Carol Moody

Word Count 1177

She narrows her eyes into the rearview mirror, repositioning her bouffant hairpiece, placing a bobby pin just so with pointer finger and thumb, all while reversing out the garage. Her four girls—ten, eight, six, and four—form a regiment across the back seat. We’re pinching. We’re squealing. We’re kicking each other with scuffed, patent-leather dress shoes when our mom shouts, “Quiet! Or we’re not going to dinner.” We don’t believe the part about not eating out. She’s been getting ready all afternoon. But the thunder in her voice and the trouble she’s having with her hair tell us we should shut up anyway. Watching Mom’s eyes in the mirror is a habit for me, the second oldest. Her sudden mood shifts have trained me to be on the lookout for subtle changes in facial expressions—lowered eyebrows, pursed lips—forecasting that gust of anger.

Today, Mom is intent, a woman preoccupied with her hair. It’s the early ’70s, and the times, well, they are a-changing, but she defies style’s expiration dates. She will live on for years through various permutations of the beehive hairdo. Gallons of Final Net hairspray will shellack the pouf on her hairpiece. Still primping, still fixing, she steers with her knees—until the shrill cry of an animal from under the car startles her. She grabs the steering wheel—ten o’clock, two o’clock—then plunges her foot onto the brake. We four sisters fly forward, crashing against the back of the front seat, landing in a heap of patterned jumpers and ruffled collars onto the mat below.

“Where’d that come from? Goddamn it!” Mom yells, as she shoves the gearshift into park. I’m trapped beneath three sisters, sweaty and whimpering. Hot breath pulses against my neck. Bony elbows jab my ribs. Liz, the oldest, combat crawls to the top of the pile and up the inside of the door. She sneaks a peek at our mom, now standing outside the car. I can only imagine Mom— one hand on her hip, the other hand shading her face, the almighty Oklahoma sun melting her porcelain foundation like Crisco, her brunette wig crooked and leaning.

Our mother’s voice darts through the open window and into the car, “Where’d that nasty squirrel come from?” Liz leans back in, half stepping on my head, whispering a jumble of hurried sentences, “That’s no squirrel. It’s, it’s Carol’s. It’s her kitty.” She nudges me with her foot, “Did you hear me? Your cat’s dead.” Her matter-of-fact reporting pushes hard against my refusal to believe her. She never liked any of my pets. I stay flat, my nose pressed against the sediments of childhood, breathing in melted crayons and greasy McDonald’s wrappers.

Forty years later, I realize I’ve patched together much of this scene from a child’s perspective—eyes closed, buried below the sisters. It’s strange what I remember and what I don’t: the clacking of Mom’s heels before she got back into the car—not the name of my kitten, her erratic driving as we split the scene—not how I must’ve sobbed, her perfectly readjusted curls as she sat across from us at dinner—not what we ate or what was said. Only the heels, the ride, the hair—leaving me wondering about her point of view from above that day. Perhaps it was denial that kicked in first. Killing a squirrel, a mere rodent, was more psychologically manageable than running over a daughter’s pet. What else was she supposed to do but get back in the car and hurl her panic at the unjust world? Slam the shift into reverse. Shove it back into drive. Swerve through the neighborhood. Ignore the onlookers. Drive on. Drive on. Go to dinner as planned. Yell at your children to get up and out of the car. Don’t see the fear on their faces as they file into the restaurant. Pause next to the hostess stand. Adjust the collar on your starched, white blouse. Fluff up your hair in the mirror and fake a smile so you don’t look like a cat killer.

*

My mother pursued several beauticians throughout her lifetime, but it wasn’t until the early ’90s that she met Oleen. One of the few to witness her with wet hair, dripping and clinging to her forehead. One of the only hairdressers with whom she’d develop a steady relationship. Oleen wore a white tunic, pressed and perfect, his hair two shades darker than hers for a tussle of midnight curls, coiffed in an Albert Brooks kind of chic.

I’d like to think of Oleen shaking out the nylon cape, creating ever-so-slight undulations in the air before snapping the fasteners around her neckline. I picture him massaging her scalp as he spreads the golden-brown dye—mom leaning her elbow on the chrome armrest, her chin resting in the palm of her hand while she glances into the mirror at her undone self. That near-naked self who tells Oleen how hard it was to raise her six children—she could hardly get out of bed in the morning to sign the kids’ permission slips for school; her husband traveled too much; she would be alone all day and yet couldn’t stand the sound of the school bus rounding the corner in the afternoon.

He keeps listening. He keeps consoling. She keeps coming back. I suppose that she reveals our family secrets. The favorite son sneaks home drunk, “Teens these days,” he says. Then there’s the debutante daughter who gets arrested, “Give it time,” he says. What about the second oldest—she’s living in subsidized housing on the other side of the tracks, “Relax,” he says. Week after week, a halo of polymers and solvents evaporates over Mom’s sorrows.

Years later, as her arms thin and her gait grows unsteady, I drive her to the meetups with Oleen. I wonder what they talk about—so much gossip, so little time. Whatever they may say to one another, she returns to the car renewed, recounting how Oleen agrees that her ex-son-in-law is one sorry son of a bitch, and that her neighbor is a snitch and Mom should move. On our drive home, I side-glance at her looking in the visor mirror. She resprays the bangs, ensuring a solid front line.

Sometimes, I pull up to the salon and see them through the plate glass window—side-by-side, neither one talking, the silence holding them close. Other times, they’re laughing, shoulders shaking, reading the tabloids. Most times, he’s finishing up—he smooths and shapes with one hand, while spraying a cloud of aerosols from the other.

When she is diagnosed with cancer, Oleen is one of the first to know. She agrees to radiation but refuses chemo. He understands her not wanting to lose her hair when her family does not. She faithfully holds to their twice weekly appointments until she’s placed on hospice care.

On the day my mom dies, I call Oleen. They have a pact, those two.

Before the viewing, I will enter the mortuary. Oleen is leaning over her casket. He backcombs and revives those familiar curls. I witness them together for one final appointment, keeping up appearances.

Carol’s essays have been published in Book XI: A Journal of Literary Philosophy and Weber: The Contemporary West. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the Rainier Writing Workshop. She lives in Utah, the Beehive State.