Hairwolf

Mr. Winster exits his bathroom with a cane draped over his left wrist. He’s a mobile man in his eighties. Standing outside the bathroom, waiting for him is Stef, armed with an over-night bag draped over her shoulder. He steps out, somewhat expecting her.

“You’re late,” he says shuffling past her with the cane draped over his wrist. She follows him into the dining room where she notices a mess of wood shavings and tools on the dinner table. Most would be annoyed at the mess they have to clean up but she’s happy he’s keeping busy.

“I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

“Yeah, right. Like it’d matter.”

Stef bursts out with a laugh. “It would. Then we’d both know you were mad. Not just you. Excuse me, but aren’t you forgetting something or are you too mad to remember?”

“I did’t forget nothin. I’m just gonna hang my cane so I can use both arms. Looks like you need it.”

Stef is moved and lowers her bag to the dinning room chair. Mr. Winster rests his cane on his chair and pulls her in for a two armed hug. He’s a tall man so she fits into his chest very nicely.

“How’s that? You better now?”

“No,” Stef says. “Just a little longer.”

“Any longer I’m gonna need a cigarette.”

And they’re done. He’s laughing himself into tears and she’s just staring at him.

“Sit. Sit your nasty ass down. You are a bad man. Funny as hell, but bad.”

“That was a good one. Probably one of my best. Made you forget whatever was bringing you down, didn’t it?”

He’s got a point.

“Oh, that was a good one,” he says. “Nothin like a good laugh. Beats the hell out of being down or depressed. Depression’s like a drug. Most emotions are. While we’re in them we don’t want to come out. Got to be kicked out. Humor is a big one for depression. Better feeling, too. You feel better, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” she says, loving his way of thinking. “Did I look that bad?”

“Steffy girl, you’ve been with me three years. I’ll bet I know more about you than you do. So, yes. You looked pretty beat up today. Care to talk about it?”

“Later. Business first,” she says, grabbing his cane. “This ain’t a bracelet, you know. It ain’t gonna do you any good wrapped around your wrist if your knee gives out.”

He’s ignoring her advice. “Don’t mind the mess. I had to let the cleaning lady go.”

“Why’d you let her go?”

“She wouldn’t stop cleaning. Couldn’t find a goddamn thing. Nuff a that. I made you

something. It’s on the table here somewhere. Sweep away those wood chips, will ya?”

“Ironic, isn’t it? You let the cleaning lady go because you couldn’t find anything and now you can’t find anything because you let the cleaning lady go.”

He smiles at the sarcasm.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

She looks across the table but can’t locate what he made her. She grabs the kitchen garbage pail and slowly sweeps the wood-chips into it. Finally, she finds a detailed Egyptian Ankh, made of

wood. It’s too big to be worn around her neck but would hang nicely from her driver’s mirror.

“You made this for me? It’s beautiful.”

He isn’t answering. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek, with, “thank you.” She looks at the cane and - “You know what? I’m going to make you a hiking stick.”

“Wonderful. I’ll use it on my next expedition.”

She takes his cane and visually measures its height against her leg.

“What am I going to do with a hiking stick?”

“Use it. You’re not using the cane.”

“It’s a cane. Damn training wheels for a walker.”

“Exactly. It has old written all over it. I’ll make you a hiking stick that you could use navigating around this mess when I’m not here. Hell, you may even use it to go outside.”

“So you agree with me?” Winster asks surprised.

“Hell yes. You’re a man of the woods. You need things around here to remind you of that. Leave

it to me. I’m gonna set you up.”

Stef dips under the table picking up wood scraps from the floor. “Did you take your meds and vitamins?”

“Yeah.”

“Gettin? Not for nothin but that ship sailed a long time ago...”

She leans the cane against the table, smiling. “So, if I make you a hiking stick, you’ll use it?”

“If it’s as good as the ones you’ve showed me I’ll probably sell it.”

She smells something from under the table. “When was the last time you changed your socks?” The fact that he has to think about it is the answer she needs. “Up. In the bedroom and change them, now. I told you, you have to change your socks twice a day to keep those corns away. Shit.”

“How many socks do you think I have?”

She jumps up and scans the living room. “Where’s that bag? Oh, Jesus. I bought you several pairs last weekend.” She crosses to a bag pushed aside in the corner and shows it to him.

“Never mind, I found it,” he says. “I forgot all about them. Don’t worry, I’m still just as sharp as a tack.”

“Yeah, a tick-tac,” she says loud enough for him to hear.

A short time later, Stef and Winster are eating a vegetable soup she made with a side of cheese, crackers and red wine. Two baked potatoes sit in a bowl, coated with butter.

“Don’t forget -” she says, “I’ll be in Maine next weekend. Marie will be taking my place.”

“Is she the one with those large . . .”

“. . . Melons. Yeah.” Stef says, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“Real firm, too.”

“Hmm. Firm they were.”

“Now wait a minute,” he says. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

“I doubt it,” she replies. “But you go right ahead with whatever you’re thinking.”

“I’m still a man, you know. Fantasy’s about the only thing I have left.”

“Does it ever end?” she asks, seriously.

“. . .Yup!” he interrupts suddenly, keeping his eyes on his soup.

She feels horrible. How could she have asked such a thing? Who wouldn’t miss sex? His eyes roll off of his soup to hers and . . .

“Marriage,” he says. “Nothing like an I do to guarantee you won’t.”

She spits the soup out all over the table unable to control her laugh. “You had to do it, didn’t ya?”

He throws his napkin at her, snickering devilishly over his little prank.

Later, Stef closes the tailgate to her truck. In her hand is a carved hiking stick. The bittersweet vine has left a nice corkscrew twist in the wood. It’s not as perfect as the one in her living room, or as long but she’s confident it’ll work.

As she turns back towards the house she notices the partial moon peeking out behind the passing clouds. She takes it in, if only for a moment.

Inside, Stef lays the stick on the table in front of Winster. “What do you think? I’ve had this one for a while.”

“That’ll work,” he says.

“The bittersweet vine did most of the work. I just removed the bark and sanded it down.”

“Nasty vine, that Bittersweet. Kills a lot of trees.”

“Nature doesn’t make mistakes. When trees come down meadows go up.”

He considers her take on things. It’s interesting and well thought out. But what he likes mostly is

her love and consideration for it all.

“I’ve got something special for you,” he says rising from the table without his cane or stick. She wipes up the rest of her mess. Once he’s left the room, she raises the bowl to her mouth and devours a large portion of the soup. She then dips the crackers and cheese and bites feverishly into them. She considers the handmade ankh he gave her. She loves it. It’s simple.

He returns. She can hear him approaching from behind but doesn’t look. She doesn’t want to

appear eager but she is. He passes by her chair and she notices the items in his hand. If she were any other woman, she’d have little interest. But she’s not. And just like a little kid awaiting a gift, she adjusts and squirms in her seat, ready to receive. He crosses to the table, sweeping away a space for this ceremonious moment.

In his hands are a pair of vintage hiking knives, housed in old, brown leather sheaths. One is larger than the other. He takes a seat, positioning them at his place at the table. He looks long and hard at them and then up at her.

“I’ve had these knives most of my life. Carved many a stick with them, as well as – well, I won’t get into that, knowing you’re a vegetarian...”

“...Thank you.”

“I carried them from doorstep to field and every trail I’ve ever been on.”

He skins the shorter one from its sheath and makes the offering to her. She opens her hands and he lays it down on her palm.

“This one’s always been my favorite. . .”

“. . .Four-inch blade,” she interrupts. “Perfect for the rough bark. I use an old carpet knife for the finer carvings.”

“I’ve had this one . . .”

“. . . A long time. I know.”

He’s beginning to get a little annoyed at her interruptions but it’s nothing serious. He skins the second, longer knife, ignoring her. “This one here is . . .”

“. . .Western Bowie. Good steel.”

Stef takes hold of the knife and tests its weight and balance.

Mr. Winster tries to interject with, “that’s a . . .”

“. . .Ten-inch blade,” she reveals. “Full tang. Good for hacking small branches and vines. Looks to be about a quarter inch of steel. Good heft. Great sheath too.”

“Anything else you’d like to tell me about my goddamn knives? I’m trying to make a moment here and you won’t shut up about it.”

She laughs out loud over this. She knows what a pain she can be. “I’m sorry. But you know I know these things. That’s why we get along so well. Go ahead. You may continue. The table is yours.”

“Knives are gonna be mine again too unless you shut up.”

She bows to him, laughing still. There’s no harm here. She knows he loves this interaction.

He wipes the shiny metal blade on his shirt, removing the fingerprints, with, “I was saving these for my grandkids but, boy, what a disappointment they turned out to be. Never go outdoors and

play. Always sick. Take after their mother. City girl. No, these are for you. You’ll put em to better use than they ever will.”

Stef sets the blades down and pulls the leather sheathes over with, “Done. What else you got?”

That took him down a notch. But then, “I’m only kidding. Let me ask you something. Why can’t we just hang them up on a wall here? They’ll remind you of the old days and what you did with

them. They’ll still be mine but we’ll keep them here.”

“I thought about that. But truth is, they just remind me of things I can’t do anymore. I’m fine with getting old but it does take some getting used to. I need to create new things. New goals.”

“I can relate,” she confesses, knowing how that works. “Few things about my life I’ve tried to forget.”

“Like what?”

“Childhood.”

“What part of your childhood are you trying to forget?” he asks, puzzled.

“The childhood part,” she says, casually holding one of the knives in her hand, more intrigued with it than the conversation. “My parents left me when I was five. I was fostered out to a couple that thought I could save their marriage. Actually, I’m probably the reason they split up.”

He’s waiting for more. There has to be more. But she’s reluctant to go any deeper.

Finally, she throws it out there. “I’m trying to forget the pain. It sucks. I don’t have a childhood memory that doesn’t include someone leaving me.”

“Why’d your parents leave you?”

“All I know is they dropped me off one night and I never saw them again.”

“Have you tried finding them?”

“No. Why would I do that? They had their chance.”

“I’m sorry, Stef. Maybe someday you’ll figure it out.”

“I’m over it.”

“Oh, please.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“How am I not over it?”

“Well, for starters, you could probably carve another hiking stick out of that chip on your shoulder.”

She snarls at him, knowing he’s got that much right about her. But it proves nothing.

“Have you ever thought about embracing it?” he asks.

“You mean like, suck it up? Get over it – shit happens.”

“No. I don’t mean that at all. What I mean is have you tried accepting responsibility for it?”

“I was five,” she says growing angry. “How is a five-year old responsible for anything? It wasn’t my fault.”

“I’m not saying it was your fault. Fault is different from responsibility. Right now you

feel a victim. And that’s a result of not accepting responsibility. Change your attitude towards it

and you’ll change your results.”

He lost her on that.

She’s recoils in her seat, ready to move on to something less explosive. He sees that and rests back in his seat. He lets the moment calm down.

“What if, in some strange way, being orphaned was something you agreed to? Let’s say, you and – God, for arguments sake, got together before you were born and decided this would be a good path for you. A good lesson to learn. Would you feel less the victim?”

“Why would anybody choose something like that?”

“Would you feel less the victim?” he asks again, pushing for an answer.

“If I agreed? Yes, I’d feel less the victim but more like a moron for choosing such a dumb ass thing.”

“Okay, so, dumb ass or not, what lessons could be learned from being orphaned?”

“Abandonment comes to mind,” she says, throwing it out there. “Unwanted. Unloved. Great lessons for a five-year-old, don’t ya think?”

“Those are results. But go on.”

“What do you mean results?”

“You were orphaned and you don’t know why. What if there was a logical explanation for it? A positive explanation. Then it wouldn’t be considered abandonment. Right?”

The idea presents a slightly different take but she’s not yet convinced.

“Okay. What lessons could be learned from being orphaned,” she asks more to herself? “Other than the obvious ones, there’s self-reliance. Independence. Got that one down. Still working out the rejection stuff though.” As the words leave her lips she pauses. He watches patiently, almost studying her. She doesn’t notice. “To tell you the truth,” she says, “I guess the biggest lesson would be never to do it to anybody else.”

“Have you ever had the chance?” he asks. “I’ve known you three years and never have you mentioned anyone special in your life.”

“I’m a really private person -!?” she says, hoping it’ll stick.

“Bullshit. I’m here if you ever want to talk about it. You can’t change what happened. But you can change how you deal with it. Embrace is. Own it. Make it yours. Change your result and you change your outlook. Maybe that chip will get smaller.”

She sits with it for a while. It’s something different. A new approach maybe.

“Be the architect of your life not the victim. This way there’s no one to blame. There’s nothing to be blamed for. You chose it, it’s yours. Own it and get your energy back.”

That’s a lot to digest. It’s helpful but knowing how to apply it will take some restructuring of her

thought process. And then there’s pieces of information she’s holding very tight to her chest which complicate the situation, not to mention the simple task of trying to remember to fix herself. That’s the big one; learning how to be on better behalf of herself. That will take time, focus and direction. And right now she’s got her hands filled with trying to remember who attacked her in that truck those many years ago.