The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Connie Nall is excellent at what she does. She knows it, and Slater knows it, and so do the farmers’ wives who live farther afield, in parts of east Kansas even more rural than this. She overbooks herself, but it’s not my place to say so. I’m only the receptionist, and Connie did me a big favor by taking me on when business at the salon was good but not good enough to warrant my part-time position. She did it, I know, because I was the Girl with No Mother.

  Now, three years later, I sometimes feel I’m the one doing Connie the favor. I am the one who answers phone calls and welcomes clients and checks the books and keeps everyone in the bustling salon well informed. I know Connie’s business—its revenue and traffic and reputation—even better than she does.

  There are two other beauticians at the salon, Carol and Sibyl, and they keep busy with their own specialties. Connie is the main event, though; she is always booked a month out. More than booked, because she is constantly squeezing in appointments behind my back. I know when she has, too, because she assumes a high-pitched titter and says, singsong, “Stella Kaaay?” like a drawn-out question. Then she will tell me she’s agreed to do “the quickest of trims” for her good friend Marie, and it will only take two shakes. In reality it takes upward of twenty shakes, because Connie and Marie inevitably get to talking about Marie’s divorce, and meanwhile Connie’s officially booked one o’clock must wait a full hour past her appointed time.

  It has become a real problem. Many of our clients drive more than thirty miles to see Connie. To make the trip worth their while, they stop by the other stores on Vine Street, like Mike’s Hardware and Belmont Electronics, or one of the several boutiques. An hour spent waiting inside the salon—cheery though it may be—is wasted time, and these women have limited minutes to spare before they must pick up their children from school and put dinner on the table. I could tell them it will be another fifteen minutes, so they can leave the salon and peruse the store next door, but you never know with Connie. Sometimes it is fifteen minutes, and sometimes it is three, or thirty. This is why I am working on a secret project. Though it’s not perfected yet, I am certain it will help.

  This Monday morning, the salon is bustling, each of our three beauticians occupied with various stages of shampooing, trimming, and drying. Beneath it all is Donna Summer’s hypnotic voice on the radio, singing “I Feel Love.” Two clients are already waiting at the front of the shop when another opens the door, letting in the winds that have yet to die down, and walks toward me with purpose. It’s Betty Hume—the woman who looked after me and Craig and Jill on the day they found my mother’s body. Mrs. Hume is the head of First Baptist’s hospitality community. She was also my mother’s closest friend. For a long time she tried to help my family out. She brought casseroles to the house and picked up me and Craig from school and looked after us in the afternoons. She wasn’t the only one, either. Many of the ladies from First Baptist were attentive during the fallout of my mother’s death. But then we Mercers stopped attending church, and my father began to work longer shifts, and one night in late February he got into an argument with Mrs. Hume at the grocery store. He yelled at her and called her a gossiping harpy, and after that Mrs. Hume stopped visiting. It was then we became loners in earnest.

  I still see Mrs. Hume around on occasion. Slater is a small town, so run-ins are inevitable. She comes to the salon four times a year. Today, it seems, is one of her quarterly appointments.

  She looks down at me, pleasant-faced and smelling strongly of White Shoulders perfume. I wish she wouldn’t look that pleasant. I wish she would frown, because I am certain that’s what she does on the inside whenever she sees one of us Mercers. I feel certain I remind her of that fight with my father and, worse than that, my mother’s death.

  “Hello there, Stella Kay.”

  I close the book I’ve been reading—The Cosmic Connection.

  Mrs. Hume taps a nail on the desk. “Connie ready for me yet?”

  “With another client,” I say ruefully, as though this is an unprecedented event. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Hmm? Oh no.”

  Mrs. Hume’s smile is weaker than it was before. She bites her lip, leaving behind a blotch of fuchsia on her front tooth. Then she takes a seat, opens her purse, and pulls out a compact mirror. It is as though she can sense something amiss on her teeth, because moments later she’s spotted the issue and blotted the lipstick away with a handkerchief. Then she gets to primping her windblown hair.

  As I reopen my Carl Sagan, Mrs. Hume strikes up a conversation with the woman sitting next to her. I half listen as I read a chapter entitled “Has the Earth Been Visited?” Their conversation is predictable enough; I’ve heard every possible variation of small talk during my years at the front desk. It begins with the weather—“windy enough to topple a person over, I declare”—and proceeds to polite politics—“good idea to have a department devoted to the crisis, though we can only hope bureaucracy won’t get in the way”—and on to more personal inquiries—“Molly’s in junior high this year, is that right?” It’s nothing of note, which leaves me to ponder the possibilities of extraterrestrial life until something Mrs. Hume says pricks my ear.

  “. . . took her to the vet this morning, but he said she’s in tip-top shape.”

  I close my thumb in the book and look up. The women don’t notice my interest in the conversation, which is how I prefer it.

  “. . . sorry to hear that,” the other woman is saying. “But that’s good news, isn’t it? That nothing’s seriously wrong.”

  “I suppose. Dr. Briggs said he’d seen three other dog owners in the past day, complaining of the very same thing. His theory is that it’s anxiety. From the weather. Can you imagine? Anxiety—my Daisy!”

  “Nonsense. Terriers are a steady breed. Really, Betty, you ought to find yourself a better veterinarian. I’ll give you the number of ours; he’s in Wichita, mind, but I assure you, it’s well worth the drive. None of this quackery about animal anxiety.”

  Mrs. Hume releases a heavy sigh. “You know, Lisa, every new day I live is further confirmation this world is spinning out of control. So much death and suffering and catastrophe, and it’s only increasing.”

  “I fear for our children,” says Lisa, with an all-knowing head bob. “This new generation going absolutely wild, and the drugs, and this lax view on—well, you know, those Red Sun people, it’s—sometimes I can’t believe that place exists right here, in Slater. California, I’d expect it. Here, though . . .”

  Mrs. Hume smiles. “I don’t know. They’re not aliens. They’re people living their lives as best they can, same as us.”

  I am back to staring at my Carl Sagan, heat wicking up my face. I feel the women’s gazes on me. They are thinking about Craig, I am sure of it. They’re thinking of my runaway brother, a prime example of this new, wild generation.

  I stare hard at the text—so hard that the words blur.

  “Come quickly, Lord Jesus,” says Lisa. “That’s all I can say.”

  The store bell jingles. I glance up, vision fuzzy. Another client has arrived, bringing the wind in with her.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Spieth.” I look over our sign-in book and come up frowning. “When was your appointment?”

  “Oh, don’t have one.” Mrs. Spieth gives me a confidential wink under a set of long, fake lashes. “Connie said she could pop me in at ten thirty.”

  I cast a wary look at Connie, who has only just brought her nine o’ clock back from the washing basins and of course isn’t anywhere near Mrs. Hume, her ten fifteen.

  I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s a typical day at Vine Street.

  It’s This Stella’s life.

  That Stella might be eagerly preparing for a fall semester of engineering courses, but This Stella must deal with impatient customers at Vine Street Salon, and the sooner This Stella finishes her secret project, the better.

  • • •

  I keep the project in a wicker bin under my bed. I don’t
hide it because I am ashamed of what’s inside; I just don’t want Dad or Jill to see and ask questions. It’s only a project, and my projects lead either nowhere or to unremarkable somewheres. It’s nothing worth bringing up at the dinner table.

  I’ve been working on this project since the start of summer. It’s more a matter of mechanics than math—my bare hands and wires and a strong desk lamp—but it’s been slow going, because the kind of walkie-talkies I’m using cost money. The good thing is that I’ve worked out the most difficult part. Now it’s a mere matter of repeating the process and bettering the aesthetic; if we’re going to use this invention at the salon, it will need to look appealing.

  Today, when I arrive home from Vine Street, I get straight to work. I lock my bedroom door, pull out the wicker bin, and heave it onto my desk. I flip over the hollowed platform I constructed in the garage back in June with Dad’s tools and spare wood I begged off Mike at Mike’s Hardware. A maze of circuitry lies before me. Only to me it isn’t a maze. It’s a well-mapped city, made up of freeways and side roads and important buildings, each with a purpose. These days I am in the business of connecting cities and prettying them up. It’s work that requires concentration, though not so much that I wear myself out. Instead I lose myself here, drifting into a comfortable haze of quick-working fingers and the sound of Elton John’s Goodbye Yellow Brick Road album coming from Dad’s old record player. I don’t even check the time until there’s a knock at the door, at which point I switch off the volume and say, “Yep?”

  “It starts in five minutes!”

  By “it” Jill means NBC Nightly News.

  If it is time for the news, that means it’s almost five thirty, which means I’m late putting our TV dinners in the oven. I check my watch, confirm my suspicion, and say, “Darn.”

  “What?” calls Jill.

  “Nothing.” I am already tucking the wicker bin beneath my bed.

  There’s a rattle at the door. Jill is trying the handle, which is of course locked.

  “Stella,” she whines. “Why can’t I come in?”

  “I told you before, I’m working on something.”

  “Why can’t I see?”

  “Because you’re a kid, and you don’t get to see everything.”

  I tug the canary-yellow bed skirt down to completely conceal the bin. Even when I’m out of the room, I have to lock the door. Jill is a confirmed snoop, though she prefers the term “sleuth.”

  It’s as I’m kneeling, hiding away the last trace of my project, that I hear a heavy, shifting sound, and then a thwock. I jolt up my head, certain at first that Jill has managed to pick my lock. The door is shut, though; it’s my window that’s open. The wind has pushed so hard against the latch that the double panes have blown apart, and the breeze is now having its way with the contents of my desk. It stirs around the papers there, scooping them up with invisible hands and flipping them this way and that.

  “No,” I say.

  Those papers are private. They are important, even sacred. They are drawings for me and only me to see. I scramble to my feet and grab at them, one by one, until they’re all in my keeping. I shove them into a safe place, half beneath the quilt on my bed. Then I turn my attention to the window and, after a struggle, latch it shut.

  My effort is only effective for a half second. The moment I step away from the desk, the wind blows the panes open once more, and the stacked papers rustle nervously on my bed. I realize that there’s no use for it. I need to formulate another solution.

  Hastily I take the papers from my bed and return to the desk, opening its top drawer. From a reused tuna can I fish out a handful of tacks, and then, with resolve, I begin to pin the papers to the wall, arranging them carefully and securely.

  The doorknob jiggles. “Stella. What’s going on in there?”

  “None of your business!” I shout, pushing the last of the tacks into place.

  I take a step back, observing my handiwork. Two images grace the wall over my desk—hand-drawn blueprints. I had forgotten that these papers were on my desk, resting idle there for months. There is something right about this new arrangement, though. Something fitting. These papers are where they ought to be, invincible against the strong breeze blowing through the open window

  I’ve only so much time to admire my work before Jill calls out, “Stell-a. The news is starting!”

  I open the door wide onto Jill’s consternated face. Her nose is wrinkled higher than a nose ought to go. I pay no mind, acting as though nothing is out of the ordinary.

  “Come on, you goof.” I poke her right cheek. “Let’s go be informed citizens.”

  Then I shut the door, leaving the wind at my back.

  • • •

  Weekday nights at the Dreamlight are far less hectic than weekends. Mr. Cavallo only runs weekdays during the summer, and now that August is upon us, there are only a couple of weeks left in the line-up before school begins and local teenagers are much too busy with band practice and tryouts and homework to spend a lazy Monday evening doing their best Chewbacca impressions. For now, business remains good, even though it’s our second night of hard wind and a rippling screen. Mr. Cavallo’s response to the complaints is simple enough: “You pay for an outdoor movie, you pay for the outdoor.” No one’s angry enough to ask for a refund, though.

  Kim and I are through serving the brunt of customers after only twenty minutes, and since the movie hasn’t started and Kim has not yet been summoned for sex patrol, the two of us sit side by side, cross-legged, on the back counter. I am certain this is a health-code violation, but what Mr. Cavallo doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

  “You should come by the Exchange,” Kim tells me. “There’s this new band I want you to hear. Australian. Cost a fortune to import the album. They’re called Radio Birdman. Heard of ’em?”

  I give Kim an incredulous look. “I hear of my bands through you. If not, I get my bands judged by you.”

  “I said you’re allowed to dig Elton John if you must.”

  “I’ll come by sometime. Next week at the latest.”

  “Great. Though, fair warning, they’re of the punk variety.”

  It is no secret between us that I don’t care for Kim’s punk music. To me, every song is the same three chords again and again, shouted over by hoarse-throated boys. However, Kim does have good taste in many other respects. She introduced me to Queen, and that is no small service.

  “Hello? Excuse me?”

  There is someone at the window, though I can barely see her. She cannot be older than Jill, and she is much shorter.

  “Hey!” she calls again, jumping so her pigtailed head is visible over the counter. “Hey, someone! There’s a problem in the girls’ bathroom.”

  Kim cusses. I feel like cussing myself—not that I ever would. I get down from the counter and lean out the window, into the brisk wind.

  “What kind of problem?” I ask the girl.

  “The toilet’s stopped up. Someone went major number two!”

  Kim swears again, this time close at my ear. She rams her elbow into my side and says, “You heard her. Girls’ bathroom, and you’re a girl.”

  I do not point out to Kim that she, too, is a girl and equally capable of addressing this crisis. She has the unenviable task of sex patrol, while I stay comfortably inside the hut. I feel I owe this to her.

  “Okay,” I tell the girl. “I’ll take care of it.”

  I slam shut my window and flip the laminated sign there to the side that reads CLOSED. Then I open the flimsy particleboard sink cabinet and take out a pair of elbow-length yellow gloves and a bottle of Clorox. We keep a plunger in the bathroom itself, though clearly no one has the decency to use it.

  “Good luck,” Kim tells me on my way out.

  I am not hopeful.

  I take my time approaching the restrooms, which luckily are not crowded. Most of the regulars know to use their own toilet before coming out here, and hold it until they get home. These facilities have
not been updated since the early sixties. No matter how hot or dry it is outside, they are perpetually dank, musty swamps of concrete and chipped orange tile.

  As I near the door marked LADIES, the wind picks up in a sudden change of direction and blows my way. On it is a hard, definite scent, skunklike and sweet.

  Marijuana.

  I stop in my tracks. Mr. Cavallo has a strict policy against pot use, and most everyone knows that. No one is foolish enough to light up on the drive-in lot itself. But here, on the outskirts, near the edge of cornfield territory yet close enough to see the movie screen—every so often we get some delinquents. It is Mr. Cavallo who catches them and scares them off, though. I’ve never encountered them myself.

  I stand immobile, uncertain, my feet pointed toward the restrooms but my head cocked toward the flat, shadowy farmland that sprawls beyond me. The concessions hut’s sizzling fluorescents shed enough light for me to make out the silhouettes of two figures sitting several yards off.

  I could ignore it. No one would know. Mr. Cavallo will most likely find them later, when he makes his rounds.

  I am thinking of that little girl, though, who will no doubt be back at the restrooms within the hour. I don’t like the thought of her smelling the pot, or possibly stumbling upon the smokers. I keep picturing that girl as Jill.

  I adjust the direction of my feet. I walk, resolutely, toward the scent and the silhouettes.

  As I draw closer, I clutch the bottle of Clorox tight, like it is a weapon. It could be, I suppose, if it comes down to that. I stop for a moment, unscrew the cap, and tuck it in my back pocket.

  The shadows have not noticed me. One of them is leaning back, into the tall grass, and releasing a long exhalation, which winds upward in a lazy curl toward the sky above—light gray on smoky blue. I’ve come within a yard of them, still unnoticed. They are talking in low voices—male voices. One of them is laughing when I clear my throat, take one step nearer, and ask, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  7