Vanity Insanity

by Mary Kay Leatherman

  As we drove home that night, the Police sang to us on my car radio: “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” The lyrics are about a guy admiring a girl he can never have. Lucy and Tom fought in the back seat the whole way home about a girl named Charlotte—or Charlotte the Harlot, as Lucy called her—a girl Tom knew growing up in South “O.”

  “You were flirting with her.” I could see Lucy pouting in the back seat.

  “I wasn’t flirting with her. I said hi. She went to Saint Peter and Paul…”

  “Do you still like her?”

  “I took you to the dance…”

  I dropped Theresa, Lucy, and Tom off at Lucy’s house since Theresa was spending the night there. Lucy slammed the door as she ran to her house. Tom mumbled as he walked to his car. Theresa looked back at me as she left the car. “They’re just crazy about each other.”

  I drove a few houses down to my home with a smile. When I got in, I locked the door and threw my keys on the kitchen table. I was taking off my shoes when I heard soft tapping on the door. I looked out the window and saw Theresa with no shoes shivering on the front stoop in the chilly, early May night, holding the tuxedo jacket I had put around her shoulders as we left the Marian gym. “You’re gonna need this when you turn your tux in, Ben. I’ll let Chewey know. Thanks…”

  I didn’t say a word as she stood on her bare tiptoes and kissed me on the lips. “Thanks, Ben. I had a blast.”

  I watched Theresa turn and run to the Mangiamelli house. I watched her until she was safe inside. A light went out at the Wicker house.

  Somewhere in Iowa, a cocky baseball player was feeling an erroneous sense of security.

  13

  Octavia: Wash and Set for Funeral Meeting

  Friday, July 24

  1982

  “I’m sitting under the spout from which the glory of the Holy Spirit flows out.” Octavia Edith True Hruska always made an impressive entrance into a room. That day in the summer of 1982 was no different than any other.

  “And just where can I find this spout?” I asked the stately, sometimes-mistaken-as-stuffy, impeccably dressed woman whom I had been “washing and setting” for the last couple months.

  “Honey, if you have to ask, you’ve got bigger problems than you think,” Octavia teased as she sat in the pink styling chair of Marcia’s Beauty Box. I learned right away that Octavia needed what my mother had called warming-up time in the chair. She didn’t like to be rushed; her Friday-morning appointment was an event to be savored like a nice dinner with a good bottle of wine and not just another thing to check off the weekly list.

  “Well, it’s time to make me beautiful for my meeting this afternoon. Do you know where I can get that taken care of?” She was dead serious as she tested me. Could I play the game? Would I feel intimidated by her presence, or would I jump in and make the team?

  “I could make a few calls and find out. You’re welcome to hang out here until I get word. We’ve got to find someone to do something with your hair.” I pretended to organize my combs.

  A half smile slowly curved up from the left side of Octavia’s mouth, though it appeared on the right side as I looked at her in the mirror. The mirror played an interesting role in my job. For a good part of the time spent with each of my clients, I did not look directly into their eyes. I looked at the mirror image of them. I looked directly into the eyes of the mirror Octavia and grinned back.

  This mirror-interaction felt natural to the people who sat in this chair, though they had spent most of the waking hours of their lives interacting with others by looking directly into their eyes. The indirect interaction might appear impersonal, but it was anything but. One human being was allowing another human to manipulate an extremely personal part of his or her identity—appearance. If anything, the entire experience could be seen as something of an intimate exchange.

  Music blared from the little black radio on the windowsill. The Rolling Stones were calling “Start Me Up” to Octavia.

  “Who in the hell is that?” Octavia’s eyebrows burrowed together, and yes, she did say “hell,” in a very ladylike tone.

  “That would be Mick.”

  “Mick sounds like he should have chosen a different career. That’s awful.”

  I was relieved that Octavia was focused on the voice and not the words Mick Jagger was singing. “So where is this big meeting that you want to look good for?”

  “Oh, honey, I’m meeting with those altar-society girls, who are all a little too sappy, if you ask me.” The thought of Octavia working in a group with other women made me laugh. “We’re planning the funeral for Edmund Rump, and they all start to tear up every time we say the name of the person who has passed. It’s silly, really. We have so much to plan. We don’t have time for all their slobbering and sniffing. Anyway, the funeral is Monday, and the man was so blasted old that most of his loved ones have died themselves, no disrespect meant. We need to recruit some more women to make sure that we have a good number to send him off.”

  “Oh, the fun you can have with funerals.” I picked up a comb and scissors from the tray in front of the mirror.

  “Depends on the flavor of the funeral.”

  “Flavor?”

  “You’ve got your happy funeral, like Mr. Rump’s. He lived a good, long life, and now it’s time to die. Then you have some really unpleasant funerals. You know, the untimely ones. Just a nasty taste all around.” Octavia made a face and then changed the subject. “Getting kind of crowded in this basement, don’t you think?”

  My mom had told me that beneath her grumblings, Octavia had a very sincere and concerned nature. Worrying about an old man having a good group to send him off was just the surface of her altruistic approach to life. My mom told me that Octavia made large donations, anonymously most times, to different causes each year. Octavia had even told Mom, though she didn’t tell many people, that she volunteered once a week in the nursery at the little hospital in Fremont to help feed the newborn babies, with the ulterior motive of secretly baptizing their little souls. She would bless their heads, marking them with the sign of the cross with the holy water that she had smuggled in her purse. She hoped to cover them all before her shift was over. The antiquated thought some Catholics still believed was that a baby who died before it was baptized might not make it to heaven. She told my mom that she figured that was probably a bunch of bologna, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Octavia had jumped on board with Warren Buffett in 1981 as he created the Berkshire Charitable Contribution plan, allowing each shareholder to donate some of the company’s profits to his or her personal charities. She’d met Mr. Buffett at a fundraiser bridge tournament. Octavia, who had brought her fortune from Fremont into Omaha, offered support to many causes with Buffett in the eighties. Although Buffett’s personal fortune was approximately $140 million at that time, he was living solely on a salary of $50,000 per year. He was not one to wear his wealth openly. Warren and Octavia had a lot in common in that respect.

  I always felt that Warren Buffett must have appreciated Octavia’s straightforward approach. What you see is what you get. No verbal clutter. No pretense. Octavia called out, named, and scolded the elephant in any room. After that first appointment, she’d looked me directly in the eyes, through the mirror, that is, and said, “You do my hair better than Marcia. This stays between the two of us. Can we work it out so that I’m scheduled on your shift?” No verbal clutter. Got it.

  What threw most people off when dealing with Octavia Hruska were her occasional sidewinders that went completely against the personality she displayed most of the time. I remember that the first time I did her hair, she was a bit late. Her apology was clear and sincere: “I’m sorry for being a little late today. I met with my rosary group today, and I looked throughout the whole damn house for my rosary beads before I realized that they were in my purse the whole time.” Did she just say damn?

  “I usually have a rosary in every room. On the table next to my bed. On the
kitchen counter. In the car. How I couldn’t find a rosary is beyond me.”

  “You do know you have a problem, Octavia.”

  “Excuse me?” She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.

  “And the first step is admitting it.”

  She tilted her head again.

  “You’re addicted to the rosary, woman.”

  Octavia’s laughter filled the tiny room in my mother’s basement shop.

  My mother was putting in more hours as an office “temporary” person at Boys Town. At first, she claimed she was looking to make some extra money, but she seemed to enjoy getting away from the salon. I was juggling more of her clients as she seemed to miss more and more of the appointments that had once meant so much to her. At first, the recipe-card holder that protected all of the index cards with client information and history helped me out as I got to know the ladies, occasional men, and hit-and-miss children who were loyal to Marcia’s Beauty Box. In time, I created my own cards, which I put in a shoebox that I kept under the bin that held the brushes and combs.

  My routine went something like this. After a client left, I marked the date and the procedure done to his or her hair, just like my mother had. What I added were my own comments based on interests, events, and favorite subjects. This was helpful as I pulled the card out before the next appointment so that I would have some opening line to break any tension that the client had about getting his or her hair done and any apprehension I might have about talking to people I didn’t know very well.

  With Octavia, I worked a bit differently. I still wrote the notes on her cards, but she usually started the ball rolling. If anything, she calmed me and tapped my curiosity as to just what big topic she would tackle that day. What would I walk away with from my hour with the Octavia wash and set? I never knew.

  “Well, if we can’t find someone to do your hair, I’d be happy to take a stab at it.” I held up the scissors and comb.

  “That would be lovely.”

  As I worked on her silver, fine, and thinning hair, her expressions would direct me as to whether I was doing OK. “I just don’t get it, Ben. How did you get to be so good at this when you never went to beauty school?”

  “A gift from God, I guess.” She grinned in the mirror. “And just so you can add it to your gigantic mountain of knowledge, they no longer call it beauty school, Octavia.” About a month into doing her hair, Octavia told me not to call her Mrs. Hruska. First of all, I pronounced it strangely, and secondly, she had never liked being called “Mrs.” by other adults. I guess she considered me to be one.

  “All right then, what do they call it now since beauty school doesn’t quite cover it? And is it legal for you to be doing my hair? Are you committing a crime with this shampoo?”

  “Cosmetology school. It sounds more impressive, don’t you think? No, I’m not a criminal, though some of my first haircuts should have been against the law. I lucked out on that one, Octavia. By way of a little loophole or whatever you might want to call it. After a few years of illegally doing hair, I took the test to get a license, I aced it, and boom, I’m legal. Someone starting in the field today would have to go to school. I fall under a grandfather clause or something like that…I still have to keep up hours in education, but on most levels anyhow, I am legit!”

  “Well then, you need to post that license somewhere before someone reports you, honey. I think that might be a good idea.”

  “I’ll do that…but I’m just filling in for my mom anyway. This is helping pay for college. Just a temporary thing.”

  In one of my first appointments with Octavia, she felt compelled to tell me a story I’ll never forget.

  “My husband David was gone to war during World War II. My boys and I didn’t see him for four straight years. Letters only.”

  “I think I remember my mom told me that. That’s crazy.”

  “Well, the worst part is that he missed four big years of the boys growing up. When he got home, he kept calling Teddy ‘Truman’ and Truman ‘Teddy.’ They had changed so much. David was so consumed with guilt and sadness.”

  “I bet.” A father missing his kids. I couldn’t imagine.

  “He spent all of his time with the boys. After they were in bed for the night, he expressed his disappointment in some the money decisions I’d made when he was gone.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Only time I have ever been that angry with the man.”

  Again, I chose not to comment.

  “So you know what I did?”

  “Join the circus?”

  Octavia laughed to tears. “Oh, Ben, almost. Almost. I went to the train station…I was so angry.”

  “You ran away?”

  “Well, I didn’t know where to. I stood in line to buy a ticket out of Fremont.”

  “I was just kidding.”

  “Well, I didn’t buy a ticket. You want to know why?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was afraid of what the neighbors would think.” Octavia laughed again. “I went home and unpacked my bags, and life went on.”

  “The circus is overrated…”

  “Ben, sometimes we make the right choices for the wrong reason. But that’s OK. You can write that one down.”

  Conversations with Octavia would go from politics to religion—both topics you shouldn’t talk about with clients in the chairs. One topic we never talked about was the death of her youngest son. I knew the story, though. Grandpa Mac had pulled me aside, when he knew I’d begun doing her hair, and warned me not to talk about him or ask questions. Octavia had grieved like no other mother when Teddy was killed by a drunk driver in the middle of the day. The whole town of Fremont felt for the family. Grandpa Mac said that it was standing room only at the funeral of the son of one of Fremont’s best-known leaders and his beautiful wife. Nasty flavor, I’m sure.

  The two sons of David and Octavia Hruska, Truman David and Theodore Nathanial—called Teddy by his parents—were their pride and joy. And, as Grandpa Mac had put it, they were darn good boys, too. When thirteen-year-old Teddy walked downtown to meet his grandfather for lunch, he had no idea that Realtor Edward Allen would be finishing up a power lunch of martinis and cigars at Clark’s Bar and Grill. Allen, who didn’t even see Teddy on the drive back to work, killed the boy on Main Street, in the middle of the day.

  Mac said that some people like to talk about the dead to keep them alive in a sense. This was much too painful for Octavia. No parent should have to endure the pain of the loss of a child. No parent. I followed Mac’s advice. During our hour once a week, I made no mention of her loss. Of course, I wouldn’t. Mac’s story did help me in understanding Octavia and her great, edgy approach as a sort of protection from any other pain.

  In time, Octavia and I developed a little routine of sorts, which I must admit even I looked forward to. I could always count on her to say the same thing every time I finished her hair.

  “Well, what do you think, Octavia?”

  “Well, honey, at least it’s clean.”

  As I took off the apron around her neck, I noticed a square piece of material on a string or ribbon sticking out from her collar.

  “Hey, Octavia, your price tag is showing.”

  Octavia looked down and broke into a beautiful chuckle. “Oh, dear, Ben. My price tag!” She laughed a beautiful reaction. “Do you not know what this is? Weren’t you raised Catholic, honey?”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Oh, now what are they teaching kids today in those Catholic schools? Evidently not about the scapular.” She pulled the whole scapular out from under her shirt to show me the “sacramental” piece. It was really rather simple looking. Two small square pieces of material, laminated. The two were joined by a slender band of material that looked something like a thin shoestring.

  “It’s a scapular, honey. ‘Those who die wearing this scapular shall not suffer eternal fire.’ You need a strong trust in Mary to handle this little cloth pendant, B
en. I just hook it over my brassiere and keep it with me at all times.”

  “Well, there you have it. I guess without a bra, I might be out of luck.”

  “Don’t worry. I took care of you already. I put one under your chair long ago. It’s there to collect your prayers and protect you.”

  Rather than risk looking like I didn’t believe her, I waited until Octavia was gone to check. I wasn’t sure if I felt impressed or creeped out by that little act of kindness. I was protected from eternal fire, at least.

  Following her appointment, I escorted Octavia out of the basement and up around the little pink-flower-framed path to her big, light-blue Cadillac. With her hand hooked in the crook of my arm, Octavia and I talked about how the path needed weeding. We predicted the coming weather; I opened her car door and waited until she found her keys in her gigantic purse.

  That day, I threw one more jab at her as she started her car. “Hey, Octavia, you’ve got to do something about that hair of yours.” And then I shut the door.

  I smiled as I thought of her behind the wheel of that huge Cadillac, chuckling all of the way out of our neighborhood.

  14

  Marty: Trim, Back from College

  Thursday, July 28

  1983

  She looked like she had just spent a few months off the coast of Anorexia.

  Marty was different somehow. Not that different looked that much better on Marty. She was thinner, that was for sure. She was wearing her hair with an angular cut just beneath her jaw line. She was still serious.

  “So how’s DC?” I asked Marty as she walked down the stairs to the shop. “Is it OK to call it DC, or should I say Wash U?”

  “It’s as different from Omaha as you can get. I can’t wait to get back. It’s going to be a long summer.”

  “Don’t you miss anything about Omaha?” I placed the apron around her after she sat down.

  “Oh, Lucy and Theresa, maybe…and you.”

  Earth, Wind and Fire sang “Let’s Groove” from the windowsill.

  Graduating from Marian High School, Marty had received what Lucy called humongous bucks in scholarship money to attend George Washington University. She couldn’t have been more excited to get the hell out of Dodge and blow the Nebraska dust off her boots as she rode out of town. This was always a sore spot for Lucy, who rolled her eyes as she talked about Marty’s attitude toward her hometown. She felt a personal attack as Marty chose to spread her wings. “Omaha’s not that bad. We have lots of fun things to do. Marty thinks the world has more to offer her than we do.”