“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
He picked up the dollar and folded it into a tiny square.
Then he turned toward the door.
That was when his sleeve moved.
And I saw the tattoo on his left wrist.
A bluebird.
Small.
Faded.
Its wings spread as though it were about to fly.
My heart stopped.
My mother had the exact same tattoo.
Same wrist.
Same size.
Same bird.
When I was little, I used to trace it with my finger.
“What does the bird mean, Mama?”
She always gave me the same answer.
“That’s a story for when you’re older.”
I asked when I was eight.
Fifteen.
Twenty-three.
She never told me.
Then she became sick.
And died.
Apparently, I had never become “old enough.”
The man reached for the door.
“Wait.”
Everyone looked at me.
“My chair is free.”
Brenda frowned.
“Lucy.”
“I’ll cut his hair.”
“He can’t pay.”
“I know.”
“Then the fifty dollars comes out of your paycheck.”
“Fine.”
Brenda stared at me.
Then walked away.
The old man approached my chair cautiously.
“I’ll get it dirty.”
“It wipes clean.”
“You really don’t have to do this.”
“Please sit.”
He lowered himself onto the very edge of the chair.
I fastened a black cape around his shoulders.
“You can call me Lucy.”
He looked at me through the mirror.
Something changed in his expression.
“Lucy,” he repeated.
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated.
“Ray.”
I started working.
His hair was tangled and badly matted.
