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First Haircut, 1963Author(s): Alison TownsendSource: The North American Review, Vol. 287, No. 5 (Sep. - Oct., 2002), p. 25Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126823 .

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JANE MULLEN

lives were nearly over anyway. But they were young,

she suddenly sees, about twenty years younger than she

and Jack are now. She finds she can still see them quite

clearly, both how they were before and how they were

after the accident. So much smaller afterwards, so

shrunken and shriveled, as if all the life had been

sucked out of them, like the bear licking up every last

drop of juice from the carton. Plump,

vivacious Mrs. Serrano who sent Linda

to school with breaded veal sandwiches, and jolly Mr. Serrano, who put raisins in

the meatballs he made for those won

derful spaghetti dinners he cooked.

Linda was their only child and life as

they knew it had ended that day on

Chopsey Hill. Yet they had so many

years to go. How had they managed to

get through them? And?she can't help herself?she

sees the years stretching before her and

Jack, if there had not been an ice storm

last spring, if there had been nothing to warn Billy out of the path of that giant bear paw in the sky. Life as they know it would be over now, too. Jack might

never laugh again, never smile, never

tell a joke. He would have nightmares. (The dreams he had of Billy in the

years following the divorce were bad

enough.) Instead of bursting with pride at this very moment, he would be emp

tied out and licked dry. Jenny would

grieve with him, but it wouldn't be

enough. She has read about these

things, how a couple's response to this

kind of tragedy either makes or breaks

them, how grief must be equal if the

marriage is to survive. Much as Jenny loves Billy, as proud as she is of him, too, she is not his mother, he is not her

son, and Jack would find it difficult not to resent her for escaping.

But he?lucky Jack?never sees what

isn't, only what is. So he is already laugh ing. Billy is laughing. Everyone is laugh

ing, except Jenny, who has missed the

joke that's been told and in any case can't rid herself of the alternate future she has

conjured up. Perhaps it's the Irish

whiskey, but she finds to her horror that

her eyes have filled, and in the midst of

this merry group she feels something like

Cassandra, burdened by visions of disaster no one else could see, those dire prophe

cies she was given in exchange for love.

She gets to her feet and says good-night. The fish

ing brother gives her a warm wink, and Jack lifts his hand as she nears his chair. He takes hold of her hand and absently-mindedly gives it a squeeze. She bends and plants a kiss on top of his head. He's the one

who's had the closest call here. And he doesn't even

know. D

ALISON TOWNSEND

First Haircut, 1963

After my mother died

my long hair became a problem. My aunts braided it at first,

their hands so much like her hands I had to look away from myself in the mirror.

Then there was only my father,

his fingers tangled like splinters in silk. I tried to teach him what I didn't know myself?

Over and under, Daddy; I think you go over and under?

my head bowed so he couldn't see how it hurt.

No matter what I did, I couldn't help out, or show him how she'd bound the tea-colored

strands that sparked stars into glossy ropes

that made me who I was?the girl with long braids that flew out behind her in streamers when she ran.

Most of all, I couldn't lean into his body while he braided, my body swaying with each stroke the way it had with hers. Which was why I agreed

when he said, I'm sorry, honey. I can't get the hang of it.

I think we're going to have to get it cut.

I've never forgotten the kiss of steel

that left me lightheaded, the air cold against my nape, aware I wasn't Rapunzel or Jo March or even Tressy

whose short hair grew when you pressed on her stomach,

but a girl in mourning, carrying lopped-off braids home

in a blue net bag to put away in a secret place, deep in the bottom drawer of the mirrored, mahogany dresser I'd stood before every morning, watching her fingers fly over and under, as she wove the waterfall tight and smooth,

the world she made there safe, shining, whole.

September-October 2002 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 25

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