Tara Ison - Ball - Stories

“Too late for that,” my friend says. “I already blew it.”

“Well, it’s a lot, I know,” the Saleswoman says. “But it’s like buying a car. You can buy a Chevy, or you can buy a Cadillac. It makes all the difference.”

My friend just gives her a wan, brief nod.

“Okay. That’s fine, I’m going to let you two talk about it. Such a face. . such a face deserves the best. Tell you what, dear, I’ll take off twenty percent if you want it, make it a sale price, all right? You let me know.” The Saleswoman veers off toward a young, bewigged housewife in a turtleneck and lisle stockings, carrying a bakery box.

“You look very elegant,” I tell her. “Sleek.”

I can see the pulse in the sad, stark vein on her temple.

“Listen, why don’t you let me chip in?” I say.

“Oh, please. No. Thank you.”

I can see the tremble to her sallow chin. “Are you tired?” I ask. “How about something to eat? Should we get you a snack?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You want some juice?”

“Stop babying me,” she snaps.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taken aback. “I’m trying to help.”

“No, I’m. .” She takes my hand; hers is looking like an old lady’s, waxy and clawlike. I wonder if she’s toxic, if the chemicals can seep out of her pores to poison all the innocent people around her.

“I’m not used to the role reversal, you know?” she says.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you for being so patient with me.”

I take my hand away to fuss with a wigstand. It’s a wire armature of an empty and featureless human head, like the model for a cyborg.

“I’ll just get this one,” she says, tired. “It’s fine. It’s nothing. Really, it’s fine.”

“Good,” I tell her. “You’re a Cadillac, you know,” and she smiles.

YOU’RE SEEING SOMEONE, aren’t you? she’d said to me those months ago. You have that glow.

Not really.

Come on, tell me the truth. My life is so boring.

So I made up a story, because she knew me too well, could probably smell it on me, a story to throw her off, Yeah, some new guy, but we’re keeping it just casual, nothing serious, nothing worth talking about. Don’t you think I’d tell you if it were anything real? I pointed out.

Damn , she said. I’m dying at least for something sordid.

It doesn’t even rise to the level of sordid , I told her. Sorry. It’s nothing. It doesn’t even count.

So, yes, it went on a while, a little thing that took surprising root. Shaving my legs and puffing my hair up wild every day and keeping a fresh sweep of makeup on, trying to get to and stay ready and perfect, in case he called to say he’d found us some time. He found it now and then, and I got good at patient. Just until it’s out of our systems , we assured each other, It’ll die a natural death and everything will go back to normal. And We’ll never tell, it isn’t even anything to tell. We’ll spare her. Until the mole took us all aback. Until that once-teasing wink of a birthmark on her brown thigh abruptly went lethal and foul. We need to stop, now, We need to think of her, now, yes. Be there for her. Let her have both of us, all of us . Both of us avoiding each other, now, we can’t even bear to be in the same room with each other, it’s too intense. Only happy smiles now, for her, and being the prince of a husband and the beloved best friend in the world we’re supposed to be, being there and keeping it all caring and real, for her.

WIG #3 ISa Farrah-esque blonde romp.

“Does this look like I know it’s retro?” she asks me. “Or like I don’t get the joke?”

She strikes a Farrah pose, head tilted back, a manic, toothy grin. We’re back on Hollywood Boulevard, in a place where all the wig styles call movie stars to mind. There’s also the “Halloween Line”: witches, vampires, Elvira, Rainbow Clown. Can I have you today? she’d asked on the phone. Can we have a quest day? Let’s go out in search of. Be silly. Play. She’s between courses and has had a renewed burst of energy, a manic, zenith buzz. There’s a glow from her skin, and I wonder if she’s radioactive.

“I wonder if it comes with the red bathing suit,” I say. “And the nipples.”

“Those, I really do need. Mine have snuck back inside somewhere. Like turtles.”

“What kind of nun did this come from?” I ask the Salesperson.

“Now, that one’s a human-synthetic blend,” he tells us. “Good value for the price. Look at the rich tonal dimensions of color-play. You only get that with natural.” He fluffs the wig’s feathered waves.

“So. . it’s a natural synthetic blonde?” I ask, and she laughs.

“No, you never get those highlights with synthetic. It’s the human hairs that do it. Of course, they’ve been chemically processed to get that color.”

“Chemically processed,” she repeats. “Boy oh boy, can I relate.”

“But this hair is still cuticle hair. Still high-quality. Now, a blend like this should last you two or three years if you’re lucky.”

“Listen,” she says, “ I’m not going to last two or three years,” and we both laugh. Her days are numbered and look at her, laughing. I’m edgy with the counting down. I’m too aware of waiting for the egg timer to ding, for it all to be over and done with.

“Right. Excuse me.” The Salesperson leaves to help a dowager-humped woman with wisps, waving at him from across the store.

“What was wrong with the kosher one?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It was too plain. Too serious.”

“Too severe?”

“Yeah. I want to play a little. That one didn’t make me feel. . fetching.”

“You think he’ll find this one fetching?”

“I don’t know. He’s always liked blondes.”

I put down a blond Afro wig to look at her. “He’s told you that?”

“A million times.”

“That isn’t very nice, to tell you.”

She shrugs. “Doesn’t bother me. It’s honest. One of his best qualities. Honesty.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Don’t you think so?”

“I think you can be an honest person without being honest about every single thing that comes up. Little things that don’t do anything but hurt someone.”

“But that isn’t hurtful.” She shrugs again. “Just honest.”

“Sometimes being a little dishonest is the kind thing to do.”

“But I think that’s what’s held everything together for us. Especially through this shit. Knowing everything. Knowing everything’s been said. Shared. I think it’ll make it easier for me. And for him.”

“I suppose. So, well, okay, he likes blondes, huh? I didn’t know that.”

“Always. Always had a thing for blondes.”

“Yeah, well. You won.”

“Won?”

“He chose you, I mean.”

“Right. He chose me. But he didn’t choose all of this.” She gazes in the mirror, shakes her head so Farrah’s blonde swirls go mad as foam, then settle. “Eighty-seven days and counting,” she tells me.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “Is that all? It’s been longer than that for me.”

“What about that guy from a few months ago?”

“Yeah, exactly, months ago. We broke it off. I mentioned that.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” She looks upset. “You seemed hopeful about him.”

“No, I didn’t. It wasn’t anything. It was complicated.”

“Well, maybe down the road, you guys. Maybe it was just the timing, then—”

“It didn’t count. I told you that.”

“I’m sorry.” The look of compassion on her face is a look I’ve seen before. It’s the look when I’d score the point, I’d win, and she’d be the one to kindly, misplacedly ask if I was okay, how was my ankle doing, the blister on my thumb, did I need some water, did I want to take a break?