Of Blood and Sorrow by Valerie Wilson Wesley Page B

and what he had just done, and Treyman Barnes and his silly ass self, and the look on DeWayne’s face when I threw that glass against the wall. Then I started feeling “devilish” (like Jimson Weed might say) and laughed about the way DeWayne’s latest wife had left him high and dry, and about how all of those damn people—Lilah Love, Jimson Weed, Treyman Barnes—were finally out of my life. I started thinking about Jamal then, and I felt tears coming, but I wasn’t ready to cry yet, not until this whole thing was good and over. So I got up, smudged that man’s spit into the carpet with the toe of my shoe, and headed downstairs to Wyvetta Green’s to see what she could do for me.

NINE
    W YVETTA GREEN BENT OVER an elderly client, tenderly arranging her sunset red curls into thin ringlets. The client, Miss Peterson, was roughly the same age as Sweet Thing and wore a hot pink jumpsuit and a thick gold chain around her long, birdlike neck. She was a tiny woman who was further dwarfed by Wyvetta’s lush pink chair.
    “There you go, Miss Peterson. This color really suits you,” Wyvetta said, giving her a motherly pat as she glanced over her shoulder at me. “Hey, girl, how you doing?”
    “I’ve seen better days.”
    “Wasn’t that you up there doing all that laughing?”
    “You could hear me down here?”
    “I hear a lot of stuff you don’t think I can,” Wyvetta said with a chuckle.
    “Some days you gotta laugh to keep from crying,” Miss Peterson chimed in.
    Wyvetta shook her head. “I seen some strange ones climbing those stairs to your office, honey, but this morning just about took the cake.”
    All I could do was roll my eyes.
    “Wyvetta, was that Treyman Barnes parked outside the Biscuit just now?” Miss Peterson asked.
    “Yes, I believe it was.”
    “What’s he doing in this neighborhood?”
    Wyvetta shrugged, throwing me a covert glance.
    “I knew his daddy,” Miss Peterson continued. “We called him Trey. Knew him
good,
too. Inside
and
out. Didn’t you tell me once you knew the son? Maybe he was over here to see you?” She added a sly wink.
    “I knew his son, but not like you knew his daddy, Miss Peterson,” Wyvetta corrected her.
    “You’re an inspiration, Wyvetta. I just wish I’d known you when I had more hair.” Miss Peterson, taking the hint, changed the subject.
    “You look just fine with the hair you have, Miss Peterson. Why don’t you settle down in that chair across the room and Maydell will do something with them nails? How about a pedicure?”
    “Ooh, I like that! Today I feel like treating myself like the treasure I am!” Maydell, seated in a rolling chair across the room, dragged the cart of lotions and polishes to where Miss Peterson sat. A recent hire, Maydell was a plump, light-skinned woman in her mid twenties with blond dreadlocks and bright red lipstick. She was dressed in a cerise and pink smock, which matched the color scheme of the shop. She had a charming, lazy smile that made you like her, but her slowness in other departments got on Wyvetta’s nerves, who threatened to fire her “do-nothing behind” at least once a week. But Maydell was good with customers, and they were generous with tips, so it all worked out.
    Wyvetta studied my face. “You down here for them brows?”
    “The works, Wyvetta. I need the works.”
    She nodded as if she understood, then whispered, “You know I got that you-know-what stashed in the back room if you want to grab yourself a nip.”
    I shook my head. If I got started on that bourbon, no telling when I’d stop.
    “Well, you’re in luck today, sweetie. I just had a cancellation. Come on in here and sit down. I’ll be with you in a New York minute.”
    I settled down in one of her cushiony chairs, and she fastened a cerise smock around my neck.
    “You gonna have some color today, Miss Tamara? Everyone loves that Sunset Red!” said Maydell from her perch at Miss Peterson’s fingertips.
    “Not today, Maydell.” I