Story Two. Part 1.
Editor’s Note: Beth Kalet's story Salon Confessional follows. “Salon” is one of 7 short stories included in Beth’s book Seven Stories, published in 2012. The story will be published on Hummingbird in three parts, one per week over the next weeks.
Beth, a Hummingbird Guest Contributor, is an accomplished writer and editor. Her work, and her own story encouraged us to reach out to her.
In Salon Confessional, Beth changes gears from Trouble’s Always Just Around the Corner. “Salon” utilizes less “active” intrigue; and more of two women looking inward. Somehow, these disparate women, thrust together by chance, understand each other, and offer the other what they sorely need.
And ONWARD!
Book Cover Photo Credit: Diane Pell
Salon Confessional
Guinevere supported Carolyn’s right hand with her own left hand, assessing Carolyn’s cuticles. She tore a hank of cotton, pressed it against the nail polish remover and saturated the cotton. Enough of that stuff scenting the air, just before lunchtime, and Guinevere – all 102 pounds of her -- would float away.
She punched at each shiny red finger on Carolyn’s outstretched hand until only pale stains showed. The nails were now like canvases washed down; chalk paintings rained off a sidewalk; dishes lightly rinsed after a breakfast of strawberry pancakes.
Beside her, on the small table at which the two women faced each other, sat the bottle of red nail polish and Carolyn’s cell phone. A call might come through.
Guinevere. Could that be her name? Carolyn once thought to ask, but couldn’t imagine a way that didn’t sound racist or dumb or suburban. Her name tag said Guinevere. The other women, all Asian, wore name tags pinned to their smocks, too: Susan and Ruth and Jenny and Gwendolyn. It was something like when you called for help with your computer and the thick-accented person at the help desk identified himself as Chuck. If only he could see you at your end of the phone, with your skeptical expression. But soon he was helping you unravel your problem and you were slowly making sense of his flattened “A”s, and his canned obsequiousness began to sound genuine. Possibly it was. What did you know?
But Guinevere, behind her expressionless eyes, her long black lashes and that still demeanor, who could know what she was thinking? She was inscrutable. Carolyn had been studying with her son Kenny for the SAT. Inscrutable was an SAT word that fit Guinevere to a T.
Sometimes, when Carolyn sat across from Guinevere, she thought she might like to crack that façade. To open her up and see what or who was inside. She imagined a simple and happy person, and sometimes she wanted to know her secret. But today, as she sat across from this tiny woman who held her hands lightly, professionally, like a physician, Carolyn thought of the wedding she was primping for. The red polish had been recommended by her daughter when she showed her the dress she would wear. No, commanded by her daughter. It struck Carolyn as a bit too candy apple, too fire-engine red. Her usual shade was blood red, several shades deeper than this. But Sage, her daughter, was probably right. Carolyn’s dress was black with a satin ribbon toward the bottom just before the flounce of the skirt. She was wearing a bright red wrap and red jewelry. The evening wedding was going to be held at an amusement park, and Sage had explained that this venue toned down the jewelry she ought to wear – more costumey, less fine – and indicated a lighter touch, too, on accents such as nail polish.
The bride was Sage’s best friend, Jackie Blackwell, who grew up on the same block and whose parents, Fern and Peter Blackwell, still lived in the house just two doors down from the one Carolyn and her husband Paul lived in. It used to be a joke among them, Fern and Sage, Peter and Paul, Carolyn and Jackie – they all had so much in common.
“You can take it out now,” Guinevere said, pointing to the dish of soapy scented water in which her hand was soaking. Carolyn had not responded to the gentle tug and Guinevere had to break the spell and speak to her. She smiled and Carolyn thought she was the loveliest looking girl in the world.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s OK. You were thinking.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said, grateful for the conversation. “I was thinking about my daughter. Do you have children?”
“Yes,” Guinevere said.
“I have a daughter and a son,” Carolyn rushed on, filling what for her had become an awkward silence. “My daughter’s best friend is getting married tonight, I think I told you when I came in and that’s why I’m changing my color.”
“Yes. You did say,” Guinevere said. She did not look at Carolyn, but continued her work, concentrating on the soaking, the hand massage and the many small tasks she did expertly over and over again in the course of a day.
Guinevere didn’t want to care about Carolyn or any other customers. She wanted to be polite, not nosy. Americans are so talkative, always assuming their lives are interesting to others. They respect no boundaries. Guinevere looked up at Carolyn, found her waiting for conversation to begin and so she looked down again at her work.
Guinevere, whose real name was Jin, had mastered the art of being in two places at once. She was there, at the nail salon mindfully doting on the hands and toes of American women. She was also not there. She had trained herself to perform the series of functions demanded of her job while rising in consciousness to another place. There she heard, faintly, voices of her childhood. Beach sounds and grandparents, greens sizzling in a pan, wooden utensils rapping, rhythmically moving vegetables across a hot skillet.
© Beth Kalet
Stay Tuned. Part 2 of Salon Confessional to follow.
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