Split Ends (3 page)

If that doesn't give you an indication as to why I toward the golden Hollywood age for my sense of heroism, don't know what will. I simply can't imagine Cary Grant having an affair with a woman like my mother, falling love, and then deciding she wasn't good enough to marry. And, worse yet, marrying the angry young Evelyn Weathers when his mother told him to. Maybe life needs a good director for the Hollywood ending.

Bud touches the string of his bolo tie and clears his throat. “You'll tell her I wish her the best without you? She gave up everything for you to have the life you did.” He says this like I'm living the dream or something.

“You're going to buy the whisk?” I ask him.

“Fifty cents, huh? I'll give you a quarter for it.”

“Deal.”

He hands me the quarter, and I slide it in my front pocket.
Heartwarming
. Something to remember my father by.

Without another word, he takes his whisk, waits for a truck to pass by on the highway, and jogs to his waiting dualie and wife.

Ryan comes up behind me. “Do you think he's really my father?” I ask. “I sure don't see any family resemblance.” I look up at Ryan. “And you better not either.”

“Oh, yeah, he's your dad. No doubt. Did you see the way he watched for your mother the whole time?”

“My mother had bad taste.”

“The worst,” he agrees.

“I hope I didn't inherit it.”

“Your mother wouldn't have looked twice at Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart.”

This makes me laugh out loud. “I love you, Ryan. You're perfect for Kate.”

“No, she definitely deserves better than me. But I hope to spend every day thanking her for lowering herself to my level.”

“I'll be home for the wedding.” I give him a big hug.

“We'll be in California for yours. As soon as you round up the new Cary, whoever that might be.” He laughs and starts picking up all the remnants of the yard sale (pretty much everything I tried to sell) and shoving it into the back of his old pickup.

“At least take a twenty for the dump fees.” I hold up bill.

He snorts. “Dump fees? I'm sweeping out my truck at end of your daddy's property. It's about time he cleaned some of his own mess.”

“Well, I'm going to finish packing. You take care.”

With a last wave, I take the front steps two at a time and open the squeaky screen door. My house is not what you'd expect. It's spotless, with the distinct odor of bleach most of the day and lines from the vacuum cleaner in the aged, orange carpet. We have that linoleum from decades gone by that doesn't wear but instead gets uglier as the designs appear to get bigger and darker over the years. It's nice complement to the wall made out of mirrored tiles with gold squiggle decorations.

Spotless and yet still disgusting—now that takes talent. makes you want to get drunk just so it makes some sort sense. Everything has its place. Not the least of which the alcohol. Mom alphabetizes the bottles along the mirrored bar wall and has always claimed she'd know if I took any. As if. Not even our decor would lead me to the booze. And trust me, if something was going to, it would definitely be the 1970s decor in my living room.

I vowed I'd never drink. Not out of piety or any religious conviction, but because having a mother like mine turned into a control freak early on, and I would never allow something as mundane as alcohol to take what little power had. I could vacuum, read, lose myself in old movies, and stay sober. That was pretty much it, so that's where I took control.

“What did he want?” My mother is staring out the front window, which despite the dust outside, is sparkling clean (thanks to white vinegar and newspaper).

“He wanted to know if you were coming with me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him as soon as I could arrange for it.”

She purses her lips. “You know I'll never leave here.” But she pauses a moment, so I know at least she's thinking about the idea, pondering what life might be like.

“I know that. But he doesn't. You ought to make suffer just a little bit. Don't you have the slightest desire have him hurt just a little?” I pick up the suitcase I bought at Wal-Mart and unzip it. “This thing looked bigger in the store.”

“You need to iron those jeans,” she says as I fold a pair out of the laundry basket.

“You don't need to iron jeans.” I receive her disapproving look. “I'll iron them in California.”

She takes them from me and folds them brusquely into the suitcase. “You tell those old busybodies to mind their own business. I'm not going to church, and I don't need anyone checking on me or bringing me cookies to make me fat, you got it? Those women think they know my story, but they don't know anything and neither do you, so don't go thinking things will be so different in California. Life wears you down, Sarah Claire. You try to fight it, but it wears you down, and those women did their part.”

“Mom, they're not like that. The women who are like that don't talk to me. I'm not worthy, you know?”

“They always thumbed their noses at us. You think you can make it different, but you can't make it any different, Sarah Claire. Their minds were made up a long time ago, whether they converted you or not.”

I know better than to argue. “Don't forget to show up for your hearing, Mom. I put a thousand dollars down saying you'd be there.”

“A thousand dollars. What does that judge think I did that's worth ten thousand dollars' bail?”

“Drunk driving is serious these days.” She's looking the other way, so I roll my eyes and mouth a big
Duh
, if for nothing else than my own sanity. “It's not like twenty years ago when no one was on these roads. You could have killed someone besides yourself.”

“Don't lecture me! I wasn't drunk. I don't care what his little walk-on-the-white-line test told him. I'm old. You try walking straight when you get to be my age.”

“You're forty-three, Mom. That's not old.”

“It's too old to walk straight on a white line at midnight, I'll tell you that.” She holds up one of my shirts to indicate that it, too, needs to be ironed. “I'll get your precious money back. I only had to borrow because the mortgage was due. I assumed you wanted a roof over your head.”

My mother is refolding everything I put into the suitcase from the laundry basket, and suddenly I'm just not in the mood. “You know, I need a nap; I think I'll pack later.

In my room I plop onto my bed, gazing up at my ceiling and my poster of Cary Grant as he stares off into the distance, his cleft chin resting on his gentle hands.

“Everyone wants to be Cary Grant,” he famously said.
“Even I want to be Cary Grant.”

“I do too, Cary. I want to be Audrey Hepburn and Deborah Kerr and everything old Hollywood has to offer. I want to live the dream.” I smile, thinking tomorrow I'm really going to be doing it.

Back when I put that poster up, I was too young to realize it (and too old even then for posters on my ceiling), but subconsciously I saw something in that photo gave me hope. I always believed God had more for me than this aged yet immaculate house, and for some reason, that poster—those sultry, deep, brown eyes—kept the dream alive. Long enough for me to save up the money to get out.

God didn't give me an overly active imagination and a friend in the library—with extensive access to VHS movies from times gone by—for nothing. It was my escape. I saw myself as part of something bigger. Even in school when the wealthy ranchers' kids called me white trash, I waited with anticipation for my life to change, for the right moment to embrace my fantabulous destiny. I imagined a hero (who may or may not have looked like Cary) who would love me intensely. He would travel across the Tetons to pluck me from my average existence and take me to my destiny and a life of romance and adventure. Just like Cary did in
North by Northwest
.

I wanted chivalry, pure and simple. And to be a part of Hollywood's history—and its future.

My active imagination is probably brought on by some form of psychosis, but it's there nonetheless. I read once that sometimes psychosis is healthy because it allows you to escape a poor reality. So I'm just waiting for the time continuum to shift, and I am on my way out of my unhealthy reality! Totally healthy.

But it's not particularly practical. In a nutshell, what I currently possess is my men-in-fedoras dream, a talent for hair, and a single quarter from my father for my troubles. If that isn't God telling me something . . .

God spoke to me. Oh, I know that's a hallmark for crazy people, but I was watching Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman in
Notorious
and He spoke. When Cary swooped Ingrid up in his arms to keep her from being poisoned, even though she had a past and a reputation and wasn't the kind of girl you bring home to mother, I realized there wasn't anyone to sweep me up. There never had been and there was no sense waiting for it to happen. I realized the only person who could change anything about my life was me. So I did. I called my cousin and made arrangements for California and my dream of becoming more than I could be here in Sable. Not just a hairdresser but the best of the best.

I decided to matter. Without the help of a man. I mean, after all, with the number of Christian men in Sable, minus the ones whose mamas wouldn't let them within twenty feet of me, I've had about as much chance of pairing up as a third hermaphrodite gorilla on the ark.

Ingrid's grand escape in Cary's outstretched arms was my sign from God.

I hear the doorbell and then my mother's bedroom door slamming, which is my signal that it's for me. Kate is standing at the window, waving at me. She opens the door and sticks her head in. “How was the yard sale?”

“I sold everything.” Then I shake my head. “No, really, the ladies of Bell Baptist paid me for nothing, and your fiancé took the rest to the dump.”

“Stellar. Mrs. Ball said good-bye. She was in today for a perm. She said she'd miss you quoting the stars' hair colors, and she still wants to know Betty Grable's.”

“I told her, I can't find anything but a black-and-white photo. I
can
tell her it wasn't blue, and most likely it was a ten. Perfectly platinum.”

“Ah, to have your color talent. It's a pity you didn't get much practice here. Hollywood is going to be perfect for you. People are really willing to try new things there. I read the
Enquirer
that everyone in Hollywood colors their hair, even the guys! With highlights and everything. Even the men own hair products like flat irons. Can you imagine
if one of our cowboys came in for highlights?”

“I tried to get Ryan to let me practice. He told me only one woman touches his hair. I think he thought I was trying to pick him up.” I don't mention he always thinks that.

“He said that?” Kate plops onto the couch, letting her eyes rest on the mirrored wall. She's heavenly beautiful with sweeping curls of blonde hair and an inherent in innocence her bright blue eyes. Her sweet looks belie her sarcastic, Siamese personality, but I'm not sure that anyone but me sees the “quipping Kate.” That side of her is reserved for me alone. Everyone else gets the sweet-country-girl-next-door. I get Roseanne Barr.

“He did. He said only you touch his hair, that it's an intimate act for him.”

Her expression is dubious. “You're scaring me. He did not say that.”

“He did. It was right before graduation from beauty college. I asked if he'd let me try a Ryan Seacrest on him. Kate, what's the matter? Are you mad at me?”

“Do you think Ryan and I are right for each other?”

“Um, yeah. The whole town does.”

“I know what the town thinks. I'm asking you.” Kate gets up and paces the room, fiddling with various knickknacks.

“If a guy like Ryan would ask me to marry him, I'd have no reason to move, Kate.”

She rolls her eyes. “That's what you think, huh? You live in a dream world. So have you been studying the stars' hair colors for Yoshi?”

I nod. “I've been watching Yoshi's color videos. I want to be an artist in my own right.”

“That is definitely you. Too bad I'm the only one who's ever let you practice. You're too cutting-edge for Sable.”

“I am not cutting edge.”

“For Sable you are.”

“For Hollywood, I'm probably a step above a Clampett. Can't you hear the banjo now?”

“Stop it. Don't bother going if you're going to take that woe-is-me attitude. Stay here and be a loser.”

“I am not a loser!”

“Of course you aren't. I'm not friends with losers. I'm not saying this should go to your head or anything, but you do have to cop a little attitude or you won't make it. Repeat after me: José Eber can eat my dust!”

“José Eber can eat my dust!”

“Men in cowboy hats with mullets should not be designing hair.”

I laugh. “Men in cowboy hats with mullets should be designing hair.”

“I am not a Clampett. I am a Faith Hill, ready to find my star.”

“I am not a Clampett. I am Faith Hill, ready to find my star.”

“And snag a Tim McGraw in the process!”

“Now there is a cowboy worthy of Hollywood status.”

“A moment of silence for Tim McGraw's worthiness.”

We both break into giggles, and I feel a renewed surge of adrenaline. “Girl, I am going to Hollywood!”

“I don't mean to be a downer, but you think your mom's going to be all right?” Kate nods toward her door. As if reading our thoughts, my mother comes out of her room, grabs a bottle of scotch out of the bar, and heads back into her lair, slamming the door behind her.

I shrug. “Will it make any difference if I'm here or not?”

“Probably not.” Kate kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “One day I hope this whole town realizes what they've lost. Especially that sniveling Cindy Simmons, who for some reason I can't bring myself to color right. My hand just slips every time I'm mixing.”