by Joyia Marie
Wow, I knew Harold had never been inside a kitchen but you have to work at it to mess up coffee. As strong as this coffee was, I was surprised Harold hadn’t left his car at home and run to work. After this, I would be good on coffee for the rest of the day. I watched as my creamer barely made a change in color and thought, ‘maybe the week’.
“I leave for Mr. Peterson,” Mrs. Gunderson said I understood she would be taking over setting up the coffee pot from now on.
Mrs. Gunderson’s coffee was stronger than mine and sometimes I ask her to make a pot when I need an extra pick me up but it wasn’t as strong as this. This could put hair on your chest, not a thing I have ever aspired to.
I was off the market until my divorce was final but eventually I would get back out there. I didn’t think it would be a big selling point if my chest were manlier than my partner’s was. I briefly wondered if Aiden had hair on his chest, then pushed the thought away.
Bad married woman, I chided myself again, slapping my libido’s hand. My libido just giggled, then went back to fantasizing about Aiden and a bottle of chocolate syrup. The ‘ho has been at it since our lip lock the night before. I learned to ignore her if I was to get anything done that day.
I grabbed my caffeine and the roll of garbage bags and went into the master bedroom, Mrs. Gunderson on my heels like an obedient guard dog. She grabbed my empty suitcase, went to the dresser, and began to pack the rest of my lingerie and folding clothes. I went to the closet and got to work. I found the rest of my luggage and put it to good use.
The clothes I was taking Mrs. Gunderson packed. The matronly mistakes that Gwendolyn forced on me and I wore, I left hanging. Jillian and I were pretty much the same size so maybe she could use them. The flat out mistakes or left over maternity clothes went into the garbage bags for Goodwill.
It didn’t take long to get everything cleared out. I wanted my clothes but my books and personal nick knacks would wait for after I moved back to the loft. I did get my wedding band, my jewelry box, and the rest of my toiletries. Stuff it would drive me crazy for Jillian to get her grubby paws on.
We marched my stuff to my minivan and I took the stuff for Goodwill as well to drop off on my way home. I gave the house one last look to last me for a while before I grabbed a couple of other things. I grabbed the pictures my mother had done of the twins and the landscape of my grandmother’s off the wall in the bedroom.
I laughed as I packed it into the minivan. I wonder what Harold would have thought if he knew he had 100,000 dollar painting on the wall. When I brought it home, he took one look at it, said it was pretty, and never really looked at it again.
I was hugging Mrs. Gunderson goodbye and letting her know I would be checking in with her often when my cell phone rang. It was an awkward moment for both of us as neither of us is big on hugging but I felt it was appropriate.
My net of artists had yielded a bigger fish than I had dared hope for. A friend of a friend was rooming with an architect who was just starting out and he’d be willing to do the plans for my loft dirt-cheap as long as I paid cash and didn’t mention where they came from. The architect’s firm frowned at him freelancing. I agreed and arranged to meet him at my loft after he got off work about six.
When I hung up with him, I looked at the time and saw it was around lunchtime for the twins. The twins aren’t supposed to take their cell phones to school but I’ve never known it to stop Tonya. Where Tonya was, Tony was sure to be also, so I sat down at the kitchen table with my cup of espresso masquerading as coffee and dialed Tonya’s cell phone.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said when Tonya answered on the first ring. Do I know my daughter or what?
“Hey, mom, when are you coming home?” Tonya asked briskly. She was not much for small talk, this sweet child of mine.
“Not for a bit, sweetie,” I said just as briskly. Tonya might act like a 30-year-old assassin in the body of a twelve-year-old girl, but she’s still my daughter and she’s still a child.
“But you are coming home, right?” Tonya asked really pushing it.
Okay, here I was in a quandary. Not the one you might think. I am not one of those people who believes in total disclosure with anyone. Nevertheless, I did try not to lie to my children. However, I wasn’t willing to break the news and take the heat off Harold either. This was his mess and he needed to clean it up.
“Tonya,” I said firmly, “what’s the rule?”
Tonya sighed, “I’ll know what I need to know when I need to know it. But mom, I need to know now. This is affecting us too.”
I smiled as my assassin morphed into a typical pre-teen. My daughter thrives on information. Usually she instigated the spying mission, she and her brother engaged in. Tony is perfectly content to wait for information to find him. Tonya believes in hunting it down, with a net if necessary.
“How is this affecting you, sweetie? You and your brother are still at home, living your lives and doing your stuff. I haven’t even been gone 48 hours yet so it’s not even that you miss me. Give your father time and I’m sure he’ll explain everything,” I assured my daughter, knowing she wouldn’t be assured at all. Tonya was a pretty black and white girl.
“Now, just be patient and let things unfold as they will. Be good for your father and Mrs. Gunderson,” I almost included Jillian, who I’m sure will be making her appearance soon, but like Harold, Jillian was on her own with Tonya. “Love you, talk to you soon, now put your brother on the phone.”
“Okay, mom, love you too,” Tonya said disgruntlement clear in her voice. I’m sure when she got home and saw my clothes and her great grandmother’s painting gone the cat would be out of the bag. I really hoped Harold was working on his story because at 3pm today, it would be show time.
Harold’s major mistake with Tonya is that he shows fear. Tonya like most predators can smell fear. I’m sure Tonya loves her father and won’t do anything too horrible to him. I don’t think she respects him and that might turn the tide of what she might do from merely unpleasant to truly horrendous. Ah well, I’m sure they’ll work it out.
Jillian on the other hand was toast. Tonya isn’t stupid and it won’t take long for her to put two and two together and get blond bimbo. Tonya is my daughter down to her toes and doesn’t do bimbo. I would love to be a fly on the wall when those two meet. Even Jillian’s greater age, however greater that may be, won’t be much of a deciding factor.
My conversation with Tony didn’t take long. My son is the strong, silent type. He doesn’t speak much in person and on the phone; I have to keep asking if he’s there to make sure the call didn’t drop. We reach our I love you’s pretty quick.
Tony has Tonya and that’s all he seems to need to be content. I envy him that, but don’t interfere. I figure God, or whatever is running the universe, had a reason for putting them together and far be it from me to interfere.
A conversation I had to have at loud volume with the school when Tonya and Tony started. The daycare they went to had no problem with them being in the same classes and even sleeping on the same mat at naptime, but the school felt it would be better to separate them so they could develop their independence.
That did not go well. I feel bad about it as I didn’t check their class assignments when I dropped them off. About an hour after I dropped them off I got a call because Tonya was not having been separated from her brother. The school wanted me to come down and explain things.
I went, but not to explain to the children, but the idiots that were trying to separate them. I could give a flip about what the counselor thought. When she had twins, if she wanted to send them to separate states that was her business. These were my babies so this was my business.
The school finally agreed to try it when I wouldn’t budge and it was obvious that Tonya wouldn’t. Tony didn’t have much to say, but the look on his face said he wasn’t budging either. The counselor predicted all kinds of dire consequences, which have never come to pass. She gave me the stink eye every time she
saw me in the halls at the school.
After I finished talking to the kids, I checked my list again. I was moving at a brisk pace and my schedule was clear until my meeting with the architect at 6ish. I wondered what to do with my day. Working on my book didn’t appeal. I hate editing which is why I need quiet to do it. Writing is fun, editing not so much.
I caught a glance at myself in the front of the microwave and had an impulse. I needed a spa day and a haircut. When Harold and I met, I wore my hair in a messy cap of curls. It was easy to take care of and easy to maintain.
Well, Harold liked long hair. Looking back on it, I should have told him to grow his out, but this was back when I was into pleasing my husband so I stopped cutting my hair. Other than a trim, I hadn’t had a serious haircut in years.
Gwendolyn loved me with longer hair as it pulled all the question-inducing curl out of it. I have caught her from time to time trying to figure out what exactly I am but she never asked. I think she’s afraid of the answer.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I called the salon and booked the works. Tuesdays are slow days and they were eager to see me and take my money. In addition, Raphael, my stylist was available. I was about to make his day. Raphael has been wanting to get scissors deep in my hair for years. He would sigh when I would come in and only let him give me a trim. Today was his lucky day.
Chapter Twenty-One: Helen
I hopped in my minivan and drove to the salon. The parking lot was nearly deserted and I made note of it. I was coming in on Fridays with the rest of the world every six weeks to get a trim and it was usually a madhouse. This was much nicer.
Soon I was ensconced with a nice cup of green tea and plastic cap around my shoulders. One manicurist was working on my fingers while another worked on my toes. This is what I call service. I was finishing up with a hot stone massage and a mask while my hair conditioned.
“Your usual?” Raphael asked dully.
“Nope, not today,” I said watching his face in the mirror. I so didn’t want to miss this. “I want you to cut it.”
Raphael’s eyes lit up like a kid at Christmas time, then he looked crafty. “How much were you looking to cut,” he said silkily, like a spider inviting a fly into the parlor. Raphael likes to cut and he’s good at it, but I hadn’t given him free range in years. “An inch or three,” he said afraid to get his hopes up.
“Oh, I don’t know about 14 years worth,” I said casually, and Raphael’s mouth dropped open. My hair was in the middle of my back. It grows fast and I’ve only had it trimmed so it was long.
Raphael’s eyes lit up even brighter and he grabbed his scissors. He grabbed a hank of my hair, put it between the edges of his shears, and then stopped. “Wait, why?” he asked, removing the sheers.
I looked at him in shock. This was his dream shot. He’d been after me to do this for years, ever since I first started growing my hair out. Raphael was my stylist for years pre-Harold, and he never agreed with me having long hair. “Women kill for curls like yours and you’re hiding them,” he would whine as he trimmed my hair.
“Wait,” he said, putting the pieces together, “you finally did it. You’ve left the paper-pusher.” He looked at me for confirmation and then smiled when I nodded.
“Oh, this is a red letter day,” he said smoothing my hair back into a ponytail. I looked at him in askance. Why a pony tail? Why weren’t we getting with the snipping and clipping?
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to save this and send it to Locks of Love. They use hair to make wigs for kids going through chemo. To top it off this cut’s on me,” he said as he held a big pair of sheers around my ponytail. I took a deep breath and nodded and 14 years of hair was cut off.
I had heard of Locks of Love but had never had enough hair to donate. The thought of someone having my hair on their head gave me the heebie-jeebies, but it was a good cause and one dear to Raphael’s heart so why not. I just really hope I don’t run into the kid getting my hair. Then again, I wish there was no reason for a kid to need my hair.
Raphael set my hair to the side lovingly, then started shaping it up. “So tell, what lead to the final showdown? His lackluster performances in bed get worse? He finally come out of the closet? What?”
I frowned at Raphael in the mirror. Why did everyone but me think Harold was gay? I’ve never seen any sign of it and after growing up in the art world, my gay-dar is flawless.
“No, nothing like that, Harold has another woman,” I said frankly.
I wouldn’t tell the kids, but Raphael was an adult and discrete. He hears all and tells nothing. Talking to him is like talking to a priest. The two manicurists were Korean and I wasn’t sure how much English they spoke as they had never spoken any to me. We communicate with hand gestures, but they could just be pulling my chain. Ah well, I thought, it would be all over town soon anyway, so might as well get my side of the story out there.
“Another woman? Who? Who besides you would put up with Harold? The man is so white he glows. Every time he steps out into the sun I expect him to burst into flames,” Raphael said dramatically.
Raphael is olive skinned like me and has this curious prejudice against anyone with less melanin than he has. He’s been anti-Harold ever since he saw him with sunburn. Harold doesn’t tan and unfortunately neither do the twins. I spend a fortune on sun block and I keep hoping they’ll start offering it in a 50-gallon drum.
“Some woman from his job named Jillian,” I admitted seeing no reason to hold back.
“Jillian? Jillian Reynolds? Blond, blue eyes, a figure that makes me think even twice?” Raphael asked, his scissors stilling.
“Yeah,” I said, wondering how Raphael knew Jillian.
Was what Sonya said right, and that name only went to women fitting that description? But no, he knew her last name and even I didn’t know that. I had met her, but hadn’t really paid her much attention.
At the company functions, I was usually trying not to look as bored as I was and stay away from Carl in accounting. Carl has a little thing for me and takes every opportunity to tell me about it.
“How do you know Jillian? Is she a client?” I asked, trying to put Carl and his thing out of my head.
“Yes, honey, every six weeks. She comes in to make sure she stays a natural blond,” he said jokingly.
Raphael might not dish personal dirt, but beauty information was public knowledge. He thought all the secrecy was silly. I knew a lot of women that would rather he told the world at large they were having an affair with the pool guy, José, than that Raphael gave them touch ups to cover their gray.
“That and the waxing,” he said, getting busy with his scissors again. “Girl has more hair than a Chia pet and it grows about as fast. For that, she’s in every month. If not, your husband wouldn’t be able to find the goodies under that mousy brown pelt.”
I shuddered, thinking about the fuzzy, dark haired woman hiding under the smooth blond bimbo. I wondered if Harold knew what he was getting into. He was used to my less than impressive salon bills. Jillian sounded high maintenance and expensive.
Ah well, he could afford it. He makes a nice salary as vice president of Peterson Paper. It would go up when his father retired or dies, whichever came first. With Harold Sr., death sounded like a safer bet. He was hanging on to that president’s chair with an iron grip and I think Harold will have to pry his cold dead body out of it.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. Harold wasn’t right for you and everybody could see it but you. However, you did get my niece and nephew out of the deal so that’s a good thing. You got the best part of Harold in the twins, so time to move on,” Raphael said decisively.
Raphael is a gay man. I know, duh. An old-fashioned gay man in he doesn’t have or plan to have any children. He does love kids and he adores mine. From the second he first saw the twins, he adopted them, and calls them his niece and nephew.
He’s been cutting their hair since they were toddlers. He has threate
ned to hunt me down and give me a Mohawk in my sleep if I take them anywhere else. They are the only children allowed in the shop much to the dismay of his other clients who have children.
Tony has been giving Raphael fits lately by not letting him cut his bangs. Tony will let him trim up the rest, but for some reason the bangs are off limits. Right now, Tony’s bangs are the longest part of his hair and he wears them in a veil over his face. He reminds me of Cousin It on the Adams family.
I nodded and I noted that Raphael was about as upset about my divorce as Sonya was which is no surprise. Sonya and Raphael are long-lost, non-sexual, soul mates, in my opinion. The greatest thing I ever did besides my kids was bringing the two of them together. Raphael goes to Dallas regularly and drags Sonya around the various gay bars with him.
Sonya goes to make Raphael happy and Raphael does Sonya’s hair free of charge. He used to do my hair free of charge when I was one of his party buddies, but that stopped when I married Harold and became Mrs. Suburbanite. I don’t think it’s against me, I think Raphael just likes taking Harold’s money.
Harold is not popular with my old crowd as you can probably tell. I took him with me a couple of times to Dallas with Sonya and Raphael and it was a disaster. That was when I learned there was the art crowd and the normal crowd and never the twain shall meet. Back then, I decided to embrace normal, whatever that means and back off the art scene.
“So, honey, when are we going to go out and celebrate?” Raphael asked as he finished my cut and began to apply his conditioner.
Raphael has some secret conditioner he uses and he won’t tell anyone what it is. It smells like apricots and can put a shine on a brillo pad. It’s magical and I know when he rinses me off after my massage, my hair would be shining like the coat of the last winner of the Westminster Dog Show.
“It’s only been a couple of days and the kids don’t even know yet so give me a minute,” I said a little irritated by how easily everyone was taking the dissolution of my marriage.