'Bout to Dye in Birmingham, page 5
Now they were off majoring in drama and environmental science. Sam and I told ourselves that all that screeching had built up their vocal cords in preparation for success.
In the late afternoon, I put a little bouquet of daffodils in a vase on each of their dressers to welcome them home. I was as excited as Sam was about having all my chicks back in the nest, even though the circumstances were less than desirable. Then, I sat down to call Francis. He'd never responded to my earlier message about getting food and paper products.
Francis answered the phone abruptly. "First, no worries on the toilet paper," he said. "I've already got enough for a whole marching band with dysentery because of buying in bulk for the theater. Second, I called Patti Wright to give her my condolences about Winston, and she's getting someone at her salon to straighten out your hair tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock—don't be late—and third, I have a Symphony Board meeting in twenty minutes, so I gotta go. Bye." He hung up.
"Okay, thanks," I said to the air and tossed my phone onto the couch beside me.
Sam walked in. "Let's go out. I'm sick of the kitchen, and it looks like our restaurant days are drawing to a close."
I raised my eyebrows. "Reeaallly," I said. "Did Valerie's warning finally get to you?"
"No, I just watched the news, and there's an order that's going into effect tomorrow for businesses to close."
"You're kidding!"
"Nope. Mandated by the governor. Are you up for pizza? It might be our last chance."
Evan was out with friends after reporting there was no toilet paper in a six-mile radius, so Sam and I drove to our favorite pizza place in Mountain Brook like we were having an eerie date night. He filled me in as we rode on what he'd seen on the news. "As of five o'clock tomorrow, all restaurants will be closing, all nonessential businesses will close, and so will schools."
I sat there with my mouth open. "We shouldn't be going out to eat," I said when I found my voice. "The virus is probably already here."
Sam sighed. "Let's just try to enjoy it. It may be our last chance for a while."
"But…but…what about places like banks? Or dentist's offices? Or the stores at the mall? How long can they keep schools closed?"
Sam shook his head. "They're telling everyone who can to work from home. Schools will likely go online. The only people allowed out are being referred to as 'essential workers.' Besides medical workers, grocery store employees, and the police who can't work from home, I can't tell who's going to be counted as an essential worker and who isn't." Sam already worked from home, so he wouldn't be affected.
"Do you think speech therapy is essential?" I asked.
He looked at me. "Do you?" I thought about it as he asked, "How much of your job can you do over the phone?"
"Some of it, but not all of it," I said.
"Then, they're probably going to say you're essential."
I stayed quiet for the rest of the drive to the restaurant. Maybe I didn't want to be essential. Maybe I wanted to stay home where it was safe with my family, especially if most everyone else in the working world was staying home. I felt like a selfish person, but there you go. You couldn't help your feelings. Usually.
Sam put his arm around me as we got out of the car and walked towards the restaurant. "Don't worry about it now," he said. "Let's just wait and see. We can check a few places for toilet paper on the way home."
"Francis says he has enough, so I guess we're good," I said. "I forgot he gets it in bulk for the theater and stores it in his basement for them."
"So, it actually belongs to the theater?"
"Only if they've reimbursed him already."
"Let's hope they haven't. A case of toilet paper is probably worth two buttermilk pies, don't you think?"
"At least."
The next day, I followed Francis's instructions and headed to The Wright Touch salon at quarter 'til one. A hairdresser named Carolyn was supposed to meet me.
It was as swanky as Francis had described. Plush charcoal velvet furniture and modern brass fixtures dominated the interior.
"Oh, honey," Carolyn said as I sat in her chair and took off my cap.
"I know. It's bad. Thanks for helping me out on a Sunday."
Carolyn was around my age, which was comforting. Her long, honey-colored hair was pulled into a striking chignon hairstyle, making her look stylish and capable. I'd decided to swear off millennial professionals for a while, which wasn't fair, I knew. It was funny how the older you got, the more you worried that anyone younger than you was too inexperienced to do a good job. Brittany with the purple tips, bless her, had solidified that feeling. I only hoped my gynecologist didn't retire until I got through menopause.
Carolyn checked the angles of my face, moved my chopped pieces from left to right, and measured the length of them with her fingers. "You're not too far gone," she said. "I think we can shape you up to look like Annie Lennox. You look a lot like her already, you know?"
"Really? Annie Lennox from the Eurythmics? I'll take it," I said. "What about the color?"
"Yeah, that's a shame. Looks like she tried to strip the old color off and bleach you. She never should've tried to lighten you that much at once. You're supposed to do it in stages, but I'll see what I can do."
Maybe it was because I was relieved about my pending hair improvement, or maybe it was because she sounded so competent, but Carolyn was easy to talk to. She laughed in all the right places and asked questions that kept me sharing information. Pretty soon though, I felt selfish talking all about myself. "So, how long have you worked here?" I asked.
"About a year," she told me. "I've been doing hair forever, though. I was lucky to get a spot with Patti. It's tough when you're on your own."
"It's easier when someone else is the salon owner?"
"When you're doing it solo, there's a lot of overhead. This way I just pay rent for my chair and reimburse her for my supplies."
I stayed quiet for a minute, wondering whether she knew about Patti's boyfriend's untimely demise. "You heard about her friend, Winston?" I finally asked.
She looked up and our eyes met. "I hate it for her," she said. "They might not have been soul mates, but they were pretty much best friends—until recently anyway."
"They weren't dating?"
"They, uh, accompanied each other places and," she cleared her throat, "slept over a lot, as best I could tell. But they never acted like they were in love. They'd been arguing more lately, but it seemed to be just little squabbles over business."
"How is she?" I asked.
"Ah, you know Patti. Tough as nails. She's torn up, but you wouldn't know it. He apparently didn't have any family, so she's the one handling the funeral arrangements."
"I actually don't know her at all," I said. "She's a friend of a friend."
Carolyn gave me a rueful smile. "Plenty of people think she's a first-class you-know-what. I think she's a softie deep down, though. Blame it on her rough childhood, I guess," she said.
"Does she have any idea what happened?" I asked.
"No, except that he was stabbed. That's so horrible." Carolyn shuddered. She trimmed a little more off the left and shook her head. "They were so cute together, you know? Their hair even matched."
"It did?"
She nodded. "His was completely dyed purple, and hers had purple tips on the ends."
I have to admit, if Carolyn had been serving me wine the way Brittany had, I'd have told her how I'd found the body. This far into the conversation though, it seemed an odd thing to bring up.
"Purple tips must be all the rage," I said. "The girl who botched-up my hair had them, too."
"You want some?" Carolyn asked, looking mischievous. "I can make the magic happen."
I remembered the way Sam had woken up yesterday morning. "Better take a pass," I said.
At home that night, it was hard to say what was the biggest hit: my new look, Sam's Mexican lasagna and jalapeño cornbread, or our three children's enjoyment of being together as a family again. It did a mama's heart good to see smiling faces around the table. God, what spectacular human beings they were becoming. Sam and I glowed with contentment throughout the evening. Eventually though, the talk turned to scary topics.
"Spring break is the week after next," Anna said as she put the butter back into the fridge after dinner. "They sent an email and said we'll be doing classes online at least until then."
Jenna shut off the water after rinsing her plate. "What if we don't even go back at all this year?" she asked. "It makes me sick to think about all that time we put in at rehearsals and the show might not ever open," she said. "And so much for our spring break plans, I guess."
"You're getting ahead of yourselves," I said. "We don't know what's going to happen, so let's just try not to worry."
The phone rang, and Sam picked it up. He listened for a few seconds before turning on the speaker so we could all hear. It was a recording of the principal at the high school.
"…per mandate by the governor, classes will move to an online format through March seventeenth. We also need to inform you that we've had a report of one positive case of COVID-19 within our student body. Everyone is advised to monitor their temperatures and assess themselves for symptoms daily."
We all looked at Evan, who was tying the trash bag before he pulled it from the can. He frowned. "Don't look at me. I don't know anyone who's sick."
"As far as you know," Jenna pointed out.
"Do you think people will be open about it if someone in their family starts having symptoms?" Anna asked.
"Here's the thing," I told them. "It affects elderly people with underlying conditions the worst. Remember, that's my clientele. I go into their houses all day."
They all looked at me.
"And if you can catch it and carry it around without having symptoms for up to two weeks like they're reporting on the news…" Sam said.
"That means you could be like Typhoid Mary," Jenna blurted.
"God, Jenna!" Anna shook her head in disgust. "You didn't have to say it out loud."
"Who's Typhoid Mary?" Evan asked.
Sam rinsed a plate and handed it to me to put into the dishwasher. "She was a cook in the early 1900s and spread Typhoid for years without ever being sick herself. It killed a few people in the families she worked for before they traced it back to her. She was a carrier."
Evan hauled the trash bag towards the door with a scowl. "I hate this," he said.
"Me, too," echoed his sisters in unison.
"Again, let's take things one day at a time," I said. "You guys get settled in tonight. It'll be just like old times."
"Except we're all going to quarantine," Sam said, "so Mom won't kill anyone." The way he said it, it sounded as simple as whipping up a banana pudding.
Easy-peasy.
The whole next week was like a strange dream.
At work, we were called into the office and given masks and extra gloves. Make them last, they said, because there was a sudden shortage in personal protective equipment since it was needed in hospitals.
"What are we supposed to do?" we asked.
"Wear a washable cloth mask over your respirator mask," they said. "And sanitize. Always sanitize."
But supplies were limited at work and the stores were out of everything that killed germs, including hand sanitizer, bleach, and rubbing alcohol. Even hand soap was in short supply.
Sam and I went through the cabinets at home and found everything we had on hand that might be antibacterial. "This stuff won't last long," Sam said, his brow creased with worry.
And then everything seriously ground to a halt.
Stores closed, restaurants closed, doctor's offices closed. Bars, movie theaters, barber shops, and beauty salons were mandated by the governor to be shut down. We were advised to limit grocery shopping to once every two weeks, if possible. Everyone who could do an office job from home was transitioning. Even churches canceled services.
At work we were given a letter to display in our cars stating we were "essential employees." We were to produce the letter in case we were stopped by the police. Let me repeat: This was in case we were stopped by the police, who might ask what we were doing out, like the Gestapo. It was as if we'd all been plunged into an alternate reality. Someone had even already spray-painted COVID SUCKS on four overpasses on I-65.
"This doesn't make good sense," I told Sam as we were folding laundry in our bedroom after the six-o'clock news. "People are having their doctor's appointments on the phone to avoid contamination, but I'm supposed to go house-to-house and bring all my germs inside?"
Sam didn't answer immediately, probably because he'd heard me make this statement at least eight times already. "Just be glad you still have a paycheck," he finally said.
"I could bring the virus home or carry it around and kill scores of people, but hey, we won't be broke," I grumbled. He was right, though. Money-wise, we were some of the lucky ones.
I checked my improved hair in the mirror over my dresser. The new shorter length made it easier to wear the respirator mask, which strapped over the back of my head. It was a good thing I'd been able to get in with Carolyn so quickly. Three more days, and I'd have had to live with botched hair for who knows how long. I wondered if Brittany and Carolyn had some savings put away. I hoped the salon owners did too.
Sam looked over my shoulder and touched his own hair. "How long do you think it'll take before I start looking like a founding father of our country?" he asked.
"Two words, Sam," I said. "Man. Bun."
He looked at himself in the mirror and turned his head left and right. My word… And I'd thought things couldn't get any stranger.
He was actually considering it.
CHAPTER SIX
Mrs. Castinelli wasn't herself. Normally, she was outspoken and decisive, but when I called her on Sunday night to schedule her appointment for the next day, she was neither. "How about 10:30 tomorrow morning?" I asked.
"Well, I just don't know…"
"Is someone else already scheduled to see you then?" I asked, remembering that sometimes the physical therapist or one of the nurses was in that area on Mondays.
"No, I'm just, I don't know. I'm not sure…"
A warning bell went off in my head. It wasn't a blaring siren, but a slight tinkling that something was off. "Mrs. Castinelli, are you feeling okay tonight?" I asked. "You don't sound like yourself."
"Oh, honey." Her voice shook, and I heard her sniff. "I'm just so worried about Lula," she finally said. "I haven't talked to her in days."
Forget Lula. I was worried about Mrs. Castinelli. The demeanor of a person who's already in fragile health can change drastically over something like a minor infection somewhere in the body, and this particular patient had her share of recurring pneumonia. "She's not back yet?" I asked, trying not to sound alarmed. Lula was her mother's primary caretaker. "Is someone else checking in on you while she's gone?"
"Oh, yes. That sweet Brittany is staying with me, and she's just precious," she said. "But she's been so upset lately, and I can't get Lula on the phone. It's just not like Lula to not answer."
It certainly wasn't. Lula was the type who called her mother from work on the hour to check on her. "How long has it been since you've heard from her?" I asked.
"Since Friday before she left," she quavered. "And I can't get anyone else in Florida, either. It's been over a week."
I remembered that Lula was supposedly in Florida to help with her grandkids. "Has Brittany heard from her?" I asked.
"Brittany said she'd left a message that they were all going to Disney World and would have their phones turned off for a few days. I just don't understand why she didn't call me, too. Why would they turn off their phones?"
That was odd, but at least Lula had been in communication with someone. "I'm sure she's fine," I said in my most soothing tone. Mrs. Castinelli needed peace of mind, and I was going to dish some out. "She's got Brittany all lined up, and you're in good hands. She probably just wants to focus on keeping up with the grandkids while they're at the park."
"You think so?" she asked with relief.
"I'm sure that's all it is," I said, suddenly wondering if Mrs. Castinelli knew about the murder. "What's been upsetting Brittany?" I asked as casually as possible.
"Oh, she's had a little tiff with her fiancé, that Garrett fellow. I told her that planning a wedding is stressful on everyone and I'm sure they'll patch things up." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she said, "He's an odd one, though, with that long hillbilly beard. Seems angry all the time."
I remembered the guy who fit that description coming out of the beauty shop as I'd gone in. It was just after I'd found the body. He'd looked angry then, too. I forced a chuckle to keep things light. "Those long beards are back in style now," I told her. "And Brittany approves, so he must not be all bad."
We settled on a time for Tuesday morning, but I was still worried. Mrs. Castinelli was more than a patient. She was also a friend. I thought of my own mother, who didn't need anyone checking on her regularly unless it was to see if she wanted to carpool to her aerobics class. I'd be worried sick if I was in Lula's shoes. "Listen, you call me if you need anything, okay? I've got my phone with me all the time."
"Thank you, dear," she said. "I hope you're right about everything."
Sam had spent Monday afternoon baking, and I'd spent the post-dinner hour resisting temptation, but on Tuesday morning, I couldn't see how having a little slice of buttermilk pie with my morning coffee was anything but a good idea. I carried it onto the screened-in porch bright and early. There was a fine layer of pollen on the cushions of my wicker settee (originally from Parisian), but I flipped it over and enjoyed my breakfast to the tune of morning birdsong in the dawn peacefulness…until my cell phone rang in my robe pocket.
