Pistal01
The green 1968 Pontiac Firebird pulled into the gas station shortly after two o’clock in the afternoon.
Margaret Balistrieri eased off the accelerator, pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, and moved the floor-mounted shifter into neutral.
The engine was making a noise she didn’t particularly like.
It was a faint metallic ticking, coming from somewhere beneath the long hood, accompanied by an occasional unevenness in the idle.
She had noticed it getting worse over the last several weeks.
The Firebird still had its original Pontiac overhead-camshaft straight-six engine, backed by a manual transmission. Margaret had always liked the car. The green paint, black vinyl roof, and gold interior made it considerably more attractive than most of the automobiles parked around the neighborhood.
But the engine was becoming a problem.
She switched off the ignition and sat for a moment.
Even after the engine stopped, she could hear the faint ticking of hot metal cooling beneath the hood.
Inside the station, Lydia looked through the window and recognized the car.
She stepped outside.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Balistrieri.”
“Hello, Lydia. You got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s wrong with the Firebird?”
Margaret climbed out.
“I think I’m having trouble with the cylinder head.”
Lydia looked toward the hood.
“What’s it doing?”
“Making noise. Running rough when it’s cold. And yesterday I noticed the temperature gauge getting higher than it normally does.”
“Have you checked the coolant?”
“Anthony did. It was a little low.”
Lydia reached inside the car and pulled the hood-release handle.
“Let’s have a look.”
Margaret raised the hood, exposing the long Pontiac six-cylinder engine.
Unlike Chevrolet’s conventional overhead-valve sixes, the Pontiac engine had its camshaft mounted above the cylinder head, beneath a long aluminum camshaft housing.
It had been one of the Firebird’s more unusual features when the car was new.
Lydia leaned over the fender.
“That’s the overhead-cam six, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Anthony says it’s a nice engine when it’s working properly, but he’s getting tired of fooling with it.”
Lydia examined the engine.
There was some oil staining around the camshaft housing, and the upper portion of the engine looked considerably dirtier than the rest.
“Has it been using oil?”
“Some.”
“Smoking?”
“A little blue smoke when I first start it. Not all the time.”
Lydia nodded.
“That could be oil getting past the valve guides or seals. But the ticking could be something else.”
Margaret folded her arms.
“Anthony thinks the camshaft isn’t getting enough oil.”
“That wouldn’t be good.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
The Pontiac overhead-cam six depended on proper lubrication of the camshaft and its followers. Restricted oil delivery, excessive wear, or poor lubrication could create expensive problems in the upper part of the engine.
And unlike a conventional pushrod six, repairing the overhead-cam arrangement could require parts and expertise that weren’t always sitting on the shelf of an ordinary neighborhood garage.
Lydia pointed toward the top of the engine.
“If the cam or followers are wearing, that might explain the noise. But if it’s losing coolant and getting hot, I’d want somebody checking the head gasket too.”
“Anthony said the same thing.”
“Any white smoke?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Water in the oil?”
“Not that we can see.”
“Then I wouldn’t condemn the head just yet. Could be more than one problem. I’d have somebody check the cooling system, do a compression test, and find out where that noise is coming from.”
Margaret sighed.
“Anthony’s already talking about taking the whole engine out.”
“Replacing it?”
“Putting a Pontiac V8 in it.”
Lydia laughed.
“That would certainly change the car.”
“He says if he’s going to spend money fixing the six, he might as well put something in there that he understands.”
Margaret lowered the hood.
“Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about the Firebird.”
“Oh?”
“I came to see you.”
A Haircut Already Paid For
Lydia followed Margaret inside the gas station.
The station was quiet. A customer had just pulled away from the pumps, and the telephone behind the counter had stopped ringing.
Margaret looked at Lydia’s long hair.
“Still haven’t done anything about that?”
Lydia reached behind her head.
“No. And I’m getting tired of it.”
Her hair extended well down her back. She ordinarily kept it pulled into a ponytail while working, but even then it seemed to get in the way.
“Between working here and having the baby, I don’t know what I’m going to do with it.”
“Cut it.”
“I’ve been thinking about shaving it.”
“Then shave it.”
Lydia laughed.
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple.”
Margaret leaned against the counter.
“I stopped at Frank’s barbershop this morning.”
Lydia frowned.
“Frank? That old man?”
“That old man is eighty-nine years old.”
“Exactly.”
“And he’s probably healthier than half the men working at American Motors.”
Lydia shook her head.
“I’ve seen his place. It looks like it hasn’t changed since 1920.”
“That’s because Frank doesn’t see any reason to replace things that still work.”
“But does he even know how to cut women’s hair?”
Margaret laughed.
“Lydia, Frank was cutting women’s hair during the First World War. When the women started working at Nash, he was one of the few barbers in Kenosha who would give them the short haircuts they wanted.”
“Well, I don’t want some old-fashioned bob.”
“What do you want?”
“Everything gone. Completely bald. I don’t want to have to comb it, brush it, wash all that length, or fool around with it while I’m taking care of a baby.”
“Then that’s what you tell him.”
Lydia hesitated.
“He’s almost ninety.”
“He’s also a man who believes in exercising, eating properly, and keeping himself active. He still races automobiles.”
“At eighty-nine?”
“About three years ago, he set some kind of drag racing record. Anthony knows exactly what it was. I can’t remember.”
Lydia looked surprised.
“You’re kidding.”
“No. And he’s been cutting the Balistrieri family’s hair for generations.”
Margaret opened her purse.
“I left money with him for your haircut.”
“You what?”
“I paid for it. Told him you might be coming.”
“Mrs. Balistrieri, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t.”
Margaret smiled.
“But I also know you have enough things to worry about.”
Lydia looked down at the counter.
“Well, I appreciate it.”
“Then go see him. And don’t let his age fool you.”
Margaret turned toward the door.
“Besides, if he can still race cars, I think he can handle a pair of clippers.”
The Old Pontiac
Later that afternoon, Lydia finished her shift and walked toward her own automobile.
It was a 1962 Pontiac Tempest, considerably older and less impressive than Margaret’s Firebird.
The paint had faded, the seats were worn, and the car had accumulated more miles than Lydia cared to remember.
But it still ran.
The Tempest was an unusual little Pontiac, with its rear-mounted transaxle and flexible driveshaft connecting the engine to the transmission assembly at the back of the car.
Lydia had never particularly cared about the engineering.
She cared that it started when she turned the key and got her to work.
She climbed inside, started the engine, and listened as it settled into a slightly uneven idle.
“Come on, old girl,” she muttered.
She pulled onto the street and headed toward Frank’s barbershop.
As she drove, she kept reaching up to touch her ponytail.
She had worn her hair long for years.
By the time she reached the shop, she was beginning to wonder whether she was making a mistake.
She parked the Tempest outside and sat looking at the building.
The barber pole was turning.
Through the window, she could see the old chairs and the photographs hanging on the walls.
Finally, she opened the car door.
“Well, here goes nothing.”
The Barber Who Knew Her Name
The bell above the door rang as Lydia stepped inside.
Frank looked up from the barber chair he had been cleaning.
“Good afternoon, Lydia.”
She stopped.
“How did you know my name?”
Frank smiled.
“Well, first of all, I don’t get too many women walking in here with hair halfway down their backs.”
He set his towel aside.
“And second, Margaret Balistrieri left me some money this morning and said a young lady named Lydia might be coming.”
Lydia laughed.
“So she told you everything?”
“Enough.”
He motioned toward the chair.
“Come on over. Sit down.”
She approached the old porcelain-and-chrome barber chair.
“Are you sure you can do what I want?”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you tell me what that is?”
She sat down.
“I want my entire head shaved. Clippers first, then a straight razor. Completely smooth.”
Frank nodded.
“All right.”
“You’re not surprised?”
“Lady, I’ve been cutting hair since before automobiles were common. There isn’t much you can ask for that I haven’t seen.”
He placed a fresh neck strip around her neck and fastened the barber cape.
Then he lifted her long hair free of the collar.
“Now, I want to make sure you understand something.”
“What’s that?”
“Once I start, there’s no putting it back.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
He combed her hair backward, examining its thickness.
“Beautiful head of hair.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’re absolutely certain you want it gone?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll take it off.”
He adjusted the chair.
“Lean your head back for me.”
Lydia settled against the headrest.
Frank picked up his clippers.
The First Pass
The clippers came alive with a steady mechanical hum.
Frank stood behind the chair and placed one hand against Lydia’s forehead.
“Keep your head right there.”
He positioned the bare clipper blade at the center of her front hairline.
Then he pushed it slowly backward.
The clippers traveled straight down the center of her scalp, parting the long hair as they advanced.
A narrow strip of nearly bare scalp appeared.
The severed hair slid backward over the crown, some of it falling across the cape.
Lydia watched in the mirror.
“Oh, my God.”
Frank smiled.
“Too late to change your mind now.”
He returned the clippers to the front and made another pass immediately beside the first.
More long hair separated and fell away.
He continued working across the top, moving methodically from the center toward the left.
With each pass, another section of Lydia’s long hair disappeared.
Soon the top of her head was covered in very short stubble while long hair still hung from both sides and the back.
Frank switched off the clippers.
“There. That’s the top.”
Lydia stared at her reflection.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You’re halfway between two haircuts. Everybody looks a little ridiculous halfway through.”
He brushed the loose hair away.
“Now, Margaret tells me you’re going to have Malcolm’s baby.”
Lydia’s expression changed.
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’ve known Malcolm’s family for a very long time.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Frank smiled.
“Longer than you probably realize.”
The Hudson and the Moonshine
Frank tilted Lydia’s head toward her right shoulder.
“We’ll take this side next.”
He switched the clippers back on and began cutting upward from the left side of her neck.
Long sections of hair fell across the cape.
“Did Margaret tell you I used to cut Malcolm’s grandmother’s hair?”
“No.”
“Well, I did.”
He carefully folded her left ear forward and worked the clippers around it.
“She was quite a woman.”
“How so?”
“During Prohibition, she drove liquor for me.”
Lydia turned her eyes toward him.
“What?”
“Moonshine.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not a bit.”
He continued shaving the left side.
“Had a Hudson Super Six back then. Wonderful automobile. Strong engine, plenty of power. I was always partial to Hudsons.”
“Malcolm’s grandmother was running moonshine?”
“Sure was.”
Frank smiled.
“She was a good driver, too.”
“Where did she take it?”
“Milwaukee, mostly. Sometimes other places.”
He made another pass above her ear.
“Those were difficult years. Factories slowing down, people losing their jobs, families struggling. We had a still on some property I owned outside town.”
Lydia shook her head.
“I can’t believe you’re telling me this.”
“Why not? It’s history now.”
“Illegal history.”
Frank laughed.
“Most interesting history is.”
He finished the left side and brushed away the loose hair.
“Now turn the other way.”
The Ohio Connection
Frank tilted Lydia’s head toward her left shoulder and started the right side.
“Malcolm’s grandfather Joseph was involved in something else I was doing back then.”
“What was that?”
“Machine work.”
Lydia watched another long section of hair fall.
“At the factory?”
“No. On my property.”
Frank carefully moved the clippers upward around her right ear.
“Had a cousin who became involved in an interesting engineering project during the First World War.”
“What kind of project?”
“Automatic firearms.”
Lydia frowned.
“Guns?”
“That’s right.”
Frank stopped briefly to clean the clippers.
“General John T. Thompson established a company called Auto-Ordnance back in 1916. He wanted to develop a portable automatic weapon that soldiers could use in close fighting.”
“During the war?”
“Exactly.”
Frank resumed cutting.
“The engineering work was being done in Cleveland, Ohio. My cousin became acquainted with the people working on the project and eventually got involved with Warner & Swasey.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“Big engineering and manufacturing outfit in Cleveland. Made all kinds of precision equipment.”
He pushed the clippers through another section of hair.
“They were involved with some of the earliest experimental Thompson weapons.”
“Like the Tommy gun?”
“That’s what they eventually became known as.”
Frank smiled.
“But back in 1917, they were still trying to figure out what kind of weapon they wanted.”
He switched the clippers off.
“One of the early experimental guns was called the Persuader. Belt-fed arrangement. It wasn’t the finished Tommy gun everybody remembers from the gangster pictures.”
Lydia looked intrigued despite herself.
“And your cousin worked on that?”
“That’s the family story. He was involved with the experimental work and kept in touch as the design changed.”
Frank brushed the remaining loose hair from her right temple.
“After the war, the engineers continued developing the weapon. By 1919, they had a much more recognizable submachine gun.”
“And then?”
“Then Colt eventually received the contract to manufacture the production guns in Connecticut.”
Lydia nodded.
“So what did that have to do with you?”
Frank smiled.
“That’s where Joseph comes into the picture.”
The Machine Shop on the Farm
Frank stood behind Lydia.
“Chin down toward your chest.”
She lowered her head.
The long hair remaining at the back hung toward the floor.
Frank combed it carefully, gathering it into a single thick ponytail at the nape of her neck.
He secured the length so it would remain together.
“Now, this last section is coming off in one piece.”
Lydia looked down.
“All right.”
Frank positioned the clippers beneath the gathered hair, beginning at the lower neckline and working upward toward the ponytail.
“Joseph was a very good machinist.”
“Because of the automobile factory?”
“Exactly. He understood machinery. Worked around engines, machine tools, and production equipment.”
The clippers moved slowly up the back of her head.
“And when the automobile industry started having trouble after the war, there wasn’t always steady work available.”
He made another pass.
“I had some equipment out on my farm. Joseph needed money, and I needed somebody who understood machinery.”
Lydia listened.
“My cousin had access to information about the experimental Thompson project. Eventually, he helped us obtain an early example to study.”
“An actual Tommy gun?”
“An experimental Thompson. Not exactly the same as the production guns Colt later made.”
Frank continued shaving upward, leaving the long ponytail attached by a narrowing section of hair.
“We examined it, learned what we could, and eventually started making unauthorized versions of our own.”
Lydia’s eyes widened.
“You were manufacturing machine guns?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“In Kenosha?”
“Outside Kenosha. On my farm.”
“During Prohibition?”
“During those years, yes.”
He paused to clean the clippers.
“Joseph worked with me. We had other men involved at different times.”
“Who were you making them for?”
“Our own purposes, originally. Later, other people became interested.”
Lydia shook her head.
“That’s unbelievable.”
Frank made the final passes beneath the ponytail.
The remaining attached hair grew thinner until the gathered length was connected only by a small section.
He switched off the clippers and picked up his shears.
“Hold still.”
He cut through the final section.
The entire remaining ponytail came free in his hand.
“There.”
He held it up for Lydia to see.
She stared at the long bundle.
“That’s the last of it?”
“That’s the last of the length.”
He placed it on the counter beside the other fallen hair.
“Now we’ll get you shaved properly.”
Why Tell a Stranger?
Frank reclined the chair again and placed a warm towel over Lydia’s head.
She sat quietly for a moment.
Then she spoke.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“There’s something I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“If all this really happened, why would you tell somebody like me?”
He removed the towel.
“What do you mean?”
“You just admitted to making illegal machine guns. And running moonshine. You don’t even know me.”
Frank looked at her in the mirror.
“Lydia, I’m eighty-nine years old.”
“So?”
“So what are they going to do to me?”
“Put you in prison!”
Frank laughed.
“That might not be such a bad retirement plan.”
She stared at him.
“You’re serious?”
“Think about it. Three meals a day. Roof over my head. Somebody taking care of the bills.”
He picked up his shaving brush.
“See, here’s the problem. I’ve been self-employed most of my life. I don’t have a factory pension. I didn’t save nearly as much money as I should have.”
He began working warm shaving lather across the top of her head.
“I’ve made money and lost money. Had good years and bad years. But eventually these hands won’t be able to cut hair anymore.”
Lydia looked at him.
“And then what?”
“That’s exactly the question.”
He continued spreading the lather.
“I don’t want to wind up sitting in a chair somewhere, staring at the walls, waiting to die. Sometimes I’ve had some pretty dark thoughts about what I’d do if I couldn’t work anymore.”
“Like what?”
“Like ending things myself rather than living helpless.”
Lydia looked uncomfortable.
“That’s awful, Frank.”
“I know. I’m not saying it’s a good answer. I’m saying getting old without enough money can frighten a man.”
He set down the brush.
“But I’m not finished yet.”
The Straight Razor
Frank opened his straight razor and checked the blade.
He draped a clean folded towel over Lydia’s shoulder, positioning it where he could wipe the razor after each stroke.
“Now keep your head back.”
He stretched the skin at the front of her scalp.
Starting at the center of her forehead, he drew the razor carefully backward.
A narrow strip of smooth skin appeared through the shaving lather.
He wiped the blade against the towel.
Then he made another stroke.
Again he wiped it clean.
The process continued steadily.
Stroke.
Wipe.
Stroke.
Wipe.
Frank worked from the center of the top toward the left, then returned to finish the right.
Lydia watched the blade moving across her scalp.
“Your hands are awfully steady.”
“They’d better be. I’ve got a razor against your head.”
She laughed.
Frank smiled.
“Besides, I exercise. Eat properly. Keep myself busy. I don’t believe in sitting around waiting to get old.”
He wiped the razor again.
“Margaret told me you were still racing.”
“Sure am.”
“At your age?”
“Why not?”
He finished the top and applied fresh lather to the left side.
“About three years ago, I set a drag racing record.”
“What record?”
Frank smiled.
“Margaret couldn’t remember, could she?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He tilted Lydia’s head slightly and began shaving her left temple.
He made short, careful strokes around her ear, wiping the blade repeatedly on the towel.
“Racing gives me something to work toward. Keeps my mind sharp.”
He moved to the right side.
“And sometimes I win a little money.”
“Enough to retire on?”
“Not yet.”
Lydia laughed.
Frank continued shaving.
“Now, the thing about Malcolm’s family is that they’ve always had the factory.”
“What do you mean?”
“Joseph lived and died by that factory. When Nash was doing well, Joseph was doing well. When the factory slowed down, the family suffered.”
He wiped the razor.
“Anthony’s doing the same thing.”
“Malcolm’s father?”
“That’s right.”
Frank carefully shaved around her right ear.
“I’m Anthony’s godfather, you know.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Known him since he was a baby. Very close to that family.”
He applied fresh lather to the back of Lydia’s head.
“Now chin down again.”
She complied.
Frank began shaving the back of her scalp in short, controlled strokes, cleaning the blade on the shoulder towel between passes.
“And now Malcolm is expected to follow the same road.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if it’s what Malcolm wants. But I worry about a young man spending his whole life trying to please his father.”
Lydia’s expression hardened.
“Well, Malcolm isn’t doing a very good job of pleasing me.”
The Javelin
Frank paused.
“I know you’re upset with Malcolm.”
“Upset? He was supposed to marry me.”
“I know.”
“And now he’s backing out.”
Frank wiped the razor.
“Anthony had something to do with that.”
Lydia looked toward him.
“What do you mean?”
Frank hesitated.
“That bachelor party.”
“What about it?”
“Anthony offered Malcolm something.”
“What?”
“A car.”
Lydia frowned.
“What kind of car?”
“An American Motors Javelin.”
She stared at him.
“A Javelin?”
“That’s right.”
“What does that have to do with our wedding?”
Frank took a breath.
“Anthony told Malcolm he’d get him the Javelin if he called off the marriage.”
For several seconds, Lydia said nothing.
Then her expression changed completely.
“That son of a bitch!”
Frank gently steadied her head.
“Careful. I’ve still got a razor in my hand.”
“He called off our wedding for a car?”
“That’s what I understand.”
“A Javelin?”
“Anthony wanted him driving an American Motors product. That family has been tied to Nash, Hudson, and American Motors for generations.”
Lydia looked furious.
“So that’s what I’m worth?”
Frank shook his head.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Well, that’s what it sounds like!”
He set the razor down for a moment.
“Malcolm’s a good kid, Lydia. I’ve known him since he was little.”
“Then why would he do something like that?”
“Because he wants his father to be proud of him.”
“Well, he can be proud of him while he’s paying child support!”
Frank nodded.
“That’s something you’ll have to work out.”
“I’m going to get blood testing.”
Proving Paternity in 1971
Frank picked up the razor again.
“That’s probably worth discussing with a lawyer.”
Lydia looked at him.
“Blood testing will prove Malcolm’s the father.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What do you mean?”
Frank resumed shaving the back of her head.
“From what I understand, blood testing can sometimes prove a man isn’t the father. But it doesn’t necessarily prove that he is.”
Lydia frowned.
“How does that work?”
“Well, blood types are inherited. If the baby’s blood characteristics couldn’t possibly come from a particular man and the mother, that can rule him out.”
He wiped the razor on the towel.
“But if the blood types are compatible, that doesn’t mean he’s the only man who could be the father.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Talk to a lawyer. After the baby’s born, you can seek a court determination of paternity. The testing available now isn’t like what people might have someday.”
In 1971, blood-group testing, including ABO, Rh, and other inherited blood markers, was used in paternity disputes. Such testing was primarily useful for excluding possible fathers. It could not provide the near-conclusive identification later made possible by DNA testing.
A court could consider blood-test results alongside testimony and other evidence when deciding paternity and support obligations.
Lydia shook her head.
“Well, I’m not letting Malcolm get away with this.”
Frank finished another section.
“Then make sure you do things properly.”
“He should have married me.”
“Maybe he should have. But you can’t make a marriage work just by forcing somebody into it.”
“I can make him support his child.”
“If he’s legally established as the father, you can pursue that.”
Frank wiped the razor again.
“And I think Malcolm will eventually understand his responsibilities.”
Lydia said nothing.
The Final Pass
Frank finished the back of Lydia’s head and carefully inspected the entire scalp.
He applied a little more warm lather to several areas.
“Just a few places to finish.”
He reclined her head once more and made a second light pass over the crown.
Again, the blade moved carefully across the skin.
Again, he wiped it against the towel on her shoulder.
He checked around both ears, the temples, and the neckline.
Finally, he folded the razor closed.
“There we are.”
He removed the shoulder towel and wiped Lydia’s scalp with a fresh warm towel.
Then he applied a small amount of soothing lotion.
He turned the chair toward the mirror.
“One completely shaved head.”
Lydia stared.
She slowly raised both hands and ran her palms across her scalp.
“Oh, my God.”
Frank smiled.
“Different, isn’t it?”
“It’s so smooth.”
“That’s what you asked for.”
She examined herself from several angles.
“I can’t believe I actually did it.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about brushing it tomorrow morning.”
Lydia laughed.
“That’s for sure.”
Frank removed the cape.
Her long ponytail and the other severed hair lay on the counter.
“Would you like to keep some of that?”
She looked at it.
“No. I think I’m ready to be done with it.”
Frank nodded and began sweeping the floor.
The Old Man’s Retirement
Lydia stood beside the chair, still touching her newly shaved scalp.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“Do you really think somebody could put you in prison for all that stuff you told me?”
“Suppose they could try.”
“And you wouldn’t care?”
Frank leaned against the counter.
“Lydia, I’ve lived a long life. I’ve done things I’m proud of and things I’m not proud of.”
He looked toward the photographs on the wall.
“I’ve been a barber, a boxer, a motorcycle racer, an automobile racer, and a businessman. I’ve seen wars, Prohibition, the Depression, and more changes in this town than I can count.”
He paused.
“But I never figured out how to make enough money to stop working.”
Lydia looked at him.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Keep cutting hair as long as I can.”
“And after that?”
“Race.”
“You’re going to keep drag racing?”
“Absolutely.”
He smiled.
“I’ve been winning a little money here and there. Hopefully that’ll keep me going.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Frank shrugged.
“I’ll figure something out.”
Lydia shook her head.
“You’re a strange old man, Frank.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
She reached for her purse.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Margaret already paid.”
Lydia nodded.
“Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She started toward the door.
Then she stopped.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Malcolm really wants to marry me?”
Frank looked at her for a long moment.
“I think Malcolm wants to do the right thing. But right now he’s letting his father make too many decisions for him.”
Lydia looked down.
“Well, he’s going to have to start making some decisions of his own.”
“Yes, he is.”
She opened the door.
“And Frank?”
“Yes?”
“That was a hell of a haircut.”
Frank laughed.
“Come back when it starts growing out.”
The Road Ahead
Lydia climbed into her old 1962 Pontiac Tempest.
She adjusted the rearview mirror and stared at her reflection.
There was no ponytail.
No long hair falling over her shoulders.
Nothing but smooth, freshly shaved skin.
She ran a hand across her head one more time.
Then she started the Pontiac.
The old engine settled into its familiar idle.
As she drove away, her thoughts returned to Malcolm.
The Javelin.
The cancelled wedding.
The baby.
And the blood testing she intended to pursue.
Back at the barbershop, Frank finished cleaning his tools.
He folded the cape, wiped down the chair, and returned his straight razor to its case.
On the wall hung photographs of his old Hudson Super Six, his racing motorcycles, and several automobiles he had driven over the decades.
There was also an old photograph of Joseph Balistrieri.
Frank looked at it for a moment.
Joseph had spent his life working for the automobile industry.
Anthony had followed him.
And now Malcolm was being pulled in the same direction.
Frank wondered whether the young man would ever learn to make his own decisions.
Then his eyes moved toward the photograph of his drag racing car.
At eighty-nine years old, he had no pension and very little money put away.
But he still had his health.
He still had his barbershop.
And he still had racing.
He reached for his broom.
“Well,” he muttered, “I suppose I’d better keep winning.”
Outside, another automobile pulled up to the curb.
Frank heard the door close.
A moment later, the bell above his shop door rang.
He smiled.
“Come on in. Chair’s ready.”
