Godmother Night

by Rachel Pollack

  The word reminded him that he had to get rid of Malcom, the British faggot who’d been working for him in the Main Street branch. Gays were one thing, Bill thought; you couldn’t escape it in this business, but Malcom had started camping it up just too damn much. Bill himself didn’t care, but the customers were starting to make faces. Maybe that sort of thing went okay in the city, but not in a place like Thorny Woods.

  Janet said, “I’ll be at the club this afternoon. I’m meeting the girls to talk about our casino trip.”

  “Do whatever you like,” Bill said. He checked his pockets for his wallet and keycase.

  “Honey,” Janet said. His back to her, Bill made a face. “We’ve got to talk,” his wife told him. “About Laurie.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “Maybe we should call her. Go see her in the city or something.”

  “What for, so she and that nutty girlfriend of hers can make up more lies about me?”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Thanks a lot. Well, I do care.”

  “I’m sorry,” Janet said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just meant, can’t we all forget about it?”

  “Fine with me. You know I don’t hold grudges.”

  “Well, maybe we should call them.”

  “She’ll call us when she wants to. Probably when she needs money.” For some reason, an odd memory came into his mind—a time when Laurie was a kid and wanted to go fishing of all things, so Bill had gotten them a couple of cheap poles and they’d spent a couple of hours sitting in a boat on Silver Lake. She was some kid, Laurie. For a moment, he really wished she’d just get over her nuttiness.

  Janet said, “But what if she doesn’t?”

  “Look,” Bill said. “I’ve got no time now. I’m opening on Park Street today. Mrs. Nelson has a nine o’clock.”

  Janet giggled. “Isn’t she the one you hate?”

  Bill laughed. “I never hate my clients. She may be ugly as sin, but she pays well.”

  As Bill left the bedroom Janet called after him, “Will you think about calling Laurie?”

  “You bet,” Bill said, without looking back. “Promise.”

  In the driveway, he noticed something odd across the street in front of the Holloway house. A motorcycle stood there, a long black thing, glistening, as if someone had sprayed it with water. In front of it, leaning against the gas tank, stood some kid in a red leather jacket. Bill thought it was a boy at first until he noticed the outline of breasts behind the crossed arms. He found it a little hard to see her face—the sun shone directly in his eyes—but he thought she looked kind of pretty, despite the punky red hair. He grinned as he opened his car door. Maybe Jim Holloway had decided to try out some rough trade. He glanced back once more. He wouldn’t mind trying some himself. Just as Bill turned on the car engine the woman kick-started her motorcycle, a roar that made Bill jump in surprise. By the time he’d pulled out of the driveway, the motorcycle had vanished around the corner.

  At House of Hair, Helen, the assistant, was waiting outside the door when Bill pulled up. He parked the car, then gave her a cheery good morning as he unlocked the door. Helen was okay, Bill thought. Worked hard, didn’t just hang around too much. He reminded himself to make sure Meg or Gail was teaching her. While Helen made coffee and arranged things in the shop, Bill looked over the books for the different branches. Over the next fifteen minutes the rest of the staff came in, gossiping, complaining, all the time-wasters he had to tolerate for the sake of morale.

  They were all sitting around the counter, laughing at someone’s inane joke, when suddenly the noise died down. Bill turned around to see everyone looking at a tall redhaired woman standing in the entrance. She stood over six feet, with wide shoulders and gentle curves flowing down her body. She was certainly the type to draw attention, but Bill stared at her with extra fascination, for she looked so much like the biker she might have been the girl’s older sister—her sophisticated older sister, for this one wore a dark red linen suit and alligator shoes—or was it snake? They were hardly the kind of clothes you saw very often in Thorny Woods, at least not in House of Hair. Along with a small shoulder bag to match the shoes, she carried a gleaming black briefcase, eelskin probably, with a catch that looked to be solid gold. The catch was shaped in some design or other, concentric circles with lines running through them.

  She smiled at Helen, whose mouth hung open slightly, as if she’d never seen anything quite like her. In a soft deep voice, the woman said, “I’d like my hair done. Washed, cut, and styled.” Her hair was short, but not too short that Bill couldn’t think of various possibilities. At the moment, it was partly pushed back and partly straight up in a style that must have required sculpting foam and hair spray.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Helen asked.

  The woman smiled, “No, I’m sorry.”

  Helen said, “Well, let me see who’s free.” She ran her finger down the schedule.

  “Excuse me,” the woman said. She turned slightly and pointed a long finger at Bill. “I want him.”

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said. “Mr. Cohen is booked this morning.”

  “That’s all right,” Bill said quickly. “I can squeeze her in after Mrs. Nelson.”

  Helen said, “But you’ve got Mrs. Steiner then.”

  “I said it’s all right.” He turned to the woman. “I hope you don’t mind waiting a little.”

  The woman smiled again. “Not at all,” she said. “I brought some work to do. Why don’t you see your two appointments first? I wouldn’t want you distracted.”

  Confused somehow, Bill said, “Well, if you’re sure you wouldn’t mind.”

  Just as the woman sat down in one of the black tubular chairs Bill had recently installed, the first clients came in. Meg and Mark took them, helping them into smocks, sitting them down and easing their hair into the wash basins. Mrs. Nelson was late, as usual. Bill was wondering if he could take the redhead when someone who looked like yet another of her sisters came into the shop. This one was short, with large hips and a round face. She was dressed in a wholly different style, but one which stood out in Thorny Woods as much as the other woman’s red suit and outrageous leathers: She wore a dress that looked like something from an old movie about the South Pacific—low cut, pale yellow, with huge flowers in every color from fuchsia to turquoise. Her red hair hung in loose curls in no particular style.

  “I’d like a cut,” she said. “And I want the boss to do it.”

  “That’s not possible,” Helen said.

  Bill grimaced at Helen’s rudeness. He moved forward. “Good morning,” he said, “I’m Bill Cohen,” and for some reason he bowed slightly.

  The woman in the flowered dress said, “Do that again.”

  Confused, Bill bent over. He heard giggles as he straightened up. “I’m rather busy,” he said, “but if you don’t mind waiting…”

  “That’s fine,” the woman said.

  “It may be up to an hour.”

  “No problem.” She sat down next to the other and picked up a hairdo magazine.

  Bill looked around the shop. Didn’t anyone else notice the resemblance?

  Flower Dress held out her hand to the other. “I’m Amy,” she said.

  “My name is Lillian,” Red Suit said. When they smiled the link became even stronger, almost like twins despite their different shapes.

  Wait a minute, Bill thought, wait a minute. Dress—Amy—was wearing a pendant on a gold chain, and Bill was pretty damn sure it was the same design as the catch on the other one’s briefcase. He tried to see, but the Suit—Lillian—had set the briefcase on the floor with the catch hidden against the leg of the chair. He was wondering if he should go ask to see it, when Mrs. Nelson came in.

  Taking her jacket, it was all Bill could do to keep the disgust out of his face. Besides her natural ugliness, the woman had no taste, none at all. That flouncy dress she wore—he glanced back at the two redheads. What
a difference, he thought. It almost embarrassed him for them to see Mrs. Nelson in his shop. While Helen sat Mrs. Nelson down and began washing her hair, Bill wished he could give her to Meg, or even just shove her out the door, and go to work on Lillian. But Mrs. Nelson came regularly, and often for expensive work, and who knew if Lillian would even come back at all. He glanced at Lillian again, quickly, so people wouldn’t notice. He decided he would wash her hair himself, give her a special head and neck massage.

  Bill was just seating Mrs. Nelson in the chair by the window when yet another stranger came in. She looked nothing like the others. For one thing, she had blond hair (looked recently cut, Bill thought), and besides she lacked the flair, the style, despite a pair of oversize sunglasses that hid half her face. And yet she wore a dark red leather jacket a hell of a lot like the one the biker had worn in front of Jim Holloway’s house. When she spoke it came out low, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear. “I’d like a perm,” she said. She added, “I don’t have an appointment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Helen said, and glanced over her shoulder. “There’s no one available.”

  “That’s all right,” the woman said. “I’ll wait.” Before Helen could say anything else, Leather Jacket sat down at the other end of the row of chairs from Amy and Lillian.

  “Bill,” Mrs. Nelson said in that awful pout, “do you think I should change my hair?”

  I think you should chop it off and eat it for lunch, Bill thought. He hated it when she pouted. Ugly women should never act coquettishly. The law should forbid it. He suggested a style that would “lighten” the face, and then he asked if she wanted, if she dared, to go blonde.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

  Neither is the world, Bill thought, but what the hell. He started work, parting the hair into clumps which he held in place with plastic clips.

  Usually Bill chatted with Mrs. Nelson, even worked slowly to give himself time to build up that intimacy that kept people like her steady over the years. Today, however, he worked efficiently, hardly speaking even to answer her questions, for he kept looking past her to the three women in the waiting area. Which perhaps is why he didn’t see what was happening to Mrs. Nelson’s hair.

  “My hair!” she screamed. “What are you doing to my hair?” She slapped his hands away.

  Bill stared down. All over Mrs. Nelson’s head, swatches of hair had turned bright green. And where there had been curls and moistness, the green hair stuck out straight and strawlike. Bill took hold of a green clump. The whole thing came out in his hand. As Mrs. Nelson screamed again, Bill looked around the room. Everyone stared at him. His mouth open, he turned and tugged on two more clumps. They came loose; the bald spots shone in the fluorescent light. Mrs. Nelson shoved Bill, who fell against the counter, knocking over a blow dryer. “Get away from me!” she screamed. “Get away, get away.”

  “Mrs. Nelson,” he pleaded. “Marian. Please sit down.” Mrs. Nelson was yanking at the smock, trying to pull it off without unsnapping it behind her neck. “I don’t understand what happened,” Bill pleaded. “Please sit down.”

  The smock came loose and Mrs. Nelson grabbed her jacket and bag. As she ran to the door, bits of hair fell from her head to litter the floor with scraps of green. Bill glanced again around the room—the staff and regular clients looked embarrassed, Amy and Lillian were smiling, and the third woman stared at the floor—and then he ran after Mrs. Nelson. Or started to, for when he opened the door to look for her, he saw instead someone else. Across the street, leaning against her motorcycle, stood the biker in the red leather. Bill wasn’t sure, but he thought she nodded at him. He went back inside.

  In the steel chairs Amy and Lillian had gone back to their reading, while Leather Jacket—the other Leather Jacket—still studied the floor. Throw them out, Bill told himself. Get rid of them. Instead, he went back to his station to shake his head at the clumps of green hair. Meg came over to whisper, “Jesus, Bill, what did you put on that woman’s hair?”

  “Nothing,” Bill said. “C’mon, Meg, I didn’t even finish cutting it.”

  “Well, something—”

  “The shampoo! Or the conditioner. Helen must have used some garbage on her. Sweep that mess up, okay? Get it out of sight.” He strode over to the counter, where Helen was pretending to study the appointment book. “Come in the back,” he ordered her. In the staff room Bill said, “Now what the hell did you do to Mrs. Nelson’s hair?”

  “I just washed it, Mr. Cohen. Honestly.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You must have grabbed the wrong bottle.”

  “No, really. I’ll show you.” She rushed past him to the sink out front, where she grabbed a couple of plastic vials from the garbage. “Here,” she said. “See?”

  Bill wanted to slap them out of her hands, to shove her lying face against the wall. But everyone was watching him, he could feel them. “All right,” he said, “but you ever do something like that again—” He let his voice drop, unable to think of an adequate threat.

  Right then, Mrs. Steiner came in. Bill glanced at her, then pointed a finger at Helen. “You keep away from her, you hear me?” he whispered. “I’ll wash her hair myself.”

  Helen whispered back, “I swear to you, Mr. Cohen—” But Bill had already turned to smile at Gabi Steiner.

  He was sitting her down at the sink when he heard the roar of motorcycles. It started loud and got stronger, as if a whole pack of them was about to drive right through the plate-glass window. Though Bill wanted to scream at them to shut up, no one else seemed to notice. Mrs. Steiner purred softly as Bill rubbed the shampoo into her scalp. He moved her to a seat and started to work.

  This time Bill saw it first and then the other hairdressers and customers saw it. Mrs. Steiner had taken off her glasses and closed her eyes, and only when all the gasps alerted her did she snatch her glasses from the counter to stare at herself in the mirror. Half her hair had turned green. Huge tufts of it lay on her shoulders and lap. “What have you done to me?” she shouted.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Bill said. “It must be the shampoo. A bad shampoo. Please sit down. Please. We’ll fix it.”

  “Don’t touch me,” Gabi Steiner said. When she jumped back, more hair fell to the floor. “How could you do this?” she said. “Are you insane? Don’t you know my husband’s a lawyer?”

  “We’ll fix it,” Bill said. “Please.”

  “Don’t you come near me.” Mrs. Steiner snatched her purse, quickly, as if Bill would try to grab her if she came too close reaching for it. She pulled the smock over her head like a shawl, then ran out the door.

  Bill stood in the middle of the shop and looked around the room. Everyone was staring at him, the workers, the customers—Amy and Lillian sat back with their arms folded, smiling at him. The third woman leaned forward with her fists on her knees. She didn’t smile like the others, but he could feel her eyes right through the dark glasses. “What the hell’s going on?” he said. “What’d I do? I didn’t do anything.” He picked up a pair of scissors from a table. When he looked at them in his hand, the blades had turned all green and moldy. Bill yelped and dropped the scissors. The pin must have rotted away, for the two halves fell apart when the scissors struck the floor. “I’m going home,” Bill said to no one. “I’ll come back later.”

  When he stepped outside, however, he made a noise and moved back against the building. Across the street, three women, almost identical, leaned against black motorcycles. In perfect unity, they raised their hands in front of their shoulders and began a slow, rhythmic clapping. “Oh Jesus,” Bill said. “What the hell’s going on?” He looked over his shoulder, as if he could hide in the shop. Inside, however, the three women had gotten up from their seats and were walking slowly toward the door. Lillian raised her hands like birds and brought them together in a single clap.

  He ran for his car. It took him several seconds to get his key into the lock and turn it. When he jer
ked on the handle the door swung open, but the handle itself turned green, like something that had lain for years on the damp floor of a forest. Bill got into the seat; gingerly he pulled the door shut. The inner handle stayed the same, but the outer one fell off onto the street.

  Bill glanced over his shoulder before he started the car. The women were looking in his direction, but they hadn’t moved. Bill turned on the engine and sighed when it worked, when the key didn’t turn green and fall out of the ignition. All the way home, he checked the rearview mirror every few seconds, but no one was following him. During the ten-minute ride he drove through two red lights and almost lost control on three curves.

  He didn’t bother to park in the driveway, just left the car on the lawn and ran inside. He made sure the bottom lock was on, but when he tried to close the dead bolt on top the knob turned green and came off in his hand. “Goddamn it!” Bill shouted, and threw the useless thing against the wall.

  He looked around nervously. “Janet?” he called. “Ellen?” No answer came, and Bill whistled his relief. He closed the living room drapes, then opened them a crack to let in some light. For a few seconds, he just walked around the living room. Got to relax, he told himself. Whatever they did to him, he was safe now. Get a beer, he thought. Watch TV. He went into the kitchen, wondering if Janet had found time in her busy schedule to buy some beer before she went to her goddamn club. He grabbed hold of the refrigerator door handle. It came off in his hand, a green antique that smelled of rot.