Literacy and Longing in L. A. (13 page)

The Woman with
Phenomenal Tresses

“Wisdom is not wisdom when it is derived from books alone.”

~
Horace (65–8
B.C.
)
~

I
t’s a long afternoon. I help Bea with the dishes while Harper watches TV. After that, I read Harper
The Magic Finger
by Roald Dahl while we sit in plastic chairs on the porch and watch clouds appear on the horizon. Bea’s backyard at twilight seems almost like an enchanted garden. There are homemade birdhouses crafted from petrified gourds hanging in the trees, and a pair of small bamboo wind chimes faintly tinkle in the breeze. Just before sunset, gulls circle the neighboring houses and call to each other in guttural deep-throated tones. I love this time of day. The colors in the sky are rich and luminous like stained glass scenes in a cathedral
and Harper and I watch as the light fades and the vibrant reds and pinks in the sky grow weak and anemic. Someone is barbecuing next door and the smell of Matchlight and mesquite perfumes the air. When the sky finally darkens, Harper and I retreat inside.

I help Harper take her bath because Bea’s back is acting up, and amazingly enough, Harper is hungry again. There is something wonderful about the way a child smells after a bath, moist, fresh, flowery, and talcy, and I inhale the sweet aroma as Harper slips into her robe and heads for the kitchen. Bea still isn’t feeling well, so Harper and I make little tea sandwiches and bring them to her room, where we have a Barbie tea party. At seven thirty she starts to rub her eyes. I was a teenager the last time I babysat for a child this age, but I still remember what that means. I watch her mechanically brush her teeth and tuck her into bed. Bea comes in and gives her a kiss good-night and I do too.

“Why don’t you lie down too? You must be exhausted,” Bea says to me as we turn out the light.

And I am. I go into the guest bedroom and pull a paperback out of my bag, the new David Mitchell book,
Cloud Atlas
. It’s all about the transmigration of souls across four continents and three time zones, but I quickly decide that it is totally unreadable. I lie on the bed and watch the fading sun filter through the window, casting shadows on the oversized bureau, the rocking chair, and the side table.

Outside in the yard, I see a clothesline and a long covered sandbox. When I get up to wash my face in the
bathroom, dust speckles dance furiously in the gauzy light. Maybe I should just call a cab and go home. How far from civilization am I really? Twenty minutes? I guess I shouldn’t do that. It would be so rude. I know, I’ll just pad my way down to the kitchen and see if I can find a bottle of something. Bea served sherry at lunch, but hopefully I can find something with a little more teeth.

As I start down the hall I hear a dog bark and someone, maybe Bea, cough and then yawn. There is the muffled sound of a TV sitcom with canned laughter coming from her bedroom. When I reach the kitchen, the birdcage is covered with a dishtowel, and I’m aware that any noise would start them chirping. Where to look? Maybe the cupboard? Bingo. Two bottles of Paul Masson chablis and a pint of Cutty Sark. Normally, I’m not a Scotch person, but I don’t want to open the wine, so I’ll just take a little nip. I pour it into a plastic cup and take a swig. The alcohol burns up into my center forehead and warms my solar plexus. I take one more swig, rinse out my mouth with a Diet Coke from the fridge, and head back to my room. I look at the clock. This is taking longer than I thought. What could he be doing? I turn back to my book and decide to hunker down and wait it out.

Later that evening, with Fred still gone, the house quiet and dimly lit, Bea lightly taps on my door and says, “Knock, knock.” I jump up to let her in.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, Dora.” She is carrying what looks like a heavy brown leather satchel stuffed with brushes and plastic bottles along with rollers and combs. The satchel looks ancient, like something from a
seedy port town. The leather is cracked and noticeably water stained, and it has the stale, musty smell that always seems to go with used-clothing stores.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?”

“What?” I answer, confused.

“Would you like me to brush your hair? I used to do it for a living when we all lived in Delaware, a hundred years ago. Before we moved to New Orleans.” She laughs nervously.

“Oh, I see. Why not? Were you a hairdresser?”

“Not really. Not the way you mean it today. I was a Harper Lady.”

“A Harper Lady,” I repeat. I have no idea what she is talking about, so I just smile.

“Yes, I used to do the loveliest ladies. It was such a joy. Yes, indeed. The DuPonts and the Rothschilds. I did them all. And they all had such lovely families.”

I watch as she pulls out her brushes one by one and then her tortoiseshell combs and bottles of castile soap, tar shampoo, and white vinegar.

“I guess I’m not exactly sure what you did, but I’d love for you to brush my hair,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Frankly, I thought it all sounded a little weird, but I was loath to let her know it.

Bea tells me the Harper method was an in-home hair treatment embraced by the social elite that involved neck and shoulder massages along with a special shampoo concocted with natural ingredients and a long brushing-dry session. The business was started by a Canadian woman named Martha Harper who had such gorgeous
chestnut hair that P. T. Barnum tried to sign her up for his circus as “The Woman with Phenomenal Tresses.”

“Oh, all the celebrities and first ladies had Harper Ladies come to their homes,” says Bea. Apparently, the emphasis was on healthy hair, and the trained ladies used natural hair dyes, special tonics, and other methods of stimulating the scalp and hair growth. “Beauty comes from cleanliness and good circulation. That’s what we all preached.”

“Where did you learn all this, Bea?”

“Oh, well, there were these training salons all over the country, but they all died out eventually. I had a girlfriend who used to work in one downtown and she helped me learn. I had some customers for twenty-five, even thirty years. Every night, Monday through Friday, I’d drive up to Wilmington and even to Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia to do my ladies. My Whiz, that was my husband, Whizwald, he’s passed on now, used to wait for me until I got home. Then we’d sit down to dinner at nine thirty or even ten. He was a good man, my Whiz. He was an electrician by trade, but he had a green thumb and he was a fine dancer. I guess you noticed I’m not such a success with my garden out there.”

“Not at all, Bea. It’s charming. Did you really go dancing?”

“Oh, yes. We were the oldest charter members of the Delaware Square Dancing Society and we’d go to their socials once a month and dance all night. I had a closetful of the most beautiful outfits and so did Whiz. He looked so dapper back then.”

Fred never told me this. Any of it. His mother was a hairdresser to society mavens and his father an electrician. They went square dancing on Saturday nights in those insane, garish costumes with corny rickrack and silver fringes that seniors wear to hoedowns. No wonder he left for New York at seventeen. A mortifying combination of factors for a young intellectual who viewed himself as an artist. Still, there was something so lovely and decent and pure about Bea. You’d think by now he’d appreciate her.

“Come sit here, Dora. I can reach your head easier,” she says, motioning me over to the rocker. “I have such bad arthritis in my fingers and joints, I can’t do the job I used to…”

“Oh, that’s okay, Bea, you don’t have to. Really.”

“No, I like it. It keeps me calm, gets my mind off my troubles. I worry so about Lorraine. We’ve tried everything, god knows. She’s been in and out of rehab a dozen times, but after a few days she gets desperate and calls me. I always go fetch her and bring her home. I can’t help myself. She sounds so pitiful. It’s the devil, that drug. Her boyfriend got her into it and then he up and leaves her when she gets pregnant. I thought if I moved out here, I could help her. But she just keeps getting worse. It’s just Harper and me most days, and that’s the truth.”

Bea is quiet for a minute as she brushes my hair. I can’t think of a thing to say.

“Harper loves for me to do her hair. It’s our way of comforting each other. Gee, Dora, you have such nice hair, so thick and healthy. Good for you.”

Bea brushes my hair with a natural boar’s bristle brush imported from England. Her movements are firm and strong, and soon my whole head starts to tingle as the circulation in my scalp is stimulated. Every so often, she dabs what smells like a combination of tar and vinegar on my head, rubs it in with her fingers, and brushes my hair again in long, methodical strokes. First this way, then that. Then she flips my hair over my face and brushes in a circular motion at the nape of my neck. I think this is the next best thing to my Thai masseuse who comes over to my apartment and charges ninety-five dollars plus tip. No. This is better. This is nirvana. Mrs. DuPont was a cagey old broad.

“How much did you charge for this, Bea?” I ask, clearly in bliss.

“My fee was thirty-five dollars to come twice a week, but on their birthdays and Christmas, I’d do it for free. They liked that.”

“Did you get a tip?”

“Shhh, Dora, you’re supposed to relax.”

“I know but, Bea, this is brilliant. I absolutely adore it.”

Bea keeps brushing until the streetlamps outside the window flicker on and I can see the domed rings of light reflected on the pavement. She pauses briefly to switch on the bedside light and to check on Harper.

When she comes back, I stand up. “Bea, that was hypnotic. Thank you so much.”

“Oh, don’t thank me. I loved doing it. Maybe you’ll get a good rest now. It’s good for that. That’s why I always did my ladies at night.”

After Bea leaves, I lie in bed in the dark and watch the headlights of passing cars dance across the ceiling. When I was a child, I remember doing the same thing and then listening to the far-off sound of the local train roaring through the station, its whistle blasting through the distant neighborhood. I turn over on my side and thread my fingers through my hair. It feels silky and thick and squeaky clean. For the first time ever, I don’t pick up my book to get to sleep. I just drift off in a daze.

Along Came a Spider

“…out of the darkness came a small voice…”

~
E. B. White (1899–1985),
Charlotte’s Web ~

I
wake up to see Fred standing stiffly at my bedside, staring down at my face. The early morning light is filtering through the bedroom window and I feel like I’ve been sprinkled with angel dust. I haven’t been this relaxed in years. He leans over and gives me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He has dark, puffy circles under his eyes and he looks like he’s slept in his clothes.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly six.”

“Did you find her?”

“No. By the time I got there she was gone. I looked for her in the usual places, but I guess she got a better
offer. This happens all the time, Dora. Let’s get out of here.”

I pull myself together, go into the bathroom, and notice that my hair is gleaming. As Fred and I quietly start to walk out, Bea appears in her bulky lavender chenille bathrobe. The pockets are stuffed with Kleenex and there are a few coffee stains on the lapel. Harper is still asleep.

“Oh. You’re leaving? Can I fix you some breakfast? How about some fried eggs?” Bea asks.

“No thanks, Bea,” Fred says. “I have to get back.”

“So, what should I do now, do you think?” Bea asks carefully.

“They’ll call when she turns up. You know the drill,” he says, brushing her off. I’m a little embarrassed at his abruptness.

“I hope everything works out okay. Thanks again for the, you know.” I touch my hair.

“Oh, for goodness sakes, it was my pleasure, dear.” Bea gives me a hug. I really like this woman. She stands in the doorway and watches us leave.

Fred’s pretty silent on the ride home.

“Maybe you should have stayed to help Bea,” I suggest.

“Dora, do you have any idea what it’s like to live with someone like Lorraine?” he says angrily, cutting me off.

“No, I guess I don’t,” I reply, feeling that I’ve overstepped my bounds.

“She hacks through your love and the love of everyone who knows her. You plead with her to stop, you
drive her to therapists, AA meetings, probation officers, doctors’ appointments, you lend her money, you lend her more money, you take away her keys, it just goes on and on. She’s indifferent to your appeals. And, finally, you throw her out of the house and tell her not to come back until she’s sober. And then you’re grateful that the whole ordeal is over until the phone rings in the middle of the night and someone’s found her on a street corner and she’s incoherent and dirty and helpless. And she needs to come home. Bea has run through most of her savings paying for all this stuff. The private rehab places cost thousands of dollars up front and Lorraine doesn’t even stay a week. The first time she went she couldn’t handle the detox or the rules, so she called Bea screaming in pain and agony. Bea freaked out and picked her up. Then the courts sent her to a lockdown for a month, and as soon as she got home, Bea gave her some cash for the market and that was it. You can’t reason with Bea when it comes to Lorraine. She gives in every time, it turns into a disaster, and then Bea comes crying to me for help.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s worse when Lorraine just holes up in her room, locks the door, and won’t let Bea or Harper in for days and days. Then she’ll come out and tear up the place looking for money. She’s stolen Bea’s jewelry, her silver, her camera, anything she could hock. She even wiped out Harper’s piggy bank. Bea finally found a great facility, which is where Lorraine was supposed to be now. But, as you heard, she’s obviously bolted.”

“Why don’t you get Harper out of there?”

“Harper won’t leave Bea. And Bea won’t leave Lorraine. So there you are.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since Bea moved here five years ago. Harper thinks her mother is sick,” he says with disgust. “And I’ve had it. It’s just too draining. Anyway, what can I do?”

“I’m so sorry, Fred.” But I’m thinking, isn’t there always something you can do? We arrive at my place. He gives me a weak kiss good-bye, says see you later, and leaves.

As I walk into my apartment, I am reminded of an old adage my mother was fond of repeating. If everyone’s problems were hung out on a line, you’d pick your own.

I’d planned to use today to make some calls about my job. I’m not exactly in the mood anymore, but I’ve put it off long enough. I clean up and decide to put together another version of my portfolio. I’ve heard that the
Santa Monica Tribune
is looking for a metro reporter. These little newspapers don’t seem like much, but the editors at the dailies read them religiously and scan them for scoops and newcomers. I guess I’m in that category once again.

I met with my accountant the other day and he delicately suggested for about the ten billionth time that I scale down my spending. He inquired as to whether I had any other sources of income, I guess meaning Palmer. When I said no, he helpfully suggested I speed up my job search. I know he thinks I’m in another world as far as finances are concerned. And I must admit, I barely look at my investment statements or my check
book balance, for that matter. My sister uses quaint terms such as “the chickens are coming home to roost,” to motivate me to take charge. I’ve pretty much ignored her until last week when she started referring to me as “the poor relation.”

I like to blame my cavalier attitude about money on my father, who would compensate for his absences by periodically sending us large checks. The checks were especially generous when he missed milestones like birthdays, school plays, Christmas, and father-daughter dances. I knew that when the envelope showed up, he wouldn’t. My mother’s drinking would get worse, and the whole cycle would begin all over again. My sister and I took care of ourselves until her binge was over and then she would blithely try to pretend that this was just a temporary situation. Many times she would say, “When your father gets back” but my big question would be, “When?” Sometimes I would sink into a morass of vague anger and resentment. It’s strange that Harper doesn’t seem to feel that way about Lorraine, although it’s hard to know what the child was thinking last night.

I lay my portfolio on my desk, pull out all the supplies my sister brought me, and juice up my laptop. That’s when the phone rings and Fred tells me the news. They found Lorraine on the beach, wrapped in a sleeping bag. She’d been dead for about six hours according to the beach patrol, who called Bea shortly after Fred and I took off. Fred’s voice is strained as he tells me he’s heading back to Bea’s and then to the morgue.

There’s something excruciatingly quiet about bad
news. All the noises of normal human behavior suddenly cease, but it’s the oddest thing—you can still hear the sound of the faintest clock ticking, the wind sighing through the bushes, a far-off bird trilling, or the hum of a refrigerator motor in the kitchen. Human voices sort of…fall away…like the false veil of protection and comfort we all seem to take for granted in between life’s inevitable disasters. I’ve had this feeling before. One minute you’re full of trust and affection, and the next, you feel as if you’ve been yanked out of your world and are careening somewhere treacherous and unknown.

Fred tells me that Lorraine overdosed on a mixture of heroin and cocaine. He is surprisingly clinical and unemotional as he goes through the details of how they found her and what they are planning to do. He also informs me that Bea is grief-stricken and they haven’t told Harper yet. With a feeling of dread, I offer to drop off some food and Fred says something noncommittal like “whatever you think.”

I drive to the little toy store in my neighborhood to pick up some things for Harper. Then I stop at a French children’s clothing boutique and get Harper an expensive fuzzy pink sweater with a flannel skirt and tights to match. I have it all wrapped and put in the trunk of my car. It’s funny how one’s mind flashes on events that took place years ago, especially when you least expect it.

My mother woke me up one morning when I was ten and told me that my girlfriend’s father had shot himself in the head the night before. He sat in his car, in front of
his large Tudor house at twilight, just like the Beatles song, and the whole family heard the bang inside. Anyway, my sister and I went back to her house after the funeral and the only thing I remember was the pile of presents by the door. They were all for my girlfriend, of course, and I was insanely jealous, the way children get when they are totally oblivious to the crushing sadness of something that takes place outside of their universe. I remember thinking that my dad was also gone, never mind that he was living someplace else, and didn’t I deserve something too?

I pull into Vicente Foods, pick up a honey-baked ham, lasagna from the deli counter, a chocolate layer cake, a large bottle of Scotch, and several bottles of wine. I’m just going to drop the stuff off and leave.

It’s almost dark by the time I pull up to Bea’s place. I’m surprised that there are no other cars lining the streets or in the driveway. In fact, the place looks deserted and the front door is slightly ajar. Harper greets me in her pajamas with an expectant smile.

“Are you here because of my mom?” she asks.

“Yes, Harper. I am. I’m so sorry.”

“She’s in heaven and in my heart,” Harper repeats in a practiced, almost singsong voice and I wonder who has coached her.

“That’s good,” I reply. Definitely at a loss for words.

“Are those for me?” Harper suddenly exclaims with a wide smile.

Bea comes up behind Harper and wraps her arms lovingly around the child’s neck.

She’s wearing a housedress and slippers and her silken, silver hair is pulled back in a haphazard way.

“Bless your heart, Dora. You didn’t need to come back all this way. Look at you. Oh my, and all these groceries and things for Harper. You’re such a jewel.”

I am about to say something polite like “it was nothing,” when I suddenly realize that Bea is weeping and awkwardly trying to dab her cheeks with an embroidered old-fashioned hankie. She has another in the pocket of her dress, with dainty little daisies needlepointed around the edges, and I feel so helpless.

I put my arms around her and feel her heavy frame trembling through her limp, wrinkled housedress. Her face is hot and moist and I can smell that faint touch of lavender on her neck. We stand in that embrace for a few moments like long-lost friends, and I am overcome with feelings of sadness and loss. “I’m so sorry, Bea.”

“I know, dear. Thank you.”

Somewhere from behind us, I hear Harper’s tentative voice.

“Can I open them now?”

“Of course,” I answer. How can I leave? I guess I’ll stay for a while. At least until some other people arrive.

Harper rips open the presents. Her face brightens when she sees the pink prima-donna sweater. She puts it on over her pajamas and runs to look at herself in the mirror. Then she comes back and proudly says, “I look just like a teenager.”

I look at Bea, who’s clearly distraught and distracted,
and I say to Harper, “Why don’t you go play and I’ll fix dinner.”

I walk into the kitchen and see half-eaten breakfast dishes still on the table and a lukewarm quart of milk on the countertop. Bea was apparently in the middle of breakfast when she got the news. I start cleaning up and Bea comes in. Her face is drawn and her hands are shaking.

“Do you feel like talking?” I ask. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”

“No, thanks. Some things don’t bear going into. She couldn’t be saved, you know. I don’t believe you can save anyone, really. She had to do that herself and the drug took that will away from her. You never knew her, but she loved Harper and me and her brother and her friends. I know she knew we were praying for her. And I know she felt awful about disappointing us all the time.”

There is a tone of finality in her voice as she adds, “You need to eat more, Dora. I bet you’re one of those girls who eats all day and still looks like a sparrow.” She gives me a ghost of a smile. “Do you need some help here?”

“No, you go get some rest, Bea. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“That would be real nice, dear. I’m dead on my feet. Thank you.”

I watch her drift into the hall and then I slice up the ham, throw a salad together, open the wine I brought, and down a few slugs.

I put everything on the table and call Bea and Harper.
Harper comes running in the way kids do. She asks if she can have some cake and I tell her dinner first. She sits down, half off the chair, and starts wolfing down the ham. It’s obvious she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. Bea walks in, her eyes red and swollen. “I don’t know what in the world is taking Fred so long. Good heavens, why isn’t he calling?”

I’d like the answer to that myself. “You know, Bea, sometimes these things take a while. You’re dealing with the city and I’m sure there’s a lot of paperwork.”

Bea sits down heavily and stares off into space. Then she closes her eyes for a moment and clasps her hands in her lap. I can’t tell if she is dozing or praying. “Can I get you something to drink, Bea?” Silence.

She slowly opens her eyes. “I tried to get her to come to church. They have a group of young people there that could’ve helped her. ‘For it is written, he shall give his angels charge over thee. And in their hands, they shall bear thee up.’”

Harper is eating, not seeming to hear. I don’t know how to comfort Bea. Where are all the other people? Neighbors? Friends? I guess nobody knows yet.

There is a knock on the door. Bea jumps up. From the corner of my eye, I see two uniformed policemen and Fred follows them in. When Bea sees Fred, she erupts into a pitiful, wailing sound and falls into his arms. I feel like I shouldn’t be here intruding on their most painful, private moments. I should have waited.

Harper pulls on my sleeve. “Can I have my cake
now?” She either isn’t aware of the scene going on at the door or she’s had a lot of practice dealing with terrible moments. I quickly tell Harper, let’s have the cake in your room. I grab the cake, a couple of plates, and hustle her off down the hall.

We pass Lorraine’s room and Harper darts in saying, “I left my blankie in here.” As I stand at the doorway, she turns on the light.