Close to Home

by Cynthia Baxter

  “This is how I want to look,” she said, thrusting the magazine in Constantine’s face.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Honey, we’re hairstylists, not plastic surgeons.”

  “You know what I mean. The hair. Make me look devil-may-care, au courant, with it. . . .”

  “ ‘With it?’ Goodness, I haven’t heard that one in a while.”

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” she asked pleadingly.

  Constantine let out a loud sigh. “Well, I’ll try. But Lord knows I’m only human.”

  The truth was that long before Terry had put in his bid for her assistance, Jessica had been disgusted with her hair. By the time her ten o’clock appointment with Constantine rolled around, the idea of getting a new look had become a near obsession. She was barely able to think about anything else—Sammy, world peace, the fact that the only food in the house at the moment was an unopened container of whipping cream and half a box of animal crackers with all their heads bitten off.

  It had been quite a while since Jessica had indulged in a trip to a salon. Her usual routine was either to hack away at her hair herself with the sewing scissors her mother had bequeathed to her back when she first went off to college, or to let Nikki have a go at trimming and shaping it. Now that she was indulging in the real thing, she expected it to be an exhilarating experience, a pampering equal to a pit stop at the Golden Door.

  Instead, she was ushered into a tiny room and told to strip and put on a brown polyester muumuu that had seen too many torsos in its time. It was a scene out of a 1950s women’s prison movie, and she, unfortunately, was the star. Her Liz Claiborne sweater, meanwhile, was handed over to a young woman with white lizard cowboy boots and Tina Turner hair in exchange for a bent-up cardboard playing card. She had serious doubts about whether she’d ever see that again. Next she was told to wait “over there”—”there” being a tiny hallway wedged between the bathroom and the coffee machine. Finally, the mandatory shampoo was given with the delicate touch of a Mike Tyson.

  “So you want a whole new look, do you?” Constantine said conversationally. “Don’t tell me. Have we got a new boyfriend?”

  In the mirror, Jessica saw all the color drain from her face. “No, of course not.” Regaining her composure, she added, “Hey, I happen to be a married woman.”

  “Oh, I see.’’ But from the way he glanced at her in the mirror, just long enough to give her a conspiratorial wink, Jessica knew that Constantine didn’t “see” at all.

  As he began wielding his scissors, starting in the back so that she wouldn’t be able to tell what was going on until it was too late, she studied him in the mirror. Constantine Anastos was probably pushing fifty, but he was trying his damndest to take at least a decade off that. His hair had been colored; the telltale gray hair in his eyebrows gave that one away. A mauve silk scarf was tied rakishly at his neck.

  “You haven’t been in here before, have you?” he asked congenially.

  “No, this is my first time. Actually, I just moved to Sea Cliff a couple of months ago. My husband and I were living in the city before.”

  “My, that’s a big change.” Constantine caught her eye in the mirror. “So how are you finding life out here in the stimulating suburbs?”

  “Oh, it’s taking some adjusting.” Hesitantly she added, “Of course, I’ve been really upset about that real estate agent getting killed right here in town. What was his name?”

  “You mean Lloyd.” He sniffed. “Lloyd Nolan.”

  “Right. That was pretty shocking, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll say,” called the hairstylist at the next chair busily doubling the volume of her client’s hair with a blow dryer and half a tube of styling gel. “Pretty creepy, huh? They find out who did it yet?”

  “No. They don’t know a thing yet, at least from what I understand.” Constantine paused, frowning as he negotiated with a particularly uncooperative strand of hair. “This guy that my next-door neighbor’s brother-in-law works with heard that they’re still investigating. I don’t think they found out anything yet.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Jessica interjected, “the worst part is that I knew the man. He was the real estate agent who found us our house.” She was studying her haircutter carefully.

  “Well, just about everybody in town knew him,’’ he said. “In fact, I saw him just a couple of weeks before he was murdered.’’

  “Oh, really?” she asked innocently. “Were you two friends?”

  “Hardly.” Constantine rolled his eyes upward. “If you ask me, the man was a total sleaze bag. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had lots of enemies.”

  “Yeah, they’re even saying he was involved in that garbage-burning plant,” the other stylist commented.

  “Maybe he was, but if you ask me, I think it was his lover,” said Constantine.

  “You mean his girlfriend?’’ The other hairstylist had reached for the aerosol can of hair spray and was contributing to the destruction of the earth’s ozone layer—not to mention the sinuses of everyone within a fifty-foot radius—with frightening abandon.

  “Girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever. I mean, let’s face it. A guy gets knocked off like that, in cold blood . . . it’s just got to be a crime of passion.’’

  “I don’t know,” the woman in the next chair said with a shrug. “Coulda been drugs.” With a sigh, she added, “Seems like these days, everything has something to do with drugs.”

  Suddenly the woman emerged from the cloud of hair spray to offer, “Well, I’ll tell you what I heard. I heard that that Lloyd ‘ Nolan was involved in a lot more than selling real estate.”

  “Really? What?” Constantine demanded, still snipping away. With his eyes on the other client instead of her hair, Jessica couldn’t help being a little bit concerned.

  “I heard he was into dirty stuff. You know, pornography.”

  “Aw, that’s just a rumor,” the other hairstylist insisted. “One of my clients said she heard he was smuggling guns from South America, and another one told me he was in the mob. I don’t think none of that’s true.’’

  “Well, at any rate, the guy is deader than a doornail,” Constantine said with a shrug. “Whatever the reason, he got his.”

  Jessica was hanging on to every word of this conversation, meanwhile watching Constantine like a hawk. And her instincts were telling her that this was not their man. He was too casual, too uninvolved. Perhaps he had been angry at Lloyd Nolan at one point, but it was all water under the bridge now. Death ultimately evened out the scores.

  She forgot all about Lloyd Nolan, however, the moment Constantine finished gelling, blow drying, and picking at her hair. There she was, with a whole new image, all right. She blinked hard a few times, trying to get used to what she was seeing in the mirror.

  “So, what do you think?’’ the creator asked proudly. He took a few steps backward in order to get the full effect. “Is it wonderful or what?”

  “It’s ... a change, isn’t it?” Jessica gulped.

  Constantine looked puzzled. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? A change?”

  “Oh, sure,” Jessica was quick to reassure him. “It’s . . . it’s great. It’s just. . . different, that’s all. It’s going to take a bit of getting used to.”

  The other hairstylist, by now killing time by rinsing out her plastic combs in a clear mystery solution, glanced over.

  “I like it,” she volunteered. “You know, it looks kind of like David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust phase.”

  Jessica just nodded. Despite her shock, however, she was already getting used to the way she looked with short spikey ends all over her head, reaching optimistically toward the sky.

  “Yes, I like it,” she finally said. “It’s growing on me.”

  “Well, if it grows too much,’’ Constantine said with a smirk, “come on back and I’ll give you a trim.”

  As she drove home down Sea Cliff Avenue, both relieved and disappointed that her mission
had proved fruitless, Jessica noticed that there was something out of the ordinary going on. Cars were double-parked and clusters of people were standing around on the sidewalk. Her first thought was that something terrible had happened. But that was more an urban phenomenon. Out here in the suburbs, a crowd like this usually meant only one thing: good shopping.

  Sure enough, the reason for the hubbub was the grand opening of the Sea Cliff branch of Video King. And there, standing out front, was the video king himself, Arthur Mortimer. Dressed in a red Santa cap and a red-and-white striped muffler, he was handing out flyers, meeting and greeting his public, and grinning like Liberace.

  “Oh, why not,” Jessica muttered, pulling into the first available parking space.

  “Hey, Jennifer! Glad you could make it!” Arthur called out when he spotted her. “Here, take one of these. We’re offering a ‘rent three, get one free’ deal to celebrate our grand opening. I’m practically giving the store away. That’s why I’m dressed like Santa. Get it? Hah, hah! You can join our video club right inside. Plus we’ve got buttons, magnets, bumper stickers . . . help yourself!”

  The walls of the store were lined with the usual colorful rectangular boxes. High above were posters and mobiles and three-dimensional cardboard gimmicks, all advertising the newest releases. An older woman with a Bic pen stuck behind her ear and a teenaged girl whom she recognized but couldn’t quite place were behind the counter. They were taking money and signing people up as quickly as they could.

  Jessica was helping herself to a couple of magnets so that she could mar the surface of her refrigerator even further when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Jessie! Your hair! My gosh, what have you done?”

  Jessica plastered a smile on her face even before she turned around.

  “Hi, Lorraine. I see you’re a video fan, too.”

  “ ‘Rent till you’re spent!’” Lorraine Denholm giggled. “Really, Jessie, I love your hair. Oh, sure, it’s not the way I usually think of you, but it’s so ... so nineties!”

  “Actually, I thought it was kind of seventies, but thanks anyway.”

  “Isn’t this exciting?” With shining eyes, Lorraine looked all around her. “I joined, did you?”

  Jessica’s first thought was that she was being coerced into becoming a member of a bizarre religious cult, and all her internal warning signals started to go off. But then she reminded herself that she would only be committing herself to more aimless hours spent in front of the television.

  “Actually, I got a lot more than a new video store today,” Lorraine went on excitedly. “See that girl over there? The one behind the counter?”

  Jessica peered over in that direction. Finally she remembered. “Oh, yes. Isn’t that Arthur Mortimer’s daughter . . . and shouldn’t she be in school?”

  “Yes, that’s Becky. She’s just here today because of the opening and all. I didn’t know you knew her. Anyway, she and I just had a nice little chat. She’s going to be doing some baby-sitting for me.”

  “How nice.”

  “You know, Jess, you should find yourself a baby-sitter, too. Then we could go out as couples some time.”

  “Actually, that is something I’ve been thinking about. I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. But it would be a good idea for Sammy to start getting used to somebody.” Thoughtfully, she added, “It would give me a little more time to myself, too.”

  “How is Sammy, anyway? Does he like school?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. And school is great.” Knowing it was expected, she politely asked, “How about Jim Junior and Stacy?”

  “Oh, poor Stacy’s had the sniffles. In fact, I took her to see Dr. Ditzler yesterday and he said—”

  “Dr. Ditzler? I know him! He sewed Sammy back up when he fell off the kitchen chair and hit the radiator. He’s a terrific doctor.”

  Lorraine was nodding energetically. “He certainly is. In fact, you should think about making him your regular pediatrician. He’s so good with kids. But I guess you already know that. Gee, Jessie, isn’t it funny how similar our lives arc?”

  Jessica was startled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we live next door to each other, we had the same real estate agent, we rent our videos in the same video store. . . and we might even end up using the same pediatrician!’’ She laughed gleefully. “Gosh, Jess, the longer we know each other, the more alike we’re becoming!’’

  * * * *

  After Jessica had telephoned Terry with her report on Constantine Anastos’s probable innocence that evening, she delivered a similar report to her husband.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” David grumbled. “It’s nice to see that you’re still in one piece—with terrific hair, no less.”

  “While I’ve got your attention,” she said, sitting down next to him on the couch, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’m going to hire a baby-sitter for Sammy. I could use some help during the day. Besides, I think you and I need to get out together every once in a while. We haven’t been doing that very much lately.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

  Jessica immediately scurried off to compose a compelling classified ad.

  Some time alone together will be good for David and me, she thought ruefully as she tracked down a pen. In fact, maybe it will turn out that it’s all we need to help us recapture some of our old closeness.

  Between her haircut, her diet, and her newfound sense of purpose, Jessica felt ready to tackle anything. She was overwhelmed with a sense of life’s possibilities. Anything could happen, if you were willing to make it happen. It was all just a question of confidence.

  Given this mind set, she was totally unprepared for the challenge of trying to find a decent baby-sitter in the suburbs.

  She had kicked off the search by putting an ad in the Pennysaver, a sort of modern-day town cryer that spread news of the local citizens’ needs. With this biweekly publication as a catalyst, used dryers and mica bedroom sets were sold, dental hygienists and tool-and-die makers were hired, the new ownership of restaurants was announced, and caretakers for the most precious thing in one’s life, a child, were sought out.

  On the Tuesday morning that her ad was scheduled to break, Jessica awoke with that magical Christmas morning feeling. Who knew what wonders would appear in her life that day? She stayed close to the telephone all morning, waiting for the barrage of telephone calls from the slew of Irish nannies and mature, responsible college students majoring in early childhood education who would be responding to her ad, ready to link up their fates with hers, to take little Sammy into their hearts and form a lasting bond that would nurture him for the rest of his life. She knew exactly the kind of person she required. She would be loving, attentive, and accommodating—in short, Mary Poppins with a Toyota.

  It wasn’t until after three o’clock that she got her first call.

  “Hello?” Jessica said, her tone betraying the hope she was feeling.

  “Hello?” an eager young voice replied. “I’m, uh, calling about your, uh, ad for a baby-sitter?”

  “Yes?” Frantically Jessica searched for the list of questions she had so carefully prepared, intending to do a thorough screening of each candidate before setting up an interview. Like so many pieces of paper before it, it had vanished into that Bermuda triangle between the kitchen counter and the kitchen table.

  “Well, uh, I see your ad says you need somebody during the afternoon? I go to school during the day?” Every sentence from here on in, it seemed, would be ending with a question mark. “So, uh, would after school be okay?”

  The voice at the other end was getting squeakier, sounding younger and younger with each word and each question mark.

  “May I ask how old you are?” Jessica asked.

  “I’m, uh, thirteen?”

  The next caller, a mere half hour later, was a feeble-voiced grandmother who assured Jessica that her arthritis only got in the way on damp days. Jessica shuddered to
think what Sammy could do to such a woman. There were two more calls from girls young enough practically to require baby-sitters themselves, then one from a nineteen-year-old who would require three buses to get to Sea Cliff. Jessica snuck away from her post for a shower, and her telephone answering machine rewarded her with a somewhat puzzling message: “Hello, I’m calling about your article in the paper for a baby-sitter. Call me back at five-five-five, two-three-eight.”

  By the time Amy Hathaway showed up for her interview at four the following afternoon, it was all Jessica could do to keep from throwing herself at her feet and kissing her mint green Reebok high tops. It didn’t matter that Amy dressed like Madonna on her day off, that she was chewing blue bubble gum, or even that she wore gloves with the fingers cut off. Despite the paucity of Jessica’s experience with the available pool of babysitters in the area, she already knew that in linking up with someone who could provide her own transportation, recite her entire phone number correctly, and find her way to the McAllisters’ house, she had herself a real find.

  Besides, it was apparent right from the start that Amy did, indeed, love children.

  “Who’s your favorite Ghostbuster?” was the first question she asked Sammy as he came hurtling into the living room, stark naked, to find out who had just rung the doorbell. None of this what’s-your-name, how-old-are-you business.

  “Egon,” Sammy replied, his eyes lighting up.

  “You’re kidding! He’s my favorite, too!” Amy looked ecstatic. “Oooh, oooh, did you see the time the Ghostbusters slimed the ghost that was haunting the candy factory? Wasn’t that so cool?”

  Amy then got down on her hands and knees.

  “Hey, let’s build a destroyer out of Legos. You know what a destroyer is, Sammy?”

  Jessica cleared her throat, not wanting to interrupt this sterling friendship that had just developed but feeling that she, too, deserved a little attention.

  “Uh, Amy, what I’m looking for is somebody to have on call so that my husband and I can go out together every once and a while. Alone,” she added meaningfully, even though the desperation behind those words went unnoticed by Amy, still at the age when the only restrictions imposed on her were from such innocuous sources as parents and the law.