Vanity Insanity (43 page)

Ringing.

I tried to move toward Octavia to get the phone, but I couldn’t get up. I was being pulled back down when I tried to get up.

Ringing and ringing.

Ringing and more ringing.

42

Phone Call

1:45 a.m. Sunday morning, November 9

1997

R
inging and more ringing.

I struggled to wake up. I needed to find the phone that was ringing and ringing.

“If you order now, we want to send you the entire line of my product.”

The television was still on from when I’d been watching the game. I focused and saw Victoria Principal imploring me to buy her amazing skin products. “Just look how they work for me.” The ringing was everywhere. I heard the phone ringing in the kitchen and my cell phone ringing from the pocket from my jacket on the floor. Slowly, I pulled myself out of my dream residue and realized that I hadn’t just seen Theresa and Octavia. Tom Osborne didn’t really need me. Somebody in the real world was trying to get a hold of me. I pulled my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and answered it.

“Hey.”

“Ben, where the hell have you been?” A.C.’s voice sounded tinny on the other end.

“Sorry about missing the game. My tooth was killing me.” I looked at my watch. It was 1:45 a.m.

“Ben, you need you to get down here now…” A.C.’s voice was breaking up.

“Not tonight, A.C. I’m wiped out.” The last thing I needed was to party with A.C. till dawn. I was guessing Nebraska had won.

“Ben, Vanity Insanity is burning. It’s on fire. Get down here.”

I wasn’t completely awake until the cold night air hit me as I ran to my car. The medicine was wearing off, and the throbbing in my mouth had never been worse. What kind of fire? I couldn’t call A.C. back since I had forgotten my cell phone and jacket in my rush to get to the Old Market. I would have to get the details when I got to the salon.

Two blocks from the Old Market, I saw flames shooting into the sky and heard several sirens blaring. I turned the corner to the street where Vanity Insanity was and saw three fire trucks and a crowd of people across from the salon. I picked out A.C. in the crowd and what looked like Mac and my mom and her husband huddled together, looking at the flaming building. Flames were flashing and spitting out of the salon onto the adjacent bays. The Vanity Insanity sign was bent and melting; the only letters that were discernible were ANITY.

A.C. ran toward me with his hands in his pockets. “Where were you? I’ve been calling everywhere trying to find you.”

“I’m here now.”

“We left Upstream around one and saw the flames from your place. Then we called nine-one-one. The operator said someone else had just called. I think the owner of Trini’s had just called in. We were starting to get worried, dude. That you might be…”

I looked at the snow gathering on A.C.’s hair. The Upstream. I’d never thought about it, but now I figured out the name of the restaurant was probably an allusion to the Indian name of Omaha, which meant “those who go upstream against the current.” Maybe the owners had paid attention during the fourth grade history of Nebraska unit.

“Ben!” My mom screamed and ran toward me. She hugged me and through her tears mumbled, “We were just about to drive to your house. I was afraid you were in the…” She covered her mouth and looked at me. “Where have you been?”

“Home sleeping.”

“But we’ve all been calling! Did you not hear your phone? A.C., Mac, and I have all been calling!”

“I’d taken some codeine for the pain in my mouth. Two root canals Monday.” I looked past the firemen who were knocking out the front windows of my building. I thought of Jenae.

Mac walked up as I was talking to Mom. “Must have just been in a pretty deep sleep, Ben. We’re just glad you’re OK.”

“Your dad had bad teeth, too,” Mom muttered as she ran to a car. My sister, Tracy, was driving up. “Tracy, we found him. He just got here.”

Wait.

Had my mom just said something about my dad? Really? Years and years of not talking about “you know who” and then, bam, she just threw a casual comment in the fire like the man still lived with us. As though he were real.
Your dad had bad teeth? You’ve got to be kidding me.
I could not believe that my mom had so matter-of-factly dropped his name into the smoky night air when she had never once mentioned the man in the past thirty years. Strange timing.

Mac walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Once this mess is all cleaned up, I can help you get back on your feet, Ben. You’ll bounce back. You always do.”

“Mac, do I have an aunt somewhere?”

Mac tilted his head. My business of almost fourteen years was blazing in front of us, and I’d asked him about an estranged aunt.

“Do I? On my dad’s side of the family?”

“Yes.”

“Does she live in Omaha?”

“Your father’s family suffered a great deal, Ben.” Mac looked at the fire. Snow started to fall on his head and gather on his stray hairs. Mac needed a haircut.

“What’s her name?”

“People didn’t talk about mental illness back then like they do now, Ben. It was hidden in shame. Not treated. Your dad suffered. Eleanor had her own battles, too.”

“Eleanor? Is she still alive?” The last fire truck finally turned off its sirens. Two policemen walked past us to talk to the fireman coming from the blazing building.

“Yep. Never leaves her house. Afraid of people or the public or something like that.”

“Did she ever marry?”

Mac burrowed his eyebrows, brushed some snow from his face, and looked at me. “Where’s this coming from, Ben?”

“Please just tell me her name, Mac. My whole life, we’ve pretended that this family didn’t exist. I know nothing of the man you call my father. Of his family. Of his problems. I know nothing.”

“Eleanor Wicker.”

“Eleanor Wicker?”

“Eleanor married. The man left after a year or two. She’s got problems.”

A.C. came up to Mac and me and grabbed my arm. I stared into the fire and thought of a little green house that I’d driven past about a billion times in my life.

A.C. shook me. “Y’OK?”

“Just fine,” I mumbled. I was pretty sure that the old black radio was melting somewhere in the glow of the flames inside the salon. I thought of Jenae closing Vanity Insanity about nine hours earlier. I looked up at the ashes flying above the salon, and I thought of my shoebox and all of the lives on my index cards. I looked up at the ashes and thought of my clients. I thought of Octavia. She had placed that little scapular under my chair when I was at Maple Crest to collect my prayers and protect me from eternal fire. The little piece of material had fallen off somewhere in the move to the Old Market thirteen years ago.

Damn, should have asked for another one.

43

Gentle Dental Office

Monday Morning, November 10

1997

T
he happy little lady at the front desk of Gentle Dental asked me to take a seat and fill out several forms.

My trip to the dentist’s office on the Monday following the fire was a much-welcomed reprieve from the hurricane of phone calls and concerns I’d been dealing with since early Sunday morning. My last phone call was to Toby to ask him to contact staff for help to call clients. Most people had already read about the fire since it had made the front page of the
Omaha World-Herald
: “Old Market Salon Destroyed in Fire.” The article ended with “Vanity Insanity salon owner could not be contacted for comment.”

I had never looked more forward to two root canals in my entire life. My goal was to escape. I didn’t want to talk to one more friend or family member consoling me, asking about my plan to rebuild. Maybe my plan was to walk away. I hadn’t voiced that to anyone, though. As I sat down in
Gentle Dental, I tabled any thoughts about the fire or Vanity Insanity. I didn’t want to carry all this “stuff” anymore. I wanted to be carried.

After I’d filled out my paperwork, I picked up the sports page of the
Omaha World-Herald
that had been lying on the seat next to me. I was still pouting about the play that everyone was talking about—at least, those who weren’t talking about funerals, fires, or aunts formerly known as witches. The Miracle in Missouri. Somewhere between when I’d fallen asleep on my couch on Saturday night and when Vanity Insanity was consumed by flames, the Nebraska Cornhuskers had beaten the Missouri Tigers in a game that included a play that has since been called many things: the Great Escape, Immaculate Reception II, and the Miracle in Missouri. Had the play not happened, the Huskers would not have challenged the number-two Tennessee Volunteers in the FedEx Orange Bowl. That play sealed an ideal season for the Nebraska football team.

The article described in detail how Husker quarterback Scott Frost, with only seven seconds remaining in the game and the Huskers down by seven points to Missouri, hit wingback Shevin Wiggins at the goal line. When Wiggins lost control of the ball, the ball deflected off of his foot and into the air. I watched the replay of a diving Matt Davison catching the ball before it could hit the ground five times on ESPN before I left for the dentist office. The article finished with the statement that the Huskers scored in overtime with Frost running in from the twelve-yard line. The Husker defense secured the win by stopping Missouri in four plays.

Davison had actually caught the ball that bounced off Wiggins’s foot. You’ve got to be kidding me. ESPN had been replaying the play throughout the past two days, so that I could repeatedly feel a pit in my stomach for missing the game. I folded the paper and crossed my arms. I think A.C. knew that I wasn’t happy about missing the play, so he hadn’t yet brought it up.

When Miss Short-and-Happy called me to the desk, I handed her my paperwork and turned off my cell phone. Part of the escape plan. She led me down the narrow hallway to the small office and into a room where I was to wait for the doctor. She motioned to the chair where I would be undergoing my root canals. I lowered myself in the chair and closed my
eyes. I lay back. I allowed myself one final sulk about the game and capped it with the solace that I would probably not have had my dream if I had stayed awake for the game. The residue of the dream still made me smile. Theresa had looked so healthy, and Octavia, who had really been gone for years, was as lively as ever.

As I relaxed, I considered asking the dentist for an extra shot of Novocain, enough to numb my mouth and soul. I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling of the root-canal room. It was covered with pictures and posters with sayings. Someone—I’m guessing a receptionist with too much time on her hands upon the suggestion of a poor wretch who had sat for hours in this chair—had come up with the idea to entertain the people being drilled who had no other choice but to look up at the ceiling. Clever idea, really. I had never been in the room, so I found myself amused at the scattered sheets taped to the ceiling. The center picture, held with yellowing pieces of scotch tape, was an obvious Norman Rockwell picture.

Mac had a Norman Rockwell calendar from the year 1967 that he kept up because so many people liked looking through the months. The picture on the ceiling of Gentle Dental was one that wasn’t in the calendar, one I had never seen, but I knew the picture was a Norman Rockwell. The faces in his pictures seemed familiar to me, like I knew these people. The picture on the ceiling had two scenes, one on top of the other. The top scene was a family car with a canoe on top, heading to what the viewer could only assume was a vacation or an outing. The father was driving, the mother watching the road, and the older woman in the back was more than likely the grandmother. Kids with excited faces and a family dog filled the windows. One little girl was blowing a huge bubble with her gum. The bottom picture was of the same family with the car going the opposite direction, looking as though they were headed home. Mother was asleep. Dad was slouched down. The kids and the dog looked tired. Grandma was the only one who looked pretty much the same.

The door to the office opened as an older man and a young, attractive woman walked in. The old man looked serious and busy, so I decided not to ask about the Novocain. The woman with long, dark hair and incredible eyes carried a tray of utensils and smiled at me.

“Ben, I’m Gerilyn, and this is Dr. Hamilton. Just let me know if you need anything during the procedure. If you’re unable to talk, you can just tap my arm, OK?” Gerilyn had a beautiful smile. “Do you have someone coming to pick you up today? You might be a little woozy when we get done.”

Dr. Hamilton cleared his throat. I gave Gerilyn a lying nod. I hadn’t asked anyone for a ride. Part of the escape plan. Once Gerilyn propped my mouth open with some sort of contraption lined with a rubber remnant that smelled funny, Dr. Hamilton came forward with a large needle that I welcomed wholeheartedly. The slight poke on the side of my mouth was nothing compared to the weeks of pain that I was ready to be done with. Dr. Hamilton and Gerilyn, the lovely assistant, began their hour-and-forty-minute session—the first of several—on my mouth. My mouth numbed and my entire body relaxed. My eyes took in other fun sayings covering the ceiling as two people focused on my mouth.

If it’s tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?

Funny thing about trouble, it always starts out being fun.

I considered a few of my own sayings:

Gerilyn sucked the extra saliva from my mouth. “Are you doing OK?”

Her eyes were a beautiful light brown with dark edges. I blinked. I was really enjoying my lovely state of loopiness. Gerilyn looked like she might be a good kisser.

A mediocre person is always at his best.

A truly wise man never plays leapfrog with a unicorn
.