Hiroshima Dreams

Kindergarten ends in June. It is a relief except when I remember that next year, I will go to the big school, where there are even more giants stomping through the huge building.

Sally’s friend Molly is discarded after she breaks the head off Sally’s Beach Barbie in a fit of anger, and is replaced by a girl named Marigold Strauss, who lives across the street.

Marigold has a round freckled face, brown hair that reaches past her waist, and an orange cat she carries everywhere, also called Marigold. Aside from that, the most noticeable thing about her is how often she talks about God: “God, could you believe Helen Frankel’s barrettes. They looked like dead cockroaches. Oh-my-God! When Jimmy Baker let out that fart in the swimming pool, I almost puked. God, is that embarrassing or what? For God’s sake, at least he could go to the bathroom. God, I want to be one of the Spice Girls in the worst way.”

Marigold’s house is not sectioned into pieces. They live in the entire thing. Her father is a professor at Brown University. Her mother paints portraits of celebrities and other important people. Her name is Daisy, after someone in a book called The Great Gatsby, she tells Mom. Daisy lets Sally come over each day while our parents are at work. “God, I get so much done when Sally comes over,” Daisy tells Mom.

“Maybe we should change Sally’s name to Rose; then they could have a whole flowerpot over there,” Dad says, joking.

Since I’m not invited, Mom brings me to work with her at Lutz Cutz. Many heads pass through my mom’s hands each day. Many voices scatter their stories and secrets, like the tufts of hair dropping to the floor.

Or she puts strips of foil on the women’s heads so that they look like space aliens, then they sit under helmets of hot air, like astronauts; the salon as spaceship, my mom the captain.

I sit in whatever swivel chair is empty and study my face in the mirror. I try to imagine my future, which seems as distant as Saturn. I can picture myself in a smock like my mother’s, only mine is white and I am not standing in one place, I am moving.

The women talk and talk. Sometimes I know what they are going to say before they say it. “My daughter gave birth.” “I was at a funeral.” “I have a new job.” “I won a tennis match.” The words come into my head like they are my own, natural as tasting your own tongue. It makes me wonder about time, whether maybe we live it at different speeds. Like they have said it and I’ve heard it, because my time is quicker, and their time is slower. It’s the only way I can explain the knowing I so often have, what people will say or do, what might happen.

Often, Mom makes the women’s hair look like Wet Cathy’s. My mom’s own black hair is cut short, almost like a boy’s. The long hair in her wedding photo is kept in a hatbox at the back of her closet. Sally showed it to me once, and two silk kimonos like Obaachan’s: one bright red with gold leaves; the other, blue with purple fans. I never understood why Mom would choose gray pants and a black sweater over that beautiful fabric, or short hair instead of a long, thick mane.

There are three other ladies who work with Mom: Betty, Clarabel, and Simone. When there is a lull in business, Simone plays cards with me. We play Crazy Eights, Go Fish, and Old Maid. Clarabel brings me coloring books.

The salon is one of five owned by Bernard Lutz. On Tuesdays, Mr. Lutz comes in and sits at a table “doing the books.” Just before he arrives, the ladies dump out their coffees and spit out their gum. They throw their snacks away. Betty and Clarabel put out their cigarettes and spray the room with air freshener. Then they all stand straight and focus on the heads in front of them like they are serious artists sculpting clay.

Just before Mr. Lutz gets there, Mom walks me to the bakery, and Mary, who owns it, watches me. She pounds bread dough with her fists and tells me about her husband, Hans, who came from Germany when he was seventeen and helped his father run the bakery. She complains how Hans tasted his pastries so much and so often that one day, he couldn’t fit in the door and had to retire. Now Mary runs it by herself. Sometimes, I get to frost the cupcakes with her, then eat one.

Three weeks of summer pass this way. Then, one morning, on a Friday, Mr. Lutz walks in. He’s the first man I’ve ever seen who wears jewelry: gold chains around his neck, rings on every finger, even his pinky.

There’s no time to dump coffees or put out cigarettes, or to rush me to Mary’s bakery. Everyone just goes completely still like they’re playing freeze tag.

Lutz makes a face. “Harsh chemicals. No good for a child. And customers worry. Why is some kid just sitting here, hour after hour, day after day, doing nothing?”

“No. I know.” Mom stares at the floor. Her cheeks flush. She sweeps a few clumps of hair aside with her foot. I am embarrassed to be the cause of such trouble.

“We need to put Lin in a summer program,” Mom tells Dad at dinner. “Even at half-day, it’s eighty dollars a week. And then I’ll have to cut my hours.”

Mom has made a pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, Caesar salad, and a blueberry pie. When my mom makes American food, Obaachan eats very little.

“I’m afraid that might be imposing too much on Mrs. Strauss,” Mom says. “Already, she’s watching Sally for free.”

“Don’t put her there!” Sally says. “That place is swarming with kids, and there’s barely any supervision. She’ll fall into the swimming pool, and she won’t even be able to open her mouth and call for help. She’ll drown and no one will notice.”