The Clockwork Teddy (2 page)

“I can’t be absolutely certain, but he’s taller than me and—”

“He walks with his weight on his heels, like most guys do,” said Ash, giving the bear mascot a closer look.

“Good obs, Deputy Lyon,” I said, referring to her new status as an auxiliary deputy sheriff, back home in Massanutten County, Virginia. “Now, can you tell me why he’s so sulky?”

“Honey, it’s probably hot and stuffy inside that costume.”

“That’s no excuse. And if we’re talking hot and stuffy, let me remind you of that time right after I made detective when I was working a stakeout and—”

“Had to dress up like a lobster and stand day after day in front of that seafood restaurant in North Beach?” As usual, Ash had read my mind. She put a hand over her mouth to conceal a smile.

“Which was a much bulkier suit than the one Grumpy Bear there is wearing,” I said defensively.

“I think we have a Polaroid of you in that suit in one of the photo albums.”

“I don’t need a picture to remember it. That costume had a stuffed tail and I could barely move my arms inside those big freaking claws.”

“You had cute orange antennae that bobbed up and down.”

“And that were attached with hard plastic bolts that scraped my head every time I moved. When they told me that, as the junior man in the detective division, I would have to wear that lobster costume, what did I say?”

“That you were going to throw yourself in front of a BART train.”

“But I didn’t, did I? No, I wore that ridiculous outfit and did the surveillance while pimping the catch-of-the-day like I was Barney the Dinosaur on crystal meth.”

Ash giggled. “All the other detectives said that you were a very animated crustacean. But what does that have to do with that guy in the bear suit?”

I watched as the unhappy bear disappeared around the corner of Sonoma’s city hall, a handsome old two-story stone building near the front of the Plaza. Shrugging, I said, “Nothing, I guess. It just bothers me that he’s trudging around a teddy bear show looking as if he’s on the Bataan Death March.”

“I agree. But maybe you’re mistaking embarrassment for a bad attitude. For all we know, he’s someone’s husband or boyfriend who got roped into wearing that costume when he’d rather be out on a golf course.”

“I guess that would explain why he’s so
fur-lorn.
”

Ash rolled her eyes at the bad pun. “Or maybe it’s someone’s teenaged son.”

“And what kid wouldn’t enjoy spending his Saturday morning wearing a fuzzy costume and hanging out with a bunch of silly adults who love teddy bears?”

“Exactly. So, if he comes by again, why don’t you say something to him? Maybe he just needs a little encouragement.”

“But it’s way more fun to be grouchy and make snap judgments about strangers.”

“That’s the Brad I know and love.” Ash kissed me on the cheek. “And now I’ve got to get back to work. The show starts in less than an hour.”

Ash and I had attended the Teddy Bear Flag Republic shows religiously back when we still lived in California, but only as collectors. This was our first experience here as exhibitors, which was why she was so focused on making our display of handcrafted stuffed animals look perfect. I also knew that the best way I could help was to stay out of her way and keep quiet. So I sat down in one of our folding chairs and watched her work, a more than satisfying pastime given that my wife is the most beautiful woman I know. And I’m not just saying that to score husband brownie points. Ash has luxurious blond hair and a magnificent figure that I could contemplate for hours, and frequently have.

Ash pulled Becky Birthday Cake from a box, smoothed some stray strands of russet fur between the costumed bear’s eyes, and set it carefully on the table. The stuffed animal was one of the newest members of Ash’s “Confection Collection,” a line of twenty-inch mohair bears dressed as decadent desserts. I’m partial to all of my wife’s creations, but Becky is a work of art. Ash had spent several hours twisting sturdy wires into a drum-shaped framework around the bear’s upper body. Then she’d upholstered the cylindrical frame in an ivory-colored satin that looked exactly like vanilla frosting, and painstakingly hand-stitched five pink faux-icing rosettes to the top of the cake. A sixth oversized rosette, sporting a birthday cake candle, doubled as a hat for Becky. And if that wasn’t impressive enough, nestled inside of Becky was a small potpourri bag containing cinnamon sticks and cloves, which made her smell just like a spice cake.

I thought the bear was a masterpiece, and tangible proof that Ash had elevated her skills as both a designer and artist to a new plane of excellence. Of course, the fact that I have an informed opinion about artisan teddy bears at all
does
permanently demolish whatever street cred I used to have as a tough guy.

My name is Brad Lyon, and before a .357-magnum hollow-point destroyed my left shin and I was medically retired from the force, I was an SFPD homicide inspector. Now I’m an apprentice teddy bear artist and avid collector, having moved from grisly crime scenes to grizzly bears made out of mohair. Governor Arnold would probably call me a “girly man,” but not in Ash’s presence, unless he wanted a roundhouse left to the jaw. My wife of twenty-seven years is a sweet-tempered and beautiful woman, but if she thinks my manhood is under attack, she’s as ruthless as an Israeli army border guard.

In the aftermath of my forced retirement, Ash and I realized that we were weary of the hamster-on-an-exercise-wheel pace of city life. Our two children, Christopher and Heather, were grown and there was nothing to keep us in San Francisco, so we relocated to Ash’s childhood home of Remmelkemp Mill, a tiny village in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley that was simultaneously three hours ahead and fifty years behind the “Golden” State. Surprisingly, the only thing we really missed about California was our daughter, Heather, who’d carried on the family tradition and was a San Francisco cop. We were thrilled at the prospect of spending all of Sunday with Heather, and our only regret was that Chris, who was in Missouri, pursuing his career as a vintner, couldn’t be here, too.

The Teddy Bear Flag Republic was the first and probably the only West Coast show we’d be attending, however. Shipping the bears was a hassle, air travel is one of the few forms of torture yet to be addressed by Amnesty International, and this time, as always, I ended up seated next to someone who was “just getting over” the flu, yet coughing so badly I suspected it was actually bubonic plague. Then there were the costs of renting a minivan, staying at a nice-enough motel to ensure that our morning wakeup call wasn’t the cops serving an arrest warrant next door, and restaurant dining—which is never cheap in wine country.

The bottom line was that we were going to have to sell beaucoup bruins to break even with the expenses. Indeed, the only reason we’d been able to afford the trip at all was that a prominent San Francisco attorney had actually paid for my airline tickets and two days’ worth of meals and lodging. Big surprise: This wasn’t an act of altruism, but so that the attorney could grill me at a deposition, which I deliberately scheduled so that Ash and I could both come to the Teddy Bear Flag Republic and visit Heather the following day. Unethical? Maybe, but given the circumstances, I didn’t feel too broken up about it.

Five years earlier I’d been shot and crippled for life while chasing a lowlife who’d stabbed and killed his former girlfriend. As I’d crashed to the pavement in front of a crowd of stunned witnesses in Ghirardelli Square, my old partner, Gregg Mauel, had demonstrated why he’d once won a gold medal in marksmanship at the police athletic championships by double-tapping the shooter and killing him instantly. The unbelievable postscript to this tale was that the criminal’s mother had now filed a $17 million civil rights lawsuit against Gregg and the San Francisco Police Department, claiming police brutality. There are plenty of occasions when suing the cops is appropriate, but this wasn’t one of them. So, long story short: As one of the most crucial witnesses to the suspect’s death, I’d been brought back to San Francisco to testify at a lengthy and contentious deposition in advance of the civil trial. It was an infuriating experience, but I’d resolved not to let the encounter ruin the rest of my and Ash’s weekend.

I’d have been perfectly content to sit hypnotized by the sight of my wife bending over in her snug denim shorts for another half hour, but I finally remembered that I had to do some shopping. Ash’s birthday was less than three weeks away, and while I’d already bought her a gold and blue topaz bracelet, I’d deliberately held off on getting anything else, since I knew that some of our favorite bear artists would be at this show.

Pushing myself to my feet, I said, “I think I’ll hit the bathroom before the show starts.”

“Uh-huh.” Ash was lost in thought and I wasn’t quite certain she’d actually heard me.

She was holding one of my newest bears, utterly focused on what, to her, was the crucial decision of where it belonged on our table. Me? I’d have hidden Steve Mc-Bear-ett behind Ash’s creations. Mc-Bear-ett was my mohair tribute to actor Jack Lord and the old television show
Hawaii Five- 0
, but most collectors and potential customers just wouldn’t be too excited over a black teddy bear dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, wearing half a shoulder holster. (The half shoulder holster wasn’t a design error on my part—it was a commitment to authenticity. Check out an old episode of the program and you may notice that Steve McGarrett’s shoulder rig lacks support straps. In real life, such a holster would fall off, yet on TV it remains miraculously attached to his shirt.) Another touch of realism that I was proud of was the fur on top of Mc-Bear-ett’s head. I’d stiffened it with repeated coats of lacquer to recreate Lord’s famously glossy and petrified hair.

“Be back in a minute, love.” I kissed Ash on the temple.

“The map says that Penny is over on aisle three. Tell her I said hi and that I’ll stop by a little later.” Ash still sounded distracted, but it was plain she knew the real reason I was leaving was to visit bear artist Penny French’s booth.

“Aisle three, huh?” I asked, secretly glad for the information. “What makes you think I’m going there?”

“Because you’re a sweet man . . .” Ash paused to set Mc-Bear-ett down on an empty spot on the table as gently as she would a soufflé fresh from the oven. When she turned to look at me, her Delft China-blue eyes were merry. “And you’re a terrible liar when it comes to fibbing to me. Oh, and also because you always get me the best birthday presents.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m
not
going to Penny’s booth, because I’ve already got your present.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, and I’m certain you’re going to love the latest season of
South Park
on DVD.”

“Brad honey, you’ve done more insanely dangerous things than I want to remember, but even
you
wouldn’t take that sort of risk.”

“I know, so at least allow me to pretend that you don’t know where I’m going. I’ll be back in a little while.”

Cane in hand, I slowly limped up the sidewalk toward the city hall, where all seven of the exhibitor’s aisles intersected like the spokes of an old wagon wheel. It was still about ten minutes from the formal opening of the show, yet the collectors were already beginning to hover around their favorite artists’ tables, hoping to discover that one special bear before someone else did. Not that there weren’t hundreds of amazing stuffed animals made by popular artists, which guaranteed that no one would go home unhappy. On our aisle alone, there was a stellar assemblage of bear makers, including the award-winning Donna Griffin, Karen DiNicola from Australia, and Rosalie Frischmann, who’d made the sweet teddy bear wearing an old-fashioned sailor suit that sat on one of our shelves back home.

Working my way through the growing crowd, I spotted a middle-aged couple closely inspecting one of Mac Pohlen’s mohair creations. These weren’t your garden-variety bear collectors, however. Susan and Terry Quinlan owned and operated the finest teddy bear museum in the United States and they were obviously looking to add to their fabled collection. Located in Santa Barbara, the museum had opened after we’d moved to Virginia, but we’d heard about what an amazing place it was and regretted that we couldn’t fit in a trip down the coast to see it. Bear artists dream of having their work on display at the museum, and I felt a tiny spark of excitement at the idea of the Quinlans discovering Ash’s creations. That is, if they weren’t scared away from our table by my bears.

Then I saw someone else I recognized: Lauren Vandenbosch, a native San Franciscan and one of the influential bear artists who’d helped foster the teddy bear renaissance back in the early 1980s. Pick up any teddy bear encyclopedia—believe it or not, there are such books, and we actually own a couple—and the odds are good that you’ll find listings and photos of Lauren’s Barbeary Coast Bears, a collection of stuffed animals dressed in authentic Gold Rush-era costumes. Ash and I used to see Lauren regularly at the West Coast bear shows and we owned Black Beart, one of her creations, who wore a black frock coat and was modeled after the celebrated California stagecoach robber.

It was the first time I’d seen Lauren since we’d left California and, unlike me, the years hadn’t changed her. With her pink, smooth complexion, athletic figure, and curly brunette hair, she didn’t look her age, which had to be at least mid-fifties. As a matter of fact, she didn’t look much older than her picture in one of our teddy bear books, published fifteen years ago; it made me wonder if she had a
Dorian Gray
-esque portrait hidden in her attic. As I walked past, a sudden gust of warm wind blew her foam-backed “Barbeary Bears” poster from its wooden easel. It fell to the sidewalk in front of me, badly bending one of the upper corners, and by the time she came rushing around from the other side of the table, I’d already picked up the ruined sign.

Handing it to her, I said, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens? We had a nice poster like that and someone knocked it off its stand at the Niagara show. Eighty-five bucks right down the drain.”