Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  What is doing it right? As much as I’ve read about great passion, no one has ever told me they loved me, or even that I was beautiful. It’s sort of hard to fathom I’m going to wake up one day and get it. Once romantically challenged, probably forever that way.

  Of course, once a guy in my mother’s bar told me that I was hot. But with slurred speech, it came out as “shot” and completely lost all effect. Being beautiful to a middle-aged drunk is hardly a life accomplishment. Well, maybe in this forsaken town it is, but not in Hollywood.

  “I can’t imagine you lonely, Mrs. Gentry. I’ve never seen you without your posse.” I look over to her giggling friends as they try one of my old cowboy hats on for show.

  “I have my faith, Sarah Claire, and you have yours. Don’t forget it in California when the men are lining up for a date.”

  California has a lot more men; therefore, statistically speaking, my odds may improve on romance. But keep in mind I work with hair, and men who are willing to come into a froufrou salon like I’ll be working at . . . ? Well, most likely, they’re not interested in what I have to offer. In any case, I’m going to hold off on thoughts of romance and get down to the business of becoming the hottest stylist in Beverly Hills.

  “Right now, I’m only focused on doing my job, Mrs. Gentry.”

  I’m not anyone’s girlfriend. And truthfully, I can’t even say with complete certainty that I’m anyone’s daughter— my mother’s been a little vague on the subject. Well, I’m God’s daughter, but it’s not the same, is it? So I’ve retreated to the life of dreams, created by books and the stirrings of the old movies where life happens like it should.

  Life just looks better after a Cary Grant movie.

  “Did you hear me, Sarah Claire? You answer your mother!” my mother screeches like a great horned owl vying for its dinner.

  “I’ll clean it up, Mom.” Sheesh, I will always be twelve despite my twenty-six years here on earth. I want to shrink up and wither away like a salted snail.

  Sometimes I wonder, Why didn’t she ever leave? She seems to have nothing here; yet she clings to the town and this house like a life preserver. And it’s going down.

  She suddenly retreats inside the house and closes the door. Behind me, I hear the familiar sputter of a diesel pickup. It’s the familiar red dualie, chrome running boards and hubcaps. It announces Sable’s most prominent resident as sure as any trumpets.

  There’s a hush at the sight of Mr. Simmons, the town mayor and patriarch—long reputed to be my father. That’s the weird thing about a small town. Everyone knows everyone’s secrets, but no one ever talks about them. Bud Simmons has never even addressed me, unless it’s to ask about my mother. (And if he is my father, may I just say thank goodness I didn’t get that nose!)

  The party is definitely over. All of the little old ladies give me bear hugs, each with a word of advice before departing as I keep my eye on the truck.

  “We love you, Sarah Claire.”

  “If you need anything, you’ll write.” Mrs. Rampas barks. “Not on that dratted Internet either. You’ll write a real letter like a lady would have done. Do you think Grace Kelly would use e-mail in place of fine, linen stationery?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Don’t get into any trouble, and don’t go home with strangers,” Mrs. Townsend says.

  “Tell that cousin of yours to come home. He owes this town a visit,” Mrs. Piper implores. “And don’t follow him into trouble like you used to do. He’s a fine boy with a bad habit for finding trouble, so you mind what you’ve been taught.”

  “By us,” Mrs. Townsend reminds me. Not your mother isimplied.

  Finally, Mrs. Gentry envelops me in her giant, bone-crushing hug. She has tears in her eyes when she pulls away. “We’ll take care of your mother, sweetheart. You go ahead and live your own life. It’s time now.”

  I can only nod because her words make me wish things were different. That I could go back in time and fix things. Maybe if this had all happened in the forties, my mother would never have been a “bad girl” and my father would have married her and gone off to war to be the hero. We might have met him at the station for his triumphant return and listened to Glenn Miller as we praised God for bringing him home to us safely. But yeah. As it is, my father is a weenie of a man who can’t speak to my mother directly for fear his wife will bat him over the head, and my mother torments herself with drink and unemployed men. Strike up the band!

  “I love you, sweetheart. God go with you. I’ll be praying every morning for you. We’ll all be praying. You don’t go alone. Don’t forget that,” Mrs. Gentry says.

  I stand up straighter and peer into the future, all the while watching my so-called father amble out of his truck. I’m going to matter. I promise you that much.”

  “You always have, Sarah Claire. This is just your chance to prove it to yourself.”

  The ladies climb into Mrs. Piper’s Suburban and wave as they drive onto the highway, leaving a trail of dust. I can hear their hearty laughter through the brown dust as they head down the road with their trinkets from the sale in tow, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re stopping off at the dump on the way home or if they’ll keep the things as reminders to pray for me.

  Ryan stands guard behind me as Mr. Simmons approaches, the nose arriving well before the man. “It’s all right, Ryan. I want to hear if he has anything to say.” Granted, I’m not expecting any drawn-out, tearful goodbye, but you know, maybe he’ll tell me he’s thankful I didn’t inherit his nose. It’s the least he can do.

  Ryan whispers in my ear, “If he wants to pay you in cattle for all the lost years, I’ll take care of them for you. He ” grins. “The sooner I can get started, the sooner I can bring Kate home where she belongs.”

  “And I’d give those cattle to you. But get real—I’ll be lucky if he has a leather keychain for me. I don’t think guilt or conscience is part of his makeup.” Actually, I don’t think emotion is part of his makeup—but that’s the embittered Sarah Claire talking, and I’m done with her for now.

  Bud Simmons walks up to the picnic table, displaying all my costume jewelry and kitchen utensils. I notice he never meets my eyes, and he keeps the table between us. He’d probably rather face down a bull in heat than his as yet unclaimed illegitimate daughter. It makes me want to sing and dance like an old Shirley Temple movie and show him what he’s missing. But with my luck, he’d think all he was missing was the bill from the psych ward at Sable General.

  He picks up a wire whisk from the table and studies it. “Won’t your mother need this when you go?”

  “She generally likes to eat breakfast out.” I can’t help myself. “With handsome men.”

  Across the road, Mrs. Simmons sits in the truck, watching me as if I’m about to devour her husband. Listen, honey. You’re about the only one in this town who thinks this man is worth a lick. You and that . . . that daughter of yours.

  Spawn might be a better word. I know a Christian shouldn’t use words like spawn to describe their half-sisters, but whatever. She’s spawn.

  “Doesn’t your wife want to come look? Lots of good stuff here. A lifetime of memories and treasures, yours song. for a song. It’s all got to go. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Evelyn’s fine in the truck. She has everything she needs.”

  Then maybe you should just mount her beside the longhorn hood ornament.

  “So she’s staying, then, your mother?” he asks the wire whisk.

  “As far as I know.” I watch him look up at the house, and I notice the longing in his eyes. “I’ll probably bring her to California when I’m settled. When the big money comes in you know? I’m going to work at Yoshi’s in Beverly Hills.”

  He flinches slightly. I’ve never doubted he’s always loved my mother. He’s just too much of a wimp to ever make a decent woman out of her. He was that way before he married Mrs. Simmons, and twenty-six years later not a thing has changed. Only he’s older and craggier (and I t
hink my mother is a little wiser—albeit maybe a little drunker as well). He finds his manhood in big trucks, cattle drives, his blooming bank account, and treating women in his life like an accessory.

  If that doesn’t give you an indication as to why I toward the golden Hollywood age for my sense of heroism, don’t know what will. I simply can’t imagine Cary Grant having an affair with a woman like my mother, falling love, and then deciding she wasn’t good enough to marry. And, worse yet, marrying the angry young Evelyn Weathers when his mother told him to. Maybe life needs a good director for the Hollywood ending.

  Bud touches the string of his bolo tie and clears his throat. “You’ll tell her I wish her the best without you? She gave up everything for you to have the life you did.” He says this like I’m living the dream or something.

  “You’re going to buy the whisk?” I ask him.

  “Fifty cents, huh? I’ll give you a quarter for it.”

  “Deal.”

  He hands me the quarter, and I slide it in my front pocket. Heartwarming. Something to remember my father by.

  Without another word, he takes his whisk, waits for a truck to pass by on the highway, and jogs to his waiting dualie and wife.

  Ryan comes up behind me. “Do you think he’s really my father?” I ask. “I sure don’t see any family resemblance.” I look up at Ryan. “And you better not either.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s your dad. No doubt. Did you see the way he watched for your mother the whole time?”

  “My mother had bad taste.”

  “The worst,” he agrees.

  “I hope I didn’t inherit it.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t have looked twice at Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart.”

  This makes me laugh out loud. “I love you, Ryan. You’re perfect for Kate.”

  “No, she definitely deserves better than me. But I hope to spend every day thanking her for lowering herself to my level.”

  “I’ll be home for the wedding.” I give him a big hug.

  “We’ll be in California for yours. As soon as you round up the new Cary, whoever that might be.” He laughs and starts picking up all the remnants of the yard sale (pretty much everything I tried to sell) and shoving it into the back of his old pickup.

  “At least take a twenty for the dump fees.” I hold up bill.

  He snorts. “Dump fees? I’m sweeping out my truck at end of your daddy’s property. It’s about time he cleaned some of his own mess.”

  “Well, I’m going to finish packing. You take care.”

  With a last wave, I take the front steps two at a time and open the squeaky screen door. My house is not what you’d expect. It’s spotless, with the distinct odor of bleach most of the day and lines from the vacuum cleaner in the aged, orange carpet. We have that linoleum from decades gone by that doesn’t wear but instead gets uglier as the designs appear to get bigger and darker over the years. It’s nice complement to the wall made out of mirrored tiles with gold squiggle decorations.

  Spotless and yet still disgusting—now that takes talent. makes you want to get drunk just so it makes some sort sense. Everything has its place. Not the least of which the alcohol. Mom alphabetizes the bottles along the mirrored bar wall and has always claimed she’d know if I took any. As if. Not even our decor would lead me to the booze. And trust me, if something was going to, it would definitely be the 1970s decor in my living room.

  I vowed I’d never drink. Not out of piety or any religious conviction, but because having a mother like mine turned into a control freak early on, and I would never allow something as mundane as alcohol to take what little power had. I could vacuum, read, lose myself in old movies, and stay sober. That was pretty much it, so that’s where I took control.

  “What did he want?” My mother is staring out the front window, which despite the dust outside, is sparkling clean (thanks to white vinegar and newspaper).

  “He wanted to know if you were coming with me.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him as soon as I could arrange for it.”

  She purses her lips. “You know I’ll never leave here.” But she pauses a moment, so I know at least she’s thinking about the idea, pondering what life might be like.

  “I know that. But he doesn’t. You ought to make suffer just a little bit. Don’t you have the slightest desire have him hurt just a little?” I pick up the suitcase I bought at Wal-Mart and unzip it. “This thing looked bigger in the store.”

  “You need to iron those jeans,” she says as I fold a pair out of the laundry basket.

  “You don’t need to iron jeans.” I receive her disapproving look. “I’ll iron them in California.”

  She takes them from me and folds them brusquely into the suitcase. “You tell those old busybodies to mind their own business. I’m not going to church, and I don’t need anyone checking on me or bringing me cookies to make me fat, you got it? Those women think they know my story, but they don’t know anything and neither do you, so don’t go thinking things will be so different in California. Life wears you down, Sarah Claire. You try to fight it, but it wears you down, and those women did their part.”

  “Mom, they’re not like that. The women who are like that don’t talk to me. I’m not worthy, you know?”

  “They always thumbed their noses at us. You think you can make it different, but you can’t make it any different, Sarah Claire. Their minds were made up a long time ago, whether they converted you or not.”

  I know better than to argue. “Don’t forget to show up for your hearing, Mom. I put a thousand dollars down saying you’d be there.”

  “A thousand dollars. What does that judge think I did that’s worth ten thousand dollars’ bail?”

  “Drunk driving is serious these days.” She’s looking the other way, so I roll my eyes and mouth a big Duh, if for nothing else than my own sanity. “It’s not like twenty years ago when no one was on these roads. You could have killed someone besides yourself.”

  “Don’t lecture me! I wasn’t drunk. I don’t care what his little walk-on-the-white-line test told him. I’m old. You try walking straight when you get to be my age.”

  “You’re forty-three, Mom. That’s not old.”

  “It’s too old to walk straight on a white line at midnight, I’ll tell you that.” She holds up one of my shirts to indicate that it, too, needs to be ironed. “I’ll get your precious money back. I only had to borrow because the mortgage was due. I assumed you wanted a roof over your head.”

  My mother is refolding everything I put into the suitcase from the laundry basket, and suddenly I’m just not in the mood. “You know, I need a nap; I think I’ll pack later.

  In my room I plop onto my bed, gazing up at my ceiling and my poster of Cary Grant as he stares off into the distance, his cleft chin resting on his gentle hands.

  “Everyone wants to be Cary Grant,” he famously said. “Even I want to be Cary Grant.”

  “I do too, Cary. I want to be Audrey Hepburn and Deborah Kerr and everything old Hollywood has to offer. I want to live the dream.” I smile, thinking tomorrow I’m really going to be doing it.

  Back when I put that poster up, I was too young to realize it (and too old even then for posters on my ceiling), but subconsciously I saw something in that photo gave me hope. I always believed God had more for me than this aged yet immaculate house, and for some reason, that poster—those sultry, deep, brown eyes—kept the dream alive. Long enough for me to save up the money to get out.

  God didn’t give me an overly active imagination and a friend in the library—with extensive access to VHS movies from times gone by—for nothing. It was my escape. I saw myself as part of something bigger. Even in school when the wealthy ranchers’ kids called me white trash, I waited with anticipation for my life to change, for the right moment to embrace my fantabulous destiny. I imagined a hero (who may or may not have looked like Cary) who would love me intensely. He would travel across the Tetons to pluck me from my
average existence and take me to my destiny and a life of romance and adventure. Just like Cary did in North by Northwest.

  I wanted chivalry, pure and simple. And to be a part of Hollywood’s history—and its future.

  My active imagination is probably brought on by some form of psychosis, but it’s there nonetheless. I read once that sometimes psychosis is healthy because it allows you to escape a poor reality. So I’m just waiting for the time continuum to shift, and I am on my way out of my unhealthy reality! Totally healthy.

  But it’s not particularly practical. In a nutshell, what I currently possess is my men-in-fedoras dream, a talent for hair, and a single quarter from my father for my troubles. If that isn’t God telling me something . . .

  God spoke to me. Oh, I know that’s a hallmark for crazy people, but I was watching Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in Notorious and He spoke. When Cary swooped Ingrid up in his arms to keep her from being poisoned, even though she had a past and a reputation and wasn’t the kind of girl you bring home to mother, I realized there wasn’t anyone to sweep me up. There never had been and there was no sense waiting for it to happen. I realized the only person who could change anything about my life was me. So I did. I called my cousin and made arrangements for California and my dream of becoming more than I could be here in Sable. Not just a hairdresser but the best of the best.

  I decided to matter. Without the help of a man. I mean, after all, with the number of Christian men in Sable, minus the ones whose mamas wouldn’t let them within twenty feet of me, I’ve had about as much chance of pairing up as a third hermaphrodite gorilla on the ark.

  Ingrid’s grand escape in Cary’s outstretched arms was my sign from God.

  I hear the doorbell and then my mother’s bedroom door slamming, which is my signal that it’s for me. Kate is standing at the window, waving at me. She opens the door and sticks her head in. “How was the yard sale?”

  “I sold everything.” Then I shake my head. “No, really, the ladies of Bell Baptist paid me for nothing, and your fiancé took the rest to the dump.”