My Stubborn Heart by Becky Wade Page A

made one painfully self-conscious at the outset, like wearing your swimsuit on the first day of summer, time and practice helped one adjust.
    When she finished with the solution, he looked like a geriatric rock star with a fetish for hair gel. Some of the black strands stuck directly up, and some lay in matted surrender.
    Kate consulted the directions for the hundredth time, then snapped a shower cap onto him.
    â€œWhat now?” he asked.
    â€œNow it has to process for twenty minutes.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œWe let it sit for twenty minutes. It says that I can use a hair dryer on the shower cap to help it along.”
    His eyebrows lowered skeptically.
    Kate grinned at the picture he presented. This burly frowning grandfather, his hair glistening under a shower cap.
    â€œCan we at least move into the den so I can watch TV?” he asked.
    â€œSure. And then we’ll need to come back in here to rinse, shampoo it, and put on the—” she consulted the directions again—“processing lotion.”
    â€œFine.”
    She followed him into his den. He settled into an old brown fabric recliner that had a concave back and butt indentions. He’d placed the recliner, without creativity, directly in front of his television. Apparently they still made the this-TV-is-a-piece-of-furniture! televisions, because that’s what his was. A TV, surrounded by wood, with a top like a buffet table.
    She thought of Peg and William’s lovely, tasteful, magazine-worthy home. She thought of Gran’s snug ranch-style house in Dallas. She thought of Velma’s scruffy house, with its debris-stuffed carport, peeling paint, and six acres of property. They all had homes that suited them. But somehow this two-bedroom condo on the edge of town didn’t seem right for Morty.
    He kept it neat, but the place was worn and stark, filled with outdated furniture. After a lifetime of police work in this town, children raised, and grandchildren grown, it seemed to Kate that Morty ought to be entitled to more. To a place less lonely.
    Kate plugged in her blow-dryer and managed to unfurl it just far enough to reach Morty with the warm air. Morty responded to the noise by turning up the TV volume, so Kate found herself blow-drying Morty’s shower cap while the four o’clock local news blared in the background.
    Twenty minutes had seldom passed so slowly.
    When the time was up, they returned to the kitchen and Morty ducked over the sink. Kate stood on a footstool and leaned over him, rinsing, then shampooing his hair.
    The color had faded from inky opaque black to . . . plain dull black.
    Kate’s hopes sank.
    â€œHow’s it look?” Morty asked the sink drain.
    â€œWell . . . it didn’t change much.” She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his head.
    â€œWhat’s that you said?” He straightened with two joint pops, dried his hair vigorously, then draped the towel around his shoulders. He looked at her questioningly. “Didn’t change much?”
    â€œNo, but the directions say we can repeat the process two or three more times today.”
    â€œLet me go look in the mirror.” He disappeared around the corner into the hall bathroom. After a moment he called, “And what if it still doesn’t change after two or three more times?”
    â€œThen we’ll have to wait a few days and try again. We’ve got enough product”—Kate’s voice and courage were shrinking—“for ten applications,” she finished faintly.
    He returned and planted himself back into the vinyl chair. “Confounded Velma.”
    She half expected him to launch into a string of curses, but instead he gave a rusty laugh and shook his head. “Let’s try it again, then.”

    At seven o’clock that night Kate stood above the brown recliner blow-drying Morty’s shower cap for the fourth time that day. The