The Wisdom of Hair Read Online Free

wrong for him. Not Emma. I remember when they met, they weren’t aware of anything except each other.”
    I plopped down on the bed beside Miss Cunningham, wishing she’d noticed that same kind of reaction when Winston shook hands with me.
    “What happened to her?”
    “It was raining hard; there was a truck stalled on the highway. She didn’t see it. She died instantly.”
    Died. Instantly. That’s what the police had said about my daddy, like that was a comfort.
    “At one time, I thought he might—” She looked at me and then fingered one of the baby blue nubs on the chenille bedspread. “Let’s just say he was really depressed for about a year. But he’s better now.”
    Her words planted a seed of hope in my heart, but my head knew the truth. When someone you love is snatched away from you the way his wife was from him, the way my daddy was from me, you never get over it.
    “He still hasn’t let anyone in the house. His only rule, and he was adamant.” She kissed me on the forehead and held me close. “It’s getting late. I have to go.”
    I nodded and promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
    “Do you have enough money?”
    In my lifetime, there had never been enough money, so I was good at making do with next to nothing. I had a little over three hundred dollars to last me six months, a government grant for school, and Nana’s ruby brooch I’d die before I pawned.
    “Yes,” I said. She raised her teacher eyebrows. “I’ll be fine.”
    “I love you, Zorie. I hope you know that.” She hugged me. Her smell was different from Mama’s, faint, like store-bought perfume and lemons.
    After she drove away I noticed a light on in the old Victorian house. The curtains were open in Winston’s living room; he was sitting in an overstuffed chair with a glass in his hand. He tipped it up, stood, and went to a small table with several crystal bottles. He poured a drink, sat back down; a few minutes later, he was studying the bottom of the empty glass.
    As much as I loved my daddy, I knew early on he was a funny, sweet drunk, but he was still a drunk. I remembered the feeling of his scruffy face on mine and the sweet smell of sour mash bourbon on his breath when he kissed me good night. I was sure all really good daddies were just like him.
    I never asked him why he drank, and I didn’t have to ask Winston to know why he did. I felt his pain all the way across the courtyard; his sadness rippled in the faint breeze that stirred the thick night air. I knew by the way he moved across the room that it wouldn’t be long before he passed out. Somehow that didn’t bother me the way it had when I’d helped Mama off of the bathroom floor or when Daddy had been resting his eyes for too long.
    Winston took one long last look out the window. But not up at me. Even drunk, he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

3

    I woke up that next morning with Winston Sawyer on my mind and started cleaning. I wiped down the countertops and cabinets good. The steamy water full of pine cleaner cleared my head but had a tough time cutting through years of greasy dirt on the hood over the little stovetop. I flicked the switch on the fan back and forth to see if it worked, but it didn’t. Then I heard his car door open. He started the engine up.
    I used an old cloth with some scouring powder I found under the sink. The thought of Winston with his hands on that steering wheel made me scrub around the burners so hard that a little piece of enamel about the size of a quarter rubbed off. I stood there fingering the spot, while his engine revved louder. When I peeked out the window, he was raising the hood. I went over to the stove one more time and wiped it down again like I was minding my ownbusiness. Then I pulled some old pots out from the little drawer under the stove to keep busy.
    I tried hard not to think of him bent over that little black sports car, with tools in his hands that would make it do what he wanted. God, I wished I’d