Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 2 - A Ritual Deferred

“A Ritual Deferred”

Chapter 2

     When I was four, I would awake at daybreak, bolt out of bed like a rocket, and plant myself in the bathroom down the hall to watch my father shave. Whether seated atop the tall metal radiator or upon the toilet lid, I would always make sure; that I was situated where I could best observe my father’s reflection in the bathroom mirror over the sink. He had a very masculine, kind face and large ears that jutted out like handles from the sides of his head. Square-jawed and thick browed, my father had hairy well-developed arms and a strong somewhat blocky build set on a wide frame. Long deep furrows appeared on his cheeks when he smiled and his eyelashes were thicker and longer than any other natural lashes I’ve ever seen.

     My eager presence in the bathroom each morning amused him; and when I was occasionally late in assuming my post, my father would call for me before starting his daily ritual. It always began with a smile. Then, my father would light a cigarette, rest it on the ledge of the white porcelain sink and turn the faucet handles. He’d dip both hands in the trickling stream, run them over his face and neck, then turn toward me and flick his fingers; suddenly sprinkling my face with minute drops of water. Gotcha! I always knew that he was going to do it yet somehow I never managed to dodge the spray.

     While he slathered on the shaving cream with a brush, I would suddenly realize that I was antsy and bring one leg over the other in an attempt to quell the growing pressure in my very full four-year old bladder. Despite my bodily discomfort, I would remain determined to witness my father’s entire shaving ritual and so I’d sit there; awe-struck by him, tightly cross-legged and excruciatingly close to dancing off my seat as the water flowing from the faucet worked its powerful suggestion on me. He would lean forward over the sink then and seemingly with little care; shove the cigarette between his lips and angle his chin just so. I liked to watch as his long lashes fluttered for a moment and I imagined that it must have been difficult to see through them into the mirror at such an obtuse angle. He would remove the razor from its black Bake-Lite case, raise it to his face, and bring it down through the white foam, expertly discerning the subtle space where his stubble grew and his skin began. I still associate the co-mingled aromas of shaving cream, acrid cigarette smoke and the mildly sulfurous odor of the flowing water that we had in our pipes then with the best parts of my childhood.

     Not satisfied with being a mere spectator, I once asked that my father teach me to shave which only made him laugh then explain that it was a very dangerous undertaking and I was never to touch the razor. Undaunted and determined to shave my face I dug up a large bobby pin one morning, used a bar of soap to lather up my face and climbed from the toilet lid to the edge of the bathroom sink so that I could get a look at myself in the mirror. My father entered the bathroom; and I proudly demonstrated his shaving technique by tilting my chin upward, fluttering my eyelashes and running the bobby pin across my cheek then dipping my improvised tool into the running water.All of this nearly brought my father to his knees with laughter. When Mrs. Parrish came over to collect me for nursery school that morning; my father excitedly related the story to her and they both had a good laugh. Mrs. Parrish later commented that it was the first time she’d seen my father amused and alive since my mother had passed a year earlier. My father always enjoyed telling that story, even when I was well into adulthood. It always made him laugh and I never tired of hearing him tell it. That story was one of the few that escaped the village of Assumption with us; the others were consciously left behind…until now.

     Soon. Too soon after the day my father finally laughed in public again, Matilda McKee started work as our housekeeper. Along with tidiness and order, Matilda immediately brought insincerity and a sense shame into our lives. My father barred me from watching him shave in the mornings when Matilda said that it was indecent. I was “turning into a boy” she’d added and explained to my father that I needed a woman’s touch in my life. I recall wondering what then was Mrs. Parrish? She had a husband and three children while Matilda seemed to lack even a home of her own.

“Just do what she says Amelia, it’ll be all right. I’ll be back soon enough.” he was on his knees in front of me, wearing an expression that creased his forehead with several lines I had never noticed before. I didn’t like the set of his mouth that day, it seemed like my father was trying to conceal his disgust about something yet there it was, oozing out from somewhere around his lips.

“You spoil her Ernesto. Mrs. Parrish; bless her heart, hasn’t given her any discipline but then what else could you expect? Don’t you worry, I’ll straighten things out around here in short order.” Matilda stood over us with toothpick sharp eyes as my father slowly relinquished me to her care that morning. It was a Saturday, and he was driving into Los Angeles without me on an errand that he refused to disclose. I was keenly aware that there was no school that day and therefore; I’d have no escape from Miss Matilda until my father returned.

     Bless her heart. I still inwardly bristle when I hear that phrase wielded about. It’s all too often the flimsy mask, the weak disclaimer, the cloak concealing the cruel dagger of withering criticism far divorced from anything constructive. When she used that particular phrase, Matilda would always delicately tilt and roll her head, blink her eyes then discreetly raise her fine eyebrows. In the sixth grade, I came across the word condescend in the dictionary for the first time and instantly realized after reading the definition; exactly how to apply it, thanks to Matilda.