If I Should Die by Grace F. Edwards Page B

off.
    Deborah had survived, but it might be months before she spoke again. I thought of telling him that I didn’t need his company, that I could make it home by myself because I needed air around me and space in which to think and let go of this anger. But he was Tad’s friend and partner. In a tight spot, Tad would have to depend on him.
    I gritted my teeth and quickened my pace, but he kept up with me.
    “Look, Mali. I know how upset you are. I just wantyou to know that we’re giving this case priority. We’ll find out who is behind this, believe me.”
    Who is behind this … I stole another glance at him. At the precinct, he had said it was a robbery. Open-and-shut case. The man was looking for money to get drugs and had simply picked the apartment at random.
    “Yes, I’m sure Deborah and her family would like to know if this was more than a simple robbery. They’d be very grateful,” I said, hoping he’d shut up.
    At the door, I turned and said good night. I had no intention of inviting him in. I needed to be alone.

chapter eleven
    S ome folks think beauticians should earn more than a therapist or a guidance counselor. I tend to agree, at least in regard to my hairdresser.
    My hair is less than two inches long, and one medium raw egg in a little shampoo under a hot shower would be sufficient to condition it. And a lot cheaper. But there’s something to be said for the timeless ritual that hairdressers have perfected: the laying on of hands.
    I had walked uptown from the hospital to Bertha’s Beauty Shop thinking of Deborah. Though she was sitting up, eating Jell-O and sipping liquids through a straw, she was still unable to speak, and her eyes, when they drifted away from me, held a look of blank terror.
    Her sister intended to transfer her to a rehabilitation center, and when her therapy was completed, Deborah would go to Washington to live. My friend, classmate, confidante, and sometimes double date was leaving, and unless I made the trip to Washington, I probably would not see her for a long while.
    I opened the door to Bertha’s shop and she looked at me: “Sit down, girl. Quick. Before you fall down.”
    Bertha was short, round though not quite plump, with dark auburn hair framing a brown face. Her shop was clean and cozy and she believed in letting her customers relax, eat the lunch they had brought, and sometimes play the single action if the numbers runner happened by.
    One customer had just left, and a minute later my head was bent back over the shampoo bowl and the tightness in my forehead and scalp was being washed and massaged away.
    “Mali, you got knots in your neck as big as boulders. What’s eatin’ you?”
    “It’s a long story, Miss Bert.”
    “Yeah, well. It usually is.”
    A half hour later I sat with a towel wrapped around my head waiting for the conditioner to condition and listening to Bertha’s philosophy of life when the door opened and a large woman with dyed-blond hair walked in. She had a very pretty face, young, bronze-tone skin, and dark eyes as clear as a teenager’s, but from the shoulders down, she spread outward, exactly like a pyramid.
    She waved and headed toward the workstation near the rear of the shop.
    “Hi, Bertha. Just wanted to drop my packages off. Be right back. I’m expecting two customers. If they show, just tell ’em to wait.”
    She waved again and was gone.
    As the door closed, Bert sighed. “You see. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
    “What?”
    “Her name’s Viv. Her man cut her loose a month ago. Traded her in for a size ten and now she gotta work for a livin’ just like the rest of us. He had set her up as a hairdresser, except he owned the business. Real nice shop up on Amsterdam Avenue called the Pink Fingernail. Gotair-conditioning, fancy pink lights that take ten years off your face every time you look in the mirrors, CD music, everything. Even got herbal tea.
    “Now the new girlfriend is in there and this one’s over