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Deleted Scene: Poetry at the Salon

(Formerly in Chapter Five)

I thought it was a good sign, when I got to the salon, that Rebekah hadn’t beat up any of the employees. On the contrary, she was sitting with three other women, laughing and talking.

Her hair was certainly different. No doubt as a show of defiance to Agent Reuben, Rebekah had dyed it brunette, not blonde. What had once been the color of honey was now more similar to dark chocolate. And it was short.

I saw it all through the window, peeking in to get an early glance. When I finally entered, Rebekah stood, the laughter on her face replaced by grim apprehension. Of course, I gushed over it, telling her how wonderful she looked, and wondering aloud why she hadn’t considered it before. She beamed, glancing back at her new friends.

“They talked me into donating it,” Rebekah said, running her fingers through the hair that now barely even covered her ears. “That’s why it’s so short”

“Donating it?” I paused. “For bomb sights?” This is why men and women can’t communicate. Half the time, I wonder if we even try.

“Wigs,” she said, looking at me quizzically. “You know, for cancer patients.”

“Ah.”

One of the women she’d been sitting with – probably in her late thirties, and wearing too much eye makeup – stood and shook my hand. “Jennifer has been telling us everything about you,” she said, yanking my hand up and down. If enthusiasm was black and seeped from your eyelids, it would explain a lot about this woman.

“I hope it was good,” I said, looking at Rebekah, my eyes pleading with her to get us out of there before I explained a different version of our background than she had.

“It was all excellent,” the woman said, letting go of my hand and grabbing Rebekah by the arm. “So you live out at Roche?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m just staying in a hotel right now, though.”

“That sounds like such an exciting life,” she continued animatedly. “How did you get started?”

Great. I had no idea what story Rebekah had told her. I glanced at her for help, and she made the most vaguely ambiguous gesticulation I had ever seen.

“Oh, you know... The same way everyone gets started.”

“How’s that?” The other two women listened closely. One of the stylists turned off her blow dryer.

“This and that. I’ve always wanted to do this kind of thing – ever since I was a little kid.”

“Really?” She glanced up at me.

“Yep.”

“What kind of practice? I bet it takes all your time.”

Oh good. Rebekah told her I was a doctor – the same cover that I’d been using at the hotel. At least I’d had a chance to think up a few things. I’d been pondering about the vaguest possible branch of medicine, and settled on a general practitioner. Dr. Hugh Waltz.

“Um, it’s mostly general practice. A little bit of everything.”

“Don’t you have a specialty?”

“Uh... Pulmonary.”

“Huh?”

“You know, lungs.”

She stared, the genuinely excited smile on her face fading to a confusion-masking facade that not even her quarter-inch of makeup could conceal.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head and turning her attention back to the carpet. “Just not my thing, I guess.”

I was in trouble. I looked at Rebekah, who was grinning from ear to ear and looked like she had no intention of interrupting things now.

“What’s not?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, no offense or anything, but I like landscapes. Monet. French impressionists. That kind of thing.”

Wait a minute...

“But like I said,” she continued. “It’s just not my taste. I’m sure the... lung stuff you do is beautiful.”

I’ll take Name That Cover Story for two hundred, Alex.

Rebekah turned her head away to cover up a laugh.

I’ll take this ring right back to the store, young lady...

“I think you’re confused.”

The woman cocked her head, anticipating the simple, elegant explanation.

“I... I didn’t mean that I paint lungs.”

Well, what did you mean, moron? My mind rocketed back to Agent Reuben’s words – just because you have a cover story doesn’t mean you’re a good story teller.

I put on the best look of confidence I could muster. “I mean that I use my lungs when I, um, do my artist stuff. I... write things – poetry, I guess – and then I read them – out loud, using my lungs. That’s the real crux of the art.”

“Oh,” she said simply. “Oh.”

Rebekah beamed.

“Yeah,” I nodded, reaffirming to myself the story I’d just been locked into. “Poetry. Haiku, actually.”

“And you read them out loud?”

“Yep.”

Rebekah finally spoke. “He’s really good. Kind of like a wandering minstrel.”

The women all stood up and shook my hand, and raved about how much they loved poetry, and had I ever read Emily Dickinson? and there’s a great arts festival in Friday Harbor every July. Rebekah took my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back – hard.

“Hugh,” Rebekah said suddenly. Her fingers were squirming to get out of my punitive grip. She slipped away and faced me, smiling, if possible, even wider than before. “Why don’t you recite something?”

“Oh yes!” the women chimed in. “Please!” The stylists had completely stopped paying attention to their customers – though the customers were also staring at me.

“What?”

“You know, that new poem you’ve been working on.”

She was so dead.

The makeup woman looked at me expectantly. I hoped that she wasn’t a connoisseur of fine poetry.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “It’d be hard to pick just one.”

Rebekah’s face turned very solemn and reassuring. “You can recite more than one, if you want.”

“Well,” I fumbled, “I don’t know what kind of poetry these women like. I wouldn’t want to recite a sonnet if they hates sonnets.”

“I like all kinds,” Makeup said eagerly. “Sonnets are fine. Or haikus. You said that you write haikus, too.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, trying to think back to my high school English classes. “Haikus are good. Yeah, I could do that.” Five syllables, seven syllables, five syllables. Short and easy. “Actually, there’s no ‘s’, you know. It’s just haiku, not haikus.”

“Oh,” she said, horribly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I assured her. “Classic mistake.”

Rebekah almost lost it. She suppressed her laugh by commanding me to perform. “Well, Hugh? We have to get back. We don’t have all day.”

“Right... right. Okay.” I thought of the pristine majesty of Puget Sound, the steadfast grandeur of the pines, and the lush, verdant ferns carpeting the forest floor, and I desperately hoped I could come up with something.

“Water in the sea

Only God can make a tree

Green, green ferns I see.”

Rebekah snorted, and did a horrible job of making it sound like a sneeze.

Makeup’s look switched back to good ol’ confused. “I didn’t know that haikus – I mean, haiku – rhyme.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly realizing she was right, “they don’t always rhyme. I actually rhymed this one on purpose to, you know... to represent the order in nature. See, water and trees and ferns are all different, but by rhyming, it connects them all. Mother Earth and stuff.”

She nodded, looking genuinely impressed.

Rebekah, apparently deciding she’d tormented me long enough, took my hand and announced we had to leave. As we walked to the door, Rebekah whispered. “Nice save.”

“You are so dead.”

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