Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

  “I’m fine with that, Marcus. Take the Hummer, though. You not taking none of my babies out. The Hummer is your only option.”

  He shifts and our eyes meet for another long moment.

  “Boy, stop starin’!” she says, annoyed. “You’re scarin’ the girl half to death. Now, ’bye. I got work to do.” He sighs heavily but turns and quickly exits back through the door. Mrs. McKinney gestures me over. “C’mon and take a seat in my chair, Tiffany.”

  I do as she says, my heart rate slowing.

  “You like National Geographic?”

  “Sure.”

  She pushes a button on the remote and a giant grizzly bear is standing in shallow waters on the flat screen. “This is World’s Deadliest Animals. Ever seen it?”

  “I haven’t, no. Don’t get to watch much TV.” I exhale, beginning to relax.

  “You’ll be hooked in a few minutes, trust me. This is my show.”

  She pulls a fine-tooth comb from a drawer under her station, unravels the towel around my head, sets it over my shoulders and begins to loosen my braids using the comb. I sip my cream soda, watching the bear on the TV bite the head off a poor, unsuspecting fish.

  “So how is Anthony Stone your daddy? And where have you been all these years?”

  “He and my mom... I guess they had a baby sixteen years ago. I guess that baby was me. Only, it’s a long story.” That might end on the Maury Povich show. “I really only met him yesterday. I’ll be staying with him now. I guess. I’m starting at Curington tomorrow.”

  “Sounds dramatic.” I watch large clumps of extension hair fall onto the floor. “Your mom must be something extraspecial, though. I have a hard time believing Dr. Stone would ever touch a black woman. Men like him don’t usually give us the time of day. Where is she, anyway? Back in Chicago?”

  “She’s...” I pause. At an ashram in India? Being helicoptered deep into the jungles of Africa to film a new season of Survivor? “She’s dead.” I exhale. There. That wasn’t so bad. Only it was bad. Just saying the words makes my throat ache and my eyes water. And before I can do a thing to stop it, tears have exploded from my eyes. “Omigosh. I am so sorry.”

  “Oh, honey.” She squeezes me tightly from behind and kisses me on top of my head. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

  “You do?” I use the bottom portion of my Grateful Dead tank to wipe my eyes.

  “Mmm-hmm. My mama died when I was in college. And my son...he died, too.”

  “You have a son that died?”

  “It was Marcus. Longest four minutes of my life. He came back to us. God must’ve decided heaven was too full that day.”

  “He died?” Another large bunch of extensions falls to the floor. Man, she works fast. I can only take out one braid at a time but she’s getting them out in bunches of five and six.

  “His heart stopped. HCM. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. You ever heard of that?”

  The bear on the TV screen bites a fish in half and roars loudly. “No. I’m sorry. I haven’t.”

  “I hadn’t, either. Not till my Marcus was about five years old and doctors finally figured out it was the muscles in his heart thickening, causing him so many problems. It’s been a long battle since then, but we manage. And he’s here now. Praise God. I get to keep him a little longer.”

  A moment of silence passes between us. The bear has been replaced by a pack of lions munching on a bloody zebra. “My mom had Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” I admit. “It was stage four by the time they detected it.”

  “Life can be painful, huh?” She shakes her head. “Don’t seem fair. Girl as young as you needs a mama.”

  “She tried chemo...” I pause and decide to veer the subject away from Mom, already feeling the lump rising in my throat again. “Is Marcus better now?”

  “After his cardiac arrest, he got something called a prophylactic defibrillator implanted right here.” She points to an area slightly above her chest. “You ever heard of a pacemaker?”

  I nod.

  “That’s all it is. A pacemaker. Marcus needs it. He’s a high risk for sudden death.”

  “Sudden death? You mean he could die again?”

  “We’re all gonna die, honey. Just Marcus has a risk of dying a little bit sooner than most.”

  She continues working on my hair and I marvel at how composed she is and how simply she states something so utterly sad and devastating.

  “Is that why he—”

  “Wears the makeup? Oh, that don’t bother me. He could paint his face green for all I care. He’s a good boy. Monique and I...we’re lucky. He’s a real good boy. He’s got a book coming out next year.”

  “A book?”

  “Wrote it himself. Mostly. He had help from a ghostwriter. He was all over the news after he died. All the publishers came a-knockin’.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  “It’s about living...and dying. It’s called The Boy Who Lived Before. You can read it when it comes out. It’s really beautiful.”

  I imagine this is what aunts are like—warm and comforting and kind. I could stay in this chair for days, even though the TV is now displaying a giant black snake eating some kind of equally giant rodent. The male voice-over explains that the snake can only be found in Thailand, so I make a mental note to never, ever go to Thailand because I’m sure as soon as I landed that snake would be waiting for me at the airport.

  * * *

  “That was the last one,” she declares, turning me around to face the mirror.

  “I look awful.”

  “Tiffany, stop.”

  “But I do.” The center part of my hair is where most of the breakage happened and it’s supershort. The front is longer but thin and the back is all broken off and different lengths with bald spots here and there. “It looks like rats have been chewing on my hair. I’m gonna look terrible. I’m so ugly compared to him and his kids.” I cover my face with my hands. “I hate my hair.” I’m trying my hardest to hold back the tears. “I hate it. I hate it.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  “But it’s not fair.” The tears finally spring free. “How come some people have good hair?”

  “Stop that.” Mrs. McKinney places her hands on her hips. “I don’t allow those words in my home. There is not good hair and bad hair. Just the hair God gave you. You trust God doesn’t make mistakes, right?”

  I wipe my eyes. “Please don’t hate me, Mrs. McKinney. But... I don’t believe in God.”

  She sighs. “I don’t hate you. I respect your beliefs. It takes a lot of faith to believe in a creator. Takes even more faith to not believe in one. So we both have faith and that’s all right with me.”

  I wipe another flow of tears.

  “Now about this hair.” She kneels in front of me. “You been through something. Your hair’s not bad. It’s recovering from trauma. I can help it grow back strong and beautiful. You have beautiful hair. Stop that crying.” She stands and grabs a handful of tissues from off the counter that I gratefully accept. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Your hair has the least breakage in the front. So I’m gonna give you a good wash and deep, repairing condition. Then braid you up again in the back. We’ll attach some extension tracks to the French braids and use your longer hair in the front to cover up the tracks.”

  “That sounds like a weave.”

  “Mmm-hmm. It is.”

  “But my... Anthony...he doesn’t allow extensions.”

  “Child, when I get done with your hair you won’t even be able to tell you got tracks.”

  “Wh-what if he somehow finds out?”

  “The only other option is that we cut your hair so it’s all even. It’ll be too short to straighten and way too fragile to get a relaxer. So you’d be rockin’ a one-inch ’fro. Is that what you want? It’s up
to you. A one-inch ’fro can be cute. You’ll look like Michael Jackson when he was in the Jackson 5.”

  We exchange looks and I burst into laughter. “Really? The Jackson 5?”

  “Honey, don’t knock it till you try it. Natural is makin’ a comeback.” She turns serious. “Tiffany, I want you to feel comfortable with who you are. I want you to know you’re beautiful. If it’s fake hair that’s gonna help you with that, then I got lots of it. Or try a natural ’fro. You’re beautiful either way.”

  “But if I get fake hair, then Anthony—”

  “Oh, poo. What your daddy don’t know won’t hurt him.”

  I nervously wring my hands together. “You sure he won’t find out?”

  “As long as he’s not running his fingers through your hair. And when’s the last time anybody ever did that to you?”

  She’s right. It’s not like people go around touching other people’s heads. “Okay. Let’s do the weave. I trust you.”

  “Young lady, you are making all sorts of smart choices today.”

  * * *

  “You ready to see?”

  I nod. We’ve spent hours together in Mrs. McKinney’s small salon. My head has been picked and prodded, twisted and turned so much it’s throbbing like somebody beat me over the head with seventy-five tiny plastic baseball bats. And we’ve watched so many episodes of World’s Deadliest Animals I’m strongly considering becoming a vegetarian. “I’m ready.”

  She spins the chair around and my jaw drops. “Whoa! It looks so real. Like it’s growing straight out of my head!” The pretty black hair hangs just a bit past my shoulders.

  “I told you. I’m a doctor just like your dad. A hair doctor.”

  I stand and lurch forward, embracing her, squeezing with all my strength. She laughs.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I seriously don’t know how to thank you.” I pull away and move toward the mirror to take a closer look. My hair has movement. No more Donald Trump comb-over for me. I flip it over my shoulder and then flip it back and squeal with delight.

  “Watch out now!” Mrs. McKinney says playfully. “Don’t hurt ’em.”

  “It’s amazing! You’ve saved my life. How can I ever thank you for this?”

  She moves toward the fridge, grabs a Coke and takes a seat on the couch. “Well, since you bring it up. Perhaps we can talk payment now.” She pops the tab and takes a long swig from the can.

  “But... I thought you said I didn’t have to pay.”

  “I said I didn’t need your money. But there’s gotta be a payment. Always gotta be payment.”

  Thump-thump, thump-thump: This is where you offer a blood sacrifice in exchange for pretty hair! Run!

  “Don’t look all scared like that, Tiffany. I need a favor. That’s all.”

  “Um, okay?”

  “I want you to talk to my Marcus.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “He’s lonely at that school. He might not say so, but I can tell. A boy his age needs school friends. Especially of the opposite sex. People there are afraid of him—justifiably. I know he’s different. I know he seems a little bit cold. But in truth, he’s as harmless as a box of newborn kittens and as warm as a hug from Santa. I promise you he is.” She downs the rest of the Coke and sets the empty can on the floor at her feet. “So, can you be his friend? If you do me this favor I’ll keep your hair looking nice and pretty with weekly appointments and Daddy Dearest over there won’t ever know you got a head full of extensions. Everybody wins.” Her cell phone rings and she pulls it from her back pocket to answer. “Hey, baby.” She pauses and nods. “I got her. Just finished up. She’ll be out in a second.” She stuffs the phone back in her pocket and gives me a smile. “Apparently, there is an Anthony Stone at our front door, looking for his daughter.”

  I glance at the time on my phone. “It’s five thirty. I can’t believe I’ve been here all day.”

  “You ready to test out your new hairdo on Daddy Dearest?”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “Mark my words. He won’t have a clue.” She stands. “Now. Do we have ourselves a deal? You’ll talk to Marcus?”

  An image of Marcus flashes across my mind, his white face under the glow of the full moon. “I don’t mind talking to him.” And I don’t. But to be his friend? How am I supposed to manage something like that? Just thinking about the boy with a high risk for sudden death sends a chill up my spine.

  “Thank you, Tiffany. I knew there was something special about you the moment I laid eyes on you. I just knew.” She beams. “And call me Jo. All my friends call me Jo.”

  * * *

  Anthony stands, arms folded, brow furrowed, looking more than a bit angry in his dressy Sunday clothes: black pants, crisp white shirt, metallic-silver tie. But his blue eyes brighten as soon as I step out of the shadows of the garage and onto the pavement of Jo Stone’s driveway.

  “Look at my daughter.”

  I swallow. “You like it?”

  “I love it. Can’t even tell you have alopecia. See? You look so much more beautiful. Doesn’t it feel good to be natural?”

  Jo gives me an amused eye roll. “How you doing there, Anthony? Long time no see.”

  “Afternoon, Jo.” Anthony puts his arm protectively around me and I tense a bit wondering if he’s looking down at my head.

  “Beautiful daughter you got there.”

  “Thank you. She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Jo smiles. “Inside and out.”

  “Jo helped me. She did my hair—” Dad. Nope. Still can’t say it.

  “Yes. I read your note,” he replies with a bit of annoyance in his voice.

  “Only a wash and condition and I pressed it out to make it straight. Tiffany’s got nice hair, so my job was easy.”

  “What do I owe you?” Anthony reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet.

  “No, no. No charge. It was my pleasure.”

  “Thank you. That was very nice of you.” He stuffs his wallet back into the pocket of his dress pants.

  “We’re having a barbecue next Saturday. Got family comin’ in. Y’all are welcome to stop by. We’ll have lots of food. My wife on the grill. Be some good eats.”

  “We’re taking the family to our Malibu rental on Saturday. The girls usually spend every other Saturday surfing and we take out the boat. Then we do church the next morning.”

  Surfing? I frown. No way I’m surfing. And a boat?

  I imagine another newscaster. A man this time, standing in a downpour, rain pounding the sand, wind raging, blowing his bright yellow raincoat around as he struggles to remain planted near the beach waters, screaming over the howl of the storm. “An entire family drowned this weekend when their boat sank deep into the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Maybe next time, then?” Jo asks. “Monique and I would love to have you guys over.”

  “Yes. Perhaps.” Anthony gently pushes me toward our house across the street. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  “You, too. ’Bye, Tiffany! Make sure you wear a scarf at night.”

  “I will. ’Bye, Jo!” I wave as she moves back into her garage and the door slides closed. I look up at Anthony. “How was church?”

  “So good. Everyone is excited to meet you next week.” He reaches into his back pocket and hands me a new phone.

  “Oh. I forgot about getting the new phone I don’t actually...need.” I stuff the phone into the pocket of my shorts.

  “You’ll need it. Especially when we mail the old one to your grandma.”

  I sigh.

  “Hey, I have some amazing news.”

  “Really? What is it?”

  “I’ve been asked to teach a master class at the University of California San Francisco. It’s a huge honor. I’d be crazy not to do it. I leave tomorrow morning a
t six and I’ll be back Friday.”

  I’m stunned speechless. He’s leaving?

  “I know it’s your first day of school tomorrow. But when I get back we’ll have lots of time to spend together. And I already spoke with Rachel James. She’s the girls’ basketball coach at Curington. She’s gonna let you practice with the team tomorrow after school. I told her all about you.”

  “Did you tell her I’ve never played basketball?”

  He shrugs as if that very important detail isn’t very important at all. “She’s a coach. She teaches. You’ll be fine. And, Tiffany?” We pause in the middle of the street. “I don’t want you over at their house anymore.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re not allowed. In fact, I should mention I’m a bit upset that you went to their home and didn’t have permission.”

  “They live across the street. I left a note.”

  “Is there a reason you didn’t text me and wait for my reply?”

  I run my fingers through my new hair. It falls over my shoulders. “You were at church. I didn’t want to bother you. They’re really nice people. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal? Tiffany, in the Stone home, children don’t talk back to their parents.”

  “I’m not allowed to talk?”

  “Not when it comes to rules. When Margaret and I give instruction, there is no argument. So please keep your distance from them and that son of theirs. Something’s wrong with that kid. I don’t want him anywhere near my family. Understood?”

  “What if you told me to jump off a bridge?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I have to agree to whatever you say. What if...you know...I don’t agree?”

  “Our rules are for your best interest. Bottom line. We would never tell you to jump off a bridge.”

  “Is it because she’s gay?” I blurt without thinking, anger rising up in my chest. “Is that against your religion? Is that why you don’t like them?”

  “It has nothing to do with that.”