Beard Science(25)

I narrowed my eyes, the acute dizziness and lingering goosebumps easing as I tried to decipher his gibberish. “What did you say?”

He shook his head, chewed, swallowed, then said, “I’m not scary, I’m ridiculous.”

I scoffed, moving back to the table and sitting across from him. “You are many things, Cletus Winston, but nothing about you is ridiculous.”

“Really?” He gave me a searching look, the side of his mouth lifting. “What about my hair?”

Unbidden, my attention moved to his hair. His crazy, long, clean but untamed hair.

I love your hair. “What about your hair?”

“My hair is ridiculous. It’s been misbehaving since birth.”

That made me laugh and I grinned at him, at the picture of baby Cletus with disobedient hair. I imagined his hair wasn’t the only thing about him that was naughty.

“It’s true,” he said, as though my laughter contradicted his earlier statement. “I’m the only one of my siblings to have inherited Grandmother Oliver’s curls as well as her distichiasis.”

“Distichiasis? What’s that?”

“It’s a genetic mutation that causes a double row of eyelashes.” He pointed to his eyes and leaned forward. I followed his lead and leaned across the table, studying his eyelashes. Sure enough, he had a second row.

“That’s amazing. I’ve never heard of that before.” It certainly explained the thickness.

He took a small bite of food, nodding, chewing, then swallowing before adding, “Ashley and Billy also have distichiasis, but not the curly hair. And I’m the only one who had blond hair when I was little.”

I studied him, thinking about this new information. I knew Cletus when he was younger, but—since he was some years older than me—obviously not as a little kid.

“Blond, thick, curly hair and double eyelashes must’ve given you no end of trouble growing up.”

Cletus sighed, nodding somberly. “Yes. When I was a real little kid—two and three—most people thought I was a girl. My momma didn’t do much to discourage the assumption. She’d wanted a girl badly and I’d had the misfortune of being born before Ashley arrived.”

“What happened after Ashley arrived?”

“Not much changed, though Momma did correct the misassumptions with more fervor. Curly hair attracts things, like gum and knots. But long, blond, curly hair and thick eyelashes on a boy attracts assholes.” Cletus’s demeanor changed, his voice grew deeper, rougher, as though he were thinking about a memory in particular.

My attention snagged on his beard and I asked without thinking, “Is that why you grew a beard? So people wouldn’t mistake you for a girl?”

Cletus was quiet, but when I lifted my eyes back to his, they were cloudy and introspective, as though he were giving the matter serious thought.

Finally, he shook his head. “No. I grew a beard because no one was around to teach us boys how to shave.”

. . . gah.

I barely resisted the urge to stand, walk to his side of the table, and pull him into a hug. Barely. Not because he sounded sad; he didn’t sound sad, he sounded matter-of-fact. And that made the statement even worse.

His gaze refocused on mine and he gave me a knowing smile, as though he could read my thoughts. “Don’t feel bad for me. I had plenty growing up. Our grandmother lived with us until she died, and she more than made up for any deficits left by Darrell Winston. She was from the old school, where bacon fat was used for everything from baking biscuits to making soap.”

“I don’t think I remember your grandmother.”

“You wouldn’t. I believe you were only six or so when she passed.” His eyes lost focus again, moving over my shoulder. “She grew up dirt poor, so she was the queen of clever when it came to saving and reusing materials. She used to describe her childhood thusly, ‘I was so poor, I couldn't even pay attention.’”

I smirked at that. “I thought your grandparents had money?”

“Oh, my grandfather did. But even though my grandfather Oliver—her husband—came from money and made a good living, she never could abide wasting. The woman looked at trash and saw its potential as something useful. She made a moonshine still from reclaimed rubber hoses, two oversized mufflers, and a stone furnace. It still lives in our detached garage.”

“She made a moonshine still?” I was now relaxed. And I was hungry again. I picked up my sandwich.

“Yep. I use it once a year around Christmas time.” His eyes moved over me; as though gauging my interest. He must’ve seen that I found the topic fascinating because he continued. “But that’s not all. Her castoff dresses, those that were threadbare, live a second life as quilts. She made old curtains into napkins, plastic milk cartons became toy plastic shovels, and she once turned a 420 tractor tire into a sand-table for us kids.”

“Ha! What a good idea.”

“She also fixed up automobiles and, honestly, is the person most responsible for teaching us how to change oil and tires, getting us interested in cars.”

“Maybe you inherited your mechanical aptitude and engineering genes from her,” I suggested between bites.

“Probably.” He nodded, as though he found my statement had merit. “‘But sometimes,’ she’d say, ‘trash is just trash and should be left at the side of the road.’ She usually said this whenever my father was around.” His eyes dropped and he frowned at his food, his voice growing distant. “She despised my father, but she never raised her voice. She used to tell me, ‘Being quiet can be louder than shouting.’”

I thought about that, thought about the statement in reference to my own perpetual silence.

Is my silence loud?

I didn’t think so. If anything, my silence perpetuated my problems. It fueled my unhappiness.

Before I could think too much on the words, he added, “Darrell called her the garbage lady and ridiculed her recycling. He couldn’t understand why a woman with so much money didn’t just buy everything new.”

“What did she say?”

Cletus’s gaze returned to mine and his smile was soft and sad with some memory. “Her answer was always the same: ‘Old things have soul.’ Then to me she’d add on a whisper, ‘And young things have spirit.’”

The saying, so simple and succinct, struck a chord. My stare fell to the picnic table and I wondered if his grandmother’s words of wisdom could be applied to me.

Did I have spirit?

In the silence that followed, while Cletus seemed content to finish his food, lost to his own thoughts, a melancholy settled over me. I didn’t feel particularly spirited. Nor did I feel soulful.

I felt hushed. I felt smothered. I felt suppressed and . . . ignored. Not just by my parents and their expectations, but also by me. I’d been ignoring myself. I’d been ignoring my own wishes and hopes.

So instead, I decided to feel motivated, determined, ready, and . . . excited.

I was excited, ready to find my spirit.



Burgundy nail polish on day one and they didn’t bat an eye.

No makeup on day two and my father did a double take, but said nothing.

Wearing my hair in a bun on day three earned me several disapproving looks from my mother, but no reprimand.

However, the black dress I wore on day four for my fake date with Billy—

“What do you think you’re wearing?” my mother asked from the doorway to my room, her hands on her hips, her brow pulled together in a severe frown.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. I still liked the black dress with the scoop neck, capped sleeves, and lace band around the hem. I especially liked it with my hair pulled back, like it was now, and the black pointy heels I’d bought for the occasion yesterday after work.

“It’s a dress,” I said with a shrug, sitting on the edge of my bed and pulling on my new shoes.

I didn’t know how it was possible, but her frown intensified. “First that awful nail polish and now this? It’s indecent.”

I wrinkled my nose at her; the spike of irritation I felt at her words meant I had to force calm into my voice. “Because it’s black?”

She huffed. “I do not need to explain myself. You will not wear that. You will wear the dress I laid out for you. Scotia called me yesterday, said she saw you at the mall. I guess now I know why you were there.”

I glanced at the yellow dress she’d placed on my bed. The three-quarter length sleeves, the high collar, the wide skirt that fell to my calf.

I wasn’t going to wear it. And if she didn’t like it then, well, that was just too damn bad.

I lifted my eyes to my mother, met her frown with one of my own. I wasn’t immune to her disappointment. The look she was giving me smarted, made my heart twinge with guilt, made my hands a little sweaty. But, as I realized yesterday, these looks were a daily occurrence, no matter what I did. I could never satisfy her and I was no longer satisfied with always doing as she liked. It was just a dress. But it was my dress, and it wasn’t indecent. It was pretty and I liked it and there was no reason—no reason at all—for me to change.

I shook my head and balled my hands into fists on my lap. “No, Momma. I’m not going to wear a yellow dress.”