by Kim Boykin
“Didn’t you help me into the house,” he asked as he poured the last of the good stuff into the glass, “a couple of weeks ago?”
I opened my mouth to say something; he put his fingers over my lips. Closing my eyes, I nodded as his fingertips slid down my chin and the length of my neck.
He drained his glass again. “Your hair, it smelled like rain.” If he had asked me to get down on all fours and bark like a dog just then, I swear to God, I would have done it.
His plate was clean; the wine was gone, so there was no excuse for him to stay. The silence was awkward because we weren’t drunk enough to crawl across the table and melt together. I stood up first to say good night. I wanted him to see me walk away, and if he couldn’t come after me, I wanted him to want me.
I didn’t have to look back over my shoulder to know that he was watching. As I climbed up those stairs to my little perch, I had the power again. The door was wide open so that only the screen separated us. I took my clothes off, not where he could see, but somehow I knew he was still watching my place. I touched myself for a while the way I wanted him to touch me, then reached for an old cotton shirt to sleep in. Watching each button slide through the hole, I was nearly breathless by the time I got to the last one.
I walked to the front door to close and lock it and saw him standing there, looking up at my apartment with my empty wineglass still in his hand. I guess he was wrestling with thoughts of me and Emma, of coming up the stairs and opening my front door without knocking. I closed the door, went to bed, and slept better than I had in a long time.
*
I woke up before the alarm normally went off, which was good, because I had forgotten to set the clock for seven. Mrs. Cathcart was holding a class meeting before the school opened, which she did from time to time. The meetings were usually about business that pertained to the school itself and school policies, but from the way she reminded each of us to be on time, we all knew that this one was important.
Mr. Cathcart had five brothers—a printer, a caterer, a food broker, a manager at the Davenport Country Club, and a bum. Mr. Cathcart called his baby brother a bum, but in truth, he was the disc jockey at the only radio station in town, and made his living spinning easy listening hits on the morning shift and as a DJ at weddings and parties. All of them came in handy for Mrs. Cathcart’s annual Davenport School of Beauty Winter Graduation Dinner and Dance.
Now, if you asked any other cosmetologist about her graduation, she would probably look at you like you were crazy. Most stylists just take their State Board exam and then start their first job without the least little bit of fanfare. This would have been unthinkable for Mrs. Cathcart. Everything from birthdays to Arbor Day was a big event for her.
She handed each of us a fancy envelope, hugging us and telling us how proud she was. I ran my finger under the wax seal and pulled out the card inside. It looked like a wedding invitation except it had a picture of a pink pair of scissors cutting a lock of black hair.
You and an escort are cordially
Invited to attend the annual
Davenport School of Beauty
Winter Graduation Dinner and Dance
Saturday, December 1, 1983
The Davenport Country Club
Dinner is served promptly at six o’clock in the evening
Dancing to follow in the Grand Ballroom
“Your parents may purchase tickets for twelve dollars apiece or twenty per couple,” Mrs. Cathcart said. “It’s a grand affair, and it fills up right quick, so you need to let me know as soon as possible how many tickets you will need. Again, I’m so proud of each and every one of you, and I’ll…” she paused, “miss you next term. I’ll truly miss you all,” she said. Then she went into her office and closed the door where she had herself a good cry.
“She’s like a mama about letting y’all go,” Mr. Cathcart said. I think he loved the way she made so much of things other people might look at as small and insignificant as much as I did.
When Mrs. Cathcart finally came out of her office, her eyes were red and swollen, but her hair and makeup were absolutely perfect. She acted like nothing had happened and spent most of the day encouraging us to start interviewing for a job after graduation. She said we could work as shampoo girls on our days off from the school at one of the shops in town to get our foot in the door and see how we liked the place. I asked her about a couple of salons. I could tell she didn’t like some of them, but she never said anything bad because the owners were probably alumni of the school.
“Will your mother be coming to the dinner, Zora?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her in a while.”
“You haven’t heard from her?”
Mrs. Cathcart took one look at the appointment book and saw that my customer was ten minutes late. If she’d stopped to read the embarrassment on my face, she would’ve never hauled me into her office and closed the door. I knew what was coming, sure as the world, but I never talked about Mama to anybody, not even Sara Jane.
“Where is your mother?” she asked me, like I was a lost child.
“I don’t know. I’ve called a couple of times since school started, but she hasn’t answered.”
“Do you want me to help you find her?”
“No, ma’am. Mama’s probably not your idea of a mother, and to tell you the truth, she was never my idea of one, either. It’s just her and me. She doesn’t have much to do with her family or my daddy’s family. I’ll go home, maybe for Thanksgiving. Maybe.”
She hugged me one last time and opened the door. Everybody looked to see if my face was stained with tears, but it wasn’t. I had choked back tears so many times living with Mama that I’d choked them out.
One of the beauty-supply salesmen came into the school later that morning and mentioned that Ronnie’s Two was looking for a shampoo girl. Ronnie’s was a shop in a little storybook cottage at the end of Main Street that was owned by Ronnie Nussman. He was Mrs. Cathcart’s sister’s boy, though Mrs. Cathcart never mentioned him, and he was not an alumnus of the Davenport School of Beauty. Ronnie went to school in Atlanta and opened the shop with his cousin, Fontaine Durrier, who was also Mrs. Cathcart’s nephew, though she didn’t claim him, either.
Fontaine and Ronnie had more boyfriends than anybody in town. I guess they were the only two men around back then who weren’t shy about being that way. It didn’t bother me any. I figured it was their business what they did between the sheets. The majority of the townspeople gossiped and raised their eyebrows at those two, but they certainly weren’t opposed to letting them style their hair. I think this is because Fontaine and Ronnie were called to fix hair, just like Mrs. Cathcart said we were.
I phoned Ronnie shortly after the beauty-supply man left, right after Mrs. Cathcart went to the bank. I knew she wouldn’t think too much of it. She had given us a list of alumni that were hiring, but none of them appealed to me. Ronnie was real sweet over the phone. He told me to come on by, that he was just dying to meet me.
When I walked through the door, Ronnie came sashaying over, carrying on about me like I was a little doll.
“Fontaine, would you look at this princess. Isn’t she precious, and that color. You can’t get that out of a bottle. Just look at this hair, hair for days.”
Fontaine didn’t have much hair. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me like, here he goes again. As he styled a woman’s hair, she was baring her soul to him. I heard something about a divorce settlement and a lying son of a bitch over the blow dryer. I don’t think Fontaine was listening, but you couldn’t have convinced his customer.
“She gave up her therapist for him. He sees her every week and it still costs her less than that headshrinker over in North Myrtle Beach,” Ronnie whispered. “Now, Zora, tell me all about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell.” I told him I was looking for a job and I’d be available for full-time employment December 15.
“Where are you from, Zora
?” he said. “I want to know about you.”
“Well, I’m from Cleveland. South Carolina. It’s a little tiny town in the mountains, about forty-five miles from Asheville. My daddy passed on a long time ago. It’s just me,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to rehash everything about Mama twice in one day.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Ronnie looked like he might cry. He held my hand and told me all about his family and his new boyfriend, George, a construction worker who did mostly roofing and traveled a good bit. Before I left, I think I knew everything there was to know about him because he was so open about his life.
He said the job was mine if I wanted it, at a dollar-fifty more an hour than the beauty-supply salesman told me the job paid. I told him I’d have to think about it.
I opened the door to the shop, tripping the little chimes that hung from the ceiling. “Bye now,” he called after me like he might tell me to dress warm or make sure I got enough to eat. “Bye,” I called back, thinking how odd it was that Mrs. Farquhar wanted to mother me, Mrs. Cathcart wanted to mother me, even Ronnie Nussman wanted to mother me. Everybody wanted to mother me except for my own mama.
19
Sara Jane came around about nine o’clock and surprised me with flowers. It was just a little spray of daisies and red carnations in a coffee cup that said, “I love you.” I had never gotten flowers from a flower shop before, so when I held them up to my face to smell them I was surprised that flowers from a florist don’t smell good, if they even smell at all.
“They’re beautiful.” I set them in the middle of the kitchen table and opened the card. “For my very best friend and maid of honor. You are so loved. Always, Sara Jane.”
“Sara Jane Alvarez,” I added, as we both squealed in excitement.
She glanced down toward the drinking room.
“He’s still at it, I see,” she said, as Winston filled his glass. “He’s looked up here a time or two. Oh, my God. Did you see that? I swear he looked right up here.”
“It’s such a pretty night out; he’s probably looking at the stars,” I said, feeling a little guilty that Sara Jane shared every little intimate detail of her life with me, and I couldn’t tell her about drinking wine with Winston. It was my nature to let the world go on and on about itself, to keep things inside. I learned to be that way after Nana died, and I was left to take care of Mama by myself.
“There’s not one single star out tonight,” she said, with her hands on her hips.”And he’s looking up here, surer than shit.”
“I’ve noticed that, too,” I said, which was true. “I’ve talked to him a couple of times, but nothing comes of it. To be honest, I’ve just about given up on the man.”
I know sometimes she seemed hurt that I couldn’t share even a little bit of myself with her. But what would I say, that my mama had all but disowned me, that Winston Sawyer had spoken to me and smelled my hair?
Sara Jane didn’t stay long. She had to meet Jimmy at Connie Harmon’s house, because Connie was throwing a big engagement party for the two of them. She said there’d be lots of parties, and her mama had already bought both of us three new dresses to wear. I kissed her and thanked her. And I remember thinking how funny it seemed to make so much over a wedding. But Mrs. Farquhar’s friends were just like her when it came to entertaining, and they were all going to try to outdo each other before Sara Jane made it to the altar.
After she left, I sat on my couch listening to the fall breeze blow the leaves about outside. The air was crisp, like mountain air. I heard the screen door to his kitchen bounce a time or two against the jamb and thought it was the wind. I heard footsteps walking across the gravel, stopping twice for a few seconds, and then slowly coming up the stairs.
He was there at my door but didn’t knock, just opened it, and stood there looking at me. Neither of us said a word. I went to him hesitantly and stood as close as two people can without touching. I felt his breath and smelled the sweetness of Kentucky bourbon. He closed his eyes and laid his head on my shoulder and let me press my lips against the sweet spot on his neck as we stood there breathing, barely touching.
I wasn’t scared or nervous. I was full of wanting as he lifted my chin and kissed me and would have melted into a little puddle right there on the floor if I hadn’t kissed him back. Then he scooped me up the way the heroes did on the cover of the Gussie Foyette books and set me down on my bed.
The bedroom light was out, but the light from the kitchen was generous. I undressed the only man I’d ever worshiped while he undressed me. I remember gasping out loud at his beauty. He laid me down on the bed and stroked my body; his eyes were closed like he was playing a fine instrument.
He let me touch him and know him and without saying a word, we made love. The music our bodies played lasted for a long time. Exhausted, he closed his eyes several times, like he was glad he was with me, and then he would look away, like maybe he shouldn’t have walked up the stairs in the first place.
I think he felt obligated to lie close to me and stroke my hair. I could feel him wanting to leave.
“Stay,” I whispered.
He kissed me like he meant it, dressed, and left me there in the dark. I could smell him on the pillow, the faint scent of some cologne Emma probably bought for him. I hugged that pillow tightly to me and prayed he would come back. About an hour later, I got out of bed to lock the front door and noticed that the lights were out in his house, even in the drinking room. I went back to bed and fell asleep pretending Winston Sawyer was still in my little bed.
The first thing on my mind when I woke up the next morning was that trip to Atlanta for the whole weekend. I didn’t want to go. I was afraid of what might happen if I left Winston there alone. Would he come to his senses? Would I ever see him again? But I had to go for Sara Jane and her mama, because they had been so good to me. Anyway, I had two days to either work up the nerve to go or make up an excuse to stay.
I hoped Winston would answer those questions for me that night. Out of some crazy superstition, I made sure everything about the apartment was exactly how it had been the night before. I sat in the same spot on the couch and listened to his footsteps come up the stairs. He never knocked. Maybe because it really was his place, or maybe it was too much like asking for permission. He came into the room and I went to him. He didn’t smell like liquor.
There was a little breeze that blew through the room carrying the strains of a scratchy old blues tune he had put on the stereo in the drinking room. He held me close, shuffling his feet about ever so slightly in time to the music. I guess songs must have been real short way back then, or maybe they just seemed that way because my heart stopped every time the music did, but he kept right on dancing. I didn’t know if it was the music or not that sent him up those stairs to dance with me. Whatever it was, I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, and prayed he’d never stop.
I pulled away, just enough to see his face. He smiled at me and pressed little angel kisses on my lips before the music started again; our feet moved in time to the slow, soulful sound. I don’t claim to know what he was thinking during that time. All I know is that I was entranced by Winston Sawyer and his music, and I couldn’t have stopped dancing even if I wanted to.
I ran my fingers through his long, beautiful hair and pressed my fingertips on the back of his head so that his lips moved closer to mine. He kissed me the way he had made love to me the night before, wholly and wantonly. As we opened our eyes, still high from the electricity that had passed between us, I saw something there, like he had suddenly come to his senses.
I had seen that look sometimes on the face of Mama’s men, especially the married ones. “Stay and have a little drink with me,” I whispered as I rubbed his hand across my cheek and then down my neck until it rested on my breast. He looked at me and nodded his head because he could see that I knew just what he needed. He needed a drink as much as I needed him.
When I handed Winston a bourbon and water, he looked at me funny.
I just smiled and dabbed my finger in his glass before putting it in my mouth like it was chocolate cake batter or something good. I knew he drank Scotch straight up or sometimes on the rocks, and when he was out of Scotch he drank bourbon, and when he was out of bourbon, he drank gin and tonic. But I remembered the sweetness of it on his breath that first night we made love, and I think he did, too, because he pulled me close to him, sipped that drink, and asked for another.
I fetched it quick and then laid my head on his chest to feel the rhythm of his breathing and set mine in time with his.
“Don’t you want a drink?” he said, as he kissed my hair.
I shook my head. His touch, his smell, his sad blue eyes intoxicated me so that I was already drunk.
After three or four bourbons, Winston was less inhibited and didn’t seem to be thinking about leaving anymore. Mind you, he wasn’t falling-down drunk, the way he was the night I helped him into the house, but I know the liquor erased any ideas he had about leaving.
He stood up, and from where I sat, he looked like a prince reaching his hand out to me, leading me to happily ever after. I took his hand, and we walked together to my bedroom.
So many things were different than the first night we made love and Winston went home straightaway. They gave me hope and made what was going on between the two of us seem right. He didn’t seem to mind my inexperience in lovemaking because I was eager to learn. He showed me what to do to please him, and I liked the power that came in knowing that I could make him breathless, too.
Still, he never said much of anything, and I didn’t, either. We spoke with our eyes and our hands and our bodies; we spoke in a language of wanting and contentment. Whenever I opened my mouth to say something, he always pressed his fingers across my lips and kissed me so that my head was light and airy.