Sugar Daddy (14 page)

One of Mama’s closest friends at work, a plump woman with tea-colored hair, read a poem:

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

It may not have been a religious poem, but by the time Deb had finished, there were tears in many eyes.

I laid two yellow roses, one from Carrington and one from me, on top of the coffin. Red may be the preferred color of roses everywhere else, but in Texas it’s yellow. Mr. Ferguson had promised me the flowers would be buried with Mama when it was lowered into the ground.

At the end of the service, we played “Imagine” by John Lennon, which elicited smiles from a few faces, and disapproving frowns from many more. Forty-two white balloons—one for each year of Mama’s age—were released in the warm blue sky.

It was the perfect funeral for Diana Truitt Jones. I think my mother would have loved it. When the service was over, I felt a sudden fierce need to rush back to Carrington. I wanted to hug her for a long time, and stroke the pale blond curls that reminded me so much of Mama’s. Carrington had never seemed so fragile to me, so vulnerable to every kind of harm.

As I turned to glance at the row of cars, I saw a black limo with tinted windows parked in the distance. Welcome is not what you’d call limo country, so this was a mildly startling sight. The design of the vehicle was modern, its doors and windows sealed, its shape as streamlined and perfect as a shark’s.

No other funeral was being held that day. Whoever was sitting in that limo had known my mother, had wanted to watch her service from a distance. I stood very still, staring at the vehicle. My feet moved, and I suppose I was going over to ask if he—or she—wanted to come to the graveside. But just as I started toward it, the limo pulled away in a slow glide.

It bothered me, the thought that I would never find out who it was.

Soon after the funeral Carrington and I were visited by a guardian ad litem, or GAL, who had been appointed to assess whether I was fit to be her legal guardian. The GAL’s fee was one hundred and fifty dollars, which I thought was pretty steep considering she stayed less than an hour. Thank God the court had waived the fee—I didn’t think my checking account would cover it.

Carrington seemed to know it was important for her to behave well. Under the GAL’s observation, she built a block tower, dressed her favorite doll, and sang the ABC song from start to finish. While the GAL asked me questions about the baby’s upbringing and my plans for the future, Carrington climbed into my lap and pressed a few impassioned kisses on my cheek. After each kiss, she glanced significantly at the GAL to make certain her actions were being duly noted.

The next phase of the process was surprisingly easy. I went to Family Court and gave the judge letters from Miss Marva, the pediatrician, and the pastor of the Lamb of God, all offering good opinions as to my character and my parenting abilities. The judge expressed concern over my lack of a job, advised me to get something right away, and warned me to expect the occasional visit from Social Services.

When the hearing was over, the court clerk told me to write out a check for seventy-five dollars, which I did with a purple glitter pen I found at the bottom of my purse. They gave me a folder with copies of the petition and information release forms I’d filled out, and the certificate of guardianship. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d just bought Carrington and been handed the receipt.

I went outside the courthouse and found Lucy waiting for me at the bottom of the steps, with Carrington in her stroller. For the first time in days, I laughed as I saw Carrington’s chubby hands clutching a cardboard sign Lucy had made for her:
PROPERTY OF LIBERTY JONES
.

Fly High with TexWest!

Are you ready for a rewarding and people-oriented job in the skies? Travel, learn, expand your horizons as a flight attendant for TexWest, the fastest-growing commuter airline service in the nation. Must be willing to locate to our domiciles in CA, UT, NM, AZ, TX. High school diploma required, height requirement of 5'0" to 5'8", no exceptions. Come to our open house and discover more about the exciting possibilities at TexWest.

I have always hated flying. The idea of it is an affront to nature. People are meant to stay on the ground.

I put down the classifieds and glanced at Carrington, who was sitting in her high chair and feeding long strands of spaghetti into her mouth. Most of her hair was fastened into a sprig of hair at the top of her head and clipped with a big red bow. She was dressed in her diapers and nothing else. We had discovered that cleanup after dinner was a lot easier if she ate topless.

Carrington regarded me solemnly, with a big orange smear of spaghetti sauce across her mouth and chin.

“How would you like to relocate to Oregon?” I asked her.

Her small round face split into a grin, displaying a set of widely spaced white teeth. “Okeydokey.”

It was her latest favorite phrase, the other being “No way.”

“You could stay in day care,” I continued, “while I go up in a plane and serve little bottles of Jack Daniel’s to cranky businessmen. How does that sound?”

“Okeydokey.”

I watched Carrington meticulously pick out a shred of cooked carrot that I had sneaked into her spaghetti sauce. After divesting the strand of pasta of as much nutritional value as possible, she put the end in her mouth and sucked it up.

“Quit picking off those vegetables,” I told her, “or I’ll make you some broccoli.”

“No way,” she said, her mouth full of spaghetti, and I laughed.

I pored over the notes I had made on the jobs available to a girl with a high school diploma and no work experience. So far it seemed I was qualified to be a Quick-Stop cashier, a sanitation pump driver, a nanny, a cleaning lady for Happy Helpers, or a cat groomer at a pet clinic. They all paid about what I had expected, which was next to nothing. The job I wanted least was to be a nanny, because it meant I would be taking care of someone else’s kids instead of Carrington.

I sat there with my limited options spread around me in the form of newspaper pages. I felt small and powerless, and I didn’t want to get used to that feeling. I needed a job I was going to keep for a while. It wouldn’t be good for me or Carrington if I hopped from place to place. And I suspected there wasn’t going to be much rising through the ranks at a Quick-Stop store.

Seeing that Carrington was depositing her carrot bits onto the newspaper in front of her, I muttered, “Quit doing that, Carrington.” I pulled the paper away and began to crumple it up, and stopped as I saw the orange-speckled ad on the side.

A new career in under a year!

A well-trained beauty technician is always in demand, in good times or bad. Every day millions of people go to their favorite stylists for cuts, coloring, chemical treatments, and other necessary cosmetic services. The knowledge and abilities you acquire at East Houston Academy of Cosmetology will prepare you for a successful career in any aspect of the beauty business you choose. Apply for a place at EHAC, and let your future begin.

Financial aid available to those who qualify.

You often hear the word “job” in a trailer park. At Bluebonnet Ranch, people were always losing jobs, hunting for jobs, avoiding jobs, nagging someone else to get jobs. But no one I knew had ever had a career.

I wanted a cosmetology license so badly I could hardly stand it. There were so many places I could work at, so much I wanted to learn. I thought I had the right temperament to be a hairstylist, and I knew I had the drive. I had everything but money.

There was no point in applying. But I watched my hands as if they belonged to someone else, wiping off the carrots and ripping out the ad.

The director of the academy, Mrs. Maria Vasquez, sat behind a kidney-shaped oak desk in a room with pale aqua walls. Metallic-framed photos of beautiful women were hung at measured intervals. The smell of the studio and workshop rooms drifted into the administrative area, a mixture of hair spray and shampoo, and the tang of perming chemicals. A beauty shop smell. I loved it.

I concealed my surprise at the discovery that the director was Hispanic. She was a slim woman with highlighted hair and angular shoulders, and a stern, strong-boned face.

She explained that the academy had accepted my application, but they had only so many students they could provide with financial aid each semester. If I couldn’t afford to attend the school without a scholarship, then did I want to go on a waiting list and reapply next year?

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, my face gone stiff with disappointment, my smile a thin fracture. I gave myself an instant lecture. A waiting list wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have a lot to do in the meantime.

Mrs. Vasquez’s eyes were kind. She said she would call me when it was time to fill out a new application, and she hoped to see me again.

On the way back to Bluebonnet Ranch, I tried to envision myself in a green Happy Helpers shirt. Not so bad, I told myself. Organizing and cleaning other people’s houses was always easier than cleaning your own. I would do my best. I would be the hardest-working Happy Helper on the planet.

While I was talking to myself, I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. My mind was so busy, I had taken the long way instead of the shortcut. I was on the road that passed the cemetery. My car slowed and turned onto the cemetery drive, heading past the cemetery office. I parked and wandered among the headstones, a granite and marble garden that seemed to have sprung from the earth.

Mama’s grave was the newest, a spartan mound of raw earth that interrupted the orderly corridors of grass. I stood at the foot of my mother’s grave, somehow needing proof it had really happened. I could hardly believe my mother’s body was down there in that Monet coffin with the matching blue satin pillow and throw. It made me feel claustrophobic. I pulled at the buttoned collar of my blouse, and blotted my damp forehead on my sleeve.

The stirrings of panic faded as I noticed something beside the bronze marker, a liberal splash of yellow. Skirting around the edge of the grave, I went to investigate. It was a bouquet of yellow roses. The flowers were in an inverted bronze holder that had been buried so the top rim was flush with the ground. I had noticed vases like that in the catalog at Mr. Ferguson’s funeral home, but at three hundred and fifty dollars apiece, I hadn’t even considered buying one. As nice as Mr. Ferguson had been, I didn’t think he would have thrown in the expensive addition, especially without having mentioned something.

I pulled one of the yellow roses from the bouquet, and brought it, stem dripping, to my face. The heat of the day had brought it to its strongest essence, and the half-open blossom was spilling out perfume. Many varieties of yellow rose have no scent, but this kind, whatever it was, had an intense, almost pineapple fragrance.

I used my thumbnail to peel off the thorns as I walked to the cemetery office. A middle-aged woman with reddish-brown hair shaped into a helmet was seated behind the welcome desk. I asked her who had put the bronze vase at my mother’s grave, and she said she couldn’t release that information, it was private.

“But it’s my mother,” I said, more bewildered than annoyed. “Can someone just do that?…Put something on someone else’s grave?”

“Are you askin’ if we should take it off?”

“Well, no…” I wanted the bronze vase to stay right where it was. Had I been able to afford one, I would have gotten it myself. “But I do want to know who gave it to her.”

“I can’t tell you that.” After a minute or two of debate, the receptionist allowed she could give me the name of the florist who delivered the roses. It was a Houston shop named Flower Power.

The next couple of days were taken up with going on errands, and filling out the application for Happy Helpers and going for the interview. I didn’t get a chance until later in the week to call the florist. The girl who answered the phone said, “Please hold,” and before I could say anything, I found myself listening to Hank Williams crooning “I Just Don’t Like This Kind of Livin’.”

I sat on the lid of the closed toilet seat, the phone loosely cupped to my ear, and watched Carrington play in her bathwater. She concentrated on pouring water from one plastic Dixie cup to another, and then adding liquid soap and stirring with her finger.

“What are you doing, Carrington?” I asked.

“Making somethin’.”

“Making what?”

She poured the soap mixture over her tummy and rubbed it. “People polish.”

“Rinse that off—” I began, when the girl’s voice came through the receiver.

“Flower Power, can I help you?”

I explained the situation and asked if she could tell me who had sent the yellow roses to my mother’s grave. As I had expected, she told me she wasn’t authorized to divulge the sender’s name. “It says on my computer there’s a standing order to send the same arrangement to the cemetery every week.”

“What?” I asked faintly. “A dozen yellow roses every week?”

“Yes, that’s what it says.”

“For how long?”

“There’s no stop date. It could go on for a while.”

My jaw dropped like it was on hinges. “And there’s no way you could tell me—”

“No,” the girl said firmly. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“I guess not. I—” Before I could say “thank you” or “goodbye,” there was another ring in the background, and the girl hung up.

I went through a list in my mind of every possible person who would have arranged such a thing.

No one I knew had the money.

The roses had come from Mama’s secret life, the past she had never talked about.

Frowning, I picked up a folded towel and shook it out. “Stand up, Carrington. Time to get out.”

She grumbled and obeyed reluctantly. I lifted her from the tub and dried her, my gaze admiring the dimpled knees and rounded tummy of a healthy toddler. She was perfect in every way, I thought.

It was our game to make a tent out of the towel after Carrington was dry. I pulled it over our heads and we giggled together beneath the damp terry cloth, kissing each other’s noses.

The phone ringing interrupted our play, and I quickly wrapped Carrington in the towel.

I pressed the receiver button. “Hello?”

“Liberty Jones?”

“Yes?”

“This is Maria Vasquez.”

Since she was the last person I had expected to hear from, I was temporarily speechless.

She filled the silence smoothly. “From the Academy of Cosmetology—”

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, I…how are you, Mrs. Vasquez?”

“I’m fine, Liberty, thank you. I have some good news for you, if you’re still interested in attending the academy this year?”

“Yes,” I managed to whisper, sudden excitement clutching at my throat.

“It turns out that another place in our scholarship program has just become available for the fall term. I can give you a full financial aid package. If you would like, I can put all your registration materials in the mail, or you can stop by the office to pick them up.”

I shut my eyes tightly, gripping the phone so tightly I was surprised it didn’t crack from the pressure. I felt Carrington’s fingers investigating my face, playing with my eyelashes. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow.
Thank you
.”

I heard the director chuckle. “You’re welcome, Liberty. We’re pleased to have you in our program.”

After I hung up, I hugged Carrington and squealed. “I’m in! I’m in!” She squirmed and shrieked happily, sharing my excitement even though she didn’t understand the reason for it. “I’m going to school, I’m going to be a hairstylist. Not a Happy Helper. I don’t believe it. Oh, baby, we were due for some good luck.”

I didn’t expect it was going to be easy. But hard work is a lot easier to tolerate when it’s something you want to do instead of something you have no choice about.

Rednecks have a saying, “Always skin your own deer.” The deer I had to skin was school. I had never felt as smart as Mama had thought I was, but I figured if I wanted something badly enough, I would find a way to wrap my brain around it.

I’m sure a lot of people think it’s easy going to beauty school, that there isn’t much to it. But there’s a lot to learn before you ever get near a pair of scissors.

The curriculum had descriptions of courses like “Sterilization Bacteriology,” which required lab work and theory courses…“Chemical Rearranging,” which would teach us about the procedures, materials, and implements used for permanents and relaxers…and “Hair Coloring,” which included lessons on anatomy, physiology, chemistry, procedures, special effects, and problem solving. And that was just the beginning. Looking over the booklet, I understood why it would take nine months to get a degree.