The Sanguine Millinophile

Lara Hanauer has a thing for hats. Really.

The Sanguine Millinophile

By

 

-holden-

 

The hat Lara Hanauer had chosen to wear today would have been judged by her intimate friends, back home, as a rather uncharacteristic selection, especially during the heat of a Late-July Texas. Lara, however, was not yet well known to the town of San Marcos. Her father’s improbable decision to uproot the family from their “ancestral” home in Boston, erupted awkwardly, back in March, during the week of a singularly sublime, Spring Break. Even so, after just four short months, many in the town could say that they had seen her around.

“What’s with the hats?” some were asking, after the variety of head-wear she had displayed in her first week at San Marcos High.

By the end of an abbreviated sophomore year, at her new school, Lara had acquired a handful of handles like, “The Mad Hatter”, “Hat-girl”, or “The Beanie Babe.” She wore so many different styles and colors that only a few truly dedicated observers could tell you if, and when, she had worn the same hat more often than once, in those last 9 weeks.

Today was different.

There was no crimson fez. No feathered fedora. Not even the tattered, old Red Sox lid that her Uncle Teddy had given her when she was eight. Today, as Lara and her mother walked solemnly to the baggage claim area of San Marcos Regional Airport, the teen wore a black, wool stocking cap, which completely covered her short, brown hair. The teen had acquired the knitted covering during an impromptu, month-long return to her old stomping grounds. She had worn it nearly every day of four-week dislocation.

The winter headgear belonged to 16-year-old, Amoricio Perez, who had been Lara’s best friend since their “Daycare Days.” The virtually inseparable pair found themselves bisected when Lara’s father quite suddenly announced his intentions to uproot and replant the family in the great state of Texas, owing to a “too good to pass up” promotion at work. As she was forced to consider the family’s pending Southwestern migration, Lara fell into a deep well of teenage angst. She convinced herself that Amoricio was the one person in this world that she absolutely, could not live without. Lara Hanauer had pleaded with her mother and she had sobbed on her father’s shoulder. Soon enough, she was resigned to the notion that her friendship with Amoricio would soon be tested by distance.

At 3:22 p.m. Saturday, June 16th, Amoricio had given up all need, or desire for the stocking cap, when paramedics, responding to a gunshot wound request by police, pronounced the young man, “Dead on the Scene” while he lay on the sidewalk, in front of his local drugstore, in the Boston suburb of Jamaica Plain.

Later that day, around noon (Texas time) Lara’s mother received a call from a mutual friend of the Perez family, describing the incident. Lara was wearing her pink and white “Hello Kitty” beret’ as her mother explained why Lara Hanauer would never see Amoricio Perez again, this side of Heaven. Unconsciously removing the hat, Lara squeezed it tightly as the reality of her mother’s words penetrated her soul.

The next morning, June 17th, Lara covered her long, brown hair with a purple gaucho hat, before leaving for to board a plane for Boston. Her bangs, and the wide brim of the hat, effectively obscured her moist, red eyes.

On the mostly-full flight, there was an empty seat between Lara and her mother. The young girl removed the oversized gaucho and placed it on the vacant seat. This would allow her to lean more deeply into the porthole of her window seat. Lara Hanauer wished to shut out the entirety of world; save for the clouds and sky. Her purple earbuds remained in place to provide the needed accompaniment for the meditation. As she listened to a hastily conceived playlist, labeled “Our Music”, which she had set to “Continuous Replay”, she focused on the frustrated mantra, “WHY?”

The cab ride to the Perez home was a nearly silent one. The Cabby, wearing a Red Sox ball cap identical to Lara’s, asked the ladies, with a grin, if they were in town for “Business or Pleasure.” Lara’s mother replied, “A funeral.”

Small talk subsided.

Thirty-seven minutes later, as her mother was searching her purse for tip money, Lara pointed to the driver’s cap and quietly said, “I have one just like that.”

The Cabby smiled and began to unload the luggage onto the sidewalk in front of the well-maintained brownstone. Finishing the job with care and efficiency, he said, “Thank you, and I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Lara’s nose began to sting a bit, but no tears could come. They had been temporarily exhausted.

Mr. Perez, seeing Lara and her mother through the window, came out to greet them and help them inside. Lara’s legs felt shaky beneath her, as she climbed the front steps of the porch. Had this been the visit that she and Amoricio had planned for late August, Lara would have mastered the summit in two bounds, with a running start.

Amoricio and Lara’s mothers had also become the best of friends in their thirteen years as neighbors. Once inside, the women’s eyes locked. Everyone in the room, including Lara, could feel every emotion that was passing between them. In time, Mrs. Perez felt secure enough to truly look upon the best friend her son would ever have. As she took in the width and saturation of the hat Lara wore, a quivering smile crossed her lips. “I like the morado, gaucho Paquita,” she said between sobs.

The sting in Lara’s nose increased and her tears were renewed.

 

On Tuesday, June 19th, as the families and friends began dressing for the funeral, Lara Hanauer encountered an unusual dilemma. Within the small selection of hats, that had escorted her to Boston, she found none that were sincerely speaking to her or her need to express her personal grief, while maintaining respect for the grief of Amoricio’s parents.

Lara knocked on the open door to Mrs. Perez’s bedroom.

“Come in Paquita.” invited Mrs. Perez as she re-applied makeup to her puffy, tired eyes.

“This is what I want to wear,” Lara said, as she presented herself for inspection.

Lara modeled a smart, beige skirt suit. Seeing the beautiful, young lady standing there, Mrs. Perez was struck by the reality of the moment, and how very grown-up Lara now appeared. Had son’s premature death aged the girl prematurely, she wondered.

“I just don’t feel black today. I feel faded, and drained of color,” Lara offered.

“It’s very pretty,” said Mrs. Perez, solemnly mustering support for the girl.

“I know everyone will be in black but…” Lara trailed off.

“I think you should wear it. And for you, I think I have the perfect accessory.”

Mrs. Perez gently wiped a tear, as she rose from her dressing table with a bit more life than she had possessed in the previous few days. She stepped into her closet and returned quickly with a round container. Lara recognized it as a hat box and was intrigued by the thought of what it might hold. Lifting the lid, Mrs. Perez reached inside and removed a champagne, satin pillbox hat, with matching veil. Handing the box to Lara, the mother-in-mourning began arranging the hat on Lara’s head.

“Perfecto,” said Mrs. Perez.

Stepping around behind Lara, she guided the teen, by the shoulders, towards the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the room. The women stood looking at the reflection of the finished ensemble for another moment until Lara broke the silence.

“Perfecto.”

By the morning of June 21st, Lara’s mother, out of a growing sense of concern for the girl, asked her daughter if she had ventured into Amoricio’s room yet, since their arrival. The look that captured Lara’s face, answered the question most succinctly.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” Lara explained. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

Later that day, Lara asked Amoricio’s father if he would take her into the room. It was a room which they both knew in great detail. A room of memory.

Mr. Perez placed a gentle arm around Lara as he opened his son’s door. Taking a deep breath, and giving Lara a reassuring squeeze, he walked them inside. Lara recognized the smells immediately, as a potent mixture of both, sweaty teen boy and the cherry incense that they had purchased together, last summer, at the 5 & 10. Lara Hanauer did not attempt to resist the powers scent, to evoke the past.

Taking in the whole of the room, Lara quickly recognized that Amoricio had rearranged the furniture since her move in March. She understood that similar to her own hat fixation, this was Amoricio’s way of dealing with dramatic changes in his life. The colors of his skateboard posters and band pictures, scattered across the walls, were the same as she remembered, though they now lacked some of their original vibrancy. Lara soon discovered something unfamiliar in the room. Immediately to the right of his dresser mirror, there hung an oversized poster of a sexy, bikini-clad brunette. The woman’s mascara was extreme and exaggerated, and the application of lip color appeared thick and shiny, like cake icing. Lara wondered how soon after she moved away, had Amoricio hung this monstrosity. Her primal reaction of distaste was swift and strong. She was truly disappointed in her friend. She desperately hated the way that felt.

A few deep breaths later, she began to recognize the honesty and purity of the gesture. He had never displayed this sort of material while she was still around out of respect for her, but after all, he was a guy. She told herself he would surely have covered it before her end of the summer visit. Her faith was restored.

On the footboard of Amoricio’s bed, Lara found the resting place of his black, stocking cap. He had received it, from an aunt, in the 4th grade and, unlike Lara; he was content to wear this, single hat year round, as the mood struck him. The week before Lara moved, he wore it constantly, in her honor. As she looked at the cap, pulled over the top of one of the bed’s finials, she judged it’s placement to be somewhat contrived. It looked, to her as though it was the afterthought of a set decorator still learning their craft. She began to wonder if it was Amoricio who had placed it there or someone else. Reaching out a hand to correct its latitude, she asked, “Was he wearing it when he…”

“Like always,” Mr. Perez broke in, staring intently at the cap.

Lara’s adjustment of the hat had momentarily reanimated the room. Mr. Perez began to smile.

After an eternal 10 minutes of rediscovery, Lara said, “We can go now if you want.”

Mr. Perez nodded. Following Lara from the room, he quietly snatched the stocking cap from its perch.

“Lara?”

She turned to face the man who had always been like a second father to her. Raising his hands in the manner of an archbishop at a coronation, he began pulling the cap down, over her long dark hair, fitting it over her ears. When she realized what was taking place she lowered her eyes and leaned her head forward in solemn observance of the rite.

He walked her downstairs, where they found the mothers sharing coffee and conversation. Her mother was the first to notice what Lara now had in her possession. Mrs. Hanauer looked towards Mrs. Perez with vague apprehension. Amoricio’s mother did not look directly into Lara’s face but rather at the cap on her head. A moment later, her gaze moved upwards, above the hat, and into the eyes of her husband. As she nodded repeatedly, in silent approval, he returned her gaze, punctuating it with a smile and a single nod of his own.

On July 3rd, Lara carefully folded, and stored, the bedclothes she had used each night while sleeping on the couch in the study. Sitting on the couch’s edge, she tied the laces of her Wonder Woman High-Tops tightly. As she quickly stood, Lara bounced up and down on the balls of her feet to shake her loose-fitting cargo shorts back into place. She tugged at the bottom of her wrinkled, sleeveless hoodie, then, reached into its left pocket to retrieve her MP3 player. She seated the earbuds securely while heading for the front of the house, and began scanning the player’s menu for traveling music. Something with energy, she thought.

Lara was suddenly feeling some of life’s routine returning. She had always made it a point to prove to routine, that she would never go back willingly, peacefully, or completely. This proof always came in the form of change; a change of clothes, certainly a change of hats, and most radically, a change of hair.

Today was a “Hair” day.

As she hit the front door, stepping out on to the porch, she reached into the hoodie’s right pocket and pulled out Amoricio’s cap. Once the cap was secured on her head, she pressed “Play” and with a single, sustained blast from a nightclub brass section, she leaped from the top step of the porch, onto the sidewalk below.

Stepping in time with the beat of a collection of happy, J-Pop songs, Lara walked the eleven blocks to Clancy’s Barber Shop. Amoricio, his Father, and even Mr. Hanauer, who sometimes need professional assistance with his “Comb-over”, had all come to Ike Clancy for years. Lara had been brought, in-tow, to the shop so often that Ike began to mix issues of “BOP’ magazine, in with the Sports Illustrated and Popular Mechanics. She was a regular.

Lara imagined all the barber shops around the world, where people gathered to talk about the big game, or politics, or the weather, (some even came for haircuts), while others, like her, came simply to observe. She thought that amongst the thousands, and thousands of shops on the planet, Ike’s place must be an iconic example, and though she realized they all wouldn’t be run by an Irish immigrant, ex-wrestlers, the atmosphere would probably be about the same.

Lara wondered, for a moment, if Ike would recognize her, or the cap she wore. As she entered the last crosswalk before reaching Clancy’s, she thought about the nicknames Ike had given to both she and Amoricio. She had been dubbed “Larry”, so she would feel more like one of the guys, which meant that Amoricio had to be “Amy”. Whenever Lara came with Amoricio, for his regular trim, Ike would announce their arrival, in his most gentile, Irish brogue, “Welcome to Ike’s House of Beauty. Will someone check for a reservation under the name of Amy?” Lara loved it. Amoricio hated it.

The familiar sound of the small, brass bells greeted Lara as she entered the shop.

“Larry!” Ike exclaimed, in a voice under the influence of decades of cheap cigars, as he sat in his barber chair, near the front of the shop. Several of the regulars; mostly old gentlemen from the neighborhood who came to hear Ike’s wrestling stories for the millionth time, were also in attendance.

“It’s little Larry‘s come to see us gents.” Ike stood up and threw open his arms. “Give us a hug then Dear Heart.”

Lara reached as far around him as she could; squeezing him tightly. After a moment he held her out at arms-length for a proper inspection.

“I’ll swear you’ve grown a foot or more.” Ike laughed with a boom. “So you’re back in the Plain from the Lone Star state and you’ve come to see you’re old pal, Ike. Is that it Larry?”

“That’s part of it,” Lara said, rolling her eyeballs upward towards the bottom edge of the stocking cap.

Ike suddenly tumbled that today’s selection of millinery was not a part of her standard collection. He knew this cap.

“Oh, I’m so sorry my girl. We all are.” He pulled Lara back in for another kind of hug. He knew exactly why she had come back to Jamaica Plain.

“I didn’t see you at the funeral,” Lara said.

“Well, you see Larry,” the contrite giant began, “I was away in Cork, tidying up some family matters when it all happened. I’m only back since the weekend ya know.”

Lara’s eyes told him that she understood and accepted the regrets of his absence.

Pointing at the mirror, on the wall behind his barber chair, he led Lara to the news clippings he had collected, including Amoricio’s obituary. She already had several issues of the Gazette, which detailed the events, as they had unraveled so far, tucked carefully away in her luggage back at the Perez’s house. Lara read silently along, as Ike read it aloud.

“Amoricio Saenz Perez, 16-year-old sophomore at Community High School, died on Saturday, June 16th, of gunshot wounds he received as a bystander during the armed robbery of a local Jamaica Plain drug store. Classmates noted he was always very friendly and he had a great sense of humor. Amoricio is survived by his parents Rosalba and Edward Perez.”

“I lit a candle for him at Saturday mass up at St. Stephens. I only wish there was something more…” Ike had, for the first time that Lara could remember, run out of words.

“There’s something you can do for me,” Lara said, in a smallish voice that grasped for courage.

“Say the word and it’s yours, My Dear.”

Lara pulled the stocking cap off her head before she could give it any serious more thought. Pulling the pony holder off the back of her head, her long, brown hair fell forward.

“I want a haircut.”

Ike struggled to hold back a tremendous laugh, while others in the shop were not so disciplined.

“Larry, ya know I don’t cut the young ladies hair unless they’ve got chewing gum stuck in it.”

“I want a boy’s haircut,” she said, looking Ike square in the eyes.

The laughs again rose among the observers, but seeing where Lara’s trail was leading, Ike commanded the troupes, “That’ll do gents.”

There was absolute compliance.

“Sure and you’re slagging me Larry?” he asked in smiling confusion.

Lara did not move or even blink. Moments passed. It was Ike who spoke first in surrender.

“Well… get into the chair then will ya?”

Lara climbed into Ike’s barber chair and mentally checked the idea off of her “Wish List” of life achievements.

As Ike flipped the red and white, striped cape out and around the front of Lara, he tried to imagine what the results of his barbering efforts would look like. His imagination alarmed him.

“How much of the length would ya be wanting to remove?”

“Leave it about two inches all over… no bangs.”

Ike sighed.

“Will ya be needin a shave as well, then?”

July 10th, 9:13 a.m.:

Lara pulled the stocking cap down tightly. She was hoping to avoid the gentle teasing about her hair, which she now, regularly received from Mr. Perez. With her hair completely out of sight, she was out the front door for her daily walk to Stealthy’s drugstore. Each morning, since the funeral, Lara Hanauer had made the eleven block journey. She came to observe the space, in memoriam, and to purchase the daily paper. Each day, she thumbed through its pages looking for news about the continuing search for Amoricio’s fugitive killer. Each day, the paper’s crime-beat reporter regurgitated the vague, generic descriptions; “Black Male, 19 to 25, approx. 6’2”, approx. 185 lbs. The suspect was last seen fleeing the location on foot.” There were rarely any new developments to attend to.

This summer’s morning it was mostly sunny. Sparse clouds moved low, and swiftly, from south to north, across Jamaica Plain. By this hour of the morning, most people had already made it to work, so the streets had emptied out. Lara positioned herself, on the sidewalk, equidistantly between the street and the front doors of the drugstore. Looking cautiously around, not wanting to be taken as insane or suspicious, Lara then quickly laid down, spread eagle on the sidewalk.

The noise of the stiff, southern breeze, blowing across her earbuds, added a lonely, hollow ambiance to the soundtrack of her life, as it unfolded at this moment. This is a holy place, she thought to herself.

With her senses fully engaged, tears came quickly, though wailing was strictly excluded. She was in public, after all. While she had chosen this spot for a time of reflection, she saw no need to make a complete spectacle of herself.

After laying there for the length of two more songs from her shuffle mix, Lara Hanauer was abruptly interrupted by a voice that competed for dominance over the sweet voice serenading in her ears. Lara struggled to focus her vision through tear-blurred eyes. It had not yet occurred to her that she should pause her music. She spent the next few moments attempting to read the unclear lips of an apparently uniformed female, who stood over her.

Lara yanked the tiny speakers from her ears in time to hear, “... you alright?”

Wiping her eyes, she nodded timidly.

“You can’t lay there. You’re obstructing the traffic flow of the sidewalk.”

Lara scrambled to her feet, dusting off her backside as she stood.

“What were you doing on the ground?” asked the Policewoman.

Lara shrugged.

“Well if you’ve got no business with the drug store, you’re going to need to move on.”

Nodding her understanding, Lara wiped a final tear from her cheek. Lara spoke, as the officer moved off, in the direction of her parked squad car.

“Excuse me.”

When the officer turned around, Lara could see the nameplate, on her shirt, clearly for the first time.

“Excuse me, Officer Jenkins,” she said politely.

Lara held out the newspaper, showing the article about her best friend.

“Is there any news about the person who did this?”

Officer Jenkins looked carefully at the article Lara was pointing to, then, she began to smile, stopping short of full expression.

“They picked him up about 10 minutes ago.”

“Is he really the one?” Lara asked hopefully.

“He’s confessed.”

Looking thoughtfully at Lara, the policewoman witnessed the release of all the built-up emotion the teen had worked hard to conceal, since returning to her old neighborhood. Officer Jenkins asked, “Did you know the boy?”

“Best friend.” Lara sobbed quietly.

“I was the first officer on-scene, here, that day.”

Officer Jenkins carefully considered whether, or not, to share more of the tragic details. Lara looked up at her with dripping eyes that demanded the rest of it.

“I had called the paramedics and was working on him myself, but he just… went to sleep before they got here.”

Lara’s body released a tremendous shiver and she reflexively reached out to hug the woman standing before her. The police officer wrapped an arm around the girl, patting her shoulder for a time.

Lara gave the wooly hat she was wearing, a couple of taps with her fingertips.

“This is his cap. He was wearing it when…”

Officer Jenkins finally unleashed a full smile through her eyes.

“I remember it.”

At 5:36 p.m., on the local newscast, Lara saw footage of Amoricio’s confessed killer, in handcuffs, being placed into the back seat of a police cruiser. She watched the arresting officer place his hand on the suspects head to make sure he wouldn’t strike it on the car door frame. Noticing that the suspect was wearing a black stocking cap, Lara tore Amoricio’s hat from her head in momentary disgust. Shortly after the news story ended, and the station broke for commercials, she once again placed the hat on her head.

That night, as she sacked-out on the couch, Lara was easily distracted as she forced herself to pray for the redemption of the accused.

“Lord, help me…help us all to forgive him.”

The random thought that flashed across her tired mind, fought to contradict her words.

“Help me, Lord. Amen.”

By August 14th, Lara was ready to return to San Marcos. The sheer emotional expenditure, over the last four weeks, was reason enough to find a more neutral place to rebalance her feelings. If there could be life after all that had happened, it would surely be found far from here. So, with only two weeks left before her junior year would begin, Lara finally felt that Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts was no longer her home.

Saturday, August 31st, a letter from Mrs. Perez arrived for Lara’s mother. Inside was a Xeroxed copy of a short note sent to Amoricio’s parents, from jail, by Antwon Bivens, as he awaited arraignment.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Perez,

I know nothing can undo what I caused but I hope someday you will forgive me. Please pray for me.

Antwon Bivens

 

Before climbing into bed at the end of an uneventful Labor Day weekend, Lara placed the note on top of the pile of newspaper articles about Amoricio’s death, which she’d collected. She knew that someday the note would find its place within the pages of the scrapbook she was creating to chronicle her nearly life-long friendship with Amoricio. She had started the album during those early spring days, after first arriving at her new home in San Marcos, Texas. Right now, at this moment, knowing how the story would end, she just didn’t have the strength.

At bedtime, as had recently become her custom, Lara placed Amoricio’s stocking cap on the post of her headboard, before turning out her light.

On Tuesday, September 3rd, at 7:21 a.m., Lara was applying the last strokes of mascara while re-evaluating the “Clash Factor” of the pink t-shirt she had chosen, in relationship to the eyeshadow which she now wore. After tallying the votes the shirt was cast aside. The first day of each new school year was critical. This being her junior year, Lara wanted to make the perfect opening argument before she began implementing some major changes in her extracurriculars. Lara Hanauer now intended to see if the school newspaper could use a star reporter or better yet a reporter/photojournalist. She decided to support all the girl’s athletic teams with her presence and unbridled school spirit. She might even be trying out for volleyball.

Despite her new attitude, she knew that any “First Day” of a new school year, which did not include Amoricio Perez, would be a rough one. Once the appropriate alternative to the pink shirt had been chosen, it would be time for the final touch. A hat.

Placing the final selection on her head, Lara cocked it slightly to the left for effect.

“Perfecto,” she said to the reflection in the mirror.

Looking closely at her extremely short, spiky hair, sticking symmetrically out from underneath, she now knew why she had never chosen to wear this hat in public before. Somehow this hat, this hair, and this day were all made for each other. It was a black, English, bowler, which Amoricio had presented to Lara on her 13th birthday. He had spotted it at a local swap meet. After a twenty minute haggle, the bartering reached its resolution, when Amoricio decided to throw his duplicate, 1967, Brooks Robinson baseball card into the negotiation.

Lara Hanauer wouldn’t be going it alone today. Not really.