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  I couldn’t answer Henry’s question any more than he could’ve answered the heartbroken relatives. A knot started to form in my stomach. I wanted to run away so I wouldn’t have to see the anguish on Henry’s face, wouldn’t have to hear the sorrow in his voice. As a boy—trapped between the dead and the inconsolable—Henry must have felt the same desire to escape.

  "What did you do on the days when there were no funerals?" I asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

  Henry started cleaning the brush again. "I had to help prepare the dead for embalming. My job was to wash the body."

  As he explained the steps in preparing the deceased for burial, Henry raked the comb through the bristles. The longer he talked, the harder he scraped the brush. The knot in my stomach tightened.

  "Damn." Henry held up the comb. Two teeth were broken. "This was one of my best combs." He threw the ruined tool into the wastebasket. "I’m sorry, Becky, I didn’t mean to go into such detail."

  "That’s okay. It didn’t bother me." Another smile, another lie. "I better go now."

  "But I haven’t told you how I became a hairdresser yet."

  "That’s right, you haven’t." I sank back down into the chair. My surprise visit to Henry’s wasn’t turning out the way I’d imagined it would. I’d come to convince him to stay in Sugardale, not to hear his life story. But my Southern upbringing wouldn’t permit me to just walk out. Under certain conditions, lying and adultery might be considered forgivable offences, but deliberate rudeness to an adult—outside of your immediate family—was an inexcusable breech of good manners. Even a sinner like me could be polite.

  "When I graduated high school," Henry said, "I wanted to go to college. My father said he could teach me everything about the funeral business. When I told him I planned to do something else with my life, he kicked me out. I moved to Atlanta, worked as a night watchman, and took classes at Georgia Tech during the day. I wanted to be an engineer, until the day I walked into a beauty college. The laughter reminded me of the happy times spent with Mother at the beauty shop." Henry rolled his stool closer. "I went in for a cheap haircut, but came out with a new career."

  "What did your parents think?"

  "Mother supported me. She’d send me money when she could. My father hated it."

  "That must have been hard on you."

  "It was harder on Mother, and I regretted that the most." Henry walked over and closed the Venetian blind that covered the front window. "After I got my beautician’s license, I worked for a while before returning to school to get my instructor’s certification."

  "How did you end up back in Sugardale?"

  "Mother broke her leg, I came home to visit her and Aunt Velma convinced me mother needed me. The beauty parlor here was for sale so I bought it."

  "So you moved home?"

  "Not at first. Father had a fit. If I’d been an engineer or even a damn barber, he might have come around. He accused me of moving home to embarrass him." Henry crossed his arms. "That wasn’t the reason, but I admit the thought of thumbing my nose at him held some appeal. I suppose that sounds mean to you."

  "Not really," I said. "I’ve felt that way numerous times."

  He laughed. "You and Helen have gone a few rounds."

  "You don’t know the half of it, Henry."

  "I know more than you think." His face turned serious again. "I know it’s mostly Helen’s fault. She’s rode you hard all your life, hasn’t she?"

  Henry’s candor and empathy surprised and confused me. Was it possible he knew Momma better than I’d suspected? It’s an odd feeling, realizing someone knows more about you than you know about him. "What happened with your father?" I asked, in an effort to turn the conversation back to his life.

  "He wouldn’t allow me to move home. He viewed my refusal to work in the family business as a personal betrayal. But Mother surprised us both. She said if I couldn’t live in my father’s house, she’d wouldn’t either."

  "Your mother left your daddy?"

  "Almost. She agreed to stay after he let me move into the garage apartment." Henry sat down again. "I never planned to spend my life in Sugardale. I only stayed to care for Mother. Now that she’s gone, I want to chase my dream again."

  "What’s your dream, Henry?"

  "To move to Palm Beach, start with one salon and expand that to three shops. After that, I want to start a beauty school so I can teach others the secrets I learned while watching Mother and her friends get their hair done."

  "What secrets?"

  "Women don’t come into the shop to get their hair fixed and their nails polished. They come because they want to feel better. They want to feel pretty." Henry pointed to the front door. "Women walk through that door with their heads hung low, looking like they have just run over their kid’s puppy. After an hour in my shop, they leave smiling, their heads held high, and there’s a speck of hope in their eyes. My goal is to make every woman feel like she’s beautiful, inside and out. It’s a small thing, but it’s my talent, my gift. I like to make women happy, even if it’s only for a few hours."

  "You certainly make Momma happy."

  He reached for my hands. "She makes me happy too. That’s why I want her with me."

  I looked at Henry’s hands. They were smooth and pale instead of calloused and tanned like Frank’s and Papa’s. But they were strong hands just the same.

  "Momma can be cruel. She’s a habitual liar."

  "We’ve all done our share of lying in the past. You, me, Frank. We’ve all lied to keep our personal lives secret. As for hurting others, we’ve done that too, haven’t we?"

  "I suppose. But Momma is the champion liar of all times."

  Henry grinned. "Helen does have a way of bypassing the truth better than anyone I know. That’s her talent, a talent honed during her horrible childhood in West Virginia."

  "West Virginia? Momma isn’t from West Virginia. She grew up on a Kentucky horse ranch. She had a wonderful childhood. She went to a private school and had a black pony named Coal." I pulled my hands out of Henry’s. "The only sadness in her life came when her mother and the Major were killed in a train accident."

  "The Major?"

  "He was Momma’s daddy. Everyone called him that because he had been a major in World War One. After his death, the ranch was sold to pay bills, and Momma moved to Atlanta. That’s where she met Eva and Papa."

  "Helen told you she was raised in Kentucky?" Henry asked.

  "Yes. Papa told me that too. He’d have known if Momma was lying."

  "Can you tell when your mother is lying, Becky?"

  "Sure. If her mouth is open for any reason other than eating or brushing her teeth, it’s a good bet she’s lying."

  Henry laughed. "I see your point, but I’ve found a better way to tell when Helen is being truthful."

  "How?"

  "When Helen is telling the truth, especially a truth she’d rather not tell, her right thumb twitches."

  "I’ve never noticed that." I did not attempt to hide my skepticism.

  "That’s because Helen holds her cigarette in her right hand. But if you look close, you’ll see her thumb twitch whenever she’s telling the truth."

  "It must not twitch often."

  Henry laughed again. "No, not often. Your mother is a challenge for sure. But I manage to pull the truth out of her sometimes."

  I’d always wondered what Momma saw in Henry Nash. He was nice-looking enough, but not handsome like Papa and Frank. A couple of inches taller than her, Henry had a smaller frame than her previous lovers did—at least those I knew about. I figured the only thing he and Helen had in common was their shared adoration for her honey-gold curls. Not much to base a relationship on, much less a marriage.

  "How can you love Momma when you know her true nature?"

  "I see a different Helen than you do. She lashes out because she’s afraid. Helen had no control over what happened to her when she was a child in West Virginia. That’s why she seeks control of everythi
ng and everyone now."

  "Momma is from Kentucky. She lied to you about West Virginia because she wanted your sympathies."

  Henry sighed. "I reckon she lied to one of us." He rose and pushed the stool under the counter. "We need a plan."

  "What kind of plan?"

  "I want Helen in my life. You and Frank want her out of yours. Right?"

  "Right."

  "Helen’s smart. That’s why she can manipulate everyone so well. But we know her better than anyone."

  "You think we can maneuver her into leaving Sugardale?"

  "Yes."

  "How?"

  In a voice mimicking Helen’s, he said, "We’ll do whatever it takes, Sugar."

  I laughed. Now, I understood why Momma loved Henry. But what was it about her that made good men like Papa, Frank, and Henry propose marriage? She must know black magic. Whatever it was—a spell, curse, or hex—I hoped it lasted longer on Henry than it had on Papa and Frank. Otherwise, I’d be stuck with Momma forever.

  CHAPTER 22

  I returned home from work the next day to find Momma and Henry standing on our front porch.

  "You’re home early," she said. "Where’s Frank?"

  "He’ll be along. It’s such a nice day, I decided to walk home." I climbed the four steps leading to the porch. "Nice to see you, Henry. How you doing?"

  "I’ve been better, Becky."

  I headed for the swing at the end of the porch. "You’re not coming down with the summer cold that’s going around, are you?"

  "I wish my illness was that easy to treat. I’m afraid I’ve come down with a heartache."

  Helen frowned. "Don’t be so melodramatic, Henry."

  "I can’t help it, Sweetheart. I learned from the best."

  She flipped back her hair and giggled. "You’re such a card, Henry Nash."

  He grinned. "I know, Sweet Pea, but marry me anyway."

  She pointed at me. "Becky’s listening to every word we say."

  "So what?" Henry pulled his shoulders back, looked straight at me. "Becky, do I have your permission to marry your mother and take her to live with me in Palm Beach. We’ll lounge around my aunt’s pool or go to the beach every day."

  "I hate the beach," Helen said. "It’s too crowded, too hot."

  "It’s nice at night," I countered. "The stars come out and it’s real romantic."

  Momma cast me a sour look. "I guess you and Frank would know about that."

  For the sake of our plan, I squelched a sarcastic response and looked to Henry, my partner in a scheme he’d nicknamed HUR, short for Helen’s Ultimate Relocation. But to me the letters stood for Helen’s Ultimate Removal—removal from Papa’s house and removal from my life. With that goal in mind, I’d pledged to help Henry convince Momma that she should move to Palm Beach.

  "Don’t worry about crowds, Honey Pie. Aunt Velma’s property goes to the water’s edge. We’ll have our own private beach." He leaned closer to her. "Remember the beach scene in From Here to Eternity? We’ll make Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster look like amateurs."

  Helen laughed and pushed Henry back a bit. "You are so bad, Mister."

  He laughed. "That’s why you love me. Because I’m almost as bad as you."

  They stared at each other. She rubbed her tongue back and forth over her bottom lip. Henry’s breathing quickened.

  A movie started to play in my head. In it, Momma and Henry ran out of the surf, fell into the sand and proceeded to devour each other, like Deborah and Burt, only Momma and Henry were naked. God help me. I’d seen and heard too much. So had our neighbor across the street. "Mrs. Treadwell is weeding her flowerbeds and watching every move you two make."

  Immediately, Henry straightened. Helen wrapped one hand around a porch column and began fanning herself with her other hand. "It’s terribly hot today, isn’t it?" she asked as she waved to Mrs. Treadwell.

  I pushed the swing higher.

  "I’d better go," Henry said. "I don’t want to set tongues to wagging. Don’t want to damage your stellar reputation, Mrs. Wooten."

  Even Momma smiled at the irony of her lover’s words. Henry had a better sense of humor than either Papa or Frank. That had to come in handy when dealing with my mother.

  He turned toward me, giving Momma his back. "Don’t work too hard, Becky." He winked to indicate he was handing off her conversion to becoming a Floridian to me.

  "You take care of yourself, Henry Ambrose Nash," Helen said. "Or you’ll have me to deal with."

  He smiled and gave one of her curls a quick tug. "I will, Peaches. Just promise me you’ll think about all we discussed. Remember, I love you."

  "I promise."

  Henry climbed into his green Impala, waved once, and pulled into the street. The sadness on his face when he left and the fact that he’d told Momma his middle name was Ambrose convinced me he really loved her. I felt sorry for him.

  "Love you too," Momma whispered as he drove away. The thumb on her right hand began to twitch.

  At our planning session the day before, Henry had assigned me the task of finding out why Momma was afraid to leave Sugardale. The only reason I’d ever known her to do anything was because of pure hate and downright meanness. If Henry thought I could ferret out some hidden motive for her not wanting to marry him, then he’d been sniffing too many permanent wave solutions.

  "You could’ve helped me, Becky." Momma said.

  "Helped you with what?"

  "Helped me convince Henry not to move to Palm Beach." Momma shook her finger at me. "But no. Instead, you go on and on about how great the beach is." She jerked the screen door open. "Thanks a hell-of-a-lot." From inside the house, she yelled, "You never wanted me to be happy, did you?"

  Momma was unhappy. Thus, it had to be my fault. According to her, I’d been the source of all her misery since the day I drew breath. What was it about Henry that made her love him when she couldn’t love her own daughter? What secret did he know that I didn’t?

  For as long as I could remember, I’d told myself it didn’t matter. I neither wanted nor needed a mother’s love, especially now that I had Frank. But as I watched the dust kicked up by Henry’s car settle, I envied his ability to move my mother’s rock-hard heart. It made me mad at myself. So mad, I wanted to pull my brain out, scrape off every memory of her, and forget a person named Helen Elizabeth Cooper-Wooten ever existed.

  *****

  A cool shower had washed away the odor of potting soil and sweat, but had done little to relieve the tension in my neck. I leaned against the mahogany archway to the living room and watched Momma flip through the pages of the latest hairstyle magazine. Her legs were crossed, right over left. The bottom of her sandal popped against her right heel with every swing of her leg. I recognized the behavior. Like a cat lying in wait for a mouse, switching its tail back and forth, readying itself to pounce. Anticipating the kill. My fight or flight instinct warned me to return to the safety of the upstairs. Only once in the three plus years since my return from Havenwood had Momma ventured to the top floor.

  Like a blue jay protecting its nest, Frank flew at her, threatening to kick her out of the house if she dared set foot in the sanctuary he’d designed for me. The entire upstairs was my private refuge from the world’s turbulence and Momma’s storms.

  The temptation to flee swelled in me, but I swallowed hard, sucked in a deep breath, and steeled myself for battle. My cause was ambitious, but just. Self-serving, yet altruistic at the same time. If I could succeed in getting Momma to agree to divorce Frank, marry Henry, and move to Florida, then peace, joy, and happiness would reign supreme in my little world of Sugardale. Frank would be ecstatic. Henry delighted. And Momma would have a brand new crop of Picks to work her black magic on.

  The rich and powerful of Palm Beach would present more of a challenge to her than the citizens of Cascade County, Georgia. But I had complete faith in her ability to rise to the test. She’d zero in on the easy pickin’s first, and then work her way up the money chain. Yes
, if Henry was willing to take my mother, he could have her with my blessings and my sympathies. My only regret is that his Aunt Velma didn’t live in Buenos Aries, Sydney, or Amsterdam. Another country on a different continent would have been better, but I’d take whatever I could get.

  "Is Frank home, Momma?" I could use backup.

  "Do you see him?"

  "I thought he might have come in while I was in the shower."

  Helen peered over the top of her magazine. "Can’t you keep up with your own man? Must I do everything for you?"

  I crossed my arms, choked back a retort, and decided to change the subject. "Do you want fried chicken or catfish for supper?"

  "I’ve a taste for meatloaf. Fix a nice meatloaf, please."

  Meatloaf had never been a favorite of Momma’s. She wanted it now because she knew I didn’t like to cook oven meals on hot summer evenings.

  "I don’t want to heat up the house."

  She slammed the magazine against the edge of the coffee table. "Why the hell did you ask me what I wanted for supper if you didn’t intend to fix it?"

  "I didn’t ask you what you wanted for supper. I asked if you preferred chicken or catfish."

  Helen stood. "Must I beg in order to get a little meatloaf in my own damn house?"

  "I’ll fix a meatloaf in the morning, while it’s still cool."

  "I guess I’ll starve until then." She turned on the television, flipped through the channels.

  I clenched my teeth and waited for the rage to flow out of me. A victory tonight depended upon my ability to control the two-headed monster of mockery and sarcasm.

  "Some of us don’t have the luxury of retreating to an air conditioned bedroom like you do, Momma."

  "Is it my fault there’s only one air conditioner in this house? Frank controls the money. If you can’t get him to spring for a lousy window unit, you must not be tickling his fancy properly, girl."

  Henry or no Henry, such a nasty remark could not go unchallenged. "Why should Frank buy another unit? I’ll take yours when you move to Florida."