Free A Private State: Stories by Charlotte Bacon

went to town with a long list, but got distracted in the pharmacy by the loops of fake hair stapled to boxes on the shampoo shelves. Mocha and ginger, cinnamon and midnight. Tintings weren't dyes, Naomi insisted, they were enhancements. She called hair coloring shatteringly tacky. But what they were was gorgeous.
Then I spotted Mr. Dusseault in the aisle whose sign said Seasonal Values. I hadn't seen him since the amputation and tried to duck behind conditioners, but I was too tall. He raised his bad hand and ambled to my section. "Bonjour," he said, then pointed to a box labeled "Everyone Loves Scarlet." I lifted it high, waggled it in the air and dropped it in my basket. Silence made my gestures bigger, but Mr. Dusseault didn't notice. This was mostly how we spoke anyway. He smiled and invited me to visit.
I could tell he felt Naomi and I had rescued him. We were simply there, I could have said, and not in savory circumstances, but he knew that, and still he wanted me to come. It was a bond, I allowed, holding someone's severed finger.
Over milky tea, I learned he and Madam were from a village in the far north of the province. They showed me on a map. Their French rushed like cold water over big stones. We played rummy on a scarred table under a tree and Monsieur won, which he enjoyed. They didn't seem to care I didn't say a word.
Some of my happiest times had been with neighbors who didn't

 

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speak much English. In Louisiana, Mrs. Vong fed me soups of clear noodles. Señora Lopez in L.A. braided my hair. Sometimes I'd help them iron, make dinner in kitchens that smelled of continents I'd never seen or leaf through photo albums while they explained in Lao or Spanish who these people were. I'd nod as if I understood, which in a way, I did. Those afternoons, I thought I knew what home felt like, and it was a difficult place where you felt complete and full of longing all at once. It was only when I waved good night to the Dusseaults that I remembered to look through the hedge. The Loiseaus were still away.
That night, I colored my hair "Everyone Loves Scarlet." The dye stung more than lemons and sheathed the sink in transparent, exciting maroon. It looked awful. I ruined one of Naomi's monogrammed towels. My father said, "Good Christ." Madame said, "Très joli," but she was just being kind.
People could get used to change. Mr. Dusseault was casual with the hand that had the big raw scar. He even chopped wood, though much more slowly. I helped him pile logs and was getting sleepy and calm in the sun when I noticed a flash of light on metal. The Loiseaus' car was back. Jake sat on the porch, staring at something far away.
All night, I lay inside the quiet and thought about sitting next to him on that sofa, his legs grazing mine. His big-knuckled hand in my palm. I didn't think he'd spoken much that summer, either. But all I'd have to do was call "Jake" through the hedge and he'd look straight at me. He wouldn't be able to help himself. Names were like that. They tugged you into the world. August was going to have a different color.
Temperatures worthy of Florida accompanied the new month. People from Maine faded as thoroughly as lettuce, but the Doctor and I had learned a southern technique. Washcloths and towels chilled in a bowl of water in the fridge, ready to be draped on

 

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the body's areas most sensitive to cold. Naomi, who still hadn't phoned, would have hated this heat, but I'd heard it was even worse in Omaha. A filmy scarf of moths rasped against the screen.
The Doctor and I lay on chaise longues in our bandages. Rolling his beer can across his forehead, he said, "Got a call from your mom today." I sat up and a line of water from my neck cloth twisted its way down my back. He never called Naomi "Mom." "She's going to spend the fall out there. Pulling things together." He took a sip of beer. At first, he'd crammed the places I was meant to talk with too many words to describe a simple event. Now,