Chapter 11
THE DRAWING UP OF IT ALL
My daddy says to me, he says, ‘You ain’t gonna be workin there no more no how.’ An I says to him, I says, ‘You ain’t gonna tell me what’s what, you ain’t nuthin but a pothead drunk.’ I called him that, girl. Do you believe I actually called him a pothead drunk?”
“No way, what he do?”
“He raises up his hand like he’s gonna hit on me an I says to him, I says, ‘You hit on me an I’ll tell Uncle Floyd an he’s gonna kick your ass again.’ So he puts his hand down an cusses at me an walks out the front door,” she said with a giggle.
On Sunday I was upside down in Petunia Wickle’s washbasin again, trying in vain to peek up the open space of her shirt bottom. I really didn’t need another haircut, but Mr. Paul’s telling of my grandmother and the rifle-shot slap left me yearning for more details, more stories. I felt that if I could gather up all that was known about her, I could somehow draw on her strength and wisdom and fearlessness. The opportunity to view Petunia’s breasts was a collateral benefit. She leaned over to reach for the conditioner and the bottom of her midriff shirt bent open; a flash of nipple jolted my stomach.
“My momma ain’t said nuthin,” Levona said. “She don’t care what I do. All she said was she ain’t comin in here no more, even with the discount.”
“I think it’s kinda cool, knowin one a them,” Petunia said. “Like it’s gonna put us on the map or somethin. In the beauty trade it ain’t a bad thing, you know. I may get one a them when I get my own place.” The front door chimed open and Petunia said, “Speakin a queer boys, look what jus come in.”
“Stop talkin smack, girl; you don’t know shit bout what went on.”
“Hissy seen him,” she said with certainty.
I picked my head up and could see straight through to the waiting room. Tilroy Budget was fidgeting at the front with his art supply case. Mr. Paul came out from the back and smiled. “Hello, Tilroy. How’s the future famous artist of Medgar, Kentucky, doing?”
“Good, I guess.” He seemed nervous, looked behind him, out the window, and back at us. Petunia pulled my head back into the basin.
“Well, that’s just dandy,” Mr. Paul replied.
“Well, that’s jus dandy,” Petunia mimicked. She puffed her cheeks and pushed out her tongue in faux vomit.
“Got somethin I drew I wanna show you.”
“Let’s see, then. I thought that rock poster you made was exceedingly good.”
Petunia was working conditioner into my hair, and the feel of her fingers on my scalp made it hard to concentrate on the conversation at the front. I heard the metal case click open and Mr. Paul take a breath. “My lands,” he said. “Son, I just don’t know what to say. I just don’t know what to say.”
“You can hang it up, you know.”
“Not only will I hang it up, Tilroy. I am going to have it framed. This is one of the nicest presents I believe I have ever received.”
“It was jus cause, you know, you got me this art set an stuff. I thought it would be cool to do you a picture a your place. Somethin you could hang up somewheres.”
“What is that loser kissin Mr. Paul’s ass for?” Petunia hissed. “I swear I’m right about him, girl. Hissy says she seen him an that skinny boy.”
“Then you can hire Tilroy for your place,” Levona shot back and chortled at her clever retort.
“Not a chance. My fag’s gonna be one a them French fags that all the girls fall in love with an can cut hair like nobody’s bidness.”
She washed the conditioner out of my hair and tapped the back of my head. “Go on an sit up sos I can dry you.” They were the first words she had spoken to me since I had arrived. I felt the awkwardness between us evaporate, her play at conversation giving me confidence.
“He drew a picture of this place for Mr. Paul,” I ventured, smug on my inside knowledge.
“What are you talkin bout?”
“Tilroy, he’s really good at drawing stuff. I saw the picture he drew of this place. It looks amazing.”
Petunia got excited now. She came to the front and positioned herself between my legs and leaned forward with her hands on both my arms. I was shot through with lightning. I couldn’t decide to where to focus: her breasts or her bright red lips.
“Am I in it?” she asked. “I ain’t never had no one draw me up before.” I opened my mouth to speak but really didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to change the mood. “He dint do me fat, did he?” she asked.
“Uh…”
“What? Am I in it or not?”
“Umm…”
“Stop lookin at my tits an answer me!”
“I think it’s only of the shop and Mr. Paul,” I finally said.
“What you mean you ‘think’—you seen it or ain’t you?”
“No, I’ve definitely seen it,” I said. The last thing I wanted Petunia thinking me was a liar.
“Then am I in it or ain’t I?”
“You’re not, sorry.” I could feel the air slipping out of our balloon end; the temperature around us dropped several degrees. She took her hands away from my arms as if I had been suddenly poxed. A towel hit my head as she marched into the back room. “Dry his ass, Levona.”
“Is your daddy still in town?” Mr. Paul asked.
“Uhh, yeah. He’s leaving today.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met him.”
I didn’t answer and focused instead on three framed photographs hung next to his faded beautician’s license. The first was Paul as a young man standing crisp with two rows of army singers, mouths open in frozen harmony. The second was him singing to a microphone with DECCA emblazoned on the capsule. In the third, he was standing in front of a wide table arrayed with knobs and meters and wires in and out. He was flanked by a man and a woman smiling broadly.
“What are those pictures of?” I asked to shift the discussion.
“Oh, they’re from my singing days. The one on the bottom is me, Patsy Cline, and Owen Bradley.” He stood straight up as he said it, and a rush of memory from those days brought a smile to his face and palpable wist to the moment.
“Who are they?”
“Patsy Cline was one of the greatest singers who ever lived. Owen Bradley was her producer. I sang for her a little back then. Took me under her wing, she did. One of the nicest ladies you could ever meet. You never woulda known what a big star she was. Took me around Nashville to auditions and such.”
“Did you ever make a record?”
His lips rolled into his mouth and he shook his head. “I was getting close. Patsy even got her friend Harlan Howard to write a song for me, but then my daddy got real sick and needed care. My brothers were out west somewhere, and with my momma dead, there wasn’t anyone to do for him. Patsy said to call her as soon as I got back to Nashville, but then she died in a plane crash later that year. Nineteen sixty-three it was. So I stayed for my daddy until he died; then I opened up this place with Miss Janey.”
“Do you still sing?”
“In the church choir and such.” He stopped cutting and took in a deep breath and began with a clear voice that filled up the old salon like it was Carnegie Hall.
This old mountain lives inside me
Always has and always will.
The hollows and the lonesome hard rock
Beating in my body still.
Even Petunia and Levona stopped gossiping in the back and turned to listen.
And though I’m far away from home now
Riding out a city chill
That old mountain still abides me
Always has and always will.