My Mrs. Brown (7 page)

Mrs. Brown made Alice a cup of the smoky tea that only yesterday Alice had said smelt like old rubber, but tonight it was ambrosia.

Heating up her supper, Mrs. Brown described the events of the day. She described how, as Rachel got sweeter and friendlier, Delphine Staunton had become haughtier.

“It's a stuck-up world, Mrs. Brown,” Alice opined.

Was it always? Mrs. Brown wondered.

Mrs. Brown recounted in detail the contentious conversation about Queen Elizabeth.

“Rachel is right,” Mrs. Brown said. “No one, especially the cynics, will know what is lost until she passes.”

Alice had her doubts. She had no sense of the Queen of England except she was the grandmother-in-law of Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge, whose wedding she had watched on television along with the rest of the world. She didn't admit this too often or too loudly, because she didn't think it too cool, but that royal wedding was amazing. And she sure wouldn't say no if it happened to her.

Alice changed her mind about not eating and joined Mrs. Brown in a cup of the pea soup and a piece of rye toast.

“Good stuff, Mrs. Brown.”

“You like the soup, dear?” Mrs. Brown asked.

“Oh, yeah, the soup's good. But I meant your stories about Mrs. Groton's today. It's like an episode of Ashville's local
Downton Abbey
or
Upstairs, Downstairs
, except no one is upstairs anymore, with Mrs. Groton gone and all,” Alice observed. “Unless you count that auction house lady, who doesn't sound like much of a lady, if you ask me.”

Alice returned to her place across the way to watch some television before bed. She promised Mrs. Brown she'd drop by again tomorrow night for more conversation.

After Alice left, Mrs. Brown fed Santo his kibble and put water in his bowl. She washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen. By 9:30, in her white nightgown, she was ready for bed.

She knelt at the side of her bed, and thanked her God for keeping her faithful that day. That was always her prayer; nothing felt as bad in life as when she was lacking faith. She prayed for Mrs. Fox, and for Alice, who was such an unexpected new friend; for Bonnie at the beauty salon; for the neighbors across the street who fought; she prayed for Rachel's safe return to New York City, and Delphine Staunton's as well.

Once in bed, she opened her bedside table drawer and brought out the framed family photographs she kept out of sight during the day.

The photographs always gave her pause. The room crowded with memories.

Santo jumped on the bed and laid his head on top of the Paul Gallico novel she'd brought from Mrs. Groton's.

Mrs. Brown took the book from underneath the cat and opened it. Some four hours later, she had read over a third of the novel.

Set in the 1950s,
Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris
is the story of a London charwoman who happens upon an exquisitely beautiful and colorful haute couture Christian Dior long dress hanging in the closet of one of the sirens she cleans for. After the dark horrors, the sanctions, and the rationings of World War II, the color and opulence of the silky gown is life changing to behold.

Although the dress that Mrs. Brown discovered in Mrs. Groton's closet was the complete opposite of the frilly, confectionery dress Mrs. 'Arris encounters, she identified with the character's longing for something transforming.

The dress that would change Mrs. Brown's life and motivate her soul was not chiffon froth and sparkling color. Hers was the dress of the subtle lady rather than the eternal siren. And it was an awakening, one that Mrs. Brown carried into her dreams that night and into morning the next day.

Of sweet dreams and schemes, Mrs. Brown promised herself that as soon as possible tomorrow she would come up with her plan for getting the dress.

A
T SIX THE NEXT
morning, her alarm went off. At the sound, Santo, asleep at the foot of her bed, jumped on her stomach. That woke her up for sure. Her two days in Mrs. Groton's wonderland were over. It was time to return to work, back of the house, as they say in showbiz, at Bonnie's Beauty Salon.

Santo led the way into the kitchen. Mrs. Brown filled her electric kettle with tap water for her tea, extra-strong this morning. She then returned to her bedroom and made her bed, put the treasured photographs back in their drawer, and with them went the cherished copy of Mrs. Groton's novel about the London charwoman. Despite not having had the long night's sleep she was typically accustomed to, Mrs. Brown was galvanized by a sense of purpose she hadn't felt in years.

She bathed quickly and, never fussing over what to wear, dressed in her standard mufti, gray pants and a brown sweater.

A piece of toast with a dab of butter and a spoonful of the orange marmalade she'd made before Christmas last year—her mother's recipe that mixed Seville and blood oranges—and she was out her door at 7:30, some thirty minutes later than usual. She had the key to the beauty parlor, and it was her job to get in first, open the place, make the coffee, and tidy up before the first beautician and customer arrived at eight.

It was just a twenty-minute walk to work, so Mrs. Brown had sold her car several years ago. Alice had the keys to Mrs. Fox's car if she needed to get anywhere, as Alice also had access to her grandmother's computer, not to mention her own laptop, if Mrs. Brown ever wanted to look something up, like a recipe, or buy something online, which she rarely did. She preferred shopping locally, not as an eco trend but because it was her custom.

As she went briskly toward Andover Street, the cold Ashville morning air was as bracing as it was familiar. Mrs. Brown was glad for the walk. It always did her good, except when there was heavy snow and ice and she had to be especially careful not to fall. She couldn't afford to lose work because of an injury.

Walking across Jefferson Street now and onto Main Street, she saw Bonnie's sandwiched between the Village Cheese Shop and the barbershop owned by Ashville's biggest gossip, Solomon Aquilino. Her mind was focused on the events of yesterday at Mrs. Groton's and keeping her promise to herself to figure out a plan for getting her dress. But how? When she got home tonight after work she would make a budget, somehow, some way, create a plan to earn and save enough money to buy that dress.

At Bonnie's, Mrs. Brown found that the white Cape Cod–style door to the beauty parlor was unlocked. Bonnie came in early to work when she couldn't sleep well (and could be nasty and ornery all day as a result).

Stepping inside this salon box of feminine self-preservation, where walls and furnishings were either white or turquoise, Mrs. Brown heard an unusual sound, moaning, almost a deep wailing. She cautiously inched inside and surveyed the space just in case there had been a break-in, not that there was a lot of crime in Ashville, but there were those unfortunate moments. Everything appeared in order: a salon with six workstations—sinks, parlor chairs, counters, and cupboards flanking the walls.

The puzzling sound Mrs. Brown heard was coming from Bonnie's office. She was worried. Maybe Bonnie Provost was a bit much at times, too self-involved, too dramatic, too New Age, but Mrs. Brown always wished her well; she was decent enough, most of the time. It would be awful if anything bad had happened to her.

You probably will not be surprised to know that Bonnie had great hair, as well as good skin—she'd stopped sunbathing in her early twenties, a dermatological godsend. Because of her sable-colored hair, glowing complexion, distinctive nose, excellent manicure, and feminine curves, she fancied herself a younger Barbra Streisand.

At the sound of another wail, Mrs. Brown rushed to Bonnie's office in the back of the salon, praying she wasn't having a heart attack or some other deadly convulsive disorder.

Mr. Brown had had a heart attack, and the memory of it flashed across her mind. Not for the first time, he'd come home drunk from the bar over on Washington Street. Mrs. Brown had struggled to get him into bed. She'd finally succeeded and, as she did on these nights, was sleeping on the sofa in the front room when she heard yelping and groaning from the bedroom.

She rushed to Mr. Brown and tried to help.

Seconds before the paramedics arrived, the ambulance waking up not just the neighbors but practically everyone on their side of town, her husband died in her embrace. In his eyes was a look of profound apology—and abject terror.

But Mrs. Brown stopped before she reached Bonnie's office. She remembered something—she couldn't forget this either—something she'd never told another soul.

One summer morning a few years ago, arriving at the salon just after seven, Mrs. Brown had heard rumbling from Bonnie's office. Concerned, she'd rushed to her employer's aid that morning, too. She had discovered Bonnie akimbo upon her desk being made love to—the only polite term for the corpulent mashing that she saw—by Solomon Aquilino, owner of the barbershop next door.

Solomon, hairier than a goat, and Bonnie were married at the time, except not to each other.

Mrs. Brown might have been provincial, but she wasn't all that easy to shock. Seeing Bonnie and Solomon going at it had rattled her but did not shock her—well, so much corpulence in such fast motion was disturbing. It was an awful lot of flesh so early in the morning for her—for anyone—to see.

Bonnie had made her promise she would never say a word, and Mrs. Brown never did, not even telling Mrs. Fox when she asked that night how her day had gone. Her discretion endeared her to her boss, although Bonnie never made this apparent in the salon when the beauticians were around. Too bad, it would have helped Mrs. Brown. The beauticians were often dismissive and belittling.

“AAAAaaaaahhhhhmmmmm . . .”

Now, though, fearing the worst, Mrs. Brown rushed into Bonnie's office ready to grab the phone and call for an ambulance.

Bonnie, fully clothed in blue jeans, a blue and white striped, long-sleeve T-shirt, her platform pink espadrilles by her side, was seated on the floor in the lotus yoga position facing the full-length mirror on her office wall, and as she explained when she saw Mrs. Brown, she was chanting.

She waved her finely manicured right hand, her nails painted a deep black-red, and mouthed the words “skim latte doppio,” her beverage of choice, which Mrs. Brown had learned how to make on the fancy espresso and cappuccino machine in the salon's kitchen. Besides cleaning and sweeping, her job included mending Bonnie's clothes and taking and making beverage orders for the staff and clientele. Sometimes, if the salon was very busy, she was given the okay to outsource the drinks order at the Village Cheese Shop next door, but her lattes, so carefully prepared, were better.

“My niece,” Bonnie explained when Mrs. Brown returned with her coffee, “taught me last night how to chant for money—well, actually not money but for her guru's good grace and high, very high connections with the Source, which translates into abundance, which translates into money—and so that's what I was doing. I'm broke, well, like, I could be broke soon like every other motherfucker in this country. So I'm chanting. How are you?” Bonnie asked, ripping the corner of a packet of sugar substitute and pouring it into her latte.

Mrs. Brown's time at the beauty parlor rarely required that she divulge anything personal. No one inquired about her well-being, and that was okay; privacy is its own luxury. But today she offered some intimate detail of her own.

“Me, too. I am thinking about ways to find more money.”

“Sssh, quiet,” Bonnie said, her index finger to her lips. “My niece says to shore up our money potential we shouldn't talk about it with anyone. Never break the spell when you're incubating. I hope we already haven't said too much!”

The beauticians soon arrived, and the day was off full gallop, beginning with the first client, the wife of the mayor of Ashville, and she was dissatisfied with her color, again.

Mrs. Brown found the turquoise work jacket that she was required to wear (the beauticians could dress as they liked, which Mrs. Brown didn't mind because their choices in what they wore kept things interesting.) She grabbed her broom. Bonnie had given her a new one for Christmas along with a card that informed her that a donation in her name had been made to advance the efforts of the Dalai Lama. Mrs. Brown got to work, a full and busy day, a worker among workers, always a source of pride, except Mrs. Brown worked harder than anyone else at Bonnie's salon, so added to her pride was a fatigue she tried never to admit to.