Chapter 29 Georgia
Georgia
It’s Saturday evening, and it’s my first Cards night. As kids and teens, Junie and I were kept away by the aunts, who claimed
Cards didn’t even exist. It was done in good faith, putting space between us and an activity that was technically illegal. For a long time we played along, but we overheard enough to understand what was truly happening.
Once, we snuck out and spied from the wooded area behind the shop, but after less than thirty minutes of staring at the blank
back side of the building, we gave up and went home. It was a terribly formulated spy plan, but we did have fun with the actual
sneaking out part. In the years since, the aunts finally capitulated and admitted that Cards was for real; it wasn’t like
they had much choice once Junie started work at June’s. But something, probably the way I felt like I didn’t quite belong,
kept me from joining in as well.
Tonight I have a front-row seat. The blinds are closed, the tables set, and the cash bar, my latest bright idea, is stocked and ready for customers.
Really it’s a long folding table I lugged in and covered with a tablecloth I found during the attic clean-out.
But the bottles are lined up, cups stacked, and ice crispy in the cooler, so I call it customer ready.
We don’t exactly have a liquor license, but we’re also hosting an illegal gambling event, so we’re a little past splitting hairs on the legality of it all.
Junie said they’re always careful about the invite list, and I think once the crowd knows the proceeds are for
the shop renovation, they’ll be happy to continue keeping things quiet.
Cece breezes in the door and lets out a whistle as she eyes the bar. “Fancy.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of cash, courtesy of my credit card’s cash advance. I hand it to Cece, who pages
through the bills. It’s our buy-in, and Cece is playing our hands.
Tina comes out to the salon floor from the back holding a hair product with a spray top. “Did either of y’all try this root
volumizer from Goldilocks yet? It says wet or dry hair.”
Cece and I both shake our heads.
Tina shrugs, dips in front of the mirror, and begins spraying it into the roots of her bob. “My hair is just looking so limp
these days.” She pouts.
Cece walks over to the mirror and slides in beside. “Alright then, do mine too.”
Tina turns and spritzes Cece’s roots efficiently then tousles them with her fingers. “Oh, Cecelia, that really works on you!”
She turns back and looks in the mirror. “Me? Less so.”
“You look stunning too, Aunt T,” I call over. I don’t say that she can hardly expect at sixty to have the same volume she
did at twenty. But she does. Because we’re hair people, and we know that the right products paired with the right technique
can defy the forces of nature.
She smiles back at me. “And you did a great job with those barrel curls tonight. Curling iron?”
Tina was always leery of the newfangled hair gadgets that came out and the large price tags that accompanied them.
I nod. “If it ain’t broke.”
Cece dips in front of the mirror for another look and pats her gray-streaked hair. “This is the perfect look to demolish the competition tonight. Which”—she glances at her watch—“I should get ready for.”
Cece walks off with a swagger, like she’s getting into the right headspace. The shop is probably looking the closest to a
dive bar/casino than it ever has tonight, considering that most of the identifying qualities of a salon have been covered,
removed, or plain ripped out. Part of me wishes I was seeing it in its usual state with tables set out between dryers and
washbowls, an undeniably hair-related event.
Junie lumbers in the front door, dragging a massive trash can.
“How many we expecting?” I ask Junie as I straighten the bottles on the bar. If the size of the trash is saying anything,
we should plan for a full house.
“Well, it’s not exactly an RSVP kinda situation,” Junie says.
“Alright,” I say too brightly. “Just learning the ropes over here.”
“You’ll see,” she says with a smile. “Once folks start to turn up, we just work with what we’ve got.”
She starts a classic rock playlist, and it isn’t long before guests trickle in. They don’t expect military-grade planning
and instead kind of filter out to whatever seat looks good. I’m surprised by some of the people who show—namely, the old librarian
who runs the circulation desk with an iron fist. It seems the thrill of a bet isn’t exclusive to one type or another.
Behind the makeshift bar, I pour. Bourbon, whiskey, gin, and the occasional beer, but everyone present seems intent on imbibing.
The noise level grows as the crowd does, and never before have I felt June’s Beauty Shop so full.
Mama hummed on high just like this room does now, and it’s the first time I feel like I fully understand her love for these nights.
To her, the chatter and laughter, the fun and the thrill of a harmless bet must’ve been second nature.
She knew joy like it was a phenomenon intertwined into the very fabric of her.
Surely this would’ve been prime time for her belly laugh and fiery hair flips.
I only wish I could’ve experienced this alongside her.
Junie stops at my side and whispers in my ear. “It’s not usually this rowdy. I think it’s this bar.”
“Yeah?” I grab the cash box and pop it open. It’s got at least double what we made at the garage sale. I hold it out for Junie
to see, and I’m just about to gloat when a cackle breaks out across the room.
“What on earth,” Junie says as we whip around to look.
It’s Cece. She is ruddy and wobbly and slinging back the whiskey she brought for herself in a brown paper bag. Drunk as a
skunk, as Mama would say. But she’s at her posted table, and the players around her seem to be in the flow of the game.
“Is this normal for her?” I ask.
Junie makes a high-pitched noise that sounds like a no. “Again, it’s not usually this rowdy. She’s not usually this rowdy.”
And usually Cece wins. Usually is what we want.
Junie grabs the bottles on my bar and eyes the level of the contents. “Yikes.” She grabs a shot glass and hands it to me.
“One and a half per drink, and no more. Else we’ll be calling Sheriff Mike with a brawl on our hands.”
“Sorry,” I say. “You got it. I didn’t realize I was heavy handing them.”
I hang behind the bar for a while longer, eyeing my pours seriously, but eventually I loop around the tables to check on Cece.
Her stack of chips certainly looks skinny compared to her tablemates’, but who am I to know what that fully means? The truth
is, I never learned how to play cards, nothing past Go Fish. Sure, I could’ve let anyone teach me poker, or taught myself
with online tutorials even, but it would’ve felt like a sacrilege to go against our family practice. Like stealing my way
into a guarded June’s tradition, one that required an invite.
Once Louise women graduate beauty school and take a job at the shop, they’re told about Cards nights.
(Or in our case, the adults drop the pretending act.) And then they’re taught the game of poker.
I haven’t ever stepped foot inside the beauty school, and even if the Cards nights were mentioned to me as something I could attend, I’ve yet to receive a single poker lesson.
It’s not like I’ve ever worked here, so I couldn’t expect that.
Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but I’ve never felt truly invited, not when I’m not an employee here, when I didn’t get the traditional beauty shop poker lesson and induction.
I’m rounding my way back to the bar table when the door blows open. Cece hollers at the doorway. “Well, this one ain’t a regular.”
Her announcement sounds like an alarm, and all eyes fly to the newcomer. “Someone talk to him.”
I, too, look over and am stopped, once again, by the sight of him now framed in moonlight on our doorstep.
He winces, sheepish, and clears his throat. “I was going to take my mom’s spot tonight, if that’s ok? I guess I should’ve
called.”
“Eddie?” I drop my dish towel and meet him at the door, scanning the room for Junie on my way. “You’re here for Cards?”
Seeing him standing there caught out like an interloper compels me to go to him. Yes, I’m trying to keep my distance from
Junie’s beau, but I won’t let the poor guy flounder as Cece suggests he might need interrogating. I’m not heartless, and I
will always have a soft spot for the guy. Not to mention, I have some experience with feeling unwelcome at this event.
He runs a hand over his stubbled chin and his eyes flash. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I figured it’d be informal.”
I take his arm and guide him toward the bar like I would a regular. I pour him a bourbon straight, a safe bet, and hand it
to him. “Formal may not be the word for it, but it’s not open season. Did Junie tell you about it?”
He turns his head and takes in the activities laid out before him. He’s already a foot taller than the crowd, which doesn’t
help his case for being an obvious newbie in the lot. “Not a word, actually. I thought it might be a little old ladies’ game
night.”
I laugh and drop a hand onto the tabletop as I wait for him to go on. He is as cute as they come, it’s simple fact, but now that I look again, maybe cute isn’t the right word. He was once cute, back when he wore his wit and confidence like a suit two sizes too big. But now?
He’s grown into all of his charm, and it fits like it was tailored to every inch of him.
And it’s all for Junie now.
“I heard the recording on my mother’s machine.” He watches my brow furrow at the mention of a machine. “Come on. You can’t
mean to tell me Rich doesn’t have his old answering machine?”
“You got me there.”
He nods slowly, like he’s just now grasping the extent of his error. “There really isn’t much to do around here on a Saturday
night, so I figured I’d check it out . . .”
I pour myself a little drink, the first of the night, and tip it back. “You know, I don’t remember a Rigsby on the call list . . .”
“You’re right,” he says. “Junie left a message for Gigi Ruiz yesterday—that’s my mother’s maiden name, so it made me wonder.
Why would she use a name she hasn’t used in decades for a regular old ladies’ group?”
I pause to take a drink order, then turn back to our conversation.
“Part of me wondered if it was speed dating or something to do with romance—because of the name thing.” Eddie laughs. “But
I guess Ms. Ruiz is leading a double life—just not the kind I thought.”
“Aren’t we all in some way?” I say, surprising myself. “No one’s ever completely all the way as they appear.”
He considers it. “You’re probably right.”
Eddie holds my gaze too long, and in that moment all of the regrets between us swim through my mind—all of the good parts
too. But I can’t go there, so I drop my gaze, turn, and busy myself at the other end of the bar stacking cups that were just
fine where they were before. It’s then that a scream rings out.
Across the room, Cece rolls out of her chair, red in the face. My gut pinches at the sight.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Eddie as I jog to my aunt’s side.
My feet shuffle in leaps over the bare floor to the folding table. Junie is at my side, and together we grab and yank Cece
from the floor and pitch her into her seat.
Tina flutters up to my side. “You ok?” She twitters over and over again, like a stuck record.
“What happened?” Junie asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Cece brushes herself off, gathers the fallen cards, and taps them into a neat stack. “Just lost
my balance for a moment. Hank, that wasn’t a fair bet, and you know it!” Cece points a finger at the smug player across the
table who reaches out and pulls in the entire pot. She looks so red-hot she might burst into flames.
“A word?” Junie asks as she bends down to speak into Cece’s ear. She whispers, “Did you lose it all?”
Cece shrugs. She meets my eye and raises a finger right in my face. “It’s you. You’re the bad-luck charm. I’ve never lost
like this before, and the only difference is you showing up here, lingering around.”
The comment hits me like a punch to my chest. I stumble back from the blow.
“Cece, that’s not fair. Not right,” Junie says. “What is it you need? More money?”
Cece nods. “Then I’ll get myself right back on track.”
Junie looks to me.
All I have left is the money I’d set aside to make things right with Moon for my rent. But under the weight of the stares
of these three women, in the middle of this shop that’s practically an additional Louise, amid the constant hammering of expectation,
it’s not like I have a choice.
“Let me run to the ATM,” I say.