Authors: Cassandra King
Making Waves
To James Elton King and Pat Williamson King with love and gratitude
Chapter 1 from
Queen of Broken Hearts
Praise for:
Queen of Broken Hearts
Praise for:
The Same Sweet Girls
In a small Alabama town, life is finally looking up for twenty-year-old Donnette Sullivan. She's just inherited her aunt's house and beauty shop, and her recently crippled husband is beginning to cope with the loss of his dreams. Yet the opening of the shop leads to a surprising sequence of events in this story about love, friendship, betrayal, unfulfilled desires and heartbreaking losses.
I was right in the middle of washing off the rollers from Melissa Mullenix's permanent, getting ready to close up for the day, when Mr. Cleve Floyd called me. Before I could answer the phone, I had to take the neutralizer-soaked end papers off the rods then turn the sprayer on real hard to get that slick chemical solution off; otherwise they'd stink to high heaven. Plastic rollers absorb ammonia worse than anything.
Melissa's perm sure turned out pretty, though. At first I thought that might be her mama calling to tell me how much she liked it. For some reason Melissa was afraid her mama'd think it was too frizzy, which she says looks cheap. So when I finally answered the phone, I was surprised as all get-out to hear Mr. Cleve Floyd on the other end.
Mr. Cleve was not one to beat around the bush, so he got right to the point. He wanted me to come over to the funeral home and fix Miss Maudie's hair.
Normally I'm real polite, but I didn't beat around the bush either. I told him no-thank-you flat out.
“Mr. Cleve, I appreciate you thinking of me, I really do. And I loved Miss Maudie. But there's
no
way I can do thatâno way at all,” I said to him.
“The pay's good, Donnette.” Mr. Cleve cleared his throat, coughing. “Hairstyling's included in our total package, so we make it worth your while to leave your shop unattended.”
“You couldn't pay me enough, believe me. I can't do it, Mr. Cleve. I'm sorry,” I told him, and I meant it.
Daddy always said there wasn't a Floyd in Zion County that wouldn't argue with a signpost. Way Daddy told it, every time he and Mr. Verdo Floyd came back from selling hogs in Tuscaloosa and crossed the Zion County line, Mr. Verdo'd start in, fussing: “Sign says twelve miles to Clarksville. Damn foolsâain't no such thing!” Since Mr. Cleve was a Floyd through and through, I was in for an argument.
“Now see here, young lady,” he said. I could picture him with his sad funeral-parlor face, cigarette hanging from his mouth, looking real mournful, like he ought to in his business, I reckon.
“You took over that shop from Essie, you got to do her customers, girl,” he continued, coughing gruffly. “Essie'd turn over in her grave you refusing to do poor old Maudieâ”
“But, Mr. Cleve,” I interrupted. I was raised better than to be rude, but I couldn't help myself. “I
swear
I can't do it! I ain't never touched a dead person beforeâI can't stand the thought. Miss Maudie was my third-grade teacher, Mr. Cleve.” My voice was getting shrill.
Mr. Cleve sighed. “Wait just a minute, honey. Hang on, you hear?” His gravelly voice sank even lower. Deep as a grave, Daddy used to say.
I knew why he wanted me to hang on, knew for sure he was fixing to call his wife to the phone. Whatever he couldn't handle, folks said, he turned over to his wife. Since she was a Clark, people listened.
It was my turn to sigh as I held on to the phone, looking around my empty shop helplessly. Mary Frances Floyd was Aunt Essie's best customer, and with her influence in this town, she could make or break me. I knew I was beat. If Mary Frances Clark Floyd started driving to Columbus to get her hair done, then so would all the other old biddies in town, since the Clarks set the standards in Zion. I was beat, all right. I had to do it, no matter.
“Donnette, honey?” Mary Frances Floyd came on the phone. “How you doing, sweetheart?” She was one of those women with a voice thick and sweet as cane syrup.
“Well, I'm doing fine, but what I'm trying to tell Mr. Cleve isâ” My voice cracked like I was fixing to cry.
“Now, sugar pie, you listen to me, you hear?”
Miss Mary Frances got even sweeter, practically purring. Actually, she was a pretty nice lady even if they did have all that money and the only funeral home in Zion County. Plus she had so much hair. She got a permanent every two months because it was so fine and there was so much of it. Her twin sister was the same way. Aunt Essie used to tell me that Mary Frances Floyd and Frances Martha Clark had enough hair between the two of them to keep her in business.
“Listen here, Donnette, I know you're scared to do your first one. I remember plain as yesterday that Essie vomited after her first one, Miss Lottie Abrams.”
Well, thanks a lot, Miss Mary Frances, I thought. That's just
real
encouraging!
“But if you'll come on out here right now, I tell you what,” she said, lowering her voice, “I'll help you. Cleve's fixing to go home for supper, so it'll be just me and you here. And Miss Maudie, of course.”
“ButâI never touched a dead personâI can't do it, Miss Mary Frances!”
“Well, Donnette, honey, you got to get over that. In your business, they're
your
customers, live or dead. Essie had a rough time, too, but she got to where she didn't mind. She said they were the only customers she had who didn't complain.” She chuckled.
But when I sighed again, Miss Mary Frances got aggravated. Like all Clarks, she was used to having things her way.
“Well. Reckon we'll send to Columbus for somebody, then.”
I closed my eyes. “No, ma'am, Miss Mary Frances. Don't do that. I'll come.”
“Good girl! Come on now, bring your stuff, and come to the back door, okay?”
She hung up before I could say another word. I hugged the phone to me, my heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. Oh, Lord, what had I got myself into? Why didn't they tell us at the beauty college we'd have things like this when we got out in the real world, got our own shop? If I had someone working for me, I could send them. But no, it was only me, and I had no choice if I was going to keep Aunt Essie's customers. Truth was I couldn't afford to lose even one customer, let alone all the blue-haired ladies in Clarksville.
I went over to the sink and finished washing the rollers, laying them out on a towel to dry. When that was done, I picked up a roller bag and began to stuff things in I'd need for Miss Maudie's hair. Setting lotion, blow-dryer, hairspray, lots of clips.
I couldn't help but smile, though. Miss Maudie, bless her sweet old heart, never had a curling iron or blow-dryer touch her head, not with her old-timey hairdo. I'd never fixed it myself, but many was the time I'd watched Aunt Essie do it. She'd part Miss Maudie's thick white hair in the middle, then take her fingers and mold it into big, deep waves. Each wave had to be painstakingly clipped in place with curved metal clips, which they don't make anymore, the kind with jagged teeth. Fortunately I inherited Aunt Essie's collection.
Then Miss Maudie'd get under the dryer so the waves could set, and Aunt Essie'd polish her tiny little fingernails, always a natural rosy-pink. Shell Pink, I remembered, and added a bottle to the roller bag. I figured they hadn't been doing Miss Maudie's fingernails at that nursing home in Tuscaloosa. She ought to have them done for the laying out, she had such pretty little hands. Usually they're crossed at the waist, with a Bible or something in them. It would be a shame for people to file by Miss Maudie's coffin and notice she needed a manicure.
I decided I'd better find Tim and tell him where I was going. I knew he was home, because when I was finishing Melissa's permanent I heard his pickup pull up in the driveway. Melissa heard it too, and she about broke her neck trying to catch a glimpse of him, till I yanked her back in the chair. It was funny that Tim still had that effect on the girls around here.
I locked the shop door, though no one in Clarksville locked doors. But I had fifty dollars in the money box because I not only did Melissa's perm, I'd also cut and styled Ellis's hair as well as doing two shampoos and sets. Not bad with me just opening up. I was pleased with the way everyone turned out, too, especially Ellis. She was going to a reception at the country club in Mt. Zion and wanted to make a good impression. As if she had to worry about that now that she was a Clark, since they own everything and everyone in Zion County.
Miss Mary Frances was a Clark before she married Mr. Cleve. Her brother Mr. Harris Clark set them up in the funeral home business when Joe Ray Johnson died and left it. One thing you could say for them Clarks, rich as they are, Mr. Harris made them all work at something. Well, all except Sonny. Daddy used to say Sonny Clark wasn't worth the bullet it'd take to shoot him. But I'm not so sure about that myself. I know one thing he's good for.
I left the shop and crossed the big front porch, going to the kitchen in back. Me and Tim sure were lucky to get Aunt Essie's house when we got the shop, even luckier to get out of our little trailer. We'd just bought the shop from Aunt Essie when she up and died and left the house to me. It like to have killed my cousin Joleen, the selfish pig, but I for one didn't care a bit. Everybody in town swore Joleen'd get some big-shot lawyer and contest the will, but she never did. She's too lazy, and ever since she left Dinky and ran off with Clerment Windham, she has got all the money she can spend. At least she and Clerment moved to Huntsville and I don't have to see her again, thank the Lord. Everyone knows Joleen can't stand the house anyway, so why'd she want it, except to keep me from getting it? She couldn't sell itânobody moves
in
to Clarksville; they move out instead. No, Joleen was just jealous of me and Aunt Essie, always had been. Personally I think Dinky's better off and she and snooty old Clerment Windham deserve each other.
I'd most likely find Tim in the kitchen. Soon as he gets off work, he either wants to eat or screw.
“Tim, honey, where are you?” I called out as I entered the kitchen from the back door.
Sure enough, there sat Tim at the table, eating a piece of the lemon icebox pie I bought at Piggly Wiggly, eating it right out of the box it came in. If Tim wasn't so gorgeous, his lack of manners would be more noticeable. But he can't help it, considering the way he was raisedâit was a wonder he even knew how to use a fork. The Sullivan boys had to raise themselves out there in the sticks, with no woman around, mother or grandma or anything. Just Old Man Sullivan, who was so bad to drink he finally drank himself to death. Poor Tim, it was a miracle he turned out so good. All the Sullivan boys have, really.