The Smallest Part

by Amy Harmon

For two days, under a huge tent that covered an entire city block, the community lured the homeless in with free food, beds, and services—medical services, dental services, counseling, educational opportunities, even haircuts and clothing. Noah got people plugged into AA meetings and provided mental health evaluations, Cora made people aware of educational opportunities and coordinated with a staffing company to get people back to work, and Mercedes did her best to make people feel beautiful again.

  She’d participated in the event every year, but there were a few people, like Cuddy, who she saw on a more regular basis. She had strict rules about loitering in front of the salon, hassling the staff, or panhandling in the vicinity, but if they followed those rules, she never turned anyone away. Cuddy was her most regular non-paying customer.

  “It’s not his fault I’m running late,” Mercedes groused. “I’ll just have to work fast today. Go let him in, will you, Keegan? And get him settled at one of the sinks.”

  “You are an angel, Mercedes Lopez. I wouldn’t touch that man’s head with a ten-foot pole,” Keegan said under his breath, but he headed toward the back, snagging a white stylist robe to cover his pristine clothes.

  “Be nice to him, Keegan,” Mercedes called after him. “Cuddy has powers. He’ll put a spell on you.”

  He would too. Poor Cuddy didn’t have all his mental faculties anymore, if he ever had. But he had an uncanny ability to see who was friend and who was foe.

  Mercedes rushed to clock in and stash her purse beneath the counter before tying on an apron and heading back to tend to Cuddy’s hair.

  He was reclining in a chair at the sinks, his long duster coat pulled around him, his eyes closed. His legs were twitching, his knees jumping up and down. He was always a jittery mess until she started washing his hair. Then, like she untightened something in his head, his limbs stilled, and he grew loose and relaxed beneath her hands.

  “Good morning, Cuddy.”

  “Good morning, Miss Lopez.”

  “Call me Mercedes, Cuddy. You know Miss Lopez makes me feel like a school teacher.”

  She searched his hair surreptitiously for lice—so far, he’d never brought any with him—and turned on the water, getting it warm before she ran it over his thick hair. He had a mop of it, and he’d gone almost completely grey. She didn’t know how old he was—sadly, the homeless all appeared ancient—but from the thickness of his hair, she’d guess he was about fifty. He was tall and wiry—skinny, even—though it was hard to see his body beneath the long coat he always wore, rain or shine. In the summer months, he smelled ripe, and Mercedes often convinced him to make use of the shower in the employee locker room. He wouldn’t have time to shower today. Luckily, he didn’t smell too bad. A little smoky, a little sweaty, but not too bad.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day, Cuddy. Feels like Spring, huh? Now how does that water feel?”

  “It feels just fine, Miss Lopez.” His eyes stayed closed, but the tears were starting to seep out the sides.

  She took more time than she had, washing his hair, rinsing it, and washing it again. She handed him a hot wash cloth and softly urged him to scrub his face and get behind his ears. He obeyed, wiping away the tears that hadn’t stopped. It was their routine. He pretended her kindness and the human contact didn’t make him cry, and she pretended not to notice.

  She wrapped a clean towel around his hair and dried it briskly before leading him to her chair.

  “Have a seat, Cuddy. Are we doing the same thing? Or do you want to try something new?” She always said that, and it always made him smile.

  “Could you cut it good and short? It lasts longer that way.”

  He couldn’t make eye contact. His eyes never stayed in one place long enough. It made her dizzy when she tried to talk to him. She was grateful he kept them closed while she trimmed and clipped, trying to work fast while still giving him a good cut.

  “Miss Cora . . . I haven’t seen her in a while,” he said suddenly. “She wasn’t at the community fair last November. I didn’t see Dr. Noah either. Are you coming next month?”

  Cuddy knew Cora for the same reason he knew Mercedes. He’d met them through their homeless outreach.

  “I’ll be there. I don’t know if Noah will be. Cora passed away about a year ago, Cuddy,” Mercedes murmured. “She was killed in a car accident. It’s been a hard year for him, but I know he’ll do his best to attend. It’s something he cares a lot about.”

  “Oh, no,” Cuddy moaned softly, blinking wildly, shaking his head from side to side in denial. “Oh, no. Not Miss Cora. I was afraid of that.”

  “What do you mean . . . you were afraid of that? Did Cora say something to you?”

  “I saw her just the other day. I hoped I was wrong.”

  “I don’t understand, Cuddy.” Cora had been gone for a year, and even Cuddy could blend that many days together.

  “I thought I saw her. I thought I did,” he mumbled, wiping his eyes. “Cora was so sweet. She was nice to me.”

  “I’m sorry, Cuddy. I thought you knew,” Mercedes said, swallowing the lump in her own throat.

  Mercedes finished cutting while Cuddy cried, doing her best to comfort him and hold him still. In the end, she just took her clippers to his curls, and watched as the grey clumps fell to the floor.

  He didn’t seem to notice she’d taken more than usual, and when she was done, he stood and dug in his pocket. She knew he wasn’t searching for cash. This was part of their routine too. Most people paid with money. Cuddy paid with rocks.

  “I’ve been saving that one for you. It’s pretty and dark. Like your eyes,” he whispered, laying a smooth stone on her workstation table. He laid a few more beside it. “This one’s for Cora. This one’s for Noah. This one’s for their little girl. Will you give these to them, Miss Lopez?”

  “I will. I’ll put them on Cora’s grave. She would like that.”

  He nodded, staring down at the four stones. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out another. “Five smooth stones,” he whispered. “David killed Goliath with five smooth stones. Don’t put them on her grave. You might need them.”

  ***

  Nine

  1989

  “You didn’t get the part,” Noah said. It wasn’t a question. He’d obviously heard.

  “No. It’s probably better. Rehearsals would have taken up a lot of time, and I can’t afford to miss work,” Mercedes said, shrugging.

  He was silent, sitting beside Mercedes on the low, block wall, his long legs swinging. Mercedes watched his shoelaces dangle, dirty and torn, and with a sigh, she jumped down and tied them.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “You’re going to trip and fall, and you wear them out when you step on them,” Mercedes muttered as she hoisted herself back up beside him. She was wearing a new skirt she’d found at the Goodwill, and it wasn’t easy to climb in it and maintain her dignity. But she managed.

  “Ah, Mer. You’re always taking care of everyone.”

  “Look who’s talking. You’ve practically raised yourself,” Mercedes retorted.

  He stiffened, and she sighed again. Noah didn’t like it when she insinuated that his mother wasn’t responsible. He changed the subject.

  “Are you mad at Cora?” he asked.

  “No.” Mercedes shook her head.

  “She only tried out for the play because you were trying out.”

  “I know.”

  “And she got the part you wanted,” he continued.

  “Yep.”

  “But you’re not mad?” Noah asked, his tone gentle. He wasn’t trying to stir the crap or stab Cora in the back. He really wanted to know. He wanted to make sure there was peace in their kingdom of three.

  “How could I be mad? Cora was amazing. She’s a natural. And she’s a better fit for the part.” Mercedes wondered, in the recesses of her heart, if the way she looked was the deciding factor. Eliza Doolittle was an English shop girl, and Mercedes was the wrong ethnicity,
and everybody knew it.

  “I watched the auditions. You were good too.” Noah was trying so hard to make her feel better, but he’d had to know how this would end. Mercedes had known. But it still hurt when she saw Cora’s name beside Eliza Doolittle’s and her own name beside a bit part at the bottom of the page.

  “I’ve got fire, and I commit. But let’s face it, my cockney accent sucked,” Mercedes admitted.

  He tried not to, but Mercedes saw a ghost of a smile flit over his mouth. “It was a little too—”

  “It was too western,” she finished for him.

  “Yeah. Think John Wayne does Doolittle.”

  They laughed together, but her laughter faded when she thought about the way Cora looked, standing under the spotlight, saying her lines. She’d wanted to be angry. Cora had known how much Mercedes wanted the part, and she auditioned for the same role and got it. But how could Mercedes be angry when Cora was so tragic? And so convincing?

  “Cora said when she was on the stage, she felt free, Noah. She said she didn’t have to be Cora anymore. She was so good, I hardly recognized her up there.”

  “She wasn’t acting. She was escaping.”

  “Yeah,” Mercedes breathed. “And maybe that’s why I didn’t get the part. I was acting, and I never forgot, not for one second, who I was. I was Mercedes Lopez. Not Eliza Doolittle.”

  “That’s a good thing, Mer.”

  “It is?”

  “I think so. I like Mercedes Lopez. She’s smart and funny and fierce. She’s loyal and tough and can dribble the ball and shoot free throws better than any girl I know. She’s beautiful—inside and out. Why would you want to be anyone else?”

  The answer resonated in her skull, almost like someone had spoken the words directly in her ear.

  “You know what? I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to be anyone else,” Mercedes said, reassured. Noah Andelin was her best friend, and that made being Mercedes Lopez pretty damn amazing.

  “It may be a small part, but you’ll kill it,” Noah promised. “I know you will. Sometimes it’s the smallest part that steals the show.”

  * * *

  Gia turned two on March 22, a Tuesday, two weeks before the one-year anniversary of Cora’s death. Noah ordered a dozen cupcakes with pink frosting and a huge bouquet of balloons and wrestled them into his Subaru while trying to buckle Gia into her car seat. She wanted to hold one of the balloons, and it popped in her arms, making Noah swear and making Gia cry.

  Noah was trying to potty-train her—two seemed old enough to learn—and they stopped at Walmart to pick out some new underwear in hopes that she wouldn’t want to pee on pretty princesses. Gia insisted on wearing them immediately. He purchased them, took her into the Walmart restroom, took off her pull-up, put on the new underwear, redressed her, and she peed in them on the way home, soaking Sleeping Beauty, her car seat, and making herself wet and miserable. Two more helium balloons popped before they made it into the house.

  Gia wasn’t interested in any of the presents he bought, but she cried when there was nothing left to unwrap. He ended up wrapping everything in her toy box so she could pull the paper off, which kept her happy for about half an hour.

  Heather was out of town, Alma and Mer had to work, and Gia covered her ears and cried when Noah sang her the birthday song all by himself.

  “No scawy (scary) song, Daddy!” she sobbed.

  He took the obligatory picture with the cupcake and candles, but Gia wasn’t impressed by any of it, and scowled at the camera, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

  It was a lousy birthday, and it only got worse when Mer showed up at eight that night, wearing a long, bright pink coat, cheetah print heels, and a look on her face that spelled trouble. Gia was stripped down to her Cinderellas, clutching a balloon by its string, and demanding Noah carry her everywhere. Bed time could not come soon enough, and Noah still had to work the night shift.

  “Happy Birthday, Gia Bug!” Mer crooned, leaning in for a kiss, which Gia happily gave her. Mercedes was trying to hide her excitement. She was hiding something in the deep V of her trench coat, and when a small mewl escaped, Gia gasped, and Noah groaned.

  “Oh, Mer. What have you done?”

  He knew exactly what she’d done. She’d bought Gia a kitten for her birthday.

  “He’ll be a good mouser,” Mercedes said.

  “I don’t have mice,” Noah retorted.

  “But you have ants!”

  “You’re never going to let that go, are you? My house was a mess one time last July, and you’re never going to let me forget it,” he complained.

  “I will. I will never mention ants again . . . if you’ll keep an open mind about Oscar,” she promised.

  “You named a . . . cat . . . after your dad?”

  Mercedes nodded enthusiastically and withdrew a small, black kitten from inside her coat.

  “He’s a little boy cat, and he has black hair and a gentle personality. Just like Papi. He will be a perfect playmate for Gia. Having a pet will be good for her. You’ll see. And he’s litter-box trained. I bought all the supplies. You won’t have to worry about a thing. I bought him a bed, a litter box, a huge container of kitty litter, and one of those fifty-pound bags of cat food. It’ll last a year. You won’t even know Oscar is here, except that he’ll keep Gia entertained so you can get something done.”

  Noah groaned again. He didn’t want anyone or anything else to take care of, but Gia had grown still in his arms. She stared at the tiny, black cat, her little jaw dropping, her blue eyes so big Noah bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh.

  “Kitty,” she whispered reverently.

  Mercedes put the kitten down on the kitchen floor and Noah released Gia as well, setting her on her sturdy little legs and stepping back.

  “Hi, Kitty,” she squeaked, extending her chubby fingers to touch the black ball of fluff quivering before her.

  Mercedes looked at Noah with shining eyes, and Noah sighed and scrubbed at his beard with both hands, knowing he was screwed.

  “He had his first vaccination yesterday. He’ll need another one in four weeks and another when he’s sixteen weeks. But I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. And I got him one of those scratching pole thingies so he won’t rip up the furniture,” Mercedes reassured.

  Noah groaned again. “Mer . . . I really wish you hadn’t done this.”

  “I am prepared to bring Oscar back to my house if you really don’t want him. But look at Gia, Noah. She loves him.”

  Gia was on her knees, her bottom in the air, her cheek to the floor so she was as close to the kitten as possible. The kitten was sniffing her face suspiciously.

  “I don’t want cat hair all over everything,” Noah grumbled.

  “I’ll vacuum the furniture and all the floors every Monday when I’m here.”

  “You do that already.”

  “You’re right. I do. I totally deserve this, Noah. Come on, please?” Mercedes wheedled, hands clasped beneath her chin, staring up at him mournfully with her heavily-lashed, brown eyes.

  “If you deserve it, why is it living at my house?”

  “Because I’m here more than I’m at home. And I bought him for Gia.”

  “You are here an awful lot. Why is that?” he teased. “Go home, woman.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You need me. That’s why.” Then she smiled, teeth flashing, dimples framing her pink lips. “You’re going to let her keep him, aren’t you?”

  “You know I am. Was there ever any question? You always get your way, Mer.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Ha! When? I can’t think of very many times when Mercedes Lopez got what she wanted just because she wanted it. I can think of all the times I worked my ass off and made something happen,” she huffed.

  Noah leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for the kitten that I didn’t want.”

  “You’re welcome. Now where are those cupcakes?”

  Noah straightened the kitchen—and set out a
cupcake for Mer—while Mercedes and Gia got the kitten situated. Gia was carrying Oscar under one arm, telling him all the words she knew, which was a considerable amount for a two-year-old. Noah didn’t know what was normal, but his daughter seemed to be especially verbal for her age. Mercedes had kicked off her stilettos and was pouring kitty litter into a box, explaining to both Gia and Oscar what it was for. Then she took Oscar from Gia and set him in the box.

  “Go potty, Oscar,” she ordered.

  The kitten sniffed around for three seconds before his little tail rose obediently, and he squatted to do his business. Even the cat couldn’t say no to Mercedes, Noah thought to himself. Mercedes clapped as Oscar buried his very small pile of poop—Gia clapped too—and they proceeded to fill the cat bowls with water and kitten kibble.

  When Gia chased Oscar into the family room, Noah and Mercedes followed, sinking down onto the couch to watch them play. Noah found himself watching Mercedes eat her cupcake instead, grateful that she’d saved Gia’s birthday from being a total bomb, even if it meant he was now the unhappy owner of a cat.

  “You always know what to do,” he said. “That’s a talent. You show up and make everything better.”

  “Really?” He’d pleased her.

  “Yes. Today was a total fail. You saved the day,” he admitted.

  “I stole the scene.” She stood up and took a bow before plopping back down beside him and licking the frosting from her fingers.

  “You sure did. Tell me something, Mer. How long have you wanted a cat?”

  She laughed. “I’ve wanted a cat since I was ten.”

  “I thought so. Remember those kittens they were giving away in front of Albertson’s Grocery Store that one time?” he asked.

  “There was only one left. He was grey and fluffy. Cora and I were in love, and you weren’t interested.”

  “My load was heavy, even then. I didn’t want any more responsibility than I already had. I haven’t changed much.”

  “I wanted that kitten, but I knew I would have to ask Mami. I had to wait for her to get home from work.”