“More, like what? This here’s your home. Taking care of it and me, preparing for my baby, this is what you’re supposed to do; this is life.”
“Look at me, Henry. A scarf’s tied around my head; my fingers are thick like ankles; I can’t work my hair, can’t make braids like Momma used to. It’s hot in this tiny apartment; I sit by the window hoping for a little breeze to cool the sweat on my brow, under my armpits. My ankles have become tree trunks; I can barely get shoes on, my feet so swollen. I’ve run out of paper to write letters; I’ve read all the books you’ve brought home. I need more. I want to go to the library again, visit the store, walk out this door, meet and talk to people, feel cool air on my face.”
He turned his back to me, walked to the closet, and pulled out his shoe-cleaning materials. First he spread the oil cloth on the floor at the foot of the bed; then he took the can of black polish and gingerly placed it on the cloth. Beside the can went strips of an old undershirt he would use to apply the polish, then a short-haired brush with a dark wood handle. After removing his shoes, he began to rub the polish in slow circular motions on the tips, sides, and backs. Without looking at me, he said, “You bored, there are some men at the shop with no woman in their lives. They’d appreciate having clean, pressed shirts too. I can bring some home for you to do.”
“No!” I braced my hands on the chair and pushed my body up, leading with the baby bump. I stumbled for a moment, then finally stood as straight as I could and faced him. “I will not clean other men’s shirts!”
“No need to get riled up. You said you’re bored—I thought this would be a way for you to keep busy, that’s all. No need to fight about it.”
“Henry …” A stabbing jolt of pain in my stomach cut my voice off, and I let out a loud, “Ouch!” The room began to spin. It felt as though I were moving in slow motion. The floor came closer and closer to my face.
Henry gasped, “My baby!” He put his hands under my armpits, stopped my fall, then guided me to the bed. “Lay back.” Gently he stroked my stomach, the same way he’d been rubbing his shoes, fluffed the pillow under my head, pulled the quilt over me. “Didn’t mean to upset you. Look, this weekend I’ll take you to the library, and the store to get paper. There’s a beauty shop not far; we’ll go there, let someone else do your hair like Momma did. Forget what I said about other men’s shirts. You’re fragile—with my baby and all.”
The scent of shoe polish was something I had enjoyed when we first moved to Boston. It was almost luxurious—the oil-filled aroma that wafted into the air as Henry twisted the little hook on the side of the black can, allowing the fragrance to escape. Now, however, I felt more nauseated from the heavy odor of the polish on his fingertips as he stroked my belly than I did from the constant gurgling in my stomach. I rolled onto my side, held tight to the quilt, and tried to make the bed stop whirling beneath me.
SATURDAY MORNING I skipped around the apartment, prepared breakfast, bathed, and put on the best dress I had for walking outside. Henry on the other hand, dragged himself out of bed as though a heavy weight were pressing against his chest. I paid him no never mind. My whole body tingled, and happily it wasn’t because of an upset stomach. When he finally finished breakfast, which took him longer to eat than on any other day, I quickly cleaned the dishes, straightened the bed, put my shoes on, and sat in the chair by the window with my purse nestled in my lap. I watched him as he slowly washed up and got dressed.
I glided to the door as soon as he’d finished putting on his shoes. My hand hovered over the old glass doorknob for a moment; somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, “This is Henry’s door to open. I should remove my hand and step aside.” Then an image of Miss Parker took hold of my consciousness—I swung the door wide open. Henry let out a grunt, like one of those ugly hogs back on the farm when they were disturbed by my brother trying to clean slop out of the pigsty.
The outside air was fragrant and warm. I stood on the sidewalk, stretched my neck back to the sky, and let the sun wash over me. A slight breeze brushed against my clothing, and I took deep breaths to fill my lungs with this new air, as though I could store it up for later use. The brick rowhouses that stretched on both sides of the street looked like elegant ladies-in-waiting. I made a mental note of the convenience store on the corner, which was probably where Henry purchased paper, envelopes, and food, and counted the number of cars parked on the opposite side of the street. I imagined myself sitting in the passenger side of one, waving to women passing by. I shaded my eyes from the sun to look up at the window where occasionally I would see a small child peeking out at me as I daydreamed my hours away. Then I looked at my own window and wondered what the child thought about me—sitting alone day after day, gazing out, framed by glass, wood, and brick.
“We have an appointment at the hairdresser. If we don’t move along, we’ll be late,” Henry said.
“How far? It’s wonderful out here, Henry.”
“Not far, around the corner. Just the neighborhood, Nell; no big deal.”
“Maybe for you. For me it’s a universe to explore, people to observe, so much to see.”
“Stay close to me. It’s not a place for my woman to be alone—ever.” He grabbed my arm and quickened his pace. It was only when we arrived at the hairdresser that he let go to usher me inside.
Virginia’s was the name stenciled on the glass window of the beauty salon. We were greeted by a large woman with straightened black hair tied in a tight bun on the top of her head, wearing a pink blouse over a straight black skirt. “Hello, help you?” She looked at us in a friendly yet guarded way.
“I made an appointment for my wife, Nell. She needs her hair done.”
The woman looked me up and down as if I were a new farm animal that she was deciding whether or not to purchase. I suddenly became aware of my old dress, ugly shoes, scarf tied around my head to hide my unkempt hair. Then I looked at the other women in the shop. Their faces were smooth and dazzling; eyeliner and eye shadow shimmered against their skin, catching the light as they chatted; ruby-red lipstick perfectly traced full elegant lips; their nails were long and shiny with polish, making their fingers look as though they belonged on an ivory keyboard tapping tunes. Their clothes were as colorful as their makeup and as stylish as the hairdos being pulled apart and put back together by the salon women expertly working away. I stared at the ground and felt my cheeks burn. I wanted to back out, walk away with Henry, but he stepped forward and said, “Do the best you can.”
The woman made a “humph” sound, rolled her eyes at Henry, took my shoulders, and said, “Let me get a good look at your face and hair.” She moved my head from side to side and undid the scarf, then tried to fluff up my braids. What had once been curled bangs on my forehead had become a mass of tight, coarse strands sticking out every which way. I tried to smooth the bangs down, but the hair sprang out again as if it had a mind of its own. “You sit right over here; I’ll bring out your beauty in no time at all. I’m Virginia—friends call me Ginny.”
Henry moved toward one of the empty chairs in front of a table where magazines were nestled in a fan-like pattern, but as he got ready to lower himself, the women stopped what they were doing, turned, and looked at him. Their eyes bore down on him as if he were a target with their eyes the missiles, locked onto him. He stopped before his bottom touched the chair, looked around at the women, and decided to leave, saying, “Well, guess I’ll be back later to pick up my wife, Ginny.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ginny said. “It’ll be about an hour or two—and the name’s Virginia.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said, and he walked away, twiddling his hat.
“What’s your name again, hon?” Ginny asked.
“Nell Bight.”
“Live in the neighborhood?”
“Yes. Moved here a few months back.”
“Where’s your family from?”
“Louisiana, a small farm in a small town.”
“What brought you
all the way to Boston?”
“Got married. Henry has family here.”
“Are they in the neighborhood?”
“Don’t know. I haven’t met them.”
“Well, like I said, I’m Ginny. This here’s Mabel, that’s Josie. This is my place, and they’ve been working here since I opened over ten years ago.” She pointed to the two stylists, who nodded but kept focused on their customers.
Ginny undid my braids and tried to get a comb through my tangled mass of hair, then gave up and used her fingers to separate the knots as best she could. She smoothed my hair down with her palms, pulling it back off my forehead so the widow’s peak in my hairline was prominent. “That’s a nice feature, you shouldn’t hide it under bangs. Ever have your hair straightened?”
“No. Momma said I was too young, that braids were all I needed.”
“What’d you want?”
“I don’t know, I never thought about it.”
“What about your husband?”
“Don’t think my hair matters much to him.”
“Here’s what I’m gonna do—cut your hair into a nice shape, straighten it with this hot iron, get rid of the braids, and give you a wet set. Then you’ll sit under the hairdryer, and then I’ll finish up with a new fashionable style. Okay?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
I settled into the large black chair, the pink cloth that Ginny tied at the back of my neck covering my whole upper body, so that only my head stuck out. It was as though the rest of me had suddenly disappeared. The reflection of Ginny in the mirror over my left shoulder; the sound of Josie and Mabel chatting about their everyday goings-on; the scent of grease and burning hair singed by the hot straightening iron—all these brought me back home. My eyes drifted shut, and I could see myself sitting on the floor between Momma’s legs, my hair loose and sticking out like a ball of wool. Momma would use her fingers to part the hair and apply grease to my scalp. She’d begin to braid, starting in the back and working her way to the top of my head. I would hear my brothers’ wives in the kitchen humming while doing their chores; Momma would tell me, “Sit still,” as I fidgeted whenever she pulled on a particularly tight knot. The scent of our summer garden would float in through the window, promising fresh vegetables for the dinner table and provisions of canned foods for the winter months.
Suddenly I could feel Ginny shaking my shoulder. She was saying, “Nell, you okay?” My chin was slumped down, my face soaked with tears, my nose running something awful. I looked at myself in the mirror and let out a gut-wrenching wail: “I want my Momma! I want to go home!” I grabbed a hold of Ginny’s arm, buried my face in her warm thick flesh, and sobbed uncontrollably.
She rubbed my shoulder, made a shush sound, and said, “You just need to let it all out. See this all the time. Young ones like you, move up here from the South to the big city, only to end up lonely and homesick. It’ll pass, you’ll find your way.” She rocked me from side to side and patted my shoulder until I calmed down.
“Ginny, I’ve bottled up this loneliness for so long. It’s like a weed growing all over my body. I barely know who I am, what I’m supposed to do. I’m scared most of the time. No one to talk to or be with, baby on the way, all by myself. I need my family something bad.”
“We’ll be your new family. This here’s a place for women; we look out for each other, understand?”
“Gonna be sick!” I covered my mouth with one hand, clutched my stomach with the other, and hopped out of the chair.
“Over there,” Ginny said, pointing to the bathroom.
“Think it’s morning sickness?” Josie asked.
“I’d say it’s husband sickness. Did you see how he treated her? Poor thing, just a baby herself,” Mabel remarked.
Ginny said, “My guess—it’s both.”
I slammed the bathroom door shut, propped myself up at the sink, and waited. I could feel hot blood coursing through my veins, forcing its way to my fingertips, causing them to expand and contract, getting bigger and thicker. My shoulders sagged against my heavy breathing; it felt as though my stomach were being pushed against my spine as it twisted in torturous pain. Sweat rolled down my forehead; throbbing blood vessels caused my arms to bend in muscle spasms until I looked like a sumo wrestler poised for attack. But I had no energy or willpower to move. The hollowness filling my heart and the strange life consuming my belly were on the verge of forcing me to throw up my breakfast. I hung my head in the toilet.
When the spasms stopped, I stood in front of the door, rocking back and forth and rolling on my ankles like a little doll perched on top of a car dashboard. I didn’t want to go out and face the women.
Ginny tapped on the door and said, “Nell, you coming out?”
I took several deep breaths, wiped my face with a paper towel, closed my eyes tight, and saw an image of Daddy and Momma. The thought of them almost made me let out another sob; then Miss Parker came into view, and I took another deep breath and said, “Be right there.” Once in the outer room I sat back down and looked at the floor. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Must be the baby.”
“No need for sorry, it happens. I’ve got to get to work, though. Your husband’ll back anytime, and I’m gonna have you looking beautiful.”
I settled back in the chair and let Ginny do whatever she wanted to my hair. When she placed me under the hairdryer with tightly rolled curlers tugging my scalp, I welcomed the noise of the dryer, which drowned out all sounds in the room; it was peaceful, having the hot air circle my head and watching the women in conversations I couldn’t hear. Thirty minutes later, I was back in the chair for Ginny’s final styling. She turned me away from the mirror while she worked, saying she wanted to surprise me.
Finally she turned me to face the mirror. I didn’t know who I was looking at. The woman in the mirror resembled me, but her hair was styled in a modern way, like the pictures of women in magazines. I turned my head from side to side, touched the waves on the top of my head that led to fancy curls alongside each ear. My hair was smooth, shiny, and so straight. Ginny gave me a hand mirror so I could see the back. There were even more waves going down my neck.
“Ginny!”
“Like it?”
“I don’t recognize me.”
“One more thing.” She took out a makeup case and dabbed rouge on my cheeks and lips. “There, you’re lovely.”
Josie said, “Beautiful’s more like it.”
“Amazing what we find under braids and kink,” Mabel added.
My neck began to turn red; tender heat traveled up all the way to the tip of my ears. “Thank you,” I whispered.
When Henry walked in he looked right at me but didn’t seem to actually see me.
“Henry,” I said. “What do you think?”
For a brief moment his eyes reminded me of the eyes that had peered into mine during the romance-filled afternoons and evenings of our courtship. Those eyes had held the reflection of fields, wide blue skies, a promise of a love-filled future. Suddenly, as if a curtain had closed, his eyes became dark and cold, like a tin of shoe polish. He looked at my hair and said, “Braids gone? I liked your braids. I thought you were having them redone, not cut off.”
Ginny, Josie and Mabel stared at him.
He glanced at them, then turned to me and said, “Looks good. We need to go.”
As he pushed me out the door, Ginny yelled, “Henry, Nell will need to come back on a regular basis, for the upkeep of her hair.”
Over his shoulder he said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Which way’s the library?” I asked when we got outside.
“Too late for that.”
“Why?”
“Hair took longer than I thought. No time now.”
“Henry, you promised!”
“Another time. Let’s go home.”
“No.”
Henry stopped and glared at me. I stared back and saw my reflection in the window behind him. I didn’t recognize the woman looking
back at me; she appeared much older than I felt, more sophisticated too. “I really want to go,” I said in a soothing voice. “It’ll make me feel better. My stomach got a little upset in the beauty shop, and I got a headache too.”
“My baby okay?” He reached out to rub the little baby bump.
“Yes. Fresh air feels good; it settles me. And you know how happy books make me.”
“Okay, let’s go, but we won’t stay long.” He didn’t look me in the eye as he spoke, just kept rubbing my belly.
The library was a few blocks from Ginny’s shop. I made a mental note of how to get from our apartment to Ginny’s and then to the library.
The massive stairs leading to the library door were filled with young people reading or chatting with one another, as though the steps were benches inviting those passing by to sit for a spell. Across the street was a large tree-lined park, the flower gardens filled with tulips and daffodils in full bloom. People were lounging on park benches, stretched out on the grass, playing with dogs, or simply enjoying an afternoon nap. It reminded me of the church picnics we enjoyed after the baptism ceremonies at the river. Everyone would gather to celebrate a young one embracing the Lord with food, laughter, and thankfulness. I caught myself nearly turning to join the strangers who, at that moment, felt more like family than the man at my side; instead, I walked inside with Henry.
The deep, musky aroma in the library filled my nostrils; I stood still, closed my eyes, and let the scent drift down to my lungs. When I opened my eyes, the lady at the counter was looking at me, a slight smile at her lips. Henry said, “I’ll be over there while you get some books. Don’t be long.” I went to my corner, the same spot I had visited the first time, alongside the window with the rows of study desks. All the spots were taken, so I walked up and down the aisles, running my fingers against the spine of books and randomly deciding which ones to take based on how the material felt against my hand.
Henry had dozed off in the chair. I went to the counter to ask the lady a question: “Is there a children’s section here?”
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