Charlie puffed out his cheeks to contain his most recent sip of coffee, swallowed, and let out a combination of laugh-filled coughing.
“It’s not funny, Charlie. I thought you would be proud of me.”
He pulled her to his lap and kissed her. She was beautiful, and even though he could see the stress of The Rooning had forced a few gray hairs to emerge from her crown – he would never tell her. She had stayed with him. Most women – at least among their “acquaintances” – would have run straight into the pockets of another wallet. She must still love him, which was a good thing, because he still loved her.
“What does he have against you, this Shug fellow?”
The burden of budgets and bills began to fade as his mind jumped back to the market. “I didn’t know the rules. I asked for less. In his shop. It was a French horn – a few dents here and there, but overall in great condition. I could have doubled my purchase price.”
“But he wouldn’t take it?”
“No.” Charlie laughed. “You don’t haggle with the Blackwells,” he mocked the heavy voice of Shug. “Old Shug has quite a shop. I bet I could flip every item in the place. I’d make twice what he’s asking. But, it’s all right; I’ll leave it all for the tourists. The vendors bring in enough variety to support us for a long time – as long as Shug lets them stay. They have him all worked up for some reason.”
“And what if Shug makes them go?”
Charlie didn’t blame her for thinking ahead. If he had thought ahead in the first place, they might have survived The Rooning.
“Then, I find another way to make money.”
She parted her lips to speak, hesitated, and then the words fell out. “Like going back to work in the city?”
The word “work” brought up the insecurities he fought daily to suppress. “Is it what you want? To go back to the city?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Their new lifestyle was supposed to be settled, no looking back. But she had said “extras” and now he was hearing she wanted to move back to the city.
He put down his coffee, stood up, and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “I’ll do whatever you want, Velveteen.”
“Charlie!” Her voice cracked and her eyes pleaded for a forgiveness he could not give her because she had not done anything wrong. He had hurt her feelings. He hadn’t meant to… Maybe he had. Talk of money always hurt. “If this – all of this – makes you happy, then I’m happy.”
He forced a smile. “Good, this makes me happy.” He lied. He enjoyed picking, sharing stories with the vendors, and surrounding himself with the ambiance of Coraloo. He had all but stopped searching online auctions and sorting through the postings of newbie listers on eBay – they always listed too low… good for him, bad for them. He liked Coraloo, and he liked the Blackwells for that matter, but he wasn’t satisfied. It wasn’t enough. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of uncertainty that came with each pick. Would it sell, or would it sit? They were okay for now, maybe for a few months, but what then?
An hour later, against Velveteen’s will, the boys took off for another day at the market. The idea of Charlie crossing paths with the likes of Shug Blackwell made Velveteen more than a little uneasy. Charlie had informed her the man’s tattoo was not a butcher knife but rather a very pricey antique Oakeshott type XIV medieval sword – he confessed he had snuck a photo of the man’s left arm and researched the artwork. But she wouldn’t put it past Shug Blackwell to blacken the eye of her husband.
Charlie’s life with the bank had been safe and had brought them consistency, plus a whole lot of extras. What he made now from picking paid the bills and allowed her enough for groceries and, sometimes, paint. Whatever “extras” she needed for herself she picked up in the cosmetic aisle of the grocery store. But even then her “extras” didn’t always make it home. She’d watch as the cash register tallied the total, worrying she might have to put something back, and if the total was less than what she had in her purse, she would add in the bottle of polish, tube of lip-gloss or one of the higher end bottles of shampoo that had their own shelf at the grocery store and promised to hold her color longer. This week, the hair-coloring kit with the head of a much younger woman on the front had made it home.
Velveteen didn’t know what she wanted. She had plans for the Toft house – the interior design student in her had mentally decorated the entire place – but could they really live like this? She felt like a child on a seesaw, waiting for Charlie to take his turn so she could end up on top again. But if she were up top, where would he be – never knowing exactly how much money they would have, no savings, and what about Christmas? Her country Christmas party was most certainly out of the question. Who would they invite anyway? Doctor Eyeballs and his posse of nurses?
Velveteen studied her reflection – dark shadows under her eyes and evidence of age forcing its crease between her brows. She hoped Charlie hadn’t noticed her collection of grays. The Rooning had added at least three years. She pulled up her forehead and then pushed back on her cheeks. She couldn’t afford the fancy creams she had once pre-ordered from the department store, but she had read that coconut oil was a more natural alternative and cost effective too. She had already purchased a jar of the fleshy goo, but was waiting to open it until after she had dug out the last of her Ode à Plis.
She lifted the box of colorant and carefully removed the contents, laying each one on the counter. She unfolded the instructions and set aside the plastic gloves that were clearly far too big for her petite hands. She could do this. How hard could it be? If Melba DuMont could dye her hair with cherry tree bark and black tea leaves, then Velveteen Price could do it with this over the counter “salon approved” substitute. There had been nearly fifty boxes to choose from on her weekly supermarket excursion. It had taken her a little under an hour to choose the right color – Cocoa Blanket. The swatch on the side appeared to match her locks perfectly and guaranteed to cover the gray.
Velveteen carefully mixed the contents from bottle A into bottle B. She shook it until the white gel morphed into a foggy brown. She then proceeded to carefully massage the mix through her hair, starting with her roots and moving to the ends as the paper had instructed. She squirted the rest of the solution into the palm of her hand and smeared it generously across her scalp to add an extra layer of colorant to the roots. Velveteen lifted the instructions with her goop-smeared, blackened hand, set her timer for thirty minutes, and gasped as her eyes caught sight of the unused gloves. She quickly turned on the faucet with the back of her Cocoa Blanket covered hand. No! No! No! This couldn’t be right. She knew the taps could be temperamental. She turned the handle as far as it would go. Still nothing. Not even a drop.
Velveteen rushed to the kitchen and maneuvered to turn on the tap with her elbow – nothing. You’ve got to be kidding! She pulled open the refrigerator door and surveyed the possibilities – aha! Velveteen reached for the water pitcher with the disposable filter. Almost empty, but better than nothing – and surely the water would be turned on again soon. She removed the pitcher with her forearms, set it on the counter, squirted dish soap on her hands, and scrubbed. Hoping the dye had not set too long on her skin, she dumped the container of filtered water over her soapy appendages and watched as gray soap seeped down the drain. She reached for a hand towel, and to her relief, the palms of her hands were free of color, but when she flipped them over, that’s where the real damage had been done. Not only did the dye settle into a heavy black line underneath each fingernail, but also all ten nails were so dark she might as well have hit each one with a hammer.
Okay, nothing a little polish can’t cover. She hadn’t intended to break out her fall shades just yet, but desperate times called for pretty – and dark – polish. As she tried to remember where she had placed her tray of polishes, a slight beeping of an alarm echoed from the bathroom. Her heart stopped. She fled to the back of the house and stared in the mirror at the matted, wet, obsidian nest piled
on top of her hair.
Please let there be water. Please let there be water.
She rotated the knob. Drip.
CHAPTER 7
Velveteen reapplied a layer of lip-gloss, straightened the cushions on the couch, hid Charlie’s unsold items in the cupboard, and lit her second bergamot and lavender candle. This will have to do. She sighed.
There was a knock on the door. She checked her make-up in the mirror and adjusted the towel wrapped around her hair. She smiled and opened the door. Her eyes widened as Clover, Granny, and two girls she had not seen before holding milk jugs of water stepped across the threshold of the Toft house.
“Tofts, ugh!” The old woman flung her head back and then proceeded to thrust it forward with a hard spit on the floor.
“Granny!” Clover gasped.
“It’s all right.” It’s not. Velveteen steadied her footing, reminded herself the disinfectant was under the kitchen sink, and ushered them into the kitchen. “Thank you so much for coming. As you can see, I have gotten myself into a situation. Charlie is at the market, and I didn’t know who else to call. If you hadn’t given me your number last night –”
“We are happy to help. Granny closes up after lunch or when she sells out, and the girls were happy to get out of work today. I had just finished up my canning for the day when you called. Here, I hope you like tomatoes.” Clover handed Velveteen a mason jar of ruby red tomatoes. “Do you make salsa? They are great in chili too.”
Velveteen stared at the jar. Salsa? Chili? The woman in front of her was not only beautiful without a stitch of make-up but also found time to can foods and make homemade salsa while homeschooling five children. Velveteen felt oddly exposed in her under-education of home economics. She hoped Clover didn’t notice that she had forgotten to dust. Oh, and the bathroom. Please, Lord, don’t let them see my bathroom!
Granny interrupted her musings. “I shouldn’t be here; none of us should. Blackwells don’t associate with Tofts. We’re probably all going to catch something. Then we’ll get the runnin’ offs and die!”
“The runnin’ offs?” Velveteen asked reticently.
Clover’s face went sour and she shook her head.
“Oh! I see.” Velveteen smiled sweetly, forcing herself not to think of the old woman sitting on her commode. “Well, I guess it is a good thing I’m not a Toft. No, um, running offs from me!”
“Humph. No matter, one lived here and died… thank God, and good riddance.”
“Granny!” Clover snapped again.
“Thieves, the whole lot of them!”
“Granny, we’re here to help Velveteen, remember?”
“Velveteen. Like the fabric?” Granny chuckled.
Velveteen shifted on her self-pedicured feet. Was Granny making fun of her name? Because, if she was, she definitely had a few things she could say about the names coming out of those camper vans…
“These are my nieces Greer and Gavina,” Clover quickly added, changing the subject. The girls smiled.
“They’re both single.” Granny elbowed Velveteen in the side. “So, if you got anyone you can hitch them up to, that would be all right with me.”
“As long as they’re not Tofts, correct?” Velveteen laughed.
Granny frowned. “One should not joke about such things.”
“Well, I guess we should get to it. It’s my –” Velveteen unwrapped the towel from around her head, releasing a sticky mess of black matted hair. She cleared her throat, choking back tears. “My hair.”
Granny let out a cackle so loud Velveteen didn’t know whether to be offended or to laugh with her. “Oh, what a mess you’ve got yourself in, city girl! If the Tofts had taken better care of the place, you wouldn’t look like you’ve got yourself dipped in a pile of poo.”
Velveteen flopped down on the couch, making sure her hair didn’t make contact with the upholstery. What had she done? Why had she called them? Because I’m alone – alone in Coraloo.
Clover reached out her hand to Velveteen and helped her stand. “It’s not so bad. Let’s get you rinsed out.”
Velveteen hung her head over the sink as Clover and the girls poured icy cold water through her long locks. Clover reassured her it was going to be all right, but most of what she said was a blur through the gurgling sound of water and Cocoa Blanket chugging down the drain. She kept her eyes closed and ignored the pressure in her cheeks from all of the blood flowing to her face. She fought the tears; she tried hard to cry only in private places so no one would see – it was bad etiquette to draw that kind of selfish attention. But here, with her body slumped over the sink and a woman she had met less than twenty-four hours ago pulling clumpy black globs of color from her hair, she heaved quiet sobs.
Melba would be disappointed.
As if sensing her distress, Clover pressed her fingers into Velveteen’s scalp. The tension released from Velveteen’s shoulders, and the tightening in her neck vanished.
It took five gallons of water – two runs by Greer and Gavina a half-mile back up to the camper vans – until the water ran clear.
Clover handed her a dry towel. Velveteen draped it over her head in such a way as to hide her face. She privately wiped away the smudged mascara, and then twisted her wet hair into the towel. Clover stared at her sympathetically; Velveteen wished she hadn’t.
Velveteen excused herself, dried her hair, and took a minute to run a flat iron through her locks. It wasn’t so bad – much darker than her usual milk chocolate, but she could get used to it. She dabbed concealer under her puffy eyes and elongated her already long lashes with fresh mascara – mascara was a must on any occasion.
Much better. She took a slow, deep breath, practiced her smile in the mirror, and returned to the Blackwell ladies.
They were laughing, sitting comfortably around her designed-to-be-vintage kitchen table. They had made themselves at home – fixed their own coffee and poured glasses of water using the water they had brought with them. And was there something baking in the oven… blueberry maybe? She closed her eyes. It was exactly how she had imagined the ramshackle thatch-roofed quarters of Melba DuMont to smell.
Clover blew steam away from her mug of black tea. “Granny is making muffins.”
Velveteen looked curiously at the dirtied copper-mixing bowl in the sink. “I didn’t know I had the ingredients for muffins.”
“You don’t have ingredients for anything, missy!” Granny cackled.
“I don’t cook much.”
“You don’t say. Then why so many nice pans?”
“They were gifts.” She didn’t want to tell the woman they were going away presents from the ladies in the book club, and they were quite expensive, not to mention beautiful. She only kept them to add to the ambiance of her kitchen and never intended to use them. At one point, she considered giving them to Charlie for resale, but she couldn’t bear to part with them – not yet. They were new, shiny, and looked so nice arranged in the cupboard.
She changed the subject, noticing Clover had not a single gray strand among her ringlets. “You must have done this before.” Velveteen ran her fingers through her raven hair.
“Actually, no.”
“Oh.” Velveteen fought to keep her jaw in place, poured a cup of coffee, and joined the ladies, wondering how long they planned to stay in her tiny home. It was far bigger than the camper van – their cottage had rooms, a full size stove, and a place to eat that was not surrounded by crumb-hungry dogs, but today, it wasn’t big enough.
“All right, so out with it.” Granny set her cup down, placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her wrinkled hands, and glared at Velveteen.
“I’m sorry?”
“What are you doing here?”
Velveteen wished she could say her fortune had been whisked away by a villain who wore a long black cape – specifically the infamous Count Horace from her Melba DuMont novels – and she had been tragically banished to a life of service, but the Blackwells were no fools. As if t
he question had been an invitation to tell their life story, she openly spewed every inch of the past year all over the table. She left nothing out – the food trucks, the acquaintances, and even the macarons.
Velveteen had no trouble remembering the moment – four months after the Christmas party, on a Tuesday morning, surrounded by fourteen of the city’s most prestigious women. Her living room had smelled of bergamot and lavender, and the macarons from Francine’s on 5th perfectly complemented the turquoise and sage hues in the silk drapes. She had once told Charlie only ten percent of the book club was actually about the book; the other ninety percent was about the atmosphere. On that day they were to discuss the passage where Count Horace tosses Melba out in the street and tells her to never return. Melba then walks for four days until she faints in front of the farm of Raul Le Moge. Velveteen recalled trying so hard to connect her life with the heroine – internally telling herself Charlie would fix everything, that they would be okay. That day. The Rooning.
“I believe it is important we discuss Melba’s immediate reaction to her removal. Our heroine has been physically tossed out into the street and told by her uncle, Count Horace, to never return.”
The other women shook their heads and whispered words like “unbelievable” and “how could he?”
Velveteen continued. “If all of us could be as strong as Melba DuMont –”
The doorbell rang. The women seated proudly in her living room didn’t flinch.
“Excuse me.” She would have called for their housekeeper, Constance, but they had been forced to let her go the week before. Velveteen didn’t dare address the absence of their housekeeper to the other ladies.
She sauntered through the vestibule to the front door and casually opened it. On first appearance, the man in his khaki trousers and wrinkled white-collar shirt did not look much different than her regular deliveryman. Had she ordered something and forgotten about it? It used to happen all the time. But not now. Charlie had asked she keep her orders to necessities – and new pumps were not a necessity.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 6
