The Real Soccer Moms of Beaver County (4 page)

P
et Taxidermy
, WTF?

I push open the door to the beauty shop next to the funeral home, mortuary, my childhood home…just sounds so fucked up saying it. I need to make an appointment to get my highlights touched up and since this is the only place in town, I don’t have much choice. Dollywood, only miles away is known for all their hair salons and cutting edge techniques, but that would be like going into the enemies den. Once a high school rival town, always a high school rival town and the hometown of Douchey Doug.

I still hadn’t seen my ex-boyfriend, but I knew he was around. The guy never left Beaver Falls, and I knew that with all of the emails and texts he sent once I left.

The salon surprises my eyes as soon I step inside with its blaring music, bright chrome trimmings, and the vibrant contrast between hot pink and black covering every single surface.

“Hello,” I call out.

“Be with you in a second.” A voice comes out from an open door that leads back into a storeroom.

The voice is a deep and rough one. I wouldn’t expect anything less than an old frumpy woman with a bad smoker cough doing hair in Beaver Falls. This place would never attract a young and enthusiastic hair stylist since most of the customers are a set, wet, and curl and the other ones are customers at my dad’s morgue.

Frannie use to spend hours in the basement of the morgue making sure the deceased’s hair was perfect and exactly how their family requested. Frannie was the first person to introduce me to fashion and style. It only took me assisting her in the morgue to fuel my thirst for a higher fashion.

What a warped world I was brought up in? Hell, I’m lucky I’m not the next Miss Maggot in town. Single, smelly, and slimy.

I pluck a current edition of Vogue from the table in the waiting area. I’ll give it to this old bag; she does have some style from the bling in her salon, color combinations, and reading material.

“How may I help you?” A deep voice asks.

When I look up, I have to blink a dozen times before standing up to my feet. My hands clutch my chest and my words stick in my throat.

“Blanche.”

“Quincy.”

His face twists into a disgusting look and then he raises his hand high above his head. “Honey, ain’t nobody called me that damn name in years. I’m Queenie now to everyone.”

“Queenie,” I smile feeling each sound roll of my tongue.

“That’s me, Blanche.”

Excitement takes over as I bounce into his open arms. He still smells like a rose garden drenched in his floral perfume. I force myself to step back and take all of him in. His hair is bleach blond on the top, skin covered in tattoos, ears gauged and piercings everywhere.

“This one is for you.” He pulls up his short black sleeve to expose his bicep.

“A pork chop?” I tilt my head, wrinkle my nose, and try to connect the dots. On the center of the pork chop is our short quote. “Just wild and free some day.”

“Oh my God, our saying. We both promised to get it tattooed on our body one day.” Tears spring to my eyes and then I slowly raise the side of my t-shirt to show him the same script on my ribs.

“Just don’t tell my momma. She’d beat my ass and then disown me.” I giggle with thought of still being scared of my own mother. “But why the pork chop?”

“Now that part,” Queenie crosses one arm over his chest and strums his lips with the other one.

“Queenie.” His new name just rolls off my tongue as naturally as Quincy used to.

“I was drunk and wanted to get our saying, and when I thought about you I thought about pork chops.”

“The fuck?” I shove one of his shoulders.

“We ate pork chops that night.”

“What night?”

“D day.”

“We did?”

“Yes, how can you
not
remember that, Blanche?”

“How in the hell
do
you remember that?” I ask.

“You lost your virginity that night.”

“Here we go. Are we still going to fight over this after all these years?” I toss my hand up on my flexed hip.

“Until you admit that I stole your V card.”

“You had…” I glance around the salon to ensure no one was around.

“My dick was fully in you for one pump, then it shriveled up like great grandmother’s ovaries.”

“Exactly, you didn’t take my virginity.”

“So did. My dick was the first to enter your beaver canal.”

“Yes, and then for months you made me doubt everything about myself from my perfect complexion to the agile abilities of my lady bits, until Douchey Doug came along.” My eyeballs nearly spring from their socket.

We both erupt in a fit of laughter. Queenie wraps an arm around me and pulls me into his side. Over the years, he’s become taller than me, so to be cradled into his side feels safe. Queenie may be gayer than the rainbow, so his manly build makes everything about him awkward, but leave it to Queenie to set the flair with his wild hair and pink clothing.

“Epic. I mean what a totally epic way to be shot out of the closet.”

“Uh?” I look up to him.

“Trying to stick my ding-dong in your ho-ho and going instantly limp.”

“Shut it, Queenie.” I slap his chest hard feeling my cheeks flush in embarrassment. I cried for days until I realized it was nothing against me, but just the way Quincy ticked or I mean Queenie now. Queenie suits him much better.

“Hey at least we became best friends after the horrific sausage taco disaster.”

“That we did.”

Queenie leans back on his hair station and crosses both arms over his broad chest. Happiness and freedom radiates off each of his features. So different than when we were in high school.

“So, what brings you in, Momma?” He asks with a smirk.

“Not a one night stand.” I joke, finger combing my dull long hair and checking it out in the mirror in front of me. “I need my highlights touched up.”

“Oh honey, you need a lot more than that.” A large smile spreads across his face. His Marilyn Monroe piercing shimmers under the salon lights.

“Then get your ass to work.” I kick at his shin, but he’s fast enough to dodge it.

“Do you trust me?” He asks.

“About as far as I can throw your glittery ass.”

“Good.” He pretend claws at me with both of his hands. “Let me go grab some color.”

He vanishes back into the stock room, not even asking me what color or any other important details that most stylists take careful time on.

“Nothing too crazy, Queenie, my mom may stroke out and send me back to L.A.”

“Got it, Momma, I do her hair every other week. I know how damn boring the woman is.”

I whirl around in the chair like I use to when I was Sadie’s age. Mom always yelled at me to sit still, but when she and Frannie weren’t looking, I’d take a quick spin. I throw my arms up in the air and spin around as fast as I can, closing my eyes and feeling a tiny sliver of freedom.

“Just how damn old are you?”

Both of my feet plant on the ground. and my head wobbles back and forth on my shoulders until Queenie comes into focus. He tosses on his bling outlined apron and perches his glasses low on his nose. I’d never tell him that he looks identical to his father, but he does.

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Just shut up and trust me.” The crinkle of tinfoil and smell of hair color fills the salon as Queenie begins painting my hair.

The excitement of coming face-to-face with Queenie back in our hometown fades and I begin to wonder. “Why are you here, Queenie? I thought you were living the high life in Miami.”

His movement freezes behind me. I dare to peek up in the mirror to see what he’s doing; sadness bathes all of his features.

“You really didn’t keep up on shit, did you?”

I shrug and the guilt of not only being a shitty daughter and sister, but now a friend runs fiercely through me. Queenie and I stayed in touch for the first year after I left for L.A., but then we both quit emailing, texting, and calling.

“Miami was amazing and I can’t tell you how much my soul felt at home there,” he pauses, choking on his next words. “Matt died over seas in Afghanistan a year and a half ago.”

An audible gasp escapes me when I turn around in the chair to face him. “I’m so sorry, Queenie.”

He shrugs and grows even sadder. “I’m coming to terms with it. On a daily basis, I have to force myself to remember he died doing what he loved.”

“I feel like an ass.”

“You should.” Queenie cracks a smile. “Remember my parents moved from Beaver Falls when Matt graduated.”

“Duh, you lived out in the cottage house where Brady and Luna live now.”

“They couldn’t stand the embarrassment of having a little gay boy.”

“Well, you were a junior in high school and not so little.” I try to lighten the subject. His parents were horrible to him once he came out and grew comfortable in his own skin.

“Matt had a little girl not too long after graduating, his wife left him and Annie…long story short, when he died I was contacted by his attorney letting me know that I was now Annie’s legal custodian.”

“Holy shit!” I cover my mouth and mumble between my fingers. “You’re a dad?”

“Um hell to the no, I’m the best mom, aunt, Queenie combo known to God’s green earth.” He spins me around in the chair and goes about painting his masterpiece on my hair.

“You know how Matt was. He loved the Marines and working hard. Hell, I think he had his damn future planned out at the ripe old age of three. Anyway, purchased a house here in Beaver Falls before his last deployment and set everything up.”

“Who had the little girl when he was deployed?”

“His in-laws. They’re great people, but are older than dirt with too many health problems to raise a little girl.”

“Wow. I mean, fucking holy balls, wow.”

“Yep, so I’m here back in Beaver Falls trying to color this place up with my own certain spice.”

I crack a smile at my friend who since owning who he is…doesn’t give a shit what people think of him. I can’t believe we’ve been separated for over ten years.

“I’m sorry, Queenie. I’m so sorry for not staying in touch. I have so many people to apologize to.”

“It’s a two way road, Momma, no need to apologize. I dropped my end keeping in touch.” Queenie parts the front of my hair with a purple comb. “Glass of wine? You’ll be here a while.”

“No.”

“No?” He freezes. “How in the hell don’t you need a drink after being back in Beaver Falls? I had an IV of Crown Royal for the first month.”

“I’m fine.” I look down studying the colorful swirls and polka dots covering my cape.

“You’re knocked up, aren’t you?”

My head flies up and guilt coats my face. I try to refuse the accusation, but can’t bring myself to lie to him. The tears fall and my story begins from the day I left Beaver Falls. Queenie nods and even calls Luis a rat bastard a few times during my story. Just getting it off my chest makes me lighter and feel like I’m not the only one carrying the stress of the world on my shoulders.

I keep an eye on the Flamingo clock on the wall knowing I have to be at the school to pick up my girl by three-thirty. Queenie finishes one last curl.

“Damn, your hair is fucking banging, Momma.”

He hasn’t let me even take the tiniest of peeks in the mirror while doing my hair. Hell, for all I know it could be neon orange from root to tips.

“Close your eyes,” Queenie squeals. It reminds me of the times he’d do my hair for all of the school dances back in the day.

He whirls me around and I feel my little peanut whirl with him, making feel pukey.

“Open your eyes.” Queenie fluffs hair over both of my shoulders.

When I open my eyes, I’m speechless. My hair is still the rich chestnut at the roots, but near the ends fades into several shades of blonde and caramel.

“Holy shit, Queenie.” The words are stuck in my throat. I haven’t ever had hair like this, even in L.A. when in the hottest stylist’s chair. No matter what he was up to, Luis always had to have a picture perfect wife.

“You don’t like it?” He pats the top of my shoulder.

“This is the best hair ever.” I stand up and jump into his arms not worrying about the hairy, color-covered cape I’m wearing. “My friend, you can do hair like a fucking ninja.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious.” I pull back from him. “You may not have been able to sink your sausage in my sinkhole successfully, but my love, you can do hair.”

The salon phone rings interrupting our gushy moment.

“Okay, I’ll tell her. Yep. Love you, too, Momma Morningwood.”

“My mom?” I ask taking the cape off and brushing away some of the hair that landed between my boobies.

“Yep, you’re suppose to get your ass over there.”

“Ugh, I know she means well, but I can’t handle full force momma bear right now.”

“She just loves you.”

His comment makes my heart sink because I know Queenie has always struggled with how his parents have treated him.

Queenie makes quick working of sweeping up and taking off his apron. “I’ll walk you over. I have hair to do there.”

“You do the morgue hair, too?”

“Well, of course, it’s tradition when you’re the hair stylist in Beaver Falls.”

We hook arms and walk the few feet over to Beloved Beaverton Burials. It was my playground growing up, chasing Brady through the chapel, dad’s office, around the caskets, and up and down the stairs where the bodies were embalmed.

When Queenie pushes open the door to the main entrance, I’m hit with the familiar, clean smell of the home. The burgundy plush carpet adorning every corner, along with the maple wood pews, desks, and elaborate trim welcome everyone to the funeral home.

“Blanche.” My mom’s voice hollers out.

“Off to work, love.” Queenie places a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “See you at the soccer field tonight, MEOW.”

I shake my head at his crazy antics. “I need to pay you.”

Queenie takes a moment to turn around and face me. “You’ve already paid me, Momma. Welcome home.”

I watch him make quick work of the stairs that lead down to the basement where all the bodies are prepared, and then turn around taking everything in. It’s unbelievable how nothing has changed over the years and years of service. My father comes from a long line of funeral home owners and from what I’ve heard they’re all low spoken, friendly, and inviting. You’d have to be in this business for too many years.