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Authors: Ann Howard Creel
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don’t have a boat, remember?”
“You done right so far. You got yourself a good skill. You just work on the boats; that’s legal. But nothing more, ye hear?”
She called for Bea to come out of the bedroom. Bea sashayed in and took her place at the table. Her presence usually put a smile on Silver’s face, but not tonight. He was still fuming about Frieda, who stabbed at her food as they ate in uncharacteristic silence, the food sticking in her throat. She couldn’t take Silver’s disapproving stare a moment longer. Sitting up tall, she pointed at Silver and Bea with her fork. “Look at us. We don’t drink whiskey or smoke tobacco. We don’t make easy money, even though it’s sitting five miles out on the water. If only we were churchgoers, we might qualify for sainthood.”
Bea laughed. “Speaking of church,” she said, “old Emil paid a thousand dollars after the raid on his speakeasy, got out of jail, and then bought some new windows for the Episcopal church. He didn’t even leave town.”
“See what I mean?” Frieda said to Silver.
“Where’d you hear that story?” Silver asked Bea.
“At school.”
“I thought you went to school to learn about history and geography.”
Bea smiled. “This is history being made, and it’s all about geography around here. We’re right in the hot spot. Besides, we have to gossip from time to time. It keeps things interesting.”
Silver finally gave in and smiled at Bea.
Frieda took a good look at her sister. She’d grown up overnight into a young woman. Now sixteen, she still held on to some little girl’s mannerisms, but she’d filled out, blooming into something beautiful amid the drabness of their existence. Paint peeling on the walls, scuffed floors, the smell of fish and cooking grease. Yellowed curtains and a sagging porch. Bea’s loveliness and fragility seemed out of place here.
“And speaking of keeping things interesting,” Bea said to Frieda, “I want you to cut my hair tonight.”
Bea’s hair trailed down almost to her waist. Every night she put it up in pin curls so that in the morning it fell in long, soft waves.
“I want that new style, short, like the girls who dance the Charleston in the city.”
“I like it long,” said Silver.
“I don’t know how to cut hair,” said Frieda, who always kept hers pulled back with a bandanna or tucked under a hat.
Bea waved a hand through the air. “How hard could it be?”
After dinner Frieda sharpened a pair of scissors and followed her sister into the bedroom, where the only mirror—a cracked one—hung on the wall. Bea always spread her books and papers, along with magazine clippings of dresses and hats she liked, all over the bed. Bea pushed aside some of the papers and perched on the edge of the bed. She’d taken down the mirror and was holding it in front of her face, peering at herself as if already imagining a new, more sophisticated girl with a chic haircut.
“Look at this bed!” Frieda exclaimed. “Always covered with your things! And last night you hogged all the covers.” Frieda breathed in the smell of Bea’s books, cheap lavender cologne, and the room’s faint scent of mold. “I wish I had my own bed.”
“No one should have to sleep with you ! All that tossing and turning in your sleep, as if you’re a boat lost at sea.”
Bea turned her head this way and that as she gazed into the mirror. She flattened her hand and held it just below her chin. “Here. That’s where I want you to cut it.”
“That’s too short.”
“It’s my hair, not yours.”
Frieda raked a brush through her sister’s hair.
Bea cringed. “Ouch! You’re too rough.”
Frieda didn’t respond, though her hands instinctively eased back.
“Always too rough,” Bea said more pensively, smiling into the mirror, as if checking to make sure her teeth still sat in perfect alignment. “Just get on with it, will you? I have a book to finish and an exam tomorrow.”
Frieda made
“You done right so far. You got yourself a good skill. You just work on the boats; that’s legal. But nothing more, ye hear?”
She called for Bea to come out of the bedroom. Bea sashayed in and took her place at the table. Her presence usually put a smile on Silver’s face, but not tonight. He was still fuming about Frieda, who stabbed at her food as they ate in uncharacteristic silence, the food sticking in her throat. She couldn’t take Silver’s disapproving stare a moment longer. Sitting up tall, she pointed at Silver and Bea with her fork. “Look at us. We don’t drink whiskey or smoke tobacco. We don’t make easy money, even though it’s sitting five miles out on the water. If only we were churchgoers, we might qualify for sainthood.”
Bea laughed. “Speaking of church,” she said, “old Emil paid a thousand dollars after the raid on his speakeasy, got out of jail, and then bought some new windows for the Episcopal church. He didn’t even leave town.”
“See what I mean?” Frieda said to Silver.
“Where’d you hear that story?” Silver asked Bea.
“At school.”
“I thought you went to school to learn about history and geography.”
Bea smiled. “This is history being made, and it’s all about geography around here. We’re right in the hot spot. Besides, we have to gossip from time to time. It keeps things interesting.”
Silver finally gave in and smiled at Bea.
Frieda took a good look at her sister. She’d grown up overnight into a young woman. Now sixteen, she still held on to some little girl’s mannerisms, but she’d filled out, blooming into something beautiful amid the drabness of their existence. Paint peeling on the walls, scuffed floors, the smell of fish and cooking grease. Yellowed curtains and a sagging porch. Bea’s loveliness and fragility seemed out of place here.
“And speaking of keeping things interesting,” Bea said to Frieda, “I want you to cut my hair tonight.”
Bea’s hair trailed down almost to her waist. Every night she put it up in pin curls so that in the morning it fell in long, soft waves.
“I want that new style, short, like the girls who dance the Charleston in the city.”
“I like it long,” said Silver.
“I don’t know how to cut hair,” said Frieda, who always kept hers pulled back with a bandanna or tucked under a hat.
Bea waved a hand through the air. “How hard could it be?”
After dinner Frieda sharpened a pair of scissors and followed her sister into the bedroom, where the only mirror—a cracked one—hung on the wall. Bea always spread her books and papers, along with magazine clippings of dresses and hats she liked, all over the bed. Bea pushed aside some of the papers and perched on the edge of the bed. She’d taken down the mirror and was holding it in front of her face, peering at herself as if already imagining a new, more sophisticated girl with a chic haircut.
“Look at this bed!” Frieda exclaimed. “Always covered with your things! And last night you hogged all the covers.” Frieda breathed in the smell of Bea’s books, cheap lavender cologne, and the room’s faint scent of mold. “I wish I had my own bed.”
“No one should have to sleep with you ! All that tossing and turning in your sleep, as if you’re a boat lost at sea.”
Bea turned her head this way and that as she gazed into the mirror. She flattened her hand and held it just below her chin. “Here. That’s where I want you to cut it.”
“That’s too short.”
“It’s my hair, not yours.”
Frieda raked a brush through her sister’s hair.
Bea cringed. “Ouch! You’re too rough.”
Frieda didn’t respond, though her hands instinctively eased back.
“Always too rough,” Bea said more pensively, smiling into the mirror, as if checking to make sure her teeth still sat in perfect alignment. “Just get on with it, will you? I have a book to finish and an exam tomorrow.”
Frieda made
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