Goodbye, Miss February

by Sally O'Brien

  Andy started to say something but the ringing phone interrupted her. She answered it and mouthed, “Lee.” I shrugged and she turned her back for privacy.

  With time to kill, I explored the house. Andy had never given me the tour she offered the first night. I counted three rooms designed for sitting if you included the one with the straight-backed antique furniture. In the TV room two burgundy leather recliners faced a giant Samsung flat screen mounted on the wall. The warm room where we usually sat featured the sofa I hadn’t spilled wine on and overstuffed chairs grouped on plush carpet in front of the fireplace. Yesterday’s coffee stain hardly showed. Andy’s office was square with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a computer, lacking only the Presidential seal on the front of the desk.

  I didn’t go upstairs, which I knew contained Andy’s studio and three bedrooms. I’d peeked at them earlier. The master bedroom, complete with a queen-sized cherry sleigh bed and matching chests and armoire, plus another fireplace and a wet bar, was large enough for ballroom dancing. The adjoining bathroom had a square tub sunk into the floor and a mirrored walk-in dressing room. The house was a hundred years old but someone with common sense had modernized the plumbing. It was straight out of House Beautiful but seemed like a waste of space for one person who didn’t even have a cat. My own place suited me fine. So what if just one couple at a time could waltz in my bedroom?

  Maybe Andy had bought a house this big to give Mother’s things a home. I recognized her maple table and chairs in the dining room but the china hutch looked bare without the Haviland dishes that had been my inheritance. The silver tea set would look good on the round pedestal table that had belonged to Grandma. If I gave it to Andy, I wouldn’t have to polish it.

  Andy was still on the phone, giggling. She was too old to carry on like a teenager—and too young to act like a fool. I went to the kitchen to slam cupboard doors and find something hot to drink. Taking care not to slosh coffee on the cookies, I found a place on the couch to watch the fire and was settling into my spot when I heard another round of laughter. Leland was certainly a funny son of a bitch. I frowned. What was the matter with me? A few days ago Andy had been moping around about dying and now she was giddy as a schoolgirl, tee-heeing over everything this guy said. I should be happy for her. But Leland was so—what? smooth? Too smooth. And how real could that Southern accent be? I couldn’t believe she was interested in such a sleaze. A sudden thought came to me: Was this the way she felt about Marvin?

  Andy appeared with a tray containing two mugs and a carafe. She poured coffee into both cups and handed me one, apparently not noticing the drink in my hand. As besotted as she appeared, I was lucky she realized I was there at all. “That was Leland.”

  “How is the chawmin’ gentleman, Miss Andy?” Miss Andy gave my best Southern accent a look that told me I’d be wise to stick to being a Yankee. “I took the house tour by myself” I said, quickly changing the subject. “You’ve been too busy to show me around.”

  She sank into the chair across from me and shrugged. “I offered. You didn’t seem interested.”

  “Of course I was interested. That first night I was just tired.”

  “So? What do you think?”

  “Very nice. I noticed a lot of Mother’s things.”

  “Is that a problem?

  “No, no. It’s just strange to see them here, that’s all.” Andy didn’t say anything, and I returned to her topic of choice. “How’s Leland?”

  “Great.” Andy’s smile was warmer than the fire. “Wonderful. I just love listening to him talk. That accent is so . . . so . . .”

  “Southern?” Her laugh was out of proportion to what I’d said. Maybe I was as funny as Leland.

  “Yeah, Southern.” She sipped her coffee. “The first time I met him he absolutely bowled me over. He’s so impressive, so intelligent—knows everything. Pick a subject, he can talk about it. His memory is unbelievable. He’s just, well, special.”

  Give me a break! “Hmm,” I said as sincerely as I could manage.

  “We have so much in common. He loves the same things I do—art, sports. We might go skiing in Aspen if we can arrange it before the snow’s gone.”

  I felt a muscle on my cheek twitch. Without Roger Andy had traveled alone, showing no desire to go places with any man. And now . . . Leland?

  I opened and closed my mouth, then shook my head to clear it. After a long moment I said, “He does seem quite taken with you.”

  Good grief, Andy’s face was getting red. “You really think so?” She set her cup on the end table. “He’s probably just interested in talking about something besides the weather and the Hawkeyes.” She hesitated a minute before adding, “He’s asked me out to dinner.”

  “Oh? I hear the Cherry Pit has good pie. Get there early.”

  “I rather think we’ll go to Des Moines. We’re planning on a week from Saturday night. My surgery’s not until the next week. Naturally, you’re welcome to join us.”

  I laughed and curled my legs under me. Warm feet would counterbalance the resulting stiff knees. “Yeah, sure, go out with my big sister and her boyfriend. Those days are over. Remember how Mom used to make you take me with you to the Mason City library? I always came out of there with a clogged head. The place reeked of paper dust and some industrial-strength cleaner that claimed to smell like pine--but didn’t.”

  Andy grinned. “No doubt that’s why you like to read so much.”

  “Especially since you left me there alone for hours.” I smiled too and swallowed more coffee. “Anyway, I have plans for that night myself.” The Stendler girls comparing dates. All we needed were bobby socks and a record player. Next I’d be asking her what to wear. “Tim thought we could get something to eat after watching the game.”

  “Tim Stone? Bob’s dad?” Andy’s expression showed mixed emotions. On one hand, no tag-along. On the other, her little sister saying heaven knows what to a friend’s father. “You do realize he’s talking about basketball.”

  “I like basketball,” I said, my voice sounding defensive even to me. “Maybe you could brush me up on the rules a little. Does each basket still count six points.”

  Andy hesitated for a second before saying, “Absolutely. Except from the center line when it counts seven.”

  The chirping phone interrupted us. Andy checked the caller ID and handed it to me. “Gloria,” she said.

  “Jane? I was hoping you’d change your mind about Saturday. You’ve got to come. Everyone will be here—Sue, Ray, Sheila, the Logans. Judy and Jerry are flying up from Florida and, guess what, Sharon’s making her first appearance since high school. Come on, just for a little bit. Then we’ll have all the old bunch together.”

  Not quite. One person would be missing.

  Andy flapped her hands to attract my attention. “The reunion?” she hissed. “Go. We don’t have anything planned and it’ll give me a chance to work on the painting without having to wonder what you’re doing. You can take my car.”

  “I can’t drive that far. You know I can’t merge.” I’d given up pretending the lack of merging talent was my secret.

  Andy shook her head. “Honey, this is Iowa. The highway from here to Beemer is two lane. Just get on it and go, no merging required. You need to watch for deer, though. If one runs in front of you, two more will follow.

  Sighing, I told Gloria I’d be there and asked her to reserve a room for me at the motel.

  Seventeen

  Tuesday was nearly balmy—only ten below—and the weatherman mentioned the possibility of above-zero temperatures. With Andy busy painting, I decided to tackle my next project: locating a hairdresser. Usually a person has five years to whip herself into shape before a class reunion; I had three days. In a flash of honesty, I admitted I couldn’t lose eighty pounds in that time but if the rest of me looked good maybe my friends wouldn’t notice I’d gained a little we
ight. I left Andy a note and went to see my friend Florence.

  The overhead bell rang as I entered the shop, and Florence looked up with a pleased expression. “Jane! What brings you into town? You’re just the person I wanted to see. Cold enough for you?” I agreed it was and she continued. “I saw your car and hoped you’d stop by.”

  “Oh? Another shipment of sweatshirts?”

  “No—well, we did get some nice all-wool sweaters you might like—but I wanted to talk to you about something else.” Florence’s white polyester pantsuit bloomed with large orange and gold flowers. Matching jewelry included beads the size of walnuts.

  “We have donuts,” I said waving the bribe I’d picked up at Pierson’s Bakery. Florence clapped her hands and led me to the back of the store.

  The employee lounge, which doubled as a storeroom, featured a scratched, red Formica-topped table with chrome legs accompanied by two wobbly chairs from the 1950s, a stained Mr. Coffee, and a basket of laundry sitting beside an ironing board. Florence caught me looking at the iron and said, “Some people like to have their overalls pressed before they take them home.” She shifted in her chair. “Well, you never know, someone might.” She poured coffee into two cups and helped herself to a maple-frosted donut. I went with a chocolate. “And Earl likes to look nice so I, you know, take care of his stuff. Only when the store’s not busy obviously. He’s a sweetie, isn’t he?”

  “Hmm. How long have you been together?”

  “You mean like a couple?” She laughed and shook her head. “No, we’re just friends. Merle’s got a bad heart and I don’t know what will happen to Earl when he goes.”

  “That could be a problem,” I said. One Florence seemed ready to solve.

  “Earl said he didn’t want a, you know, relationship but I told him maybe I could melt his cold, cold heart.” Her eyes twinkled. “We exchanged presents last Christmas. A year ago I didn’t want to give him something if he didn’t have anything for me, so I bought him a calendar—waterfalls—the school was selling them—and hid it behind the tree.”

  “I remember doing that in high school,” I said. The remark slipped past her. “And did he have a present for you?”

  “No, but this year he said why didn’t we exchange gifts? We could set a price limit and give each other three suggestions. So the next time he took me to see the doctor in Des Moines, we went early to shop.” Florence reached for a napkin. “When we got to the store he walked up and down the aisles beside me and I asked if we were sharing a cart. He said if we didn’t we’d spend too much time trying to find each other.” Her smile invited me to agree that men were silly. “So we picked out our own presents. I chose a ring—see?” She pointed to her finger but I wasn’t sure whether she meant the purple stone or the orange. Maybe the turquoise. “And he tried on gloves. The next day he came with a big roll of paper and said we’d wrap our presents. Then we put them, you know, under the tree.”

  “Did you have to act surprised when you opened them?”

  Florence ignored me. “I had to have something for Merle too, of course, so I gave him the calendar.”

  “The one from the year before?”

  “Why not? The pictures are pretty—he likes nature—and the dates are good if you move them ahead a day—or is it behind? I forget.”

  “You’re amazing, Florence.” She flashed a delighted smile, and I turned to the reason for my visit. “I was wondering, is there someone around here who could shampoo and style my hair?” Florence patted her stiff, blue locks and I hoped the town had more than one hairdresser.

  “Marge Singleton’s as good as you’ll find anywhere.” I reached for a pen. “But she closed down and moved to Arizona two years ago.” I let the pen drop. “Then there’s Ruth Kessler.” I picked up the pen again. “But I wouldn’t let her do my poodle.” Florence chewed for a few seconds. Finally she reached a decision and leaned forward. “I could ask Vera Hopkins.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “She might, you know, do you as a favor to me. She used to have a shop in her house but, you know, gave it up—said hassling with OSHA was too much trouble. I tried and tried to find someone else and then one day when I ran into her at the post office I said, ‘Vera, no one can do my hair but you,’ and she said I could come to her house but I couldn’t tell anyone because, you know, if the state found out, they’d fine her.” She paused and spread her hands on the table. Her rings, at least two on each finger, glittered in the fluorescent light. I nodded. The idea of Florence keeping a major secret was hard to imagine. “She just does a few friends but it’s not really legal without a shop license so she has to be, you know, careful. I’ll ask her if she’ll take you.” I said I’d appreciate it. Florence stretched her neck to look out the front door. “Thought Vera might be in town but I don’t see her pickup. I’ll call her,” she said. “Now I have something to ask you.”

  “What’s that?” Payback time so soon? Didn’t donuts count for anything?

  “We need a speaker for the next Neighborhood Club meeting and thought maybe you could ask your sister to talk about painting or one of her trips or something. Whatever she wants. She’s done so many interesting things.”

  “Hmm,” I said, stalling for time. “When’s the meeting?”

  “First Sunday in March at noon. We have a salad lunch.”

  Darn. We were free that day. Florence’s round face trembled as I drew circles on the table with my cup. Bagging Andy for the Neighborhood Club would be a great coup. “That’s what, three weeks away?” I said. “Pretty short notice. I’ll ask but she’s really busy right now finishing a painting for the hospital. Maybe some other time.”

  The smile slipped from Florence’s face although she’d probably expected that answer. “Sure. I understand.” She switched to plan B. “Then how about you?”

  I nearly choked. “Me what? You mean be your speaker? I’ve never done anything remotely interesting. What would I talk about?”

  “Whatever you want. Things you do in California. Life there must be so exciting.” I thought about my life—housework, shopping, television. You could watch the same soaps here.

  “Honest, I don’t do anything.”

  “A sharp lady like you? I can’t believe that.”

  “No, really, since my husband died I pretty much just sit in front of the television set.”

  “Oh, come on, you must do something else.”

  I thought for a minute. Florence was obviously desperate. “Well, there’s the library. I read stories to children on Saturday mornings.”

  Florence’s face lit up. “Perfect! We’ve been talking about starting something like that and you could tell us how. You know, how to choose books, how to keep the kids interested, that kind of thing.” She gave the idea some consideration. “Wouldn’t cost much, would it?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe stores could use it as a sales promotion. Mothers could drop the kids at the library while they do their shopping. Give them a reason to buy locally.”

  Florence was delighted. “Great idea. This could be our annual project. Leland Goetzmann will help. He’s our, you know, Convention and Visitors Bureau director.” I wondered how luring conventions and visitors to Cherry Glen was working out for Leland. As I ate a third donut I felt a small twinge of excitement working its way through the fear. Yes, I could do this. I agreed to speak at the meeting and Florence promised to let me know about Vera. On the way out of the store I bought a sweater—a white wool pullover.

  Eighteen

  Shortly after lunch Florence called with the good news that Vera had consented to “do” me. She gave me the phone number, and I made an appointment for three o’clock that afternoon.

  Once again I borrowed Andy’s Explorer (she seemed willing to risk its life and fenders to get me out of the house) and followed Vera’s directions to her house—take the highway five miles north of Cherry Glen, turn left at the Catholic cemetery
. She swore I couldn’t miss it.

  After only a few wrong turns, I arrived at Vera’s place, an older farmhouse painted a bright, clean yellow. BIG ALS GUN SHOP out front nearly hid the smaller LASSIES HAIR SALON in the window.

  Vera was tall and bony with hair a shade of red not intended by God. She wore blue jeans and a yellow Iowa State University sweatshirt and smoked a cigarette—three really if you included the two burning in the ashtray.

  The salon that wasn’t officially a salon had once been a porch. The stained linoleum floor slanted toward the front of the house, and I counted six windows covered by faded red curtains patterned with animals. In brighter days maybe they’d been dogs. Possibly kangaroos. Definitely something with tails. The smell of kerosene from the space heater hung in the air beside the cigarette smoke, and I could taste the permanent wave solution.

  “Cold enough for you?” Vera asked as she pushed the door shut behind me. Yes, it was. She took my coat and swept two cats off a chair to make a place for it. A plump, fiftyish woman topped by blue plastic rollers sat under the dryer holding up the hood with one hand and gripping a copy of More True Movie Confessions with the other.

  Once Vera and I had discussed my expectations, which we both knew was a mere formality, she wrapped me in a mildewed plastic cape and draped my head over the chipped shampoo bowl. An elderly collie dragged himself out of the corner to watch. I complimented Vera on the Iowa State sweatshirt. “I like the Clones,” she said. “Me and Al have a mixed marriage. I’m a Cyclone fan and he’s for the Hawkeyes. Right, Darlene?” The woman by the dryer cackled as though she‘d never heard the joke before.

  Vera led me back to the styling station and, after toweling my hair dry and coating it with mousse, began combing. “Getting kinda thin, ain’t it?” she said by way of a conversation opener. The comb slipped out of her hand and she picked it up, blew on it, and wiped it on her pant leg with scarcely a break in rhythm. “You didn’t see that, did you?” she said.