With a single snip, he cut the section of hair close to Payton’s scalp. He took another handful and stretched it out with the roller brush then severed it with scissors, again at the scalp.
Sonya watched, fascinated. Duman lifted and cut, lifted and cut, his scissors clicking as carefully and quickly as ever. It was horrible. Payton was unaware; her back to the mirror, she chattered into her phone. He was very nearly finished when she looked up. Perhaps she sensed the coolness of her near-baldness, or the weightlessness. She twisted, looked in the mirror and howled, “Oh my God! What have you done to me?”
Her head wore a patchy uneven stubble. A reddish coil hung over her cell phone ear. The bangs had been spared, and the contrast between the nearly-bald scalp and the fringe that fell to her eyes was comical. Duman ran his hand over her stubbly scalp. “Almost done,” he said. “What do you think?”
With a shriek Payton twisted out of her chair and slapped him with a hard crack. The sound of it hushed the salon like an off switch, and all eyes turned to Duman and his client. Marigold jumped up and started towards his station.
“Don’t.” He held up his hand to stop her. “Let’s finish it off.” He picked up the electric razor. “It would be merciful.”
Payton grabbed Sonya’s broom and swept everything off his counter—jars, flowers, photographs. “I’ll sue, you fucking idiot! What am I supposed to do now?” She wrapped her arms around her head and moaned. The entire salon—stylists, techs, and clients—froze, then someone raised her cell phone and recorded the scene. Tap, tap, tap went more phones.
Marigold hurried to shield Payton from the cameras. “We’ll make this right. Come with me. Free wig.” She gave Duman a push and he stumbled, off balance, stepping backwards. Sonya caught his arm.
THE PHOTOGRAPHS SPLASHED instantly into the twitterverse, then onto Extra, TMZ, and dozens of celebrity scandal sites. And later, wherever Sonya worked, when they learned she’d been there that day, she had to retell the legend of Duman, Kurdish hero to dog lovers everywhere. But she always left out what happened next.
She’d walked with Duman through the hushed salon, outside to the garden where he wailed like a child, great hiccupping wails. She let him cry, patting him on the back—her sisters were great criers and you just had to let them go at it. Heat rose off him like a radiator.
“I really fucked up, didn’t I,” he said when he calmed down.
“You are a brave man,” Sonya said. “I have only admiration for you.”
“She’ll probably sue the salon. Americans like to sue.”
Sonya moved so she could see into his eyes. “People will sympathize with you. Everyone loves dogs.”
“Marigold must be furious.”
“Will she fire me?”
“Nah. I’m to blame. She’ll just add another rule to her manual.” He laughed, the cracked laugh of a man who smoked too much and laughed hardly ever. “Maybe I have created a new style. The refugee buzz.”
“All the clients will be asking for it,” Sonya said. “No shampooing necessary. I’ll be out of a job.”
“No, no, we’ll style dogs too! Bring your dirty dogs to Duman’s!”
Relieved that he was joking, picturing the salon full of half-bald clients and sudsy poodles, Sonya giggled, and her laughter was infectious and made him laugh even more until they were both shrieking. He pounded the table, both of them helpless to stop as tears filled their eyes.
The Fourth Girl
WHEN THE PRINCIPAL told me he wasn’t going to renew my contract, I smiled numbly and slouched out of his office, saving the tears of humiliation for my walk to the bus stop. Weeping, cussing, I almost didn’t answer my cell phone.
“Reenie Martin?” Speaking in a crusty solemn voice, the man identified himself as a lawyer. “Your Aunt Peggy has passed away. She’s left you her entire estate—her house, her car, and liquid assets.”
Life is fair! The universe does care! Visions of stock portfolios, a cottage surrounded by white picket fence, and a life far, far away from the New York City public school system danced through my head. I brushed away the tears of the recently fired and shrieked with glee. Scooping up Mango, my orange tomcat, for a furry hug, I danced around my coffee/dining/desk table, bounced on the daybed that also served as my sofa, then rummaged through my tiny fridge for a beer, the closest I could get to bubbly.
OK, back up. I wasn’t ecstatic about Aunt Peggy’s death, but not saddened either, as our relationship consisted of a card exchange at Christmas. I lived in Brooklyn, she in North Carolina, and our paths hardly ever crossed. She was my father’s much older half-sister. So this windfall, this unexpected bounty, wasn’t accompanied by grief. Curiosity, mainly. What kind of life had she lived? What life would I be stepping into?
I was eager to leave New York. A, I couldn’t afford to live here. B, nearly all my friends had married, moved to the suburbs, and produced two-point-one kids. C, my most recent romance had ended in a shouting match worthy of the Jerry Springer Show. (Did you know there’s a Blackberry app that tells his wife his exact location—not his office on Broadway, where he’s supposed to be working late, but a restaurant on West 43rd, where he’s eating sushi with me? No? He didn’t either.)
I’d come to the conclusion, based on personal experience, that any New York man interested in me was either a cheater or a mouth breather. But getting fired was the straw that broke this thirty-two-year-old’s ties to the Big Apple. I shoved my clothes and books into a dozen boxes and called UPS for a pickup. Said adieu to my studio apartment, a twelve-by-twelve space with one grimy window overlooking an alley of dumpsters. Slid Mango into his carrier, took the subway to Penn Station, and boarded a train for the twelve-hour trip to Raleigh, dreaming Martha Stewart fantasies of a real house. With a garden. Maybe even chickens. Martha has chickens. And goats. I could make cheese.
“WHY ME?” I asked.
The crusty solemn voice belonged to a spare, white-haired man with a benign expression of lawyerly rectitude. “You were her only living relative, Reenie. She was once an English teacher, like you. She was adamant women should have financial independence.”
I’d forgotten Aunt Peggy had been a teacher too. My concept of the size of her “estate” fizzled. “What can you tell me about her?” I could hardly wait to see my new house and let Mango out of his carrier, but this man had known my aunt for years, would know her friends, her life.
He tapped his lips then appeared to choose his words. “A very private person. You’ll meet her friends; I’m sure they’ll stop by. What are your plans for the house? Going to sell it?”
“I’m going to live in it.”
He raised one graying eyebrow. “Indeed. Well then, welcome to Verwood.” He handed me a set of keys. “Doors, garage, car. I transferred her bank account to your name. Sign here, please.”
I scanned the form, a statement of my newly inherited assets. A house plus 2.3 acres at 601 Wiley Jones Road, a 2005 Toyota Camry, a bank account with a balance of $6,754.52. Not much. I’d have to get a teaching job. I shuddered.
I WASN’T USED to driving, but there was so little traffic in Verwood that I felt no qualms about steering the Camry onto the highway and four miles later onto Wiley Jones Road. I passed three trailers before I saw 601’s mailbox and turned onto a washboard driveway winding through vine-covered underbrush and towering pines.
And there was my bungalow, one story with a crumbling front porch, neglected hollies growing up to a rusty tin roof, plywood covering a broken window. And out back, a tiny rough-board shed surrounded by a wire fence—a chicken coop!
I was beyond excited. My Martha instincts kicked in—this house could be cute. Mango meowed plaintively in the carrier. “Your ordeal is over. We’re home, boy,” I said, skipping up the steps.
Oh my. I’d landed in the seventies. Shag carpet so grimy you couldn’t tell its original color. Flocked wallpaper. Avocado green sofa and chairs, the upholstery worn down to the foam. A dark room made darker by heavy
brocade draperies at the windows. Mango began to explore, tentatively sniffing every square inch of that carpet. I counted seventeen candles burned down to wicks, and any number of dust-covered silk flower arrangements. But I couldn’t stop smiling, so happy was I to have my own place. With a fireplace!
And a letter on the mantel, addressed to me:
Dear Reenie,
It gives me great pleasure to know you will be my beneficiary. I realized many years ago that teachers work very hard for little pay, even less status and no chance of advancement, so I am delighted you can benefit from my experience.
Twenty years ago I found another way to make money with little work and no stress, and I hereby bequeath it to you.
In addition to my cottage, you have inherited a home-based business that ticks along without much effort. It will generate enough income to pay your expenses if you live modestly. Five days a week, my girlfriends Connie, Fran, and Lilac arrive just before noon. Shortly thereafter, three clients appear at your door, one per girl, and each couple disappears into a bedroom. At the end of one hour, each client will hand you $50, tax-free, and depart, smiling. (They pay the girls separately.)
I hope you enjoy living in Verwood as much as I did. People are friendly but fortunately for me and now for you, they mind their own business. No one seems to care about my little lunch-time club, and that’s the way my girls and their clients like it.
From this day forward, you’ll be able to see a yellow school bus without shuddering.
Much love,
Aunt Peggy
My mouth dropped open: I had inherited a brothel.
My good-girl Methodist side was horrified, but Peggy’s clever reminder of yellow-bus-dread hit home, making my pragmatic burned-out side think What the hell! This could work.
But what were the girls like?
THE GIRLS SHOWED up at eleven-thirty the next day, a Friday, and what astonished me was how ordinary they looked, like any forty-something women waiting on a Bronx subway platform. Lilac was a petite blond with thick glasses, missing an incisor. Fran wore a long flowery dress that disguised her too-ample curves, while Connie, in purple skinny jeans, had lovely cheekbones and knock-knees. In no time we were chatting about their families, diets that didn’t work, best store for shoes. And their clients.
“Each one’s different,” Fran said. “Some might say peculiar.” She giggled, and her whole body rippled. “A regular schedule, the same ones each day of the week.”
“We’re picky,” Lilac said. She was studying a Scrabble word book.
“What’s today, Friday? My dentist. He likes to be scolded,” Connie said. She’d changed into an eighties-style power suit, red lipstick, and heels. She took out a knitting project in blue yarn, “a sweater for a Siamese, to match its eyes.” She told me she knitted clothing for pets and sold it on Etsy. She was saving to send her son to college.
Lilac looked up. “ ‘Siamese,’ that’s an easy bingo.” She explained that she played competitive Scrabble, and a bingo meant a word that used all seven tiles. “My client today is the fire chief. We usually play a game after our feather frolic.”
Feather frolic? My mind boggled.
Fran squeezed herself into a naughty nurse uniform “for the professor” and offered me a homemade toffee. Hard at first, the sticky candy melted in my mouth, leaving a hint of chocolate mint. “I sell them at the farmer’s market,” she said. “If there’s any left!” She laughed, severely testing her costume’s seams.
As they waited for their clients, they gossiped. Connie bragged that her son made the honor roll, and Fran said she ought to be proud, he was one fine boy. Lilac told a story about her dog humping the plumber who was replacing her garbage disposal. Connie knitted, Lilac studied word lists, and Fran nibbled, until clonk clonk went the door knocker. I ducked into the kitchen, to watch from behind the door.
The first client was Fran’s professor, a jockey-sized man with a goatee. He hung his tweed jacket in the hall closet and began to limp, whimpering with each step. What a faker, I thought.
Fran tugged up her red thigh-high stockings, tucked a stethoscope into her cleavage, stroked his cheek. “How’re you doing, sweetheart?”
“I feel terrible, from head to toe, just terrible.”
“Let’s check you out. Exam room one.” Fran sashayed down the hall to the bedrooms, beckoning him with a crooked finger to follow.
Clonk clonk, and the front door opened again. The dentist was a paunchy man with thick white hair, smelling of Old Spice. He planted himself in front of Connie, who didn’t even glance up from her knitting but said, “Go to your room. You have been a very bad boy.” Looking hang-dog guilty, he slinked down the hall. Connie slid a marker onto the needle and put her knitting away. She took a ruler from the closet and followed him, smacking the ruler against her palm and growling for him to hurry.
Lilac pushed aside the heavy brocade draperies, looked out the window. “Chief is always last.” She poked inside a tote bag. “We could use some new feathers. Chief took a few home last week.”
OMG. I closed the door. I’d seen enough. I spread a drop cloth over the kitchen floor. I’d decided to paint the burnt orange kitchen’s walls and ceiling a creamy ivory. As I spackled and taped, I worried. Last night’s heavy rain had proved too much for the rusted roof, and I’d dashed around putting pots under a half-dozen leaks. Clearly I needed a new roof. As far as beautification went, I’d whacked the hollies into submission. But my Martha-vision included paint, landscaping, better furniture, repairing the front door, replacing heavy draperies with white sheers, grading the quarter-mile driveway, and a lot of fencing (for the goats I didn’t yet have). Obviously I needed more income. I’d ask the girls what I should do.
“DON’T RAISE YOUR prices,” Lilac said. “Once Peggy went up twenty bucks and we lost a bunch of guys.”
“What about taking on a few more clients?” I asked.
Connie frowned. “You mean two in one day?” They exchanged looks. “That’s like cheating.”
“Yeah. Each client has his day, no sharing,” Fran said. “Like a date.”
Whatever. “Alrighty then,” I said, “we need a fourth girl.” I studied the three women. Connie’s face was getting that crepey look. She’s experienced, surely that’s desirable? Fran’s belly bulged; you could see her red thong where her zipper had come unstitched. Oh dear. And Lilac—squinting at her word book—she should replace that missing tooth. Not a good look.
Funny, the regulars didn’t seem to mind.
“It shouldn’t be hard to find one,” Lilac said. “The economy and all.”
“I don’t know where to look,” I said.
Connie said, “Try Walmart. Or Target.”
I imagined wandering around discount stores for hours, the horrified expressions of sales clerks and customers as they realized the job I was offering. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“I could check out the lady farmers at the market,” Fran said. “They could use the cash but they’re a bit weathered, if you know what I mean.”
Lilac looked up from a list of words containing Z. “What about Splits and Tits?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Strip club. Girls gyrating around poles. Neon lighting kept dark so customers can’t see cellulite and varicose veins.”
“Lilac, you’re a genius. Sounds perfect.”
I made up business cards with an image of hundred-dollar bills raining down. Part-time work, easy money! I drove to Splits’ parking lot and as the dancers arrived for work, I handed out my card. “Call me,” I say, waggling my thumb and pinky. “Guaranteed income, homey surroundings.”
BY THE FOLLOWING Friday I had my fourth girl.
A redhead with a cockney accent, Ginger wobbled slightly on five-inch leopard-skin heels. She wore a black leather teddy decorated with fishnet and straps and nailhead trim. She sauntered into my living room and looked around. “Place seen better days, innit?”
Lilac’s ey
es widened, but she offered a friendly “Hi.” Fran held out her box of toffee, and Connie said, “It’s great to have a new face here.”
Impressed they were so welcoming, I told them my plan. “I’ll introduce Ginger to your clients, and ask them to spread the word.”
“Why not let her take our place today?” Connie asked. “We talked about it, and we three could use a day off.” Fran and Lilac nodded.
“Will your clients object? They’re awfully fond of you,” I said. “Used to a certain, uh, routine.”
Connie shrugged. “Tell them we’ll be back next Friday.” She gathered up her knitting. Lilac said she’d find an online Scrabble game. Fran wrestled off the naughty nurse costume and pulled on stretchy waist jeans and a tee shirt. They left, seeming pleased to have free time.
ONE BY ONE, the regular clients arrived. I ushered the professor into the bedroom where Ginger waited, dressed in the naughty nurse costume taken in with safety pins. She wriggled seductively as she beckoned him to lie down. “Let’s take a look at you, dearie,” she said, twirling the stethoscope.
The professor frowned. “Uh, you’re a skinny little thing, aren’t you? Except for those basketballs on your chest.”
I closed the door. Surely Ginger could work through his crankiness. She’d assured me she knew how to make a man happy.
Five minutes later, he stormed into the living room, shoving his money at me. “It better be Fran next week, right?” He stomped out.
I knocked on the closed bedroom door. “You OK?”
“Hell yeah. Daft old sod.”
When the dentist arrived, Ginger had changed into a tweed suit with big shoulder pads. She ordered him to sit on a stool in a corner, facing the wall. She started scolding him, as Connie would have, and I left, thinking this one will be OK. But soon, too soon, from the bedroom the dentist yelled, “That’s not right! You’re doing it all wrong!” He left, weeping, refusing to pay.
Restless Dreams Page 3