by Neta Jackson
ADELE’S HAIR AND NAILS
I was so startled, I hit the brakes, meriting serious horn honking from the car behind me and getting a single digit salute as the driver swerved around me into the oncoming lane. I circled the block and drove slowly north on Clark once more, on the lookout for a place to stop and gawk. Adele’s Hair and Nails—that was it, all right. I’d totally forgotten that Adele had said her shop was on Clark Street, a two-lane artery through Rogers Park boasting so many ethnic businesses that the shop signs looked like someone shook up the alphabet and scattered the letters like so many dice.
A car pulled out of a parking space, and I pulled in. Why not? I was here; Adele was in there, doing her thing. Why not just go in and ask if she could come to Florida’s party? We were both Yada Yada. Why not?
Because you’re a big chicken, Jodi.Adele hadn’t exactly warmed up to me at the women’s conference, and at least there I had the relative safety of the whole prayer group. But now . . .
I looked at the shop about two car lengths away. It looked innocent enough. Posters of women—mostly black women of different hues—with perfect skin and various hair styles ranging from waves to weaves stood behind an array of hair products in the window. Twinkle lights outlined the window—left over from Christmas?
Didn’t look like a lion’s den. But that’s what it felt like as I locked the car, fed the meter, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.
22
Abell tinkled over the door as I walked in, and I was greeted with a strong, not unpleasant smell reminding me of the Tonette home perms my mom used to give my grandmother. And music—a male vocalist singing gospel something. Three beauty-shop chairs were parked in front of the long mirror covering the wall to my left, but only one was occupied. On the right side, behind the counter, I could see a couple of hair dryers—those standard beehive contraptions that looked like hairdos on a Simpsons cartoon.
A young woman wearing a smock and tight-fitting latex gloves was sectioning the hair of a woman in the first chair and daubing on a white substance at the dark roots with a small, square paintbrush. She looked up. “Be with you in a minute.”
I looked around the waiting area. Don’t know what I’d expected, but not a comfy sofa and matching love seat making an L around a large coffee table. Another woman with light honey skin sat on the love seat paging through a copy of Essence and carrying on a conversation with the woman getting her hair done. “Her baby is just the sweetest thing,” she was saying. “Sings like an angel.”
“What? How old is he now?”
“Nine,maybe ten. He’s good enough for the Chicago Children’s Choir, I swear.”
I edited my vision of an actual baby “baby” that could sing like an angel and sat down on the couch, giving the three woman what I hoped was a friendly smile. I picked up a copy of O—Oprah’s magazine—from among the available reading materials: Ebony, Jet, and Essence, plus several issues of neighborhood newspapers. And a Bible.
“Whose CD is that she’s got on? Kirk Franklin’s new one?”
“Sounds like Fred Hammond to me.”
I’m not sure which surprised me more: the Bible on the coffee table, the gospel music flooding the salon, or the coffeepot, half-full, plugged in on a little table beside the love seat. A cake server snuggled among the Styrofoam cups, powdered creamer, and packets of sugar revealed some kind of cake or pastry under its glass lid. Everything looked so . . . inviting. Sit down. Stay awhile.
Somehow, “inviting” and “Adele” were concepts that seemed like the north and south ends of a magnet.
“Can I help you?” the beautician asked, moving from the chair to the counter as she toweled white goo off her latex gloves.
I came to the counter, my mind scrambling. Should I just ask for Adele, or . . . maybe I should get something done. Nails! Why not get my nails done for Florida’s party tomorrow? I was tempted to grin, remembering all the painted nails around the circle at the women’s conference. Mine excluded. How much could it be? Might be fun.
“Um . . . do you take walk-ins for a manicure?”
Lifted eyebrow. “You don’t have an appointment?”
“No, uh, you see . . . I was just driving by when I saw Adele’s shop—Adele Skuggs, right?” I glanced past the young woman toward the back of the shop. “Is Adele here by any chance?”
The young woman arched both absolutely perfect eyebrows as if to say, “You know Adele?” but obediently called over her shoulder. “Adele? Lady here wants to see you.”
“Give me a minute! I’m doing a comb-out!” That was Adele’s voice all right. I smiled at the young woman, who returned to her client, and perused the shelves of beauty products that lined the wall just inside the door. Dudley’s Oil-Sheen Spray & Moisturizer . . . Mizan Holding Spritz . . . KeraCare Detangling Shampoo . . . and several other brands of conditioners, moisturizers, and fixers, as well as small plastic packages labeled “Wave Caps.”
“Well, look who’s here. Jodi Baxter of the Baxter Bears.”
I whirled. Adele had appeared behind the counter, big as life. Same short reddish ’fro. Same big gold earrings. Same little space between her front teeth. Same ability to tie up my tongue in a triple knot. The lion in the lion’s den was looking at me with an amused smile.
“Hi, Adele. I . . . was just driving by and saw your shop! Decided to drop in and say hi . . . uh, and get my nails done, if you take walk-ins.” I held out my fingers. “They’re in pretty bad shape.”
Adele did not look down at my hands.
“Or,” I added hastily, “I could make an appointment for another time if you’re too busy. Last-minute idea anyway. Just thought I’d get gussied up for Florida’s party. Tomorrow, you know.” I was starting to stumble over my own words, and I knew it.
Adele’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Florida’s party. Tomorrow.”
“Right! I sent out an e-mail to Yada Yada about it, but maybe you didn’t see it. A five-year sobriety party for Florida. It was Yo-Yo’s—”
I stopped in midsentence. A little old lady with dark freckled skin and graying hair appeared in my line of vision, pushing a walker between hair dryers and beauty chairs and muttering loudly. “Cain’t get nothin’ ta eat in this rest’runt . . . lousiest service in th’ South . . . jest gon’ find mahself ’nother place ta eat . . . bunch o’ pig-headed—”
“MaDear!”Adele grabbed but missed as the old woman shuffled past in her pink slippers—at a pretty fast clip, in my opinion—making a beeline for the front door. Adele caught her before she got to the handle and turned her around. “You want somethin’ to eat, MaDear? Come on. I’ll fix something for ya.”
I stood transfixed, watching Adele usher the little woman in front of her, keeping a firm grip on “MaDear’s” bony shoulders, which were encased in a faded blue housedress. Just as they were about to turn a corner beyond the hair dryers, Adele called out, “Come on back, Jodi. Think I can squeeze you in.”
Startled, I glanced questioningly at the woman on the love seat. “Are you . . .?”
“Me? Nah. I’m waitin’ on Takesha, here, to do my hair.”
The young woman in the white smock—Takesha, presumably— nodded. “Go on. If Adele say she can squeeze you in, she can squeeze you in.”
The woman in the chair, her hair standing stiffly at all angles, laughed. “Yeah. She the boss.”
I walked toward the back and turned the corner into another leg of the shop. Two comfy-looking black vinyl chairs were poised on white porcelain pedestals that looked like mini-bathtubs. For soaking feet obviously, I told myself. Two more chairs were lined up in front of little white tables with all sorts of small gadgets and bottles of nail polish. Manicures.
Adele had parked her mother in a rocking chair and was tying her in with a padded Velcro belt. “Here you go.” She handed her a sandwich that she took out of a small refrigerator.
The old lady patted Adele’s hand. “Yo’ sweet.” She looked up quizzically. “What yo’
say yo’ name is?”
“Adele, MaDear.” Adele blew out a breath, as though easing the level of pent-up frustration. “Since the day I was born.”
She seemed to notice me then, standing in the middle of the narrow aisle. “Go on, have a seat. I’ve got a comb-out to finish. Be with you in five.”
I sat down at one of the manicure tables, dizzy with the events of the past two minutes. Adele’s mother was more “demented” than my grandmother ever was. Maybe it was Alzheimer’s.Out of the corner of my eye I watched the old lady take her sandwich apart, laying each piece separately on her skinny lap: slice of bread, square of rubbery American cheese, slice of balogna, another slice of bread. Then she proceeded to lick the mayonnaise off each one.
“ ’Bye, Adele! See ya in a couple of weeks. ’Bye, MaDear.” The comb-out waved in the general direction of Adele’s mother and disappeared toward the front.
“Takesha!”Adele yelled after her. “Cash out Sister Lily, will ya?”
Then she was back. She eyed her mother. “Hmm. Oughta keep her busy for a while. Okay . . . you wanted a manicure?”
“Yes . . . I mean, if you’re sure . . . I didn’t have an appointment . . . how much do your charge?”
“Relax, Jodi.” Adele was washing her hands in the hair-washing sink. “It’s all right. I was kinda surprised to see you, I guess.” She looked me up and down as she toweled her hands. “Sure you don’t want a pedicure, too? Ten for the manicure, twenty for the pedicure . . . but I’ll give you both for twenty-five. For coming in. Call it a first-time promotion.”
I was tantalized. Why not? I’d cut it off the grocery bill— somewhere.
Sitting with my bare feet in the Jacuzzi footbath, I watched Adele lay out her clippers and scrubbers, oils and lotions. “Pick a color,” she ordered, motioning toward the rows of nail polish. Oh, gosh. I didn’t think I could go blood red. “That one,” I said, pointing at a soft coral color.
“Ah. Living dangerously, eh?” Her shoulders shook in a silent chuckle.
But when Adele, big and black, pulled up a low footstool and took my left foot out of the bath, a sense of . . . of impropriety welled up inside me. I couldn’t do this! Adele was practically kneeling at my feet, rubbing some kind of cuticle oil on each toe . . . it felt wrong! Like the old days, before Civil Rights, when white women like me sat up high and mighty on their thrones and black women scrubbed the floors.
“Jodi! Stop jerking your foot. I’m gonna gouge you good with this cuticle cutter if you don’t hold still.”
“Adele . . .” My voice came out in a squeak. “I feel . . . awkward having you work on my feet. I mean, you own this shop . . . don’t you have a girl or somebody who does feet?”
Adele sat back and looked at me. Just looked at me. And for some reason, I started to cry. Big ol’ tears just slid right down my face.
Finally she spoke. “Well, ain’t you somethin’ else. Know who you sound like, Jodi Baxter? Big ol’ full-of-himself Peter. ‘Oh, Master! You shall never wash my feet!’ Just couldn’t swallow it. And what did Jesus say?”
I just stared at her.
“He said, ‘If I don’t wash your feet, Big Boy, you ain’t one of mine.’Well, something like that.” She chuckled at herself. “Then ol’ Peter says,Well if that’s the case, give me the whole bath!”
Adele, still sitting on the footstool, put one hand on her ample hip and shook a finger at me. “Well, Jodi Baxter, I ain’t gonna give you a whole bath, but feet are my business, and this ain’t a big deal. And if we gonna do this . . . this Yada Yada thing, better get used to it. You wash feet sometimes; you get your feet washed sometimes. Ain’t that the way it s’posed to be? Now hold still.”
I PULLED INTO THE GARAGE an hour later than I thought I’d be, the back of the minivan full of groceries. Hitting the grocery store after getting all twenty digits oiled and lotioned and painted like a queen was a bit of a letdown. Here I was, still in my gym shoes covering up my now-gorgeous toes, when I felt like dancing barefoot in the grass wearing a gauzy gown, like those women who float through TV commercials for some kind of pain reliever.
But the temperature was creeping upward in the garage; it was going to be a warm Memorial Day weekend. Better get the cold stuff into the fridge right away—especially those packages of chicken for Florida’s party tomorrow.
Sorry I’m late, I rehearsed telling Denny in my mind, and I just spent twenty-five dollars we probably don’t have—but it was worth it. Adele Skuggs is coming to Florida’s party tomorrow, and she promised to bring Chanda—“minus Chanda’s three kids if God has any mercy at all,” was the way Adele put it.
Trying to be careful of my newly polished nails, I scuttled toward the back door, a gallon of milk in one hand and a bag of chicken in the other. “Sure hope Josh or Denny is around to help me haul in all these groceries,” I mumbled. “And Josh and Amanda better have their rooms clean, too.”
Willie Wonka was on hand to greet me, poking his nose into the bag of chicken before I even got inside the door. I swatted his nose. “Anybody home?” I yelled. “I need help with the groceries!”
No answer. But I heard the shower running. Peeking into the dining room, I saw a couple of notes on the table, one in Amanda’s pretty cursive, the other in Denny’s scrawl.
“Finished my room. Dad said I could go to the mall with Trisha’s family. They promised they’d get me back by 4:00.”
“Jodi—Gone for a run. Josh playing ball at the park. Love you. D.”
Humph. Denny must be back from his run and in the shower. So much for help lugging in groceries. But they got points for at least leaving a note.
I picked up the bag of chicken and opened the refrigerator door . . . and felt my own temperature rise. It had been almost empty when I’d left this morning. Plenty of room to store all that chicken until tomorrow. But now the lower shelf was full—with two six-packs of beer. Minus one bottle.
23
I hauled in the rest of the groceries like a queen bee with her stinger in backward. Now Denny was not only “having a beer with the guys” while watching a game, but stocking up the refrigerator! (Stomp, stomp, stomp across the back porch.) What was he stocking up for? Florida’s party? Over my dead body. (Slam the car door.) How did he buy them anyway? I had the car. (Slam the back door.) And what’s with the missing bottle? Drinking by himself? In the middle of the day? (Slam the refrigerator door)—
“Jodi? What in the world . . . ?”
I whirled around. Denny was standing in the kitchen doorway in his jeans, barefoot and shirtless, leaning on one arm against the doorpost. He looked pretty yummy—but I was not going to be distracted from my anger.
I flung open the refrigerator door and pointed. “That.”
He didn’t move from the doorway but folded his arms across his chest. “That. Uh-huh. All this slamming of doors is because I bought some beer.”
“Some beer? Looks to me like you laid in quite a supply . . . for what? Not Florida’s party. She’s a recovering addict, for goodness’ sake, Denny.” He wanted stubborn? He was going to get stubborn. I folded my arms across my chest.
A little grin tipped one corner of his mouth. “Hey. You got your nails painted.” The grin widened. “Jodi Marie Baxter, Miss Simplicity herself, has gotten herself—”
“Don’t change the subject.” I tucked my nails under my folded arms . . . but I could feel tears gathering behind my eyes, like an anxious teenager who didn’t get asked to the prom. I’d wanted Denny to notice my nails, to like it that I got dolled up—but not in the middle of an argument. I tilted my chin up. “When did you buy this stuff? I had the van. Why so much? You got a party planned I don’t know about? And looks like the party’s already started—”
“Good grief! Give me a break, Jodi!” The grin disappeared, and he half-turned to go—Denny’s usual defense when I rode in with six-shooters blazing. But he pointed a finger at me. “You’re right. You had the van and took your own sweet time getting home, too. D
id you ever think I might have errands to do? But no problem, I decided to go for a run down at the lake. Beautiful day for a run— or hadn’t you noticed?” Sarcasm dripped off his words as though sweating from the heat in his voice. “Worked up a real thirst on my run. Stopped in at the Osco on Morse on my way home to get something to drink. And you know what, Jodi? They had a special on cold beer. Buy one six-pack, get one free. And you know what else, Jodi? That cold beer looked mighty good and I drank one. One measly beer . . . and my wife wants to take it all the way to the Supreme Court. Sheesh.” He threw up both arms in disgust and this time completed his exit.
I watched him disappear into the hallway beyond the dining room, trailed by Willie Wonka, who’d been standing between us, watching us with worried wrinkles above his doggie brows. My tears came out of hiding, pursued by silent sobs as I tackled the plastic grocery bags all around my feet.
Okay, so I probably didn’t handle that the best way. I stuffed frozen orange juice, frozen vegetables, and hamburger into the freezer.
Should’ve waited till we could talk about it instead of jumping all over him. Canned goods, pasta, and cold cereal went into the cupboards.
Should’ve known that would backfire; always does. I dumped the bags of onions and potatoes into their little plastic bins under the sink.
Didn’t say anything last weekend when he had a beer at the Bagel Bakery . . . huh! Look where that got me. Gave him an inch, and he took a yard. Paper towels, toilet paper, and napkins got squeezed into the tall cupboard by the back door.
What does this say to the kids? It’s okay to have a beer? And he better not give me that “but even you drink wine sometimes” bit. Last time I read the papers, it was “beer parties” that got busted, not dinner parties. I pulled out the crisper and dumped in carrots, celery, and lettuce.
I paused with the refrigerator door open again, staring at the offending six-packs. It bugged me to have my refrigerator full of beer. I wanted them out before the kids got home. Not only that, but I didn’t want them there with Yada Yada coming to my house tomorrow. People like Avis and Nony probably thought any alcohol was wrong. And it might be a stumbling block to someone like Hoshi, who was new in her faith . . . or Chanda, who seemed rather borderline when it came to Christian behavior.