In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [52]
The hair had curled and tightened in the water. I pressed the blade above the dark mass and drew it downward. It didn’t come off as easily as I’d thought it would: a clump fell into the water, but scattered patches of hair remained, and even where I had shaved looked dark and prickly. I tried again, this time pressing harder and adjusting the angle of the blade. After several strokes, I paused to admire the scraped and bleeding skin, thrilled to have the ugly hair gone.
I shaved underneath my right arm, an even more awkward task, then emptied the tub and ran fresh water. Dark, telltale hairs stuck to the sides and I wiped them up with toilet paper. I listened for Nan, less afraid of what she would think of my shaving than the fact I was using my uncle’s razor without asking. How many times had I heard my father and uncles and other men complain about their wives using their razors, returning them dulled, somehow tainted?
Beginning at one ankle, I made several passes upward to my knee. The blade seemed slow and sticky, catching every few inches, nicking me until little rivulets of blood ran down my leg. I checked the razor and saw it was clogged with hair. This was taking longer than I had thought it would. My armpits burned.
I twisted the dial, but nothing happened. I twisted harder. The plastic snapped and fell into the water. The narrow blade, curled inside like the keyed band of a coffee can, sprang out into a yard of glinting metal.
Fear set in. My punishment for disobedience had begun before I could even finish my sin. Hands shaking, I gathered the pieces from the water. Everything was there. Nothing looked truly broken. Maybe I could get it back together and no one would know. Laying the plastic parts along the edge of the tub, I saw that the first thing I had to do was re-coil the blade. After that, it would be easy.
I picked up the long strip and began straightening it. Suddenly, blood was pouring from my hands. I dropped the blade and held up my palms. Along one thumb ran a gaping, inch-long cut.
I grabbed a towel, then put it back: blood would stain the cloth. Pulling the plug, I held my hand over the drain, watching the darker liquid join the clear, then swirl and disappear.
How could I hide this? My parents would be enraged, not only at my rebellion but at my disrespect for my uncle’s possessions and my grandmother’s house. The bleeding from the cut slowed, and I ran more water, splashing it over my shoulders and along the sides of the tub. Holding my thumb over the toilet I dried myself with one hand, then rummaged through the linens until I found a frayed rag. I wrapped it around my thumb, swept the destroyed razor into the garbage and covered it with tissue.
Nan was in the kitchen, drinking iced tea, fanning herself with her apron. I entered the room slowly, head down.
She turned to where I stood, seeing first my stricken face and then the blood-soaked rag.
“Oh, Sister, what have you done?”
She pushed herself from her chair and pulled me to the sink. When the rag was undone, she let out a sigh of relief: the appendage was still attached. She clicked her tongue at the thumb as though it and not I were responsible for the fear she had felt.
I began to confess, to tell her how I planned it all. I had lied to her and my parents, then stolen my uncle’s razor, and now it was broken. She held my hand beneath cold water, then dried it gently with her good tea towel. I flinched when she poured half a bottle of iodine into the wound. She studied it thoughtfully, then cut several strips of white tape, which she crossed back and forth across the cut.
“Will I have to have stitches?