The Scarf/ Part Three

The Scarf

Epilogue

By Barb Whitesides

May 2023

He had never felt such despair.  This was not meant to be the way his story ended.    He was supposed to be back home on the island with the only woman he had ever loved.  But the island is not his home.  She is his home.  How horrifying it would be for her to see him now.  He has tried countless times to imagine the face of his daughter- she must be almost 21 now.  About the age her mother was when he married her.   

When he closes his eyes and forgets about all of the discomfort of these last 20 years, he sees her face in the lamplight on the day they were wed.  In his mind’s eye, he is holding her hand as he slips that modest symbol of his love on her finger. It had belonged to his mother.  His father had always kept the silver band where he could gaze upon it.   She never took it off till she was on her deathbed.  

This ring brought us many blessings together, my husband.  My love.  Please keep it for our son to bless another woman someday.  I hope the love they share is as deep as the love I feel for you at this very moment.     

His father told him it was the last thing she said before taking her final breath with a smile on her lips.   He imagines it is similar to smile he saw in the lamplight on his wedding day. 

These memories transfix him as he attempts once again to get comfortable in the doorway he’s trying to sleep in.   It had rained all day.  The little grooves in the threshold molding are filled with icy, cold water that is soaking through his threadbare trousers.  The only means of soaking it up is with the scarf that he has faithfully carried with him for most of his years here in New York.  It’s the one he found under the bench in Central Park.   He routinely tucks it away close to his heart to keep it from getting dirty…or, worse, stolen.  It is so like the elegant pieces she always made as she sat at her loom.   It helps him feel connected to her still.  He certainly will not use it to clean up the mess that has become his life….

Hey!  You there!   You can’t sleep here on the street you filthy vagrant!  If you don’t get moving, I’ll arrest you!   

He looks up to see two police officers with their nightsticks raised.

Oh geez, Sarge, look at this guy….  He might’a got hit by a car.  Look at the side of his face….it’s all screwed up and that eye looks no good.  

The Sergeant gives the man the once over and sighs;

Poor bastard.  (I can’t let this rookie partner think I’m one of those brutal coppers in the news.  He’d probably report me!)    Crap.  Put him in the back of the car and we’ll take him to the homeless shelter.   At least he’ll get a decent night’s sleep!

He has been in many food lines, but he has never been able to bring himself to claim a bed in a shelter…part of his determination to suffer for the hand he’s been dealt in this life.  This will be a new experience.

Fully exhausted, he stretches out on the small, military-type cot he’s assigned at the shelter.   He doesn’t like the bright lights and the noise in this busy building, but it is ironic that the accommodations should feel so elegant compared to his life living and panhandling on the street.  He tries not to be intrusive but glances around at the other beds.   Deep compassion grips his heart looking into the sad, weary faces around him.   He is no better than any of these souls that life has forgotten.   The stories he has heard on the street are heartbreaking- his sometimes pales in comparison to what some have endured.   A kind-looking older woman with a badge that says “June” brings him what looks like a small pile of clothing and a footbath filled with water and a sponge.  

Here are some clothes that might fit you.   Please clean yourself up the best you possibly can.  This is a big day at the shelter!  The granddaughter of the shelter’s biggest contributor is coming today to accept the annual recognition award in the name of her deceased grandmother.  It’s important she sees that their generous donations have made a difference here!

Thank you.  I am very grateful, June.   

He slowly begins unbuttoning the filthy shirt that is so faded and worn that it is impossible to tell what color it is.  He closes his eyes to luxuriate in the feel of the wet sponge on his stiff, aching shoulders.  There is nothing in the small pile of his clothes worth keeping but the scarf.   He has guarded it with every ounce of strength in his being all these years.   Even though he can’t be sure she made it, he can’t look at the piece without imagining the comfort of her face and her hands.  The only comfort he knows now.  

He has finished dressing now and spreads out the treasured fabric across the foot of his cot.  It feels slightly damp and he wants it to dry on this clean bed.  He hears someone gasp and looks up;  

Excuse me.  I don’t mean to disturb you, but I’m very curious about what you have there.  

It is a soft, feminine voice.  He looks up to see a lovely young lady.  Her compassionate eyes communicate warmth and inquisitiveness.  June steps up to introduce the visitor as the granddaughter of the shelter’s benefactor.  The one that she had told him about.

I’m sorry.  Please don’t think me rude.  I just had the most amazing flashback!  May I sit down and tell you about it?  

Feeling awkward, he smiles politely and nods as she sits down in a chair near his cot. 

It’s the story of a scarf that changed my life.  I went everywhere with my grandmother when I was small.  She was the matriarch of our family and she wanted me to become just like her.  I had to dress a certain way.  Act a certain way.  It didn’t matter what I wanted.  In retrospect, I think giving money to this shelter was the only good thing she ever did for someone else.  I don’t mean to speak ill of the deceased, and I owe her much- because I learned I did not want to be like her.  

One day, when I must have been five or so, she took me to a fashion show to raise money to be used here.  She bought thousands of dollars worth of clothing and fashion, including a scarf that looked very much like this one!  Back then I had no idea what homelessness was- or even why we should even care about it.  But that day, her philanthropy seemed like it was all for show.  I had never taken anything before, but on that day I stole that scarf from my grandmother to make a bed for my doll.     As I sat on a bench in Central Park I realized my doll didn’t need expensive things as long as she had me.  For me, that scarf represented all the things we think we need to be happy.  I would keep her warm.  I would keep her safe. With love.  Not things.

I was never the same after that.   The trappings of living a life of wealth lost all its appeal.  Now I try to lift people up whenever I can.  I try to bring God and love into everything I do.  Giving is so much better than receiving!

He looked at her for several long seconds after she finished her story.   He folded up the scarf and gently extended it to her.

I found it under a bench in Central Park all those years ago.  It must have been the same bench where you left it.  It felt and looked like a scarf my wife would have made back on the island where I met and married her.  Her father was like your grandmother.   We had a daughter.  I fear I will never see them again.       

She smiled kindly at him and moved over to the end of his cot.

I don’t want the scarf.   I want you to bring it back to her.  I will make all the arrangements to get you back to your family.

She slipped her arm around him as he turned and cried into her shoulder.  The first real kindness he had felt in two decades. 

As he takes the last step down from the plane’s air stair onto the tarmac, he is overcome with gratitude.  Until he met that woman in the shelter, he had lost faith that he would ever see this island home again.  As he wipes at the tears on his face, he straightens the fresh but modest clothing he has been gifted for this homecoming.  He feels for the folded scarf inside his shirt.  

There is just enough money left in his pocket to get a taxi to the marketplace, but he has no idea what he will find there.   Please Lord, bless me with one last look at the face that has never left my dreams for 20 years.  Help me find my daughter.  Even though I gave up on myself, maybe they continued to pray without ever giving up on me.   

As he takes in all the sights from the back of the cab, he sees so many changes in the island.  Still beautiful but modernized in so many ways.   The island has grown up without him!   What if she re-married?  What if my daughter is horrified at what has become of her skinny, graying father.  I left before she ever got used to my horrible face.  What if she is disgusted by it? 

As he walks into the marketplace, he spends the last of the money in his pocket to buy a typical island hat in his attempt to fit in again.  The brim will shade his disfigured eye.   He scans every face…every booth for the woman he loves.  

And then…just like that….there she is.  She is talking to a customer at the new, nicer booth toward the back of the market.  She stops in mid-sentence as her eyes fasten on his face.   And then two women are running toward him and they look very much alike.  Just as he suspected they would.

He slowly tugs on the edge of the scarf inside his shirt and shakes it out.  As his family throws their arms around him, his daughter reaches up and lovingly touches the left side of his face.   He loops the scarf around their shoulders and pulled them tightly into his heart.