Plumage by Nancy Springer

can’t wear hats.”
    â€œBecause of all the hair?”
    â€œYes, because of all the hair.” He removed the pseudo-Scottish bonnet and returned with a plumed picture hat worthy of a Renoir. Sassy loved it. She couldn’t help leaning forward to accommodate the brim as Racquel placed it on her head, precisely adjusted the angle, and tied the silky ribbon—robin’s-egg blue—in a butterfly bow under her chin.
    â€œOh, that’s it . You have to look, Sassy. Wait. A shawl—”
    â€œNo.” She started untying the hat to take it off. Racquel crouched in front of her, peering at her.
    â€œSassy, lighten up,” he said gently. “Didn’t you ever play dress-up as a kid?”
    â€œNot with a transsexual!” Thrusting the hat back at him, trying to stop this game that was causing her pain, she spoke more harshly than she had intended.
    â€œTransvestite,” Racquel said.
    â€œWhatever.”
    He settled back on his fuchsia heels and gave her a hard stare. “I really irk the hell out of you, don’t I? What bugs you more, that I’m a transvestite or that I’m black?”
    Sassy was tired, stressed, and in no mood for self-improvement. She snapped, “Actually, what bothers me most is that your hair never doggone moves.”
    His eyes opened wide, and so did his mouth, and a yawp came out, then rich contralto laughter. “Sassy,” he said, and he toppled off his cork-soled clogs, sitting on the floor, laughing some more.
    Because he was laughing at her and because he hadn’t taken the picture hat from her, she plopped it on top of his do, where it teetered, its white plumes bobbing and its pastel ribbons curling down over his boleroed shoulders. Sassy seldom laughed out loud, but she had to smile.
    â€œOh, my sweet black ass.” Still chuckling, placidly accepting of his clownish appearance in the hat, Racquel heaved himself up from the floor, stooped over Sassy and combed her limp hair with his fingers. With one hand on either side of her face he lifted her hair into stubby wings, trying to fluff it. He crouched in front of her and removed her glasses, studying her face. He set the glasses aside and smoothed her hair down again.
    The feel of his careful hands on her head was heavenly. Sassy sat still, but said, “Racquel, it’s no use.”
    â€œWhite woman’s hair? It’s bad, all right, but it’s not quite hopeless. My stylist—”
    â€œIt’s not just the hair. It’s everything.”
    Still gentling her hair, Racquel asked, “Everything?”
    â€œEverything about me. My hair. My wrinkly face. My pudgy little body. I’ve got nothing going for me. I’m almost fifty years old, I’ve been married more than half my life to a man who didn’t love me, and now it’s too late. Nobody’s ever going to want me.”
    Racquel stroked her hair into place. “Huh,” he said softly. “We’ll see. We’ll just see about that.”
    â€œHey,” Racquel said to Sassy as both of them leaned on the mezzanine railing watching dawn turn the atrium glass the colors of mother-of-pearl.
    â€œHey, what?”
    â€œHey, I just had a brain spasm. Almost a brain orgasm.”
    â€œLovely.”
    â€œAbout your name. Like, trees are just plants and we name people after some plants, why not other plants? I mean, we name people Rose, Violet, Daisy, Jasmine, Rosemary, Heather—why not Wisteria? Or Dogwood? Or—”
    â€œOr Sassafras, is that the idea?”
    â€œYes! Why does it always have to be flower names? And why does it always have to be women named after the flowers, not men? I mean, if I had a baby boy, I shouldn’t have to just name him Oak or Spruce, I could name him Tulip, or Bud, or Clematis, Clem for short, why not? Why—”
    â€œShhh!” Sassy hushed him, clutching at his arm.
    The parakeet was flying.
    Like a