Big City Eyes

by Delia Ephron

  “Deidre, don’t you have to get home? When are you being picked up? It’s late, it’s a school night.” I broke into a streak of mother-speak, bringing the evening to an official close. “Where’s your slicker, dear?” The “dear” shocked even me, and Sam paused in his stroking and glanced up to curl his lip disgustedly. I looked down and noticed Deidre’s feet.

  “Is that black polish or red, I can’t tell in this light.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “There’s no word for it,” said Sam. “It’s black.”

  “Did you buy it in town?” I was now forced to play twenty questions with a Klingon.

  “Ghobe.”

  “No,” Sam translated.

  “Perhaps Jane can drive you home.”

  “Of course. Go get your coat, sweetie, and I’ll drop you.” Jane’s speaking matter-of-factly, as to a regular person, reminded me of the way some people address babies as if they understood everything. This had a promising effect. Deidre thumped her way upstairs. Sam followed halfway. I hadn’t lit the route, so I could barely discern his form now slumped on a middle stair, but just as a good painter can convey shape and emotion in a few strokes, Sam managed to transmit his own self-portrait: I will die, I could die without her. Did I imagine this, or was I perceiving clearly? I should ask Jane. No. She was proving she could reassemble—fastening her damp trench coat with a one-handed twist of each button into its hole, giving the belt a sharp yank. “Still wet and squishy,” she commented, as she put her shoes on.

  “I’m here if you need me, Jane. Call me any hour.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She tucked her hair efficiently into her rain hat. “Come on, Miss Deidre.”

  At that moment, the lights went on. I had to shade my eyes, which gave me a second of grace before the shock of viewing life without the filter of candlelight. Jane’s red nose and cloudy eyes. Sam’s pallid complexion and, visible even ten feet away, a startling hickey gnawed into his neck. The living room and foyer with pretty braided rugs, nubby soft fabrics and patchworky things that were supposed to make the place home, and in which three souls stood unmoored.

  Now Deidre reappeared on the landing, mercifully camouflaged in yellow, and she seemed so innocent. Just a very tall child dressed for rain.

  The Sakonnet Times, October 22

  * * *

  Big City Eyes

  BY LILY DAVIS

  LAST SATURDAY MORNING, Deborah Cooke, owner of Deborah’s Hair and Nails on Main Street, opened her beauty salon door and discovered a pile of trash that appeared to have been stuffed through the mail slot. The garbage included cigarette butts, several crusts of pizza, a broken bottle of Hello Kitty children’s perfume, and a hank of pale orange hair. Because of the dime-store scent splattered about, the shop smelled putrid. “Like vase water after flowers have sat in it for a month,” remarked Mrs. Cooke, whose ten-year-old son once attempted a science experiment involving dead flowers.

  “This is not random vandalism,” said Detective Maureen Mooney, whose long sandy-blond hair is pulled back in a twist and secured with a tortoiseshell comb. Her nails are coated with clear polish that she applies herself. “Most likely the incident was an act of revenge by an unhappy employee or client.”

  No one recognized the pale orange hair.

  Not Mrs. Cooke, whose bouffant coiffure, a vision of symmetrical perfection, is so rigid that it is somewhat unexpected to see that, when she turns her head, her hair rotates, too. Not the only other stylist, Becky Ray, who rubs Frizz-Ease into her curly hair every morning before blow-drying it straight, and sports “French nails,” a beige tone on the pink part and a whitener for the tips. There were no unhappy clients, they insisted. No one had recently complained or asked for a refund.

  At the regular Wednesday 9:00 a.m. press briefing, Police Chief Ben Blocker backed off the revenge theory. “That place is one big happy family,” he said, pointing out that Becky has worked years for Deborah, as have Rita, the part-time manicurist, and Angela, who cleans. “Furthermore,” he said, “that clump of orange hair didn’t ring a bell. Nobody recognized it.” The hair has not been analyzed—animal versus human, natural or dyed. To do so, the police would have to ship the sample to the Suffolk County laboratories in Riverhead.

  “Suppose Goldilocks escaped after sleeping on a bed in an Ocean Drive house?” I asked him. “Could the three bears confirm her identity only by sending her fingerprints and strands of hair to Riverhead?”

  “That’s correct,” said Chief Blocker.

  He did not say, “Why do you ask?” If he had, I would have answered, “That’s another incident I intend to get to the bottom of.” Instead, he mentioned that all the clients for the past two weeks at Deborah’s Hair and Nails had left tips. Citing that as proof of customer satisfaction, and noting that Mrs. Cooke wanted the matter dropped, he announced that the department was not planning to proceed further.

  I had a bad haircut once, from a woman named Cecile, and the experience was distressing. Like buying something ghastly that you can’t return and then being forced to wear it daily. I became obsessed with my awful haircut, stopping at every mirror and at every pane of glass. Was it really as bad as I thought? I then worsened my plight by going to another stylist for a correction. My hair ended up approximately a quarter-inch long.

  I continually brought up the subject of my hideous hair. I needed to mention the outrage so my friends didn’t think they knew something about me I didn’t. The situation became a torture. All I saw around me were haircuts. People on the street were simply a collection of better hairdos I didn’t have.

  But here’s the strange thing: I knew the cut was going to be terrible as it took place. I sat in that beauty salon chair with the towel around my neck, unable to stop it. Could not bring myself to speak up. Could not bolt with my hair parted and clipped, my head mapped like farmlands for planting. I let the haircut happen, and then thanked Cecile and tipped her.

  Sometimes I do this—thank people when I really want to kick them, apologize when I’m actually furious. I behaved that way last week in the Town Beach parking lot. A man treated me coldly, and in return, I acted grateful and even threw in an apology. I suppose I do the opposite of what I feel either because I don’t know what I feel at the time or because my feelings are so hurt that I don’t want to face them. If the police had consulted me, I could have tipped them to this weakness of certain highly sensitive women. I could have helped them solve the crime.

  But my loyalties are with the vandal. A bad haircut is an injustice, even if it’s not illegal. Just because your hair hasn’t been stolen doesn’t mean you haven’t been robbed of your looks. Somewhere in Sakonnet Bay is an upset woman with a bad haircut. She is looking in mirrors nonstop and beginning every conversation with “I hate my hair.” She’s angry now, so watch out. Believe me, once she’s been mistreated in this manner, there is no way she is going to shut up.

  CHAPTER 8

  WAITING to make a left turn into the Town Hall parking lot, I was trapped in a long line of cars, and relishing it. A traffic jam. I imagined that I was not driving, but sitting in the backseat of a cab listening to the driver complain that Yasser Arafat was in Manhattan and really screwing things up. All access to Sixth Avenue was blocked. This fantasy was more gratifying than the memory of Deborah Cooke at the newspaper office, berating me for having implied that she had any unhappy customers. “You are cruel and thoughtless,” she had shrieked. I suspect she was peeved mostly by my description of her stiff hair. It was a cheap shot. I had enjoyed writing it, but shouldn’t have. In the pleasure of the moment, it’s easy to forget that your subject is a person. Deborah’s body, thick and wide, called to mind a mattress. She might employ it as a weapon—fall forward and flatten me wafer-thin. She had the right to complain. I resented only Bernadette’s excited face peeping over Deborah’s military shoulder, almost getting whacked by Deborah’s green leather pocketbook, which swung back and forth as she made dramatically threatening gestures.


  “Maybe she’ll sue.” Bernadette flapped her arms at the thought after Art had led Deborah into his office. He calmed her down—an activity at which he was becoming experienced—pointing out that the newspaper had received fifteen letters attesting to her skill. The paper would print them all, the equivalent of a full-page endorsement.

  “She has no grounds to sue,” I informed Bernadette.

  “That doesn’t stop anyone. Now like two people don’t speak to you for sure.”

  “What two?”

  “The lady in the antiques store and Deborah. She’s been cutting my mom’s hair since forever, so maybe my mom isn’t speaking to you, either, and a whole bunch of other people. My mom says you’re hyper.”

  “I am,” I said, although in fact I was depressed, but that was none of Bernadette’s business. A person wishing to be caught in a traffic jam caused by the head of the PLO could not be feeling too thrilled about her life.

  “Mr. DePosta’s thinking of arresting Sam.”

  “My Sam?”

  “Who else?”

  “For hanging out on the sidewalk? I don’t think so. Besides, he can’t arrest Sam, he’s not a cop. Don’t you have anything to do?”

  “Are you getting your period or something?”

  “What? Bernadette, for God’s sake.”

  “Sorry, I’m just trying to talk and you’re so weird.”

  Finally she loped off on some assignment or other. I took the opportunity to browse through several sourcebooks on detection and criminal behavior. There was a catalogue I’d borrowed from Chief Blocker. In exchange—though he didn’t know this—I’d omitted a phrase in my column that compared his gray hair to the fuzz on a new tennis ball. Under evidence collection, page 155,I contemplated the Bluemaxx Illumination System, a krypton lamp that made fingerprints visible at a crime scene. $149.99. Too much money. The fingerprinting kit was cheaper, $105. Still, I couldn’t imagine dusting the entire Nicholas house. Then I read an old pamphlet I’d purchased at the used bookstore. Secret Hiding Places, it was called. I was certain that drugs had something to do with that woman in the Nicholas house, and this was a how-to on concealment. Many techniques, like false fronts and bottoms, involved the use of Velcro. I had to get back into that house. Perhaps at this upcoming deer meeting, which promised to be a sizable event, I could make the acquaintance of Tom’s brother, Billy. He might be less honorable than Tom, although how ethical was the world-champion liar? I had that feeling, that unerring-intuition, that Billy was a slacker. He hadn’t responded when that alarm went off, and I bet it wasn’t the first time. Where had he been?

  A high school student waved me into the lot, and another, armed with a flashlight, routed me onto the field behind, which was being utilized for overflow.

  Getting out, I bumped my door against an adjacent car. The driver caught his wife’s eye and inclined his head in my direction. I’d been made. Perhaps his wife was part of Deborah Cooke’s loyal clientele. I didn’t wait for the dirty look or to be accosted, but strode across the field. Tall, dense weeds scratched my pants. In the fading light, I couldn’t see the ground. Strange live things lurked there, as they did beneath the waves. Walk quickly. Do not scream and run.

  A steady stream poured in. Everyone in town was gathering on a Monday evening to debate deer. Tom was probably here, on duty or off. Maybe his wife.

  Sakonnet Bay Town Hall and Courthouse, a gray stone structure, bore a passing resemblance to a church because of its oversized arched wooden doors, both of which were thrown open tonight, and its imposing elongated tower. The building stood on a flat, broad expanse of grass. No trees or other landscaping softened its grim appearance, romantic in a kind of medieval way.

  Inside, the place had been renovated and chopped up, ceilings lowered and covered with white acoustic panels. No haven for gothic intrigue, just offices for the pedestrian business of civic life. Along the left side of the hallway, a series of cubicles housed the mayor, city planning office, and traffic violations bureau, and on the right side, two sets of doors led into the courtroom, which doubled as the town hall. Here neighbors came to yell at each other.

  The atmosphere was noisy, but not festive. Not festive, because there was too much aggressive bonding. People entered the hall and immediately tried to spot their friends and co-conspirators. The room was rapidly filling to capacity.

  Coral Williams, owner of the Comfort Cafe and tonight, more significant, head of Bambi’s Friends, signaled for me to join her. Her group had nabbed the orchestra section. I declined, preferring not to sit. Standing in the back, I would have the best view not only of the proceedings but of the audience.

  A hand on my shoulder. Forcing a countenance of politeness and calm, I turned, expecting to be rebuked or attacked, and stared into the face of Jane’s husband.

  “Jonathan, hello.” I stopped myself from recoiling from his kiss. It grazed my cheek. “Where’s Jane?”

  “At home.” He licked his lips. Was it nervousness, or were they just dry?

  “But she said she would be here. I spoke to her this morning.”

  “She’s coming down with a cold.” Jonathan pushed up his black-framed glasses, wiped both eyes, and carefully rested the frames back on his nose.

  “I suppose you’re speaking tonight?”

  “Well, I have to present the case for shipping the poor devils upstate. I’m afraid it won’t be pleasant.” His whispery voice, which I had always taken for shy, now seemed obsequious. “I liked your column very much.”

  “Not me,” said a woman walking by.

  “Just ignore her,” he advised. That was infuriating—to be patronized by a deceiving little shit. “Maybe you’ll discover the bad haircut at this meeting.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Would you like to sit with me?”

  “No, thank you. Since I’m working, I think I’ll be better off here.”

  “I’ll tell Jane I saw you.”

  “Yes.”

  I coordinated that last yes with a hunt through my purse for my notepad and pen, a defensive move to prevent any departing pecks on the cheek. I watched his scrap of a ponytail go down the aisle, his head bobbing and his hand gently rising to acknowledge hellos. He was dressed slightly sharper than when I had seen him last month at his own house, for a potluck supper. Tonight he wore a flannel shirt with rolled-up cuffs, cords with pleats instead of shapeless khakis. Still, he had an unsexy way of carrying his overcoat, over his arm, as if it were a large napkin and he a waiter about to take an order for drinks.

  I was considering ducking into the hall to phone Jane to see if she was all right, when Mayor Ray Dorley banged his gavel. He tried to call the meeting to order but couldn’t because of the speaker system. It sounded like a load of sand had been dumped inside. “Is that better?” asked the mayor, an erect and proper gentleman with a trim white beard.

  “No,” everyone shouted, and laughed. This, I jotted on my pad, would probably be the last friendly moment of the evening.

  The walls were decorated with Halloween crayon drawings on construction paper—ghosts, jack-o’-lanterns, and witches, made by the third-grade class at the elementary school. The mayor sat at a table in the front of the room. Behind him hung the American flag, and next to that the Sakonnet Bay standard—white background, two horizontal blue stripes, and a sailboat perched on two orange curlicues meant to represent ocean. The audience seating consisted of linked wooden chairs. Several hundred people were here. I spotted Deborah Cooke, whose broad back and heavily sprayed puffball hair were unmistakable. Deidre was present, too, how surprising. Third row from the back. Perhaps she’d make a speech in Klingon. That would knock everyone for a loop. Be a good lead for my story as well, although Sam might object. The woman next to her whispered something and Deidre turned to grin. Perhaps it was the same mirthless smile she gave me, but from my angle, it appeared remarkably un-sinister. Was this her mother? Did Deidre have a good relationship with her mother? What a defeating thought.


  “Is it better now?” the mayor asked.

  Now it was, so he called the meeting to order and efficiently laid out the facts. An estimated six hundred deer lived within a four-mile radius of the town center, and that was about five hundred deer too many, it was generally agreed.

  “Generally agreed not by me,” shouted Coral Williams, and all of Bambi’s Friends clapped and stamped their feet.

  “I was almost killed last week.” A man in a neck brace waved his hand. “The antlers busted my windshield and damn near poked out my eye.”

  “Sit down, Richard, and shut up,” Coral boomed over considerable hissing and booing.

  “Deer are rats with hooves,” shouted another man.

  Mayor Dorley banged and lectured. “Richard, settle down, and the same goes for Coral and all of Bambi’s Friends. Everyone will get a turn.” He continued with his speech, explaining statistically the damage caused by deer: Loss of money in ruined shrubbery and car accidents. Injuries to humans and loss of life from crazed deer leaping across roads. The added frenzy during the mating season. He joked about how deer are not faithful and how they abandon their lovers once they’ve impregnated them.

  “Loss of alimony and child support,” someone yelled.

  Mayor Dorley slammed his gavel again. He pointed to a metal folding table containing show-and-tell—deer darts for tranquilizing and immunization, information pamphlets on entrapment and disposal methods, accident statistics, and Lyme disease. Then he ran through the agenda, introducing speakers who would be making the case for various solutions: Coral Williams for birth control; Fred Till, an expert marksman and authority on other methods of extermination; Chief Blocker, who would discuss nuisance permits in case a person wanted to eliminate a deer himself; and Jonathan Atkins, who would cover trap and transport—the option of shipping deer upstate in cattle cars. Later the floor would be open to anyone who wanted to be heard, and Dorley hoped that everyone would be respectful. The evening would begin with a short film, a segment from 60 Minutes, a useful summary.