Out to Canaan (144 page)

“But the town festival is only four days away.”

“Somethin',” she said, “that'll blow Mack Stroupe and his barbecue deal clear to Holding.”

“You want
me
to do that?”

“And be quick about it,” she said, scratching a splotch.

Hadn't his wife arranged countless retreats to help him relax, and cooked dinner on evenings when he wasn't up to the task?

Hadn't she prayed for him faithfully, and overhauled the rectory, and given him a complete set of Charles Dickens, not to mention a lighted world globe?

And wasn't she working on a book nearly eight hours a day?

He would do what the Russians do. Though it was his very own birthday, he would be the host, he would give the dinner.

It would be just the two of them, and afterward, they would dance. He'd put on the CD of the rhumba—or was it the tango she liked?—and positively whirl her around the study. His blood was getting up for it.

And champagne! That was the ticket. Something expensive, of course, that wouldn't give you a blinding headache even as it went down your gullet. Avis would know which label, and didn't Avis mention that a shipment of fresh lamb was expected any day?

Furthermore,
weren't his antique French roses blooming like he'd never seen, drenching the air with their intoxicating scent?

By jing!

He examined the back of his head in the mirror again. He'd been fairly butchered in the privacy of his own home.

Best to nip out and get the matter settled, once and for all.

A decent haircut, the new blue sport coat Cynthia had found on sale, dancing with his wife on his birthday—what else could a man want or imagine?

Suddenly he didn't feel a hundred years old in the shade, he was feeling more like—why not say it?—seventeen.

As he looked up Fancy's number, he had to admit he missed Joe Ivey. So what if Joe had never gone to hair conventions to learn the latest thing? Joe was eminently companionable, and never talked your ear off while he barbered your head.

Another thing—Joe hadn't been shy about slapping on the Sea Breeze, an all-time favorite treat for the way it made the scalp tingle. Fancy Skinner, on the other hand, considered the use of Sea Breeze beneath her station.

Ah, well. He sighed, dialing 555-HAIR. Fancy Skinner was the only game in town, and he hoped she could work him in.

“Th' shop's closed today, I'm here givin' Mama a rinse. Mama, she lives in Spruce Pine, but I'm from Newland. If you get over here quick, I'll trim you up because it's you. You might be th' only one I'd do this for, I'm not sure I'd do it for my own preacher, did you see what his wife did to him, it looked like she put a soup bowl on his head and hacked around it with a steak knife. How he had th' nerve to preach a revival lookin' like that is beyond me.

“Oh, Lord, I just remembered, would you mind stoppin' by Th' Local and gettin' me some sugarless gum, I'll pay you th' minute you get here or take it off your bill, either one, I like to have gum in th' shop, I do my best work if I have somethin' in my mouth, at least it's not a cigarette, law, I used to suck down two packs a day, unfiltered, can you believe it?

“Well, if you're comin', come on, tomorrow'll be a zoo, everybody's gettin' ready for the town festival, why anybody would want highlights to eat barbecue in a parkin' lot is beyond me, and if you could pick up a sack of peppermint while you're at it, that'd be great, I like to have it for people with onion breath, doin' hair is close work.”

As Fancy draped him with the pink shawl, he sighed resignedly and closed his eyes.

“Prayin', are you? You ought to know by now I won't cut your ear off or poke a hole in your head. Law, I've had too much coffee this mornin', you know I can't drink but two cups or I'm over the moon, how about you, can you still drink caffeine, or are you too old? Course, your wife is young, she probably can do it, I used to drink five or six cups a day . . . and smoke, oh, law, I smoked like a stack! But not anymore, did you know it makes you wrinkle faster? I hate those little lines around my mouth worse than anything, but that wadn't coffee, that was sun, honey, I used to lay out and bake like a chicken.

“Look at this trim! Who did this? I thought Joe Ivey was workin' at Graceland. Mama, come and look at this, this is what I have to put up with. Father, this is Mama, Mama, he's a friend of Mule's, he got married a while back for the first time.

“He preaches at that rock church down the street where they use incense, I declare, Mule and I passed by your church one Sunday, you could smell it comin' out of th' chimney! Lord, my allergies flare up somethin' awful when I smell that stuff, I thought incense was Catholic, anyway, do y'all talk Latin? I had a girlfriend one time, I went to church with her, I couldn't understand a word they said.

“Your hair's growin' like a weed. I hear if you eat a lot of grease, it'll make your hair grow, you shouldn't eat grease, anyway, you've got diabetes.

“Mama! Did you know th' Father has diabetes? My daddy had diabetes. Is that what killed him, Mama, or was it smokin'? Maybe both.

“Look at that! Whoever trimmed your hair, you tell 'em to leave your hair alone. You can call me anytime, I'll work you in. I'm sorry I couldn't take you—when was it?—I think your pope was here, I guess he don't always stay at the Vatican, have you ever been to the Vatican? Law, I haven't even been to Israel, everybody's been to Israel, our preacher is takin' a whole group next year, but I'd rather go on a cruise, do you think that's sacrilegious?

“You ought to let me give you a mask with Fancy's Face Food while we're at it, especially with your wife havin' a birthday, or is it you that's havin' one? Either way, my mask is about as good as a facelift, not to mention four thousand dollars cheaper. No, I mean it, I'll do it for you, it won't take but an hour. Just
name
a better birthday present than lookin' fifteen years younger, which is more in your
wife's
age group, if I'm not mistaken. OK, lay back, you're stiff as a board, I'm not goin' to claw your eyes out, men are babies, aren't they, Mama? She can't hear for beans, bein' under th' dryer an' all.

“Now, don't try to talk while I'm puttin' this on your face, OK? It'll get hard and you have to lay like this for thirty minutes without sayin' a word or th' whole thing'll crack off and fall on th' floor and that's forty bucks down the tubes. You ought to see this nice green color, it's got mint in it, and cucumber, and I don't know what all, I think there's spinach in here, too, and burdock—my granmaw used to dig burdock for whoopin' cough medicine!

“Don't that feel good, don't you just feel your skin releasin' all those toxins? And those wrinkles on your forehead, I bet you pucker your forehead when you think, you seem like th' type that thinks, well, you can kiss your wrinkles goodbye, honey, 'cause I'm talkin' sayonara, adios, outta here . . . .”

Lying in Fancy's chair had given him a headache, not to mention a crick in his neck that seemed to extend to his upper shoulders and into most of his spinal column. Oh, well. A small price to pay for looking forty-eight on his sixty-third birthday.

Fancy had urged him not to look in the mirror at Hair House. “Why look in the mirror,” she asked in what he considered a marvelous burst of philosophy, “when you can see th' real difference by lookin' in her eyes?” She winked at him hugely and blew a bubble, which wasn't easy to do with sugarless spearmint gum.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, he tipped her five dollars, noting that she hadn't offered a discount for clergy on this particular deal.

He couldn't help himself. The minute he came in the back door, he turned and looked in the mirror.

Good Lord!

His face was . . .
green.

Unbelievable! Surely not. Was it the dim natural light in the kitchen? He switched on the overhead fixture, fogged his glasses, and looked again.

It wasn't the light.

He dialed 555-HAIR from the kitchen phone, his heart beating dully. No answer.

He raced up the stairs to the bedroom and looked in the mirror he was accustomed to using.

Green.

His watch said five p.m. He'd invited Cynthia to come over at seven.

The birthday dinner, the champagne, the roses . . . the whole deal dashed. Blown on the wind.

He went to the bathroom and lathered his hands with soap and warm water and scrubbed his face.

Who would want to dance the tango with someone whose face was green? And how could he possibly confess that he'd had a facial, something which no other man in the village of Mitford would ever do in a hundred—no, a million—years?

He splashed his face and dried it and looked in the medicine cabinet mirror, which was topped by a 150-watt bulb that never lied.

Green. No two ways about it.

He stood gazing into the mirror, stunned. That's what he got for being a weak-minded sap, unable to say no to a woman in a pair of Capri pants so tight they looked as if they'd been robbed from a toddler.

He wanted to dig a hole and crawl in it.