Wade Cleared the Front Room Before the Touring Crew Arrived

Wade had taken down every head in my front room.

For twenty-six years, faces made of plaster had watched our street in Natchitoches. Some had broad brows. Some had narrow jaws. Each held a place for a person who stood under hot lights and trusted my hands.

That Tuesday, the shelves were bare.

I was a small Ethiopian American woman of seventy-two, with brown skin, silver curls pinned close, and a deep crease between my brows.

I made theatrical wigs. After one fitting, I could copy the exact place where a performer's hair began, down to the thin patch near one ear.

Wade thought this took too long.

Wade Pritchard was a tall white man of thirty-nine, with sandy hair, a red neck, and shirts that strained at his shoulders.

He stood beside a new desk where my fitting chair had been.

"Where are my blocks?" I asked.

"Back room. We needed a cleaner look."

"And the cream trunk?"

He checked his phone.

"Storage. Almaz, please don't start. These people have real money."

The touring crew came in before I could answer. Their wardrobe supervisor carried a cloth bag with a torn strap. He paused to hold the door for the last person behind him.

"Jun Park," he said. "We spoke about the lace samples."

Jun was a Korean American man of thirty-four. He had a gentle voice and a notebook full of sharp questions. He had asked about sweat guards before he asked about price.

That had made me like him.

Wade moved between us.

"Almaz helps with our stitching," he said. "She's elderly, but I keep her busy. We try to do our part."

The room went still.

I held a paper sleeve of blue thread. Its edge pressed into my palm.

"I make the wigs," I said.

"Of course you do, sweetheart."

Wade smiled at Jun as if I had needed comfort.

"Anyway, I run Cane River Hairworks. We can meet any tour schedule."

Jun did not smile back.

"Who makes the front knots?" he asked.

"Almaz supervises that," Wade said.

I opened my sleeve and took out a needle already threaded with blue cotton.

"May I see your lead's measurement sheet?"

Jun handed it over.

"The right temple needs another fitting," I said. "That scar will pull the lace."

"Exactly," he said. "Our last supplier missed it."

I made a loose blue loop on a scrap of lace. It curved like a comma.

"That's my mark for room to breathe. Never pull a hairline tight over a scar."

Wade tapped the desk.

"We can discuss sewing later. The twelve-piece package is twenty-four thousand dollars. Forty percent books the dates."

Jun closed his notebook.

"You've already taken our deposit."

I looked at Wade.

He gave me a flat, hard glance.

"The office handles the office," he said.

Two years earlier, he had paid $24,000 for forty percent of our small company. I had kept sixty percent and brought the work. He brought bookings, billing, and the ease of talking to people I found tiring.

I had also brought a lawyer to the signing.

Wade had complained about her bill.

He had still signed every page.

Jun asked to see the workroom. Wade said we were cleaning it. I said the light was good enough for lace.

We went back.

My blocks stood in a heap beside the sink. A mahogany fitting head lay on its side, its nose against a bucket.

I lifted it with both hands.

Jun picked up a towel without being asked.

"What are your fitting dates?" I asked him.

He named three days I had already promised to another cast.

Wade laughed too loudly.

"We'll move things."

"People aren't shelves," I said.

Jun asked for our signed production plan by morning. His voice stayed soft, but he would not let his crew leave measurements without it.

After they left, Wade shut the door.

"You cost me respect today."

I set the fitting head upright.

"You gave mine away first."

He leaned close.

"The shop owns what's in the shop. Learn that before you make trouble."

I did not answer. I went to my flat above the bakery and opened the metal box under my bed.

Inside were purchase receipts, an equipment schedule, and our signed agreement. The schedule had a blue thread caught in its staple. I had been sewing when the lawyer called it ready.

I turned to Wade's initials beside the words retained personal ownership.

Then my phone rang.

"Mrs. Getachew?" a woman asked. "I'm calling about the cream trunk I paid a deposit on. Why are there people's names inside the heads?"