “Hardly matters. Today is a very bad day.”
“The work, you mean? Clients getting ready for Oscars?”
“My dog died this morning.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry.” She knew people loved their pets like family, though she’d never had a pet, not even a goldfish.
“She was hit by a car. I found her on Rossmore Ave, barely breathing. Some fucking driver just drove off, left her there to die. The vet said her back was broken and she was paralyzed. He put her down. Now I’m not so sure it was the right thing to do.” He looked at Sonya with reddened eyes. “Have you ever seen on TV those paralyzed dogs zipping around with carts under their legs? Cleo could have had a cart too.” He sighed deeply. “I miss her already.”
“What kind of dog was she?”
“A Jack Russell. A smart little girl dog. She understood everything I said.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sonya was supposed to get Duman back into the salon, but how could she possibly suggest it? It was his salon. Marigold would understand that lowly shampoo techs didn’t issue orders. She sat on a wrought iron chair and waited.
“Cleo wasn’t the first dog I lost. I left a dog behind when I left my village. But I think he survived on his own,” Duman said. “I hope. There was plenty to eat and he was a smart dog, like Cleo.”
She wanted to get his mind off his dog. “Tell me about your village.”
“Nothing like here.”
Sonya understood the immigrant’s plight. Her parents talked of their past with both nostalgia and scorn: wistful when they described the warm security of a neighborhood where children ran house to house, then disgust at drunkenness and garbage in the streets. Of course, being illegal, once they reached LA they never traveled anywhere again. She was curious. “How was it different?”
“A small village on a dirt road, houses built of clay bricks. Animals everywhere—chickens, cows, sheep. We lived in a compound headed by my father’s father. The people were very kind and honest. Then Hussein destroyed our village.”
Sonya imagined piles of rubble, a wandering goat. “Where did you go? You were a child?”
He croaked a sort of chuckle and put another cigarette into his mouth. “We escaped to Tehran, then went to Kirkuk. I crossed the border into Turkey. Stowed away on a ferry into Greece. Then I went to Germany and then to the US. I almost lost my life, many times. I was fourteen. Twenty-seven years ago.” He struck a match, drew hard on the cigarette, and exhaled sharply.
“That sounds very brave. And now you have everything.” She gestured toward the salon’s door. “A true success story.”
“Means nothing.”
What could she say to that? They sat in silence for a moment while Duman smoked.
“Payton Beatty is waiting for you.” Sonya said it gently, hoping to distract him from his grief.
“Payton Beatty thinks I am a Turk. Sometimes I say Turkey, sometimes Egypt. It doesn’t matter. Kurds don’t have a country.” He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. His soft brown eyes were bloodshot. “Iraqi.”
Sonya nodded. “People are prejudiced. Payton thought I was Indian. You know, native.”
“People are idiots.” He rubbed his face. “Okay. Even with a broken heart, I must perform magic. You will be the magician’s assistant.”
Sonya smiled at his kindness. “I’ll hold your hat full of rabbits.” She followed him back into the salon.
“FANTASTIC,” DUMAN SAID, running his fingers through Payton’s hair, lifting up the heavy mass, letting it fall, brushing it tangle-free. He began sectioning and weaving, quick and meticulous, dabbing on the bleach, then the lifting tint. Each time he held out his slightly trembling hand, Sonya handed him what he asked for—a foil, bowl and brush, or tail comb. She loved watching him work. Later she’d practice on her sisters’ hair, try to copy his tender skill.
He wrapped Payton’s head in plastic. “Now we meditate, darling,” he said, “only a few minutes.” To Marigold, he said, “I’m going to make some calls,” and went through the back, out into the garden again. Marigold rolled her eyes.
S
onya shampooed two clients, cleaned her basin, and wandered about the salon to sweep where it was needed. When Duman returned, he checked the color—“Perfect”—and watched while Sonya pulled off the foils and shampooed Payton’s hair. Payton lay back, her eyes closed, the fine scars of her surgeries barely visible along her jawline. Sonya toweled her hair, wondering how Duman would style her. Payton had perfect features and could wear any style.
He began by taking off an inch, then layering. He textured the edges to give them a softer line. As he sectioned her bangs, Payton’s phone rang and she began a conversation with someone about her date for the Oscars—“gay as a daffodil,” her hair—“Duman’s making me beautiful,” and her exhaustion after only two hours of sleep. “I hit something last night, might have been a dog, from the yelping,” she said. “Why do owners let their dogs out? It’s so irresponsible.” She closed her eyes and listened to her caller. “Too late to stop. I was coming out of Wilshire Country Club. On Rossmore? Just going along with traffic. God, it was horrible. I was shaking for hours. Of all the nights I needed my rest. It took me forever to get to sleep.”
Sonya, sweeping under Duman’s counter, froze in horror. She looked at him. Had he heard? His face was bluish white, and there was a film of moisture on his upper lip. Would he say something to this stupid, stupid woman? He continued to work. Delicately he took a section of hair, then a roller brush, sliding it to straighten the hair away from her scalp. He turned to Sonya and held out his hand for the hair dryer.
Something should be said. Or done.
Sonya set the broom aside and opened his scissors drawer. She selected a pair and held them out, tentative. Their eyes met. Duman’s were intense, full of pain. He took the scissors, and she felt a pulse of glee at his courage and her daring.
Restless Dreams Page 2