Lilac Avenue (4 page)

When
Claire married Frieda’s son Phillip, known as “Pip,” at the tender age of nineteen, her parents so vocally disapproved that Claire cut off all communications with them. Shortly afterward, when Pip lost the next in a succession of temporary jobs, the newlyweds were forced to move into the ramshackle firetrap that was his mother’s home, up Possum Holler. Feeling abandoned by her parents and mystified by her new husband’s lack of interest in finding work, Claire had turned to Frieda for maternal advice, only to receive scorn and resentment. Claire was seen as an interloper, a threat, and a financial burden.

Over the years,
Frieda had come to regard Claire with what could most accurately be described as a hostile fondness, although any sign of affection could be directly attributed to how much money Frieda thought Claire possessed, and how likely she was to part with it.

“You heard from Pip lately?”
Frieda asked.

“No,” Claire said, “The last time I heard from your son he was in a Los Angeles jail, looking for bail money, and since I refused to pay it I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Trish’s folks bailed him out,” Frieda said. “He had to sign divorce papers and give her full custody of all them kids. I’ll probably never see my precious grandkids again.”

Claire knew better than to fall for the sentimentality of that statement. Unless those kids came wrapped in hundred dollar bills
Frieda would have no use for them.

“What’s he doing now?” Claire asked, not really wanting to know, but thinking she ought to keep track of him, the better to be prepared for him to suddenly appear with his hand out.

“He’s working for that movie star you used to work for.”

From her relaxed position, with her head leaned back in the shampoo bowl,
Frieda studied Claire to see what effect that piece of information had on her. After working for over twenty years for a vindictive narcissist, Claire had become very good at hiding her feelings, but her heart did skip a beat.

“Hmm, that’s interesting,” was all she said.

“Sloan bought one of them big houses up at Glencora and Pip’s renovating it,” Frieda said. “It’ll be a real showplace before he’s through. You know how good he is.”

Claire also knew how likely it was that, based on his past behavior, Pip would disappear before the job was finished, taking anything of value with him as he slunk out the back door. However, he did owe Sloan Merryweather a huge sum of money, and she did employ scary people who might break off parts of him if he didn’t follow through, so he might actually finish this project.

Claire hated to think Pip was only thirty minutes away, and would no doubt make an appearance in Rose Hill when she least expected it. She was also surprised to learn Sloan had purchased a house in Glencora. When Sloan wanted publicity shots of herself, cavorting near a ski resort in snug-fitting ski apparel, she preferred Aspen or Gstaad. Glencora was a nice enough, albeit a small ski resort, but there were no stars next to it in the Forbes Travel Guide.

Claire consoled herself by remembering that in the past Sloan had purchased many pieces of property, had them extensively and expensively renovated, and then sold them for a profit without ever setting foot in them twice. This would be the same, Claire was sure of it. Well, she hoped so, anyway.

Frieda seemed to be waiting for Claire to react.

“Really? Well, that’s interesting,” she said.

Claire wrapped a towel around Frieda’s hair and led her to one of the hydraulic chairs.

“I don’t know why you came back here,”
Frieda said. “Pip said that woman paid you a fortune, took you all over the world. Why in the world would you give up all that to do this?”

“My dad’s not been well,” Claire said. “I came back to help my mom take care of him.”

“I heard he’d had a stroke,” Frieda said. “Some folks act crazy after that.”

“He’s just having memory problems,” Claire said. “Other than that he’s fine.”

Claire combed out Frieda’s hair, gummy with damage from too much home-bleaching. The roots were still dark but with multiple streaks of gray. She did not offer to color it and she hoped Frieda would not ask. The best thing would be for her to cut it short and start all over.

“I done your cards this morning,”
Frieda said. “You’re about to fall in love again; with somebody you least expect.”

Frieda was a devoted Tarot Card enthusiast. She did readings for local people who were willing to pay to sit at Frieda’s wobbly-legged kitchen table, breathe in her secondhand cigarette smoke, pick out some cards from a worn deck, and then hear Frieda’s interpretation of what those cards meant.

Money and love were the main topics of their inquiries. No one ever believed they’d had their entitled allotment of either, and they were always sure more and better offerings were just around the corner. Frieda was glad to tell them what they wanted to hear, or what would scare them enough to bring them back for another reading, often enough to provide the cash she needed for a carton of cigarettes and a box of red wine.

“I’m not looking for love,” Claire said.

“That’s what the cards said,” Frieda cackled. “That’s why it will be a surprise.”

Before the woman could a
sk another question, Claire asked, “What are we doing with your hair today, Frieda?”

Luckily, Claire’s first scheduled customer of the day arrived, so
Frieda stopped talking. Frieda Deacon was well aware that the town gossiped about her son, and she wasn’t about to provide any more fuel for that fire. When Claire was finished with her hair, Frieda enthused about how much she loved it, then gave Claire a sheepish look, and said, “I don’t get paid until Friday; could I get back to you then?”

“It’s on me,” Claire said. “I think once per year I can afford to give my ex-mother-in-law a free hairdo.”

Claire hoped Frieda would pick up on that ‘once per year’ hint and not try it again for awhile.

“With all the money you’ve got, you could do a hell of a lot more than that,”
Frieda snorted, and then slammed the door behind her as she left.

“Charming, isn’t she?” Claire said to her next customer. “Sorry you had to wait.”

Later that morning, after Mamie Rodefeffer had made a surprise appearance, Claire was just getting started with her next client when she happened to look up and see the top of a blond curly head running past the window, with two dog tails following.She ran outside and yelled, “Sammy!” but he kept running. She ran back inside, grabbed her phone, and called Hannah, who turned out to be in her dad’s service station across the street. As Claire ran after the procession of child and dogs she saw Hannah leave the gas station and negotiate traffic as she crossed the street to join her.

“He’s going down Peony,” Claire called out.

As she ran, Claire called home, and luckily her mother was there.

“I’ll head him off,” Delia said.

Claire’s mother made it to Peony just as Sammy turned down Iris Avenue, and he ran straight into her arms. The dogs danced around her feet.

“Auntie Dee,” he said. “Me’
s coming to see you.”

When Claire and Hannah caught up to them, they were out of breath.

“How did you get out of school?” Hannah asked him.

“They’s going on a feel trip, and I no feels like it,” he said with a shrug.

“We’ve talked about this,” Hannah said. “You can’t just leave school when you feel like it. It gives Miss Scarberry a heart attack.”

“Me telled her me was leaving,” Sammy said. “Me said it real quiet.”

“Oh, Sammy,” Delia said. “Where did they go on a field trip?’

“
Liebarry,” he said. “Me’s ducks don’t fly to the liebarry. They’s shush you in there.”

“What does he mean about his ducks
?” Claire asked.

“You know how I
used to say I don’t give a flying …”

“Hannah,” Delia said.

“Well, I can’t use the ‘f’ word anymore,” Hannah said. “So now I say I don’t give a flying duck.”

“Me’s ducks don’
t fly to the liebarry,” Sammy said.

“It’s pronounced
library
,” Claire said.

“Me say that
,” Sammy said.

“I’ll take him back,” Delia said.

“Tell Miss Scarberry I’m bringing cupcakes tomorrow,” Hannah said, “and hers will have valium in it.”

“I left the door to the
Bee Hive unlocked,” Claire said as she waved goodbye. “There’s a lady sitting in a chair there who probably wonders if I’m ever coming back.”

At eleven o’clock Mrs. Eugene O’Hare, known as Gigi to her close friends, came in for her appointment. Claire knew Mrs. O’Ha
re because her son, Eugene Jr., was the same age as Claire, which meant they went all through school together. Mr. Eugene O’Hare Sr. had been some kind of high level administrator at the hospital in nearby Pendleton, so Gigi had always acted as if she were the Duchess of Pine County. Their family lived in one of the larger mansions up on Morning Glory Avenue.

“Hello, Miss Claire,” Gigi said, as she gave her an air smooch to the side of her head. “Denise said you were covering for her while she’s on maternity leave.”

Gigi held out her handbag and a shopping bag, and it took Claire a moment to realize she meant for her to take them. She dutifully did so, and placed them on the spare hydraulic chair. Gigi took a seat at the shampoo bowl. Claire whirled her best cape around her shoulders, and fastened it around her neck. Gigi wriggled back and declined herself, her three chins now trapped between her head and her generous bosom.

Gigi’s light peach-colored hair was styled in a teased roller comb-out
style made popular in the 1960s. When Claire wet it down, it immediately matted to her scalp like it was covered in glue; which, in effect, it had been.

‘She must wash it once a week and spray it the next six days with firm hold hairspray,’ Claire thought.

“How’s your mother?” Gigi asked. “I hear your father’s been ill.”

“They’re doing fine,” C
laire said. “How’s Eugene, Jr.?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Gigi said. “He’s got his own business, you know.”

“I didn’t know that,” Claire said. “How impressive.”

The Eugene
Jr. she remembered had crippling shyness, a lisp, a stutter, and a tendency to faint at the slightest stress. He was so pathetic and delicate that even the school bullies left him alone. There was no sport in it.

“He sells geodes,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “You know, those rocks you think are just clumps of dirt until you break one open and it’s full of crystals? He sells those and tumbled semi-precious stones. There’s quite a bit of money in that, although you’d probably never think it. There are quite a few good geode caves in Pine County. Eugene hires spelunkers to harvest them and then he preps them to sell through his website and on
eBay. He has quite a reputation in the market, and people from all over the world order his geodes.”

“Well, my goodness,” Claire said. “It sounds like he’s doing something he loves and getting paid well for it; that’s a wonderful accomplishment.”

“We had hoped he would go to Eldridge and then work at the hospital with his father,” Mrs. O’Hare said. “But you know how poor Jr.’s health has always been. That just wasn’t meant to be. Nevertheless, he’s been a good son and a wonderful support since his father passed.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Claire said. “I didn’t know Mr. O’Hare had died.”

“He was playing golf with his buddies,” she said, as Claire led her over to the hydraulic chair. “On the ninth hole, he just keeled over, dead before he hit the ground, they say. Massive myocardial infarction.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Well, he always said he wanted to go that way,” she said. “I would have preferred he wait until after our fiftieth wedding anniversary; we had cruise tickets and I couldn’t get our deposit back, even with a death certificate.”

“That’s too bad,” Claire said.

“Eugene Jr. couldn’t go on account of he’s allergic to air conditioning and synthetic fabrics. So I had to take the loss.”

“That’s a shame,” Claire said.

“I do so worry about who will take care of Eugene Jr. when I’m gone,” Gigi said.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Claire said. “People do what they have to do, and he’s a grown man, after all.”

“No, he’s pretty much helpless,” Gigi said. “And I should know; I made him that way. I feel bad about it sometimes, and his father used to give me the worst time about it, but when you have a child you just want to do everything for them you can. And he’s so delicate. It’s a miracle he’s lived this long. You’re not married, are you, Claire? Why don’t you go out with Jr.? He’s not much to look at but he’ll be a rich man someday.”

“I’m too selfish to be a good wife,” Claire said. “And I can’t imagine waiting on anybody hand and foot.”

Claire quickly steered the subject to Gigi’s hair, and no more was said about Eugene Jr. until Mrs. O’Hare left.