Split Ends (2 page)

Speaking of which, my mother takes this moment to slowly open the front door, scanning the yard and the crowd as if we can't see her. Naturally, all movement stops. My mother is sort of like the haunted house up on Cooley Mountain—she holds an enticing fascination for the conservative town because she does whatever she pleases. There's both a disgust and a bit of envy when it comes to her.

Janey Winowski has lived a hard life and, I'm sorry to say, it shows. Though she's only forty-three—having had me at the tender age of seventeen—her skin is singed red with broken blood vessels, and her store-bought, stringy blonde hair (with deep black and gray roots) resembles a “before” shot for any hair salon. I think it's her way of telling the world she won't acknowledge my single talent. That my mother would have the worst hair in town is a shame she makes me bear daily.

But when I'm doing Reese Witherspoon's hair, it's going to be her who's embarrassed.

“You're going to clean all this up,” she shouts, as though I'm a child. “The yard looks like a pigsty.”

The yard always looks like a pigsty (I don't think the lawn's been mowed since 1973), but I'll give her that it doesn't look any better with all my crap out here. Still, it's not like we were in the running for HGTV to begin with.

“I'll clean it up, Mom, as soon as the yard sale is over.”

This must be the magic signal, because people start to scramble for their cars. And now I'm left with fourteen bottles of shampoo.

I sigh. Someday, somewhere, I'm going to matter. I'm going to walk this earth and people are going to Care! Someday soon. Perhaps hairstyling isn't a divine calling, but I'm good at it, and so I'm going to a place where looks mean something: I'm going to shallow, impressionable California, where good, chunky highlights
add value
.

“It's going to be all right,” Mrs. Gentry says, patting my wrist. “She's going to miss you. It's her way of making her presence known and that she's still your mother.”

“I'll miss her, too, believe it or not.” I look into Mrs. Gentry's warm blue eyes. “It may be completely dysfunctional, but it's
our
dysfunction.”

“She did her best, Sarah Claire. We all do our best.”

I'm sure she did do her best, but she didn't exactly reach
for the stars either.
I just nod, rather than risk answering and sounding ungrateful. It is what it is, I suppose. But I'm ready for a transformation, and what better place than Hollywood! A place that made Norma Jean Baker into Marilyn Monroe and Archie Leach into Cary Grant. Why not Sarah Claire Winowski into “hairstylist to the stars”? Stranger things have happened. Paris Hilton happened.

“I've been having dreams of styling hair, Mrs. Gentry. I heard on a doctor show that the surgeons practice the surgery in their minds the night before. That's exactly what I do with my styles. I can see my success, taste it. Maybe that sounds ridiculous to you, but I feel like I'm called there, like God has some kind of plan for me laid out in Hollywood.”

“Why wouldn't He?”

She's probably placating me, but since she's all the support I've got, I'll take it. “I guess maybe because I'm Sarah Claire Winowski, and where things can go wrong, they tend to explode fantastically. If there's a cow patty in the middle of a football field, it's my shoe that will find it”

She laughs and pats my wrist again. “Without a vision, you'd just end up like us here, who never left the town. Which is fine for us. Enough for us. But you always were a special little girl, always dreaming of some magical gateway into a strange land.”

“I think I want the magical gateway
out
of the strange land, actually. Even if things do blow up miserably, I'll be in shorts at the beach and I won't care as much. I won't have to have that fake orange Wyoming tan from
Tantastic
. I can go for the real thing.”

“Maybe you'll have a beach wedding and invite all us old ladies to wrap the candied almonds in netting. Was that ever one of your dreams all those times you drifted off from us?” She smoothes my cheek.

“Bless your heart, Mrs. Gentry. You're the only one who thinks a Winowski will marry anyone. And on the beach, no less.”

“Not only do I see you married and breaking the family curse—” she raises an eyebrow to tell me what she thinks of my beliefs, “—I see you marrying someone who makes your heart go pitter-patter and treats you like the princess you are. Just like in those books and old movies we use to lose you to.”

Mrs. Gentry was the town librarian. If anyone knew about my strange romantic fetishes, it was her.

I smile. “Pitter-patter like Mr. Gentry did for you?”

Her smile dissipates. “I hope for much better for you.”

“That's cryptic. You two were always the envy of this town. Maybe you've forgotten that now because he's been gone so long?” I ask this hopefully, because if Mrs. Gentry wasn't the peak of marital bliss, then it just doesn't happen.

She smiles slightly. “You never know what goes on in people's homes, Sarah Claire. Mr. Gentry worked a great deal when he was alive, and since we didn't have children to come home to, he didn't really see the need to spend much time at home. That's why I liked to see you in the library at night. I knew you were safe when your mother worked, and I had some company while reshelving books.”

“I think the library was open later than 7-Eleven sometimes.”

“Don't misunderstand me, Sarah Claire. It was a good life; I'm not complaining. But it was lonely for both of us for so many years because we misunderstood each other. You have the chance to start fresh, and I want you to do it right. I don't want you to settle for anything less than the best.”

What is doing it right?
As much as I've read about great passion, no one has ever told me they loved me, or even that I was beautiful. It's sort of hard to fathom I'm going to wake up one day and get it. Once romantically challenged, probably forever that way.

Of course, once a guy in my mother's bar told me that I was hot. But with slurred speech, it came out as “shot” and completely lost all effect. Being beautiful to a middle-aged drunk is hardly a life accomplishment. Well, maybe in this forsaken town it is, but not in Hollywood.

“I can't imagine you lonely, Mrs. Gentry. I've never seen you without your posse.” I look over to her giggling friends as they try one of my old cowboy hats on for show.

“I have my faith, Sarah Claire, and you have yours. Don't forget it in California when the men are lining up for a date.”

California has a lot more men; therefore, statistically speaking, my odds may improve on romance. But keep in mind I work with hair, and men who are willing to come into a froufrou salon like I'll be working at . . . ? Well, most likely, they're not interested in what I have to offer. In any case, I'm going to hold off on thoughts of romance and get down to the business of becoming the hottest stylist in Beverly Hills.

“Right now, I'm only focused on doing my job, Mrs. Gentry.”

I'm not anyone's girlfriend. And truthfully, I can't even say with complete certainty that I'm anyone's daughter— my mother's been a little vague on the subject. Well, I'm God's daughter, but it's not the same, is it? So I've retreated to the life of dreams, created by books and the stirrings of the old movies where life happens like it should.

Life just looks better after a Cary Grant movie.

“Did you hear me, Sarah Claire? You answer your mother!” my mother screeches like a great horned owl vying for its dinner.

“I'll clean it up, Mom.” Sheesh, I will always be twelve despite my twenty-six years here on earth. I want to shrink up and wither away like a salted snail.

Sometimes I wonder,
Why didn't she ever leave?
She seems to have nothing here; yet she clings to the town and this house like a life preserver. And it's going down.

She suddenly retreats inside the house and closes the door. Behind me, I hear the familiar sputter of a diesel pickup. It's the familiar red dualie, chrome running boards and hubcaps. It announces Sable's most prominent resident as sure as any trumpets.

There's a hush at the sight of Mr. Simmons, the town mayor and patriarch—long reputed to be my father. That's the weird thing about a small town. Everyone knows everyone's secrets, but no one ever talks about them. Bud Simmons has never even addressed me, unless it's to ask about my mother. (And if he is my father, may I just say thank goodness I didn't get that nose!)

The party is definitely over. All of the little old ladies give me bear hugs, each with a word of advice before departing as I keep my eye on the truck.

“We love you, Sarah Claire.”

“If you need anything, you'll write.” Mrs. Rampas barks. “Not on that dratted Internet either. You'll write a real letter like a lady would have done. Do you think Grace Kelly would use e-mail in place of fine, linen stationery?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Don't get into any trouble, and don't go home with strangers,” Mrs. Townsend says.

“Tell that cousin of yours to come home. He owes this town a visit,” Mrs. Piper implores. “And don't follow him into trouble like you used to do. He's a fine boy with a bad habit for finding trouble, so you mind what you've been taught.”

“By us,” Mrs. Townsend reminds me.
Not your mother is
implied.

Finally, Mrs. Gentry envelops me in her giant, bone-crushing hug. She has tears in her eyes when she pulls away. “We'll take care of your mother, sweetheart. You go ahead and live your own life. It's time now.”

I can only nod because her words make me wish things were different. That I could go back in time and fix things. Maybe if this had all happened in the forties, my mother would never have been a “bad girl” and my father would have married her and gone off to war to be the hero. We might have met him at the station for his triumphant return and listened to Glenn Miller as we praised God for bringing him home to us safely. But yeah. As it is, my father is a weenie of a man who can't speak to my mother directly for fear his wife will bat him over the head, and my mother torments herself with drink and unemployed men.
Strike up the band!

“I love you, sweetheart. God go with you. I'll be praying every morning for you. We'll all be praying. You don't go alone. Don't forget that,” Mrs. Gentry says.

I stand up straighter and peer into the future, all the while watching my so-called father amble out of his truck. I'm going to matter. I promise you that much.”

“You always have, Sarah Claire. This is just your chance to prove it to yourself.”

The ladies climb into Mrs. Piper's Suburban and wave as they drive onto the highway, leaving a trail of dust. I can hear their hearty laughter through the brown dust as they head down the road with their trinkets from the sale in tow, and I can't help but wonder if they're stopping off at the dump on the way home or if they'll keep the things as reminders to pray for me.

Ryan stands guard behind me as Mr. Simmons approaches, the nose arriving well before the man. “It's all right, Ryan. I want to hear if he has anything to say.” Granted, I'm not expecting any drawn-out, tearful goodbye, but you know, maybe he'll tell me he's thankful I didn't inherit his nose. It's the least he can do.

Ryan whispers in my ear, “If he wants to pay you in cattle for all the lost years, I'll take care of them for you. He ” grins. “The sooner I can get started, the sooner I can bring Kate home where she belongs.”

“And I'd give those cattle to you. But get real—I'll be lucky if he has a leather keychain for me. I don't think guilt or conscience is part of his makeup.” Actually, I don't think emotion is part of his makeup—but that's the embittered Sarah Claire talking, and I'm done with her for now.

Bud Simmons walks up to the picnic table, displaying all my costume jewelry and kitchen utensils. I notice he never meets my eyes, and he keeps the table between us. He'd probably rather face down a bull in heat than his as yet unclaimed illegitimate daughter. It makes me want to sing and dance like an old Shirley Temple movie and show him what he's missing. But with my luck, he'd think all he was missing was the bill from the psych ward at Sable General.

He picks up a wire whisk from the table and studies it. “Won't your mother need this when you go?”

“She generally likes to eat breakfast out.” I can't help myself. “With handsome men.”

Across the road, Mrs. Simmons sits in the truck, watching me as if I'm about to devour her husband.
Listen, honey
.
You're about the only one in this town who thinks this man is
worth a lick. You and that . . . that daughter of yours.

Spawn
might be a better word. I know a Christian shouldn't use words like
spawn
to describe their half-sisters, but whatever. She's spawn.

“Doesn't your wife want to come look? Lots of good stuff here. A lifetime of memories and treasures, yours song. for a song. It's all got to go. I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“Evelyn's fine in the truck. She has everything she needs.”

Then maybe you should just mount her beside the longhorn hood ornament.

“So she's staying, then, your mother?” he asks the wire whisk.

“As far as I know.” I watch him look up at the house, and I notice the longing in his eyes. “I'll probably bring her to California when I'm settled. When the big money comes in you know? I'm going to work at Yoshi's in Beverly Hills.”

He flinches slightly. I've never doubted he's always loved my mother. He's just too much of a wimp to ever make a decent woman out of her. He was that way before he married Mrs. Simmons, and twenty-six years later not a thing has changed. Only he's older and craggier (and I think my mother is a little wiser—albeit maybe a little drunker as well). He finds his manhood in big trucks, cattle drives, his blooming bank account, and treating women in his life like an accessory.