WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) by Fowler Robertson Page A

Discussions were varied; nothing but a big yick-yacking, jaw-jacking, huffing and puffing gossip fest. Complaints, whining, money, lack of money, equal pay, so and so said this and that, whose wearing what dress, who died in Hollywood, the latest trendsetter, who killed who, whose pregnant, who died, who married, whose cheating and a whole, whole lot of politics. Here lately the talk is all about protesters lining the streets of Washington against the Vietnam War or the shocking deaths of music legends, Jimmy and Janis. Local gossip spread like wildfire in the suffering shack and Mag and I were right smack in the middle of it. I learned right then and there, I did not want to grow up and be like those chatty types.  Talk and talk. God. They just never shut up. The only glimmer of hope is Ms. Blanche, the shampoo lady who did not participate.  Ms. Blanche was a large round black woman.  Everything about her was circled and puffy, round face and round eyes, not slanted in the least, round belly, and round legs like two pillars mounted in the ground.  She was considerably older than the rest of the ladies who worked there.  She wore a blue wrap around her head and knotted in the back and a matching ap ron to cover her oversized chest.  I sat close to her on the red bench against the wall which was near her shampoo station.  She reminded me of Maw Sue in a way that was comfortable, like a big hug. She walked slow and with a limp.  If she stood still, she leaned to one side.   While s he scrubbed women’s heads, she hummed and it made her plump cheeks vibrate. It reminded me of the bees that invaded the wondering tree in spring.  It soothed my chaotic mind.  At other times, she’d sing old time gospel, her voice soulful, filling the room with spells and made us yearn for things unseen. It was Jesus this and Jesus that. One day, she must have got tired of Jesus because she sang a different song.
    “There will be an answer, let it be….let it beeeeeee, whisper words of wisdom, let it beeeeeee.” The last note echoed across the hair dryers and cut through a thick fog of Aqua Net hairspray like a sword.  Heads swirled and eyes bugged.  Low gasps could be heard from a host of red lips, drowning out the clink of hair curlers, scissor snips, and whirring dryers. I knew the Beatles song well enough to hum it with her, although I didn’t remember all the words.  But w ho knew it was socially unacceptable for a Negro woman to sing a white persons song?  I certainly didn’t. It was a standoff at the okay corral of beauty shops. Ms. Blanche had no idea she started a commotion. She was singing and scrubbing some poor blonde’s head, unaware that the world had stopped rotating.  The silence rose above the noise like a roar of a train. Lena was under the hair dryer flipping through a magazine, oblivious to anything around her. I longed for her to jump up and say “Stop it. Stop it right now. This is wrong.” Basically, I wanted my mother to be someone she wasn’t.   And then the silence broke with a wrathful noise. 
    “Girl, you’re singing is NOT the answer.” Said Cruella Deville or that’s who she looked like to me, so much I scanned the room for puppies.  She swiveled in her chair, black cape tied around her neck, elbows poking out on each side.  In the chair she looked like a bat sitting right side up but when stood up, all I could see was a crow flapping its wings and japing its beak.   
     “That‘s a Beatles song.” She said pointing her fingers as if Paul McCartney was in her pocket. You stupid woman. We know it’s a Beatles song.  Sit down and shut up.  My mind was on the verge of exploding.  She  charged across the room stopping mid-center in a glare.  She raised h er hand and snapped her fingers.  Ms. Blanche didn’t look up.  She was in the land of scrubbing bubbles. 
    “There will be an answer….let it beeee.” Ms. Blanche sang.  The hair dryers whirred. The scissors