The Second Coming Read Online Free PDF

permitted?”
    â€œThe Michigan State T-shirt.”
    That was a slight blunder. For a moment she had imagined that there might be regulations preventing unauthorized persons from wearing university T-shirts, perhaps a semi-official regulatory agency. In the next instant she saw that this was nonsense.
    But the youth did not see anything unusual. “You can get them for three and a half from Good’s Variety.”
    â€œAre the Wolves—?” She paused. She was making two discoveries. One was that you didn’t have to talk in complete sentences. People didn’t seem to need more than a word or two to make their own sense of what you said. The other discovery was that she could talk as long as she asked questions. Making a statement was risky.
    â€œIf we win this one, we’ll be state champs, single A,” he said.
    â€œThat’s—” she said and stopped. But he didn’t notice. He must have been waiting for somebody, for suddenly he was up and on his way.
    â€œHave a nice—” he said, but he turned his face away.
    â€œWhat?” she asked in a very clear question. “Have a nice what?” But he was gone.
    At first, after she had changed her clothes and sat on the bench, she had watched passersby to see if they noticed anything unusual about her. They didn’t or at least gave no sign of it. She had felt like Rip Van Winkle coming down into town after a twenty-year nap. Surely dogs would bark at her and children would hoot and throw rocks. But nothing happened. She began to feel reassured. Only her hair felt like Rip’s. It was heavy and long and still damp after the rain, weighing on her head and falling down inside her collar. It was too thick for her pocket comb. Her scalp itched.
    Three women had gone into the barbershop and sat in the chair of the woman barber and got haircuts. One got a shampoo. When the third woman left, she felt confident enough to cross the street, open the door of the barbershop, go directly to the empty chair, and sit down.
    â€œHow you want it, honey?” asked the woman barber.
    She had rehearsed what she was going to say. Or ask. “Could you cut it first, then wash it, then dry it?”
    â€œOkay, honey. But how you want it?”
    Brief panic. Then she saw something. “Like hers?” Though she had wanted to make a statement, her voice rose in a question.
    â€œLike hers?”
    She nodded toward the movie poster on the sidewalk. The poster showed an actress with blond hair pulled to one side. The movie was Three Days of the Condor. It must have been an old movie. The poster was faded and torn. Perhaps the theater was closed.
    â€œYou got nice thick hair. You’d be a honey blonde like her if you stayed out in the sun.” The barber was a big mountain woman. She said nahce for nice and hahr for hair. The strong hands felt good on her scalp as they grabbed her heavy hair. She felt better every time a hunk of it was sheared off and hit the floor. The feel of the woman’s fingers on her scalp made her eyes stare. A wall of glass bricks across the street glittered in the sunlight. A sign above the door written in script read Le Club.
    When the woman barber finished, she swung her around to face the mirror and held a hand mirror behind her the way the man barber did for his customers. The steel base of the chair was ringed by windrows of dark blond hair.
    Now she did look something like the actress except that her hair was cut higher in back, like a boy’s, and showed more of her neck.
    â€œNice.” She risked a statement. “Could you wash it now?” She noticed a basin.
    â€œCome on over here, honey.” The woman’s eyes slid past her. “Don’t I know you? Have you been working here summers?” The woman barber couldn’t quite place her. Her unfashionable clothes made her look like a local. On the other hand, perhaps she talked like a tourist.
    The woman