The Wisdom of Hair (17 page)

Fontaine and Ronnie had more boyfriends than anybody in town. I guess they were the only two men around back then who weren’t shy about being that way. It didn’t bother me any. I figured
it was their business what they did between the sheets. The majority of the townspeople gossiped and raised their eyebrows at those two, but they certainly weren’t opposed to letting them style their hair. I think this is because Fontaine and Ronnie were called to fix hair, just like Mrs. Cathcart said we were.

I phoned Ronnie shortly after the beauty-supply man left, right after Mrs. Cathcart went to the bank. I knew she wouldn’t think too much of it. She had given us a list of alumni that were hiring, but none of them appealed to me. Ronnie was real sweet over the phone. He told me to come on by, that he was just dying to meet me.

When I walked through the door, Ronnie came sashaying over, carrying on about me like I was a little doll.

“Fontaine, would you look at this princess. Isn’t she precious, and that color. You can’t get that out of a bottle. Just look at this hair, hair for days.”

Fontaine didn’t have much hair. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me like,
here he goes again
. As he styled a woman’s hair, she was baring her soul to him. I heard something about a divorce settlement and a lying son of a bitch over the blow dryer. I don’t think Fontaine was listening, but you couldn’t have convinced his customer.

“She gave up her therapist for him. He sees her every week and it still costs her less than that headshrinker over in North Myrtle Beach,” Ronnie whispered. “Now, Zora, tell me all about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell.” I told him I was looking for a job and I’d be available for full-time employment December 15.

“Where are you from, Zora?” he said. “I want to know about you.”

“Well, I’m from Cleveland. South Carolina. It’s a little tiny town in the mountains, about forty-five miles from Asheville. My daddy passed on a long time ago. It’s just me,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t have to rehash everything about Mama twice in one day.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Ronnie looked like he might cry. He held my hand and told me all about his family and his new boyfriend, George, a construction worker who did mostly roofing and traveled a good bit. Before I left, I think I knew everything there was to know about him because he was so open about his life.

He said the job was mine if I wanted it, at a dollar-fifty more an hour than the beauty-supply salesman told me the job paid. I told him I’d have to think about it.

I opened the door to the shop, tripping the little chimes that hung from the ceiling. “Bye now,” he called after me like he might tell me to dress warm or make sure I got enough to eat. “Bye,” I called back, thinking how odd it was that Mrs. Farquhar wanted to mother me, Mrs. Cathcart wanted to mother me, even Ronnie Nussman wanted to mother me. Everybody wanted to mother me except for my own mama.

Sara Jane came
around about nine o’clock and surprised me with flowers. It was just a little spray of daisies and red carnations in a coffee cup that said, “I love you.” I had never gotten flowers from a flower shop before, so when I held them up to my face to smell them I was surprised that flowers from a florist don’t smell good, if they even smell at all.

“They’re beautiful.” I set them in the middle of the kitchen table and opened the card. “For my very best friend and maid of honor. You are so loved. Always, Sara Jane.”

“Sara Jane Alvarez,” I added, as we both squealed in excitement.

She glanced down toward the drinking room.

“He’s still at it, I see,” she said, as Winston filled his glass. “He’s looked up here a time or two. Oh, my God. Did you see that? I swear he looked right up here.”

“It’s such a pretty night out; he’s probably looking at the stars,”
I said, feeling a little guilty that Sara Jane shared every little intimate detail of her life with me, and I couldn’t tell her about drinking wine with Winston. It was my nature to let the world go on and on about itself, to keep things inside. I learned to be that way after Nana died, and I was left to take care of Mama by myself.

“There’s not one single star out tonight,” she said, with her hands on her hips.”And he’s looking up here, surer than shit.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” I said, which was true. “I’ve talked to him a couple of times, but nothing comes of it. To be honest, I’ve just about given up on the man.”

I know sometimes she seemed hurt that I couldn’t share even a little bit of myself with her. But what would I say, that my mama had all but disowned me, that Winston Sawyer had spoken to me and smelled my hair?

Sara Jane didn’t stay long. She had to meet Jimmy at Connie Harmon’s house, because Connie was throwing a big engagement party for the two of them. She said there’d be lots of parties, and her mama had already bought both of us three new dresses to wear. I kissed her and thanked her. And I remember thinking how funny it seemed to make so much over a wedding. But Mrs. Farquhar’s friends were just like her when it came to entertaining, and they were all going to try to outdo each other before Sara Jane made it to the altar.

After she left, I sat on my couch listening to the fall breeze blow the leaves about outside. The air was crisp, like mountain air. I heard the screen door to his kitchen bounce a time or two against the jamb and thought it was the wind. I heard footsteps walking across the gravel, stopping twice for a few seconds, and then slowly coming up the stairs.

He was there at my door but didn’t knock, just opened it, and stood there looking at me. Neither of us said a word. I went to him hesitantly and stood as close as two people can without touching. I felt his breath and smelled the sweetness of Kentucky bourbon. He closed his eyes and laid his head on my shoulder and let me press my lips against the sweet spot on his neck as we stood there breathing, barely touching.

I wasn’t scared or nervous. I was full of wanting as he lifted my chin and kissed me and would have melted into a little puddle right there on the floor if I hadn’t kissed him back. Then he scooped me up the way the heroes did on the cover of the Gussie Foyette books and set me down on my bed.

The bedroom light was out, but the light from the kitchen was generous. I undressed the only man I’d ever worshiped while he undressed me. I remember gasping out loud at his beauty. He laid me down on the bed and stroked my body; his eyes were closed like he was playing a fine instrument.

He let me touch him and know him and without saying a word, we made love. The music our bodies played lasted for a long time. Exhausted, he closed his eyes several times, like he was glad he was with me, and then he would look away, like maybe he shouldn’t have walked up the stairs in the first place.

I think he felt obligated to lie close to me and stroke my hair. I could feel him wanting to leave.

“Stay,” I whispered.

He kissed me like he meant it, dressed, and left me there in the dark. I could smell him on the pillow, the faint scent of some cologne Emma probably bought for him. I hugged that pillow tightly to me and prayed he would come back. About an hour later, I got
out of bed to lock the front door and noticed that the lights were out in his house, even in the drinking room. I went back to bed and fell asleep pretending Winston Sawyer was still in my little bed.

The first thing on my mind when I woke up the next morning was that trip to Atlanta for the whole weekend. I didn’t want to go. I was afraid of what might happen if I left Winston there alone. Would he come to his senses? Would I ever see him again? But I had to go for Sara Jane and her mama, because they had been so good to me. Anyway, I had two days to either work up the nerve to go or make up an excuse to stay.

I hoped Winston would answer those questions for me that night. Out of some crazy superstition, I made sure everything about the apartment was exactly how it had been the night before. I sat in the same spot on the couch and listened to his footsteps come up the stairs. He never knocked. Maybe because it really was his place, or maybe it was too much like asking for permission. He came into the room and I went to him. He didn’t smell like liquor.

There was a little breeze that blew through the room carrying the strains of a scratchy old blues tune he had put on the stereo in the drinking room. He held me close, shuffling his feet about ever so slightly in time to the music. I guess songs must have been real short way back then, or maybe they just seemed that way because my heart stopped every time the music did, but he kept right on dancing. I didn’t know if it was the music or not that sent him up those stairs to dance with me. Whatever it was, I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder, and prayed he’d never stop.

I pulled away, just enough to see his face. He smiled at me and pressed little angel kisses on my lips before the music started again; our feet moved in time to the slow, soulful sound. I don’t claim to
know what he was thinking during that time. All I know is that I was entranced by Winston Sawyer and his music, and I couldn’t have stopped dancing even if I wanted to.

I ran my fingers through his long, beautiful hair and pressed my fingertips on the back of his head so that his lips moved closer to mine. He kissed me the way he had made love to me the night before, wholly and wantonly. As we opened our eyes, still high from the electricity that had passed between us, I saw something there, like he had suddenly come to his senses.

I had seen that look sometimes on the face of Mama’s men, especially the married ones. “Stay and have a little drink with me,” I whispered as I rubbed his hand across my cheek and then down my neck until it rested on my breast. He looked at me and nodded his head because he could see that I knew just what he needed. He needed a drink as much as I needed him.

When I handed Winston a bourbon and water, he looked at me funny. I just smiled and dabbed my finger in his glass before putting it in my mouth like it was chocolate cake batter or something good. I knew he drank Scotch straight up or sometimes on the rocks, and when he was out of Scotch he drank bourbon, and when he was out of bourbon, he drank gin and tonic. But I remembered the sweetness of it on his breath that first night we made love, and I think he did, too, because he pulled me close to him, sipped that drink, and asked for another.

I fetched it quick and then laid my head on his chest to feel the rhythm of his breathing and set mine in time with his.

“Don’t you want a drink?” he said, as he kissed my hair.

I shook my head. His touch, his smell, his sad blue eyes intoxicated me so that I was already drunk.

After three or four bourbons, Winston was less inhibited and didn’t seem to be thinking about leaving anymore. Mind you, he wasn’t falling-down drunk, the way he was the night I helped him into the house, but I know the liquor erased any ideas he had about leaving.

He stood up, and from where I sat, he looked like a prince reaching his hand out to me, leading me to happily ever after. I took his hand, and we walked together to my bedroom.

So many things were different than the first night we made love and Winston went home straightaway. They gave me hope and made what was going on between the two of us seem right. He didn’t seem to mind my inexperience in lovemaking because I was eager to learn. He showed me what to do to please him, and I liked the power that came in knowing that I could make him breathless, too.

Still, he never said much of anything, and I didn’t, either. We spoke with our eyes and our hands and our bodies; we spoke in a language of wanting and contentment. Whenever I opened my mouth to say something, he always pressed his fingers across my lips and kissed me so that my head was light and airy.

After a long while, he whispered, “I have to go.”

“Why?” I whispered back.

He waited for a moment, thinking, I suppose. There was no reason why he shouldn’t stay. He didn’t have anyplace to go other than to bed, alone.

“Don’t go.” They were the first words I’d spoken above a whisper since he came up the stairs to my little place. He looked at me. I saw that he needed to stay, to lie beside me and feel alive. He settled back down on the bed, put his arm around my waist, and was soon asleep.