The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold (3 page)

Mother had gotten the warm water from the kitchen stove and was pouring it into Bear’s basin. He leaned over. “Are you getting tired of rubbing my feet? I can rub them myself. Come on, let me. I feel strange sitting up here just watching.”

“Well, if you want to. Rub slowly and gently. You won’t gain anything by doing it faster. Yes, that’s the way.”

After he took over, Mother sat back on her heels. Slowly she began to take off her coat.

“What were you doing outside for so long?” Rose wasn’t done with questions.

“Personal business,” Bear said briefly, without looking up from his rubbing.

“Too private to explain?” Rose asked.

“Yes,” Bear said in a forbidding voice that made Blanche feel justified for her continuing doubts. Even Rose got the hint and changed the subject.

“So — how are your feet?”

“They hurt, but it’s bearable now. How soon can I go, Mrs.—? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Brier,” Mother said. “Jean Brier. You should probably stay inside until you’ve recovered total feeling. I’m going to have some dinner. Would you like a sandwich? There’s one already made up in the refrigerator.”

Bear’s resolution seemed to waver. “Well, okay.” He straightened up, lifted up a foot from the basin, and hesitantly began to dry it with his dirty sock.

“Here, I’ll get you a towel,” Rose said as she hopped up and headed towards the bathroom. She returned with one of their good blue company towels. As she handed it to Bear, she caught her sister’s disapproving eye and grinned, as if to say,
well, what other company do we have?

“Thanks,” Bear said gratefully.

“Just relax and sit still for a while. And keep your feet wrapped up,” Mother said from the kitchen. “Blanche, let him use your quilt.”

Reluctantly, Blanche handed him the quilt that Mother had made her when she was seven years old.

Bear wrapped his feet in it carefully enough, and began to look around him. His eyes gravitated towards the wall-to-wall bookshelf at one end of the room. “You folks like books, I see.”

“That’s only half of our books,” Rose informed him. “When we moved here, we had more books than anything else. The rest are upstairs in the hallway and our bedrooms. One of our favorite things to do is go to used bookstores and library sales. We’re book addicts!”

“That’s great,” Bear said. “What authors do you like? Thanks!” He accepted the sandwich and glass of milk that Mother brought to him.

“Oh, Carroll and C. S. Lewis and George MacDonald. Blanche has read more of the classics than I have. She likes the Brontës best.”

“Second best to Jane Austen,” Blanche murmured.

“Do you like to read?” Rose asked Bear, who was already halfway through the sandwich.

Bear scratched his neck, shaking his dreadlocks. “There’s this guy G.K. Chesterton I’ve read a lot of,” he said at last. “I like him.”

“What, you too?” Rose yelped. “Nobody reads G. K. Chesterton these days!” She intoned,

“The men of the East may spell the stars

And times and triumphs mark,

But the men signed of the cross of Christ

Go gaily in the dark.”

“…go gaily in the dark…” Bear’s deep voice repeated the line in harmony with Rose’s.  He was smiling in recognition. “That’s the
Ballad of the White Horse.
”

“It is!  I love Chesterton’s poetry! Have you read his romances, like
Manalive
and
The Napoleon of Notting Hill?
”

“Yeah, I have, though it’s been quite a while,” Bear said. “You’re right, not too many people read him these days.”  He looked just as bewildered as Blanche felt. “I like his poetry best, I guess. I like poetry in general.”

“Do you know any? I mean, to recite?” Rose wanted to know, tossing her red head from side to side excitedly.

“‘When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state …’” Bear paused. “That’s Shakespeare. I used to know more of it, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” He took another bite of the sandwich.

“Blanche, you say something next. It would only be fitting,” Rose urged, her cheeks flushed with eagerness. Poetry went to Rose’s head like wine.

Softened a bit by Rose’s delight, Blanche searched her mind, and at last said, as dispassionately as she could, “‘Dust I am, to dust am bending, from the final doom impending, help me, Lord, for death is near.’”

“That sounds like Tennyson,” Rose said.

“T. S. Eliot,” said Bear, setting down his glass, empty. “
Murder in the Cathedral.
”

“You’re right,” Blanche said, surprised yet again.  What sort of reading habits did this drug dealer have?

“It’s a favorite of mine,” Bear admitted.

 Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, Bear, you must come visit us again. We haven’t found anybody interesting in the City to be friends with and it would be such fun to talk poetry with someone again!”

“Well, maybe I will, if you like.” Bear’s face reddened.

“Do, please. I beg you,” Rose said.  Blanche, almost stupefied by her sister’s naïveté, said nothing and looked at their mother.

Mother had been sitting on the chair with her dinner tray on her lap, listening to their conversation. “You’re welcome to come any time, Bear.”

Bear grinned, and Blanche went cold inside again.  “Maybe I will.  Thank you.”  He swallowed the last of his sandwich and bent down to put on his socks and shoes.

Mother stopped him. “Wait, you really shouldn’t put on those wet socks again. Rose, go look under the stairs for that box of your father’s I’ve been saving for the Goodwill collection. I think you’ll find some men’s wool socks in there. And see if there’s that old pair of overshoes, too. They might fit him.”

Bear started to protest. “Look, I couldn’t take—”

“You don’t really have a choice when Mother makes up her mind,” Blanche said, so grimly that Bear was silenced and Mother glanced quickly at her daughter.

“Well, uh—thanks a lot for saving my feet,” Bear said awkwardly, accepting the socks and overshoes Rose had brought to him. “I’m really grateful.”

“Glad to help. And make sure you come back,” Mother said, setting her tray aside and rising. Bear hastily finished pulling on the boots and stuffed his wet socks and sneakers into the pockets of his jacket.

“Goodnight, then,” Bear looked at all of them. He smiled, and his face seemed to come alive. He looked far happier than when he had first come in. For a brief moment, Blanche wavered. So she nodded at him with what she hoped passed for politeness as he passed.

 “Goodnight!” Rose said, escorting him to the door.

“Make sure you lock your door,” Bear said to her, putting on his hood as he went out the apartment door. He shot her a half-mischievous glance. “There’s lots of strange people on the streets these days.”

“Ah yes, we know.” Rose laughed. He shut the house door carefully behind him and tested it to make sure it was locked. Blanche, who had gotten up to peer through the blinds, saw him bound down the snowy steps and disappear into the night, vanishing almost as suddenly as he had appeared.

She shivered again as she turned from the window. Rose and Mother were talking about what a pleasant person he seemed to be and how they hoped he would come back. She retrieved her beloved quilt from the floor and folded it into her arms. It made a warm, comforting bulk against her chest.

“So, you’ve seen that guy around school?” Rose queried as Blanche started for the staircase.

Blanche, defensive in her frustration at being disregarded, tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “Yes.” For Mother’s benefit, she added, “I told Rose I’ve seen him hanging around the school.  I always thought he was a drug dealer.”

“I was wondering about that,” Mother said slowly, sipping at her glass. 

“Why?” Rose asked in surprise. “I thought you didn’t see any signs of drug use on him.”  She looked accusingly at Blanche. “If he was using drugs, Mom would know. Right, Mom?”

“I’ve treated a lot of addicts, that’s true,” Mother said, rubbing her neck. “I’m not saying I might not be fooled though. It’s just that…”

“What?” Blanche said, relieved that her mother hadn’t been taken in, but not understanding her reluctance to go on.

“I’m not completely sure,” Mother said, after a pause. “But I thought he might be in trouble.” 

“Why?” Rose and Blanche both asked.

“That car that swerved in the snow–I could have sworn that it was going after him.”  But after a pause, she shook her head.  “I could be wrong. Still, my instinct was to try to get him off the street for a while, just in case he was in any real danger.”  She looked at her two daughters and smiled.  “It might just have been my overactive imagination. And in any case, we were sheltering the stranger and tending the sick, weren’t we?”
“Of course we were,” Rose said loyally.  “I’m glad we let him in. Who cares what happens next? Who knows if we’ll even see him again? And I
liked
him!”

Blanche turned the quilt over and over in her hands, smoothing it to hide her agitation. Mother might think it was her overactive imagination, but she had just confirmed what Blanche had been sensing from the very first moment she had seen Bear on their doorstep. She bit her lip to keep back an acid reply, wishing she wasn’t so scared and angry. 

Instead she burst out, “I’m just glad he’s gone. Anyway, dreadlocks are horrible. Why do people do that to themselves?”

“Oh, come on, Blanche!” Rose said in disgust.

But unexpectedly, Mother seemed to know what was bothering her oldest daughter. “Don’t worry, Blanche. I know you’re trying to be sensible, and that’s very wise of you to be cautious. But we can’t judge a person by his looks. And certainly not by his hair.”  And before either of her daughters could answer back, she set down her glass. “Now, I think it’s about time we all went to bed.”

A few minutes later, Blanche sat on her bed, brushing out her hair. She could hear her sister in the bathroom doing her nightly facial scrub and humming a sixties song about taking time to make friends with a stranger.

The song irked Blanche. She couldn’t help her fears, could she? Rose was one of those people who found it easy to be daring. Try as she might, Blanche couldn’t. The world needed sane, prudent people too, didn’t it? And Rose didn’t have the same kind of perceptions that Blanche had, intuitions that pushed themselves upon her mind whether she wanted them or not.

Who knows if we’ll even see him again?
Rose had asked. Blanche laughed to herself, a little bitterly, feeling caught in the jaws of fate.

Oh yes, we’ll see him again.

There’s no getting out of it now.

We’ve let him in.

The world was a fantastic, marvelous, awesome place, Rose decided again as she threw herself down on her rumpled bed and dug herself comfortably under the covers. She breathed one last breath of the cold bedroom air before snuggling beneath her comforter to think of the swirling world of the storm outside, which tonight had deposited such a puzzling enigma of a person as Bear on their doorstep. She meditated upon this happening, and felt that this was the nature of God’s world. You were constantly coming across the unexpected, the unexplainable, the tremendous mystery of creation. It was lovely and romantic to ponder in the dark, while lying in bed, listening to the further mystery of snow and wind, waiting for sleep to come.

Her deep thoughts were disturbed by Blanche getting up to fumble around the room. “What is it now?” she asked, mildly exasperated.

“Just looking for matches,” Blanche explained in a whisper.

“Setting us on fire, are you?” Rose turned over in a hump and watched her sister’s shadow huddle over the vigil light on the dresser, trying to kindle it.

“Are you scared?” Rose asked softly, feeling suddenly ashamed of herself and sorry for her sister, who found it so difficult to be brave.

Blanche didn’t answer. Rose watched her gaze at the little flame of the votive candle as it licked away at the darkness before her picture of the Virgin Mary. Then Blanche stole over to the window and peered out into the City enwrapped by the night storm. She was still there as Rose dropped off to sleep at last.

Chapter 2