Vanity Insanity (15 page)

“Hey,” Will mumbled.

Will and I had gone our different ways for many reasons. Different high schools and some not-so-legal extracurricular activities on his part played a big role in that. Will had dabbled in a few activities other than sports, as Lucy informed me. His junior year, Will rekindled a connection with the Chief. Eddie Krackenier, who went to another public school I can’t remember, had led Will down a wobbly path of drug experimentation and risky living that Will juggled for a year or two with his high-school sports career. The many balls in the air caught up with him his senior year.

A month into his last year at Prep, Will and a carload of buddies drove over to Marian High School. Prep had a free day while Marian was in session. The driver of the car, allegedly Eddie, dropped about five or six guys off at one of the school entrances and drove to wait for them at the other end. The boys were naked except for skivvies, ski masks, and Converse Chuck Taylor sneakers. Each guy was armed with two loaded squirt guns and a gut full of inopportune self-confidence. They hooted and hollered and squirted down the main hallway, exiting to the getaway car, buoyed by false immortal assurance, minus support in other areas.

The prank sounded harmless until you hear the second part of the story. When Sister Mary Edna, librarian and Latin expert, came out into the hallway to scold the source of noise and mayhem, she slipped and hurt her hip. No longer funny.

Principal Sister Rebecca announced somberly over the sound system to the Marian student body that this sort of activity was unacceptable and that anyone with information regarding the identity of the members of the reckless act should come immediately to the office. Lucy had glanced out into the hallway and recognized legs and shoes that had been to her house in recent years. She hung her head and prayed.

Before Lucy could feel any guilt surrounding this Catholic crime, rumors slithered through the school faster than the patterns of light on an oil slick. Ellen Richter, class officer and a perennially self-righteous classmate of Lucy, had named one naked squirt-gun runner, and one only: William Mangiamelli.

Will’s huge scar on his perfect physique had become a traitor along with Ellen. Long ago—I vaguely remember—Ellen had a crush on Will, though he had no interest in her. He may not have paid attention to her, but Ellen had paid attention to his upper body during the summer days at Brookhill Country Club. She recognized the scar and immediately turned Will in to Sister Rebecca. Lucy immediately placed Ellen Richter into a box clearly marked
self-righteous.

The Jesuit leaders at Creighton Prep anguished in making an appropriate punishment for Will his senior year. The following two weeks, Will was
not allowed to participate in any school-affiliated activities. This would have been frustrating to most, as the homecoming dance was the next week, but for Will Mangiamelli and the Creighton Prep varsity football team, this was a huge problem since the state playoffs fell within that punishment time. Will and his team, who lost in the playoffs—though we will never know if his absence played a role in the loss—had to live with the consequence of his little run through Marian.

That windy day in 1981, Will stood back and took in the chaos. Ava waddled from Lucy to Theresa to Marty like a little hen, pecking and fixing their hair and dresses. Ava moved Tom Ducey, the debate guy, and me in place and told everyone to step back. Several cameras flashed as we all formed a great pose that said, “Hey, look at us! We are young and dressed up and…it’s all about us!”

I saw a car pull out of the Webber driveway and drive past the group. Faith slowed down and smiled. I waved to her, and she waved back. Then she drove out of the cul-de-sac as A.C.’s green Camaro turned onto it with him honking over and over again. He parked, jumped out of the car without shutting the door, and ran up to the group. Stephano Mangiamelli grabbed the top of A.C.’s head, which was now sporting an Afro. A.C., who had grown into his big feet, towered over Stephano and looked at me, holding up his camera. “Hope I didn’t miss it!”

Either Mrs. Webber or Ava announced that she wanted a picture of the old neighborhood gang. Tom grabbed A.C.’s camera, and Debate Guy went and stood under the safety of Satch the Evergreen. A.C. joined the growing group as Hope and the Morrow kids squished in. We all huddled together and smiled, eyes squinting in the sun and wind.

Tom Ducey turned into a comedian as he directed us into our neighborhood shot. To say Tom was South Omaha means more than just a direction in our city. Calling someone a South Omaha Boy, or SOB, implied you were dealing with a very proud and loyal guy. Tom was loyal to the end. To his mother—oh, they loved their mothers. To his father, who had worked his whole life at the Falstaff Brewery. To his buddies. To his girlfriend. The order of the loyalty was questionable, but having a guy from
South Omaha in the area meant he was taking over and we were going to have fun.

As the group moved in for the pose, something to the left of me caught my eye. I turned to movement from the green Wicker house. The dark image of a head looked out from the back porch. Our neighborhood witch had joined us, too. Ava took only one picture as a huge wind forced everyone to his or her cars.

From that point on, the evening moved at warp speed. We did make it to dinner and to the dance. Theresa laughed that she didn’t recognize most of her classmates since they had all washed their hair and put on makeup. With no boys in the school, daily hygiene rules for the Marian girls include a ponytail and teeth brushing before heading off to class. I discovered that night that the Marian girls could care less if their dates danced; they danced all night whether their dates got up or sat. Marian girls knew every word to “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.” Oh, and, there is such a thing as too many cutout fish.

Finally, the DJ played “Free Bird,” something I could enjoy. Last year’s queen came to crown the new prom queen, who also happened to be my date. Marian girls swarmed Theresa like bees on a warm glass of lemonade. I bent down and whispered to Theresa, who looked shocked and uncomfortable at the attention, “Gee, your hair smells terrific.”

“This prom thing is goofy, right?” Theresa asked, her voice quivering. I knew she was uncomfortable with all of the attention. I also knew that when Theresa O’Brien and I had walked into the gym, all eyes moved in our direction. This happened everywhere we walked, every place we stood. All eyes. Something I realized Theresa must have to endure every day. Something I was sure she was unaware of as she went about her life. All eyes.

As we drove home that night, the Police sang to us on my car radio: “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” The lyrics are about a guy admiring a girl he can never have. Lucy and Tom fought in the back seat the
whole way home about a girl named Charlotte—or Charlotte the Harlot, as Lucy called her—a girl Tom knew growing up in South “O.”

“You were flirting with her.” I could see Lucy pouting in the back seat.

“I wasn’t flirting with her. I said hi. She went to Saint Peter and Paul…”

“Do you still like her?”

“I took you to the dance…”

I dropped Theresa, Lucy, and Tom off at Lucy’s house since Theresa was spending the night there. Lucy slammed the door as she ran to her house. Tom mumbled as he walked to his car. Theresa looked back at me as she left the car. “They’re just crazy about each other.”

I drove a few houses down to my home with a smile. When I got in, I locked the door and threw my keys on the kitchen table. I was taking off my shoes when I heard soft tapping on the door. I looked out the window and saw Theresa with no shoes shivering on the front stoop in the chilly, early May night, holding the tuxedo jacket I had put around her shoulders as we left the Marian gym. “You’re gonna need this when you turn your tux in, Ben. I’ll let Chewey know. Thanks…”

I didn’t say a word as she stood on her bare tiptoes and kissed me on the lips. “Thanks, Ben. I had a blast.”

I watched Theresa turn and run to the Mangiamelli house. I watched her until she was safe inside. A light went out at the Wicker house.

Somewhere in Iowa, a cocky baseball player was feeling an erroneous sense of security.

13

Octavia: Wash and Set for Funeral Meeting

Friday, July 24

1982

“I
’m sitting under the spout from which the glory of the Holy Spirit flows out.” Octavia Edith True Hruska always made an impressive entrance into a room. That day in the summer of 1982 was no different than any other.

“And just where can I find this spout?” I asked the stately, sometimes-mistaken-as-stuffy, impeccably dressed woman whom I had been “washing and setting” for the last couple months.

“Honey, if you have to ask, you’ve got bigger problems than you think,” Octavia teased as she sat in the pink styling chair of Marcia’s Beauty Box. I learned right away that Octavia needed what my mother had called warming-up time in the chair. She didn’t like to be rushed; her Friday-morning appointment was an event to be savored like a nice dinner with a good bottle of wine and not just another thing to check off the weekly list.

“Well, it’s time to make me beautiful for my meeting this afternoon. Do you know where I can get that taken care of?” She was dead serious as she tested me. Could I play the game? Would I feel intimidated by her presence, or would I jump in and make the team?

“I could make a few calls and find out. You’re welcome to hang out here until I get word. We’ve got to find someone to do something with your hair.” I pretended to organize my combs.

A half smile slowly curved up from the left side of Octavia’s mouth, though it appeared on the right side as I looked at her in the mirror. The mirror played an interesting role in my job. For a good part of the time spent with each of my clients, I did not look directly into their eyes. I looked at the mirror image of them. I looked directly into the eyes of the mirror Octavia and grinned back.

This mirror-interaction felt natural to the people who sat in this chair, though they had spent most of the waking hours of their lives interacting with others by looking directly into their eyes. The indirect interaction might appear impersonal, but it was anything but. One human being was allowing another human to manipulate an extremely personal part of his or her identity—appearance. If anything, the entire experience could be seen as something of an intimate exchange.

Music blared from the little black radio on the windowsill. The Rolling Stones were calling “Start Me Up” to Octavia.

“Who in the hell is that?” Octavia’s eyebrows burrowed together, and yes, she did say “hell,” in a very ladylike tone.

“That would be Mick.”

“Mick sounds like he should have chosen a different career. That’s awful.”

I was relieved that Octavia was focused on the voice and not the words Mick Jagger was singing. “So where is this big meeting that you want to look good for?”

“Oh, honey, I’m meeting with those altar-society girls, who are all a little too sappy, if you ask me.” The thought of Octavia working in a group with other women made me laugh. “We’re planning the funeral for
Edmund Rump, and they all start to tear up every time we say the name of the person who has passed. It’s silly, really. We have so much to plan. We don’t have time for all their slobbering and sniffing. Anyway, the funeral is Monday, and the man was so blasted old that most of his loved ones have died themselves, no disrespect meant. We need to recruit some more women to make sure that we have a good number to send him off.”

“Oh, the fun you can have with funerals.” I picked up a comb and scissors from the tray in front of the mirror.

“Depends on the flavor of the funeral.”

“Flavor?”

“You’ve got your happy funeral, like Mr. Rump’s. He lived a good, long life, and now it’s time to die. Then you have some really unpleasant funerals. You know, the untimely ones. Just a nasty taste all around.” Octavia made a face and then changed the subject. “Getting kind of crowded in this basement, don’t you think?”

My mom had told me that beneath her grumblings, Octavia had a very sincere and concerned nature. Worrying about an old man having a good group to send him off was just the surface of her altruistic approach to life. My mom told me that Octavia made large donations, anonymously most times, to different causes each year. Octavia had even told Mom, though she didn’t tell many people, that she volunteered once a week in the nursery at the little hospital in Fremont to help feed the newborn babies, with the ulterior motive of secretly baptizing their little souls. She would bless their heads, marking them with the sign of the cross with the holy water that she had smuggled in her purse. She hoped to cover them all before her shift was over. The antiquated thought some Catholics still believed was that a baby who died before it was baptized might not make it to heaven. She told my mom that she figured that was probably a bunch of bologna, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

Octavia had jumped on board with Warren Buffett in 1981 as he created the Berkshire Charitable Contribution plan, allowing each shareholder to donate some of the company’s profits to his or her personal charities. She’d met Mr. Buffett at a fundraiser bridge tournament. Octavia, who had
brought her fortune from Fremont into Omaha, offered support to many causes with Buffett in the eighties. Although Buffett’s personal fortune was approximately $140 million at that time, he was living solely on a salary of $50,000 per year. He was not one to wear his wealth openly. Warren and Octavia had a lot in common in that respect.