“I’m not a child,” Claire said, struggling up.
“Help her!” Minna repeated, louder and more emphatic.
No doubt that she would slap him if Claire didn’t do something. “Did you pass on my request to delay picking the Valencias?”
Minna stopped short. “Yes.”
“And to not spray?”
Minna nodded, not daring to look at her.
“Well, it didn’t work out so well. So we’re going back to the old schedule.”
Claire was standing, perspiring from the effort despite the coolness of the afternoon air. Octavio and Minna stood, rooted, at a standoff while Claire swayed back and forth like a pendulum between them. “Please, Minna, take my hand,” she ordered, and almost collapsed into her arms. “I need to lie down.”
Minna almost lifted her off her feet, her arm around Claire’s waist. “Luego!” she hissed behind her.
They staggered back to the house, Minna seething.
“Put me down now,” Claire said at the door. It took her a minute to catch her breath. “You will never give an order again having to do with the running of this farm. Do you understand?”
“But—”
Claire raised her hand. “I don’t want to hear about it. I covered for you this one time only, but you aren’t making any friends. You better start.”
“They hate me.”
“Stop giving them something to hate. Change your behavior. I don’t want to ever hear about you abusing the workers again, do you hear? Don’t think I won’t fire you if I have to.”
* * *
One of the mysteries in life was how one took for granted its joys — health, love, and happiness — until they disappeared, and then one was consumed in mourning their passing. There had been happiness in Claire’s life, but it passed too quickly, overwhelmed by the drudgery of work, bills, and tending to family. There had even been rare moments of grace after Josh’s passing.
Claire remembered one particularly bad day afterward when she had walked out alone to the lemon tree where he had been found. What had she been looking for? Grief and sorrow weighed her down, and she lay on the ground beneath the tree. Without a sound, Gwen came up behind her. Had she been following her? For how long? And why? Side by side they lay on the ground till they both fell asleep, so many hours that nature forgot about them in its midst. Claire woke and felt she was in an enchanted garden — dragonflies flew above her face, one bumped into her motionless knee, while Gwen slept the slumber of an enchanted princess, small twigs scattered in her beautiful long hair.
Claire lost herself in the blue of the sky, the white clouds emptying her mind. A hummingbird balanced in the air above her, in the silence his whirring the engine of the world. Would it be too crushing a burden to carry on one’s life filled with the knowledge of one’s luck, the richness of the gifts bestowed on one?
* * *
After the first month of treatment, Claire’s hair had begun falling out, but one morning, she rose to find a majority of her hair had stayed behind on the pillow — a last, blond nest. She sat stranded in the bed. Claire did not consider herself as formerly possessing a beauty that was now lost. Her hair had always been too fine and thin, never growing past her shoulders. Rather it was simply that she had the eerie premonition she was losing parts of herself — as if an arm had come off here, a leg there — what would ultimately be left? Sans hair, sans breasts, sans pillowcases, checking accounts, orange trees, daughters, dishes, husband, son. How many parts equaled the sum total that formed the essence of each person? Certainly not hair — hair must be the least of the markers of one’s being — yet there she was, stranded, hysterical, in mourning for her hair.
Minna came in with breakfast. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
Claire shook her head and pointed, accusing, to the pillow, speechless. Mrs. Girbaldi was expected for lunch, but Claire wanted to hide forever in her bed.
“Oh,” Minna said, and set the tray on the floor, sat on the bed, and took her in her arms. She rocked Claire like a child, till she was soothed. Claire felt too destroyed to be reserved or shy. She cried abjectly, all self-consciousness and inhibition gone. In just such a way, she had comforted her girls when, inconsolable, they grieved over the death of a pet, or some other long-forgotten misfortune. To them such grief was deadly serious, and she treated it as such. Likewise, no matter how foolish she might appear now, the sick had privileges. She would be forgiven by Minna. Rage and confusion poured out. When she finally settled down, Minna kissed her forehead and said, “Now that’s over, we must get to work.”
After Claire had dressed, Minna placed her on a kitchen stool (the same stool that Claire had used to cut Gwen’s, Lucy’s, and Josh’s hair) and took out a small pair of silver sewing scissors and began to snip the last straggly remnants. Each cut strand carefully placed on an outspread cloth, added to that from the pillow, not allowed to fall on the ground, sparing her evidence of her weakening, disappearing self. When Claire had only a soft buzz cut, Minna took out a razor and a can of shaving gel. As the razor skimmed Claire’s head, Minna hummed a tune Claire thought sounded like a lullaby she used to know. Claire looked out the window, pretending it was an ordinary haircut, pretending that all this was happening to someone else.
Ersulie nain nain oh! Ersulie nain nain oh!
Ersulie ya gaga gaaza, La roseé fait bro-
dè tou temps soleil par lévé La ro seé fait bro-
dè tou temps soleil par lévé Ersulie nain nain oh!
The phone rang — Gwen’s day — and Claire motioned to Minna the excuse that she was asleep. Minna talked on the phone several minutes, then hung up.
“You must let them know you are okay,” she said. “They will blame me.” Minna brought out a small jar of red paste and rubbed it on Claire’s head. “This is to soothe the skin.”
Claire nodded, eased by the gravelly, warm feel of the tincture, like sand mixed in warm honey, compared to her chilled nakedness without it. Her skull felt small and fragile as an egg.
Next Minna took out a small pot of brilliant blue liquid and a small paintbrush. “This is for good healing. The hair will grow more beautiful than before. I will make you as beautiful as the goddess Erzulie.”
Claire sat still and refused to think what she looked like, simply basked in Minna’s attention.
A knocking at the door, and Mrs. Girbaldi, as usual, let herself in. When she walked into the kitchen, her lipsticked mouth dropped open. “My lord, you look like a Purple People Eater.”
All three of them howled with laughter, and so Claire was able to survive into the next hour.
* * *
After lunch, Claire’s newly bald head wrapped in the magenta scarf, Minna led them single file out over the lawn. She sang the same song she sang earlier, but this time it was clear to Claire that it was familiar only in her attraction to it. At each turn, Minna threw a small curl of hair, then she gave them each a handful to accompany her. Bits of Claire were scattered over the lawn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Girbaldi turn away and wipe at her face. Was it indeed a rehearsal of a funeral? But Claire did not feel ghoulish. She imagined her hair lining birds’ nests, squirrels’ dens, rabbit warrens. She herself, formerly insubstantial and windblown, would become rock solid, sinking down into the earth, forming roots that fingered their way down into the soil. Her hair, herself, resurrected.
* * *
Mrs. Girbaldi, caught in Claire’s need, stayed through the afternoon, read while she slept, made her famous corn-and-tomato soup for dinner. The phone rang, and Claire asked her to answer it. It was Lucy, alarmed by the news from Gwen that Claire wasn’t well.