was real silver and used to be just about my mama’s favorite thing. She’d polished it every Saturday night and showed me how to use a toothbrush to get the engraved part clean. When Mama made us griddle cakes on Sundays, she’d set it out like we were eating in some fancy dining room instead of on a picnic table in the kitchen. Sometimes she used it to hide the money my Uncle Grayson sent her, which was where I got the idea to stash my
Glamour Day
money there. Two dollars and thirty-five cents. Seventeen and change to go. With luck, Cora would tip me fifty cents. Effie wasn’t any sure bet. She was the kind of demanding customer who drove us crazy and didn’t pay for the privilege.
“I want it
big,
” she’d tell Raylene during the comb out. “Make it look big.”
“I ain’t no magician,” Raylene complained about Effie. “That woman ain’t got but three hairs on her head and two of them is damaged.”
I rinsed Cora and worked in another dab of shampoo. (Wash, rinse, wash, rinse, then conditioner was how we did it.) I was lost in the pleasure of shampooing and half dreaming— thinking about Spy Reynolds was what I was doing—when Cora interrupted my thoughts.
“Tallie,” she said. “Call Lenora over here. I need her to take a look.”
I sighed, thinking,
This is all I need
.
The peculiar thing about Lenora was that she knew how to read soap bubbles. She said her mama had done it, too, that the gift ran in her family. Sometimes she’d be shampooing a head of hair and chatting on about how her son, Earl, was thinking of buying a place down at Virginia Beach or about how Earl’s wife, Sophine, a woman Lenora couldn’t abide, had aspirations beyond her place, or about how young Earl was doing up in Charlottesville, where he worked maintenance for the University and fathered such a brood of kids a person’d think they were Catholic, and she would pause right in the middle of a sentence and get this vague look on her face. Her hands would freeze and she’d fix her filmy old eyes on a patch of soap foam in the sink, like she was seeing it and not seeing it at the same time. “You’re having a visitor this weekend,” she’d announce to the woman tilted back under the faucet, who would say why, yes, that was right, she was expecting a second cousin from Richmond.
Lenora saw a whole world in those suds. Women with moles on their faces. Someone crying. People who walked with a limp. Weddings and funerals and money being spent too freely. Once she saw a rabbit in Mrs. Harewood’s soap and told her to slow down, she was taking on too much. “Can’t,” Mrs. Harewood said. “Got too much to do.” And then the next week she’d had a heart attack, which had slowed her down for good.
“Surprised I didn’t see a dove,” Lenora said when she heard the news. Death usually came in the shape of a dove, unless it was violent or tragic and then it was a horse. A heart meant a new friend. Or a bride. Flowers could mean a funeral or wedding; but usually they signified a celebration. Lenora said everyone had the gift—especially women—you just had to be open to it, to pay attention.
“Lenora,” Cora yelled. “Come over here.”
Lenora left off the permanent wave rollers she was putting in Pearl’s hair and walked her arthritic shuffle over to the sink. Just watching her made your knees ache.
“My ruby ring,” Cora said, “the one that belonged to Boyce’s mama. It’s lost.”
Lenora sunk her hands into the helmet of suds and wrung up a handful that she flung into the basin. She stared at it like she was watching TV. I looked, too, but no matter what Lenora said about everyone having the ability, the gift, I just saw ordinary soapsuds.
“It’s on the bedside table in your spare bedroom,” Lenora declared after a minute.
“I remember now,” Cora said. “I left it there when I was washing windows.”
As if she’d done nothing more amazing than read the lunch menu at Wayland’s Diner,
Glamour Day
money there. Two dollars and thirty-five cents. Seventeen and change to go. With luck, Cora would tip me fifty cents. Effie wasn’t any sure bet. She was the kind of demanding customer who drove us crazy and didn’t pay for the privilege.
“I want it
big,
” she’d tell Raylene during the comb out. “Make it look big.”
“I ain’t no magician,” Raylene complained about Effie. “That woman ain’t got but three hairs on her head and two of them is damaged.”
I rinsed Cora and worked in another dab of shampoo. (Wash, rinse, wash, rinse, then conditioner was how we did it.) I was lost in the pleasure of shampooing and half dreaming— thinking about Spy Reynolds was what I was doing—when Cora interrupted my thoughts.
“Tallie,” she said. “Call Lenora over here. I need her to take a look.”
I sighed, thinking,
This is all I need
.
The peculiar thing about Lenora was that she knew how to read soap bubbles. She said her mama had done it, too, that the gift ran in her family. Sometimes she’d be shampooing a head of hair and chatting on about how her son, Earl, was thinking of buying a place down at Virginia Beach or about how Earl’s wife, Sophine, a woman Lenora couldn’t abide, had aspirations beyond her place, or about how young Earl was doing up in Charlottesville, where he worked maintenance for the University and fathered such a brood of kids a person’d think they were Catholic, and she would pause right in the middle of a sentence and get this vague look on her face. Her hands would freeze and she’d fix her filmy old eyes on a patch of soap foam in the sink, like she was seeing it and not seeing it at the same time. “You’re having a visitor this weekend,” she’d announce to the woman tilted back under the faucet, who would say why, yes, that was right, she was expecting a second cousin from Richmond.
Lenora saw a whole world in those suds. Women with moles on their faces. Someone crying. People who walked with a limp. Weddings and funerals and money being spent too freely. Once she saw a rabbit in Mrs. Harewood’s soap and told her to slow down, she was taking on too much. “Can’t,” Mrs. Harewood said. “Got too much to do.” And then the next week she’d had a heart attack, which had slowed her down for good.
“Surprised I didn’t see a dove,” Lenora said when she heard the news. Death usually came in the shape of a dove, unless it was violent or tragic and then it was a horse. A heart meant a new friend. Or a bride. Flowers could mean a funeral or wedding; but usually they signified a celebration. Lenora said everyone had the gift—especially women—you just had to be open to it, to pay attention.
“Lenora,” Cora yelled. “Come over here.”
Lenora left off the permanent wave rollers she was putting in Pearl’s hair and walked her arthritic shuffle over to the sink. Just watching her made your knees ache.
“My ruby ring,” Cora said, “the one that belonged to Boyce’s mama. It’s lost.”
Lenora sunk her hands into the helmet of suds and wrung up a handful that she flung into the basin. She stared at it like she was watching TV. I looked, too, but no matter what Lenora said about everyone having the ability, the gift, I just saw ordinary soapsuds.
“It’s on the bedside table in your spare bedroom,” Lenora declared after a minute.
“I remember now,” Cora said. “I left it there when I was washing windows.”
As if she’d done nothing more amazing than read the lunch menu at Wayland’s Diner,
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