Vanity Insanity (33 page)

Elsie now accompanied Octavia to every appointment. Truman said that she was a good friend of Octavia’s from the church who, along with Truman, had recognized a change in the matriarch. Octavia was more agitated and absentminded, and so Elsie was her guardian to most of the appointments now. Octavia either ignored Elsie or else was not aware that she did not leave Vanity Insanity when I did her hair. I walked Octavia slowly to my station as she took in all of the obnoxious Christmas decorations covering nearly every inch of the salon.

Since Jenae’s first bizarre and atypical Christmas adornment, the tradition of decorating the salon took on a life of its own. Staff and regular customers asked Jenae what day they should mark on their calendar to come help turn Vanity Insanity into the cheeriest and tackiest holiday venue like no other. The decorating kickoff took place the Saturday after Thanksgiving immediately following the last appointment of the day. Those who wanted to attend the party were to bring drinks and a holiday decoration they were planning on throwing out to the evolving tradition. Bad taste was the key. Jenae ordered everyone around until the last glitter-elf statue was perfectly placed, all of the fake snow laid out, and the last glass of wine drunk.

“What is that?” Octavia stopped in front of the plastic Elvis Presley, as tall as she was, wearing a Santa outfit. Santa Elvis had been with Vanity Insanity for six Christmases. He wore dark glasses and held a sack of toys in one hand and a microphone in the other. The slant of one raised lip gave the appearance of someone who was just about to throw up.

“That’s the new receptionist. I don’t think he’s going to work out.” I walked Octavia to my chair and helped her sit down.

She looked at me with an expression of pure perplexity. She sat down and tilted her head. She mumbled, “Just as well. He ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog anyway.”

Glimpses of Octavia made me smile. Less and less of those moments had been occurring over the last six months. The woman who had taken over most of Octavia’s waking moments was grumpy and confused. The woman in Octavia’s clothes, holding Octavia’s phone, was agitated by the bright lights
and the noise in the salon. And while this woman showed up every Friday for Octavia’s appointment, this imposter never talked about the growth of Omaha or cussed out the big-city lugs that were slowing things down.

“These walls are ugly,” Octavia mumbled as I put the apron on her.

“I won’t argue with you on that one.”

“How long have you been here? I remember another place.”

“Eleven years, Octavia of the Old Market, of which you are part owner, lady.”

“Yes, yes…” Octavia shook her head and looked down at the phone in her trembling hand.

Octavia’s name remained on lists of boards around the city, banks, the Henry Doorly Zoo, and schools, but she no longer attended meetings. Elsie took Octavia to daily Mass and “hung out” with her when Truman was unavailable.

“Do you still play with that one black kid? D.C. or something like that?”

I couldn’t hold in my laugh. “Octavia, I can’t believe you remember A.C. Yep, we still
play
together every once in a while.”

In 1994, A.C. had made several attempts to get back to Sudan to see Robin but was denied by his doctor each time since he was still vulnerable to all of the serious diseases in Africa at the time. It would be a month before Robin could come back to the States.

“The atheist, right?” Octavia was on a roll. “You know, I’ve never met an atheist I didn’t like. Some of them are the strongest believers—they just don’t know it. They’re just thinking. That’s all.”

After I shampooed her hair and walked her back to my chair, she said, “And don’t get me started on the priests that you read about in the paper.”

“OK.”

“Those priests are not the Church. They are bad people in the Church. They aren’t the Catholic Church.” Her voice was louder with each word.

“I’ll make a note of it.” I combed her hair as she relaxed again. She remained quiet for a few minutes.

“I saw in the paper that…What’s the name of the place? A racetrack?”

“Ak-Sar-Ben Racetrack?”

“Yes, yes. Ak-Sar-Ben. They shut the place down. Just like that.”

“Yeah, I guess attendance to the races had been declining for years. I hear they’re going to start putting in some commercial and residential developments instead.”

“We were just there last week,” Octavia told me. “David and I took the boys. They like to look at the horses after the races. Always make a big day of it.”

I knew that Octavia hadn’t been to the races in years. I hesitated and then asked, “Win any races?”

“Oh, I’m not much of a gambler.” She stopped talking for a while. She seemed agitated, so I let her rest. But suddenly she panicked and asked, “Where’s my purse? I need my purse!”

“Right here on my station, Octavia.”

“Where’s my phone?”

“In your hand.”

She looked down and started to chuckle. “I’ll be damned. Now what was I talking about?”

“What you’re getting me for Christmas.” I smiled.

“What I’m getting…Do you know where I put my purse?”

I helped Octavia up and gave her purse, which was sitting on my station, to her. We walked together to get her coat, and Elsie came over to help me put the coat over the fragile body between us. Octavia hooked her hand in the crook of my arm, and I escorted her past all of the staff, who looked up at us but said nothing. Octavia stopped at the Elvis Santa again and looked at him. “Pretty cluttered in here,” she muttered. “You really need to clean up. How long have you been here?”

“Eleven years. Twelve in a few months.”

“Well, you have a really nice place here.”

Elsie and I flanked the old body invaded by an imposter all the way to the car and helped her into the car and into her seat belt.

I missed Octavia.

29

Michele Mangiamelli: Highlight and Trim

Tuesday, January 9

1996

“D
o you have time to do a shave along with the usual trim for Chewbacca this afternoon?” Toby covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

“Sure,” I mumbled, hoping that Subby’s wife Michele Mangiamelli hadn’t heard him over the running water.

“Chewbacca?” Michele asked as I pulled the towel up from her collar to dry her hair.

“Yep. He’s a big guy with a lot of hair who kind of looks like…”

“Really?” Michele was one of my favorite clients. Subby’s wife was a classy, beautiful woman who could talk sports. After she sat down in my chair, I started to comb her long, auburn hair out.

“Just let me explain. Jenae isn’t very good with names, especially those who aren’t her clients, so she makes up nicknames,” I said as Michele
looked at me in the mirror. “Sometimes inappropriate ones. She uses the nicknames so much that we sometimes can’t remember the real names. Just one great big, inappropriate family.”

The faces of Mrs. Happy, Chunk, Monkey Man, Festus, and Cruella are all clear to me even to this day, but I couldn’t give you their real names to save my life. Each nickname made sense and clicked instantly but was never used in the presence of the client. We had class, you know.

“You’re not going to report me, are you?”

Michele smiled. “No, I just want to know what my nickname is.”

“Sorry, we save nicknames only for the unusual and bizarre, not the beautiful. We remember your name, Mrs. Mangiamelli.”

“Whatever,” Michele smiled. “Let’s talk about this suntan you have going on.”

“I do look good,” I said as I looked at myself in the mirror and raised one eyebrow.

“I mean, let’s talk about where you got it! Tell me. Was it awesome?” Michele was referring to the national-championship game. Sun Devil Stadium, Tempe, Arizona.

“Incredible.” A.C. and I had flown down for the game and spent a few days there after watching the Huskers win their second national championship in a row. We hadn’t seen this kind of football in our state since the early seventies. “And everyone was betting against us. It was awesome.”

The Husker buzz in Omaha was remarkable. The 1995 team in Osborne’s twenty-third season was arguably his best and in time would be known as one of the best teams in college football history. Husker fans couldn’t have been more proud of a team that followed the 1994 off-season, nicknamed “Unfinished Business,” with a national championship only to repeat the success in the 1995 championship led by Tommie Frazier and Brooke Berringer. The year was so great that most fans overlooked the sideline drama of several players who were in trouble with the law; strange incidents of violence and accusations of attempted murder had been challenging for our Husker leader. Coach Tom Osborne told his fans, “It was a terrible year, and it was a great year.”

“Subby and I were so jealous. I think I’ve got him convinced to book our tickets to the championship next year.” Michele was the main reason I’d broke down and bought a big colored TV for the salon. She said that she would schedule her appointment during game times if I did. “Oh, Subby wanted me to give you an update on Will.”

Will Mangiamelli had fallen off the face of the earth in the last year, and his family members wavered daily between worrying that he was dead in a ditch somewhere and furious that he had taken so many bad roads in life because of his addictions. During a haircut a while back, Anthony Mangiamelli had told me that he’d bought a T-shirt for Will, which he found appropriate and in which Mrs. Mangiamelli found no humor:
I’m not an Alcoholic, Alcoholics go to Meetings
. He never gave it to Will. A.C. and I, after numerous failed attempts to connect with Will, finally stopped calling the friend who struggled like the stupid bird that kept flying into the window, again and again. Our old CCD teacher had told us long ago—in a moment when I was paying attention—that we were like a clean, white shirt when we were born. Sin was that first stain on the shirt. For many, Will included, it was easier to just keep messing up the shirt since it was dirty already.

Mac said it best when he said that free will is the thin line between us and the devil—when we cross that line, the devil has control of us. Something like that. I found myself angry at Will, the guy whom I had always been a little jealous of for most of my childhood, who seemed to have it all, who had crossed the line somewhere through the years.

“Will showed up on Louis and Ava’s front porch a week ago,” Michele said, “sober.” I was shocked. “Neither asked any questions. He’s been staying with them since.”

“How’s everyone taking it?” I asked, knowing that the brothers and Lucy had grown tired of Will’s inconsistent and irresponsible behavior that worried their parents so much.

“Well, Stephano didn’t even stop by when Ava and Louis killed the fatted calf for the prodigal son. Those are Stephano’s words, not mine. Subby and I did go over there for dinner. Will looks pretty thin.”

“Bummer.”

Changing the subject, Michele looked around the room and then whispered, “Does anyone know yet?” She was referring to the decision I’d finally made to look into the space above Vanity Insanity to make room for the growing business. I had asked Subby Mangiameilli to walk through the space with the realtor to see if I should pursue it. We both agreed the price was steep, and Subby knew a contractor who said prices should be going down within the year. I looked over at Toby and shook my head no to Michele.

“Ask me again in a year. What about you? I heard that you two were house hunting.”

Michele perked up as I trimmed her ends. “Great! We finally decided that we want something in the Holy Cross area. We put a bid in on a house Saturday.”

I stopped and stepped back in shock. “Did I just hear you say ‘Holy Cross area’?”

Michele was a non-Catholic from Chicago who had come to Omaha in 1990 to work at Mutual of Omaha. She’d met Subby through mutual friends, and the two knew instantly they’d be together a long time. Michele had confided in me when she and Subby had started courting each other that she found Omaha to be a little crazy. “If one more person asks me what school I went to, I’m gonna scream!”

“Why? You went to a great school in Minnesota.”

“People in Omaha don’t want to know that. Most people mean college when they ask an adult where they went to school. But not in Omaha. They want to know if you went to Saint Philip Neri or Saint Wenceslaus or Saint This-or-That. They want to place you in the city, and if you’re not from Omaha, they’re not quite sure where to place you.”

“We’re not that bad. We’re just playing the Omaha game when we do that. People just want to know what puddle you came from so they can ask you who you know.”

Evidently, Michele had jumped into the messy puddles of Omaha. She became Catholic when she married Subby, and from the sounds of it, she was dividing the city by parish puddles. If you can’t beat them, join them.

“We looked in the Holy Cross area,” Michele said again as she smiled. “Troy will be in kindergarten, and I guess we need to find the area that will categorize him for life. He’ll be a Holy Cross kid. I’m OK with that.”

“You put a bid in?”

“Actually, the house kind of looks like yours.” I had bought a little home in the Assumption area the year before.

The sound of a baby crying came from the back room. Kelly and Jenae made a beeline for the back, elbowing each other to get to Caroline’s baby first. In 1995, within the yellow-and-pink walls, we’d added one more to the staff, though he was still in diapers. Caroline’s baby boy, Connor, had been born in the middle of July during a record-breaking week of temperatures over one hundred. Caroline couldn’t afford day care. We all guessed that the father was out of the picture physically and financially, so the staff agreed to share the tasks of taking care of Connor. We set up a playpen in the small back room and juggled feedings and diaper changes with shampoos and manicures. My initial reluctance waned as clients enjoyed having a baby around. Caroline’s “issues” seemed under control, and she looked healthier than ever. Kelly offered her wise two cents’ worth: “That baby save her life, you know.”

As I finished Michele’s hair, we continued the updates.