All Adults Here(2)
Because the storefront was on the eastern tip of the roundabout, the direction from which most cars entered Clapham, the large empty windows were what welcomed people to town, a very sorry state of affairs. At least Sal’s Pizzeria, directly next door, was charming, with its red-and-white-tiled walls and its boxes printed with a portrait of its mustachioed proprietor.
Barbara was standing on the sidewalk, just beside the mailbox in front of Shear Beauty. Her car, a green Subaru hatchback with a “My Other Car Is a Cat” bumper sticker, was parked in front of the municipal building, which held the mayor’s office, a co-op preschool, yoga classes, and the winter farmers’ market, among other things. Was she getting back into her car after mailing a letter? Was she looking across the street, squinting at the Sold sign, as if it would offer any new information? Astrid would never know. She watched as Barbara stepped around the front bumper of her car and into the street, and then Astrid continued to watch as the yellow sixty-four-seat Clapham Junior High School bus came barreling down the street, knocking Barbara down as neatly and quietly as her grandsons’ toy soldiers. Astrid snapped the visor closed and leapt out of the car. By the time she’d crossed the street, half a dozen people had already gathered. There was blood, but nothing gorier than a twelve-year-old could see on network television. Astrid had seen death up close before, but not like this, not on the street like a raccoon.
“It was empty,” Randall said. He owned the gas station, which made him an easy authority on vehicles. “Except for the driver. No kids.”
“Should I cover her up? I shouldn’t cover her up, should I? Should I?” said Louise, who taught the yoga class, a rather dim, sweet girl who couldn’t remember her lefts and rights.
“I’ve got the police,” said a nervous-looking man, which was, of course, the right thing to do, even though the police station was two blocks away, and clearly there was nothing for the police to do, at least not for Barbara. “Hello,” he said, into the phone, turning away, as if to shield the other bystanders from what was still on the pavement. “There’s been an accident.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes,” Birdie said, coming out of her shop. She saw Astrid and pulled her aside. They clutched each other’s elbows and stood there in silence until the police arrived, at which point Astrid offered Barbara’s husband’s phone number and address. She’d always kept an organized address book, and this was why, just in case. The EMTs scooped Barbara’s body up and put her on the stretcher, an unflippable pancake. When the ambulance had gone, Birdie pushed Astrid gently toward the salon’s door.
* * *
—
Shear Beauty had made some improvements over the years, some attempts at modernization. The mirrors were frameless, and the wallpaper was silver with a gray geometric pattern, all of it meant to make the place seem sophisticated, which it wasn’t particularly. Birdie never could let go of the bowls of dusty potpourri in the bathroom or the embroidered pillows on the bench at the entrance. If someone wanted a fancier place, they were welcome to find one.
“I can’t believe it,” Astrid said. She set her purse down on the bench. The salon was empty, as it always was on Mondays, when Shear Beauty was closed to the public. “I can’t believe it. I’m in shock, I’m definitely in shock. Listen to me! My brain is nonfunctional.” She stopped. “Am I having an aneurysm?”
“You’re not having an aneurysm. Those people just drop dead.” Birdie gently guided Astrid by the elbow and sat her down at the sink. “Just try to relax.” Birdie also cut hair at Heron Meadows, the assisted living facility on the edge of the Clapham border, and she had a certain sangfroid approach to the mortal coil. Everyone shuffled, in the end. Astrid sat and leaned back until her neck touched the cold porcelain of the sink. She closed her eyes and listened to Birdie turn on the warm water, testing its temperature against her hand.
If Randall was right and the bus had been empty—that was important. Astrid had three children and three grandchildren, and even if she hadn’t, the loss of a child was the most acute tragedy, followed closely by a young parent, followed by cancer researchers, sitting presidents, movie stars, and everybody else. People their age—Astrid’s and Barbara’s—were too old for it to be outright tragedy, and seeing as Barbara had no children of her own, people were bound to call it a blessing, that is to say, a blessing that the school bus hadn’t run down someone else. But that didn’t seem fair to Barbara. She’d had a husband, and cats. She’d been a crossing guard at the elementary school decades earlier—oh, the irony! At least it wasn’t her corner, Astrid thought, exhaling while Birdie scratched her scalp with her short nails.
What was Barbara thinking about, when the bus was careering toward her? Why had she parked there and not across the street? What was on her list to do that day? Astrid sat up, her hair dripping on her neck and her blouse.
“Are you all right?” Birdie asked, moving a towel onto Astrid’s shoulders.
“No,” Astrid said, “I don’t think so. I didn’t even—you know this—I didn’t even like Barbara. I just feel a little, well, shaken.”
“Well, in that case,” Birdie said, walking around to the front of the chair, crouching down so that she and Astrid were at eye level, “let’s go into the back.” Birdie’s mouth was a straight line, as steady as a Catholic schoolteacher. She always had a solution.