A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  “Five more minutes,” Mr. Sheehan said, then bustled off.

  The front door opened and Norris Gallagher walked in, looking like a skinny Jesus. He wore a white Izod shirt, white shorts, and white tennis shoes. He was all legs and eyes. A few strands of hair protruded from his bald head. How could a salon help this man?

  As his gaze circled the room, I slid off my chair and ran to the bathroom. My hair gave off a tart smell that burned my throat. I lowered the toilet lid and perched on the edge. Surely Norris wouldn’t require a shampoo. He’d be gone in five minutes, right?

  I cracked open the door and breathed clean air. A beautician was shaping Dot’s bangs into long question marks. Across the room, Norris sat in a chair, facing the mirror. A girl with a nose ring crouched behind him, shaving the back of his neck. Mr. Sheehan stood in the middle of the store, his hands splayed on his hips.

  “Where’s Teeny?” he asked.

  “The bathroom,” Dot said.

  Norris turned his head, and the nose-ring girl shrieked, “Yikes, don’t move. I almost sliced off your ear.”

  I shut the door and locked it. I heard the clickety-click of Mr. Sheehan’s shoes. “Time’s up, doll,” he called.

  “I’m sick.”

  “Would you rather be sick or bald?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You need rinsing. Or you’ll look like an extra in Night of the Living Dead.”

  “One minute!”

  “I’ll give you two. After that, I can’t be responsible for what happens.”

  I cringed. Can’t be responsible for what? I knew about perms—they were, oddly enough, a cure for uncontrollably curly hair—but hair straightening was a new concept. Did I need a neutralizer?

  I bolted to the sink and rinsed my hair. Fumes curled up, tart and peppery. Spots churned behind my eyelids. I lifted my chin, and water slid down my neck. I gulped a mouthful of formaldehyde. Where was my inhaler? In my purse. And my purse was next to Mr. Sheehan’s chair. I gagged. Now I knew why formaldehyde had been banned.

  Mr. Sheehan banged on my door. What’s going on?”

  “You said to rinse,” I called. “So I rinsed.”

  “You need a neutralizer. Or you’ll end up fried.” The doorknob spun. “Open up.”

  Which was worse—a singed scalp or a face-off with Norris? I thought of Zee Quinn and her hand on his private parts. Then I imagined the shocked look on Irene O’Malley’s face when she opened the door and saw my bald head.

  “I can’t hear you,” I yelled.

  I heard Mr. Sheehan walk off. “Dot?” he yelled. “What’s wrong with your friend? Is it that time of the month?”

  I looked in the mirror. I was a dead ringer for Samara, the demon girl from The Ring. All I lacked was a dirty white nightgown and a stone well. Samara wasn’t dead, she was just pissed off. Even demons have bad hair days. I pictured her slithering through a television set, her grimy hands scrabbling against the floor. All she wanted was a comb, maybe a detangling lotion, and Mr. Sheehan better have it or else.

  Outside my door, the footsteps returned, pounding out a coming to get you rhythm. A scratchy-scrapy noise started up, as if Mr. Sheehan were dragging a fingernail file over the wooden door. The door came off the hinges. Mr. Sheehan set it aside, as if it were no heavier than a curler. He pulled me out of the bathroom, towed me to a sink, and rinsed my head, all the while talking about baldness and chemical breakage. Finally, he shut off the water.

  “Oh, my god. Oh. My. God.”

  I raised up, water pattering down the front of my plastic cape, and turned. In the bottom of the sink, a blond rat’s nest clogged the drain.

  “Am I bald?” I cried.

  “You’ve still got plenty of hair. Don’t stress it and maybe it won’t fall out.”

  A towel engulfed my head. I shoved it out of my eyes as he led me past Dot and a goggle-eyed Norris. Mr. Sheehan pushed me into a chair and turned on a blow dryer.

  When he finished, my hair was flat as roadkill. When the Lord had given me curly hair, He’d known what He was doing because it had suited my round face. Now, sleek, honey-colored panels fell past my shoulders, accentuating my flat head and the signature Templeton ears.

  Mr. Sheehan spun my chair around. Norris’s chair was empty. Dot stood off to the side, patting her freshly coiffed head. “Poor Teeny. Let me treat you to a pedicure. You’ll really need one now.”

  “Later,” I said. “I’m on a bad-beauty roll.”

  The nose-ring girl swept up Norris’s hair. It resembled wild rice. I looked over at Dot. “How well do you know Norris Philpot?”

  “Well enough. He chased every nurse at Bonaventure Regional. He hates me because I reported him to administration.”

  “Norris and I grew up together,” Mr. Sheehan said. “He drank from a sippy cup too long and it ruined his mouth.”

  “A sippy cup wouldn’t do that,” Dot said. “Unless he sucked it until he was twenty.”

  Mr. Sheehan lifted a hunk of my hair. “If you hadn’t pulled this stunt, your hair would’ve had a little oomph.”

  I rose from the chair and a blond clump drifted to the floor.

  “Don’t comb it,” Mr. Sheehan said. “Don’t wear a ponytail. Don’t even look at it, and maybe it won’t fall out.”

  On my way back to the truck, Norris popped around the corner of the building. His scalp gleamed in the noon sun. His whole head had been shaved.

  “Hello, Teeny,” he said. “Your eyeth are tho pretty.”

  Eyeth. A chill ran through me. Was he selling body parts or collecting corneas as souvenirs? I gave him a wide berth, but he stepped in front of me.

  “Let me take you to dinner.”

  Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. “I’m engaged. And I’m in a hurry.”

  “What a cute non thqueter.” A raptor claw dropped in front of his crotch. “You make me tingle.”

  I ran to my truck, climbed inside, and drove home with the windows rolled down, praying the air would blow off the formaldehyde stench. Loose blond strands blew around me like tiny worms. The odor was still with me by the time I stepped onto the porch and checked my Scotch tape booby trap. It was intact, unlike my hair.

  When I got inside, Sir trotted down the hall, grunting to himself. I thought I’d put him in the parlor, but the pocket doors gaped open. He looked up at me, twisted his head, then howled until spittle flew out of his mouth.

  “Knock it off. It’s your mother.” I checked all the doors and windows. They were locked. But I didn’t feel safe in this house. On my way to the foyer, I stopped in front of the hall mirror. I looked like somebody had poured a bucket of honey over my head. Ignoring Mr. Sheehan’s advice, I gathered the stiff strands, trying to shape them into a ponytail. They immediately sprang out.

  Great, just what I needed. Rigor mortis hair. At least it wasn’t a climatic disaster like in Day After Tomorrow. Or flesh-eating bacteria. In a few months, I’d be my old, frizzy self.

  Unless someone was hiding upstairs. No, that was foolish. I didn’t know what kind of car Norris drove, but when I’d sped down Savannah Highway, a Mercedes with tinted windows had passed my truck. He could have parked it behind the barn. I remembered how easily Emerson had slipped through the kitchen door, and I felt sick to my stomach. It would be a relief to hide out in a fortress.

  I fastened the leash to Sir’s collar, then I grabbed the peach basket.

  “Come, Innocent One,” I said. “Time to face Momzilla.”

  twenty-one

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I turned onto Mississippi Avenue. The O’Malleys’ white house faced Hanover Square, and tourists were taking photographs of the spitting fountains and the Revolutionary War–era sundial.

  A plump, elderly woman met me on the front porch. She had silver, chin-length hair, and her straight bangs were held back by rhinestone barrettes. She wore a Rolling Stones t-shirt and black leggings. Her tennis shoes looked as if she’d rolled them in glitter, and they were ti
ed with green organdy ribbons. In each arm she gripped a barking Chihuahua.

  “Y’all quit yapping,” she cried in a shrill, nasal voice. The Chihuahuas fell silent and trembled. The woman turned to me, her silver-blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m Minnie O’Malley. You must be Teeny.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you.” I held the peach basket in one hand, Sir’s leash in the other. He shrank away from the Chihuahuas, his nails scratching over the brick porch.

  “God love him,” Minnie said. “He looks like a manatee. Can I give him a treat?”

  Without waiting for my reply, she shifted both Chihuahuas to her right arm and pulled a cheese cube out of her pocket. The Chihuahuas whimpered.

  “Hush, or I’ll feed you to the bulldog,” she told them. She leaned over and waved the cheese in front of Sir’s nose. He gave her a rapturous look. She fit the cube gingerly into his mouth, then she raised up.

  “Come on in and get out of this heat,” she said, and pulled me into the foyer.

  I’d been on Coop’s porch before, and in his backyard, but I’d never set foot inside his house. The foyer was large and airy, with a black-and-white checkerboard floor and a curved staircase. Minnie sniffed. “I smell peaches.”

  I lifted the basket. “Elbertas.”

  “What’s that other smell?” Minnie asked. “Have you been to the hair salon?”

  “Why, yes ma’am. I just left the Tartan Hair Pub.”

  The Chihuahuas sneezed. “Caesar and Cleo have delicate lungs,” Minnie said. “Hold on while I put them up.”

  She turned into an arched hallway. I immediately began looking around. A burled grandfather clock stood on one wall and emitted an irregular click, like a faulty heart valve. Next to the stairs, an ornate gold table held a cherub clock. Off to my right, French doors opened into an oak-paneled study, where antique clocks were lined up on the mantel, all of them ticking out of rhythm.

  I looked down at Sir. “No wonder Coop is always worried about the time,” I whispered. The dog ignored me and gazed toward the hall. The Chihuahuas howled in the distance. Minnie rounded a corner and smiled.

  “Well, what do you think of Irene’s décor?” she asked.

  “Pretty,” I said.

  “Huh, it looks like she robbed a Horchow outlet. You don’t want to see this place at Christmas. Lights on the roof and in the windows. It’s enough to cause corneal abrasions.”

  She squinted at my hands. “Well?” she said. “Where is the O’Malley diamond?”

  Something in her tone made me think of the Hope Diamond and its bloody history. I lifted the chain and dragged out the ring.

  “Welcome to the family!” She flung her arms around me. My hair slung forward, releasing toxic puffs.

  She drew back. “The diamond is an O’Malley heirloom, but the pearls are new. Did Coop tell you the story behind them?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why, that bugger. My grandson can be such a coward. He’s probably afraid you’ll laugh at his story. A little fear is acceptable, but cowardice is dorky. I’m misquoting Ghandi, but what the hell.”

  I didn’t care who’d she’d quoted. I already loved Minnie-of-the-Ring.

  She leaned closer. “If I tell you about the pearls, you’ve got to swear on Mary Magdalene and the saints that you won’t repeat me. Because one day Coop will tell you this story, and he hates it when I preempt him. So you’ll need to act real surprised or he’ll know I beat him to the punch.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  She tucked her arm through mine and pulled me toward the hallway. “When he was six, the whole family went to Sea Island for my birthday—we’ve got a little place there. We ate raw oysters for lunch. They’re the food of love and sex, you know. Anyway, Coop found two pearls inside the shells. Fat Irene wanted to make them into earrings, but when she discovered that one pearl was smaller, she lost interest.”

  When Minnie had attached “fat” to “Irene,” I’d almost laughed, but I caught myself in time. I lifted the necklace and studied the ring. One pearl was definitely larger. Why hadn’t Coop told me? He knew I loved family stories, mine and everyone else’s.

  “Coop gave the pearls to me,” Minnie was saying. “I had the O’Malley diamond reset. I promised Coop that when he grew up and fell in love, I’d give the ring to his bride. I can’t tell you how many women he’s been through. I thought for sure Ava would wear my ring. It would’ve fit her big, British finger. But it stayed on mine. Now it’s hanging around your sweet, little neck. Well, I see why. You’re a dainty thing. Small boned like a Chihuahua. But prettier.”

  I cupped the ring in my hand, trying to decode Minnie’s words. Coop hadn’t loved Ava enough to give her the O’Malley ring? I moved under the chandelier, and light glanced off the diamond. The stone seemed to say, No, Coop didn’t give Ava the ring. But he didn’t tell you about the pearls. His failure to share this story wasn’t a lie, but it felt like an important omission.

  “This is an epic occasion,” Minnie said. “And it calls for a drink.”

  She led me and Sir into Dracula’s library. Oil paintings hung on the bloodred walls, each canvas featuring ruined castles and rabid dogs. Through the bay window, a swimming pool reflected streaking clouds.

  I sat down on a white silk sofa, and Sir flopped down on my feet. Minnie walked to a coffin-like bar. The shiny, black granite counter was empty except for a potted shamrock, its leaves folded tightly, as if praying that someone would remember to water it.

  “What’s your poison, Teeny? We got everything.”

  “I’m not sure.” I glanced at the shelves behind her, where liquor bottles and crystal glasses were lined up according to shape and size. My gaze stopped on an oak keg. They had Guinness on tap?

  “I’m in the mood for a dirty martini,” she said. “Want one?”

  “Please.” I set the peach basket on the coffee table. Minnie dropped ice into the martini glasses. She lifted a pitcher and dribbled water over the cubes.

  “So, tell me,” she said. “Is Coop a good lover?”

  She set the glasses inside a small freezer. I’d never discussed sex with an older woman, not even Aunt Bluette. So I ignored the question.

  “Oh, come on. It’s just us girls.” Minnie poured olive juice, vermouth, and gin into a shaker. “One time I took a Magic Marker and wrote I Love You with My Whole Heart, Body, and Soul on Jack O’Malley Senior’s tallywacker. I signed my full name, too, Mary Francis Minerva Donoghue O’Malley. Jack was my husband.”

  She crossed herself, then a smile lit up her wrinkled face. “Could you write that on my grandson’s privates?”

  “With room to spare,” I said.

  “I’m not one bit surprised.” Minnie laughed. She opened the freezer, dumped the cubes and water into the shamrock, then she finished making our drinks. She put them on a tray and walked toward me, her tennis shoes sparkling.

  “The key is to drink fast.” She handed me a glass, then lifted hers. “May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty.”

  “Here’s to Irish men,” I said.

  “Amen.” She downed her drink and burped. Then she walked back to the bar. “Want a refill?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Yeah, you better stay sober or Fat Irene will get pissed.” She mixed another martini. “I never understood why Jack Junior left the Church to marry a frigging Baptist. And a preacher’s daughter to boot. It broke my heart.”

  “I’m Baptist,” I said a little defensively.

  “So is Coop.” Minnie shrugged. “I’m not against all Protestants, even if they do everything ass backward. I’m against Fat Irene. She is so full of herself. Why, she acts like she’s discovered the cure for bird flu.”

  Minnie refilled her glass. “Fat Irene is only fifty-eight, but she’s in bad shape. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, and highfalutin ways. She eats way too much salt and sugar. She’s got type two diabetes. She’s taking the pills now. But she doesn’t test her sugars an
d she doesn’t eat right. She’ll be on the shots pretty soon. I’d like to take a needle and stick her in the butt myself.”

  “I didn’t know she was ill.”

  “My gripe isn’t her health,” Minnie said. “My gripe is her personality. Can’t blame diabetes on meanness. People say she’s paranoid about burglars, but she’s really a control freak. And she’s too law-abiding. When Coop was eight years old, she made him memorize Robert’s Rules of Order. She taught him to make lists, too.”

  “He still makes them,” I said. “The front of his refrigerator is crammed with Post-it notes.”

  “Poor kid was a nervous wreck. When he was little, Fat Irene was always yelling at Jack Junior. Pitching fits. Breaking the crystal. I’m not saying Jack Junior was a saint. He might have fooled around with a nurse or two. But he was a good father.”

  I sat up straight. The O’Malleys had been dysfunctional? “Dr. O’Malley was a ladies’ man?” I asked.

  “And a workaholic. I thought for sure Jack Junior and Irene would get a divorce. Apparently Coop did, too. He became the perfect son. Never gave them a bit of trouble. Followed every rule. He thought if he behaved, his parents wouldn’t fight.”

  “He’s still trying to be perfect.” I traced my finger over the rim of my glass.

  “Yes, he’s a Boy Scout.”

  “I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout.”

  “Did you have a slew of badges?”

  “Just one. The Make It, Eat It badge.”

  “Coop had every single one.” Minnie sighed. “Fat lot of good it did him. Those badges were a bunch of crap. But I can’t blame the Boy Scouts for the way Coop turned out. You know his big failing?”

  Situational ethics, I thought. When he gets into a sticky spot, he lies. I started to nod, then shook my head.

  Minnie plucked the olive from her glass and tossed it over her shoulder. “He equates being wrong with being bad. He thinks nobody will love him if he screws up.”

  “I’ll love him.”

  “His ex-wife said that, too. Don’t worry, I’m not Ava’s fan. Never was. I knew from the get-go they’d never make it.” Minnie frowned. “But poor Coop got swept into all that British bullshit. Ava’s people go back to William the Conqueror. She tried to dominate Coop. But you’re wearing the ring. You know what it says? His heart is yours. If you want it.”