Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by April Genevieve Tucholke Page B

he would take the suit back off. 
    I pulled a black party dress and fake pearls out of a wooden trunk—very Breakfast at Tiffany’s —and went into the wardrobe to put the dress on. When I came out, River took one look at me and grinned. A nice, kind of appreciative grin. 
    “You need to put your hair up,” he said. 
    So I dug around in a small box of cheap jewelry until I had gathered a handful of bobby pins.Then River appeared behind me, and, with his long, tan fingers, started lifting my hair, one strand at a time, twirling it and pinning it until was all piled on my head in a graceful twist. My hair was thick with dried salt from sitting on the beach, and tangled from the wind, but River made it look pretty damn elegant, all things considered. When he was done, I went over and looked at myself in one of the long dressing mirrors—it was warped and stained with age, but I could still see half my face pretty well. 
    “How did you learn how to do that?” I asked, putting my hand to my hair.“Wait . . . let me guess.Your mother is a barber.” 
    River laughed, but his eyes didn’t join in. “No. My mother is . . . invited to a lot of parties. While she puts on makeup and picks out her jewelry, we talk. She taught me how to do her hair when I was a kid. So that’s how I know.” 
    What River was telling me sounded personal. It sounded . . . real. As in, not a lie. So I was interested, and my tongue itched to ask some follow-up questions. But River walked away and started digging through a red trunk by the record player. Done talking, apparently. 
    I put my fingers to my hair and spun around so I could see myself in the mirror again. I pictured River as a little boy, with his straight nose and crooked smile, but also with soft,hairless cheeks and a small boy’s body,like Jack’s. I pictured him helping his mom pin her hair up for a party. It was a damn sweet image, and it kind of nullified the feeling I’d been working on since the cemetery. 
    Luke came over to the mirror and pushed me out of the way so he could see himself. He smiled at the way the pinstripes were pulled tight across his chest and arms. And then his smile faded, and his fingers flew to his forehead. 
    Luke had a deep widow’s peak,and he was already worried about going bald. I would often catch him looking at himself in mirrors and window reflections, moving his head this way and that, trying to figure out if his hairline was receding. 
    “Vi, look,” he said, pointing to his head. “ Look . It’s moved. I swear it’s moved.” 
    “No, it hasn’t,” I replied, without looking. 
    “Are you sure? I can’t go bald,Vi. I just can’t. I’m not a bald guy. I wouldn’t wear it well.” 
    I sighed, and kind of laughed. “Your hairline hasn’t moved. I promise.” 
    “Okay,” Luke said. He took a deep breath, let it out, and turned away from the mirror. “I trust you.” 
    I laughed again and then turned to look at River, who had just come out of the wardrobe in what looked like Italian peasant clothes, complete with a red kerchief around his neck.Something left over from my parents’bohemian friends, no doubt. He had even scrounged up a ukulele, and he sat down on one of the torn velvet sofas, strumming the chords to Moon River, in honor of my dress. 
    Jack searched around until he found a checkered vest and a tweed cap. He was smiling, and I think he was having a good time,but he was so quiet.I got the impression that he was used to keeping still and silent.He just didn’t give off the feeling that other kids gave off—of recklessness and innocence and mischief. And I wondered why. 
    Jack took his costume into the wardrobe and came out looking like a street kid selling newspapers on the corner in an old movie. It was damn adorable. And I don’t consider myself particularly susceptible to adorable-ness. I had the urge to sit down and paint him, right there, on the spot. And I hadn’t wanted to pick up my brushes