The Habit of Art: Best Stories from the Indiana University Fiction Workshop

Stepping in Ms. Cent-Jean’s Shoes

STEPPING IN MS. CENT-JEAN’S SHOES [261] Stepping in Ms. Cent-Jean’s Shoes CRYSTAL S. THOMAS My aunt always says ain’t nothing new under the sun, but when we found out Ms. Cynthia Jean’s husband was cheating on her for another woman at the salon, it was news; not like you couldn’t imagine it, but surprising, you know, like if Michael Jackson were to go back to the afro. The night two and two came together was a Wednesday , and the shop was kind of slow, but everyone had a customer so the air was filled with all the smells I had come to tell apart: peppermint from the shampoo Aunt Bennie ordered each month, the raw egg smell of neutralizer, fried hair, oil sheen, and the stink of nail polish remover. I was leaning on the counter of Aunt Bennie’s station, flicking through the latest Ebony and trying to keep a watch over the pickle in my hand as it steadily soaked through its wrapper. Duke, the barber that rented a booth from my aunt, was doing his laugh-because -I’m-cute routine, and telling some joke we’d heard a thousand times. It was the one about a head being so ugly the razor ran, which was not even the funniest joke, but for some reason whenever Duke said anything and those dimples jumped out like flashers everybody wound up laughing, even my aunt who tried hard not to. CRYSTAL S. THOMAS [262] Maybe it was because the radio station had been playing all the good jams—you know, “Rock With You Tonight” and “Let’s Get it On” and “Caught Up in the Rapture of You”—or maybe it was because finally a cool breeze had started to push up on the Florida heat, but the shop seemed in such a light mood that nobody noticed when the other woman slid out and into Ms. Cynthia Jean’s husband’s car. Now when she had first come in about a month earlier, Duke had said, “Dang, look at that ice cream cone—,” stuck, of course, on her big chest and long legs, but I remember looking at her skin. Like honey being squeezed into tea, or maybe copper melting. She said her name was D-e-e-n-a when I penciled her in, smiling , all lips and teeth. Yvette, the other hairdresser in my aunt’s salon, never liked her from the get go, but I think that was because when Deena started coming, she gave Yvette fashion competition. Even on long days, Yvette would wear nice Guess clothes and sometimes black stiletto boots, but Deena’s style was straight off the runway . Outside of liking her outfits though, I never thought much else of her until Ms. Geraldine—who I promise used lipstick for blush—rushed in that Wednesday like she’d just discovered Christmas . “Ooh, now Bennie,” she moaned, all wound up. “Now, you know I don’t like to stir up no stuff, but I’d be lying if I didn’t just see Rufus Henderson pull off from your parking lot with another woman in his car.” My Aunt Bennie didn’t even look up. She’s like my mama when it comes to busybodies, except a little less nice about it. “Geraldine, don’t be bringing no gossip in my shop,” she warned, and just kept twisting and tucking her client’s hair, stacking the rollers like bones. But Ms. Geraldine can be hard of hearing when she feels like it. “Bennie, I’m telling the truth. A light-skinned woman got into his car, and Cent-Jean is over at Bible study!” STEPPING IN MS. CENT-JEAN’S SHOES [263] “Hmm, mm. Didn’t I tell you that woman looked like trouble?” Yvette said, pointing the end of a comb in Aunt Bennie’s direction. I sucked on my pickle, just watching. “Well, I just wonder where she comes from,” Ms. Geraldine said, putting a hand to her chest like she was so concerned. “She doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen.” I wanted to suck my teeth at this. Like she personally had seen every known body that drove and lived in Mulberry. With that brown hat and green sweat suit. What she needed to see was a fashion magazine. “Men are such dogs,” Yvette snapped, and...