The Scarf/ Part One

 Barbara Whitesides

The Scarf/ Part One

April 7, 2023

Flash Fiction

Her weary eyes trace the backs of her deeply veined, leathery hands.  They had once been soft and beautiful.  Now she barely recognizes them.  Years of spinning and weaving the delicate wool from the island’s alpaca farm have taken their toll.  Her knuckles ache as she flexes her fingers.  Well rehearsed tears well up in her eyes.  These agonizing fingers once featured a shiny, delicate silver wedding band.   He had kissed these hands over and over when she accepted his proposal.   So long ago.  

Pushing back her broken stool, she stands and attempts to straighten her back.  Wincing at the effort, she stretches her neck from side to side.   The loom has robbed her of her youth and her marriage.  He was convinced he could find an easier life for them all in America.  He would send for them.  When he left, her hair matched the rich shades of cinnamon and red mahogany that characterizes the alpaca wool she works with.  Now it is woven with streaks of gray.

She examines her work.  Despite her exhaustion, this last scarf is by far the loveliest of all that came before it.  The thick, waving branches of trees she had only dreamed about stretch across the loomed fabric dropping swirling leaves of gold and auburn.   

Their daughter, barely old enough to speak when he departed, has never really known her father.  While other children play together on the beach of this tropical paradise, this young girl must help her mother in the marketplace, selling their fine woven pieces to women of means on lavish cruise ship vacations.  She doesn’t mind.  Since the last of her grandparents are gone now, it is just the two of them.  She sees the sadness in her mother’s face and wants to be as close to her as possible. 

The waterfront is sweltering and crowded as the exhausted weaver hobbles up to the small table where her child stands under the blistering sun.   It is the height of tourist season and the market is a destination for travelers from all over the world.  Her daughter gives her a worried look as mother pulls out the dwindling assortment of   scarves from her tattered bag.

Mother- this is all?  The market is full of buyers.  They will be looking for more than this.   I only have a few left on the table.  This isn’t enough for even one wholesale box!  You must work faster!

As the savvy businesswoman from a large American department store steps down off the ship, she can already see that the scene is bustling with people.   (God, I’m sick of these out-of-the-way stops.  The impoverished, simple-minded islanders will accost me with their filthy hands again!)  She shudders and pulls on light, protective gloves.  (I’m so glad this is the end of the trip.  I just need two more boxes of scarves then back to New York.)

Before long, she resigns to removing her gloves in an effort to mop up the free flowing perspiration gathering on her brow as she approaches a meager looking booth at the back of the market.  A local matron and a young girl, who looks very much like her, are speaking anxiously to each other in their local dialect. 

I can’t work any faster, love.  My hands can barely function now.  I am not sure I will be able to even peel the remaining roots I saved for our soup tonight.

The visitor snatches up a rich colored scarf from table between the two islanders and interrupts their conversation.

Oh dear God!  This is absolutely beautiful, she gasps as she runs her practiced hands over the woven fabric.  The caramel-colored fibers are so soft and inviting she almost gives into the temptation to rub it against her cheek.

How many of these do you have?

Sorry missus, comes the broken reply.  It is only one.  

 Throwing the garment down with a disgusted sigh, she begins to stride to the next booth.  But something about the scarf she left behind still haunts her.   Perhaps the department store can display it in the front window.  The colors are perfect for the fall line.  Shoppers will be understandably unhappy that only one is available, but when it’s gone, it’s gone.  This could score her some brownie points with the display designer.

With her abrupt change of heart, she pivots on the heel of her Jimmy Choo diamond strap walkers and grabs the neck garment with her unprotected hands.  The excursion time is running out and she is in no mood to haggle with these peasants.  She looks down at her unprotected hands.  Rather than fingering sweaty foreign coins, she throws down a hundred dollar bill to be done with this transaction.  

As the visitor disappears from view, mother and daughter look at one another with disbelieving eyes.  They have never seen this much money.  

The store manager runs her well-manicured hands over the soft folds of the stunning neckware.   She is frustrated by her buyer’s lack of success in procuring more of these amazing pieces.   (What do I do now? This one piece doesn’t come close to the demand we’ll get when this item is displayed).  She sighs and attaches a five hundred dollar price tag to the fabric.   (Wait!  I will generate some excitement!  I will advertise it as one of a kind item and then put it to auction after the fall fashion show!  The money will go to the city’s biggest homeless shelter.   Great press!)

The little girl in the front row waves her paddle in the air.   Again.   Her grandmother finds it cute that her little darling has learned to bid and is actively participating in this auction event.  Obviously the fashion is too sophisticated for her little charge, but it is deeply satisfying that, even as young as she is, the girl is beginning to get a sense of what elegance means.  (There are important expectations that come with being a woman of this family lineage), she reasons to herself.    (Besides, the proceeds go to charity.   It is an important lesson in giving to those who obviously won’t do for themselves).  

The aristocratic matron grabs her granddaughter’s soft, privileged hand and prepares to make the discreet arrangement to finalize her fifteen thousand dollar event contribution.   As they prepare to leave for a short leisurely stroll through Central Park on this unseasonably warm afternoon, the little girl spots the soft scarf in the gift-wrapped auction items.  (This would make a perfect bed for my babydoll!), she realizes.  (I will just tuck it under my coat and grandma will never miss it).

A short time later as she sits on the park bench her grandma insists is full of germs, the girl decides she is much warmer than she wants to be.  Using her practiced stealth moves, she surreptitiously slips off the velvety soft scarf and tucks it into the bench seat behind her back.  Grandma is distracted as she prepares to climb into the back of the chauffeured car waiting at the curb.    

It’s dark and wet in the park.   An unexpected afternoon storm has ended any successful attempts at panhandling.  He pulls his knees tightly into his chest as he attempts to find a way to get comfortable on the badly worn bench.  His hand slides off the cramped space and dangles just above the ground.  The tips of his throbbing, frozen fingers brush across what feels like a sizable pile of cloth.

Forcing his eyes open, he squints through the slats of the bench and spots a slightly damp mound of material.  As he slowly feeds it up through the bench, he sees it is a scarf.  A bit soiled but still warm and soft. 

As he shakes it out, the color of the article calls to mind the rich, warm hues of his wife’s beautiful hair and fluffy island alpacas.  Memories that have faded over time come rushing back.   (I have made so many mistakes), he silently agonizes.  (I deserve to suffer.  I have nothing left to find my way back to them).    

His heart fills with self-loathing as he pictures the tiny fists of the infant daughter he left behind.  He can almost feel the warm tropical breezes as he sobs into his chest.  He wraps the fabric-rich memories around his shaking shoulders and remembers her hug.