It's not until I'm trying to move my hair out of the way so that I can put the stupid seat belt on, without also sitting on my hair, that dad pipes up with, "Did you do something different with your hair?"
I stick my tongue out at him, "Oh, ha ha. If you must know I used my repair power on it."
Dad smiles as he puts the car into reverse, "Well, I think it looks very nice."
I mock growl at dad before asking, "So, why Lord's Market and not the mall?"
Dad looks at the house, "Well, I need a new alarm clock, the downstairs TV is dead, so is the microwave. We need new clocks for the kitchen and your room. My TV still works and so does the computer. But they're always switched off at the wall when we're finished with them. We need a new phone though. That's just the obvious stuff."
With every item dad lists out, I shrink down into the chair, and inside a little more. When he stops speaking, I squeak out, "I'm sorry."
Dad glances at me while he turns the car out onto the road, "Taylor, you have nothing to be sorry for. Accidents happen, this is why we…"
I glance over as dad trails off, only to stay silent as I spot the distant look on his face. A look that he used to have all too often after mum died. Honestly, it's a better look than the dead expression he normally wears.
As he's driving, I decide to close my eyes and meditate. Not on anything specific, just being me and existing in this place and time. After a couple of minutes, I imagine that I can feel the buildings going past along with the odd person that's already up at this time of the morning. It's probably just the fact that this is an old car, and I can hear the change in air pressure.
I open my eyes just as we're turning into the field that serves as a car park for Lord's Market. Already the car park is 1/4 full, and if we'd left it as late as we normally do it would be queued down the road for nearly a mile. Which, of course, is why we normally walk.
I chew my lip as a thought occurs to me, "Dad, how are we going to afford this?"
Dad gets that faraway look again, but this time he shakes his head and answers me, "Just after we got married, and bought our house, your mum and I set up a 'Marquis fund'. Did I ever tell you that she used to run with Lustrum? No? I'll have to tell you some stories one day. Anyway, she got out before things went sideways, but during that time she saw how much damage cape fights could cause, and Marquis was the big name in this part of Brockton Bay. We agreed to put the same amount of money we were paying for the mortgage into savings so that if the worst came to the worst, we would have a nest egg to start over elsewhere. When you came along, we agreed that it would be your college fund if nothing happened till then. When your mum died. When your mum died, Alan helped me get a payout from the fire truck that T-Boned her on the green light."
I don't want to interrupt, but I've never heard this before, "I thought she died because she was using her phone."
Dad nods sadly, "That was the original report, they said that she ran a red light. Alan spotted a traffic camera on that junction, and we never got a ticket. That was months after the event though, and looking back I think I'd still be deep in the bottle if he hadn't spotted that. Without the ticket we were able to take it to court and the city settled claiming 'contributary causes' as a reason not to give a full payout." Dad gives a bitter laugh, "As if money would ever bring her back. The money paid the rest of the mortgage, and the debts I'd built up, but I kept paying into the fund." Dad looks at me with a genuine, but sad, smile, "You know, you mother would be in hysterics at the moment. The first time we need to use the fund for what we set it up for, and it's because our daughter's a cape."
The only thing I can say to this is, "I didn't kill her…?"
Dad grasps my hand, "Of course you didn't, why would you ever think that?"
"I thought… That is…"
Dad takes a deep breath, "Taylor, I never ever blamed you for your mother's death. I blamed her, I blame mobile phones, and I blame the driver that hit her. But I've never blamed you."
I wanted to shout at him, ask why he never told me, to do something. But I how do I verbalize the fact that I thought I'd killed mom for the last two years, and he could have solved it by telling me this years ago. Instead, with tears trickling down my cheeks, I get out of the car and lean against it as the door closes harder than I wanted to. It takes dad a few more minutes to get out of the car and start walking towards the market.
I hurry to catch up, and when I do, I hesitantly reach out and hold his hand. When I do, dad looks over at me with a wan smile as we walk into the market.
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When we get into the market, it's clear that the locals are still setting up their stalls. By locals I mean people who would be having garage sales in the rest of the USA. Lord's Market is open 7 days a week, though I remember it used to only be Wednesdays and the Weekends. Around the edge of the old airfield are the permanent stalls and eateries like Fugly Bobs. The main airfield is a maze of stalls, with the day stalls at one end and the regular stalls at the other.
Dad immediately heads for the day stalls, and I quickly follow behind, my hair streaming out behind me in the slight breeze. As we're looking at the first stall for anything we might need, my first issue quickly comes to light. I didn't bring anything to fiddle with.
This becomes apparent as soon as I see something interesting, a silver pendant at the back of the stall. I spot it rising off the table just before anyone else and I lunge forward to grab the floating chain. Not that it helps, as a nearby book floats off the table so that I can read the cover properly.
As I grab the book out of the air, my cheeks flush as I look around desperately hoping that nobody was paying attention.
Fortunately, there're no customers around, with most of the early customers being locals at the other end of the market. Much to my chagrin, the old lady behind the stall looks between myself and dad before smiling, "Danny, is this Taylor?"
Dad smiles at the old lady for a moment before saying, "Martha, how's the kids?"
Martha smiles, "All grown up and moved out finally. Penny found a beau on the west coast and Andrew moved to Portland. Not that I can blame them with the E88 getting bigger since Marquis…"
Dad nods, "Yeah. It's been hard on the boys too, as many of the better paying jobs are in the south and half our members can't go there out of fear of reprisals. Taylor, this is Martha, her husband John used to do my job before he retired in 2000. Nobody else wanted the job, so I stepped up."
Martha laughs, "Nobody else wanted to be shouted at you mean. Now, won't you introduce me to your daughter?"
Dad laughs good naturedly, "Of course. Taylor, this is Martha the retired unofficial cook for the association. Martha, you already know Taylor as you babysat her a few times."
I look between dad and Martha in disbelief, "You did?"
Martha nods, "I did, whenever Lacey or your mum weren't around. 'Course, Penny and Andrew were both finding their legs as adults at the time, and you were barely out of diapers." She pointedly looks at the locket and the book, "Anyway, it looks like your daughter has itchy fingers, and it's been a while since I had to teach Penny how to deal with those. Why don't you run along, and I'll teach Taylor how to deal with itchy fingers."
Dad looks at me for a moment, and I flush again, "Um, yeah, sure."
Martha reaches over the table and picks up a plain dark wooden box with a simple brass catch on the front as I sheepishly walk around to the back of the stall and stand there like a lemon.
Martha pulls a picnic blanket out of a box that's under the table and spreads it out on the floor. "You'll want to be sitting down for this Taylor."
Confused, I sit down on the floor and Martha hands me the box, along with a tea towel. "Um, what's going on?"
Martha looks down at me with a smile, "You think you're the only girl that's got into a bad situation? My Penny was the same, happened after Marquis was arrested, but before Lung arrived. My husband, John, he was the biggest black man you'd ever met, and he wouldn't take shit from anyone." When she says shit, Martha rubs her thumb and two fingers together, "Anyway, one day two 'cops' arrested Penny and took her to a warehouse on the south side. That's when she got her itchy hands, course she could only lift things that weighed less than a quarter pound, but it got her the key to her cuffs and got her out of there. That there was her box before she moved west. Course, John retired right after that, and we distanced ourselves from the Association. Now I don't want to hear you talking about this to anyone else."
I shake my head, "I won't, I promise." And I meant it.
Martha nods, "Then we won't say anything more on the matter. That box is yours now, go on open it."
Curiously I open the box and look inside. As I take in the bits of card that nearly fill the box, each one neatly wrapped with a different colored thread around them, along with a few scraps of canvas, a pair of scissors, and a dozen needles stabbed into a bit of green florists foam. Finally, there's a single reel of black thread squeezed into a corner.
As I look back up the confusion must have shown on my face as Martha laughs, "That box also used to be my grandma's, may she rest in peace. It's what we women used to use to make our clothes pretty. Embroidery dear. All you need to do is use your itchy fingers to do the sewing, start with the black thread first, it's just cheap stuff you can buy anywhere."
"Um, ok?" I look down at the box and experimentally pick up a needle and the thread with my power. Then I try to grab the end of the thread and drop the needle.
Martha laughs, "Penny could only do one thing at a time, so you're already different to her. But ain't that true for all of them out there. There ain't no power that works the same as another one. Just take your time and either start wearing skirts or buy yourself a big bag."
I lose the end of the thread as I look up, "Skirts?"
Martha nods, "Yep, and petticoats. If you're anything like my Penny, you won't be able to stop your itchy hands for a while, and the skirt will hide your needle from everyone else."
"What? You want me to sew all the time?"
Martha shakes her head, "Of course not. Only when you need to hide your itchy hands. Used to be that most girls would have a needle and thread pinned into their petticoat or apron so that they could embroider when they were bored. Kept the hands busy and the ears free. That was in my grandma's time, may she rest in peace. My ma didn't hold any truck with all that stuff, but the 20's were like that."
I stare at the box in awe as I realize just how much history it has before closing the lid. "Martha, I couldn't possibly."
Martha leans down and opens the lid again, "Of course you can Taylor. John and I are both heading west now that my Andrew's safe, that's why I was selling it in the first place."
I look over the top of the table for my dad before looking back, "Does dad know?"
Martha shakes her head, "Not yet, we're going to announce it at the next cookout in May, that's when the contract should be signed on the new house. Till then we're clearing out the old house and moving into a rental for a few weeks while we get rid of anything we can't take with us."
Over the next few hours, I struggle with the thread and needle and my rising frustration with both, as I know I held more than two things at the same time while I was facing Lung, but for the life of me I can't hold the needle, the spool of thread, and find the end of the thread at the same time.
When I finally manage to pull the end of the thread out of the spool, I fair jump in happiness, and bang my head into the table. "Ow!"
Martha just looks down at me, and smiles when she sees the length of thread hanging from the spool. "Well done, now you just need to thread it."
I slump over as I realize I dropped the needle again, "Damn it, I'm never going to get this."
Martha ruffles my hair, "Patience, it took Penny weeks to be able to sew a straight line. Just keep practicing and you'll get it. Now Danny dropped by a few minutes ago and left $10 if you want to get yourself some lunch at Fugly Bobs. Or anywhere else and eat outside there. He said he'd look for you once he'd got the stuff to the car."
I stand up and look over the table worriedly, "He did? Why didn't you say anything?"
Martha smiles, "We did, but you were too focused to hear us. Now give me your brush and I'll tidy up your hair before you go."
I look at Martha confused, "I don't have a brush, and what's wrong with my hair?"
This time Martha looks at me strangely, "You've been sitting on it Taylor, so you need to brush it out otherwise it will get horrible knots in it."
I flush scarlet as Martha turns to a customer and starts to gently haggle over the price of an elephant. While that's happening, I pick up the end of my hair and look at the squashed mess it's become. Once she's finished, I lean in and whisper, "I didn't have long hair this morning."
Martha leans back and looks me up and down, "Well, there's not much I can do about that. I don't have any brushes that would be good for your hair. Sandra, one of John's ex's from before we got married runs a hairdresser for black women, she has a stall here every Sunday where she sells hair stuff. She should have some cheap brushes you can buy, and next time don't forget to bring your own brush with you. It would be a shame to have to cut such beautiful hair just because you're forgetful. Just tell her that I sent you, and that you know Penny."
It takes me a moment to realize that Martha is giving me an excuse for not having a brush on me and I smile shyly, "Thank you for everything Martha. And I'll pop in to see her, where did you say she was?"
Martha points to the permanent buildings, "She's usually got a stall on the other side of the path by the permanent shops, or the next path over. She may also be able to teach you some new braids too, especially for sleeping."
I nod, and I'm caught off guard when Martha pulls me into a hug, "Stay safe Taylor, you hear me? I know it's tempting to go out late and do stuff, but you need to grow up first and learn your limitations."
I nod vehemently, "I know Martha, I've already had one close run, and I don't want a repeat."
Martha smiles as she leans down and picks up the box and tea towel, "Don't go forgetting your stuff now will you."
I take the box with a smile, "I won't, and thank you."
"You're most welcome. Now, shoo, and keep those itchy hands busy."
I laugh as Martha turns me around and pushes me around the table. As I twist and dodge around the customers that are crowding the walkways, I take a moment to wonder why I left my bag at home. That is until it hits me, and I stop for a moment and someone else walks into me. A quick sorry, and I step to the side to look at the stall I'm standing next to, has it really been that long since dad and I came that I just wanted it to be like old times?
As I'm thinking, I slowly register the fact that this stall is a larger market stall rather than the smaller personal stalls, and the edges of the stall have Mexican Chiminea's around the edge. At the front of the stall the owner has a few lit chiminea's with skewered foods cooking on top of them. As I watch he takes a couple of the skewers and drops them into a paper bag, before handing it over to a customer.
Before I've even considered what I'm doing, I step forward and ask, "How much?"
The man running the stall points backwards to a white board with a menu written on it, and I shake my head, "No, I mean for the Chiminea's."
The man nods, "Ah, take a look, they have prices. The cheapest are the clay ones over there for $35 and the cast iron ones start at $60."
I look down, "Um, are you here at any other times?"
The man nods, "Si, I'm here Wednesday and next weekend. After that I'm heading down to Boston for a few weeks, then on to New York."
I nods, "Thank you, can I have a chicken and a beef skewer please?"
The man nods again, "That will be $3."
While I'm waiting for the skewers to cook, I open my box long enough to grab hold of a couple of needles, then I close it again while I tap them against the inside lid of the box, just so that I don't accidentally out myself again. I also wander around the different chiminea's, looking at the things they come with. The most expensive one is $150, and it's made from coated cast iron with two sets of little doors over the opening, and a cooking rack to go on the top of the chiminea. The label says it comes with a rain cover too. At the other end of the scale, the cheapest is just a squat ceramic thing sat in a metal tripod. If I'm going to buy one for my camp, I at least want to be able to cook on it, so that means a cooking surface. I also remember how hard it was to repair the chair, so that means that the cast iron stoves are probably out for the same reason.
Before I know it, the man is handing me my skewers and I thank him before wandering off towards Fugly Bobs. Damn, these are good skewers.
While I'm eating, I make my way down the path towards the commercial market and Fugly Bob's. I can see the sign for Fugly Bob's just over the heads of the people in front of me when a short black girl, with a vibrant purple streak in her hair, bumps into me while she's going against the flow. A moment later a black woman with a voice like an air horn shouts out, "Aisha! Come back her girl! You know your papa wants me to look after ya!"
Just about everyone stops to look around as she does, as well as crowd away from the woman standing at the entrance to a stall full of wigs, hair extensions, brushes, and more different hair accessories than I've ever seen in one place. This must be Sandra's. Almost unbidden, I'm half pushed, and I half walk out of the space that's cleared around the stall to stand beside the intimidating black woman. It's only once I'm right next to her that I realize that she's actually shorter than me.
The woman glances up at me, and then down at the box I'm carrying in my hand. Suddenly she asks, "Have you seen a black girl about yay tall with a purple streak in her hair."
I point the skewer that I'm eating back the way I came, and the woman nods, "Thank you." As she's speaking, she rather firmly reverses our positions, "Now, can ya watch me stall while I go and find that silly girl."
Numbly I nod at the politely worded command as the woman storms off into the crowd, making it part in front of her by her shear presence. It's only once I finish my chicken skewer that I realize my beef skewer has gone missing.
I don't know if it's just because I'm dumbly standing in the doorway like a lemon, or there aren't actually that many people interested in hair products, but nobody tries to get into the stall, or even ask me about it.
A few minutes later, the woman comes back dragging the girl I saw by her arm. In the girl's other hand is a half-eaten beef skewer. When Aisha turns towards me, my first response is absolute jealousy as, despite being younger than me, she's clearly an early bloomer with legs and hips to die for that narrow into a small waist and a gifted chest. That's when I notice the neon green fishnet leggings she's wearing under her denim shorts, and contrasting strapless top.
"Thank you for watching my stall, I'm Sandra." I just smile and open my mouth to reply when she grabs a handful of my hair and looks at the ends, "You have such lovely hair, but look what you've done to the ends of it."
I duck my head as Sandra pulls me into her stall, "I sat on it, and Martha said to come and find you."
Sandra makes an 'Uh huh' sound that managed to sound like, 'Really, you expect me to believe that?' so I blurt out, "She also told me to tell you that I know Penny."
Sandra body language immediately softens, and she looks down at the box again, "I suppose you do at that. Now why ain't cha taking good care of such beautiful hair?"
I nearly whisper, "It wasn't this long this morning."
Sandra leads me to a stool and lifts my hair out of the way, "Know Penny indeed. Well turn yourself around… Aisha put that down and come and make yourself useful! Do you have a name girl?"
Aisha fair teleports over from a display of shiny hair clips, her hands clasped behind her as she tries to look the picture of innocence while chewing rapidly.
I look from Aisha to Sandra, "Um, Taylor?"
Sandra shakes her head, "Is that ya name, or are ya asking me?"
As Sandra turns away to pick up a head on a stick I say, "It's my name."
Sandra turns back and deftly places a wig with long hair on the head on a stick. "Aisha, show Taylor how to braid her hair for bed while I find the right brush and hair products."
Aisha swallows hard and quickly wipes her hands off on her shorts. "Hi, I'm Aisha as you already know. What's your power?"
I frown slightly as I try to parse her quick speech, "I don't know what…"
Aisha's hands reach out for the hair on the mini head, "I can hear it you know, the slight tapping of your box. Now watch carefully. Also, you said you didn't have hair like this earlier."
I shake my head in denial and look back to the head just in time for Aisha's hands to stop moving. There in front of me is a long loose braid, and I have absolutely no idea how Aisha did it. "How did you do that?"
Sandra's voice takes on an air horn quality again as she calls over, "Aisha, show the girl how to do it properly, not at your normal speed."
I jump in my seat, but Ashia just whines, "But Sandra…"
"Don't sass me young lady, or I'll make you pay for that hair clip."
Ashia slumps and starts uncombing the braid with her fingers. "Fine. I was going to put it back."
Once the hair is uncombed, Aisha looks at me again, "Pay attention this time, I'm going to do it slower. Now you start out by dividing the hair into three sections…"
The needles in my box slow to a stop as I focus my full attention onto what Aisha's saying as well as her hands. Honestly, I can't remember most of what she said as she, just, kept, talking. By the time I get out of there, Sandra's given me her card, and made me promise to come and see her to get my hair cut once a month, while my fingers are sore from doing and redoing the braid so many times, with Aisha rapping the back of my hand with her knuckles every time I make a mistake. Oh, and did I mention she just, kept, talking?