Author Rockie Lyons

The Sacramento police station looked like a government building: gray and drab, one level with a sign indicating where to park when doing police business. I thought Dad might not go inside with me, and I didn’t ask.

After he parked the car, I opened the door to get out. I was surprised when Dad turned off the engine and said, “Let’s go.”

We entered the building, not knowing where we were going. To the left, a uniformed policeman greeted us from behind a counter with a large open window that protected the space. It was a secure area where no one but police officers were allowed.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Hi, I’m here with my dad to pick up my sister’s purse. Rhonda Faye Lyons. She died in the Mother Lode Bar shooting on October 1. I was told you have her purse.” 

My words sounded so forced and matter-of-fact. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I showed my driver’s license, which displayed my birth name, Rocklae. 

“Okay, let me go find it,” he said. Then he got up and walked into the bowels of the police station. 

I felt nothing—no drama or sense of danger. Yet I was standing in the police station, picking up one of the last things Rhonda touched.

She did nothing wrong. Why am I at the police station? I wondered. My emotional mind was in conflict with my rational mind. 

The officer returned moments later, carrying what I immediately knew was my sister’s purse, brown leather with flowers carved into the side and a long shoulder strap.   

“Is this it? Do you recognize it?” he asked.

I nodded, trying not to cry. I took the purse from him and opened it. I saw that it was filled with Kleenex, cigarettes, and some loose change. I touched her comb, which held one of her long blonde hairs.

It was her Rhonda comb.

#

Rhonda loved to comb Dad’s hair when she was little. He would lie on the couch, numb with fatigue after working eighteen-hour days, and Rhonda would climb behind him and gently comb all his hair forward, part it, then brush it again.  Sometimes he would sit on the floor, and she would climb onto his shoulders and run the comb backward and forward over and over. 

Years later, Rhonda was struggling to build new clientele for her hairdressing business in Sacramento. She was young, just out of beauty school, with no real business experience or clients. One day, Dad called me with an idea: we’d imprint Rhonda’s business name and phone number on combs and use them as marketing giveaways. 

 “Everyone needs a comb. Let’s make it easy for people to call and make an appointment with Rhonda,” he said.

I thought the idea was brilliant. Dad was always looking for ways to market Bob’s Café, our family’s diner. He loved the challenge of trying to solve problems and increase business opportunities. 

#

A twenty-foot neon sign above the café displayed a caricature of my mother in a carhop uniform. She wore a pillbox hat with a pink plume standing straight up, a pink blouse, and a black skirt. She held a curb tray with a mouthwatering milkshake and juicy cheeseburger. Local legend was that airline pilots used the illuminated sign—Mom’s caricature and Dad’s name in bright lights—as a landmark for flying into the flatland Sioux Falls airport at night.

A photographer came to the parking lot when I was eight and took a picture of my mother dressed up in the carhop uniform. I wondered at the time why she was dressed that way. Later, when I saw the sign, I recognized the significance of the photograph. And I smile today at the thought of my parents, twenty feet high, lighting up the sky, welcoming visitors. 

#

“Rhonda, why are you late again?” Ron, the owner of the hair salon, called out somewhat impatiently one day when Rhonda was, again, late. He’d been outside the shop, probably looking up the road for his missing employee.

“I guess my alarm didn’t go off,” she responded, smiling as she climbed off the back of her boyfriend’s Harley-Davidson with a set of crutches in hand. Then, she arranged them to support herself and steadily limped into the salon.

Holding the door for her, Ron whispered in her ear in a firm voice, “Your client has been here waiting for fifteen minutes and is not happy,”

“I’ll sweeten him up,” she said confidently. She limped into the salon, then swung her purse onto her station’s countertop and leaned the crutches against the counter.

“Hi, Jeff, what’s rollin’?” Rhonda asked her client as she laughed and grabbed her scissors and Rhonda comb. “Wash first or just razor cut?”

“You’re late, and if you didn’t give such damn good haircuts, I wouldn’t keep coming back. Razor cut.” Jeff tried to be annoyed but enjoyed the banter. 

Jeff was a district attorney, a customer for more than a year, and he tolerated Rhonda’s antics. Large mirrors on Rhonda’s station enabled her to have eye contact with clients while cutting their hair. She used it to her advantage to read customers’ moods, always with an angle to ensure a happy experience. 

Rhonda limped to stand behind Jeff, who was sitting in the chair, waiting.

“What happened to your foot?” he asked.

Throwing back her long blonde hair and laughing, she said, “Oh, it’s a stupid thing, but I dropped a glass that ripped the muscle on my big toe. If I didn’t get it fixed, doc said I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance.” She laughed again. “Like I’m already balanced. It’s more of a nuisance than anything,”

She got started clipping Jeff’s hair.

“Sorry. Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Not really. Only when I try to play softball on crutches. For some reason, I can’t run very fast with these sticks.” She pointed her scissors at her crutches. 

Then she twirled Jeff around in the chair so she could cut the other side of his head.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, not much. I’m going to meet my friend Pam at the Mother Lode. They’re having an end-of-the-summer party. Should be low-key. Pam has a friend who lives around the corner from the bar. We’re going to meet him and then maybe go to a movie.”

“Sounds like a nice, relaxing Friday night,” Jeff said.