Movie Stars

Frosting Mother’s Hair

TOM AND HIS MOTHER, MRS. WELLINGHAM, WERE PRACTICALLY THE same age. At fifteen, Mrs. Wellingham had married a twenty-year-old man — Tom’s father — who was leaving to fight in a war.

Tom had grown up and gone off and become pretty wealthy in the soft drink business. These days he lived in a kind of semi-retirement. What he did, mainly, was fly around to different corporate retreats and present a lecture he had come up with called “Stop Having Fun in the Workplace.”

Business had brought him back to his hometown after a long time away. Of course he went to visit his parents. Tom sat in a small living-room chair that seemed to have been crafted for a toddler. He wore one of his suits. He had just returned from lecturing a whole auditorium.

“What was the story about the root beer?” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“Which one?” said Tom.

“I think it’s a wonderful story. I’m going to see some of the old gang soon and I want to tell them. Anne Marie is always asking about your work.”

“I’m sorry. What story do you mean?”

“You said they really don’t taste different, your brand and the other. I can’t believe it.”

“Well, now, that’s true. It certainly is. It’s quite a story, how that information came about.”

“I have to get to the drag strip,” said Tom’s father, Mr. Wellingham Sr. He rose. Tom followed suit.

“Your father keeps strange hours these days,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“That’s okay,” said Tom. “I understand working for a living and pursuing what one loves.”

Mr. Wellingham Sr. had finally sold the machine shop that had given him so much heartache over the years. Now he was a private consultant for a wealthy car collector. His job, as far as Tom could understand it, was making sure that suppliers of vintage car parts did not rip off his employer. And sometimes he lifted the hood of something and got his hands dirty for fun. He even drove a race-car as a hobby, despite his age. He won a lot of side bets from the smart young punks who thought they could take him. He and Mrs. Wellingham looked a lot happier these days, Tom thought.

“I need to fetch something,” Mrs. Wellingham said. “I think it’s going to be a delightful surprise. Now you two hug goodbye.”

When she left the room, Tom and Mr. Wellingham Sr. stood there looking at one another.

“Your lady friend couldn’t make it again, I see,” said Mr. Wellingham Sr.

“Sam? Well, no. She bought two enormous stones and she’s having them erected in the yard.”

“Please don’t tell your mother that. It would really hurt her feelings.”

“I can’t imagine why,” said Tom.

But Mr. Wellingham Sr. was on to something. Sam was the main reason Tom hadn’t seen his parents in two years. There was always something going on — her movies, for example, and big projects like her stones.

Sam couldn’t understand why Tom would want to talk to his parents. She stood close by and mimicked him during his phone calls home. It was what made her special. She was only twenty-six. You never knew what she would do next. In a sense, though, she was probably jealous and acting out. Tom bought his parents nice things, such as the house they were living in now. They didn’t want anything too roomy. They were alone.

Tom and his father said their goodbyes. Tom was still standing when his mother returned. She didn’t sit down, so neither did he.

“Finish your story,” she said. “I’ve promised lots of proud mother stories for my get-together.”

“Oh, the taste test. Well, that was a long time ago. I’m not sure how interested your friends will be. They took us upstairs and blindfolded us for a lark. We had to admit that we couldn’t discern our own product. There is actually more variation in separate batches of Mugsy than there is in the average batch of Mugsy versus the average batch of King Kevin.”

“I just don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“It’s absolutely true, though our advertisements at the time stated the contrary. There is technically no difference in flavor between a bottle of Mugsy and a bottle of King Kevin.”

“I still like Mugsy best, because that’s your brand.”

“It was,” said Tom.

“And it really does taste better. You have too much faith in science and testing.”

“Science is pretty reliable,” said Tom.

“I wish I had a can of each in front of me right now,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “I’d show you.”

“Do you have something behind your back?”

“Yes, that’s my lovely surprise.” She revealed a box with a smiling woman pictured on the front. “It’s something for us to do while you tell me your wonderful stories. You’re going to help me frost my hair.”

“Really?” said Tom. “I’m not sure that sounds feasible.”

“I’ve been meaning to take care of it. I have a high school reunion coming up, as I was saying. Not a formal one. Just a group of us girls. But I’d like to look presentable.”

“I’m not sure what frosting entails.”

Tom’s cell phone went off, a ringtone Sam had installed for him, some hip hop that embarrassed him in front of his mother.

“Jazzy,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

Tom looked. Caller ID said it was one of Sam’s friends. Unusual for him to be calling this number.

“Do you mind if I get this?”

“Why would I mind? I’m your mother!”

Tom answered the call.

“Tom? This is Barry Wick.”

“Of course, Barry. Is everything all right?”

Barry was the director and sometime costar of Sam’s films, in which Tom was often the principle investor.

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Barry. “There’s no emergency or anything like that.”

“Is Sam okay?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. Don’t worry. I just had a quick question, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, I’ll give the best answer I can. What’s on your mind this evening, Barry?”

“I want to sleep in the same bed with Sam tonight. Fully clothed. It’s nothing sexual.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Barry. I think you’re going to have to clarify this one for me.”

“Sam and I are collaborators, you know that. We really draw a lot from one another. There’s a certain energy between us.”

“Right…”

“That’s it, really. I’d just like to hold her tenderly. All through the night.”

Tom saw his mother looking at him. She had taken a seat and was holding the box of frosting in her lap. Tom turned away and faced the dim foyer.

“Uh-huh…” he said. “I’m afraid I’m not one hundred percent sold on this idea, Barry. It seems a tad intrusive.”

“It’s just the opposite, sir. We’d be fully clothed. I want to emphasize that. Look, I’m not going to do it without your permission. Sam didn’t even want me to call.”

“I see.”

“But I thought it was important to get your input. To make you aware.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate the thought.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” said Barry.

“I’m just not sure that holds true for me here at this moment,” said Tom.

“So what I’m hearing is, you’re resistant.”

“I believe that would be an accurate assessment,” said Tom.

“I want you to know I’m going to take that into consideration as the night moves forward,” said Barry.

“Thank you,” said Tom. “I hope you will.”

“I will.”

“Terrific, then.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

“Sounds good, Barry.”

Barry was gone.

“What was that about?” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“Business,” said Tom.

“You seem upset.”

“I’m not,” said Tom. “Where’s that flatscreen TV I bought for you?”

“I put it in the guest bedroom.”

“That’s a funny place to put it,” said Tom.

“I thought it would be nice to have this room just for sitting and talking.”

“Sure, that’s nice,” said Tom.

“Come on and help me frost my hair. I want to involve you. You’re home. My son’s home. Althea used to do it.”

“That seems more appropriate,” said Tom.

“I’ll put on my special poncho,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “You’ll love it!”

Mrs. Wellingham went into the other room again. When she came back she was wearing her special poncho. It was white, with bright dots on it that made Tom almost remember a picture book of his youth. Something about a shaggy creature with colorful spots. When he shook himself his spots got flung about. Something like that. It was hard to remember.

“We should go in the kitchen, over the linoleum, in case there’s a mess,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

They did so.

Tom’s mother opened the box and laid out all the frosting equipment on the burnt-orange kitchen counter. It had come with the house, the counter had. Its color was of the 1970s. It should have been replaced.

“Noisome,” said Tom.

“This is going to be a real ball,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Aren’t we having fun?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Wellingham sat on a high kitchen stool. She put on a strange silver cap with holes in it. She tied a string under her chin to hold the cap in place.

“Do I look like a bathing beauty?” she said.

“Yes,” said Tom.

She told him how to use the white plastic hook that came with the kit to pull strands of her hair through the holes in the cap.

“Just the holes with circles around them,” she said. “I want an overall frosted look.”

“It seems to me,” said Tom, “that if you sincerely want an overall frosted look, you’d want your hair pulled through all these little holes, not just the ones with circles around them.”

“I’ve been frosting my hair for many years,” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“Very well. I’ll defer.”

Tom pulled some of his mother’s hair through various holes.

“Just the ones with circles!” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“That’s precisely what I’m doing,” said Tom. “What makes you think I’m doing otherwise?”

“I raised you.”

“Well, what on earth is that supposed to mean?” Tom put down the hook.

“Are you mad at me?” said Mrs. Wellingham.

“No. This happens to be exhausting. My wrist hurts. I believe the cap is defective.”

“They wouldn’t put a defective cap in the box.”

“Is the cap supposed to have two layers?” said Tom. “It seems to have two layers. I don’t believe the holes have been properly punched through the bottom layer.”

“That’s an illusion,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “They have to make it hard for the gunk to soak through. Otherwise, there would be no precision. Your hair would be one big mess.”

She picked up the hook and started pulling strands of her hair through the holes.

“What are you doing?” said Tom.

“I don’t mind. It’s not something you’re used to. I understand. You’ve never frosted Sam’s hair? I think she’d look darling with frosted hair. She and I could be twins!”

“Do you want a mirror? You’re getting some of the holes without circles around them,” said Tom.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Your new job is to tell me stories.”

Tom told how he got his job almost by accident. Then he did the one about the day of orientation. They had been working right through lunch when one poor fellow brought a bottle of King Kevin into the auditorium with his sandwich. The instructor stopped in her tracks. The guy had purchased it from a vending machine on the very floor. Mugsy was leasing the building at the time, and they shared it with another corporation. In those days, the stocking of vending machines had been a lax industry. Mugsy had pioneered the stricter requirements that led to the advent of modern automated retail distribution branding. You wouldn’t dream of finding a Pepsi casually stocked in the same machine with a Coca-Cola product, would you? Mugsy’s innovation in that area had led the way, and it was probably all thanks to that poor dumb boob who had brought the King Kevin into orientation.

“And that poor dumb boob was me,” Tom finished, as he always did.

“I can’t do this anymore,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “Let’s just frost what we’ve got. Why don’t you mix up the gunk? I’ll keep pulling my hair through the holes until you’re done.”

Tom put on the plastic gloves. He took the two gunk packets over to the sink and mixed the contents in a little plastic tub. The fumes stung his eyes.

“It stinks of brimstone!” said Tom.

“It hardly smells at all,” said Mrs. Wellingham. “They’ve made great improvements over the years. It doesn’t smell nearly as terrible as a permanent wave.”

When the gunk was ready to go, Tom came over and rubbed it on his mother’s head. First he used the little spatula on the opposite end from the hook, as was illustrated on the instruction sheet, but it proved awkward, so he switched to a manual procedure with his gloved hands. He told his mother about all the foreign objects that had been found in bottles of Mugsy over the years, and the special division of the company that existed solely to investigate all such claims. He told of some celebrated cases in which fraud was proven, and some that turned out to be legitimate, such as the six baby opossums, and how the company had successfully hushed it up while still doing right by all afflicted parties, save for the opossums. He told her about all the trouble that Mugsy had been in with Third World countries. It was politically incorrect to sell a vacuous food item where people were starving to death. So Mugsy had come up with Mighty Mugsy Hercules, a beverage they sold only in Africa. A man could live on six bottles of Mighty Mugsy Hercules a day, and live quite comfortably — and get all his nutritional requirements, by the way. One day Tom’s friend Danny had brought a bottle of Mighty Mugsy Hercules into the office and asked Tom to have a sip. It was terrible!

That was the funny part of the story, but no reaction was forthcoming. His mother had fallen fast asleep listening to the stories she had claimed to want to hear.

Tom didn’t take it personally. He went into the pantry and got his father’s wine. The bottle was almost full. Tom chose a big water glass from the drainer.

He walked into the dark, mysterious dining room and sat at the table. Things glinted at him from a china cabinet in the dark.

His father had always been a teetotaler, but after his friend Marty suffered a stroke, Mr. Wellingham Sr. had begun having a glass of wine every night, the way the medical community advised.

Tom drank the wine and it made him think of his conception. The terrible honeymoon night of Mr. and Mrs. Wellingham was a traditional family tale. They had gotten into an argument because Mr. Wellingham was driving through town trying to get the car up on its two left wheels. Later Mrs. Wellingham had stormed out of the room and into the hotel bar, where she discovered a drink called the Tom Collins. It tasted like lemonade. Mrs. Wellingham had never had a drink up until that point, when she had ten of them. Had his mother even been conscious during Tom’s conception? His father would have been cold sober. This was implication of the story that no one seemed to consider amid the merriment of the Thanksgiving table.

Once he had been at a party with Sam when one of her female friends started going on and on about her mother’s problems with vaginal dryness. What kind of conversation was that? Tom stood there acting as if it were normal. Where did the girl get such information? From her own mother? Dear, dear.

“I hate my mother,” Sam had contributed at that time.

He tried calling Sam. She didn’t answer. He had seen her in the act of not answering her phone when people called, people she found distasteful.

Once Barry Wick had asked Tom where he was from, and Tom had told him. Then Barry Wick said, “Wow. That sounds real huckleberry.”

What did that mean? It seemed designed to make Tom feel like a fool. Tom didn’t know what to say. Barry Wick had a nice smile on his face. Was it a friendly remark?

There was an undertone of hostility, Tom thought, but he couldn’t be sure. He still considered it from time to time. It occurred to him that maybe it was something Barry Wick had been saving up to say for a long time, a new piece of slang he had overheard or invented, a line he wanted to try out, and Tom had provided him with a good opportunity. If true, this theory would make Barry Wick a very shallow person, more concerned with how he came off in other people’s eyes than with any real content of his own soul.

What about the time Sam had hiked her skirt and peed in a parking garage? At the time it had seemed bold. You never think about how much a person pees at one time until you see it spread out on the concrete. It looked like a map of North America. What had Tom found so commendable? Sam and her friends had made a cultish virtue of behaving like infants.

In their movies, Sam and her friends had a lot of dialogue about how life was about to change because they were turning twenty-four or something. One day they would be twenty-seven. They shook their heads at the thought. In Sam’s movies, every character was worried about turning twenty-seven. Then they stripped off their clothes.

Often there was a foolish character, a boss or some other authority figure, played by a young man of thirty or so — an ancient. He told boring stories. He talked and talked and the protagonists rolled their eyes behind his back or dozed off.

A sudden, vivid memory was triggered. Tom couldn’t make a conscious connection, but there it was, from back when he had first joined the Mugsy Beverage family, oh my gosh, twenty-five years ago. He had been considerably younger than Sam was now, but with so much more responsibility.

His first convention. New Orleans. Everyone was having vodka drinks and rice wine and malt liquor and BC Powder and something called a hurricane that tasted like fruit punch. Everyone was combining each of these things all at once. The drunken mother of one of his coworkers showed up, which didn’t seem entirely professional. She appeared to be interested only in the free food. The free food was all she could talk about until she grabbed Tom and said, “Do you know who you look like?”

“No, ma’am,” said Tom.

“You look like that little squirt on that famous TV show,” said the drunken mother of Tom’s coworker.

There were a lot of people standing around, listening. Tom tried to think of something smart to say but he was only a young man.

“Thanks, I guess,” he said.

“No, it’s a compliment,” said the woman. “He’s going to make a cute little man when he grows up. But your parents didn’t do you any favors when they didn’t have your teeth fixed.”

If Tom’s mother had been there, she would have said something quiet and gracious, and her simple, nonjudgmental tone would have made the other woman ashamed.

Tom was glad he had a nice mother.

Over the years, the incident would pop into his head and he would try to think of what he should have said instead of standing there with egg on his face. The best he had come up with so far was, “At least I’m not an old drunken slattern.”

Sometimes he even let himself think that maybe the old drunk had a point. Why hadn’t they done something about his awful teeth? Now he wore the braces that Sam had talked him into. They hurt all the time.

Tom finished the wine. He took off his shoes and padded through the kitchen, where his mother was still nodding on the tall stool at the counter. It didn’t look safe, quite, but he wasn’t sure what he could do about it. He couldn’t pick up his own mother and carry her to bed! There were two more bottles at the back of the pantry. Terrible stuff. Wine from Oklahoma. He opened one of the bottles and drank a good bit of it in the guest bedroom, where he stared at the flatscreen TV, which, as he could plainly see, had never been taken out of the box. Eventually, he passed out.

Tom was shaken awake by his father, a big man with familiar hands.

“What have I come home to?” Tom’s father said.

Tom could hear his mother crying in the other room.

“We’re taking your mother to the emergency room,” said Tom’s father. He pulled Tom to his feet.

Tom lay in the backseat with the back of his hand against his slick forehead, blearily watching the streetlights’ swoop, and the moon, which seemed to stay in the same place as his father swept through the traffic, an expert. His mother had stopped crying so much about the chemical burns on her scalp and spoke with some courage about what fun it would be to buy a hat.