the plastic from her head and yanked her up and out of the chair in an instant. “Quick. Into the kitchen.” He dragged her over to the sink, stuck her head under the faucet, and started spraying her hair with water.
“Lisa!” he called. “Bring me that bottle of shampoo from the bathroom. And the conditioner. Stat!”
Regina could see nothing. She could feel first the cold, and then the warm, water streaming over her head. Her neck hurt and she wanted to stand up, but D’John kept his hand firmly planted on the top of her head.
“Precious Jesus,” she heard him mutter. “Precious Jesus Lord.”
Then he was lathering her head with shampoo, and her scalp felt oddly cool.
When the water stopped running, he stood her upright. For a minute, she felt dizzy. He wrapped a towel around her head, and tenderly dabbed at her face with another one. Now he was dragging her back into the dining room, pushing her gently down into the chair she’d been sitting in.
“We’ve got to get you conditioned,” he said, squirting a huge glop of conditioner into the palm of one hand. He patted it over her head, gently working it into her scalp, which still felt strange.
“Tell me what’s happened,” Regina said. “What’s happened to my hair?”
She saw Lisa and D’John exchange a shared look of horror.
“Tell me!”
D’John took a deep breath. “The timer,” he said, searching for words. “It must have gone off. But I didn’t hear it. I was just in thekitchen, talking to Stephen. I guess I lost track of time. Because I didn’t hear the buzzer—”
“No,” she said flatly. She stood up and ran into the bathroom. There, in the gold-framed mirror in D’John’s bathroom, she stood face-to-face with the truth.
Her scalp reminded her of her granddaddy’s cornfield come autumn, once the harvest had started. Ragged strands of damp hair stuck up in random hedgerows.
“Precious Lord Jesus,” she whispered, echoing D’John. She sat down on the edge of D’John’s commode and began to cry.
Chapter 17
Y ou absolutely sure you wanna do this?” Tate asked, shaking his head in disgust.
“Absolutely,” Val insisted. “Hit me.”
Tate lifted the cast-iron skillet from the tiny two-burner stovetop and deftly slid the fried eggs onto the stack of pancakes on Val’s waiting plate.
“Thanks,” she said, pouring a stream of maple syrup over everything, and then tucking into it with an energy that amazed him, slicing the eggs with the side of her fork, then curling a whole pancake around the oozing egg and shoving it into her mouth.
It was Sunday morning. Val called this a production meeting. Tate called it a pain in the ass. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite her at the red Formica dinette table in what he called the dining area of the Vagabond IV. It was also, when the tabletop was flipped down across the button-tufted red leatherette upholstered benches, and a mattress slid atop it, the guest bedroom.
She chewed furiously, then sighed. “Heaven.”
Moonpie, wedged tightly beneath Tate’s feet, lifted his snout and whined appreciatively.
“Absolutely not,” Tate said sternly. “If she wants to eat a heart attack on a plate for breakfast, that’s her problem.” He scratched the dog’s ears as a consolation prize.
As Val ate, Tate read over the notes she’d made about the upcoming week’s shoot, pausing occasionally to sip his coffee.
Her plate mopped clean of every vestige of pancake, syrup, and egg, Val brought out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
Tate swiftly reached across the table, took the cigarette from her fingers, and stubbed it out on the plate.
“Hey,” she said.
He got up and rinsed the plate in the minuscule stainless-steel kitchen sink, which also doubled as the bathroom sink, which was why there was a small porthole-sized mirror mounted above it.
“I’ve told you a million times,” he said, scrubbing at the caked-on egg. “You can’t smoke in the
“Lisa!” he called. “Bring me that bottle of shampoo from the bathroom. And the conditioner. Stat!”
Regina could see nothing. She could feel first the cold, and then the warm, water streaming over her head. Her neck hurt and she wanted to stand up, but D’John kept his hand firmly planted on the top of her head.
“Precious Jesus,” she heard him mutter. “Precious Jesus Lord.”
Then he was lathering her head with shampoo, and her scalp felt oddly cool.
When the water stopped running, he stood her upright. For a minute, she felt dizzy. He wrapped a towel around her head, and tenderly dabbed at her face with another one. Now he was dragging her back into the dining room, pushing her gently down into the chair she’d been sitting in.
“We’ve got to get you conditioned,” he said, squirting a huge glop of conditioner into the palm of one hand. He patted it over her head, gently working it into her scalp, which still felt strange.
“Tell me what’s happened,” Regina said. “What’s happened to my hair?”
She saw Lisa and D’John exchange a shared look of horror.
“Tell me!”
D’John took a deep breath. “The timer,” he said, searching for words. “It must have gone off. But I didn’t hear it. I was just in thekitchen, talking to Stephen. I guess I lost track of time. Because I didn’t hear the buzzer—”
“No,” she said flatly. She stood up and ran into the bathroom. There, in the gold-framed mirror in D’John’s bathroom, she stood face-to-face with the truth.
Her scalp reminded her of her granddaddy’s cornfield come autumn, once the harvest had started. Ragged strands of damp hair stuck up in random hedgerows.
“Precious Lord Jesus,” she whispered, echoing D’John. She sat down on the edge of D’John’s commode and began to cry.
Chapter 17
Y ou absolutely sure you wanna do this?” Tate asked, shaking his head in disgust.
“Absolutely,” Val insisted. “Hit me.”
Tate lifted the cast-iron skillet from the tiny two-burner stovetop and deftly slid the fried eggs onto the stack of pancakes on Val’s waiting plate.
“Thanks,” she said, pouring a stream of maple syrup over everything, and then tucking into it with an energy that amazed him, slicing the eggs with the side of her fork, then curling a whole pancake around the oozing egg and shoving it into her mouth.
It was Sunday morning. Val called this a production meeting. Tate called it a pain in the ass. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat opposite her at the red Formica dinette table in what he called the dining area of the Vagabond IV. It was also, when the tabletop was flipped down across the button-tufted red leatherette upholstered benches, and a mattress slid atop it, the guest bedroom.
She chewed furiously, then sighed. “Heaven.”
Moonpie, wedged tightly beneath Tate’s feet, lifted his snout and whined appreciatively.
“Absolutely not,” Tate said sternly. “If she wants to eat a heart attack on a plate for breakfast, that’s her problem.” He scratched the dog’s ears as a consolation prize.
As Val ate, Tate read over the notes she’d made about the upcoming week’s shoot, pausing occasionally to sip his coffee.
Her plate mopped clean of every vestige of pancake, syrup, and egg, Val brought out a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
Tate swiftly reached across the table, took the cigarette from her fingers, and stubbed it out on the plate.
“Hey,” she said.
He got up and rinsed the plate in the minuscule stainless-steel kitchen sink, which also doubled as the bathroom sink, which was why there was a small porthole-sized mirror mounted above it.
“I’ve told you a million times,” he said, scrubbing at the caked-on egg. “You can’t smoke in the
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