“Bury something of that boy’s,” she said.
My stomach lurched. There was no question she meant Derek. But how, what, did she know?
“Hair works best. A comb. Bury it deep in red earth. Do this at midnight. Tell no one.”
“And then?” I asked, trying to sound brave. “What happens then?”
The old woman smiled. “Then you’ll know Miss Dawn real magic.”
Two years after I stole Derek’s black comb from our one shared bathroom and buried it deep in the backyard while Mya stood over me holding the flashlight and chanting Hail Marys, two years to the day after my hands were caked in fertile Memphis clay, that boy was in jail.
CHAPTER 11
August
1995
August’s shop was full that Friday. In the far back of the split-level house, off the kitchen, there was a door that opened onto a sunken basement that, with three small steps down, led into August’s beauty salon. August had taken old record covers and decorated the walls with the faces of Diana Ross, the Jackson 5, Stevie Wonder, Earth Wind & Fire. Lined against the west wall was a large basin sink for the shampooing and, in front of it, four black leather chairs with reclining backs. These seats were always, always full. Miriam could bake, but August could style. Cut, curl, condition, cornrow—she had a gift. Could make the most tore-up, ashy woman in North Memphis come out looking like Miss Diana Ross in the flesh.
A screened-in back patio attached to the basement also served as the shop’s waiting room. A few seats were stationed there as well for the women sitting underneath gigantic astronaut helmet hair dryers, waiting for their sets to dry. The back screen door served as the shop’s entrance, so the women wouldn’t have to come through the main house to get to it. A sign above the screen door, lettered in a frank black font, read, august’s, and underneath, no children, no men, & we eat white folk here.
Damn, August thought as her fingers softly kneaded a customer’s damp hair. Should I change the sign? Mya flitted in and out the corner of August’s eye. It had been two weeks since they arrived, but the girl had figured out how to work the jukebox in the corner the first time she entered the shop. August heard the unmistakable opening chords of Aretha’s “Respect.”
Well, at least the girl’s got taste, she thought. How the hell we survive off my shop money is anybody’s guess. Mya eats like a man. Shit, I hope Meer comes up with something, and quick.
She had two women waiting underneath dryers; the one she was shampooing that moment; Jade and her regular press ’n’ curl waiting for her on the settee; and she knew Miss Dawn would be in any moment. August did okay for herself and Derek with the shop money, but there had been months when bills had been paid late or the lights turned off. She qualified but had refused to go on food stamps. Pride. She almost laughed out loud now. Counting Wolf, her household had grown by three humans and one canine in a single morning.
“That feels good.”
The woman underneath August brought her back to reality. August smiled. She knew her shop was a blessing. The women of North Memphis knew this, too, and came to the shop in droves. August’s only day off was Sunday. She’d enter the kitchen on a Saturday night, far past midnight, sink into the plush kitchen bench, and fall asleep there. Not even make it down the hall to her bedroom.
But August could not help but think about what she’d given up. Her dreams of going to college, perhaps even following and furthering her mother’s dream of having a doctor in the family. Sure, she had gotten pregnant, and early. Most girls in Memphis did. But she knew, just knew she could have done it. Gone to Rhodes, finished. Gotten her degree. Lived. Provided for her son.
Her son—who, years before, had put an abrupt stop to August’s college plans. The very night of Joan’s rape, Children’s Protective Services had shown up to the house on Locust, and an officer had pried Derek from August’s arms while she frantically bit at him. Her son. Whom she’d lost twice now—first, for a month after Joan’s rape, and again, two years later, when he’d broken a classmate’s arm. He’d been returned after only six months that time, because August had quit Rhodes and proven to CPS that, with her hair salon, she’d be home full-time to watch him.