by Claire Cook
“When?”
“Ages ago,” I said. “Okay, yesterday. But I was a different person then. I’ve mellowed considerably.”
Sean Ryan reached over to get the coffee beaded up on Precious’s fur. Precious grabbed the handkerchief between her teeth and started shaking her head back and forth. Sean Ryan rolled over to his hands and knees, and they started playing tug-of-war.
Precious let go of the handkerchief and started scratching behind one ear. Sean Ryan and I both picked up our empty cups from the sand before they could blow all over the beach. “So,” he said. “Is there a story to the half-sister-and-husband thing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s now my ex-husband.”
“Well, that’s certainly succinct.”
I didn’t say anything.
He shrugged. “Okay, so what do you know about makeup that nobody else does? I mean, I’m not exactly well versed in the subject. But, say, can you just glance at people and see what would make them look better?”
“Oh, yeah. I do it constantly. It’s like a switch I can’t turn off. It’s as if people’s faces are hunks of clay, and I’d know just what I’d do with them if I were the sculptor.”
Sean Ryan nodded. “That’s good. Okay, say you had to put together a kit by next Saturday to teach people as much as you could about makeup. What would be in it?”
“Maybe a mirror. And some samples. And makeup brushes and disposable sponges. Ooh, and instructions for the best way to apply makeup—so many people don’t have a clue how to do it, or even the right order to apply products. And a diagram of a face, so I could write down what to put where, and what brands and colors would work for them.”
“Great,” Sean Ryan said. “And what would the kit itself look like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe kind of funky. I could use the netting you can get by the yard, you know, wrapped around and tied into a bow, maybe with a makeup brush tucked in. Or maybe it should be more of a clutch or a box or even a tote bag. I think I’ll know it when I find it.”
Precious started running down the beach. “I’m sure you will,” Sean Ryan said. He pushed himself up to a standing position and reached his hand down to me.
I took his hand, and he pulled me up. He had a nice strong grip, but his hand was a little bit dry. Ahava made a nice hand cream just for men, but nothing worked like your basic Bag Balm. The rest of his skin was in good shape though. The eyes might be the window to your soul, but the skin was the mirror of your health. Sean Ryan’s glowed like someone who took care of himself, inside and out. Maybe if I held on to his hand long enough, it would be catching.
“So now what?” I asked.
“So now you go put together a bunch of kits. I’m doing a college fair in Rhode Island a week from today. You can have half of my table.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Which half?”
He let go of my hand. I’d rolled up my black pants, since it was hot in the sun. I smoothed them back down. I had about five zillion pairs of black pants, and I was suddenly glad I wasn’t wearing any of the ones that bagged out in the back after I’d been sitting in them.
“Which half?”
I smiled. “I just like to be on the right side. Even the chair I use at the salons has to be on the right side of the others.”
“Are there any other unusual things I should know about you?”
I bent down and picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it as far as I could. Precious went flying after it, her brooch glistening in the setting sun. I kind of liked this dog thing. “Well, I never drink while I’m eating,” I said.
“You mean alcohol?”
I shook my head and bent down to pick up a sand dollar. I was really in the money today. “No, anything.”
Sean Ryan picked up another sand dollar and handed it right over to me. “Any particular reason? I mean, are we talking religion here? Superstition?”
“Nah, nothing like that. When we were kids, somebody was always spilling something, so we were never allowed to have drinks at the table. So now I just can’t do it.”
“Don’t you worry about dehydration?”
“No, I just drink a lot around meals.”
Sean Ryan nodded. “Ohh-kay,” he said slowly.
“Come on,” I said. “That’s not that strange. I bet there are all sorts of odd things about you.”
“Nope,” he said. “I’m completely normal.”
I shook my head. “Seriously doubtful.”
“Let’s see. I have to sleep on the right side of the bed, if that counts.” He looked at me. I looked at him.
Suddenly, it was as if my sex drive hit a roadblock. Maybe I was hormonally bipolar. And, not to mix modes of transportation, but I could see where this train was heading, and I was getting off at the next stop. The mere thought of going through all that again with a whole new person left me abruptly and completely exhausted.
I caught up to Precious and scooped her into my arms.
“Was it something I said?” Sean Ryan yelled after me.
I turned around. “Listen,” I yelled. “It doesn’t matter what side of the bed you sleep on, because we’re never going to sleep together. Got that?”
A couple walking along the beach in front of us turned around to look. Sean Ryan gave them a wave.
“For the record,” he said when he caught up to me, “I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me.”
“Yeah, right,” I said.
“I’m not even trying to sleep with you.”
“You’re not? Gee, thanks a lot.” I knew there had to be a way to get the conversation around to something else, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Sean Ryan held out his hands for Precious, and she jumped right over to him. She really did look like a flying squirrel. He held her up by his shoulder and started patting her back like he was burping a baby.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve already had a relationship with a recently divorced woman, and I am never going there again. So, how about you have a rebound relationship with some other guy and put him through hell. And in the meantime we can just be friends.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been divorced. And where do you get off telling me I need a rebound relationship or anything else? You’ve barely met me.”
He stopped burping Precious and shook his head. “Hey, do you want to go get some dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah, you know, the thing you eat at night? Without drinking anything?”
“What time is it?” I asked. I was suddenly afraid to look at my watch.
“I don’t know. It must be after six, though.”
I grabbed Precious out of Sean Ryan’s arms and got ready to run. “You don’t happen to remember how long wedding receptions last, do you?”
9
“HANDSOME HUNKA BURNING MAN, THAT BROTHER of yours,” Esther Williams said as Mario walked by. I’d made her up before I took her pink rollers out, so a little bit of teasing and spraying and she’d be good to go for at least another week.
“Sorry, Esther,” I said. “He’s already married to Todd.”
“They can do that now?”
“Sure they can. At least in Massachusetts. You know that.”
“Damn shame. Best darn husbands you could ever have, if you put the sex on a separate platter. Good dancers, snappy dressers, some of them can even cook. It worked just fine for years. I don’t know what all this new fuss is about. It’s hard enough finding an eligible husband, without the gay ones cutting in on your action.”
“Don’t let the dog eat the dye,” Vicky said behind me. I looked over my shoulder in the mirror at her.
“Good job, Vicky,” I said.
Vicky was one of the developmentally challenged young adults my father hired through Road to Responsibility. We were never quite sure whether he did it to impress my mother in case she happened to hear about it, or because he somehow got a tax break. But they were great to have aro
und. They swept the hair off the floor between customers and dusted the products on the shelves with a feather duster. They always came with a coach, who sat over in the waiting area and read magazines. If you asked me, the developmentally challenged young adults were far more productive than their coaches were.
Vicky was our favorite. She had long blond hair, alabaster skin, bow-shaped lips, and Down’s syndrome. She’d had so much coaching that she now coached herself out loud all day long. The best time was when she was in the bathroom. “Just get in and get out,” we’d hear her say through the closed door. “No fooling around in there. And wash your hands with soap.”
“Be gentle. Don’t squeeze the dog,” she was saying now. Precious had a row of tiny foils running down the center of her back, and it was Vicky’s job to make sure she didn’t figure out a way to get to them.
Mario finally noticed the foils on Precious. “Geez, Bella, now what are you doing? You shouldn’t even have a dog in here.”
“Dad said it was okay for her to be here,” I said, not that I’d actually asked him. “And tell Todd it didn’t cost us a cent. I had extra bleach left over from my last highlight client.”
“And the point would be?” Mario asked. Esther Williams put on her glasses to check out Mario, while I shook up a giant can of TIGI Bed Head Hard Head Hairspray.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She’s got that wiry terrier undercoat, and her fur’s kind of mousy. I just thought if she had a few highlights, it would tide her over until I can get her some more outfits. I finally got that bridesmaid dress off her. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy.”
Precious and I had spent most of Sunday and Monday trying to track down the Silly Siren family, but they’d disappeared, lock, stock, and loose cash. The contracts they’d filled out at the Olde Taverne and the Unitarian church where they’d been married were almost completely illegible.
Mario unhooked his BlackBerry from his belt, opened the leather case, and started pushing buttons with his thumbs. “You’ll probably get us shut down for animal testing,” he said. “And there’s a state law against even having dogs in salons, you know.”
“Oh, stop,” I said. “You’re such a drama queen. I read somewhere there’s still a Massachusetts blue law on the books prohibiting the transportation of ice, bees, and Irish moss on Sundays. I mean, how much of this stuff can you really worry about?”
“Hey,” Esther Williams said. “Did anybody tell you folks about the new salon going in across the street? Under the condos, right next to those dentists? Rumor at my tango class is they’re all gays.”
“It’s called The Best Little Hairhouse in Marshbury,” Mario said.
“Seriously?” I said.
Mario nodded. “You’re not planning to start cheating on us now, are you, Esther?”
Esther batted her fresh set of eyelashes. “You’d better keep a close eye on me, big boy.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Mario said. He turned to me. “Just don’t get attached, Bella. You know they’re going to come back for it eventually.”
I looked over at Precious. She was sitting quietly and offering a paw to Vicky. I couldn’t wait to finish up Esther so I could get those foils out before they damaged any fur. Good thing she was small enough to shampoo in one of the sinks, though I probably should do it in the utility sink in the back, instead of in one of the sinks we used for customers. At least if Mario was still here. And I’d use a good conditioner, maybe Redken All Soft Conditioner for Dry and Brittle Hair. And, after that, a touch of John Frieda SOS Magic Anti-Frizz Gloss Serum, just over the highlights, where she couldn’t lick it off.
“Oh, please,” I said. “I’m so not attached. I only bought a week’s worth of food for her. And she’s not an it, by the way. She’s a she.”
Mario looked up from his BlackBerry. “Just make sure you don’t bring her with you tonight.”
I started spraying Esther’s hair, and she started waving her hand back and forth in front of her face. “What’s tonight?” I asked.
“The senate candidates are debating live on Beantown at seven? Try reading your schedule once in a while, why don’t you.”
“Beantown isn’t my job. It’s…” I didn’t even want to say her name, so I just didn’t.
“Sophia can’t do both of them, Bella. Their people don’t want them in the same room before the debate. So they’re setting up a second green room.”
“No way. Send somebody else.”
“Bella, come on. I need you. You’ve already made up the governor, and we didn’t get a complaint.”
I realized I was still spraying Esther Williams, who was good to go for at least a month now, even in a hurricane. I put the hairspray down. I ran my hands through my own hair while I tried to think of a good way out. I couldn’t. “Okay, I’ll do it. As long as I don’t have to be in the same room as you know who. And I want the good candidate this time.”
“Bella, come on. Sophia’s been doing him for years.”
“I’m not even going to touch that line, Mario.”
Mario grinned. “Okay. Let me see what I can do.”
I unfastened the Velcro on Esther Williams’s cape and lifted it off her. Mario put his hand under her elbow as she stood, and she tilted her head up so she could gaze into his eyes. Precious came bouncing over to me. I swooped down and picked her up.
“All right, I’ll do it,” I said. “As long as you and Todd are available to babysit.”
“Bella, it’s a dog. You can leave it alone for a few hours.”
I started to take out Precious’s foils. “Nonnegotiable,” I said.
I WAS PISSED. LEAVE IT TO SOPHIA to get in there first and spread out her stuff all over the place and completely take over the real makeup room. It was only about the size of a medium walk-in closet, but it was connected to the green room at the public television station that produced Beantown. It had a long rectangular vanity that took up the entire length of one wall. The vanity had a strip of fairly decent lighting up near the ceiling, and there was even a hydraulic chair, plus an extra regular chair in the corner to put stuff on. The doorway was positioned in such a way that you could watch TV at the same time you were doing makeup, and there was even a coffeemaker.
I, on the other hand, had been shuttled down the hall to a makeshift green room. And not only that, but it was in the men’s bathroom, or at least almost in the men’s bathroom. It was actually a small room that was a walk-through to the men’s bathroom. It was about half the size of the real makeup room, with a row of small school-like lockers on one wall and a short counter with a dirty mirror over it on the opposite wall. Lousy lighting. No television. No coffeemaker. Mario would be hearing about this, that was for sure.
I went stomping back down the hall to get a chair, because of course it didn’t even have one of those. If Sophia hadn’t been sitting in the hydraulic chair, staking her claim, I would have just commandeered that and dragged it down the hallway, but I couldn’t be bothered dumping her out of it first. I grabbed the chair in the corner.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
“Not from you,” I said.
I carried the chair back to my makeshift dungeon. I waited. I waited some more. Finally, the senator-running-for-reelection came walking down the hallway with his people. My dungeon door was open, of course, because I probably would have suffocated to death in there if I tried closing it.
I stuck my head through the doorway and gave them my most dazzling smile. “Hi,” I said. “I’m all set for you in here.”
The senator-running-for-reelection just kept walking. His people kept walking, too. One of them, possibly the bodyguard, looked over at me briefly. It was hard to tell if he was checking me out because I looked good or because I was a potential security threat.
I leaned sideways against the doorframe and watched them head for the real green room, the real makeup room, and Sophia. She always got everything. It was completely unfair. And the most awful part about it was that I
was probably the one responsible for it. I was pretty sure I had turned Sophia into the person she’d become.
I was twelve, right in the midst of that quick little window of time that’s the golden age for babysitters, when Sophia was born. A few years earlier and I would still have been too much of a kid myself. A couple years later and I would have moved on to chasing boys.
I was obsessed with her. I changed her, bathed her, fed her, dressed her up like a doll, pushed her all over the neighborhood in her stroller. I ignored her mother, my father’s new wife. I might have even seen myself as Sophia’s real mother, or at least her minimom.
Sophia’s eyes lit up every time I walked in the door to my father’s house from school. Divorce wasn’t yet the norm back then, and my mother had taken the even more unusual step of moving out of the family home. She bought a small house in a neighboring town, closer to college for her, but in a lesser school district.
Mario, Angela, and I spent most nights at her house. Angela and I were jammed into one tiny bedroom in bunk beds, and Mario had an even tinier room all to himself. Dinner, homework, bed, then breakfast. Then she drove us to school in Marshbury. After school, we took the school bus home to our old rooms and old father, his latest new wife, and eventually, Sophia. I gladly gave up half my room, and at least half my life, to her.
Mario was eleven months older than I was, and Angela thirteen months younger. Either Mario and I or Angela and I would have been considered Irish twins. Put us all together, and I guess we were pseudo Italian Irish triplets. Mario spent most of his time ignoring me, and I spent most of my time ignoring Angela, who spent most of her time ignoring our younger half sister, Tulia.
So Sophia, the youngest, got all my attention. I put ribbons in her hair, nail polish on her toes, taught her to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and to play “Trot Trot to Boston.” And when I outgrew the babysitting years, my friends and I still let her go everywhere with us. Shopping, football games, at least the first few hours of every sleepover.
Somewhere along the line, I think I ruined her. She looked like me, she dressed like me, she acted like me. I went to UMass to major in art, and then twelve years later, so did she. I circled back to work for my father after a brief stop at Blaine Beauty School. Eventually, so did she.
