Leaving Eden (12 page)

When he left for the mill, he mussed up my hair, like I was five. He was still whistling when he went out the door. To erase the notes from my head, I cranked up the radio. They were playing an Elvis tune. “Blue Hawaii.” Which of course made me think of my mama. Mama never was convinced Elvis had actually died. His name was misspelled on the tombstone at Grace-land, she said, and that was a sign intended to show it wasn’t really him buried there. Lord, but she pure adored Elvis. I remembered the time by the creek when she’d told Martha Lee that Elvis could put his boots under her bed any night. He and Sam Shepard, even if Sam wasn’t handsome in the traditional way. Mama said Sam Shepard looked like he could carry on a conversation without having to circle around to repeat himself. I thought this revealed Mama’s imagination. Then I wondered how you could have feelings of desire for more than one person. I thought that would get complicated.

After I finished with the dishes, I took a shower. Even though they wouldn’t show in the picture, I shaved my legs and coated them with lotion. From time to time, in spite of the radio blasting from the kitchen, Daddy’s old blues tune took up residence in my head, making me edgy, but then the excitement about the
Glamour Day
pushed it aside.

I hadn’t said one word to Daddy about the picture. I wanted to surprise him. I could imagine how proud he’d be when he saw me
transformed
. I was thinking, too, that when he saw I could be pretty, like Mama, maybe he’d want to pay more attention to me.

When I was finally ready, I was so excited, I could have run the whole way to the Kurl. Last thing before I left, I went to the kitchen, switched off the radio, and reached up for Mama’s silver syrup pitcher. Before I even lifted the lid, I knew the money was gone, and then I understood why Daddy’d been whistling and looking so guilty. I didn’t waste one minute attempting to deny the hard proof that lay right before my eyes. Of all the bad times in my life, all the disappointments and losses, this about matched the day they buried Mama. But, just like then, I didn’t cry.

It took a while to get settled. I had to sit down and close my eyes and rock. Back and forth, back and forth, holding tight to the dark place, holding tight till I could get steady.

Tallie’s Book

Not one person alive lives a perfect life.

Keep your eyes open for the unexpected.

Never count on anything.

ten

Maybe you’d think I would be mad at my daddy, that it would be what that head doctor called proper affect, but I didn’t waste the time. It made about as much sense getting mad at him as at Old Straw for chasing squirrels. He stole from me, but nothing but three dollars of that money was ever mine anyway. Him taking the money was no worse than me stealing it from Martha Lee. We both were just going after something we desired. Seems like that was what everyone was doing. Everyone, Daddy and me included, was just going around trying to satisfy cravings held inside. It explained why Martha Lee ate chocolate doughnuts and Goody went to Florida. It was why Mama married Daddy. It was why she went off to Hollywood. It was why I stood naked as a newborn and let Spy travel his eyes all over my body.

Besides, I had too much on my mind to be occupied with being mad. All the time I was riding the Raleigh to the Kurl, I was busy asking for a miracle. Even when she was real sick, Mama said it never hurt to ask for one. She said documentation existed proving miracles happened all the time. Blind people regaining their sight. Crippled people walking. Wishes being granted. Mama believed that life was full of miracles. She said when you thought about it, a baby being born should be proof enough for anyone. I wasn’t asking for something big, like curing cancer. I was asking to be able to be transformed.

Raylene wasn’t open when I got to the Kurl, but there were ladies already standing outside, crowding at the door like it was half-price sale at the Dollar Days. Inside, the
Glamour Day
people were already setting up. The team of trained professionals were actually two women, both bottle blondes and wearing identical pink suits with
Glamour Day
spelled out in purple stitching on the pocket, and high-heeled shoes that Mama would say were killer. I thought the company could have taken more care with the people they sent out if they wanted us to believe they were capable of causing transformations. The large one—Mama always said never to call someone fat; she said “large” is a good word to use for a big lady—the large one was setting up her equipment at one of the comb-out chairs. She unloaded this square purple suitcase that was full of makeup and held about a hundred lipsticks and jars and jars of other stuff and a big bag full of throwaway sponges.

The skinny one was out front rearranging the chairs and magazine table to make room for the camera. She had this black folding screen set up with a chair placed in front of it, where she’d take the pictures. Off to the side was this full-sized, chrome coatrack, the kind you see at restaurants, and it was jammed with so many clothes, there wasn’t room to fit one more item. Feather boas in every bold color you could imagine. Dozens of sequined halters in red and green and purple and gold, hanging like racing silks at the Derby. Velvet tube tops and stretchy tight ones. Satin blouses with low necks. (The picture only showed you from the neck up.) Leather jackets in a dozen shades, some with fringe attached to the sleeves. On the shelf over the rack there were hats. Cowboy hats and berets and a couple with wide brims and veils. There were elbow-length gloves in a variety of colors, and a compartmentalized container that looked like an oversized tackle box that was crammed with jewelry. Big rings with fake stones and rhinestone bracelets, wide slave bracelets, and dangling earrings that fell near to your shoulders. I saw a pearl choker. And some flapper girl headbands. Even a tiara.

Finally everything was ready. When Raylene unlocked the door, the ladies pushed in, shoving like the first one got a prize. As I said, there was usually a lot of talk in the Kurl, but I swear you could hear the babble of voices clear down to the old depot. They were acting like high school girls crowding around the girls’ room mirror at a school dance. They were making jokes about men and sex. I couldn’t remember seeing grown-up women act this way, except for Mama and Martha Lee.

Even though she wasn’t the top name on the list, everyone insisted that Miss Tilly was first. While Raylene was doing her hair, the others started pawing through the clothes, talking about what they were going to choose when it was their turn, until the skinny woman had to calm them down. When Raylene had Miss Tilly washed and was doing the roll-up, I began on Ellie Sue Rucker, whose stomach was sticking out so far, I was just hoping she didn’t give birth while I was shampooing. The miracle of birth wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I’d been praying. Lorena was shampooing at the other sink, and we were so busy, she didn’t have time to even think of looking at suds and telling fortunes. We had an assembly line going. Pretty soon every station had a lady sitting in the chair. One got shampooed, another got a set, or a blow-dry with a touch of the curling wand. One lady sat in front of the mirror and let the large blonde pile on the makeup, while another one was posing in front of the camera, dressed from the waist up in the most beguiling getup she could conceive. The rhinestones and elbow-length gloves were proving popular.

Miss Tilly was the first one to get done. At her age, she had more pink scalp than hair, but Raylene ratted every strand of what she did have and arranged it in little curls around her face, then lacquered the whole job, spraying on so much, you’d need a chisel to set it free. At the makeup table, the large woman was wielding a fat brush just like the highly trained professional the company said she was. “We want everything going up,” she said while she flicked blusher on Miss Tilly’s cheeks. “Gravity drags us down.” By the time Miss Tilly was ready for the photo part, everyone wanted to help her pick out the clothes. I still couldn’t imagine why she wanted her photo taken, but she was acting as silly as the rest. Everyone had an opinion, but she finally decided on a deep blue velvet blouse. Someone, I think it was Bitty Weatherspoon, fastened this band of blue velvet at her neck and pretty soon every inch of her crepey skin was covered in velvet. She sat carefully in front of that black screen, like she’d suddenly become glass, and I had to admit she looked sort of regal. You got to pick five outfits and the skinny blonde took your picture in every one, but Miss Tilly was so pleased with the velvet, she only changed jewelry.

Pretty soon it was so noisy, you couldn’t hear the radio if it’d been cranked on full. Willa Jenkins arrived, dragging her two friends along, and the three of them were all gussied up, calling each other
sistah
, and acting like they were the Pointer Sisters. They were naturals at this glamour business, and people began asking their advice. Like should they wear the satin or the sequins for the last shot. Even Mary Lou acted like they were regulars at the Kurl. The Glamour ladies had long since stripped off their pink jackets. Their faces wore pinched looks, like their feet hurt. I could have told them they should have brought other shoes. By noon, the place was packed with overly made-up women, glittering and giggly. It looked like outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion before the Academy Awards. Even the ones who’d already had their picture taken weren’t leaving. They were crowding around the clothes rack and making suggestions for the next person in line. You could almost touch the excitement. Like in school the last day before vacation. Or on the Fourth of July, that exact moment you heard the tubas, just before the Sparkettes came into view, leading the Eden Marching Band.

Raylene was outdoing herself in the coiffeur department, ratting and lacquering up a storm. I was running my feet off, shampooing and throwing in load after load of laundry, and all the while hoping for a miracle. Hoping someone would come along and hand me a twenty-dollar bill.

I was finishing up on Aubrey Boles, rinsing conditioner out of her too-black hair, and Raylene was working on Etta Bird’s hair, right in the middle of swirling it into an updo, an early Grace Kelly style that to this day remains popular in Eden, when the door opened and everyone stopped talking. The sound
whished
right out of the Kurl like air from a punctured Goodyear. I looked up and although I believed my lifetime capacity for surprise had long been exhausted, I was so astonished at what was right in front of my eyes, I stopped dead in the middle of Aubrey’s rinse. Martha Lee was standing at the door, feet rooted on the pink and black linoleum.

“Why, Martha Lee, honey,” Raylene said, polite and composed as if Martha Lee showed up every day. “You come right in and grab yourself a seat. We’re kind of busy here, but I’ll be with you in a sec.”

For a minute, standing on the foreign territory of the Kurl, Martha Lee got this panicky look on her face, then she bucked up, as Daddy would say, and stood her ground. She didn’t once look my way. “I came for that,” she said, and pointed to the easel holding the framed photo of the blonde. Raylene finished spraying lacquer on Etta’s French twist, then crossed to the desk and made a show of checking the sign-up sheet.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said to Martha Lee. “The schedule is jam-packed full. You needed to sign up before this.”

Martha Lee swallowed so hard, I swear I could hear it over the sound of the dryers, which were the only things making noise. For once, everyone’s mouth was shut tighter than a tick. “Please,” she said. “Isn’t there something? I’ll wait.”

This was not Martha Lee talking. The Martha Lee I knew would be hightailing it out of there the first time Raylene called her honey. The Martha Lee I knew wouldn’t be caught dead at the Kurl in the first place. This was a person acting like she’d been taken over by ETs. Oh, Mama, I was thinking, if you could only see this. Martha Lee was still trying to talk Raylene into adding her to the list and Raylene was saying, sorry, honey, but the schedule is filled and there’s not one thing I can do about it, and Martha Lee was persisting and I couldn’t understand her determination or what reason she had for coming in. I wished she’d just get out of there before she saw Ashley Wheeler smirking behind her back, and it was all I could do to keep from slapping Ashley ’cause she hadn’t had to spend one day in her entire life wondering what it would be like to be born plain. Then I thought about Martha Lee teaching me to drive and I heard Mama in my head telling me what to do, and going along with Mama’s voice was my own, and it was telling me I wasn’t getting any miracle, but Martha Lee could have hers since that was what—for whatever reason—she was determined to have. I left Aubrey Boles dripping in the sink and marched over to the front desk.

“Raylene,” I said. “Martha Lee can have my spot.”

Raylene gave me a hard look. “You sure about that, Tallie?”

“I’m sure,” I said, though a part of me was half counting on Martha Lee refusing my offer. But Martha Lee, who had been listening to me steady for two weeks going on about nothing but the
Glamour Day
, Martha Lee who didn’t know I’d lost the money for it, Martha Lee didn’t even pretend I should keep my appointment. She took my spot like it was possible for me to have a
Glamour Day
every week of my life, like it was nothing special for me even though she’d have to have gone deaf as a post not to have heard me say I was counting on it. She went over to the waiting chairs and buried her face in an old copy of
Hair
Style
. She was still wearing her goddamn gardening boots and looked as out of place as it was possible for a person to look and still manage to take a breath. Still, mad as I was at Martha Lee, I knew if Ashley said one mean thing or rolled her eyes one more time, I’d slap her.

“You’re a good girl,” Raylene said. Even though I knew she believed that because she couldn’t see the truth of my trashy, stealing self, I liked hearing it. “Your mama’d be proud,” she said.

Soon everything got back to normal. We hadn’t stopped for lunch, and around two, Raylene surprised everyone by taking money out of the cash box and sending for pizza. When it was time for Martha Lee’s shampoo, I was busy with Sue Beth Wilkins and Lenora got to do her, which made me just as glad. It would feel funny to have my hands on Martha Lee’s head. Lenora had to show Martha Lee how to sit in the shampoo chair, and I could tell my mama’s best friend was embarrassed, but she’d gotten herself into this, and I wasn’t doing anything to get her out. I was rinsing Sue Beth, when Lenora made this funny noise. I looked over and she was staring in the sink where the soap from Martha Lee’s shampoo was sitting. Jesus, God, I prayed, don’t let it be the dove of death or worse, the violent-death horse, ’cause I don’t think I can take another funeral. When Lenora looked up she stared at me just like she’d been staring at Martha Lee’s suds, and she got this real peculiar look on her face. She looked at Martha Lee and then at me, like she was seeing something that connected us. Next thing, she started laughing.

“What’s so funny,” Martha Lee said, and I could tell by the knife in her voice that she’d about used up everything she had that had gotten her to the Kurl.

“Nothing,” Lenora said, but she was still looking at me, her eyes all crinkling, and I wanted to break every bone in that old arthritic body. I guessed she knew about the money I took from Martha Lee. But at least she wasn’t seeing any old dove in the sink.

Raylene didn’t set Martha Lee’s hair. She combed it flat and gave the ends a little trimming, then blew it dry, turning under the ends with the styling brush. It wasn’t any prizewinner, but at least she didn’t make the mistake of putting Martha Lee’s hair in curls. The large lady doing the makeup bit her lip when Martha Lee settled in her chair, but she didn’t hesitate. I took a break, ’cause this I wanted to see. I pretended to be eating a slice of pizza, but I kept my eyes fixed on Martha Lee. First the lady applied Pan-Cake makeup with a sponge. She smeared another, lighter foundation on under the eyes, and then she took a pot of powdered rouge and flicked it on Martha Lee’s cheeks, wielding that brush like a wand. Martha Lee looked like she was sitting at the dentist. Next, the makeup lady applied eye shadow in an arresting shade of blue, and then a dark gray liner, all the time scolding Martha Lee to for heavens’ sake keep her eyes closed. With each layer, Martha Lee looked less like herself. Next the lady pulled out a chart with little squares of color that she showed to Martha Lee. “What shade lipstick do you normally use?” she asked, causing me to almost choke on the pizza. I thought about Martha Lee’s sorry medicine cabinet with nothing in it to show it belonged to a woman. “That one,” Martha Lee said, making a blind stab. Her finger landed on a medium pink, which wasn’t bad considering she could have hit the one that looked like dried blood.