Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
I thought I’d have to drag Mom out of New York City by the ankles. Instead, she’s silent as we leave, which is almost worse.
She didn’t scold the moving guys when they were a little rough with her antique credenza.
The cabbie wasn’t told a better way to get to LaGuardia.
When the TSA agent sent her to the regular line rather than letting her go through the expedited screening for travelers of a certain age, she didn’t make a fuss—she’s not yet sixty-five, but her hair is streaked with white, so she often gets the senior discount.
Now, as we drive from the airport in Omaha toward Cobbiton, she doesn’t make a peep.
Not when I comment on the changing leaves from green to bursts of yellow, orange, and red.
Not when I tell her about some of the great restaurants in town—including an Italian joint called Spagliettis—or the seasonal events.
Not when I turn onto 4th Street and point out the location of my new salon.
Having shrunk in recent years and dressed in all black, seated beside me in the car, she’s like a sullen teenager going through an emo goth phase.
“Mom, I know you’re not thrilled about this change, but trust me, it’s for the best.”
She harrumphs. “I’ll be the judge of what’s best for me.”
At last, she speaks!
“Like that you stopped making dinner on Sundays.”
She snorts. “Who am I supposed to cook for?”
I make an annoyed face as if to say, Duh, us. Never mind the fact that the scent of simmering sauce with beef, garlic, and basil was enough to draw friends from other New York boroughs.
“Is this about Asher moving to Thailand with she-who-shall-not-be-named?”
“I don’t think he’ll like it there.” She hasn’t taken her eyes off her Rosary.
“There’s hockey,” I say, trying to be hopeful and not wanting to think about a certain hockey player who was recently traded to the Knights.
Hockey also brings to mind Papa.
Some people deal with grief by trying to gather close all the reminders of the person they lost. Others want to file it away and not think about it.
My mother seems to have frozen the day my father died.
A shock of white threaded through her hair.
She started wearing black and I haven’t seen her smile since.
I pull into the driveway of our little ranch-style rental.
Having lived in an apartment all my life, it seems strangely lonely sitting there all by itself with one tree off to the side and little else.
The asphalt siding is chipped in some places.
The windows need replacing, along with the roof and the leaves on the ground look left over from last season.
But this isn’t our forever home. I’m working on that.
But it’s over twice the size as our place in Manhattan, so that’s progress.
As for the loneliness, maybe Mama feels that way, too. Me at times as well.
This move was my idea, and I wasn’t about to leave my mother in New York by herself. Especially knowing she won’t so much as make a Bolognese on any given Sunday.
Turning to her, I say, “Mama, I know this is a big change. Huge, even. But I want you to be a part of it. Not apart from it. Owning a home and opening a salon weren’t possible in Manhattan. Plus, I have friends here.”
“But I don’t.”
Clearing my throat, I say, “Actually, you do. Sort of.”
Now may not be the time to remind her that Carlotta is also moving here.
When the movers arrived, I considered telling them that their services wouldn’t be necessary. Twice on the way to the airport, I almost told the cabbie to turn around. When the TSA agent went through my carry-on, I considered fleeing, but that would’ve looked suspicious.
“Mama, I’m as unsure about all this change as you. But I think it’s going to be good. Great even.”
Over the past several months, I’ve made it my personal project to try to cheer her up and start doing things again.
She left the A-2 Carpentry Crew and stopped hanging wallpaper.
She also gave up all her customers who came to her for seamstress work and abandoned the cameos she hand-carves—as per the custom of the Cicianno family, going back hundreds of years.
She’d ship all over the world, but they’ve remained in her little toolbox, which is somewhere between here and Manhattan.
If she doesn’t want to focus on her stuff, maybe she’ll take an interest in mine.
“It’s going to take a bit of work to get the salon up and running.
The building is derelict, but I made a deal with the owner to float the cost of repairs and remodeling if I could rent it out.
I’m wondering if you’ll help me once we open. ”
“I know how to hang wallpaper, sew, and carve, not cut hair.”
“You could be the receptionist.” Duties include greeting customers, answering the phone, scheduling appointments, and generally being friendly and cordial. Two words that are not synonymous with Guiliana Popovik.
“Will that be necessary?”
Case in point. The question threatens to cut into my optimism for my salon to be a success.
In high school, I worked at Guys and Dolls, and because I was already eighteen during my senior year, I took night classes to be licensed.
By the time I turned nineteen, I was ready to start working.
I’m good at what I do and I hustle, earning a top chair in Kian’s salon and styling celebrities on the side.
I’ve taken every continuing education class and workshop available.
In six years, I’ve made a name for myself and was even awarded the number one spot for thirty stylists under thirty in the country.
So yeah, I think I can do this. But will the clientele in Cobbiton want caramel balayage and beach blonde dye jobs?
Getting out of the car, I grab some of our bags and head toward the two-bedroom, single-story house, hoping for the best. Mom came from Italy and made a new life. We’ve continued west and I send up a prayer that this works out.
I wave for my mother to join me. When the door sticks and I have to use my hip to get it open, I wish I’d asked the owner to make a few repairs. A faint musty odor wafts from inside and the slatted blinds on the door’s window unwind with a puff of dust.
Mama sniffs.
“It’s a beautiful early fall day. I’ll have this place aired out in no time.”
Thankfully, there aren’t any leaks when it rains at night. I don’t hear any rodents in the walls like I did when I was a kid before Papa insisted our building’s super, Mr. Rickles, do something about it, and when I wake up the next morning, the birds are chirping.
My mother doesn’t come out of her room.
I leave her a note, telling her I’m heading to the salon on 4th Street, where there is a great café that serves cappuccino.
I don’t know this for sure, but they have lattes, so it’s safe to make this assumption.
Whether Mama will approve of their version of the classic Italian beverage is another story.
But it’s within walking distance and since she doesn’t drive, maybe getting her blood pumping will help—she’d mostly stopped leaving our apartment except for essentials and canasta.
When I arrive at the site for the salon, my shoulders instantly drop.
When Margo scoped out this place in the single-story stone building for me, we video-chatted, but my connection was spotty.
I caught glimpses of the big windows with plenty of natural light—essential for hair stylists.
I was also between appointments, scrambling to scarf down lunch and clean up my station.
Margo said it had potential. I eat potential for breakfast. But the reality is that this is a disaster.
The foam drop ceiling between the roof and a crawlspace looks like a lawsuit waiting to happen. There isn’t a skylight, but is that daylight I see?
Papers, leaves, and a bunch of junk litter the peeling floor tiles. Instead of a bull charging into a china shop, it’s like a herd of buffalo took the building’s vacancy as an invitation to spend a few days.
Having paid some attention to my father when he came home from work, I’m certain no amount of paint is going to cover the stains on the drywall. It’s like someone repeatedly splashed pots of coffee against it.
As I pass a door labeled Bathroom, I smell something rancid. Sniffing the air, I decide I’ll go in there when I have a mask and rubber gloves on hand.
Then there’s the broken display case filled with Nebraska Knights memorabilia. Either someone thought it was valuable and tried to rob the joint before realizing it’s just a worthless keepsake collection or they have a vendetta against the team.
“What did I get myself into?” I mutter.
The task ahead seems insurmountable. How am I going to manage to get my business up and running and get Mama out of her funk while avoiding Miguel?
My phone beeps with a text. It’s Erica asking how I’m settling in.
Oh, and there’s the little matter of planning her wedding. If the ceiling caved in right now, I’d probably feel no different. I type out a reply.
Me: Status pending.
I send a photo of my surroundings.
Erica: Sending backup.
My phone beeps a minute later, but it’s from our group chat.
Margo: I hear you require assistance. I’ll rally the troops. Expect them at eleven hundred hours.
Before I can ask what she means, someone knocks on the door. The woman behind the dirty glass has a perm and wears the kind of expression that tells me she’s not the type to bring a tray of brownies to welcome me to town.
In my business, it pays to get a quick read on people. Much like the “Male Scale,” there’s the “Client Quatro.” This list consists of four types of women who regularly patronize a beauty salon.
The Jill: She seems friendly at first, but then tumbles down a steep hill with her life story as you’re trying to keep on track, so the bleach doesn’t fry her hair.
The Sharon: Who is never happy—not in her life or with her hair, even though you did exactly what she requested.