I roll my eyes at her lack of interest and at the assumption I’m now made of money. When she caught wind of the inheritance, she insisted she deserved at least half of it for all the sacrifices she’d made while raising me alone.
What I remember of her raising me is nights alone with Alphagetti when I wasn’t old enough to use the stove unattended, her sneaking out of the apartment after tucking me in to head to the bar, holes in my boots because she spent the money on collagen injections and ephedrine pills or whatever other diet craze was in fashion.
When she demanded half the inheritance, I almost caved, but Justine talked me off that ledge. Mom and I came to verbal blows—her, airing all the ways she could’ve had a better life had she not been burdened with a child; me, venting about all the ways my life could’ve been better had I not been saddled with her as a mother. I didn’t hear from her for almost three months after that. I assumed the label of orphan.
But then she called. She apologized. She said she had been wrong. I’d never heard her use those words before, and I assumed it was the end of the world. I peeked out the window for hailing fire and brimstone.
In the end, I accepted her apology because, well, she’s all I have, and she wasn’t all bad. She certainly never scolded me like most children’s parents did. There were times when we’d curl up on the couch with a bowl of homemade popcorn and a movie I was far too young to watch, she’d let me play with her makeup whenever I wanted, and once in a rare while she would surprise me with a shopping spree to the mall for new clothes. I never had a curfew, or really any rules at all. Most kids might say I had it made. But I would rather have had a mother who didn’t have a reputation as the town harlot.
Since her apology, things have been marginally better between us.
“No problem, Dot. Have fun!” Ann Margaret Thompson, a kind, tolerant lady in her late fifties with silver hair and disproportionately wide hips, pauses mid snip on a teenage boy to grin at me. “Good to see you back, Scarlet.”
I smile. “Good to be back.” I’m guessing she was the driving force behind my mother’s apology. The woman is basically a saint. After the scandal with the mayor, when Dottie Reed lost her job at the upscale salon in town—she was bad for business, according to the owner—Ann Margaret offered her a job here. I’ll never understand why, but I’ll be forever thankful.
“I hear you’re gonna be teaching at the elementary school!”
“I am! It was all rather unexpected.”
“The best things happen when you least expect them.” She casts me a wink as her foot pumps the pedal on the chair to raise it. She wordlessly puts her hand on the back of the boy’s head, tilting it forward so she can shave his nape with clippers.
“Ready, Mom?”
“I just need a minute to powder my nose.” Mom opens a deep drawer at her station and pulls out an enormous apple-green bag and heads for the back, her heels clicking against the mocha tile floor. She might be the only woman in the state who is willing to cut hair in stilettos all day just to make sure her legs look good.
I sigh, knowing “a minute” will be more like ten.
I study the small hair salon while I wait. Elite Cuts hasn’t changed at all since Mom started working here eighteen years ago. The same boring beige paint coats the walls, the same palm-tree-shaped coatrack sits in the corner, the same hair-model portraits line the walls—of hairstyles from the eighties.
Even the community bulletin board still hangs on the wall, cluttered with flyers and handwritten ads for babysitters and special events.
Annual Own a Hunky Hero for a Night.
“You’re kidding me. They still do this?” I cringe at the fluorescent-orange page as I scan the details about the auction in December. It’s for a children’s charity, to buy them presents for Christmas. Women can bid for a night out with one of the county’s emergency workers.
I remember seeing the flyers around town when I was younger and thinking how cheesy and inappropriate it was, even back then. Plus, it’s so not PC. It specifically says a woman can bid on a man. What if a man wants to bid on a man? Is that against the rules? Has anyone ever tried it? And what if there’s a female firefighter or police officer or paramedic?
Though, knowing how behind the times Polson Falls is, there likely aren’t any.
In a smaller headline, there’s also mention that next year’s firefighter calendars will be available for purchase. I cringe. A Polson Hills firefighter calendar? Are you kidding me?