I have often wondered if either of them was my father, but quickly dismissed the idea. Hammer Foot had been almost monk-like in his dedication to virtuous and harmonious living, while Lucky Yip was a devoted family man, sending every penny he earned back to China.
Salt wiggles her shoulders, and I lose my grip on her hair. Gritting my teeth, I retrace my work. “If this looks fetching on me,” she gushes, “maybe I’ll ask Mr. Q to the horse race today.”
Caroline trains her cold gaze on a birdcage that contains no bird.
Mrs. Payne tosses down her winning hand. “I wish more ladies had your spirit. Ever since Mrs. Wordsworth forbade her daughters from asking, no one wants to do it. Atlanta Belles can be so stuffy.”
Pepper and Salt exchange an uncomfortable glance. Not every branch in Atlanta can be bought, like the premier ladies’ society, Atlanta Belles, where membership can only be inherited. Pepper shuffles the deck, all elbows and thumbs. “Miss Sweetie approves, too. Did you see the new advice column in the Focus, Caroline?”
The braid goes uneven again, but not because of Salt this time. The Bells published it? My shaking fingers grip the braid tighter, twisting and winding.
“She told women to ‘quit their stalling’ because their gentlemen may not be available ‘furlong.’ Isn’t she a holler?” Pepper laughs and the deck nearly scatters.
Caroline’s mouth puckers, like her lemonade is too sour.
Mrs. Payne discreetly returns a card that has flown into her lap back into Pepper’s deck. “Jo, fetch Mr. Payne’s copy of the Focus.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pin Salt’s braid to hold my place.
This time, I nearly fly up the staircase.
Eleven
All is quiet on the second floor, where Mr. Payne keeps his office. The man rises earlier than even Etta Rae and stays at the mills past sundown most days of the week. Beyond the family telephone, which used to scare me with its unpredictable shrieking, the door to Mr. Payne’s office is closed. I knock once, just in case, but no one answers.
Mr. Payne’s quarters haven’t changed a bit since the last time I was here. A desk carved from good old Southern red oak anchors one end of the room, along with a matching chair cut extra-large, though the man barely reaches five and a half feet. The somber walls are infused with the scent of tobacco smoke and the ylang-ylang oil Mr. Payne uses to keep his curly hair flat. The smell stirs up memories of my first encounter with him. Old Gin had come here to discuss a matter, and I had tagged along, only four or five at the time.
Smoke from the man’s cigar billowed out of his nose and his ears. “Are you a boy or a girl?”
I’d been wearing trousers, and my hair was cut above my ears, so the mistake was understandable. “Girl,” I replied. “Are you a man or a dragon?”
His eyes bulged, and I thought he would eat me up. But then he let out a wheezy laugh and jabbed his cigar toward me. “That one has trouble spelled all over her face, mark my words, Old Gin.”
I shake myself from the memory and cross to the desk. Several newspapers are piled in a neat stack, with the Focus second from the bottom. I unfold the newspaper, and my fingers leave damp spots on the paper. There on the front page in bold type reads:
INAUGURAL ADVICE COLUMN FOR DEAR MISS SWEETIE—SHE ADVISES ALL
Below the title, Nathan had drawn the silhouette of a lady in an old-fashioned hat adorned with cabbage roses, brandishing an ostrich quill. A giggle fizzles out my nose at the cross-hatching that emphasizes a feminine waist, and at the delicate poise of the arms, which are a far cry from these drumsticks. Well, Nathan, I am not the lady you imagine me to be, but may you never find out. So much for my misgivings of last night. I bounce on the balls of my feet and squeal. People will be reading my words, my words. I hug the paper and circle the desk one way and then the other.
Mrs. English’s advertisement for English’s Millinery occupies a prime seat next to my byline. May she be enjoying the glacial pace at which her star worker, Lizzie, moves, and the clumsy way she trims, using paste when she should be using stitches.
Below the ad, another catches my eye. Pendergrass’s Long-Life Elixir promises to rid one of “anything that ails you, including dyspepsia, cough, liver spots, toothache, lethargia, diarrhea, ingrown toenails, warts, and especially impotence. If we don’t fix your problem in three days, we’ll refund your fifty cents with no questions asked. Sold at Buxbaum’s.”
I float back down the stairs, clutching the paper. Would Pendergrass’s elixir work for Old Gin’s deterioration? Ordinarily, I disregard such snake oils, but Buxbaum’s stands behind its products.
By the time I bring the paper to Mrs. Payne, I have composed my face into something resembling a cheese curd, mild and unremarkable. Caroline leans over to read the article, her eyes narrowing as they go.
While she reads, I return to Salt’s braid. Salt and Pepper polish off their sandwiches, and Noemi brings around a tray loaded with more. “More egg salad, misses?”
Pepper takes two. “These could use more pepper.”
“Yes, miss,” Noemi says deferentially.
“I’m allergic to pepper,” Caroline snaps, still reading the paper.
“Not everything has to have pepper, Linney.” Salt plucks up a sandwich, pulling loose the strand I’m trying to braid by her ear. “Noemi could make a hash out of a block of wood, and I bet it would slide down the gullet.”
Noemi dips her head and murmurs, “Thank you, miss.”
Mrs. Payne raps the Focus with her index finger. “This column is just the thing.” She gets up from her seat. “I’m sorry to leave the game, ladies.”
“What are you up to, Mama?” Caroline demands.
“I shall buy as many copies of the Focus as I can for tonight’s meeting of the Atlanta Belles. Melly-Lee, you should definitely ask your Mr. Q today.” She glides out of the room.
I tie an extra-loopy ribbon around Salt’s braid, feeling a little loopy myself. Perhaps this edition will be a sellout. Long-term subscriptions are what count, but Miss Sweetie is off to a grand start.
I hold a mirror in front of Salt, who tests the limit of her neck, twisting to see every angle of her new hairstyle. With her curls, her hair resembles more a bubbling spring than a waterfall. “Oh, oh!” Salt squeals, pressing her sandwich to her heart.
“Look out, Mr. Q,” breathes Pepper.
Caroline’s frosty glare is enough to keep the glass of lemonade she is drinking chilled for hours. “If I have to hear another word about Mr. Q, I may need a tincture for headache.”
Pepper cuts her green eyes to Salt and shakes her head.