Sexy Green M&M. “Helen Taylor.” She motioned to the space on her right. “This is my husband, Bobby.”
The Green M&M peered intently at the spot, then her eyes widened with understanding. “Uh-huh, invisible and quiet. I like a man who knows his place.” She leaned forward, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you—” She jerked back. “Oh my gawd! Sorry, honey, but your clothes smell dis-gust-ing.” She waved a hand in front of her nose.
The black woman stared with blurry intensity at Helen’s blouse. “Where did you get that? Some diesel driver have a yard sale?” She grabbed the edge of the bench in an effort to stay upright. “Whew . . . too much tequila.”
The redhead kicked out her short legs and scooted back against the wall. “I’m Hope.” She indicated her companion with a wave. “And that’s Rasheeda. We’re hairstylists. We have our own shop: Sizzle N.” Leaning closer, she scrutinized Helen’s hair. “You’re an attractive woman, but you need a shampoo. We don’t work on dirty hair.”
Bobby grinned. Wow! Real professionals. You should ask them for a cut.
“Okay, I’ll wash my hair.”
The Green M&M jumped to her feet and stumbled toward the grimy sink at the far end of the holding area. “Allow me.” She patted the edge of the sink as if to encourage a reluctant animal.
With all the grace and agility of an animated Easter egg, the black woman stumbled over to investigate. “Damn!” She held up a clump of Helen’s hair. “This is why it’s so important to use quality products. See how matted and dry this is?” She turned Helen’s head from side to side, as if checking a melon in the produce department. “Girl, what have you been doing to yourself? Looks like you gave up on a case of dreadlocks.” She shook her head as if personally overcome by all the bad hair days Helen had suffered. “Shampoo!” she barked, like a surgeon ready to cut.
Helen eyed the tiny space between the tap and bowl. As she tried to calculate the logistics of fitting her head under the faucet, the Green M&M pushed her down, trying to cram her head under the tap. With a snap of the faucet, the water ricocheted off Helen’s head and hit the black woman full in the chest, drenching her psychedelic dress. “Hey! Watch what you’re doing, Hope!”
The Green M&M thumped the soap dispenser until she had a handful of gelatinous pink liquid, which she smeared across Helen’s hair.
Bobby chuckled. It’s a make-over hurricane. When the going gets tough, these gals get going.
Her eyes stinging from the soapy water, Helen tried to push the women away. “This hurts more than I remember.”
The Easter Egg grabbed Helen by the neck and held her down, ruthlessly rinsing the soap out of her hair. “Okay. Let’s repeat.”
Helen jerked away, banging her head on the faucet. “No, I’m done.”
“Honey, the thing to remember about good hair is regular maintenance.” As quick as a cobra, the woman wrapped a handful of hair around her fist, holding it out so Helen could see. “You need to lose a good five, six inches to get rid of these split ends. I’m not saying it’s hopeless. I’m just saying you need to invest a little more time and money in your appearance. Have you considered streaking?”
The Green M&M leaned forward. “I’m thinking red would be a good color.”
The Easter Egg shook her head. “Hope, you think everyone should go red. That is so passé. The color this year is blonde with lowlights.”
Bobby tapped a finger against his upper lip, considering the options. You’d look good as a blonde, Babe.
“You think we could streak”—The Easter Egg shook a handful of Helen’s hair—“this?”
The Green M&M shrugged, dropped onto one of the empty benches and started to sing, waving her arms like an orchestra conductor. “Oh darling, . . . hold me close . . . oh, oh, oh, hold me close . . .”
The Easter Egg picked up the tune and Helen joined in, relieved that the hairstyling was over. After a while the singing faded as one, then the other, dropped off to sleep.
Helen gazed silently into the night. She couldn’t remember when she felt so well cared for . . . or so safe.
Chapter Five
Saturday, July 3
During the five-hour drive, Jordan sang along with the radio, drumming his hands on the dashboard to keep time. Excited by the trip to Las Vegas, he spent the night online, then announced he was going to UNLV to study Hospitality Management. Pat merely nodded and kept driving, knowing his passions were always fervent, but usually short-lived. She listened with only half an ear to his litany of childhood memories of Aunt Helen: the long and detailed list of her exotic pets, including the names of lizards, birds, cats, fish, and the occasional dog. He also seemed to remember every piece of foreign flotsam that had washed ashore in Helen’s living room:—Korean drums decorated with brightly painted flowers, ukuleles from Hawaii, wooden flutes from South America, bongos made of rough-looking hides held together with brown sisal rope—an entire world of orchestral instruments to hear him tell it.
In contrast to Jordan’s exuberant mood, Marc slumped in the backseat, earbuds in, listening to his playlist, too depressed to maintain his usual lifeline of text and Twitter. Pat wanted to say something comforting, but where Jordan was socially adept and outgoing, Marc was introverted and touchy. The only time he seemed really happy was when he was playing interactive games with his online adversaries.
The sun was just coming over Sunrise Mountain when they crested the last hill, the Las Vegas lights spreading out below them in all their fairy-tale glory: the city of a billion schemes and broken dreams. Jordan jerked upright, taking in the view. “Wow, people who live here are so lucky. Look at all those hotels! Mom, can we swing by the campus?”
“Jordan, we have a serious situation with your aunt. Don’t expect me to drop everything and do the college tour. I can’t deal with your self-absorption right now.” Now why did I say that? But the words were out and irretrievable.
Marc snorted, obviously eavesdropping on the exchange.
Jordan, unwilling to let the implied insult go unchallenged, glared over his shoulder. “Oh, like you’re Mr. Perfect. Who had to do thirty hours of community service for spray-painting that swastika on the Jones’ garage? Even a moron could tell it was backwards.”
“It wasn’t a swastika, you dickwad. It was a whirling log, the Navajo symbol for the Outsider’s Journey. The judge would have known that if he read anything besides law books.”
Pat wanted to scream. The three of them finally had a chance for some quality time together, and all they could do was dredge up old battles. “Stop it! Both of you. I don’t need this crap.” It came out harsher than intended and both boys stared at her, shocked at her uncharacteristic outburst.
Jordan laid his hand on her arm. “Sorry, Mom. I was out of line.” Ever since he joined a teen-advice website—www.gettingyourwaywithparents.com—he had become the consummate used-car salesman, a devotee of their four main axioms:
1 Don’t argue when your parents disagree with you.
2 Give examples of your mature actions.
3 Stay
