A typical grandparent assumption—or one from a lovely, giving woman who longed for her own brood but had never been able to conceive. I trailed her into the living room and watched while she set the various shopping bags and colorful sacks on the coffee table, then peeled out of her light jacket. Outside a faint drizzle cast a gray pall over the city where little cable cars reach halfway to the stars. February had arrived with no letup in gray skies.
“Other than mall pillaging, what else have you accomplished today?”
I plumped a sofa pillow and stacked a mound of Kelli’s picture books before I sat down cross-legged on the couch. Three perms, a highlight and six cuts had cleaned my plough. The salon was always busy holidays, but with Valentine’s Day looming every client on my book needed attention.
Kicking off her three-inch patent leather heels, Mazi dropped into my overstuffed floral print and sighed. “Other than spending money? Zip. What about you?”
I told her about my hectic workday. She said I worked too hard, and the sincerity in her voice made me weepy—not an uncommon state, you understand. Instead of easing, my grief had only been getting worse. Nights longer. I’d stopped counting the times I’d reach for Neil and he wasn’t there beside me. Warm. Loving.
“Work distracts me.” I picked at a loose thread. I deliberately made my days long and arduous so that when I got home I’d drop into bed so tired I’d pass out and I wouldn’t think about anything.
The plan hadn’t worked.
We sat in the gathering twilight in silence. There wasn’t anything I couldn’t tell Mazi or her me; we were wounded soul mates—she by a husband who apparently cared little, I by widowhood. So now our silences were comfortable—not the solitary kind of stillness that occupied my waking days and sleepless nights, but compatible without words.
Mazi studiously examined a red acrylic nail. “I could eat the north end of a southbound horse. Got any of those wheat crackers?”
“Sure—and there’s cheese, I think. Unless Kelli found it. Get me a hunk while you’re up.”
Mazi shoved her way out of the cushion and moseyed into the kitchen while I leaned back and studied my stocking feet. Apparently today she was eating. I never knew. Some days she ate more than I did and others she ate lettuce like a rabbit. I supposed that was how she maintained a neither slim nor full figure. I needed to cut back on my own snacking. I’d finally started gaining weight after being a beanpole all my life. I’d put on all I’d lost after Neil’s death, and then some.
Within minutes she was back carrying a tray of provolone and crackers. Two cans of diet soda accompanied the late-afternoon snack. I hate diet soda; I read somewhere once that the chemicals made you fatter than sugar.
“This stuff’s going to kill you,” I warned when Mazi popped a tab and handed me a can.
“I know, but I’ll go happy.” She scooped up a cracker and cheese and dramatically devoured the snack, shaking her stylish bob with ecstasy. “Ummm, ummmm, ummm.”
Grinning, I reached for a cracker, too tired to chew cheese.
“You should have been with me today. We’d have had a ball together.”
“Oh…you know me. I’m not all that interested in shopping, and besides, I can’t afford it.”
Her eyes softened. “I know. I wish I could help.”
I shrugged. No one could help.
She dropped back onto the chair, now holding a fistful of crackers and cheese, and blessedly changed the subject. “I found this new makeup foundation. ‘Sweet,’ as Kris would say. One of the salesclerks offered to give me a free makeover and—voilà—chic, no?”
“Beautiful.” Mazi was blessed with a flawless complexion. I admired the clerk’s artistry. Her skin positively gleamed with a tan light. She was a true winter palette. Gorgeous brown eyes, brown hair, so dark it was nearly black. I couldn’t help but wonder why her husband chose to spend so much time away from home. With no children, only the two of them, you would think they would be closer than ever. She had once confided that Warren could come home more often, but frequently chose not to. I knew my friend had to be puzzled and hurt by her husband’s lack of interest, though she vowed she was very content.
“I have my shopping,” she contended when I asked. “And now I have you.” Her eyes would glow with real affection when she spoke about our friendship. I had the faint impression that true friends had eluded Mazi, that she’d shut herself away in a world of shopping and phone-sitting, waiting for her husband’s infrequent calls and even more infrequent visits. If you ask me—which nobody had or likely would—Mazi was a neglected wife. Her husband was a cold fish, but one she openly adored.
Spousal neglect had not hindered her; she was a bubbly, overachieving fireball most days. It wasn’t uncommon for me to get up in the middle of the night to check on Kris or Kelli and notice lights burning in Mazi’s house. She had a passion for housecleaning into the wee hours of the morning, although I couldn’t see how eighteen hundred square feet could possibly require so much maintenance. I sometimes didn’t touch the house for a week, but then I would have to get a shovel and dig my way out. Mazi cleaned or baked or shopped incessantly. She made me tired to watch her. How she carried those extra pounds that she was always trying to lose was a real puzzle.
She bit into her third piece of cheese. “So I had the makeover. Of course, I loved the product so much the clerk sold me on the whole line of skin care. Then I made the mistake of looking at eye shadow, and then these new slanted brushes. From there I moved to lipstick, then blushers.”
“Then perfume,” I said, now familiar with Mazi’s peccadilloes.
She nodded. “Fragrances.”
“And the sum total of this afternoon’s damages?”
“Four hundred and twenty-seven dollars.” She shook her head. “Warren will shoot me. My makeup drawer looks like Imelda Marcos’s shoe closet.”
I laughed. “And this from a girl with a military background?”
“Daddy might be a retired admiral, and Mom a navy nurse, but I’m afraid the discipline they tried to instill in me didn’t work. The word isn’t in my vocabulary.”
I knew she spoke the truth; I’d seen her makeup drawer. And the boxes of shampoos, conditioners, gels, spritzes and sprays she’d purchased, used once and discarded.
Then there were the lotions: creams, spray-ons, oils, moisturizers and hand-pump concoctions promising overnight skin renewal. Oh—and the bath washes. Tubes and tubes and bottles and bottles of shower gels and nonsoap soap. A shrink would say Mazi was searching for something, but in my amateur opinion, it wasn’t makeup, shampoo, conditioner, lotion or shower gels. I believed Mazi’s endless quest for something went much deeper.
She polished off the remainder of the cheese and crackers, and stretched her legs out before her, legs fashionably attired in black hose. “I wish I hadn’t eaten that.”
“Skip supper,” I suggested. If it hadn’t been for Kris and Kelli I could have lived on peanut butter sandwiches—and frequently did.
With a sack of peanut M&M’s thrown in for additional protein.
Mazi’s gaze traveled the homey sitting area. “Where are the kids?”
“One of Kelli’s classmates is having a birthday skating party. Kris was invited to crash the activities.” Yawning, I stretched, feeling the inevitable 6:00 p.m. slump. “Want to share a salad?”
“Nah—I’m full.” Mazi sighed. “I have some cold meat loaf I’ll eat later. Talk to the postman today?”
“You mean our postman who’s writing the Great American Novel?” I looked up. “He’d already been here by the time I dropped Kris and Kelli by the rink and got home.”
“Too bad.” She grinned. “You notice the abs on that man?”
I was a little surprised by the observation. Mazi was straight as an arrow and never looked at other men. Oh, she’d been flattered at the singles mixer, but she’d made certain the men knew she was married.
Maybe she wasn’t as crazy about Warren—oh, that was
nuts!
So a woman window-shopped; that didn’t mean she was buying, even from a woman who was a shopaholic. Still, the remark seemed odd coming from her. To hear Mazi tell it, the sun rose and set on Warren. Me, I wanted a man to come home to every night or at the very least, a man who came home occasionally.
Mazi didn’t have either.
Days passed uneventfully. Gray Mitchell hadn’t called again. I laughed—nonhumorously—and stacked a cereal bowl in the dishwasher. Did I dare wonder why? A harridan alone, raising two hooligans who acted as though they had come straight from the bowels of the Land of No Discipline…
I caught my bitter thoughts and realized that lately I’d become a shrew, thinking horrible thoughts about my most treasured blessings. An honest-to-goodness, full-fledged, card-carrying shrew. I wouldn’t trade my children for five Gray Mitchells, as nice as he was, so why was I blaming my kids for my lack of appeal? Wait. Not a lack of appeal. I wasn’t a troll. I was a young widow, semiattractive, good bone structure but fallen arches, doing the best I knew how to raise two young daughters.
And I resented my condition like anything.
I dumped soap in the dispenser cup and slammed the door. The gentle swish of water filling the appliance penetrated the silence. The girls were asleep; Mazi was home in bed nursing a head cold. That left a long, empty night stretching ahead of me.
Channel surfing is an art. Honestly. There should be some sort of contest where contestants vie for prizes on how long it takes to surf from, say, local stations to Fox news without a single glitch. A challenger should master navigating swiftly and uninterruptedly through fast-talking evangelists, steak knives, the weather channel, Mayberry reruns, M*A*S*H reruns, Cheers reruns, Matlock reruns—oops, another fast-talking fellow, talking heads, talking heads, talking heads.
I tossed the remote aside and stared at the illuminated screen. God, it isn’t fair. I’m thirty-two years old! Other thirty-two-year-old women are putting their children to bed, then settling down in their husband’s arms for adult companionship. How long can one woman discuss the pros and cons of Barbie hairstyles?
I tried to remember the times I’d actually had time or Neil had invited me to “settle down in his arms” after a long workday. Lately I’d had trouble recalling the past. Yesterday I’d had to think for a moment about the tiny mole on Neil’s cheek. Was it on the right or left side?
I lay down, cradling the sofa pillow, holding on to something. Despite my good intentions, prayer didn’t help; I felt my pleas went no higher than the ceiling fan.
Work didn’t help. I’d worked so many hours lately Kelli had naively asked if I now lived at the salon. They missed their dad something fierce, but in their youthful way they had accepted that Neil was with God.
Why couldn’t I be so generous?
I rolled off the sofa and picked up the two-day stack of mail. Bills. Utilities. House payment. My eyes wandered the cozy living room. I couldn’t afford this house. I had lived here almost three months and already I knew that I didn’t have the energy to maintain the lawn, and I sure didn’t have money to hire a gardener. Kris could help when she was older, but the grass was going to be over the roofline in five years.
Buying the house had put a severe pinch in my income. I didn’t dare use Neil’s insurance; I’d safely tucked that away in an annuity for leaner days, though I couldn’t imagine times any thinner than right now. Everything—utilities, food, property taxes, gasoline, everything—was higher in California. Even a simple movie and popcorn turned into a penny-pinching contest. One bag of corn, one drink and three straws; I wasn’t used to this.
Even tithing had gone awry. Neil and I had always given God a tenth of our income; yesterday I’d found in my wallet three folded checks written to the church—on hold until I caught up on bills. IOUs to God. Of course, since I wasn’t going to church all that much, I thought maybe it didn’t matter, but then in my heart I knew this was just another check mark for indifference.
Well, fine, I thought, pitching the unopened mail back onto the desk. So my faith wasn’t strong enough to believe in His provisions. Why should it be?
I was talking to God now, not me.
“You promised to meet my needs and You haven’t.” I was stunned when I realized I’d spoken the words out loud.
Hateful thoughts poured out of my mind. Unreasonable finger-pointing. Even as I made the silent accusations I knew—I knew—that if anyone had reneged on promises it was me. Oh, God, if You’ll only get me through Neil’s death I’ll never ask for another thing.
Oh, God, if You won’t make me fly again I’ll never ask for another thing.
Oh, God, please keep me safe and I’ll never ask You for another thing.
If I couldn’t blame God, then I had to have somebody to blame, because none of this was my fault. I’d been a devoted wife, a doting mother, a reliable employee, an avid churchgoer and where had it gotten me?
Into a house I couldn’t afford, alone, frightened half out of my wits, with a wallet full of IOUs to God.
That’s where.
Early-morning sunlight streamed through the panes of La Chic. I opened this morning flashing a cheery smile at the first two clients of the day.
“Susan is running a few minutes late, Mrs. Watts. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some, dear.”
“You, too, Mrs. Stone?”
“Me, too, dear.”
I brewed a pot, then poured coffee into two china cups—one black, one with sugar and cream—and carried them to the two ladies now happily chatting. Two women—with husbands and nothing more to do than keep a hair appointment.
It’s not fair, God. Somehow I had to pull out of this pity party I’d fallen into. I’d thought I was doing better, but now I seemed to be slipping back into my old pattern of worrying and feeling sorry for myself.
“Here you go.” I dispensed the cups, then went to my own station and flipped on the curling irons.
The phone rang. I took the handset out of my smock and said good-morning.
“I quit.”
I recognized Melody Turner’s nasal twang moments before she slammed the receiver down in my ear.
She quit. Great. Simply great. That was the second stylist that I’d lost this week.
Punching the off button, I took the short but succinct notice to be final. Well, fine. Melody had been skating on thin ice for weeks. She was habitually late, and inexcusably rude to clients. Good riddance.
Smiling, I moved to the desk, and walked right out of my three-inch pointy-toed black mule, which turned my ankle. Pain shot up my right hip. The one day I’d decided to “fit in” with the other stylists and wear a shoe that was about as comfortable as an ice pick in my ear, I’d turned my ankle. Muttering under my breath, I quickly stepped back into the fashion nuisance, nodding politely to the two waiting women. I would switch Mel’s clients to the new girl, due in any moment. I marked a distinct black X through Melody, and then carefully copied her day’s appointments to Michelle’s relatively empty column. Some clients would be upset when they heard that Melody had “unexpectedly” terminated her employment, but most of them would be thrilled that the minor inconvenience had not interfered with a scheduled cut or color.
Susan and two fellow stylists breezed into the salon through the back door. In moments the salon had taken on the normal sounds of everyday life. Dryers were humming, the smell of shampoo coming from the bowls, the scent of fresh coffee in the air.
The tightness in my neck and shoulders started to ease. My first client wasn’t due until nine. I checked my watch and decided that I had time for a first cup of coffee. I was out of coffee at the house this morning, and anyway too hurried to make a pot if there had been some. Kris had misplaced her math book, and Kelli was cranky, complaining of a sore throat—her third in the past month. Both girls were struggling with their new routine. Where school had once been happily anticipated, they now dragged out the door as though facing a guillotine.
Kris had managed to make some friends, but Kelli complained that nobody sat with her during lunch. Other than the birthday skating party, the girls had not penetrated a social circle. My heart broke, but I was too busy to grieve.
I was too busy to live, working overtime to pay for a house I now didn’t want.
I poured coffee, glancing up to check the wall clock over the shampoo bowls—8:50. The new girl was due in at nine o’clock. I was aware Melody’s first customer was sitting on the long white sofa, leafing through a Vogue, blissfully unaware of the crisis.
I carried my coffee back to my station.
Eight fifty-five. I was starting to get antsy. If this were my first day at the salon I would be here by now—early, even. I don’t like to be rushed, so I would have arrived thirty minutes before my scheduled time. Set up my station. Caught my breath.
The clock hand ticked off another minute.
Relax, Kate. You were impressed by Michelle Tate. She seemed bright, energetic and dependable.
What if she didn’t show? Melody had nine clients with appointments but no stylist! It wasn’t possible to fit nine people into the other stylists’ appointment books if Michelle didn’t show. I reached for the coffee and took a fortifying swig.
The woman flipping through Vogue eyed her watch, then the wall clock.
I took another sip of coffee, pretending interest in the long row of gels, mousses and conditioners lining the back of my station.
The woman glanced at me, then back to the magazine.
Please, dear God. Don’t do this to me.
Another five minutes crawled by. Then ten.
My client had arrived right on time, and I headed her straight for the shampoo bowl, smiling patiently at the orphaned customer—though she still was clueless.
“She’ll be here any minute,” I chirped.
Fuming on the inside, I wondered what kind of person took a job, then never showed up! I couldn’t do that. Good ole dependable me would have been there regardless. Hell or high water. I’d have been here.
That’s your problem, Kate. You’re too dependable. Too responsible. You should go wild—do something totally absurd. Abandon your customer with a head full of lather and go shopping. Buy something thoroughly extravagant. Go have a picnic. Go back to Oklahoma. I was giddy with worry.
Mother of Prevention Page 18