The Loosening

Stills Valley, Oregon

Gaye Rawlins pulled her battered Toyota to the curb. She switched off the engine and heard it offer a sigh of relief, here at last. She patted the dash, an acknowledgement of a job well done. Feeling as road weary as her tired old car, Gaye peered through the road-grimy windshield at a sign: A Cut Above. A simple, hand-lettered wooden sign, a hairdresser’s sign—a non-franchised small-business sign. The shop front freshly painted—country blue and white—lace curtains pulled across the windows. Gaye pulled the rear view mirror over and checked her appearance. A new job in a new town—a promising fresh start. She stepped from the car and moved toward the shop door, the eagerness in her step belying the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Stepping out onto the sidewalk and right into the path of a pedestrian, Gaye came face to face with a stern-looking woman, mid-fifties or more, with narrow dark eyes and a burning glare. Pinched features, almost severe, like one would imagine a spurned and bitter spinster might wear. The woman’s nostrils flared in an expression of distaste, of pointed disapproval, her top lip lifting into a sneer as she challenged Gaye to move from her path.
“I’m so sorry…”
The woman hissed. Like a cornered cat, except she hunched her shoulders rather than arching her back. The woman hissed and spit.
Gaye stepped back until her hip bumped against the Toyota. “I’m… I said…”
“You don’t own the sidewalk—fancy bitch.” A voice like fingernails on chalkboard, yellow teeth bared.
“Sorry… I’m so…”
The woman spit again, a nasty phlegmy gob glistening and greasy on the concrete in front of Gaye’s shoes. “Go!” she shrilled. “Why are you here? Don’t want you here. Leave now—devil’s whore.” Her voice deepened and her eyes flashed as they locked onto Gaye’s, “Go…now…back to where you came from. Back. Back to hell.” Turning away, and with clacking wooden strides like a tightly wound toy soldier, the woman walked away. Stoically marching down the sidewalk—the sidewalk that did not belong to Gaye Rawlins.
It took a moment to shrug off the stranger’s hostile weirdness. It didn’t take too long though; Gaye was from Los Angeles and she’d seen worse. The half-mad mutterings and open antagonism of those who lived on the ragged edge of normal were commonplace there. In a moment she pushed it from her mind, carefully stepped over the spittle and moved away from the curb. Still, the uncomfortable exchange clung to her, feeling somehow the woman’s spite was deserved, as though she had it coming. What the hell are you doing here anyway, something in the core of her wondered, and warned.
Though A Cut Above was located in the downtown core, trees lined the street, leaning into the warm sunlight. Birds fluttered and sang up high and safe from bitter old women who stalked newcomers and threatened with harsh words and coughed up spittle.
A heady scent permeated the air; it took Gaye a moment to place it. In LA there was concrete, steel and glass; there was machine oil, restaurant kitchen vents and cars and people. Gaye realized she had stopped, just standing and breathing, inhaling the scents of the earth, feeling warm and healthy and very much alive. In the city the earth was paved over, squeezed into littered lots and forced into tiny green parks, beaten into submission and tucked into corners where it wouldn’t be in the way. She couldn’t remember ever having had this sensation before. Feeling somehow connected, interred in this new awareness, enveloped. Suddenly overwhelmed, a knot tightened inside her.
Don’t want you here!
She ignored it and breathed in again, focusing on the calm beauty around her.
She felt a sense of harmony, a kind of realness Gaye noticed since leaving the I-5 just north of Eugene and turning west toward the ocean. She’d witnessed road signs pointing out places like Sweet Home and Cottage Grove, miles of unbroken forest and areas run wild, never tamed. For Gaye, it was more than refreshing—it was intoxicating.
She pulled from her thoughts, squared her shoulders, walked to the shop, and pushed through the entrance—a wooden screen door banged closed behind her, striking a bell suspended above—into the all-too-familiar smells of hair and beauty products. Standing in dimness, feeling the odors assault her newly cleared and purged senses. The waiting area was furnished with over-stuffed sofas and rough-pine tables. A wooden rack displayed product offered for sale; an unattended counter held a phone and open appointment book.
Gaye moved beyond the counter and peered back into the main section of the shop. It appeared well-illuminated, a soft incandescent lighting directed toward the chairs allowed the perimeters of the room comfortable shadowing. Four chairs and workstations were paired along opposing walls, repeating forever in huge mirrored walls, making the room seem larger and somehow more cluttered at the same time. The plank floor was swept clean and glowed with the true depth of real wood construction. Nothing like the laminate, chrome and tile a more modern shop might display. Wood and more wood, stained oak wainscoting as original as the stamped tintype ceiling, everything indicating turn-of-the-century construction. Two ceiling fans hung from heavy beams overhead. They whispered in the stillness, blades stirring movement in the empty room. The shop appeared deserted, and yet seemed full, brimming with things long past and things to come. An experienced room, a room aware of what it was. Ready for her, waiting for her, comfortable…welcoming. Gaye felt her misgivings fall away. The feelings of trepidation nudged gently to the side—just there—in case she needed them again.
Only her reflection in one of the ceiling to floor mirrors was there to greet her. A slender figure looked back at her, tall at five-ten, thin, but not too thin. Wearing a sensible print dress hemmed above the knee and comfortable low-heeled shoes. Decent legs, dark-skinned, a smooth honeyed tone and, with her straight black hair and deep set dark eyes, a suggestion of ethnic origin. Her smooth complexion, high cheekbones and dark hair hinted at the possibility of Mexican blood. The intensity in her blue eyes and her stature argued against it. Gaye was comfortable with what she was. It was the who that confounded her. Sometimes she felt as though her reflection was of a stranger, one who looked back at her with no recognition.
“Hello?”
There was no answer. The owner had promised to be here. “Anytime is good,” she’d said. “I’ll be around all day.”

The phone call came out of nowhere, much like a welcome breeze on a stifling hot day, a promise something better was to be had just upwind in a place fresh and new. The job was hers for the taking, on the spot, over the phone. A recommendation from somebody she didn’t know, something about a friend of a friend. It didn’t strike her as suspicious, only fortunate. Now some doubts were sneaking in. Why had they called her? The shop seemed well-equipped, well- established, and—so empty.
Was I so anxious to change my life that I made a foolish mistake?
She’d been offered a generous salary, a guarantee plus bonuses, a very attractive offer in a profession primarily compensated with hard fought commissioned sales. A wonderful new job in a promising new place, upwind from the old, a new place where fresh breezes are born. It sounded so perfect. A clean start, a new life and a perfect opportunity to leave her old one behind. Why me?
It had taken two days to get here, two days of driving in absolute solitude, completely alone. Why is this the first time I’m asking these questions?
Why me?
She took a deep breath and reached a hand out to touch one of the stylists’ chairs and the unease evaporated. Gaye trusted her intuition; it was a kind of feeling thought, almost a physical thing. She always seemed to know whether something was as it purported to be. She trusted her instinct enough to follow it here. This was her chance to escape the ever-boiling and bubbling cauldron of southern California for something better. Something promised on the breeze.
Southern California only offered long days filled with not enough customers and measly tips. Often she’d been forced to stay and work into the evening to make enough to cover her rent. Sitting and hoping for walk-in traffic, facing the dirty looks of the other part-time staff as they accused her of stealing their business, arguing over a few dollars while trying to stay focused and friendly in anticipation of a healthy tip. It always seemed the shop had too many workers, too many stylists and too few clients. At the end of the day, with nothing left, Gaye retreated to the quiet and solitude of her tiny apartment. A life with too much noise interrupted only by absolute silences. Loneliness, it wore her down, rubbed the sharpness of her mind to a dull edge. In a few more years—seriously—she’d be spitting on sidewalks and accosting strangers.
A Cut Above didn’t work that way. The voice on the other end of the phone promised a stress-free work place, devout clientele and a team atmosphere. But now, as Gaye surveyed the salon, it appeared the team was a no-show. She wondered if she’d been misled with lies and empty promises. What if her intuition had been wrong? Why me? And now that she’d given up her apartment and quit her old job, she had no choice but to stay. Gaye felt a chill. She looked at herself in the mirror, wrapped her arms around herself and willed the feelings of vulnerability away.
Gaye turned at the sound of the bell and was met by a large, smiling woman enveloped in a voluminous sack dress that draped from thick, wide shoulders in a breezy attempt to disguise a long- lost struggle with weight control. Her face was open and friendly enough; Gaye noticed she carried a grocery bag and thought cruelly to herself it was no doubt filled with Ding-Dongs and Twinkies. The woman’s eyes sparkled as she presented an amazingly slender hand.
“Hi,” she said in a deep, slightly winded voice. “You must be Gaye?”
Gaye nodded and shook the larger woman’s hand a firm, dry handshake. “And you must be Joyce,” she returned.
“Guilty,” the woman stepped back and studied Gaye. “I wasn’t really expecting you so soon,” she said, “but welcome to Stills Valley.” Joyce swept an arm from the folds of her dress and gestured around the shop. “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice,” Gaye said.
Joyce nodded as though she had overheard Gaye’s thoughts rather than her words, her eyebrows gathering in a frown. “Must be a little boring after what you’re used to.” Then she offered a conspirator’s grin, “But you’ll find that’s kind of the way things are around here. We use wood instead of plastic and chrome. Everything here is a little more real.”
Gaye didn’t offer a return comment. She felt uneasy under Joyce’s scrutiny. The woman seemed gentle and pleasant enough but she had a way of standing too close, of looking into Gaye instead of at her.
“Have you found a place to live?” Joyce asked.
Gaye shook her head, “No… Not yet. That’s why I’m here actually. I’m meeting with a realtor later.”
“Oh?” Joyce wondered. “Who?”
“Mr. Somersby.” Gaye considered for a moment if it was really any of Joyce’s business who she chose to do business with. She gave herself a mental nudge. Think small town already. “Um… He’s from Western Realty.” She stepped back and turned away, unconsciously avoiding the other woman’s crowding. “Do you know him?” She glanced up and noticed the other woman had also turned away.
Joyce nodded absently, as though preoccupied. She didn’t follow Gaye, didn’t close the distance or try to regain eye contact. “Honey, around here everybody knows everybody.” A chuckle rumbled from her throat. “He’s all right,” she said. “Should be able to set you up with something.”
“I hope so,” Gaye returned. “I wouldn’t want to have to camp out in my car.”
Another chuckle. “I wouldn’t think that’ll happen. There’s no shortage of empty places around here. Reo will find something, probably for lot less money than you’re used to paying back in the big city.”
“That would be nice.” Gaye worried she might be unable to find a suitable place and have to settle for an apartment she didn’t like for more money than she could afford to pay. Just like the one she’d had back in LA.
“You should have him show you the old Jessup place.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah… It’s a nice old house, just a couple of blocks from here, you could walk…”
“I could never afford a house,” Gaye protested.
Joyce shrugged, “You never know…”
Gaye didn’t push; she would wait and talk to the realtor but she did file the information away. She would ask about the house… Why not?
Why me?
Don’t want you here!
Again she felt the chill knot and ball up inside her, sitting like a sliver of ice in her stomach. Could I really have a house? A front and a back door…a yard. Smoke curling from the chimney into a clear blue sky. Geez! Don’t get your hopes up girl, and you won’t be disappointed. Gaye smiled at her overzealous thoughts. Joyce smiled back and once again Gaye felt as though the woman was inside her, reading her thoughts. She dismissed the notion, unconsciously pushing the feeling out with the perception, walling herself off.
A look of surprise crossed Joyce’s features, quickly, barely registering. Gaye noted the expression but didn’t equate it to the feelings she’d dismissed. For a moment she thought Joyce might be a little odd—small town quirky.
For the next hour the two women talked shop. They discussed the latest techniques and products. Joyce impressed Gaye; she was knowledgeable and up-to-date. Her sense of humor was infectious and soon they were laughing and enjoying one another’s company. As good as it could be, only… Gaye couldn’t help noticing how quiet the shop was. She was used to a noisy and hurried environment. At A Cut Above, the phone didn’t ring and the bell above the door hadn’t sounded since Joyce came in. She screwed up her courage and asked, hoping Joyce wouldn’t be insulted.
“We’re not open today,” Joyce responded.
Gaye raised her eyebrows, but a more concise explanation was not forth coming. “Well… I suppose I better get going,” she said after a silent moment. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Somersby at four.”
“Don’t forget to ask about the Jessup house,” Joyce reminded.
“Will do.” Gaye collected her purse and started for the door.
“Have you found a place for the short term?” Gaye nodded, but Joyce continued unabated. “You’re certainly welcome to stay with me and my Ed until you find a place.”
“Thanks Joyce.” Gaye was thankful for the older woman’s hospitality. “I’ve already got a room at Peterson’s Bed and Breakfast.”
Joyce made a sour face. “Okay,” she said, with what sounded like reservations. “But you watch out for Marion Peterson’s cooking… That woman can absolutely destroy perfectly good food. Pretends to be a gourmet chef… She’s a fraud! You should come over and let my Ed feed you. Now that man can cook!” To drive home her point, Joyce struck a pose that fully emphasized her full figure.
Gaye laughed. “I’ll pop back in tomorrow. Let you know how I’m making out.”
“Sounds good,” Joyce returned. “Rhonda will be in tomorrow, give you two a chance to meet before you start… When can you start?”
A shrug. She was supposed to start in a week but if she could get things wrapped up, find a place, and arrange the movers sooner, she’d figured there was no reason she couldn’t begin a few days earlier. “Depends on how easy it is to find a place.”
Joyce nodded. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Hopefully things will work out. We’re going to have a busy day Thursday.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Joyce said. “There’s a funeral in town Friday, I think, maybe more than one.”
Gaye made a noise, a little tsk of discomfort. Joyce laughed and dismissed her with a wave. “See you tomorrow okay?”
“Tomorrow,” Gaye agreed and left.