Doug Dorst - The Surf Guru

“It’s my favorite, too.”

“Would you be willing to work with me on the design? I have some ideas.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “You’re the customer.”

And they talked. They talked about the different shapes they’d woven from spun sugar. They talked about roulades and pistachio nougatines. They talked about how so much depends on the quality of your butter. Before he left, he asked if he could see her kitchen. “Someday,” he said, touching her arm, “I’m going to quit the money world and start a business like yours.” She covered his hand with hers and held it there, just long enough to suggest there is something passing between us . And if she was mistaken, so what? She was a saleswoman. Nothing wrong with a little flirtation to grease the pan of commerce, so to speak. Forty-two years old, and she could still catch a man’s eye when she chose.

She led Dinaburg into the kitchen, which was all polished white and gleaming silver. Three years before, when she’d decided to go into business for herself, it had been built as an addition to the house, connected to the family kitchen by a set of pocket doors she could close when she needed to work in peace. She had watched as the new kitchen took shape, watched as the raw floor was tiled with perfect white hexagons, as cabinets were installed and industrial refrigerators were fitted into nooks, as ovens and cooling racks were wheeled in, as the last dusty boot print of a contractor was mopped away. The business — Kacy’s Kitchen — took off immediately. Some nights she’d stay up long after Roger and the kids had gone to bed, sitting at the small desk in the corner, planning her schedule and sketching designs until she drifted off to sleep, lost in the room’s warm baritone hum.

“Hello,” Dinaburg said, looking away from the sixty-pound mixer he’d been admiring. “Who’s this pretty young lady?” Kacy’s sixteen-year-old daughter was standing in the doorway, a ring of car keys swinging from one pudgy, quick-bitten finger. She was wearing her new hat, a white cloche with a silk sunflower on the front. She peered into the kitchen, as if she weren’t allowed to cross the threshold. Which she wasn’t, of course, because of the hair situation. One stray hair in a cake could ruin Kacy’s reputation.

“Mr. Dinaburg,” Kacy said, “meet my daughter, April.”

“That’s a beautiful hat,” Dinaburg said.

April stared at her shoes, as if the compliment had come in a language she didn’t know.

“What do you say, April?” Kacy prompted.

“My mom picked it out,” April said.

“ Thank you would be a more ladylike response,” Kacy said.

April stuffed her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans, which Kacy thought made her legs look like tree trunks. “I’m going out with Skillet,” she said.

Skillet . Like some gap-toothed idiot popping out of a cornfield on Hee Haw . Dinaburg probably thought they were all a bunch of hicks. “His real name is William,” Kacy explained. She turned to tell April to be home for dinner, but her daughter was gone. For a big, clumsy girl, she could disappear quickly.

“Pretty soon you’ll be making a cake for her big day,” Dinaburg said.

“Oh, we’re not in any hurry,” Kacy said, with the carefully cultivated lightness she used whenever she talked about April. Frankly, with each bride she saw while assembling her cakes on-site, with each pink-cheeked young woman suffering radiantly through jangly nerves and sprayed-stiff Jackie O. hair, she found herself less and less sure that April would ever get married. All she did was mope, mope, mope. Only sixteen, and already her ankles were disappearing in fat. And, of course, the hair. Good Lord, the hair. “No,” Kacy said, “we don’t want to push her.”

After Dinaburg left for the airport, Kacy poured herself a glass of wine to celebrate. He’d told her he’d call as soon as he got the go-ahead from his wife. A January wedding at the Four Seasons. Five hundred guests, many of them wealthy and important: a software mogul from California; several congressmen; even Rudy Giuliani himself! It could be the break of a lifetime. She’d be called for jobs in New York, Washington, San Francisco. She’d have to hire employees. Down the road, if April matured a little and stopped with the hair strangeness, maybe they could even work together, mother and daughter.

She drank the wine in three large sips and allowed herself the luxury of stretching out on the couch and closing her eyes. The wine spread warmth inside her, and the central air purred and breathed cool air over her skin. Five minutes of peace. Then back to work: Marisol was coming to clean in the morning, and Kacy had to tidy up. She took the vacuum upstairs into April’s bedroom. She opened the curtains, and golden afternoon sun lit the room. The pink walls were bare — no photos of friends, no posters of pop singers, no prints of horses, nothing. As if April were unwilling to let slip even the tiniest bit of information about who she was.

She pulled the bed away from the wall and looked behind the headboard. A layer of April’s mouse-brown hair was spread over the baseboard molding and the carpet. Goddamnit. She’d expected this, but that didn’t make it less of a disappointment. She kicked the vacuum on and watched the hair disappear into the nozzle as the motor whined. She cleaned it all up — every strand, as far as she could tell — and pushed the bed back into place.

Kacy had discovered the hair behind the bed when April was eleven. She’d stared at it for minutes, trying to understand how it had gotten there. There was only one explanation, hard as it was to believe: her daughter would lie in bed and pull her hair out, over and over and over. The image sickened her. It was the kind of behavior you’d expect of a sick dog or a lab rat, not a healthy young girl. She’d cried, then, right there on April’s bed. After a while she decided the best plan was to clean up the mess and keep mum. Her daughter wasn’t a freak. Her daughter could work through problems on her own. And at least you couldn’t see any bald spots.

Four years later, on the day of her mother’s funeral, she noticed a patch of scalp in the center of April’s head, just above the hairline, as obvious as a third eye. That night, she walked into the bathroom while April was brushing her teeth. She faced her daughter in the mirror, pointed to the bald spot, and said, “Do you want people to see this?” April stared at the reflection of the two of them while toothpaste foam leaked sadly from the corner of her mouth, until finally she squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head no. The next day, Kacy bought four hats and left them on April’s bed. She could cover herself up until the hair grew back. It would be their secret, and they’d get through it together, the way Kacy and her own mother had when Kacy was seventeen and got pregnant in the bed of Tommy Odom’s truck. She and Mother went to the doctor together, took care of business, and never spoke about it again.

April’s hair grew back, but new bald patches had appeared on her head in cycles: at her temple; at her pate; in a ragged circle at the back of her head; then at the temple again, after the hair had grown back in. Kacy was reminded of cattle moving from pasture to pasture, grazing each space barren before moving on. And Roger? He’d never seemed to notice, and for her money, if he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to how his daughter looked, then he didn’t deserve to be part of the solution.

It’s a stage , Kacy reminded herself. She’ll grow out of it, and later, she’ll be amazed that she ever did this to herself. She went to close the curtains and paused at the window. A hummingbird darted between honeysuckle blossoms. Next door, Mr. Weeks, a bent and sun-scorched old man, was tending his tomatoes. Through the trees, a sliver of Town Lake sparkled in the sun. A world of whites and golds and greens where nothing was hopeless, where no cause was lost.