All About B.A.D. (5 page)

Bernadette was abandoned in a third-rate motel on Galveston Island at the beginning of tourist season. She had a room paid up for a week, a plastic sack half-filled with food and a loss of emotion. She hadn’t shed a tear, offering him zero satisfaction of caring one way or another about his leaving.

BAD stepped from the shower, scrubbed free of sand and all pretenses, then dried herself with the remaining towel. She pulled a comb through freshly shampooed hair and let it hang in thick black ropes to dry as it willed. After rummaging around, she found a clean shirt and tucked it into black slacks. Brushing off her tennis shoes with clean strings pulled through, she was ready.

Had it been less than a couple of weeks that she was riding along these same streets in a red convertible? Easing down The Strand, they had witnessed scores of travelers crowding cafes and boutiques of every ilk. Assorted folks jammed the aisles of souvenir shops, picking at all things touristy. They had visited venerable buildings given new purpose with air conditioning and historical markers. 

Now quiet in early morning, Bernadette retraced their route on foot. She knocked on doors, repeated inquiries and offered duplicate “okay, thank yous” when met with rejection. Both hours and blocks ticked by; people arrived and everywhere was laughter, eating and gawking. Drowning in the scents of pastries, burgers and the “catch of the day” blended with the reek of coconut oil, she sat down and nibbled on the last of her crackers.

The “Help Wanted” placard in the window sat below a much larger one that read: “Southern Soul Served Inside”. BAD walked in with the smaller sign.

“Hello! Over here.” A voice came from behind the long, wooden counter.

“Do you still need help?” Bernadette shouted her question in what she hoped was the right direction.

Not breaking stride, the issuer of the invitation walked near and inspected Bernadette with quick, searing accuracy. There was something familiar in the young woman who looked clean, neat, hungry and ready to work.

“Wash your hands and step back here. Get an apron and one of those pads. Lunch crowds will be coming in any minute. We’ll do paperwork later if you work out.”

The thought of food made Bernadette’s eyes water. She willed her fingers to stop trembling.

“Thank you.”

“Keep your hands busy, your mind on your business and a smile on your face. In here the customer’s always right. You get your tips; I get your labor.”

The next hours passed in a flurry of food.
Chips on the side, no onions, please, want gravy with that?
The patrons chewed their way through mounds of vegetables, beef, pastries and anything fried.

Bernadette struggled to keep pace with the feeding frenzy with a smile frozen on her face. Dependent on her good memory and experience from Pop Walker’s, she worked fast and accurately. With the “goodbye” of the last customer, the owner headed straight for Bernadette with a plate of fried chicken.

“You’re a natural. Happens when you’re hungry for something. I know, believe me, I know.” 

“Does this mean I have the job?” 

“I’ll get the papers and you get another helping. And try one of these. They’re the best.” The woman placed a jar of homemade pickles on the table by BAD’s plate. Had anything ever tasted this good? She forced herself to eat slowly, relishing each and every bite.  

The woman watched from the other side of the counter. The sizing-up of her newest employee apparently completed, her eyes softened.

“I’m Wanda,” she finally called over. “Wanda Payne. Everybody just calls me Payne. I’ve been one and given one, but ain’t one now.” She let go a chuckle.

“I’m Bernadette Ann Donahue. I’m called BAD, but seldom am.”

“I can tell, Bernadette, we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Payne handed the papers to Bernadette as she attacked a mound of mashed potatoes and fried okra. 

“Seven a.m., we open. We close when the food or customers run out. If you’re hungry you work eight hours. If you’re starving, you work when I do.”

Bernadette nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mrs. Payne.” She then choked out a ‘thank you’ while refusing to cry. Her body ached but there was no growling in her stomach; in her pocket was a pile of tips.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights were already shining through Windexed windows at six a.m.; wooden floors smelled of Pine O’ Pine; pots bubbled with red beans and rice spiced with Tabasco; the scent of vinegar wafted by—strong smells for an empty stomach.

“I thought you’d be back. I’m glad. Grab an apron and one of those biscuits.” The woman wasted little energy on conversation.

By noon, the dribble of folks became a torrent of bodies pushing and straining for attention, jostling crowds made up of locals and gaudy-clothed out-of-towners. The time sped by in a whirlwind of pork, ribs and piles of potato salad.

BAD took her cues from the woman who never tired or complained, someone who knew what she was about and had control of her surroundings. She radiated respect. And she could seriously cook.

Bernadette felt at home.

Dear Lilly,

Greetings from Galveston Island where there’s plenty of sun, sand and brown water. I’m sorry I haven’t written you sooner but so much has happened. I’m waitressing in a small café on The Strand. The woman who owns the place has been good to me and one of her friends is part of the art scene here. My “ride” out of Lone Grove is no longer around. “Goodbye; good riddance!” There are plenty of other fish around here – HA, HA.

Have you seen my folks – are they okay? I plan to write but if you talk to them I’d like to know how they are doing. I probably shouldn’t have rushed off like I did but you know I’ve never been one for sloppy goodbyes. 

Take care.

Bernadette

Dear Bernadette,

I was so excited to get your postcard and learn you’re okay. Sounds as if all those days at Pop Walker’s came in handy. Much has happened here, too. You wouldn’t recognize some of the property along the river where they are building the dam. Swarms of new faces everywhere and Bertha is in the thick of it. She is working longer and longer hours and runs the Corp of Engineers office like a machine – a force to be reckoned with since Papa left. By the way, no word from that corner. I’m loving my job at the newspaper and learning more every day. Some nice folks there, too. And guess what – I may get to take a trip to Houston at the paper’s expense.  How about that! Haven’t said anything to Bertha about it yet. Think she’ll approve? Anyway, I’m looking forward to going and I am scraping together my pennies.

I saw your folks at church. They are fine. I didn’t mention your card since I wasn’t sure if they had heard from you. Hope they have because I’m sure they must miss you as much as I do.

Please write again soon.

Lilly

Everywhere were squares, rectangles, tall and thin, sparkle and shine, sharp angles, rounded edges, glassed-in, decked-out, thrusting up beyond reasonable heights. Concrete expanses radiated in all directions as if trying to decide where to take the thousands of cars and trucks streaming along their backs. The modern jostled with the ancient on vast amounts of acreage divided into urban islands by a latticework of water and concrete. 

“Welcome to the Bayou City!” 

Energy could be sucked from the air and the three passengers felt themselves succumbing to its spirit.

“Try not to act like a country bumpkin.” Lilly repeated her mantra while watching an irrepressible city whiz by the windows of Carrie’s car. 

“What do you think, Lilly?” Betts’ question came from the passenger side. “It’s all pretty fast, massive and on the go, right? I never tire of visiting. After a few days I’m ready to go home, rest, catch my breath. But while here, I find Houston fascinating. And the shopping! Wait ‘til you see the Galleria!”

“Fortunately, where we’ll be staying isn’t far from there. I’m sure we can fit in a few hours.” Carrie maneuvered through traffic like a pro. “And with ‘fashion trends’ being an integral part of the new format, it is completely justified.”

Betts’ head bobbed in agreement. “Absolutely! I’m counting on it. We’re calling it ‘onsite research’. That way Paul will have to pick up our tab for lunch, maybe even a few purchases!” Both women laughed. “Lilly, I’ve made an appointment with one of the buyers from Neiman’s. From there we visit with a makeup and beauty expert and then with a stylist named Tony, direct from the Big Apple. Perfect, don’t you agree?”

The backseat passenger nodded, smiled and repeated her mantra.

~~~~~~~~~~

The
Lone Grove Herald
and
Community Voice
owed much of its readership to a several-page spread detailing Lone Grove’s myriad of organizations and church-related activities. The 4H clubs, garden societies, guilds and school happenings accounted for a dedicated group of customers who wanted the names of brides-to-be and rainfall calculations mixed in with their world news. Due to the new dam and the recreational opportunities opening up, widespread changes were afoot, transforming the physical and mental landscape. As land was sold and carved into developments, wealthy ranchers, struggling farmers and folks lucky enough to own a slice of land anywhere near water began thinking in broader terms. There had been an influx of people from suburbia and urban dwellers who, along with all the trappings of vacation homes, brought with them new expectations. 

Paul wanted to capture the attention of these latest folks and get them signed up early while appeasing the newspaper’s loyal base of consumers. Along with more space dedicated to global events, guest columnists, and expanded business and opinion pages, there would be columns on fashion, beauty and cultural trends. It would start out modestly, and any impact on readership would be closely monitored. 

Betts had suggested targeting women, specifically those harboring desires of beauty with little effort. She had described it as, “becoming a new woman with a dusting of makeup, a flash of fashion and rearrangement of tresses by a trained stylist.” This column would fit the profile of the hardworking women of Lone Grove and the newcomers fleeing crowded cities. She labeled it “the dressed-down for country” plan. It started as a joke but caught on with female staffers and a coffee klatch whose members made regular trips to larger cities for exercising their credit cards. 

Betts, who had a modicum of style and the original proposal, was responsible for developing the concept. She had lobbied and convinced Paul that attending a seminar—a line item in the budget and a long weekend in Houston—would guarantee a more successful attempt. With everything approved, the launch pad was ready.

The lectures proved excellent, enlightening, but it was the diversity, the busyness, the fun of exploring huge retail complexes that Lilly found most exhilarating. Older and with greater resources, Carrie and Betts took full advantage of their time in the stores. With limited funds, Lilly listened, snapped photos, and scribbled notes and comments, capturing the whirlwind around her. Her financial situation wasn’t lost on the others.

“Lilly, I’ve had an idea that you are going to absolutely love! My first column will be a ‘before and after’ type story. Carrie and I have decided you should be the guinea pig. With your youth, clear skin, perfect teeth and abundant hair, you’re the ideal person. Plus, you’re here! Now isn’t that great?!”

Lilly stood dumbfounded, uncertain of what to do or say. 

“Yes! It’s perfect!” Carrie’s enthusiasm was to seal the deal. “Genius. We even talked with the woman from the salon about lining up a professional photographer.”

Lilly couldn’t find her voice. Was she an unappreciative captive?

“Overwhelmed, right?” Betts interpreted the silence as acceptance. “The woman from Neiman Marcus will get us started and we’ll go from there. Now, are you opposed to getting a new hairstyle? How about adding a little eye makeup to your repertoire?” 

Without pausing for an answer, Betts continued. “We are about to blow a large hole in a modest budget. Let’s go!”

Still reeling, Lilly was pulled forward, gripped by the forces of two determined women on a mission.

She was thinking about her underwear. If someone followed her in the dressing room she didn’t need the added embarrassment of her raggedy panties being on view. She couldn’t be certain. She had slipped them on under her gown in the darkened room while the women were sleeping. Sharing a room with Carrie and Betts had been an experience in itself. Only when they left for breakfast, her begging off with no appetite, was she able to feel comfortable enough to finish getting dressed. Oh well, it was too late; they were headed toward her carrying armloads of clothes.

“I’m loving this! Try these on, Lilly!” Carrie handed her a lime green dress with spaghetti straps and peep toe pumps.

“This was only available in a size six but they run a little larger so it may fit.” The saleswoman hung a robin’s egg-blue pantsuit on the hook outside the door.

“Size six!” It was Betts’ turn for enthusiasm. “I didn’t wear a six when I
was
six! And legs up to here! You’d look good in a flour sack, Lilly.”

The young woman grimaced at the thought of the play suits Bertha had sewn from floral cottons used for transporting Uncle Billy’s mill-ground wheat. BAD had often worn the same material. The outfits covered their bodies but were the root of merciless teasing from others.

Lilly spent the next hours trying on, discarding, paying attention. She learned about her body type and how to hide or camouflage any perceived imperfection. She discovered emboldening attributes. There were colors favoring skin tones, dress lengths emphasizing slimness and limitless ways to enhance sex appeal. She was pushed up, belted in, shown how to tilt her head and how to walk in high heels. It was the most Lilly had ever thought of herself in relation to beauty or fashion. When the trio exited Neiman Marcus, they carried with them several of the NM signature bags. 

Opposite the excitement of trying on new clothes was the nightmarish idea of transforming her hair. Using a pair of sewing scissors and a ruler for evenness, Bertha had always been her barber. Only once—when BAD’s interest in cosmetology had prompted her to buy a do-it-yourself home beauty kit from Pop Walker’s Drug Store—had she been “permed”.  

“Lilly, all I want to do is bring out your natural good looks, the beauty you and your mama try so hard to keep buried.” BAD’s uncharacteristic compliments and continuing pressure won out over Bertha’s warnings of “not messing with a good thing.” Wearing off the resulting frizz had been Bertha’s punishment for Lilly being too gullible. It had been a difficult and humiliating experience and the memory quickly surfaced at the mention of a stylist. A glass of wine, her first, helped calm her nerves.

They placed Lilly in a chair, draped in a nylon cape, and handed her a small goblet of merlot. Tony swiveled her around while lifting and pulling at the thick matting of fine textured hair, all the time uttering “hmm, yes, I see….” When dark strands hit the salon’s floor, Lilly softly cried. Carrie and Betts did their best to reassure her, but their facial expressions didn’t match their words. Tony, who was unmoved by the young woman’s tears, applied a smelly potion on wisps of hair pulled through tiny holes in a plastic cap. Lilly looked like an alien and smelled of junior high lab experiments. What would she tell Mama?

Carrie tried shifting her attention to Miss Priscilla, the beauty consultant, who had arrived with an arsenal of makeup and a photographer in tow. While one examined Lilly’s face, the other snapped unflattering photographs.

Lilly’s fair skin had only been touched by light powder and pale lipstick. She was confused by the array of products set up before her—creams, liquids, blushes, brushes, eye shadows, pencils of brown, tubes of black. Carrie took notes while Betts held Lilly’s hand and cooed unconvincing words of approval. 

Lilly wanted to go home.

“Are you ready?”

All but one nodded in unison. One last spritz, a gentle brush stroke, a soft pat and it was time for the unveiling. 

“Ta da!” Tony and Miss Priscilla pulled the curtain aside with dramatic flair. A form-fitting sheath walked out on stiletto heels. From the dangling earrings to the pedicured feet showcasing “Luscious Pink” toenails, everything was perfectly matched, exquisitely finished.

“Gorgeous!”

“You’re a stunner!”

Lilly pirouetted, not so much for display as to make certain the foreign adjectives weren’t being applied to someone behind her. 

The photographer stared, snapped more shots than needed and whistled. The salon patrons clapped and cheered and the walk back to the car was dotted with stares and approving smiles.

All were firsts for Lilly. She felt pretty, giddy and more than a little apprehensive. If this was what glamour was about, she wanted more. And she felt exceedingly grateful that Carrie had taken such excellent notes on how the alchemy was performed.

The drive back to Lone Grove felt painfully slow. BAD would have approved and been agog of her new look, but what would Bertha say? Lilly played out numerous scenarios in her head. Would she demand the clothes be returned, her face washed clean, and the hair…well? Lilly couldn’t glue it back on or wash out the highlights. The emergence from nondescript to attractive was a new sensation and one she wanted to relish in for a while. Surely Mama wouldn’t begrudge her that. Or would she? 

Somewhere on the ride back Lilly decided she enjoyed this new feeling of being noticed and, for the time being, it didn’t matter what Bertha said.