Vanity Insanity (38 page)

“I could cut your hair. I just had a cancellation.”

“You work here? Kind of a different place, huh?”

We walked into Vanity Insanity together, and I pointed to my chair. “Yep, kind of different.”

“I heard the owner is wiping out his whole block and putting in some mega day spa. The Old Market vendors aren’t too happy about it.”

“So what are we doing here?” I used my barber voice. “The same thing, only shorter?”

“Nope. Do something different. Anything. New salon, new look, new life. I’ve never felt better.”

“Sounds like you’re celebrating. What’s the big occasion?”

“I just decided this afternoon that I’m leaving my wife, and you’re the first person I’ve told. I’ve never felt so alive.”

The words were suspended in the air with the scissors in my hand. I hadn’t asked for this man to share his personal life with me. What I wanted to tell Mr. Young-and-So-Alive was to take a number, buddy. I already know half of Omaha’s secrets. I wanted no more details of his wicked plans—like maybe he was leaving a daughter or a son who was not yet born. I didn’t want to know about the ugly pieces of his life. What was it with this place that made this chair a diuretic to people’s souls? I wasn’t a psychologist, a bartender, or a priest. I was just here to do your hair. I wanted to yell at this man to get the hell out of my safe chair. And yes, I would say “hell.” Over the years, I’d endured the stories of unhappy employees, unsatisfied
spouses, tortured children, unappreciated relatives, and more. I was getting tired of being privy, oh so privy. What was in the shampoo that made people feel the need to bare their souls? Just what was in the shampoo?

Mr. Young-and-So-Alive smiled at me in the mirror. I motioned him toward the sink and washed his soon-to-be-divorced hair. I brought him back for a trim and decided to give him the same hairstyle; I would not be party to his happy breakup.

As I cut, I glanced in the mirror to see Toby cutting a young boy’s hair. The boy appeared to be six or seven and looked miserable as his mother stood near and watched every snip of scissor. A gigantic tear rolled down his freckled cheeks.

Jenae tapped me on the shoulder, her eyes red and swollen. She handed me the phone. “Truman’s on the line. I’m so sorry, Ben.”

36

Octavia: Great Plains Mortuary
The Last Appointment

Thursday, October 2

1997

D
uring the drive to Great Plains Mortuary, I said something that resembled a prayer.

I’m not sure if I was addressing God or Octavia, but I asked for enough strength to make it through her final hair appointment. As long as I was asking, I added that a little bit of peace in my world would be nice.

After my phone call from Truman, I called Sinnot to reschedule our “breakup” dinner until after Octavia’s funeral and left a voice mail. I needed to focus on Truman’s request; he told me that Octavia had passed away during her afternoon nap, and then added, “It would be really great if you could do her hair for the funeral, Ben. If you’re not comfortable with that, I would understand.”

“Just let me know when and give me the directions to the mortuary.” I knew that I wanted no one else to do her hair.

Back in my college days, I’d made some good extra money moonlighting at a mortuary doing hair of the deceased. The money was amazing since there’s not a long line forming to do the hair of dead people, who—by the way—are naked with a thin sheet over their bodies. A.C. commented that the whole thing certainly put a new spin on the phrase “dull and lifeless hair.” After which I added, “Yeah, people are just dying to get their hair done by me.” The money was good, but after a few weeks into the job—did I mention the dead bodies were naked—I quit. I guess I wasn’t cut out for the funeral home scene. Somehow, doing Octavia’s hair felt different than when I’d worked on strangers.

Truman told me that the Rosary would be that evening and that the funeral would be the following day at Saint Cecilia’s Cathedral with the burial following at a cemetery in Fremont. I was surprised at how calm I had been upon the news of her death. I felt something of a relief since the Octavia I had known had died a few years ago, and the alien that had inhabited her body since then had suffered tremendously. Now the suffering had ended.

With a box full of supplies I’d brought from Vanity Insanity on the passenger’s seat of my car, I drove to meet Truman at the mortuary on a Thursday in early October. I parked, grabbed my box, and walked toward the front door to the mortuary. Truman was sitting on a bench outside the door and stood to shake my hand. He had always been a good son to Octavia, but this gesture to make sure that she looked good for her funeral showed how much this man really knew and loved his mother.

“Thanks again,” he said.

“You bet.”

I followed him to the embalming room where I was to work on Octavia’s hair. Truman then introduced me to the man standing by her body.

“Ben, this is Digger Gehring. Digger, Ben’s the one I told you would be coming by to do Mom’s hair.” Digger shook my hand as Truman turned to me. “Digger and I grew up together in Fremont.”

“My brother couldn’t say my nickname, Tigger, when I was a kid, and so it stuck for life. Kind of a funny name for a mortician, huh?” Digger
offered this information as I looked at a picture of a clown on the wall of the room. I found myself resisting a strong urge to laugh out loud at the surreal, dark comedy unfolding before me. Digger, a heavyset man with big, brown eyes, directed me to the table upon which lay Octavia’s body, covered with a blue sheet. I took a deep breath.

“I’ll see you at the Rosary,” Truman said, patting my shoulder as he walked by.

Octavia’s head was propped up at an angle with what looked like a wooden pillow. I remembered from my short-lived career at the mortuary that the bodies were staged as they would be in the coffin since when rigor mortis set in, they were harder to position. Hanging next to the table was a navy-blue suit that I’d seen Octavia in about a half a dozen times in her life, mostly in the newspaper or when she had board meetings to go to following an appointment.

“I’ll be getting some work done in here, so just let me know if you need anything, Ben.” Digger opened the door of a closet in the room and began taking out several boxes.

“Thanks.”

I walked over to the table and set down my box of supplies. I pushed a lock of hair from Octavia’s forehead. I knew this head of hair very well. I knew the light streak of gray on the left side of her part. I knew the cowlick on the back end of her part that I always hid by strategically pulling the thicker hair to the left and then back-combing the area. I knew that her thinning hair at the front hairline had bothered her. I knew Octavia’s natural silver-gray hair well.

I pulled out two combs that I usually used on her each appointment and a can of hairspray. I worked on one side of her head and then moved to the other. Adjusting my position several times, I sprayed over areas that I knew had a tendency to stray. I stepped back to look at the beautiful old woman in front of me. I was really going to miss her.

“Knew her well?” Digger asked after he shut the closet door and moved the boxes against the wall.

“Most of my life.” I looked at Octavia. I would never do her hair again.

“It’s never easy.”

“Yeah.” I looked up at the picture of the clown. “You keep that picture in here to lighten the mood?”

Digger grinned. “That’s me. My other job. Digger the Clown. The job gives balance to my life. Keeps me sane, you know.”

I laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “Got any openings?”

“I’ll let you know. You know, I’m not supposed to leave you alone here, but I need to get this box down to the front desk and grab a file. If you want to take a moment alone, this would be the time.”

Digger the Clown/Mortician left, and I walked back to the end of the table on which Octavia’s body lay. I considered sneaking a cell phone into her folded hands and then laughed out loud again. This tiny old woman had been a powerful presence in my chair, in my life. Octavia had given me so much through the years as she scolded but never judged. She knew me. This woman knew me. I moved one last hair to the side of her temple.

“At least it’s clean. It’s been an honor, Octavia.”

37

Octavia’s Funeral: No Morning Appointments

Friday, October 3

1997

T
he next morning I closed Vanity Insanity. Jenae, Toby, and the others had all wanted to attend the funeral, so I had Virginia contact clients to reschedule morning appointments while Jenae posted a sign on the door of the salon:

Vanity Insanity will be closed this morning so that staff and other clients can attend the funeral for our client and friend, Octavia Hruska.
She will be dearly missed.

Before we left, I read in the
Omaha World-Herald
a Midlands-section feature story on Octavia that included a picture of her standing with a young baseball player at the College World Series. She was holding the ball that she was about to throw out at the opening game. Her head was tilted
in toward the player, who had his arm around her. The twinkle in her eye with her subtle grin brought the only tear to my eye that day. The story was well written and was an extended version of the obituary that appeared in the listing with all of the other people who died that week in Omaha.

Octavia’s funeral at Saint Cecilia’s Cathedral was on one of the most beautiful fall mornings that I can remember. The colors on all of the trees were popping against a true-blue sky without a single cloud. I walked into the packed cathedral and saw Mac waving to me halfway down the aisle. He had saved a spot for me next to my mom and sisters. Mac stood up and let me in the pew next to my mom, who leaned into me and whispered, “Warren Buffett is three pews ahead of us.” Octavia would be pleased.

People were standing against the walls near the confessionals since there was no room to sit. I saw the owners of M’s Pub sitting a few pews behind me. The priest and what looked like staff from the mortuary moved the casket to the front of the church as the organ blared from the balcony of the enormous, beautiful cathedral. Mac elbowed me and pointed to the program for the funeral. Under a list entitled “Honorary Pallbearers” was my name among several names of people I remember Octavia mentioning. “The old gal liked you, Ben.”

The last song of the funeral was “Let There Be Peace on Earth.” I think I remember sometime through the years Octavia saying that this was a favorite of hers. I would have thought “Amazing Grace” would be more
appropriate since it mentions me—the poor wretch—each time the refrain is sung, but Truman honored all of Octavia’s wishes voiced before her mind went, before the imposter took over. The organized woman had planned her perfect funeral.

I could hear Hope’s voice singing over the others. Her voice was louder than most as she held the notes a little longer than the congregation. I looked across the aisle and saw Hope with her mother. She was wearing a doily on her head that looked like a tablecloth thrown carelessly over a dinner table. I smiled. Why was I feeling so happy at a funeral?

Following the church luncheon, Toby and Jenae went back to Vanity Insanity with the rest of the staff. I drove to Fremont with Mac and Hope. Hope, who insisted that we needed to be there when they buried Miss Octavia, wore white gloves and a doily on her head. Mac drove his big car, Babe, behind Mom and my sisters on the drive to Fremont.

I had thought about skipping the burial. The thought of putting Octavia in the ground forever floored me, but Lucy’s good old inappropriate guilt—or maybe appropriate in this case—seeped into my heart in the days leading up to the burial, and I knew that if I didn’t go, I would somehow disappoint Octavia. I know that sounds strange since she was dead, but I guess that’s what they call respect for the dead. Octavia would probably forgive me, but she’d be mad as hell.

Standing under the tent over her gravesite, we all huddled together behind the seated family members. The priest said a few indiscernible words at the gravesite as he placed a red rose on the casket. Hope leaned into me as we buried Octavia Hruska on a gorgeous fall afternoon.

Prior to the decline of the mind of one of the most incredible women I have ever known, Octavia had instructed Truman how she wanted her tombstone to read:

Octavia Edith Hruska
December 25, 1905–September 30, 1997
“I was right!”

38

Tom Ducey Drops Off Meal

Tuesday, October 28

1997

U
ntimely and ruthless.

The ice storm that attacked eastern Nebraska in late October slyly glazed the landscape with a heavy, confused snow that wanted to melt and then quickly froze, clenching the trees and electrical lines with a sinister death grip. No one could have predicted the damage or disruption that followed: the ice storm of 1997.

Untimely and ruthless.

Because most of the trees still held a good number of leaves on their branches in late October, the weight of the heavy, frozen snow on many trees smothered them to death. Many trees fell from the burden and dragged some electrical wires with them; some of those wires were still live. One-third of Omaha, in pockets gathered throughout the city, was without electricity for up to two weeks in some cases. Many families moved in with friends and families or into hotels during the cold temperatures. Others
became creative, like my sister, who took several connected extension cords across the street to her neighbor, who had not lost power, and remained in her home with a space heater and a TV.