Tiger, Tiger by Margaux Fragoso Page A

person’s hair. My daughter could have lice now. She could have lice in her hair!” Poppa was the only one who was still eating; he ate while he waited for her answer.
    “The comb was clean; it was washed. I didn’t get the comb, anyway; Peter picked it up. It was only a quarter. It was a good deal. It was clean. It’s a good comb. It was cleaned beforehand; Peter washed it.”
    I didn’t know why, but I felt sick to my stomach as soon as she said the comb had been cleaned first.
    “Who combed the hair? That man’s wife? Wait, they are not even married. Okay, the woman, that woman he lives with. Did that hippie woman he lives with comb your daughter’s hair? The reason I ask is because you are not capable of anything. You are not even capable of combing your daughter’s hair. I have to keep it short because she will look like a rat otherwise. I have to keep up on it because nobody else does. So tell me, did that hippie woman, did she comb out the hair for you? Ask her if she can come here and cook one night. Do you think she can come here and cook me a nice roast pork?”
    “I hate sarcasm. I would cook if you’d let me.”
    “And burn this house down? I do the cooking here. I am the one who cleans. I do everything here. I do everything and you do nothing. I am a slave for you people.”
    “I’m tired of hearing it,” Mommy muttered.
    “What was that?”
    “Nothing. Anyway, Inès didn’t comb her hair; Peter combed her hair. He did a good job: it’s not tangled anymore.”
    “You let that man comb your daughter’s hair?” Then louder, “You let that man comb your daughter’s hair?”
    “Yes, what’s wrong with that?”
    Poppa got silent and then said, “I need to meet this man; this man who causes such a great fuss!”
    “He’s not a fuss. Margaux spends most of her time with the two boys and the little girl.”
    “What little girl?”
    “There’s a little girl, Karen.”
    “There was no girl before.”
    “She’s a foster child. I, for one, think it is wonderful for people to take in children from bad homes.”
    “This girl is from a bad home? What kind of bad home?”
    “The mother was a drug addict. The poor thing.”
    “My daughter is around people who are from bad families.”
    “Peter’s family is not a bad family. It’s a very good family.”
    “These people are not even married.”
    “So what? They are a nice family!”
    “Tell me, what kind of values are you trying to teach your daughter?” Poppa folded his arms across his chest.
    “I would rather not talk about this.”
    “So, so . . .” Poppa was quiet for a moment. “Do you let her take a shower there? If she gets dirty outside you don’t let her use their bathtub, do you?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    “She could get a disease.”
    “She doesn’t use it.”
    “I want to meet this man, you know. I want to meet that man and the woman, too. I want them to come to Benihana.”
    “Benihana? They don’t have that kind of money. You’re going to have to pick a cheaper restaurant, something within their price range. It’s not easy with three kids to support. They don’t have it easy. Not at all.”
    “Well, you can tell these people that I will treat. I will pay for them both . I can afford it.”
    The next day, a Thursday, after work, Poppa told me he was taking me for a walk. I asked where we were going, and he said we were going to get ice cream. About two blocks into the walk, I sensed Poppa was lying; the Carvel was on the corner of Thirty-eighth and Bergenline Avenue, but we were on Thirty-ninth and Hudson Avenue. Poppa would have turned by now, since he preferred walking on Bergenline to taking the boring side streets. And there was no way he would want to pass Union Hill High School, where, according to him, all the savages gathered.
    “Where are we going, Poppa?”
    He hesitated. “To the beauty salon.”
    I stopped and just stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, with Poppa tugging my arm.
    “Let’s