by Lynn Shurr
Framed pictures of his football exploits decorated the walls above a selection of sports and fishing magazines months and years out of date. As Joe well knew, they covered the girlie magazines that made Ike’s place popular with teen boys despite being so uncool. The air smelled of the talcum powder the elderly barber brushed on the shaved necks of his all male customers and not of the scented shampoos and hairspray in unisex salons. His daddy still came here once a month for the same cut he’d worn all his life. Only Ike occupied the shop today. The other two chairs were rented out to barbers who worked hours busier than a Monday morning, busy being a relative term. With his bifocals on the end of his nose, Ike sat in one of the chairs reading yesterday’s paper, but he pushed up when Joe entered his shop. Were the barber’s hands shaking just a little? Didn’t matter for what Joe had in mind.
“Why Joe Dean Billodeaux, I swear you haven’t been in here since college. Your daddy keeps me up with all your doings, though.” Ike gestured to the publicity stills framed on the walls. “I tell everyone how I give you your first haircut and how you cried.”
“Did not!” Joe stopped himself.
Ike had a twinkle in his faded blue eyes. Born Harold Eisenhower, of course he’d been nicknamed Ike after the president and general. The man’s hair had long since thinned and turned white, but his sense of humor remained intact. He’d learned the Cajun patois from a grandmother and could tell a pretty risqué joke the in local French, another reason he remained popular with older men. “Got ya!”
“You sure did, Ike. Do me a favor and shave my head.”
“Why, you got the ringworm? The ladies are gonna be so, so sad when they see you’re going bald.”
“No ringworm! I’m doing summer training right now. The heat is getting to me.”
Joe wouldn’t allow Nell’s illness to become the subject of barbershop gossip. She’d lose her hair to chemo, but she wouldn’t be alone. This is how a real man showed his support. He took a seat in one of the chairs. Ike flourished a plastic cape over his clothes and plugged in a pair of clippers. The barber started in the back. The floor became host to small piles of black hair spangled with silver. Ike kept up a professional chatter.
“You know this place used to be a beauty parlor way back, Irma’s Kuts and Kurls. I bought it out in the Sixties from Irma’s daughter and everyone says to me, bad time to open a barbershop, but not so much around here. Not too many hippies in Louisiana. Now the Eighties, those were some good times for the mustache trims.” Ike worked his clippers up the sides of Joe’s head until only a short Mohawk remained down the center. “Maybe you want to keep this. It’s real stylish right now.”
Entirely spitless with shock, Joe managed to get out a, “No, take it all off.” Jesus, his ears looked huge.
Ike worked the clippers from the back. The last to fall—Joe’s single unruly curl. It landed in his lap. “You mind if I keep the clippings? They’re gonna be worth something if you get that fifth Super Bowl this season. Think you got a chance? Or do you want to take them pretties home to your mama like last time?” Again the wicked twinkle in the eye as Ike dusted his customer’s shoulder with a whisk.
Joe fingered the fallen curl. “Keep all of it except this. You got a bag I can put it in?”
“Sure thing. You want a wax and buff, too?”
“I—ah…” Joe had no idea if Ike joked again. “No, gotta get going. What do I owe you?”
“Fifteen dollars, but I can retire on locks of your hair if you win this year.”
“Count on it,” Joe said, barely hearing his own words. His head appeared white as brand new soccer ball against the rest of his darker complexion.
Ike broomed the clippings into a dustpan and slid them into a large plastic bag. He handed Joe a smaller one for the curl and accepted a twenty, no change wanted. Joe walked out into the eighty-degree heat of a late July Louisiana morning. Sweat instantly beaded on his bald head. He made a dash for his truck and raced it to one of the Dollar Stores that had popped up on the outskirts of Chapelle. He wouldn’t chance being seen in the Walmart this way. Couldn’t go in that place without meeting six people you knew.
The store carried Sinners gear. Every place in town did, even the Winn-Dixie and the new art gallery. The black knit cap with the Sinners red devil logo on it cost more than a dollar. He picked two off the rack, tucked them under his arm and headed for the goal line, the cashier at the front of the store. Christ in heaven, here came Miss Lolly and Miss Maxine, the biggest gossips in town, beating him to the counter with a buggy full of cheap canned goods. Joe jammed one of the caps down over his head before they saw who they cut off at the checkout.
“Joe Dean Billodeaux, is that you? Fancy meeting Nadine’s rich son in a Dollar Store.”
“Miss Lolly, Miss Maxie. I can’t resist a bargain just like you.”
Miss Lolly nodded. Her red-lacquered hair did not move an inch. She addressed the bored black woman at the counter who waited for the old ladies to unload their cart. “I remember the day we did a novena with Nadine praying for a son. That’s his mama, Nadine. She already had four girls. Joe Dean Billodeaux would not be on this earth if it weren’t for us.”
“Uh-huh,” the clerk said laconically. Not a football fan evidently. Good.
Joe helped them unload the cans as fast as he could. Sweat trickled down his neck from under the knit cap with the price tag hanging from the side. The cashier shoved baked beans and canned corn into plastic sacks. Joe reloaded the filled bags into the cart as Miss Lolly fumbled with a change purse containing a wad of one dollar bills. She counted out the total carefully.
Joe intervened with a debit card he knew had at least five-hundred dollars on it. “Let me get this, ladies. Add on these two hats. I want to wear the one I got on home, so just scan the other twice, okay?”
“Fine by me.” The cashier swiped the card and waited for the results.
“Don’t the Sinners give you caps, Joe Dean?” Miss Lolly said.
“Ah, yes, but I like these better.” The cheap acrylic made his head itch. He refrained from scratching. No sense in encouraging ringworm rumors.
Meanwhile, Miss Maxine with her unlikely shoe polish black hair and sharp dark eyes to match stared at his head. “I never realized what big ears you have, Joe Dean. Wouldn’t have noticed before my cataract surgery.”
All the better to see you with, my dear. The words from Little Red Riding Hood came to his mind. How many times had he read that one to the kids and then played the wolf with them afterwards?
She turned toward the clerk. “You know what they say about men with big ears, or is it big thumbs or big feet?”
The cashier, a big white grin decorating her face, returned Joe’s debit card. Miss Lolly tittered and informed her, “Joe Dean has nothing to prove. He has ten children.”
“Three are adopted and one is Nell’s niece.” Why did he hastened to say this? Perhaps because the clerk now looked at him as if he were a wife abuser. “Here let me push your buggy for you ladies. Did you call a cab?”
“No, we drove as usual. The big, black one over there.” Miss Maxine pointed a witch-like finger at an elderly Lincoln Continental the size of a small ocean liner. It held its own among the SUVs, trucks, and sub-compacts on the lot.
“T-Bob gave us a very good price on it after Miss Lilliane died. It has hand controls, you know. Still lots of good years on it, Aldus Thibodeaux says, if we change the oil regularly. Of course, mostly we use it for church and the grocery store.”
Miss Lolly opened the vast trunk with a key, something he hadn’t seen in a while. Joe stashed the bags inside and slammed it shut. “You have a good day, ladies.”
“Such a nice boy,” Miss Maxine said.
“He wasn’t always,” Miss Lolly replied in a whisper loud enough to startle a few birds off the electrical wires.
Her hearing must be going. Joe could have sworn the old women were past eighty when Dean came into the world, but he must have been mistaken or they
would be in heaven or elsewhere criticizing their fellow man or woman by now. He hurried to his truck eager to get on the road before they did. One more stop, and he’d return to the clinic later than he wanted having run into this pair.
Back in town, he parked on the church lot and cut across the street to Pommier’s bakery, hoping and praying they still had some hot beignets left. Nell seldom ate greasy foods, but Joe knew women facing chemo should build themselves up prior to treatment. He wasn’t the first man on the Sinners team to have a wife with cancer. Last year, huge Demetrious Mallet, his new nose guard—the replacement for Calvin Armitage who retired after a remarkable twenty years in the NFL—sobbed in the locker room when he learned his wife had breast cancer. The Demon already had a shaved head and could not make the grand gesture, but his wife survived. So would Nell.
Joe made sure the cap covered the top half of his ears before entering the shop. He asked the squat, swarthy baker, “You have half a dozen beignets left, LeJeune?”
“Only what I put aside for myself before I go home to get some sleep. We got petit fours and pig ear pastries.”
“No, thanks. Nell hasn’t been eating much lately. I wanted to tempt her with something special.”
“She can have mine absolutely free. She does good work over at the clinic. Never takes a payment. She treated my mama for depression after I got married.”
“I don’t want to take your breakfast.”
“Hey, I got a whole bakery to choose from, me. I’ll put ’em in a bag.”
LeJeune Pommier handed over a white paper sack already showing grease spots on its bottom. The scent of an inch of powdered sugar coating the donuts wafted from the opening.
“You tell Miss Nell to enjoy from me.”
“I appreciate it.”
Last stop, the clinic. Leaving the beignets in the truck, he went inside to find Nell already sitting in Mintay’s office. “Sorry I took so long.”
A little testy, Nell replied, “Why are you wearing that ridiculous hat with a dangling price tag? It’s supposed to go up to ninety-eight today. I told Mintay to take another patient since you were late.”
Joe avoided the hat question. “How did the examination go?”
“She did a pelvic exam, collected blood and urine. Asked about my symptoms like any doctor.”
“And?”
“She had her doctor face on. I couldn’t tell a thing.”
Dr. Green, also known as Mrs. Rev Bullock in the community, bustled in with her white lab coat flying open. Her black hair always worn in a short, practical bob swung a little with her momentum. She kept herself trim and tried in vain to downsize her husband, a former cornerback with the Sinners. To Joe, her green eyes set in a light mocha complexion appeared amused. A slight smile curved her lips. His optimism bubbled up the way it did when his team was two scores down, but he knew they could still win. He clenched Nell’s hand harder than intended and ground her small bones together. Intent on the verdict, she didn’t flinch.
“I am going to recommend you see a specialist.”
Nell’s shoulders slumped. “Should we consider aggressive treatment at MD Anderson?” she asked, mentioning the awesome cancer treatment center in Houston.
“I don’t think so. You might want to consult Dr. Stewart at Ochsner since he delivered the triplets. Nell, I am ninety-nine percent sure you’re pregnant. I used one of the test kits we keep on hand for worried teenagers. It came up positive, but I suspected as much.” Mintay’s smile burst forth radiant with joy with for her friend. “Congratulations.”
“But, I’m sterile from my previous cancer treatments. This can’t be.”
“I can only say the human body is still a mystery. Maybe all those hormone treatments you had for in vitro jumped-started something in your system.”
“Not possible. The triplets are ten. Too many years have passed. I’m almost forty. This is absurd.”
“Sometimes as we near the end of our reproductive life, a woman’s body will go into overdrive as if it wants one last chance. Usually, I warn my patients to take extra precautions once they get to forty. In your case, I thought that was unnecessary. Must have been that wild week you and Joe had in New Mexico, both of you all relaxed and loosened up. No responsibilities or children around.” Mintay issued a small sigh. “How I’d like to snatch Rev away from his congregation for a week of heaven. Ain’t gonna happen. Last time we managed a getaway we went to Samoa for Adam and Winnie’s wedding five years ago.”
“You want more than three children? I thought you and Rev had completed your family.” Nell massaged the hand Joe had crushed.
“Lord, no! I only want what leads up to them with no interruptions.”
“Could I ask a question here? When is her due date?” Sweat trickled down the side of Joe’s face.
“Mid-February, I’d guess. The obstetrician will give you a firmer time after his exam.”
“Good, not Super Bowl week then.”
“No, unless she is carrying twins again, and that is a possibility. Nell is larger than most women this far along if she conceived in June, and older women have twins more often. They frequently come early as you know.”
Joe shivered. Nell put a hand to his forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have chills and fever? Is that why you’re wearing the dumb hat?”
“No, I had a frisson, me. I tell you number eleven and twelve are on the way exactly like Madame Leleux predicted.”
Nell removed her hand abruptly. “Not that old woman again!”
“We can do an ultrasound next week if you want,” Mintay suggested. “Settle it once and for all.”
“I know already.” Joe swiped the knitted cap from his head and mopped his face with it. Both women stared, then burst into unrestrained, nearly hysterical laughter.
“What have you done, Joe?” Nell pulled a tissue from the box on Mintay’s desk and blotted her eyes.
“I wanted to show you my support if you had cancer.” He took the little snack baggie from his shirt pocket. “I saved my last curl for you. I thought I’d go to LeClerc’s jewelry store and find a gold locket to put it in. Then, you’d have part of me to hold whenever you went for treatments. You know I don’t dance around in the pocket too long. I either throw or go. This time I went too far.”
Nell transferred to his lap and put her arms around his neck. “You are the most amazing, loving man.” She followed that statement with a long-lasting kiss to his lips that made the doctor squirm with discomfort.
“I could put the two of you in an examination room if you can’t wait to get home,” Mintay suggested wryly.
“No, thanks. We can wait, but I’d still like to have that locket in case you aren’t around when the babies come, Joe.”
“I will be. I swear it.”
“Don’t swear. We can’t imagine what life will bring us.”
“That’s for sure true. Too bad Madame Leleux is dead, but we could ask her granddaughter.”
“No, thanks. She might see more than twelve children in our future.”
Joe set Nell on her feet more carefully than he’d handled her when he thought she had cancer. He leaned across the desk and gave Mintay a kiss on the cheek that might have made the mild-tempered Rev jealous. “Thanks for the good news. Let’s go buy a locket, Tink.”
Joe escorted his wife to the truck without once letting go of her elbow. He placed her inside the cab, latched her seatbelt, and offered her the white sack full of beignets. “You haven’t been eating much, so I brought you a special treat.”
“No, Joe! Just the thought of grease when I’m pregnant…”
He barely got her out of the truck in time to save his upholstery.
Chapter Four
“Take the bench, Joe. Let Rex do the passing to the receivers. He needs the practice more than you.” Coach Marty Buck, his silver crew cut gone white and acquiring a small pink bald spot at the back, hadn’t changed much during Joe’s long career. He still blew his whistle with vigor and motion
ed his franchise quarterback to come off the field.
With reluctance, Joe tossed the ball to Rex Worthy and trotted to the bench. The Sinners worked on completing their final day of training camp today, the last of the two-a-day practices, the last of playing outdoors in the stinking heat. Party tonight! Joe doubted if he had the energy for that, but he’d go out for a drink or two with the guys. Rex Worthy would go back to his room and pray for a good season, no doubt.
Over by the ice pile kept to cool off huge, overheated linemen, the Sinner’s kicker and punter goofed around scooping up ice chips in plastic cups, making snow cones with juice from the Gatorade cooler. They headed his way and took seats on either side of their quarterback. Joe striped off his helmet and let it dangle from his hand.
“Here, you look like you can use this.” Howdy McCoy, the kicker, offered him one of the improvised snow cones. It said something that Joe accepted it.
The punter, Brian Lightfoot, offered him a Sinners ball cap. “You should cover that bald head before you get heatstroke. Really, Joe, the scalped look is so not you. What were you thinking?”
Brian was gay. His comment only made this more obvious. Though his sexual orientation made Joe uncomfortable, as long as the fellow could place a punt where the team needed it, he didn’t give a damn who the man slept with. Others simply wrote it off saying all kickers were odd in one way or another. A thought occurred to Joe as he watched Rex Worthy throw a hard but not particularly accurate pass across the field.
Joe slapped the cap on his head. “Brian, does your gay-dar still work, I mean since you got married a while back?” Three years ago, the punter had given the straight life a chance and took boy-hipped, small busted, tall Venetia Hardcastle as a bride. Not that the woman was unattractive, just not Joe’s type. Brian always described her as having elegant lines and said nothing bad about his now ex-wife.
