“You gotta make a choice Mag” I said tired of it. “You can’t have it both ways.” Being a girl of few words, she left two distinct rows of teeth marks on my arm. I took this as a sign. Papa Hart had always said, bite marks were characteristically republican in nature. He knew this because he was a hard core democrat as the rest of the family. Of course, this aggravated Mag to no end and she was content to give us both hell. If Mag ever has a pink elephant—it will probably be adorned in jewels and easy to spot.
I rarely got a haircut but when I did, it was at the Clipper Snipper, a popular beauty shop among residents of Pine Log. It was a sixteen by thirty, red and white shack of coiffed haired ladies talking about big hair, big guns and a big Jesus. Mag and I called it the suffering shack because we suffered to listen to them. Women gathered once a week to tease, chop, dye and curl their hair and at the same time, catch up on the rumor mill. One topic of interest particular in interest is the equal rights bill gaining mass appeal with the efforts of the 37th President who supported a woman's equality and their right to do whatever in the hell they wanted to do. Discussions were varied; nothing but a big yick-yacking, jaw-jacking, huffing and puffing gossip fest. Complaints, whining, money, lack of money, equal pay, so and so said this and that, whose wearing what dress, who died in Hollywood, the latest trendsetter, who killed who, whose pregnant, who died, who married, whose cheating and a whole, whole lot of politics. Here lately the talk is all about protesters lining the streets of Washington against the Vietnam War or the shocking deaths of music legends, Jimmy and Janis. Local gossip spread like wildfire in the suffering shack and Mag and I were right smack in the middle of it. I learned right then and there, I did not want to grow up and be like those chatty types. Talk and talk. God. They just never shut up. The only glimmer of hope is Ms. Blanche, the shampoo lady who did not participate. Ms. Blanche was a large round black woman. Everything about her was circled and puffy, round face and round eyes, not slanted in the least, round belly, and round legs like two pillars mounted in the ground. She was considerably older than the rest of the ladies who worked there. She wore a blue wrap around her head and knotted in the back and a matching apron to cover her oversized chest. I sat close to her on the red bench against the wall which was near her shampoo station. She reminded me of Maw Sue in a way that was comfortable, like a big hug. She walked slow and with a limp. If she stood still, she leaned to one side. While she scrubbed women’s heads, she hummed and it made her plump cheeks vibrate. It reminded me of the bees that invaded the wondering tree in spring. It soothed my chaotic mind. At other times, she’d sing old time gospel, her voice soulful, filling the room with spells and made us yearn for things unseen. It was Jesus this and Jesus that. One day, she must have got tired of Jesus because she sang a different song.
“There will be an answer, let it be….let it beeeeeee, whisper words of wisdom, let it beeeeeee.” The last note echoed across the hair dryers and cut through a thick fog of Aqua Net hairspray like a sword. Heads swirled and eyes bugged. Low gasps could be heard from a host of red lips, drowning out the clink of hair curlers, scissor snips, and whirring dryers. I knew the Beatles song well enough to hum it with her, although I didn’t remember all the words. But who knew it was socially unacceptable for a Negro woman to sing a white persons song? I certainly didn’t. It was a standoff at the okay corral of beauty shops. Ms. Blanche had no idea she started a commotion. She was singing and scrubbing some poor blonde’s head, unaware that the world had stopped rotating. The silence rose above the noise like a roar of a train. Lena was under the hair dryer flipping through a magazine, oblivious to anything around her. I longed for her to jump up and say “Stop it. Stop it right now. This is wrong.” Basically, I wanted my mother to be someone she wasn’t. And then the silence broke with a wrathful noise.
“Girl, you’re singing is NOT the answer.” Said Cruella Deville or that’s who she looked like to me, so much I scanned the room for puppies. She swiveled in her chair, black cape tied around her neck, elbows poking out on each side. In the chair she looked like a bat sitting right side up but when stood up, all I could see was a crow flapping its wings and japing its beak.
“That‘s a Beatles song.” She said pointing her fingers as if Paul McCartney was in her pocket. You stupid woman. We know it’s a Beatles song. Sit down and shut up. My mind was on the verge of exploding. She charged across the room stopping mid-center in a glare. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. Ms. Blanche didn’t look up. She was in the land of scrubbing bubbles.
“There will be an answer….let it beeee.” Ms. Blanche sang. The hair dryers whirred. The scissors snipped. The bubbles popped.
“Heyyyy” Cruella says sternly. “You…”
The way this crow was barking orders and snapping fingers, it was apparent she was used to getting her way.
“Neeegro.” She spat. When it hit my ears, I felt my eyes turn black. Ms. Blanche stopped and looked up, her round hands still inside creamy bubbles and blonde locks. “Well…about time. Don’t you know anything? THAT is a Beatles song.” She turned to garner votes in her favor but everyone looked away. This made her more fervent to vent and rage and ramble as if it was her right to do so.
“Negroes need to stay with their own kind, just like the white trash and the Mexicans. And them, Asian slant eyed people, and what’s those others, those sand negro’s or Indian people, those kind too. Separation is essential to each race. Everyone knows that. It also means that they need to sing their own kind of songs, that jiggaboo, jungle stuff, you know, beating drums and tribal whatnots, God knows what else. It’s apparent that no one ever told you, so I’m just letting you know as my duty. I mean, you just can’t hoard in on the likes of fine white peoples musical abilities.” She touched her heart as if she was talking about herself. “It will taint their reputation and who knows what will be next, interracial breeding, mixed bands and we—,” she glanced around as if she had a Manson following. “And we just can’t have that.”
My eyes feel like they will pop out of their sockets and my ears are burning. The whole time she’s yacking, all I see is a bird. An old black crow cawing. Caw! Caw! Caw! The wings of her black cape flapped as she talked with her hands. Her chiseled nose a bird beak, her forked tongue curling in cruelty, her black hair, slick like wet feathers. She was one of those people. People without a filter. The kind of people who think it’s their God given right to bad mouth others, tear them down, and set them straight. And they enjoy doing it. They make others uncomfortable and move side to side in their seats and touch their hair curlers and turn away to redo lipstick or powder their face and pretend that nothing is happening. Whispers and low gasps filled the room. My inner wild child went crazy. A twig called justice snapped off the family tree. The Nehi soda in my hand fizzled angrily and said, “Rise up Willodean. Slap that biddy upside her winged head.”
I screamed. I stomped a hissy fit across the beauty shop floor. I rose up for justice, plucked the crow naked and tossed her out to the trash and then hugged Ms. Blanche and everyone sang the Beatles song together as it was supposed to be in a perfect, unprejudiced world. But that version only happened in my head. I sat on the red bench, quiet as a mouse while a twig called justice lay underneath my feet.
The whole time the crow bantered, it looked as if Ms. Blanche’s was searching inside herself for a way out of a bad situation. She turned away, her eyes meeting mine. I felt the impact of humiliation and shame cut me inside as if I felt her pain well up in my gut. I wanted nothing more than to stand up for her, and everything I know to be right and true, good and noble. I’d engage my James Dean gene and bar fight a soda bottle up side that mouthy crow and finish her off by shaving her head and spraying her eyes shut with hairspray so she’d never forget what she did. But then I felt bad because it wasn’t right or good or noble, but gosh darn it—it sure felt like the right thing to do at the time. Instead, I sat on the red bench. Justice denied while fear, heart stopping, debilitating fear kept me th
ere. I was one of them. The do nothings. The pretend it isn’t happenings. The say nothings. The silent ones. The avoiders.
Knowing this made me hate myself. I wanted to scream, react, do something, but if I reacted this whole place would go up in smoke from the whooping Lena Hart would give me for not minding my own business. My only hope was that Ms. Blanche would just sit on the crow and smash her.
“I’ma sorry, Ms. Wilshire. I’ll shalt singa that song agains.” Ms. Blanche said in a tender voice. What? An apology? Come on Ms. Blanche. Cut her. Rip her black weave off her head. Curse her, throw soap bubbles, do something!
“Yous lookin’ mighty good, Ms. W. That hairdo maketh you look ten yeers younger.” What in Sam Hill is happening? The flattery melted the crow’s wrathful demeanor and she softened into another person. And then the unthinkable.
“No—no—no.” I whispered to myself. My eyes were wild and my heart thumped loud raging drum beats that pressed my back to the wall. The crow was morphing right before my eyes. My feet started tapping unable to control my shaking. I wanted to simply disappear. This can’t be happening, again. Oh. God. Not again.
I was five years old when I first saw a Dresden. Maw Sue told me they would come, eventually. She didn’t know when or how to prepare me for their arrival. It was a part of the curse she didn’t have the wherewithal to teach since she avoided it as much as possible, so she wouldn’t have to go to some clinic. After I saw it for the first time—nothing could have prepared me.
I was grocery shopping with Lena, standing a few feet behind her and reading an Archie & Jug head comic book. We were on the canned food aisle when I felt a block of energy, a kinetic charge that lifted hair follicles on my neck and arms. It was heart stopping—fear provoking—don’t know what it is—kind of energy. It made me panic. I couldn’t think straight. I was scared of what I might see if I lifted my eyes from the page. I tried to concentrate on the words of the comics but it was nearly impossible. I could hear cans hitting the metal shopping cart, one after another along with the pitter-patter of Lena’s peep toe heels. I lifted the comic book higher so I could find my way around, seeing only the floor, the bottom half of Lena’s skirt and legs and the shopping cart wheels, squeaking and off balance. A few steps forward, I see two sets of feet and another shopping cart on the opposite side moving toward me. The energy was getting stronger, as if it clicked on my skin like rubber bands. Did I eat something I’m allergic to? Did a bug bite me and cause fever to make me feel this way? I knew what fear did to me, but this was a different sort of fear as if fear and another fear joined hands and came against me. Not able to stand it, I lowered the comic book down to my nose, peeping my eyes out and trembling, my hot breathe heaving against the pages and my skin. And then I felt silly, because it was only some woman and her daughter. The young teenage girl had her back to me while she boringly watched her mother pick out vegetables. Her blonde hair was pure gold as if touched by sun fingers. Lena’s squealing shopping cart made her turn around. What started out as a smile on my face—turned to pure horror. I blinked a few times, because I just do that to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing, those unseen things that cross over in my other vision. Those things I’m not supposed to talk about, except to Maw Sue. But Maw Sue wasn’t here. But a Dresden was here and she was alive and pulling energy from me. At first I wasn’t exactly sure of what I saw or the feelings I felt. In my normal vision, for a few seconds, she looked like everybody else. Just a normal teenage girl, freckled face, blue eye shadow, lip gloss, long blonde hair, striped t-shirt, bell bottom jeans, a few gold necklaces—attitude. But in seconds, her face transformed into the nightmare I’ve dreamed a thousand times. The dream was a warning, it must have been. They exist. Oh, my God, they exist. It was all real, the dream, the nightmarish dream, inside the house, inside the room, inside me. I had never been able to go inside the Dresden room, for fear of what was hidden inside, although I had seen it in my dreams. In seconds, the teen’s face transformed as if a shadow moved in front of her, disfiguring her from a normal teen to a white pasty mask of horrific. Her face looked as if it was dipped in flour and then dry baked in the sun, leaving rigid lines and cracks of awful. Small drifts of white powder disperse from her skin as she turns her face. The powder drifts and lags behind, only to swiftly catch back up to her like scattered little ghosts. And that wasn’t the most terrifying, it was her eyes, or rather where her eyes should be. Now nothing but hollow sockets, darkened as the black of night, leaving two holes swallowed the effigy of everything around her, pulling inward the scattered little ghosts like puffs of air, slipping in and out of her as if they are looking for the eyes of the soul. I felt drawn to her—even though she repelled me and trickled fear in me like none other. That’s when I heard the scattered little ghosts crying, or maybe it was the teen crying, I’m not sure. The horrible screams came from the eye sockets, as if she had a house of her own, inside her, next door to me, as I heard it through the cracks of my windows, from my own haunted house. It was as if we were both bearing witness unto the other, our pains, and our desperate cries to be normal. There was a sad tragedy to her that lifted the folds of my skin and I resisted its impact, for I could not take its connection to me and what it wanted to tell. I simply freaked out.
I threw the comic book down and ran screaming down the aisle. Lena who was at the end aisle had a terrified look on her face. I tackled her at the waist full force and screaming. She dropped a bag of rice and two cans of tomatoes.
“What is it?” She said frantically. I pulled at her clothing and tried to climb her like a wall. The whole time I’m pointing to the teenager ten feet away and burying my face in Lena’s skirt to keep from looking. I was only a kid. I said the only thing that came to my mind.
“Flour girl. Flour girl. Flour girl.”
Lena reacted with confusion shushing me over and over and patting me on the back. When she realized half the grocery store had arrived on both ends of the aisle, she was morbidly embarrassed. I turned around, still clutching my mother’s leg, while the teen and her mother staring at us with concern. Lena offered up sincere apologies to the distraught mother and daughter and some lame excuse.
“I’m—I’mm so sorry. I don’t know what’s got into her.” I wasn’t letting go of her for nothing. She walked a few steps and drug me with her until she unlatched me, by pinching me a good one. “Kids…” She laughed and shrugged her shoulders and tried to play it off in a cool, collective Lena Hart fashion. “Too many cartoons, I suppose.” When the coast was clear, she picked up the rice and tomato sauce, and threw it in the buggy and politely drug me around the corner, behind the toilet paper display where she hot fired me with her hand and gave me the what-for. Of course, my skin was still tingling from the energy the teen gave off and my heart was beating to loud to hear a word of it.
“Willodean?” I felt a hard jerk at my side. My eyes glanced all around. I expected the flour girl to appear again. I needed time to run. “Willodean.” She growled.
“Whhaatt?” I said finally able to decipher that Lena meant business.
“I don’t know what’s got into you. What was in that comic book that made you…” She said stopping as if she couldn’t finish. All I could do was glance side to side and around. “Well. I have a few more groceries to get, if you think you can act right.”
I followed closely behind Lena a few more aisles until we were in the checkout line at register one. And sure enough, I look over at register two and there she is. As soon as my vision saw her, my skin reacted in the same fashion, rubber bands popping, and I swear even the magazine rack between us was rattling.
I watched her transform from a regular teen to a flour face with holes for eyes and sifting through them, in and out, were a thousand horrible shadowy apparitions and this time, they spoke into my ears, whispering horrible, terrible whispers that blackened my ear canals like thick sludge. I lifted the comic book I had in my hand over my eyes to block her out. Lena looked at me suspiciously and ke
pt glancing up at the mother and daughter in the other aisle as if she was trying to determine what I saw. When we got in the car, Lena grilled me as to what happened. When I told her, her face turned ghost white, almost as white as the flour girl, but then it glowed red with distress. Her eyes flitted back and forth and her driving was sporadic as if she was in a hurry to get home. Before she got out of the car, she grabbed the comic book and ripped it in half. She got out of the car, marched over to the burn barrel and dropped it inside. She brushed off her hands and glared back at me. If she only knew it wasn’t the comic book. That day, I learned not to trust anyone with my visions except for Maw Sue. Maw Sue said only those with the gifts can understand the gifts and the curses attached. When I explained to Maw Sue what happened, and what I saw, she was calm as a summer cucumber on the vine. It was a Dresden, sure enough. Maw Sue had never seen one, but she had heard her mother talk of them and she’d remembered reading stories of them in the old ancient journals of Cupitors. They get their name because they look a lot like the white porcelain dolls that children used to play with, only without eyes and creepier. A Dresden is a normal person that is altered by some terrible event in their life. They have normal bodies like everyone else, hair, teeth, nose, all the same features of skin and skeletal but no eyes, just hollow sockets to a dark netherworld. Their white flour faces looked dried in the sun to form lines and cracks, a facial map of tragedy.
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