Among Prey (2 page)

She pulled one of the chairs the parents sat in to the end of the bench, then helped unload his items onto the table. The intensity of his concentration was exaggerated by the manner in which he had to sit to reach his work surface, leaning far forward, his wide back rounding into a flannel hill.

He had scars on his scalp that Amber hadn’t seen when she’d been looking up at him. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the scars anyway, as they were old and well-hidden by thick, brown hair. But Amber’s years of working with the human scalp had left her very aware of its intricacies. Her only big mistake had been cutting off a man’s mole, a big one high up on the back of his neck, barely hidden by his hairline. He’d been surprisingly understanding about it, considering how much he bled.

“I was expecting to be back home before now,” Carol said. “Would you be comfortable with me using the restroom? I’ll be quick.”

Amber was careful not to look at Bobby, to visibly appraise him, but she felt his enormous presence. Still, she said, “No problem, right back there.”

Bobby continued to work as if Carol had never been there and never left. Before he clothed his doll, he drew a red heart on the white T-shirt, and with fabric paint drew a white heart on each of the back pockets of the blue jeans. He drew purple hearts all over the pink backpack. The scene maintained that sort of gentle-bear aura until he took the brown marker and began to daub at the clothing and backpack almost at random. These splotches weren’t the same cute and delicately-crafted children’s-clothing graphics he’d drawn earlier—there was something disturbing about them.

Carol returned just then, and caught Amber’s eyes with a questioning expression. Carol sat in the seat beside Bobby, but didn’t try to intervene until he began to apply brown marker to the doll itself.

She grabbed the marker, slipped it from his hand, and said, “Bobby, that’s not…” but trailed off as he slowly turned his head to look at her. Only his short neck moved. The rest of his body remained motionless. And yet the tension of potential movement was there, as he turned his head to look at first her face, then the thin, veined hand holding the brown fabric marker in the air between them. Slowly, he reached out and took the marker with two fingers. He didn’t touch her hand. He didn’t move anything more than his right arm. He didn’t make a sound. And yet Amber had never been more frightened for someone than she was for Carol at that moment.

But Bobby only put the marker to the doll and continued his work.

When he had finished, and sat staring at the doll, Amber asked, “Do you think she needs a haircut? We could take her over to the LYLAS Salon?”

Bobby brushed a thick index finger through the doll’s hair, then nodded.

“Is that okay—” Amber almost slipped and said “Mom,” but said, “—Carol?”

The nurse said, “Sure,” but gave a slight smirk as if to let Amber know that she knew they were getting taken. Amber wanted to explain that offering all the extras was just store policy. She didn’t want to explain that she did get a decent cut of every up-sell. And being a trained cosmetologist, the hair was where she really made bank. Many of the little girls would only let her cut their dolls’ hair, because the other LYLAS Dolls employees butchered them so badly. Amber had mothers actually ask if the store had a human-sized chair so they could get a haircut, too.

Amber led the strange pair over to a back corner with a mirror and miniature cutting chair on a pedestal. She reached for the doll, then remembered how Bobby had reacted when Carol had tried to take his marker. She grabbed a haircut book, and said, “If you would just put your friend right there in that chair, you can choose a haircut for her from this book.”

Bobby hesitated, and for the first time since entering the store, he let those deep-set eyes settle on Amber. Though he had a baby face, the savage brow overshadowing those eyes made Amber wonder if he had some form of pituitary-based gigantism. He gently placed the doll in the chair, adjusting her so she stayed upright, then removed his hands slowly, ready to catch her if she fell. He took the proffered book and slowly flipped the pages until he found a picture of a girl with heavy, shoulder-length hair.

Amber stretched her mouth into a smile and said, “Great choice! That really suits her. This won’t take long at all.”

Cutting while numbed on pills and booze was dangerous enough, but increasing the likelihood that Amber would lose a finger was her inability to take her eyes off Bobby. He pulled his chair near, cupped his chin in his huge hands, and watched every snip of the shears. Lost and unconscious in his observation, he didn’t seem to notice her watching him. His small mouth pursed while his eyes tracked every move Amber’s hands made. She saw that not only was he clean-shaven, but he didn’t seem to have any hair at all. She couldn’t see any stubble. His sideburns seemed to stop naturally just below the top of his ears. He had no hair on his knuckles or the wrists and forearms that had escaped his flannel cuffs. Along with the way his eyebrows moved up and down like a big Saint Bernard as he intently watched his doll—his seeming lack of sexual maturity made the giant more adorable than dangerous. With a beard, he’d have been a nightmare creature, a barbarian or troll. Instead, he was a little boy grown huge. His intense concentration throughout the process enhanced the misperception.

Amber regained her concentration and cleaned up the cut, flipping the hair back and forth to make sure it fell naturally.

“There we go.” She removed the little cape and brushed away clippings from the little neck and shoulders with a little brush. “Now, her hair won’t grow, but if she’d like a new style later, it is replaceable.”

“Wow, how do they do that?” Carol asked.

“The whole scalp comes off. You can see the line if you hold the hair back. It’s a feature they added only a couple of years ago.”

Bobby reached out and took his doll from the cutting chair. He didn’t smile or speak, but he seemed satisfied, so Amber led them to the front desk and the register.

Amber pulled the store’s digital camera from beneath the counter. “Do you mind if I take your picture? We like to put photos of our customers and their dolls up on the wall, to show off how creative you all are.” She gestured to a huge corkboard filled from top to bottom with photos of smiling little girls and their dolls.

“You don’t mind, do you, Bobby?” Carol asked, placing a hand on one of Bobby’s huge arms.

Bobby held his doll cupped in both hands. He did not react to either woman’s question, but continued to stare at the little plastic girl.

“He doesn’t mind,” Carol said. “How would you like him to pose?”

“If he could just hold his doll up and give me a smile, that’d be great.”

“Go ahead, Bobby,” Carol said, patting his arm.

Bobby tilted his cupped hands toward Amber. The doll sat comfortably in the fleshy cradle. He looked up, not at the camera, but past it.

“Smile!” Amber said. Bobby didn’t, but Amber snapped the shot anyway. She docked the camera on the photo printer and set it printing while she rang them up.

When the printer finished its work, she held the warm photo out to them. “Isn’t that nice?” And it really was nice. Amber couldn’t get over how flipping cute this giant and his little doll were. She pushed a clipboard forward. “If you’d like to be sent a digital copy, just provide us with your email address. We’ll also let you know about new products and upcoming specials.”

“No, thanks. He doesn’t have an email address, and I doubt his parents would be interested.”

Amber nodded. “Well, let me just hang this up over here.” She walked around the desk to the wall of photos. As she prepared to unpin the oldest photo and replace it, darkness fell over her. She hadn’t heard or felt Bobby approach. Beneath the Berber, the floors were solid concrete. She turned her head slightly and saw with her peripheral vision that he stood only two feet behind her. She was trapped by the counter on one side and the poster-covered front window on the other. A 400-pound man loomed over her, and she could feel the pressure of his weight the way a fly can sense a swatter. The air itself became heavier.

Amber didn’t suffer from claustrophobia. In fact, a mild case of agoraphobia kept her from driving downtown or on busy highways. Yet even with the Xanax, a spike of panic smashed through her heart. She began to sip at the air, and soon felt the world turning black at the edges. She wanted to jump over the counter. She wanted to throw elbows. Instead, she hyperventilated and flicked her eyes back and forth, looking for escape, but not moving or speaking. She was a rabbit hunkered down on a grass lawn after being caught grazing too far away from cover, and the lumbering dog might or might not have noticed her, but it certainly would if she moved, if she whispered for help, if she breathed too—

“Bobby, step back here! You know about personal space.” Carol would save her. Carol, her new best friend. Carol knew how to deal with Bobby.

Then the pressure increased, and Amber’s consciousness was filled by the arm passing over her shoulder. She threw herself in the opposite direction, against the counter.

“Bobby!”

Bobby paid neither Carol nor Amber any attention. He touched a photo hanging on the wall, then pinched it between his index finger and thumb and pulled it from the corkboard.

“Bobby, put that back. That isn’t yours.” As Amber’s breathing slowed and her vision returned, she watched Carol try to take the photo from Bobby. He simply twisted the photo between finger and thumb, then crushed it in his palm. Carol put both of her hands on his fist—a fist literally as big as her head—but she didn’t try to pry his fingers open. “Now Bobby, that belongs to the store. You know about getting too close to people and you know about taking things that don’t belong to you. Please open your hand.”

Bobby turned his attention to his doll, and staring at it, walked for the exit. Amber thought maybe he’d leave and Carol would go running after, but he stopped by the door and waited for his nurse’s instruction.

“I’m so sorry,” Carol said to Amber. “I hope he didn’t scare you too badly. The only thing we can’t keep straight is that when he wants something, he can’t just take it.”

“I’m fine. It’s okay. I was going to have to take a photo down to put his up, anyway.”

Carol smiled, apparently relieved. “You were great with him today, and you did an excellent haircut. I think you’re better than my hairstylist.”

Amber returned her smile. She was more embarrassed than anything, blamed herself for reacting in such a ridiculous fashion more than she blamed either Bobby or Carol. “Thank you. It was no problem. Bobby can come back anytime.”

“I don’t think I gave you enough of a tip.” Carol opened her handbag and Amber moved her hand and mouthed “No” a few times, but took the twenty when offered it. “His parents would want you to have it.”

“Well, thank you very much. You two have a great day.”

Carol left first, and Bobby lingered for a moment. He still held his doll in one hand, and a crushed photo in the other, and he met Amber’s eyes for the briefest instant before he turned and squeezed through the open doorway. Something passed between them. Amber didn’t know what it was, but knew it mattered.

She found that she still held the photo of Bobby and his doll. Looking at it for a clue as to what had just happened, she walked to the corkboard wall. The empty square of cork begged to be covered by someone with a bit of OCD, and Amber was just that woman. But first, she stared at the space, and then turned her eyes inward, trying to remember what photo had been there before. She’d been so preoccupied with the thought of having the life crushed out of her by an enormous man-child that she hadn’t noticed which photo he’d taken.

Unable to remember, Amber hung the picture of Bobby in its place with shaking hands.

She needed another Xanax, and probably a Klonopin too, for the long haul.

* * *

Amber went to beauty school right after graduation. She hadn’t enjoyed her academic experience, and didn’t want to extend it by going to college. She also didn’t want to work in a warehouse or factory. She had some interest in fashion, enjoyed the magazines at least, so cosmetology seemed a natural choice of trade. And the beauty school in town was cheap.

After she passed her certification test, she found that the turnover at the more expensive salons was very low. She didn’t want to move away from her family and friends, so she figured she’d get a holdover job at Good Snips and wait to see how things went. Once in the industry, Amber learned the town had a strange hair culture, in that the cheap places like Good Snips were almost minor leagues for developing talent for the three expensive salons. So she settled in and tried to make a name for herself.

She didn’t expect it to take years. And she didn’t think she’d eventually hate doing hair.

That wasn’t exactly correct. She enjoyed doing hair, and thought she was pretty good at it. What she hated were the customers. You’d think that people paying ten dollars for a haircut would adjust their expectations. At that price, in order to make any money Amber had to cram too many haircuts into an hour, but she tried to give her clients better than the bare minimum.

Yet the customers were still horrible. Not all of them. Many sat in her chair, flipped through a magazine until their cut was done, then paid up front without ever making eye contact with her. She liked that fine. But the rest complained incessantly and tried to tell her how to do her job. They talked about what their old stylists did, or brought in pictures of celebrities with $500 haircuts that just happened to complement their perfect facial features.