But to Clara it felt like an infinite distance, one that also stretched way back in time, as if she was peering out at something in the long-ago past.
Clara looked around the living room and recognized some of the furniture that had followed Kim here from her old place near Belle Heights Bay, a couple of recliners, an old love seat with curvy legs that ended in lion’s feet, a big coffee table with a glass top, and lots of books.
“Let’s work in the bathroom; I need the sink,” Kim said. “I’m really glad you’re here, Clara. You and that face of yours.” They went to the bathroom. “You mind washing up?”
“You know I don’t have to wash any makeup off.”
“I like to work on a clean slate.”
Clara used the soap in the soap dish—it was the same kind Evil Lynn used, lavender, sticky sweet. When Clara was finished, Kim motioned for her to sit on top of the closed toilet seat, which had a fuzzy blue cover that matched the blue towels.
“Okay, now for the ‘before’ pictures. This’ll help me see what I’ve done right and any stuff that’s not right. You don’t have to smile if you don’t want to.” Kim checked the photos and said, “Want to see?”
Clara shook her head.
Kim rummaged through a tote bag with several bottles, tubes, pencils, brushes, powders, and pastes before opening a small jar. “This stuff ate up nearly all my babysitting money,” she said, smearing some creamy goo on Clara’s face. “Last weekend I babysat this kid Mark, who lives down on the third floor. Do you know he asked me for cotton balls before he went to bed? And I gave him some. I mean, cotton balls, what’s the big deal? When his mother got home, she said, you didn’t give him cotton balls, did you, and I said, well, yeah, and she freaked. She said, I told you not to—Mark eats cotton balls! I said, you never told me, I would’ve remembered something weird like that, and she said, it’s not weird and I did tell you. I mean, if my kid did that, I’d put it on a sign on his bedroom door—Don’t Give This Kid Cotton Balls. Turns out Mark hadn’t eaten any, he just had them clumped in his fist, but the mom was so mad she didn’t want to pay me. And I’d been there six hours! Luckily, the dad slipped me some money.” Kim dusted Clara’s face with something that felt like snow without the cold. “So, let me tell you about yourself.”
“There’s nothing to say, Kim.”
“No, I mean, your character, the one I’m inventing for you. Makeup is all about make up, get it? The outside is supposed to show the inside.”
Kim had it so exactly wrong. The outside was meant to protect and hide and deny the very existence of the inside, as she’d tried to explain to Mr. Slocum, whose only response had been to send her to the school psychologist.
“Let’s see. You’re an old lady. Everything has passed you by. Friendship and love and success and happiness. Your whole life you waited for a bus, but it didn’t stop for you. Now give me a big smile.”
And what kind of smile would there be after a life with no friendship or love or success or happiness? She smiled hesitantly.
“Bigger. Eyebrows way up. That’s it. The purpose of a smile is to show where your eye wrinkles will be. I won’t do every one, or you’d look like a road map.” Kim filled in half a dozen feathery lines radiating out from the corners of the eyes. “Now make a mad face. Good! That way I can see your forehead wrinkles.” She used a gray-brown pencil, heavy in the middle of the forehead and fading at the ends. She colored in a few circles on the temples—these were age spots. Then she added dark smoky powder on the sides of the nose and the hollows of the eye sockets. “Your skin is incredible; it shows everything.” When Kim reached Clara’s neck, Clara tensed.
“It tickles,” she said.
“I’ll do it fast. I have to do all your exposed skin. I could put a scarf on you, but that would be cheating. If you were really onstage, I’d do your hands, too, lots of showy veins and more age spots.”
Clara clenched her teeth. It was really ticklish. “How do you even know how to do this?”
“YouTube. There are tons of tutorials; I’ve seen every one. Couple of years ago, I saw a play where a man had this weird skin condition that turned him into a lizard. I’ve been fascinated by stage makeup ever since.” Finally, Kim finished her neck. “Now, it’s time for your hair. An old lady like you can’t have light-brown hair.”
“You never said anything about dyeing my hair!” This was something Clara would never do. She trimmed her own hair with a few snips every six months or so, keeping her bangs just long enough so you couldn’t see her eyes.
“Don’t worry; this stuff will wash right out.” Kim spread some thick paste on an old toothbrush. “It looks yellow out of the tube, but winds up looking gray in your hair.” She pushed Clara’s hair back off her forehead, flattening it, so she could get at the roots and work her way to the ends. It dried almost instantly and felt like cement.