Hairwolf

A short time later, Stef is measuring the height of the hiking stick against Winster’s side.

“Don’t forget to leave a few inches for the curved handle,” he adds.

“How am I going to curve the handle?”

Moments later a heated tea kettle whistles on Mr. Winster’s stove. Stef is poised with the hiking stick as Winster guides her through the steps. She props open the whistler cap to the kettle, allowing a thick flow of steam to escape.

“Now hold it over the steam. Right where you want the bend,” he says.

Stef bends over, carefully guiding the end of the stick over the escaping steam. As she does, the Egyptian ankh swings into view. But that’s not the only thing swinging into view. Her shirt, being partially unbuttoned, reveals full cleavage. Winster can’t help but look. It’s a good view. What cleavage isn’t?

“I do remember reading about this somewhere,” she says focused on the stick. “I just never got around to trying it.” She looks up, catching him looking down.

“And we’re back to the melons, ah? Tell ya what,” she says, “why don’t you heat the wood and I’ll

look down your shirt?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure you’ll be getting the short end of the stick on that one.”

“Cute.”

Stef hands him the stick.

Mr. Winster runs the hiking stick over the escaping steam as Stef watches. Her thoughts drift with the evaporation and soon she finds herself back in time. A time when she was younger.

She’s five-years-old and in her bed . . .

She’s five years old and in her bed watching the humidifier launch moisture into her room. Her eyes rove over the ceiling in her bedroom. It’s designed with luminous star like stickers that look like the evening sky. Features such as the Pleiades, Orion, the Big and Little Dipper are accurately positioned. A lot of time and effort went into the display paying close attention to detail.

The bedroom door opens slowly and light from the hallway washes away her celestial view. She peeks through closed eyelids at the man entering her room. He crosses to her bedside and sits beside her. She knows she’s supposed to be asleep, so she pretends with partially closed eyelids.

He lowers the blanket to her waist and unbuttons the bottom couple of buttons to her pajama shirt. He stops midway, revealing only her stomach. She opens her eyes, seeing a man. He’s handsome, in his thirties, wearing a blue t-shirt. He has facial stubbles from a long day. His hair is light brown, short and unkept. He’s looking at her stomach as the shadow of a second visitor darkens the room. It’s a woman, asking, “What are you doing?”

Stef flinches from something poking at her stomach . . .

Stef is back and Mr. Winster is withdrawing the hiking stick from her stomach. “Hey. What do you think?”

She looks as if she’s seen a ghost. She’s digesting what she experienced. Or trying to. She struggles, hanging on to every detail. Every moment. Were those her parents? Was that her bedroom?

“You okay, Stef?”

“I think I just had a vision. Would you excuse me for a minute? I have to call Lillian.” She races out of the kitchen, exiting the house. Winster lays the stick down by his side and takes a seat contemplating her. He runs his hand along the stick in thought.

Stef is outside, pacing back and forth by her truck, anxious. “It had to be my father. Who else could it have been?”

“I don’t know,” Lillian says through the phone. “Maybe a babysitter. And you’re sure that was a woman’s voice?”

“What are you thinking?” Stef asks. “You don’t think it was my father?”

“We don’t have all the facts yet, Stef. We’ll figure it out. You’re probably going to start having more of these, so start documenting them. You alright?”

“I’m fine. How come you’re not all over the abuse thing?”

“Because we don’t know who he was and we don’t have the facts. What if it was your real father would you want your first memory of him being feeling you up? I’m not being trite. We have to be very careful here. Hopefully there’s a better explanation. For the time being let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Lill. I have to get back in. Talk later. Bye.”

Stef disconnects the call. She’s still a little anxious over the experience. She pauses, trying to filter through the unknowns. She notices Mr. Winster sitting on the front steps with his hiking stick. The handle is curved and he’s holding it up to her.

“Everything alright, Stef?”

She approaches him, eyes on the curved handle. “Yeah,” she says, taking the stick and

inspecting it. “That came out really nice. You like it?”

“I do.”

She takes a seat next to him on the steps. It’s a warm night with a slight breeze. She relaxes knowing Lillian’s there for her and so is he. She really wants to open up to him. Tell him something she hasn’t told anybody. But how? He taps her knee hwith his hand offering,

“In time, Steffy. In time. Knowing you can tell me is almost as good as the telling.” He pulls her in and she melts under his arm. “I love my new stick.”

Later, a half-moon peeks in on Stef through the living room window. She’s snuggled under a blanket on Winster’s couch looking back at it. A nightlight illuminates the hallway outside of Winster’s bedroom. He’s snoring softly but it doesn’t disturb her. Her thoughts are elsewhere.