Vanity Insanity

by Mary Kay Leatherman

  Octavia pointed to the ceiling. “Change. Make some calls. Grow up.”

  I escorted her to the door and waited with her until one of her girls came to pick her up. I heard Octavia giggle as she walked out, “No money, no honey. I like that. I might have to use that one.”

  As I walked back inside Vanity Insanity, I wondered where she might fit that line in. Maybe in a bridge game.

  Not likely.

  27

  Theresa: Style for Date with Husband

  Friday, November 11

  1994

  “You have got to be kidding me!”

  Jenae was in a really bad mood.

  The summer of 1994, Jenae decided that she had secretly always wanted to be a blond, so voila: she was Barbie. She had the figure of a Barbie, which few others could claim; she colored her hair, which had been growing out, a Malibu blond. Jenae’s long and straight newly golden locks against her tan skin transformed her into what I’m sure every G.I. Joe that I owned growing up would have crawled across the sandbox to get a better angle on. What made the final look a bit comical was the tattoo of a rose on her ankle and the nose ring on the left side of her nose.

  She slammed a brush on her station and looked around the salon.

  If you had asked her, Jenae would have listed several things that were bothering her that day. First off, the weather was always a factor in Jenae’s moods. The oppressively high temperatures, the humidity, and the clouds hanging dark and low that day weighed heavy on Jenae. Secondly, she was struggling with that fact that anyone would accuse her favorite actor of all time, O. J. Simpson, of murder. She had no clue that he had ever played football. Finally, and probably most relevant, was the fact that Caroline, our staff’s token bulimic member, was throwing up in the bathroom again. In about ten minutes, our chairs would be filled with the first clients of the day. For the moment, we all stopped and looked at Jenae, who looked like a very angry Barbie.

  “Am I the only one who can hear that? Hello? Am I crazy?” No one dared answer either question as we all looked at Jenae and then to the bathroom door across from the back room. “That’s it! I can’t take it anymore.” She stomped to the door and pounded on it with her fist. “We know what you’re doing in there, Caroline. Come out here right this minute.”

  The door slowly opened, and we all glanced at the pale face of Caroline. She leaned against the door and pushed the hair from her face. “I’m pregnant.”

  The staff, including Jenae, remained silent as we took in Caroline’s announcement. Ten-plus years with a group in tight quarters translated that bad days had a way of sneaking up on us. Nerves and the day-to-day problems of the staff meant that things would blow up and blow over. Vanity Insanity had celebrated its ten-year anniversary in the Old Market, which was an amazing feat in and of itself in the nomadic and fickle field of beautification. Staff turnover was just an accepted part of the salon process. Stylists and nail people got restless and often left one salon for another. My staff had remained loyal, and while for the most part I could say that was a good thing, I did have my days when I went home exhausted from the drama and energy. We’d celebrated the decade milestone with a wine-and-cheese open house for clients and business neighbors to say, “Yep, we’re still kicking and screaming’ and, in Jenae’s case, slamming brushes.

  Jenae was now living with Dirk, a Market Rat and owner of Strange Love, a novelty store I had never been to and most likely would never go to. Dirk and Jenae’s tumultuous relationship offered light entertainment for those who had to hear of the big fights and rekindled love affairs. Most of the Vanity Insanity staff had been able to make it to help move Kelly and her sister Katie into a bigger apartment. Toby was still Toby. He was still obsessively methodical and within the last year had been recognized by the national Chicago Midwest Traveling Style Team, which enlisted him to travel once a month with their entourage. Virginia and Patti took on his clients when he was gone. Hope, who was putting in more hours, was responsible for the organized shelves of products. And as for Caroline, who had continued to binge and purge through the years, we were currently not exactly sure what was going on in her world.

  Jenae broke the silence. “That’s good news…right?”

  “It is,” Caroline whispered.

  I have never pretended to understand the wiring of the brain of a person with an eating disorder. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m not, I don’t think about food. Pretty simple. I don’t think that working in a job that focused on physical appearance could help any issues with self-image, and my years with Caroline had educated me on the real suffering that took place in her every waking hour. From what I could guess, she suffered a lifelong hatred of her body and struggled to gain a healthy relationship with that which she must have in order to live: food. Alongside her, our Virginia struggled with her own relationship with food. The comfort she found in food created some angst and health issues in a different way.

  I didn’t have long to conjecture about the father of Caroline’s baby—we knew of no one that she was dating—since the bell above the door interrupted our unplanned staff meeting. Theresa walked in and stopped as the staff, frozen statues around the room, moved their eyes in unison from Caroline to her.

  “I’m too early? I can leave and come back.” She backed up toward the door.

  “No, you’re exactly on time.” I patted the pink chair and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Freeze time ended as everyone glanced at the clock and hurried to get ready for the day’s first clients.

  “Save me from this nuthouse, the land of misfit toys,” I whispered as I grabbed several combs and a pair of scissors. “Remind me again why I’m here.”

  Theresa laughed. “You belong here, Ben.”

  Virginia turned on the sound system to bring an end to the silence. Sheryl Crow’s voice filled the room with her ambition to have fun in “All I Wanna Do.”

  I combed one corner of her bangs out. “Can we talk about what’s going on here?”

  “Guilty.” Theresa covered her mouth as she laughed. “That part was bugging me the other day, so I got out my scissors and chopped…”

  “Really? Do you see me going out to schools and doing speech therapy on the orphans? Do you?”

  “No.” Theresa smiled at me in the mirror. “Orphans…” She covered her mouth and laughed.

  “I don’t do your job, so don’t do mine. Are we good?”

  “As gold. OK, so fill me in on the whole A.C. thing.”

  “You mean the Sudan disaster?”

  Earlier that year, A.C. had come across information on the civil war in Sudan and its severe endemic of dracunculiasis that was reported by the Guinea Worm Eradication Program there. The country needed help with allotment of food assistance, and A.C. wanted to be a part of the solution.

  “And how he’s feeling. Why did he go in to Sudan?” Theresa asked.

  A.C. had joined the Omaha volunteers, who were trained by UNICEF’s Operation Lifeline Sudan, by flying to the country to deliver cloth filters to villages with endemic disease as part of the accelerated intervention. Maybe he’d run into Faith. Once A.C. came down with malaria, Lucy commented, “Hey, there’s a country with a lot of sick people. Why don’t we go there?”

  I combed out Theresa’s long hair and replied, “You know, most of my life, people have asked me why A.C. does the things he does. What the hell motivates him? All I can say is A.C. is A.C. I personally think that A.C. went to Africa to find God. He just doesn’t know that.”

  “And a girl, at least that’s what I heard.”

  “You mean Robin? She’s actually from Omaha. She was on the team. She’s a nurse. She got sick, too. A lot sicker than A.C., since he got to come back when he was better, still weak, though. Robin’s still there.”

  “I heard he wants to go back and get her. Sounds serious.”

  “I guess. Until then, he’s been hanging out with an old law-school buddy, John Hubbard, who served on the counsel for Willie Otey.” />
  “Is he the one they executed in September?”

  “That’s the one. Nebraska hasn’t executed anyone since 1959 when they killed Charles Starkweather after his killing spree across the state.”

  “So why was A.C. so interested?”

  “A.C. drove by the house with his dad back when they found the girl dead. I guess it always stuck with him. When he connected with his friend, he found the whole story leading up to Otey’s death fascinating.”

  “What could be fascinating about it?”

  “Well, according to Eric, Willie had been a model inmate who was even allowed to walk the grounds unescorted. Said he wrote a few books, poetry or something. I guess there were lots of legal mistakes that led up to the execution. He just wanted life in prison.”

  “Wow.”

  “So tell me something crazy about your day today,” I suggested.

  “Well, I started my day handing out pills, you know vitamins and dog worm pills.”

  “Wow. That is one very wacky story.”

  “Wait, I haven’t even told you the story.”

  “Captivated. You had me at worm pills.”

  “Anyway my little Morgan, who’s two now, and the boys were running around the house getting the dog, Hawkeye, all hyper. Running from room to room, chasing each other.” According to Lucy, it was a good thing that Theresa’s “boys”—six-year-old twins Joe and William and four-year-old Jack—were so cute because they were a bunch of wild monkeys. “So anyway, I hear this loud crash from the other room, so I hurry up and take my vitamin and run into my bedroom.”

  I motioned Theresa to the sink and started shampooing her hair.

  “Hello, Theresa.” Hope arrived with a big box that she set on my station.

  “Hope, how are you?” Theresa sat down by the sink.

  “I am great. I bring boxes to help Ben get organized.”

  “Ben’s pretty lucky.”

  I nodded my head, and Hope continued, “Theresa, did you hear that Peony Park is going to be closed?”

  I hadn’t even heard that. I knew that the old amusement park’s popularity had been fading.

  “Are you sad?” Hope asked Theresa.

  “I am sad, Hope. We had so much fun there when we were kids. I like your shirt.” Theresa pointed at the Charlie Brown shirt that Hope was wearing.

  “Oh, thank you. I’m washing my number-eighteen shirt today.”

  “Your number-eighteen shirt?” Theresa looked at me.

  “Jenae and Hope are the two biggest Brook Berringer fans. Number eighteen for the Huskers.” I started shampooing Theresa’s hair.

  “Yeah, we think he’s soooo cute.” Hope’s blue eyes sparkled as she tried to sound and look like Jenae when she spoke.

  “He is kind of cute,” Theresa agreed.

  “He is kind of a great quarterback,” I retorted. The fall of 1994 had been a breakout season for Berringer. He started in seven games that year since the Husker starting quarterback, Tommie Frazier, was struggling with blood clots. Jenae bought number-eighteen Husker jerseys for Hope and herself, which they wore on games days.

  Nineteen ninety-four was the beginning of a new era for the Huskers. They had been improving throughout the years, and in the fall, Husker fans were feeling a national championship on the horizon. The team was incredible. Mac always had to remind me that in our unstoppable offensive pipeline that year was a “kid” from Mac’s hometown, Fremont, Zach Wiegert. Mac spoke of the kid, six feet five and over three hundred pounds, with such pride that you would have thought he’d taught Wiegert how to pancake block.

  “Charlie Brown played football, too, Hope.” Theresa was looking at the image of Charlie Brown getting ready to kick a football that Lucy was holding. Above the picture were the words Never, ever give up. “Charlie Brown is awesome!”

  “I know. I think so, too. Do you think Charlie Brown is Catholic?” Hope asked sincerely. “Lovey says no.” Hope asked both Theresa and me.

  “I guess I never really thought about it,” said Theresa as she furrowed her eyebrows.

  “Lovey says Charlie Brown is a good man. You know, ‘you’re a good man, Charlie Brown,’ and he wears a uniform like Catholics, that same shirt every day, but she said he’s probably Methodist.”

  “Lovey’s just teasing you, Hope,” I said as I rinsed Theresa’s hair.

  “Do you think Charlie Brown’s Catholic, Hope?” Theresa asked as I sat her up and dried her hair.

  “I’m not sure. I told Lovey that I knew Charlie Brown was a cartoon, but I just wondered.”

  Leave it to Hope to ask the most challenging question of the day. Do you think that Charlie Brown is Catholic? I guessed that all depended on how I felt about Catholics and how I felt about Charlie Brown. Was being a Catholic a good thing or a bad thing? What did I think about Catholics, being a Comatose Catholic myself, who avoided answering questions like this? What did I think of the little melon head in the funny papers who was always left behind, given rocks instead of candy for Halloween, and messed with by Lucy, who moved the ball when he went to kick it. Was he a pushover or just a nice guy who had a few bad days every week? Was Charlie Brown ever an altar boy? Did he know any bad priests? Did his dad stick around for the Kool-Aid stands?

  “Hope, can you help me bring in the boxes from the back alley?” Patti called from the door to the alley. I guessed we all would just have to sit with the Charlie Brown question for a while.

  Theresa and I walked to the pink chair at my station, and after she sat down, I began trimming the ends of her hair. “OK, so don’t leave me hanging,” I said. “What crashed in the other room?”

  “Well, I have to set this up, OK?”

  “I might never know what crashed.”

  “OK, last Sunday, about five days before.”

  “Five days before you were handing out pills?”

  “Yes, last week Jack had been at Sunday school while we were at Mass. The teachers in his class talk about the same readings from the Mass that day on a younger level. One of the readings was about God taking a rib from Adam and making Eve. Believe me, he talked about it the rest of the day. The reading kind of bothered Jack.”

  “Bothered me, too.”

  “OK, so fast-forward to the day of the crash.”

  “The mystery crash.” I picked up my hair dryer and plugged in a curling iron.

  “So I took my pill and ran into my bedroom and found Jack lying on the ground. He’s holding his ribs and moaning and rocking back and forth. And you know what he says when I poked my head in the room?”

  “Help?”

  “No, he says…” Theresa was having a hard time talking through her laughter, “He says, ‘I think I’m having a wife.’” She covered her mouth and wiped the tears from her eyes. She kept laughing as I dried her hair.

  “So what did Jack crash into?”

  “My vanity. I have this little vanity table with a stool that Michael gave me years ago. Joe or William had thrown a baseball at Jack. We’re not sure which twin did it. Anyway, Jack dodged the ball but crashed into the vanity. The ball hit the mirror, and the rest is history.”

  “The mirror cracked?”

  “Shattered!”

  “So have you fixed the mirror?”

  “Heck no. It’s on the bottom of the honey-do list, a Z priority. Works for now! I have one little area of the mirror that isn’t completely shattered that I use to do my hair. If I stand back, I see all of these tiny images of me in the broken glass.”

  “Not such a bad thing.”

  “Ben, I almost forgot to tell you the best part of the story.”

  “The story that never seems to end?”

  Theresa laughed as tears came down her cheek. “I took the dog’s worm pill this morning. That’s the crazy part. I ate a dog pill for worms. Don’t you think that’s crazy?”

  Saint Pius X student body in the late sixties.

  Photo courtesy of Father Mike Eckley, Saint Pius X

  Saint Pius X First
Communion picture.

  Photo courtesy of Father Mike Eckley, Saint Pius X

  Saint Pius X parking lot as busses pick up children.

  Photo courtesy of Father Mike Eckley, Saint Pius X

  Saint Pius the X in 2013.

  Photo courtesy of Father Mike Eckley, Saint Pius X

  The tornado of 1975 as seen from the Ak-Sar-Ben racetrack.

  © Photographer Bob Dunham

  The original headquarters for the Union Pacific Railroad in Omaha.

  © Union Pacific Railroad Museum

  Warren Buffett.

  Photo with permission from Warren Buffett

  Indian Hills Theater.

  Brookhill Country Club.

  Photo courtesy of Brookhill Country Club

  Marian High School in the early eighties.

  Photo courtesy Susan Toohey, Marian High School

  M’s Pub in the Old Market in downtown Omaha.

  Photo courtesy of M’s Pub

  Inside of M’s Pub.

  Photo courtesy of M’s Pub

  Sacred Heart Church.

  Photo courtesy of Father

  Tom Fangman, Sacred Heart

  Coach Tom Osborne.

  Photo courtesy of NU Media Relations

  Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska.

  Photo courtesy of NU Media Relations

  “Coming and Going” illustration.

  Photo with permission of the Norman Rockwell family and Curtis Licensing.

  Copyright © The Norman Rockwell Family Entities.

  © Curtis Licensing. For all non-book uses © SEPS. All Rights Reserved.

  PART III

  The Day the Music Died

  1995 to 1997

  The three men I admire most, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, they took the last train for the coast, the day the music died.