Valentín Roma

EUDORA WELTY – Petrified Man (1939)

abril 11th, 2009 by admin

eudora-welty

“Reach in my purse and git me a cigarette without no powder in it if you kin, Mrs. Fletcher, honey,” said Leota to her ten o’clock shampoo-and-set customer. “I don’t like no perfumed cigarettes.”

Mrs. Fletcher gladly reached over to the lavender shelf under the lavender-framed mirror, shook a hair net loose from the clasp of the patent-leather bag, and slapped her hand down quickly on a powder puff which burst out when the purse was opened.

“Why, look at the peanuts, Leota!” said Mrs. Fletcher in her marvelling voice.

“Honey, them goobers has been in my purse a week if they’s been in it a day. Mrs. Pike bought them peanuts.”

“Who’s Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher, settling back. Hidden in this den of curling fluid and henna packs, separated by a lavender swing-door from the other customers, who were being gratified in other booths, she could give her curiosity its freedom. She looked expectantly at the black part in Leota’s yellow curls as she bent to light the cigarette.

“Mrs. Pike is this lady from New Orleans,” said Leota, puffing, and pressing into Mrs. Fletcher’s scalp with strong red-nailed fingers. “A friend, not a customer. You see, like maybe I told you last time, me and Fred and Sal and Joe all had us a fuss, so Sal and Joe up and moved out, so we didn’t do a thing but rent out their room. So we rented it to Mrs. Pike. And Mr. Pike.” She flicked an ash into the basket of dirty towels. “Mrs. Pike is a very decided blonde. She bought me the peanuts.”

“She must be cute,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Honey, ‘cute’ ain’t the word for what she is. I’m tellin’ you, Mrs. Pike is attractive. She has her a good time. She’s got a sharp eye out, Mrs. Pike has.”

She dashed the comb through the air, and paused dramatically as a cloud of Mrs. Fletcher’s hennaed hair floated out of the lavender teeth like a small storm cloud.

“Hair fallin’.”

“Aw, Leota.”

“Uh-huh, commencin’ to fall out,” said Leota, combing again, and letting fall another cloud.

“Is it any dandruff in it?” Mrs. Fletcher was frowning, her hair-line eyebrows diving down toward her nose, and her wrinkled, beady-lashed eyelids batting with concentration.

“Nope.” She combed again. “Just fallin’ out.”

“Bet it was that last perm’nent you gave me that did it,” Mrs. Fletcher said cruelly. “Remember you cooked me fourteen minutes.”

“You had fourteen minutes comin’ to you,” said Leota with finality.

“Bound to be somethin’,” persisted Mrs. Fletcher. “Dandruff, dandruff. I couldn’t of caught a thing like that from Mr. Fletcher, could I?”

“Well,” Leota answered at last, “you know what I heard in here yestiddy, one of Thelma’s ladies was settin’ over yonder in Thelma’s booth gittin’ a machineless, and I don’t mean to insist or insinuate or anything, Mrs. Fletcher, but Thelma’s lady just happ’med to throw out—I forgotten what she was talkin’ about at the time—that you was p-r-e-g., and lots of times that’ll make your hair do awful funny, fall out and God knows what all. It just ain’t our fault, is the way I look at it.”

There was a pause. The women stared at each other in the mirror.

“Who was it?” demanded Mrs. Fletcher.

“Honey, I really couldn’t say,” said Leota. “Not that you look it.”

“Where’s Thelma? I’ll get it out of her,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Now, honey, I wouldn’t go and git mad over a little thing like that,” Leota said, combing hastily, as though to hold Mrs. Fletcher down by the hair. “I’m sure it was somebody didn’t mean no harm in the world. How far gone are you?”

“Just wait,” said Mrs. Fletcher, and shrieked for Thelma, who came in and took a drag from Leota’s cigarette.

“Thelma, honey, throw your mind back to yestiddy if you kin,” said Leota, drenching Mrs. Fletcher’s hair with a thick fluid and catching the overflow in a cold wet towel at her neck.

“Well, I got my lady half wound for a spiral,” said Thelma doubtfully.

“This won’t take but a minute,” said Leota. “Who is it you got in there, old Horse Face? Just cast your mind back and try to remember who your lady was yestiddy who happ’m to mention that my customer was pregnant, that’s all. She’s dead to know.”

Thelma drooped her blood-red lips and looked over Mrs. Fletcher’s head into the mirror. “Why, honey, I ain’t got the faintest,” she breathed. “I really don’t recollect the faintest. But I’m sure she meant no harm. I declare, I forgot my hair finally got combed and thought it was a stranger behind me.”

“Was it that Mrs. Hutchinson?” Mrs. Fletcher was tensely polite.

“Mrs. Hutchinson? Oh, Mrs. Hutchinson.” Thelma batted her eyes. “Naw, precious, she come on Thursday and didn’t ev’m mention your name. I doubt if she ev’m knows you’re on the way.”

“Thelma!” cried Leota staunchly.

“All I know is, whoever it is ’11 be sorry some day. Why, I just barely knew it myself!” cried Mrs. Fletcher. “Just let her wait!”

“Why? What’re you gonna do to her?”

It was a child’s voice, and the women looked down. A little boy was making tents with aluminum wave pinchers on the floor under the sink.

“Billy Boy, hon, mustn’t bother nice ladies.” Leota smiled. She slapped him brightly and behind her back waved Thelma out of the booth. “Ain’t Billy Boy a sight? Only three years old and already just nuts about the beauty-parlor business.”

“I never saw him here before,” said Mrs. Fletcher, still unmollified.

“He ain’t been here before, that’s how come,” said Leota. “He belongs to Mrs. Pike. She got her a job but it was Fay’s Millinery. He oughtn’t to try on those ladies’ hats, they come down over his eyes like I don’t know what. They just git to look ridiculous, that’s what, an’ of course he’s gonna put ‘em on: hats. They tole Mrs. Pike they didn’t appreciate him hangin’ around there. Here, he couldn’t hurt a thing.”

“Well! I don’t like children that much,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Well!” said Leota moodily.

“Well! I’m almost tempted not to have this one,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “That Mrs. Hutchinson! Just looks straight through you when she sees you on the street and then spits at you behind your back.”

“Mr. Fletcher would beat you on the head if you didn’t have it now,” said Leota reasonably. “After going this far.”

Mrs. Fletcher sat up straight. “Mr. Fletcher can’t do a thing with me.”

“He can’t!” Leota winked at herself in the mirror.

“No, siree, he can’t. If he so much as raises his voice against me, he knows good and well I’ll have one of my sick headaches, and then I’m just not fit to live with. And if I really look that pregnant already—”

“Well, now, honey, I just want you to know—I habm’t told any of my ladies and I ain’t goin’ to tell ‘em—even that you’re losin’ your hair. You just get you one of those Stork-a-Lure dresses and stop worryin’. What people don’t know don’t hurt nobody, as Mrs. Pike says.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher sulkily.

“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, look, you ain’t ever goin’ to lay eyes on Mrs. Pike or her lay eyes on you, so what diffunce does it make in the long run?”

“I knew it!” Mrs. Fletcher deliberately nodded her head so as to destroy a ringlet Leota was working on behind her ear. “Mrs. Pike!”

Leota sighed. “I reckon I might as well tell you. It wasn’t any more Thelma’s lady tole me you was pregnant than a bat.”

“Not Mrs. Hutchinson?”

“Naw, Lord! It was Mrs. Pike.”

“Mrs. Pike!” Mrs. Fletcher could only sputter and let curling fluid roll into her ear. “How could Mrs. Pike possibly know I was pregnant or otherwise, when she doesn’t even know me? The nerve of some people!”

“Well, here’s how it was. Remember Sunday?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Sunday, Mrs. Pike an’ me was all by ourself. Mr. Pike and Fred had gone over to Eagle Lake, sayin’ they was goin’ to catch ‘em some fish, but they didn’t, a course. So we was settin’ in Mrs. Pike’s car, it’s a 1939 Dodge—”

“1939, eh,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“—An’ we was gettin’ us a Jax beer apiece—that’s the beer that Mrs. Pike says is made right in N.O., so she won’t drink no other kind. So I seen you drive up to the drugstore an’ run in for just a secont, leavin’ I reckon Mr. Fletcher in the car, an’ come runnin’ out with looked like a perscription. So I says to Mrs. Pike, just to be makin’ talk, ‘Right yonder’s Mrs. Fletcher, and I reckon that’s Mr. Fletcher—she’s one of my regular customers,’I says.”

“I had on a figured print,” said Mrs. Fletcher tentatively.

“You sure did,” agreed Leota. “So Mrs. Pike, she give you a good look—she’s very observant, a good judge of character, cute as a minute, you know—and she says, ‘I bet you another Jax that lady’s three months on the way.’ ”

“What gall!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Mrs. Pike!”

“Mrs. Pike ain’t goin’ to bite you,” said Leota. “Mrs. Pike is a lovely girl, you’d be crazy about her, Mrs. Fletcher. But she can’t sit still a minute. We went to the travellin’ freak show yestiddy after work. I got through early—nine o’clock. In the vacant store next door. What, you ain’t been?”

“No, I despise freaks,” declared Mrs. Fletcher.

“Aw. Well, honey, talkin’ about bein’ pregnant an’ all, you ought to see those twins in a bottle, you really owe it to yourself.”

“What twins?” asked Mrs. Fletcher out of the side of her mouth.

“Well, honey, they got these two twins in a bottle, see? Born joined plumb together—dead a course.” Leota dropped her voice into a soft lyrical hum. “They was about this long—pardon—must of been full time, all right, wouldn’t you say?—an’ they had these two heads an’ two faces an’ four arms an’ four legs, all kind of joined here. See, this face looked this-a-way, and the other face looked that-a-way, over their shoulder, see. Kinda pathetic.”

“Glah!” said Mrs. Fletcher disapprovingly.

“Well, ugly? Honey, I mean to tell you—their parents was first cousins and all like that. Billy Boy, git me a fresh towel from off Teeny’s stack—this ‘n’s wringin’ wet—an’ quit ticklin’ my ankles with that curler. I declare! He don’t miss nothin’.”

“Me and Mr. Fletcher aren’t one speck of kin, or he could never of had me,” said Mrs. Fletcher placidly.

“Of course not!” protested Leota. “Neither is me an’ Fred, not that we know of. Well, honey, what Mrs. Pike liked was the pygmies. They’ve got these pygmies down there, too, an’ Mrs. Pike was just wild about ‘em. You know, the teeniest men in the universe? Well, honey, they can rest back on their little bohunkus an’ roll around an’ you can’t hardly tell if they’re sittin’ or standin’. That’ll give you some idea. They’re about forty two years old. Just suppose it was your husband!”

“Well, Mr. Fletcher is five foot nine and one half,” said Mrs. Fletcher quickly.

“Fred’s five foot ten,” said Leota, “but I tell him he’s still a shrimp, account of I’m so tall.” She made a deep wave over Mrs. Fletcher’s other temple with the comb. “Well, these pygmies are a kind of a dark brown, Mrs. Fletcher. Not bad-lookin’ for what they are, you know.”

“I wouldn’t care for them,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “What does that Mrs. Pike see in them?”

“Aw, I don’t know,” said Leota. “She’s just cute, that’s all. But they got this man, this petrified man, that ever’thing ever since he was nine years old, when it goes through his digestion, see, somehow Mrs. Pike says it goes to his joints and has been turning to stone.”

“How awful!” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“He’s forty-two too. That looks like a bad age.”

“Who said so, that Mrs. Pike? I bet she’s forty-two,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Naw,” said Leota, “Mrs. Pike’s thirty-three, born in January, an Aquarian. He could move his head—like this. A course his head and mind ain’t a joint, so to speak, and I guess his stomach ain’t, either—not yet, anyways. But see—his food, he eats it, and it goes down, see, and then he digests it”—Leota rose on her toes for an instant—”and it goes out to his joints and before you can say ‘Jack Robinson,’ it’s stone—pure stone. He’s turning to stone. How’d you like to be married to a guy like that? All he can do, he can move his head just a quarter of an inch. A course he looks just terrible.”

“I should think he would,” said Mrs. Fletcher frostily. “Mr. Fletcher takes bending exercises every night of the world. I make him.”

“All Fred does is lay around the house like a rug. I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up some day and couldn’t move. The petrified man just sat there moving his quarter of an inch though,” said Leota reminiscently.

“Did Mrs. Pike like the petrified man?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.

“Not as much as she did the others,” said Leota deprecatingly. “And then she likes a man to be a good dresser, and all that.”

“Is Mr. Pike a good dresser?” asked Mrs. Fletcher sceptically.

“Oh, well, yeah,” said Leota, “but he’s twelve or fourteen years older’n her. She ast Lady Evangeline about him.”

“Who’s Lady Evangeline?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.

“Well, it’s this mind reader they got in the freak show,” said Leota. “Was real good. Lady Evangeline is her name, and if I had another dollar I wouldn’t do a thing but have my other palm read. She had what Mrs. Pike said was the ‘sixth mind’ but she had the worst manicure I ever saw on a living person.”

“What did she tell Mrs. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.

“She told her Mr. Pike was as true to her as he could be and, besides, would come into some money.”

“Humph!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “What does he do?”

“I can’t tell,” said Leota, “because he don’t work. Lady Evangeline didn’t tell me enough about my nature or anything. And I would like to go back and find out some more about this boy. Used to go with this boy got married to this girl. Oh, shoot, that was about three and a half years ago, when you was still goin’ to the Robert E. Lee Beauty Shop in Jackson. He married her for her money. Another fortune-teller tole me that at the time. So I’m not in love with him any more, anyway, besides being married to Fred, but Mrs. Pike thought, just for the hell of it, see, to ask Lady Evangeline was he happy.”

“Does Mrs. Pike know everything about you already?” asked Mrs. Fletcher unbelievingly. “Mercy!”

“Oh, yeah, I tole her ever’thing about ever’thing, from now on back to I don’t know when—to when I first started goin’ out,” said Leota. “So I ast Lady Evangeline for one of my questions, was he happily married, and she says, just like she was glad I ask her, ‘Honey,’ she says, ‘naw, he isn’t. You write down this day, March 8, 1941,’ she says, ‘and mock it down: three years from today him and her won’t be occupyin’ the same bed.’ There it is, up on the wall with them other dates—see, Mrs. Fletcher? And she says, ‘Child, you ought to be glad you didn’t git him, because he’s so mercenary.’ So I’m glad I married Fred. He sure ain’t mercenary, money don’t mean a thing to him. But I sure would like to go back and have my other palm read.”

“Did Mrs. Pike believe in what the fortune-teller said?” asked Mrs. Fletcher in a superior tone of voice.

“Lord, yes, she’s from New Orleans. Ever’body in New Orleans believes ever’thing spooky. One of ‘em in New Orleans before it was raided says to Mrs. Pike one summer she was goin’ to go from State to State and meet some grey-headed men, and, sure enough, she says she went on a beautician convention up to Chicago. . . . ”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Oh, is Mrs. Pike a beautician too?”

“Sure she is,” protested Leota. “She’s a beautician. I’m goin’ to git her in here if I can. Before she married. But it don’t leave you. She says sure enough, there was three men who was a very large part of making her trip what it was, and they all three had grey in their hair and they went in six States. Got Christmas cards from ‘em. Billy Boy, go see if Thelma’s got any dry cotton. Look how Mrs. Fletcher’s a-drippin’.”

“Where did Mrs. Pike meet Mr. Pike?” asked Mrs. Fletcher primly.

“On another train,” said Leota.

“I met Mr. Fletcher, or rather he met me, in a rental library,” said Mrs. Fletcher with dignity, as she watched the net come down over her head.

“Honey, me an’ Fred, we met in a rumble seat eight months ago and we was practically on what you might call the way to the altar inside of half an hour,” said Leota in a guttural voice, and bit a bobby pin open.

“Course it don’t last. Mrs. Pike says nothin’ like that ever lasts.”

“Mr. Fletcher and myself are as much in love as the day we married,” said Mrs. Fletcher belligerently as Leota stuffed cotton into her ears.

“Mrs. Pike says it don’t last,” repeated Leota in a louder voice. “Now go git under the dryer. You can turn yourself on, can’t you? I’ll be back to comb you out. Durin’ lunch I promised to give Mrs. Pike a facial. You know—free. Her bein’ in the business, so to speak.”

“I bet she needs one,” said Mrs. Fletcher, letting the swing-door fly back against Leota. “Oh, pardon me.”

A week later, on time for her appointment, Mrs. Fletcher sank heavily into Leota’s chair after first removing a drug-store rental book, called Life Is Like That, from the seat. She stared in a discouraged way into the mirror.

“You can tell it when I’m sitting down, all right,” she said.

Leota seemed preoccupied and stood shaking out a lavender cloth. She began to pin it around Mrs. Fletcher’s neck in silence.

“I said you sure can tell it when I’m sitting straight on and coming at you this way,” Mrs. Fletcher said.

“Why, honey, naw you can’t,” said Leota gloomily. “Why, I’d never know. If somebody was to come up to me on the street and say, ‘Mrs. Fletcher is pregnant!’ I’d say, ‘Heck, she don’t look it to me.’ ”

“If a certain party hadn’t found it out and spread it around, it wouldn’t be too late even now,” said Mrs. Fletcher frostily, but Leota was almost choking her with the cloth, pinning it so tight, and she couldn’t speak clearly. She paddled her hands in the air until Leota wearily loosened her.

“Listen, honey, you’re just a virgin compared to Mrs. Montjoy,” Leota was going on, still absent-minded. She bent Mrs. Fletcher back in the chair and, sighing, tossed liquid from a teacup on to her head and dug both hands into her scalp. “You know Mrs. Montjoy—her husband’s that premature-grey-headed fella?”

“She’s in the Trojan Garden Club, is all I know,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Well, honey,” said Leota, but in a weary voice, “she come in here not the week before and not the day before she had her baby—she come in here the very selfsame day, I mean to tell you. Child, we was all plumb scared to death. There she was! Come for her shampoo an’ set. Why, Mrs. Fletcher, in an hour an’ twenty minutes she was layin’ up there in the Babtist Hospital with a seb’m-pound son. It was that close a shave. I declare, if I hadn’t been so tired I would of drank up a bottle of gin that night.”

“What gall,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “I never knew her at all well.”

“See, her husband was waitin’ outside in the car, and her bags was all packed an’ in the back seat, an’ she was all ready, ‘cept she wanted her shampoo an’ set. An’ havin’ one pain right after another. Her husband kep’ comin’ in here, scared-like, but couldn’t do nothin’ with her a course. She yelled bloody murder, too, but she always yelled her head off when I give her a perm’nent.”

“She must of been crazy,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “How did she look?”

“Shoot!” said Leota.

“Well, I can guess,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Awful.”

“Just wanted to look pretty while she was havin’ her baby, is all,” said Leota airily. “Course, we was glad to give the lady what she was after—that’s our motto—but I bet a hour later she wasn’t payin’ no mind to them little end curls. I bet she wasn’t thinkin’ about she ought to have on a net. It wouldn’t of done her no good if she had.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Yeah man! She was a-yellin’. Just like when I give her perm’nent.”

“Her husband ought to could make her behave. Don’t it seem that way to you?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “He ought to put his foot down.”

“Ha,” said Leota. “A lot he could do. Maybe some women is soft.”

“Oh, you mistake me, I don’t mean for her to get soft—far from it! Women have to stand up for themselves, or there’s just no telling. But now you take me—I ask Mr. Fletcher’s advice now and then, and he appreciates it, especially on something important, like is it time for a permanent—not that I’ve told him about the baby. He says, ‘Why, dear, go ahead!’ Just ask their advice.”

“Huh! If I ever ast Fred’s advice we’d be floatin’ down the Yazoo River on a houseboat or somethin’ by this time,” said Leota. “I’m sick of Fred. I told him to go over to Vicksburg.”

“Is he going?” demanded Mrs. Fletcher.

“Sure. See, the fortune-teller—I went back and had my other palm read, since we’ve got to rent the room agin—said my lover was goin’ to work in Vicksburg, so I don’t know who she could mean, unless she meant Fred. And Fred ain’t workin’ here—that much is so.”

“Is he going to work in Vicksburg?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “And——”

“Sure. Lady Evangeline said so. Said the future is going to be brighter than the present. He don’t want to go, but I ain’t gonna put up with nothin’ like that. Lays around the house an’ bulls—did bull—with that good-for-nothin’ Mr. Pike. He says if he goes who’ll cook, but I says I never get to eat anyway—not meals. Billy Boy, take Mrs. Grover that Screen Secrets and leg it.”

Mrs. Fletcher heard stamping feet go out the door.

“Is that that Mrs. Pike’s little boy here again?” she asked, sitting up gingerly.

“Yeah, that’s still him.” Leota stuck out her tongue.

Mrs. Fletcher could hardly believe her eyes. “Well! How’s Mrs. Pike, your attractive new friend with the sharp eyes who spreads it around town that perfect strangers are pregnant?” she asked in a sweetened tone.

“Oh, Mizziz Pike.” Leota combed Mrs. Fletcher’s hair with heavy strokes.

“You act like you’re tired,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Tired? Feel like it’s four o’clock in the afternoor already,” said Leota. “I ain’t told you the awful luck we had, me and Fred? It’s the worst thing you ever heard of. Maybe you think Mrs. Pike’s got sharp eyes. Shoot, there’s a limit! Well, you know, we rented out our room to this Mr. and Mrs. Pike from New Orleans when Sal an’ Joe Fentress got mad at us ’cause they drank up some home-brew we had in the closet—Sal an’ Joe did. So, a week ago Sat’day Mr. and Mrs. Pike moved in. Well, I kinda fixed up the room, you know—put a sofa pillow on the couch and picked some ragged robbins and put in a vase, but they never did say they appreciated it. Anyway, then I put some old magazines on the table.”

“I think that was lovely,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“Wait. So, come night ‘fore last, Fred and this Mr. Pike, who Fred just took up with, was back from they said they was fishin’, bein’ as neither one of ‘em has got a job to his name, and we was all settin’ around in their room. So Mrs. Pike was settin’ there, readin’ a old Startling G-Man Tales that was mine, mind you, I’d bought it myself, and all of a sudden she jumps!— into the air—you’d ‘a’ thought she’d set on a spider—an’ says, ‘Canfield’—ain’t that silly, that’s Mr. Pike—’Canfield, my God A’mighty,’ she says, ‘honey,’ she says, ‘we’re rich, and you won’t have to work.’ Not that he turned one hand anyway. Well, me and Fred rushes over to her, and Mr. Pike, too, and there she sets, pointin’ her finger at a photo in my copy of Startling G-Man. ‘See that man?’ yells Mrs. Pike. ‘Remember him, Canfield?’ ‘Never forget a face,’ says Mr. Pike. ‘It’s Mr. Petrie, that we stayed with him in the apartment next to ours in Toulouse Street in N.O. for six weeks. Mr. Petrie.’ ‘Well,’ says Mrs. Pike, like she can’t hold out one secont longer, ‘Mr. Petrie is wanted for five hundred dollars cash, for rapin’ four women in California, and I know where he is.’”

“Mercy!” said Mrs. Fletcher. “Where was he?”

At some time Leota had washed her hair and now she yanked her up by the back locks and sat her up.

“Know where he was?”

“I certainly don’t,” Mrs. Fletcher said. Her scalp hurt all over.

Leota flung a towel around the top of her customer’s head. “Nowhere else but in that freak show! I saw him just as plain as Mrs. Pike. He was the petrified man!”

“Who would ever have thought that!” cried Mrs. Fletcher sympathetically.

“So Mr. Pike says, ‘Well whatta you know about that,’ an’ he looks real hard at the photo and whistles. And she starts dancin’ and singin’ about their good luck. She meant our bad luck! I made a point of tellin’ that fortune-teller the next time I saw her. I said, ‘Listen, that magazine was layin’ around the house for a month, and there was five hundred dollars in it for somebody. An’ there was the freak show runnin’ night an’ day, not two steps away from my own beauty parlor, with Mr. Petrie just settin’ there waitin’. An’ it had to be Mr. and Mrs. Pike, almost perfect strangers.’”

“What gall,” said Mrs. Fletcher. She was only sitting there, wrapped in a turban, but she did not mind.

“Fortune-tellers don’t care. And Mrs. Pike, she goes around actin’ like she thinks she was Mrs. God,” said Leota. “So they’re goin’ to leave tomorrow, Mr. and Mrs. Pike. And in the meantime I got to keep that mean, bad little ole kid here, gettin’ under my feet ever’ minute of the day an’ talkin’ back too.”

“Have they gotten the five hundred dollars’ reward already?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.

“Well,” said Leota, “at first Mr. Pike didn’t want to do anything about it. Can you feature that? Said he kinda liked that ole bird and said he was real nice to ‘em, lent ‘em money or somethin’. But Mrs. Pike simply tole him he could just go to hell, and I can see her point. She says, ‘You ain’t worked a lick in six months, and here I make five hundred dollars in two seconts, and what thanks do I get for it? You go to hell, Canfield,’ she says. So,” Leota went on in a despondent voice, “they called up the cops and they caught the ole bird, all right, right there in the freak show where I saw him with my own eyes, thinkin’ he was petrified. He’s the one. Did it under his real name—Mr. Petrie. Four women in California, all in the month of August. So Mrs. Pike gits five hundred dollars. And my magazine, and right next door to my beauty parlor. I cried all night, but Fred said it wasn’t a bit of use and to go to sleep, because the whole thing was just a sort of coincidence—you know: can’t do nothin’ about it. He says it put him clean out of the notion of goin’ to Vicksburg for a few days till we rent out the room agin—no tellin’ who we’ll git this time.”

“But can you imagine anybody knowing this old man, that’s raped four women?” persisted Mrs. Fletcher, and she shuddered audibly. “Did Mrs. Pike speak to him when she met him in the freak show?”

Leota had begun to comb Mrs. Fletcher’s hair. “I says to her, I says, ‘I didn’t notice you fallin’ on his neck when he was the petrified man—don’t tell me you didn’t recognize your fine friend?’ And she says, ‘I didn’t recognize him with that white powder all over his face. He just looked familiar,’ Mrs. Pike says, ‘and lots of people look familiar.’ But she says that ole petrified man did put her in mind of somebody. She wondered who it was! Kep’ her awake, which man she’d ever knew it reminded her of. So when she seen the photo, it all come to her. Like a flash. Mr. Petrie. The way he’d turn his head and look at her when she took him in his breakfast.”

“Took him in his breakfast!” shrieked Mrs. Fletcher. “Listen—don’t tell me. I’d ‘a’ felt something.”

“Four women. I guess those women didn’t have the faintest notion at the time they’d be worth a hunderd an’ twenty-five bucks apiece some day to Mrs. Pike. We ast her how old the fella was then, an’ she says he musta had one foot in the grave, at least. Can you beat it?”

“Not really petrified at all, of course,” said Mrs. Fletcher meditatively. She drew herself up. “I’d ‘a’ felt something,” she said proudly.

“Shoot! I did feel somethin’,” said Leota. “I tole Fred when I got home I felt so funny. I said, ‘Fred, that ole petrified man sure did leave me with a funny feelin’.'He says, ‘Funny-haha or funny-peculiar?’ and I says, ‘Funny-peculiar.’” She pointed her comb into the air emphatically.

“I’ll bet you did,” said Mrs. Fletcher.

They both heard a crackling noise.

Leota screamed, “Billy Boy! What you doin’ in my purse?”

“Aw, I’m just eatin’ these ole stale peanuts up,” said Billy Boy.

“You come here to me!” screamed Leota, recklessly flinging down the comb, which scattered a whole ashtray full of bobby pins and knocked down a row of Coca-Cola bottles. “This is the last straw!”

“I caught him! I caught him!” giggled Mrs. Fletcher. “I’ll hold him on my lap. You bad, bad boy, you! I guess I better learn how to spank little old bad boys,” she said.

Leota’s eleven o’clock customer pushed open the swing-door upon Leota paddling him heartily with the brush, while he gave angry but belittling screams which penetrated beyond the booth and filled the whole curious beauty parlor. From everywhere ladies began to gather round to watch the paddling. Billy Boy kicked both Leota and Mrs. Fletcher as hard as he could, Mrs. Fletcher with her new fixed smile.

“There, my little man!” gasped Leota. “You won’t be able to set down for a week if I knew what I was doin’.”

Billy Boy stomped through the group of wild-haired ladies and went out the door, but flung back the words, “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?”

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