Vanity Insanity (27 page)

“Sorry.”

“I think that your Father Old Fart probably needed to expand more. You’ve got other people in your life that have shown you fatherly love. Right?”

“Right.”

“Get over it.”

“Are you done scolding me?”

“I think so. I might need to go to five thirty Mass. That should help me feel better.”

“And hopefully be nicer.”

Octavia hooked her hand in the crook of my arm as I walked her to the door. We saw Truman pulling up. Octavia gave me a hug, something that she had never done before. I don’t know if she made it to Mass that evening, but I knew that my day was a bit off-kilter, thanks to Octavia. I thought about Sting and his new album, which I had been playing a lot lately. Sting had dedicated
The Soul Cages
to his recently deceased father.

I thought of Mac.

23

Tom Ducey: Same Old, Same Old

Tuesday, July 21

1992

“M
erry Christmas, y’all!”

Tom Ducey stood at the door, opening and closing it several times so that the bell rang along with his ho-ho-hos on that humid day in July. Toby’s cheeks were red as he stared at Tom, who was holding in his hand the customary baker’s dozen donuts he had just picked up from Petit’s Pastry.

“Merry Christmas, Vanity Insanity!” His voice was thick with nicotine gravel, lined with many years of cigarette breaks.

Jenae ran up to Tom and gave him a big kiss on his cheek as he handed her the box of donuts.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. That is exactly what I am talking about.” His voice boomed throughout the salon.

Tom Ducey came into Vanity Insanity every two weeks on Tuesday mornings at ten o’clock, always with a box of donuts. I would trim his conservative style, shave his neck, attempt to disguise his receding hairline, and attack the gray hairs sprouting on his sideburns. “I swear, the little buggers grow faster than my other hair,” he’d say. “They’re just like old age making fun of you. Wheeeeeeee, here we are. Try to get rid of us…We just grow back faster.”

Jenae looked out at Tom’s new “Husker Red” Jeep Cherokee out front with his standard vanity license plate: LEGL SOB. “Boy, somebody must be doing well. Check out the wheels of our ‘legal South Omaha boy.’”

Kelly and Caroline came up to the window to see the new car. Caroline nervously eyed the donut box as Kelly looked at the car. “Nice car, Tom!”

“Why thank you, Kelly. Just traded in the old one. Kind of like it myself.”

Tom had been doing well, as Jenae put it. He and Lucy had just built a new house out west, where construction was popping up everywhere. I have to take a little credit for his good fortune since I was the one who’d “set him up” with my good friend Octavia. Truman had shared with me during one of his haircuts that Octavia was looking for a lawyer to do some work for TL Enterprise. I knew that Tom was happy with his job, but I’d asked him if he would consider a little extra work.

“What? Are you kidding me? Work for
the
Octavia Hruska?”

The chemistry was perfect. After Tom had advised and written up a few agreements for Octavia during the whole Jobber’s Canyon deal, Octavia had told her son Truman to hire Mr. Ducey full time in their growing company, TL Property Acquisitions and Consulting. Octavia was on the board and had the largest vote in decisions since her money was what directed the company. Truman ran the firm with a solid hand but always followed the orders of the little old lady who knew what she was talking about. As TL prospered, so did Tom Ducey.

“Well, your little friend Octavia is at it again. I tell you, that brassy broad knows what she wants, and she knows how to get it,” Tom said as he sat down in the chair in my station. “She just bought herself a radio station.”

“Radio station? What is Octavia going to do with a radio station?”

“Whatever the hell she wants…or nothing at all. She did her homework, and so she says to Truman, buy it. And Truman jumps and buys it. And I jump and write up the papers.” Tom laughed till he coughed a long, rough cough.

“Is this one of those things where I’m not supposed to know about the radio station when I see Octavia?” At least once a day, somebody sitting in my chair dropped a confidential bomb on me. It went with the territory, but I never got used to it.

“Hell no! Just read your morning paper. Front page of the
Midlands
section. I figured she would’ve told you, though. You rate pretty high in her book, man. Just what did you do to get in such good graces with Octavia Hruska?”

“You mean when she’s not chewing me out? I just do her hair and do as I’m told. Works for me.”

“Right there with you, buddy. And on a more serious note, on the same page as the radio-station article was an article about the priest from Saint Walter’s.”

We’d all been hearing a lot about the priest from Saint Walter’s: Father Frank Camen, pastor during the late seventies. The man had been accused of sexually abusing three boys in the parish during the time that he was there. All three plaintiffs, now grown men, claim that the archdiocese knew of the abuse at the time when Father Camen was reassigned to a parish in a town west of Omaha. The allegations and the rumblings throughout the community mirrored similar cries across the country, as many adults were now coming forward with the appalling stories.

“One of the plaintiff’s names jumped out at me,” Tom continued. “E. Krackenier.”

“Eddie?”

“The paper just said ‘E,’ but I’m guessing. Same era. Wasn’t he from Saint Walter’s?”

“Yep.”

“The Chief. Wow.”

Tom and I were quiet for several minutes, attempting to take in the lurid implications that came along with these kinds of stories. The thought
of innocent children being taken advantage of was hard enough to fathom. The piece that made this more horrific was the fact that these children had been abused by a person whom they should have been able to trust. A person who should have protected them. These children, who were no longer children, became adults who were haunted daily by that exploitation for years until some impetus stirred them to find peace in naming the act.

“Didn’t Eddie use to work with Will at the racetrack?” Tom asked “I remember seeing them when we went to bet on the horses.”

“Yeah, and A.C., too, one summer.”

“A.C. How is that guy doing? Things with his job working out?”

Making barely enough money to make ends meet, A.C. took the cases of people who did not have enough money to afford proper legal representation. A year earlier, A.C. and I had moved into an apartment in the Old Market that we were subletting from the owner of Trini’s, who had decided to go spend some undetermined amount of time in Europe. The price was right, so we lived, day to day, knowing that any day, the owner would come back and we would be looking for a new place.

“He’s doing great. A.C. is A.C. Ya know.” Universal Guy Talk for
can’t really talk about it.
“Now how’s my goddaughter handling her new little sister? Sounds like Lucy has her hands full.”

“Let me tell you that little Maria loves to poke her little fingers in baby Diane’s eyes when no one is looking. What do you make of that, Godfather? Didn’t you teach her anything?”

“Not that little trick. I told her not to do that.”

“OK, so Lucy gets her feathers all in a tizzy like we have this devil child or something. My wife—I’m telling you, her hormones are all whacked out. She gets off the phone with our new neighbor, and she says to me, ‘Googy Bear’—‘cause that’s what she calls me sometimes.”

“Really?”

“No. But anyway, Lucy says, ‘Tom, I didn’t know that the Hendersons weren’t Catholic. They always seemed so nice.’ And I’m like, give me a break.”

“That’s just some misunderstood Catholic confidence talking there.”

“Ya think? Hey, you and I are Cradle Catholics, just like Lucy, and we don’t go around with that confidence—borderline arrogance—like the whole world revolves around us. Just what would my lovely wife do if she was dropped in the middle of the South, say in the heart of the Bible Belt? She just wouldn’t get it.”

“So you’ve got your Cradle Catholics and your Cafeteria Catholics.”

“Yeah, pickin’ and choosin’ what works for them.”

“And don’t forget the Convert Catholics.” I untied the apron around Tom’s neck.

“I like to call them the damn-convert Catholics since they make the rest of us look so stupid. After they get through the training camp, they know all of the stuff we were supposed to learn a long time ago but weren’t really paying enough attention to. OK, so let’s call Lucy a Kookie Catholic, OK?”

“I’ll let you call her whatever you want to. What about the Quiet Catholics?”

“You mean like your grandpa? Never talking about it but living it?”

“Yep.”

“And that A.C. He’s a Query Catholic. Questioning everything and thinking about it all of the time.” Tom stood up and shook some hair off of his pants.

“Query Catholics. I like it.”

“Man, we could go on all day. Crazy Catholics, borderline fundamentalists I call ’em. They think they’re all that and a bag of chips.”

“They’re all pretty much crazy.”

“Pretty much, and then there’s you.”

“OK, and what am I?”

Tom thought about this one. “Um, Comatose Catholic. Asleep at the wheel.”

“Thanks…”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s like that Catholic stuff is in you somewhere.” Tom slapped me on the back as he pulled out his wallet. “Oh, all the many different flavors of Catholics. We’re like a Catholic
ice-cream store. One scoop or two? I’ll just take a Kamikaze Catholic sundae. With extra dispensations sprinkled on top.” Tom laughed so loud at himself that everyone in the salon stopped and looked at him. He didn’t notice as he put his credit card in his wallet after paying me at the UP desk.

“Oh, one more Lucy story for the road. Vintage Lucy. Vintage. Lucy has this picture that’s been on our fridge for years. Taken right after Maria was born. The picture is awful. I have a beer in my hand and a wicked sunburn. I don’t even know where it was taken. Maria’s crying her head off. Not centered. Barely focused. You can see the shadow of the finger of the person taking the picture. Bad picture. So Lucy puts this picture on the fridge as soon as we move into the new place, see. I’m like, Lu, we have another child. Why don’t you put this one away and put up some new pictures. Right?”

“Right.”

“I ask her why she keeps that one up. And she says to me, ‘’Cause my hair looked really great that day.’” Tom’s laughter boomed on all four walls of the place, and he coughed all the way out the door and to his car.

Tom was still laughing as he lit up a cigarette before getting into his new Jeep.

24

Lucy: Pregnancy Hair

Thursday, November 5

1992

T
oby—wearing a tucked in Husker T-shirt that read
Fear the Corn!—
was spraying his chair with the special disinfectant he’d brought from home. After each spray he would wipe the seat of the chair in a strong, circular, rhythmical motion. His cheeks were splashed with the agitated red that flared out of nowhere when he was upset about something.

“Hey, Toby,” I ventured. Toby either ignored me or was too focused on his chair to notice me.

From my almost-nine years of experience with Toby, I knew better than to ask directly if something was wrong. Sarcasm was another approach that staff members would never use with Toby when he was in “a mood.” Just ask Jenae. What I knew was that Toby would get to his breaking point and then let it all go. He was definitely upset about something. The phone rang. I watched Toby’s wiping ceremony as I answered it.

“Vanity Insanity.”

“Hey, Ben. Stephano here. I have the blueprints for the new bay. I can drop them off when I get my hair cut on Thursday.”

Stephano Mangiamelli, owner of Mangiamelli Brothers Construction, had put together a plan for the bay next to Vanity Insanity. I was still waiting to hear from Tom Ducey if the owners of Tres Chique were ready to move on with my acquisition of their unit. We were crammed tight in the bay alone, and I knew that I needed to hire one more stylist in addition to the one I’d hired last week. Virginia had a great track record and a funny personality. I liked her, so I hired her on the spot.

“Sounds good to me. I’ll be able to let you know what Tom knows by then. See you then.”

I hung up and glanced over at Toby again. He was now staring at me, glaring.

I avoided the obvious. “Did you read last night’s article about the Huskers? I don’t think that Kansas will be ready for us Saturday.”

Toby walked around the chair and then sat in it.

“I’m thinking it’ll be a blowout.” A.C. and I were heading to the game on Saturday. We had an extra ticket, which we were thinking of giving to Will, who always canceled the last minute. The words were out of my mouth before I realized. “A.C. and I have an extra ticket if you want to join us. It’s a night game.” A.C. would kill me.

“Somebody stole one of my combs.”

This was about a comb?

“I count them between every client, and one is missing. It’s either Jenae or that new girl.” Toby said “new girl” like he was tasting poison. I couldn’t speak for the new girl, but I knew that Jenae would never steal. She’s been known to sneak over to Toby’s station when he left for lunch and move things out of order just to rattle his world a little. A cheap thrill, she called it. But steal? Never.

Toby had come a long way from the khaki-pants-white-shirt, not so normal guy who’d interviewed for a job at Vanity Insanity. With clients and staff, he was much more relaxed than when he’d started. Now, he mostly wore jeans and T-shirts, but the shirts were always tucked into his jeans. After Jenae had made fun of the big eighties goggle glasses, Toby invested
in an expensive pair of much smaller 1990s glasses. He lightened up some and maintained his strong clientele base, but he still hung tightly to his order and rituals. Personally, I’d never found fault with his little obsessions; a guy had a right to do what worked for him as long as it didn’t get in the way of the big picture.