"Heaven!" he declared. "I knew it would be."
With a round brush and a blow dryer, he began drying her hair a section at a time, side-parting it and curving it under at the very bottom. She did-n't recognize herself. Her hair was glossy and sleek, with just the slightest bit of wave left from the perm. When he'd finished, he turned the chair around again so he could talk to her eye to eye. "Sweetie," he said, "don't ever let anyone do that to you again. This is what you're supposed to look like. You've got an absolutely adorable little face, and a mouth I'd kill for, I swear to God. Come back and see me in six weeks for a trim. Okay?" He chucked her under the chin, kissed the air in front of her nose, and said, "And use brown eye shadow, dearest. You'll be divine."
She said, "Okay. Thanks very much."
"Half a tick, sweetie," he said, and swept the loose hairs off her neck with a soft brush.
Even though Eva hadn't said anything about it, she tipped him five dollars. He tucked the money into one of the dozens of pockets of his jumpsuit and said, "Don't forget! Six weeks. Give my love to darling Eva."
She gave Peggy two dollars, then went to the changing room, deposited the damp, stained smock in the bin, pulled on her coat and sweater, and left the salon, surprised at the freshness of the air after the ammonia smell she'd been breathing for hours. Her head felt light. The wind seemed to drift through her sleek new haircut. She felt altogether renewed, and wanting to make some gesture of her appreciation to Eva, she bought a bouquet of big yellow mums at the market.
Alma was napping when she got home, and Eva was evidently up in her office. Leaving the flowers in the kitchen, Bobby went down to the apartment to admire herself in the bathroom mirror. Bruce was right about the makeup. It just called attention to the bruises. She washed her face, relieved to see the swelling was gone from her eye. What remained was a greenish yellow stain encircling the entire area, even the lid. She healed fast, thank heavens. Another few days and she'd be back to normal.
She collected the laundry and carried it upstairs, got the first load of whites going, then went downstairs to fix herself some coffee, and had a cigarette while she drank it. Looking around, she wished she'd thought to take some of the photographs before she went running off. Aside from Pen's books and Mr. Bear, this place had no personal touches. On her way home she'd seen a sign advertising a flea market in the bowling alley parking lot every Sunday. Maybe she'd take Pen over tomorrow while Alma was napping, see if she couldn't pick up a thing or two.
While she sat sipping her coffee, enjoying the Marlboro, she thought about all the ways Joe had hurt her, and wondered why it had taken her so long to run away from him. She'd never made love until she started going with Joe, and when they'd only been fooling around in his car it'd been okay, even kind of exciting. But she should've known after the first time they did it for real that he was someone who'd hurt her. The minute they were married, he'd stopped using rubbers. "It's like taking a shower with your goddamned socks on," he'd said, forcing her legs so far back that it hurt. He liked to do it that way, with her knees almost touching her shoulders so that it was nothing but pain and shame. And it wasn't enough for her to let him do that. He complained she was like wood. So she had to pretend she liked it, breathing hard the way he did, while the whole time she felt as if she was being battered inside. It amazed her every time that she didn't bleed from the way he went at her. And there were always bruises on the insides of her thighs; they never got a chance to heal. He came at her every day except when she had a period. Then he made her use her mouth on him, holding handfuls of her hair and whispering, "Come on, bitch. Do it."
Sometimes after he hit her—because she forgot to iron his shirt, or she burned the bacon, or she only had time to heat up a frozen pizza because she was late getting home from work—he'd drag her into the bedroom, not caring that Penny was in the house, and throw her on her hands and knees on the floor and ride her until she collapsed. She bore it in silence, careful not to make a sound because that only got him going worse; the blood dripping from her nose and mouth onto the floor, pain throughout her body, until he finished and he'd give her a kick before zipping himself up and slamming out of the house. She was always terrified Penny was going to see, scared to death Penny would come wandering in and he'd keep right on with what he was doing, forcing the baby to watch. It had never happened, but a couple of times it'd been close. Penny had come to the door calling for her and Bobby had had to keep her voice steady, calling back, "Go play, hon. Mommy'll be there in a minute." Inside her mind, she'd prayed Pen would listen and go away. She didn't want her baby growing up with terrible pictures in her head. But Pen had seen Joe hitting her; she'd heard him shouting and cursing. She probably had plenty of terrible pictures in her head. The thing was, she was still little. Maybe she'd forget. That was all Bobby wanted, for Penny to forget.
When she went up to the kitchen to start the second load going in the washer, Eva was standing looking at the flowers. "Where did these come from?" she asked.
"They're for you," Bobby said.
"Let me look at you," Eva exclaimed, breaking into a wide smile. "You look wonderful! Didn't I tell you Bruce was good?" She circled Bobby, saying, "Now, that's more like it. You look so pretty. Are you pleased?"
Bobby returned her smile. "The flowers are to say thank you."
"You didn't have to do that," Eva said.
"I wanted to."
"Well, that's very sweet of you. I'll just put them in water before I start dinner." She turned away to open the cupboard for a vase, and Bobby went to put the whites into the dryer before loading the coloreds.
The front door opened and Penny came flying into the kitchen clutching a handful of drawings.
"Honey, go back and wipe your feet," Bobby told her.
Penny's mouth dropped open. "Mom," she said. "You look so different."
"You like it?" Bobby asked, bending to unbutton Penny's coat.
"Isn't it great?" Eva said.
"Yeah," Penny agreed. "It's great, Mom." Then, remembering the handful of drawings, she said, "Wait till you see! We played Nintendo and Emma's got a great big doll house and a zillion Barbies and we had turkey sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies and we did Etch-A-Sketch and watched cartoons and …"
"Slow down." Bobby smiled. "Let's get these things off you, first."
"Auntie Eva," Penny said, "look what I drawed!"
"Drew," Eva corrected her. "Come show me."
Penny ran over to lay her drawings on the countertop, and Eva admired each of them, saying, "They're very good. Do you think I could have one
to put on the refrigerator?"
"Sure! You pick one."
Eva selected the drawing of an immense yellow flower with pointy green leaves and made a small ceremony of fastening it to the refrigerator door with several magnets. Bobby watched, with the sense that something special was happening. A family feeling was growing in this house. She saw the way Eva patted the top of Penny's head, saw the easy way Penny asked if she could have a piece of the green pepper Eva was slicing, and felt the beginning of closeness. And right then she knew it was going to be okay to keep the refrigerator downstairs stocked with food, and to lay in a supply of Pen's favorite cereals, because they were going to be staying on.
Penny announced, "I'm gonna go up and show Granny my pictures," and went running off with a piece of green pepper in one hand and her drawings in the other, calling as she went, "Granny, wait'll you see what I drawed for you!"
The nerd came to the end of the counter, asking, "Something I can help you with?" and Joe said, "Yeah. I wanna talk with you. Outside." The nerd's eyes slitted a bit and he said, "You're Bobby Salton's husband, aren't you?" Joe said, "You got that right. And I wanna talk with you." The nerd looked over at the lineups of people waiting to be served and said, "Could it wait? We're pretty busy right now."
"This'll just take a minute," Joe said He waited a second to be sure the creep got his meaning, then pushed out the side door t
o the parking lot. He touched the .38 in his waistband, then fired up a smoke, ready for action.
The side service door opened and the nerd came out carrying a goddamned baseball bat. The guy marched right over and said, "What do you want? I'm busy. I've got a business to run."
"Where's my wife at?" Joe demanded, flicking his cigarette in the direction of the Dumpster.
"How should I know?" the nerd said, the bat hanging loose in his hand "She's your wife."
"Don't play cute with me. I know what the two of you're up to." Joe reached around under his jacket.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," the nerd said, firming up his grip on the bat.
"Hey!" Joe grinned and held his hands out to the sides. "Don't get your balls in an uproar. I'm just asking did you see Bobby."
"I don't know where your wife is. But if she's smart she's probably a thousand miles away from here. Now if that's all, I'm going back inside. Don't come here
again. People like you make my stomach turn."
"Watch your mouth!" Joe said, wishing he'd planned this better.
The nerd just gave him another look and went back in through the metal service door, letting it slam after him. Furious, Joe raced back to the Firebird and burned rubber, fishtailing as he hit the road He was so mad he wanted to torch the whole fucking place.
Fuck it! he thought, pounding his fist on the steering wheel.
All at once he remembered that Easter Sunday so long ago.
Three years old and excited 'cause after church they were going to have a special dinner with the grandparents. He's ready to go, sitting waiting, and all of a sudden his guts start making these wet gurgles and before he can do a thing, he's done a job in his pants. It's a stinking mess and he goes running to his mother in the kitchen, crying, because his guts're still rumbling and the mess is burning. The old man laughs and says, "Never mind," but she goes nuts, yelling, "What d'you mean, never mind? Son of a bitch!" Right there in the kitchen she hauls off Joe's clothes, takes the reeking mess and rubs Joe's face in it. The old man goes, "Jesus, Ruth! Don't do that to the kid!" and she goes, "Shut the hell up!" She gives Joe a shove, going, "Get the hell out of my sight, you filthy little pig," and Joe's sick and sobbing, three years old, it's not his fault. The old man goes, more quietly, "You didn't have to do that."
Goddamn it! Why'd he have to think of that now? He hated remembering that. It made him want to go out with an AK-47 or an Uzi and shoot up everything he saw, made him want to burn things down, smash things to pieces, break bones, blow away everybody in sight.
His hands were shaking, the car was all over the fucking road. Get a grip, for chrissake! He rolled down the window, let in a blast of cold air to take the stink of shit out of his nostrils, get him past the feeling like he was drowning.
Nine
Bobby dreamed she and Alma were walking across the back lawn toward the shore. The air was warm and scented with freshly mown grass, the sky was a flawless blue. Alma was wearing a lovely white silk dress with a full skirt that lifted lightly in the breeze. Her hair, pure silver in the sun, was coiled atop her head in a perfectly symmetrical circle. Bobby couldn't get over how beautiful she looked. She was tall and stately, with a fine strong profile and a pretty mouth that Bruce would've said he'd kill for. She walked the way Bobby imagined a dancer might, holding herself real proud with her shoulders back and her legs taking long easy strides. There was a bench at the bottom of the lawn, and she and Alma sat down and looked out over the water. The day was so clear they could see all the way across to Long Island. And sailboats rode the waves, white against the marbled green of the water.
Bobby looked down to see they were holding hands, and she felt like a child, her hand surrounded by Alma's much larger one. Alma wore a ring on her middle finger and Bobby wondered why she'd never noticed it before. It was magnificent, old-fashioned, with a big diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller ones. The sun glanced off the big diamond's facets, creating little rainbows in Bobby's eyes. She inhaled, tasting the salt in the air and smelling the seaweed the tide had washed up on the shallow strip of beach.
"I used to swim here," Alma said. "Years ago, when I first came to live in this house, I'd get up very early in the morning and swim for half an hour. The water was so cold it made my lungs seize up and for the first minute or two I always thought no one had ever done anything sillier than to swim in this water. But then I got used to it and I went out a ways and swam back and forth until my arms and legs ached. Then I'd come in and shower and feel the heat restoring my circulation. That was a very long time ago, when I was young."
"You're still young," Bobby said, not intending any flattery.
Alma turned to look her full in the face and Bobby was shocked to see a twitching in the woman's cheek. "It's already happening," Alma said with sadness and anger. "Don't tell me you can't see it for yourself."
"We'll make it stop," Bobby said, unable to look away from the muscle that seemed to be clenching and unclenching in the woman's cheek.
"Just sit back and enjoy the day, Barbara," Alma said, facing the water again.
"You never called me Barbara before," Bobby said, so hot now she'd begun sweating.
"It's your name, after all." Alma's shoulders lifted and fell in a slight shrug.
"My mother named me Barbara," Bobby said, firming up her grip on the older woman's hand.
"I know that."
"She didn't want me. But it didn't really matter. Grandpa and Aunt Helen were real good to me." Holding tightly to the hand enclosing hers, she said, "I'll take good care of you, I promise."
"It's time to get the chair," Alma said, her words oddly misshapen, and turned her head to reveal her cruelly distorted features.
Bobby began crying as she tried with her hand to lift Alma's face, to restore her beauty.
"Let the old bitch be!" Joe said, standing with his back to the sun so that she couldn't make out his face. "Clear out of the way, Bobby!" he ordered, raising the barrel of the shotgun.
"NO!" she cried, and flung herself in front of Alma.
"Okay," he said, "if that's the way you want it," and pulled the trigger.
Charlie turned off the ignition and put a hand on the back of Eva's neck.
"A nightcap, cupcake?"
"I'd rather have some coffee."
"Coffee and Courvoisier?"
"Sold," Eva said, and slid out of the car.
While she got his coffee machine going, he poured an inch of Courvoisier into two balloons, then went to the den to put on some music. He looked over the rack of CD's and decided on volume one of Ray Charles's greatest hits. A few moments and "Georgia on My Mind" eased from the speakers.
"Oh, I love that," Eva called from the kitchen.
"Good," he said, crossing the room to hug her from behind, winding an arm around her waist and lifting her hair aside to kiss the back of her neck. "I want you to be happy. Care to dance while we're waiting for the coffee?"
She turned and fitted herself into his arms, and he led her gracefully around the kitchen. "How did you get to be so good at everything?" she asked, her arms looped around his neck.
"Practice," he said, smiling. "Lots and lots of practice."
"When? You were married to Bets for twenty years."
"I've had five years since then to hone my skills."
"I'll bet you had women coming out of your ears."
"Some," he said, his lips moving against her ear. "A few. And what about you? Were they beating down your door?"
"Men have no concept of female reality," she said. "You don't know the way it works. If you're a young widow, the men you meet think you're desperate for sex. It stands to reason you would be. After all, you've just lost a virile young husband who had to be putting it to you at every possible opportunity. So they believe they'll ease some of the infamous sexual tension suffered by every young widow. The fact that they're utterly unattractive in countless ways has no bearing on their libidos. They've got the necessar
y equipment, therefore they must be capable of doing the job. They think women are dictated to by their genitals, the way they are."
"You mean you're not?"
She pinched the back of his neck and laughed softly. "No, we are not. We're dictated to by our brains. Common sense and emotions first, genitals last."
"Your recent heroines aren't," he said, as "Unchain My Heart" started.
"My recent heroines do not reflect my personal values. But it's my job these days to deliver starry-eyed young women into the arms of their true loves."
"I don't know how the hell you do it."
"We need the money, Charlie. Alma's insurance won't cover the nurse full-time or the physical therapist, or the medications. The insurance company insists she no longer requires those things. I don't happen to agree."
"No, neither do I."
"Right. So for the time being, I'm writing commercial women's fiction under three different names. Someday I'll get back to the real work."
"It's a shame," he said feelingly. "I liked the real work."
"The coffee's ready," she said, breaking away to get cups from the cabinet.
"Sorry," he said quietly as she poured the coffee.
"Hell, don't be sorry, Charlie. Nobody held a gun to my head. It was an offer I couldn't refuse, so to speak. I'm lucky I can do the damned things. It's not easy writing a book every three months, but the money's good. It pays for the extras."
"Surely Alma has savings."
"Of course she does," she said, carrying her cup to the den. "But why should she use up her life's savings when I can carry the ball? Besides, I owe her."
"I guarantee you she doesn't see it that way."
"She wouldn't. But I do. Let's discuss religion or politics."
"You left out sex."
She laughed. "I thought we'd already covered that in the kitchen."
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