On a Saturday afternoon in late May, Tillie grabbed her straw hat, preparing for a walk. She didn't mind walking by herself—she really preferred it—but today she realized that even if she wanted to invite a friend along, she wouldn't know whom to call. So many of their acquaintances were people Hooper met through work or the theater; in over three years, she had not stumbled upon any women she felt she could connect with. The thought was depressing. In college she'd had a tight circle of friends who always hung out together. They worked in the print room or painted together, dyed each others' hair, went out on the dance floor as a pack. Here she had spent more time searching for a job than a friend, and the reward was not nearly as satisfying.
As she opened the door, she squinted in the bright sun, dreading the coming summer, their fourth in Tucson. The next three or four months would be unbearably hot, and the heat would drag on until the very end of October, with only a slight relief in the evenings as fall approached. These summers bore no resemblance to the ones she remembered as a kid, when she'd run around outside all day, roller-skating, playing at the park, swimming at the public pool. Later, in college, she'd ride her bike around Newcastle Island, stop at the beach for a quick cold swim or at the Ice House for an ice cream cone. It felt good to be in the sun, to wear shorts for a few glorious months, to sit in the shade of a leafy green tree.
You have to let go, she told herself. You're not there anymore.
She didn't trust anyone who told her they liked the heat, except for maybe Hooper, and she swore that preparing for an outing in the sun (sunscreen, sunglasses, sun hat, more sunscreen) was as much of a chore as bundling for the snow. She couldn't bear to wear long sleeves and long pants, as did Hooper, although on the other hand she cringed at the thought of the sun's harsh rays seeking to damage her skin.
Closing the door, she saw a man standing at the curb—or rather, not at the mailbox, and not just standing there but pulling open the hatch, and he wasn't the mail man, either. He had wavy brown hair, a thick mustache, and a Hawaiian shirt. An old bicycle leaned against him. When he saw Tillie, he slammed the box shut, got on the bike, and rode away.
She called out and made an effort to follow him, but he rode quickly, and she watched as he sped down the alley and just barely made the light at Campbell. Returning to the mailbox, she saw the mail had come already. Another cable TV offer, a newsletter from the art museum, the gas bill—and an envelope addressed to “Cosmo's Friends.” No stamp or return address. Did that man leave it there? Or was he after a possible check or credit card information? Whatever, it was creepy. Tempted as she was to open the letter, she decided to wait until Hooper got home.
A small boy raced into the yard. “Where's Cosmo?” he demanded.
“Hey, Joey,” she greeted him. “Cosmo's with Hooper. Does your mom know you're here?”
Joey shrugged. “Guess what? Dinosaur means 'terrible lizard.' Lizard! Rarrrr!” he roared, running from one end of the yard to another and back again.
“Joey!” His mother called from next door.
“He's here, Donna!” Tillie yelled back. “See, Joey, you have to tell your mom when you come over here.”
Donna came out of the house. “Joey, don't go running off like that!” she scolded, but without conviction, and gave him a hug as he ran into her. “Sorry if he was bugging you, Tillie.”
“Not at all. I think he was doing his T-Rex imitation.”
“Yeah, that's his thing now.” Tillie hardly knew Donna, whose aunt lived next door, but she liked her, her easy way with four-year-old Joey, her confidence. It was hard to guess how old she was. She was tall and almost gangly, with bobbed hair dyed a deep black, her full lips painted bright red, and a ring in her nose. She could pass for twenty, Tillie thought, but when Donna was watching Joey her smile revealed lines around her eyes that made her seem ten years older. To her dismay, Tillie usually felt shy around her, mousey and ordinary, but today she was suddenly moved to invite her in for coffee.
“Or iced tea, maybe? I've got some crayons, if Joey likes to color.”
“Thanks, but I told Aunt Ellen I'd drive her to the beauty parlor. Her car's busted. Some other time, maybe.” Donna was feeling anxious; Ellen liked to be early to her appointment, and they were already running late. Joey spilled grape juice all over himself and the kitchen floor, and after Donna had cleaned it all up and changed his clothes, he refused to put his shoes on. Another battle. And now, finally shod, he'd run out of the house.
“You know,” said Tillie, getting half an idea, “I used to cut hair for a living. I wonder if your aunt would be interested in having me do it for her? I mean, next time I could do it in her own home for cheaper than the salon.”
“Really! Thanks, I'll ask her.” Donna clapped her hands. “Joey! Time to go.” Joey roared and ran into the house.
“Listen,” Donna said, wanting to repay Tillie's kindness, “my band's playing tonight at Club Congress. I mean, we're not that great, but, you know, if you feel like getting out.”
“Thanks. What kind of music?”
Donna was walking backwards now. “Sort of folk-punk.”
Tillie wasn't even sure what that meant; it had been so long since she and Hooper had heard live music. “What's your band's name?”
“Bauhaus. “After the style of art?” she asked hopefully. “No, we just liked the sound of it.” Donna waved and hurried into the house. When she got home from her walk, Tillie rummaged in a drawer for a sketchpad and tried to recapture the face of the man at the mailbox. She was definitely out of practice; it turned into a cartoon man with a huge nose and forehead, a broom of a mustache. His hair splayed out like Medusa's and the more she played with it, the worse it got. When Hooper and Cosmo came in the door, she set it aside.
“Here.” He handed her a full plastic sack. “What's this?”
“Open it.” She looked inside. “Paints.” She pulled out small tubes of crimson and ultramarine blue. There were a half-dozen more.
He watched her face for a sign she was pleased. He'd stopped at the art supply store on a whim, wanting to surprise her with a small gift, maybe a sketchpad or colored pencils, but once he saw the rows of paints and canvases on sale he got more and more enthusiastic. He couldn't just buy one or two things; he didn't want her to feel she was lacking any materials. He'd been so proud of himself, but now, suddenly, he wasn't sure he'd done the right thing. She might just take it as a reminder that she wasn't painting.
“Some brushes, too.” He gave her a narrow paper sack. “And some stuff that's probably toxic but the guy said you'd need. I've got canvases out in the truck. Sort of a re-starter set.” He waited for her reaction.
“That's very sweet of you, Hoop. Thanks so much. This is all good quality stuff.” She was touched by his thoughtfulness and knew he just wanted to make her happy, but that wasn't why she was close to tears. What was she to do with all this? She felt like an elderly aunt who has opened yet another bottle of gardenia-scented perfume, or a bright floral scarf, or some other useless gift, and wonders when people will stop giving her what they think she needs.
“You're welcome.” He was relieved. “That art supply store is a lot of fun.”
“Isn't it?” Tillie agreed. “Is something wrong?” Tillie told him about the man at the mailbox. “I even tried to draw a picture of him, but look how weird it turned out.”
“Did he really have horns?” He laughed. “Horns!” She reached for the sketch. “That's his hair.” Hooper opened the mystery envelope and took out a newspaper clipping. “'Scientists Discover Cosmos' Missing Mass,'” he read aloud. “What the hell is this?”
“That's it? No note or anything?”
“No.” He read from the article. “'Scientists at Los Alamos National Laboratory have produced strong evidence that neutrinos, particles so slight they have long been thought to have no mass at all, may be more abundant and substantial than all ordinary matter in planets, stars, and galaxies. These may constitute a major component of an invisible, missing mass of the universe and could dictate its fate.'” He looked at her. “This is weird.”
“I'll say. Especially that it's addressed to 'Cosmo's Friends.' That means somebody has been watching us.”
“It could be from somebody who knows us. Just a little joke.”
“Maybe,” she said, unconvinced. “But who was that guy? And what's the point? Neutrinos? I don't get it.”
“Me, neither.”
At that moment, Cosmo started to wag her tail as if she'd just discovered it.
“And if the dog understands,” he said, “she's not telling.”
***
Mrs. Driver, Donna's aunt, did indeed want Tillie to do her hair, and rang her door one evening to tell her so. Tillie agreed but was annoyed with herself. Why in the world had she offered to do the woman's hair and spoil her Saturday morning? Because, she realized, she liked Donna. She had wanted to make some overture of friendship, and this was all she could come up with. She'd been as foolish as an infatuated adolescent, and now she was stuck.
Tillie scarcely knew Mrs. Driver, who waved indifferently when they met outside but rarely stopped to talk. When she and Hooper first moved in, Tillie had invited her neighbor over for coffee. Mrs. Driver accepted reluctantly and left after one cup, which she drank black. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Driver, and Mrs. Driver she remained.
At eight-thirty on Saturday Tillie was at her doorstep, but the door opened before she could knock.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Driver, cigarette in hand. Her hair was damp: as Tillie had suggested, she'd already washed it herself. “We'll go into the kitchen.”
Tillie followed her through a cloud of smoke. This was the first time she had been in her home and she took a quick peek at the living room as they walked by. The shades were drawn and the room was dark, but she could dimly perceive a number of framed pictures on the walls.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Driver,” she said, suppressing a cough, “but do you think you could not smoke while I do this? I'm just not used to it.”
Mrs. Driver grumbled a response and snuffed out the cigarette.
The kitchen walls and cabinets were painted an unhealthy yellow—or perhaps just stained from years of smoke—and the high-backed kitchen chairs were covered in daisy-print vinyl. Stacks of women's magazines and newspapers covered the table, and a radio was blasting out a country music song. Tillie thought that Mrs. Driver would turn it down, but she simply pulled out a chair and said, “This okay?”
Tillie nodded, her nerves on edge. She couldn't bear to withstand forty minutes of this music, whether or not she seemed rude.
“Would you mind if we turned this down a little?” She had to speak loudly.
Mrs. Driver switched the radio off. There was sudden silence, except for a clock ticking.
Resolving to get this done as quickly as possible, Tillie pulled her equipment out of a tote bag and listened as Mrs. Driver explained how she wanted her hair. She draped a plastic cape around her shoulders, dampened her hair again with a spray bottle, and combed the water through. Her hair was coarse and dyed a conventional brown, but the roots showed dark gray with strands of silver. She was a small woman, so Tillie found it easy to work with her in the chair. When she asked her to tip her head forward, she barely complied, as though she were too stiff in her neck and shoulders.
On the refrigerator was taped a crayon drawing of a blue and orange sunflower, created by Joey. Donna must have written, in purple, “I love you Aunt Ellen.”
“Joey's a great little boy,” said Tillie. “So full of energy.”
“More than Donna can handle on her own, sometimes.”
“Oh, really. I wouldn't have guessed.” She had the impression that Donna could handle anything, but hesitated to contradict her client directly. She combed and clipped, glancing around the kitchen for some other topic of conversation. She saw a few small cacti on the windowsill, a bowl of grapefruit on the counter, and a drainer full of clean dishes. A pot of coffee, with half a cup left in it, was still sitting on the coffee maker and smelled burnt.
Mrs. Driver cleared her throat, and Tillie held off cutting, expecting a smoker's prolonged coughing.
“You got a nice dog there,” Mrs. Driver said.
“Thank you. She's really a sweetheart.”
“Your husband buy him at the kennel?
Oh, no, she was a stray.” Tillie let the husband remark slide, as well as the dog's gender.
“Certainly seems well behaved. Doesn't bark, does he?”
“Sometimes she does. If someone's walking through the alley or knocks on the door.” She removed the towel, shook off the clippings, and started to massage in a little setting gel.
“I used to have a dog. Little corgi. Smart as a whip, that dog.”
“Don't they need a lot of exercise?” Tillie was proud that her dog knowledge had expanded quite a bit in the last year.
“Yes, well. We had a lot of room in those days. My husband and I lived on a hundred acres in Vermont, years ago.”
“Really!” Tillie couldn't picture this woman in such a healthy environment.
“Oh, yes. We had a hay field that needed to be cut and baled twice a summer. I had a lovely herb garden.”
“I grew up in New England.” Tillie started in with the rollers. “Near Hartford.”
“There are those who wouldn't consider Connecticut a part of New England.”
“I suppose.” Standing behind, Tillie rolled her eyes. “Were you farmers, then?”
“My husband was a painter.”
“How wonderful.” That would explain the pictures in the living room. She wished she could turn on the light and go look.
“He was quite good. Did portraits, mostly. Traveled to Peru and the Amish country, too, to paint the people. But we had to come out here for my asthma some twenty years ago. He taught some classes. Died ten years ago now.”
“I'm so sorry.” Tillie was silent as she finished rolling the curlers. She felt almost callous as she plugged in the hair dryer and blew hot air on this poor widow's head, but the noise was a rather welcome distraction for a few minutes. Then she unrolled the curlers, brushed out the curls and trimmed the odd hairs sticking out. Standing in front of Mrs. Driver, she studied the height and evenness of the set.
“How's this?” Tillie gave her a hand mirror. “Be honest. I'm happy to change it if you don't like it.”
Mrs. Driver took the mirror in one hand and touched her hair with the other. She was scowling slightly. “Well, that's just fine. Looks nice.”
“I'm glad you like it. I think it looks nice, myself.”
Tillie removed the cape and shook it out while Mrs. Driver stood up and took her wallet out of her purse. She handed Tillie some bills. “That what we agreed on?”
“Thank you, yes. It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Driver.” She packed her bag quickly.
Mrs. Driver showed her to the door. “You take care of that dog, now,” she said from the doorstep, pulling a cigarette out of a pack.