A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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Bobby glanced down at their small companion. “You remember.”
“I don’t.” She understood from Bobby’s expression that the child was important, someone she should know, but didn’t. “Who is he?”
The bell rang before Bobby could answer and the air instantly filled with adolescent chatter as a mass of bodies surged into the corridor, lockers banging open and shut. The sounds faded as a heavy metallic door crashed open.
Helen sat up, the dream blending into the cement walls and barred front gate of the holding area. A guard ushered two thoroughly intoxicated women into the cell. Dressed in neon-bright clothes, the women stumbled toward the wide steel bench, laughing and chattering.
“We weren’t hurtin’ nobody,” the large black woman complained as she sank onto the bench. Her psychedelic dress hiked up, the thigh-high split exposing all of her leg and most of her butt.
Her companion, a roly-poly red-haired Latina with basketball breasts encased in a sausage-tight green dress, waved her hands in emphasis. “We just wanted to sing. It’s a karaoke bar.”
The guard’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “You took the microphone to your car. The bar called us because you wouldn’t give it back.” Officer Maria must have gone home. This guard’s name tag read S. Tona.
The redhead frowned and staggered toward the bench. “That’s gratitude for you. We were buyin’ beers for the house.”
The black woman broke into song. “Goin’ down to Fremont Street and . . . ”
Recognizing the lyrics, Helen joined in. “Get somebody ma-a-arried . . . ”
The redhead plopped down on the bench. “What’s your name, honey?”
Her round face, round body, and green outfit reminded Helen of the 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.