Holding Shaking Hands
Ashley Ring
The house where the couple was living was, in a word, sturdy. It sat in a quiet seclusion on the top of a hill and was hugged by the density of surrounding forestry. The very framework of the house was made from the hardy oak wood of trees otherwise inseparable from the earth. But perhaps a better way to describe the home would be that the natural world seemed to have made its way into the interior. The large open windows and glass sliding doors captured the ambient light which peaked its way through the collecting rain clouds. The result was a soft illumination that amplified the warm hues of the interior. The hues in question came from the exquisite, handmade woodwork carved and constructed into the very house’s design. Even the furniture consisted of the velvety mahogany, featuring ornate engravings of sentimental flowers in the legs of the tables, the chair backs, even in the faces of cabinet drawers.
The wooden features would have created an air of heaviness or suffocation, but throughout the house were contrasts. Delicate, cream colored linens were placed on the tables, various woven rugs lined the hardwood floors, and a plush, tanned sofa wearing a crocheted blanket was placed within the living room. Most notably though was the greenery which breathed life into the home. Large palms lived in the corners of the house and a variety of curious leafed vines were scattered throughout. At a glance, it looked as if the vines were floating carelessly along the top of the walls. But further inspection would reveal small wooden knobs installed to act as a trellis and lattice work in the ceiling that held the hooks for the plants which hung in macramé planters.
This was their home and it had been for over thirty years. John, who was responsible for the construction and craftsmanship of the woodwork, was sitting at the kitchen table. Dawn, who delighted in choosing the home’s furnishings, tended to the photographs hanging about the house. John had a pen in his hand and an unfinished check that was staring him down from the table. It was a part of a wedding gift for one of his nieces. It was a cruel task he was faced with, but most things these days seemed to mock him. It was not that he didn’t want to write the check–he loved his nieces and nephews very much. He had no issue spoiling them with gifts; it was a gesture he had been doing since they were born. It’s that his genetic code caused a misfire in his own physical autonomy. His hands were unfortunately paying the price. He remembered how quickly it all started, all of the testing and the ill concealed fear in Dawn’s face as they waited for results. They once made him draw a spiral to test the steadiness of his hands. It was simple enough, even though he wasn’t much of a drawer. But that day, he drew a perfect carnation.
As he moved the pen, he crafted shaky lines which barely scribbled out three hundred. All of his effort to control the movement in his hands never reflected in the quality of his handwriting. He looked to the refrigerator and saw the hand-print turkey his 5 year old great-nephew, James, drew days earlier. The name signed by the child was just barely recognizable, and yet it still looked cleaner than his own. But before he could continue with the task, Dawn entered the kitchen with a stack of pictures in her hands.
“Why do you bother swapping those pictures so much? I like the ones you had up already,” he said.
“Well, we got James’ new school pictures and Ariana is going to have wedding pictures to give us soon, so I have to make room,” Dawn said. He looked to the wall in the living room that held the history of their family in framed pictures. There were pictures of their wedding; their nieces and nephews; and the ever growing number of great nieces and nephews up for display. He noted to move some of the hooks closer together because she really was running out of room for more frames. Dawn sat down at the table to sift through the various pictures when she noticed what John was trying to do. But she also noticed a large bandage on her husband’s hand.
John’s concentration on the check was broken when she asked with a sigh, “What did you do to yourself now?”
“What do you mean, now? I swear you act like I’m always getting injured,” he said. She simply responded with a look that suggested she would not put up with his antics. “Okay, I was working on a jewelry box for Ariana.”
“Right, but what did you do to get that?”
“I just told you, I was working.”
“Okay then…”
There was a brief pause. Dawn went back to her photographs, but her comment had gotten under his skin. “Okay? What, you don’t believe me?”
“No, I believe you, but you haven’t answered my question yet.”
“Didn’t I just tell you? I don’t know what else you want to know. I nicked my hand on one of the saws.” John paused for a moment. “But it’s not the worst I’ve ever done, and you should know that. It’s just a shallow scratch. I don’t know why you fuss over me so much. You’re just temperamental.”
Dawn was used to his tendency to become defensive, having dealt with his peevish demeanor for over forty-two years. His ability to dig his own self into a bigger hole than necessary had unfortunately never waned. But lately, he had been in a worse mood than she had seen in a long time. Of course she knew how hard things had been on him, but that was not an excuse she would accept from him. After all, she didn’t retire from teaching elementary school to stay home with another child. “John Fitzpatrick, you did not just call me that, and I fuss because you’re going to lose a finger.”
“Look, I know what you’re going to say, but I’m perfectly capable of doing my job. I’ve been doing this all my life and the last thing I make isn’t going to be some stupid jewelry box. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than you in my ear to make me retire.” With those words laid out on the table, he stood up and sulked away.
Dawn was left in the kitchen and saw the check he was working on. She took the pen he was using and noticed the lightness of it. There were a few weighted pens she bought for him hiding somewhere around the house. Of course she understood the frustration he felt. She watched coffee grounds spill onto the counter when he tried to pour them into the maker. She watched coffee spill over the sides of his mug and drip onto the hardwood floor as he brought it back to the table. She did regret scolding him for the mess made in the kitchen because she understood, with the spilled coffee and angry outbursts aside, it was devastating.
She remembered how quickly it all started. There were tests and scans where he was prodded like a science experiment. He never intended to show it during the whole process. He didn’t want to make Dawn worry even more, but there was a silent fear written into the lines of his face. Doctors and family members alike were preparing to find the signs of Parkinson’s in the laboratory results, so the ironic sense of relief in the atmosphere when tests kept coming back positive was palpable. But the tremors were to stay and it wasn’t a question of would he become worse, but when.
Dawn sat down at the table and took the matter of the check into her own hands, ripping the half finished work out of the checkbook. She then wrote out the three-hundred dollars to Ariana and signed her signature in a practiced cursive. The pictures she was sorting through were the next task to receive her attention. She tried to look back at the wall to make sure she took everything she needed, but her view was obscured by a philodendron vine drooping from the ceiling. Upon a more thorough inspection, she saw more vines were beginning to grow downward. They were sourced from various pots around the living room and the vines gathered to culminate in the ceiling beams, which were now just barely visible through the leaves. The result was a magnificent indoor canopy.
She was particularly fond of the canopy. She loved watching her nieces and nephews play under the leaves. They played with the wooden trinkets John made in his workshop and pretended to explore some mysterious jungle. It was quite entertaining to watch and a special moment to see the kids play where their own parents had as children. But the vines had started as a pastime during a long spell of mourning. Her pregnancy was a wonderful time for the two of them after struggling to conceive. But she had given birth to a silent baby, whose tiny hands would never hold hers back.
Some weeks later, John had brought back a philodendron plant from the supermarket. He had hoped it would help her fill the time and get her up and moving since she had taken a leave from teaching. It started its life as a frail thing. The tips of the leaves were brown and the stems were weak, but she took to nurturing the plant. The vine did recover and thrive, much to the surprise of the couple who never knew Dawn to have a green thumb. Regardless, it grew and continued to grow at a pace that seemed to accelerate as the years went by. When the vines became too large to hang from the ceiling, John installed the beams in the ceiling that would give them a place to grow. He then bought her many more vines to fill the lattice, which were now annoyingly obscuring her view.
Dawn made her way to the closet in search of the grabber to help move the leaves. It was a nifty present John had given her after he noticed the ladder was not an attractive option for her anymore. But upon opening the door, she saw it was not in its usual spot. She figured John might have used it for something. He loved using it to pick up the television remote when it was on the other side of the coffee table. Enough time had passed, she thought, where his mood should have settled and she could ask him for help. She made her way down the hallway to find him in the bathroom. He was peering over the sink with a mess of shaving cream on both his face and shirt.
“Hey, have you seen the grabber? It’s not in the closet,” she said. But apparently her presence had surprised him and he shot the razor in his hand away from his face in pain.
He scowled and said, “Haven’t you distracted me enough today?”
“I need to find the grabber… and you need to find a tissue, your face is bleeding.”
He rolled his eyes but wiped the foam from his face before tending to the stains on his shirt. That’s when she saw the other red marks on his face. “Are you mad at me?” he suddenly asked in a tone that reminded her of the children she used to teach.
“I feel like I should be asking you that question. And what would I be mad about? Do you think I’m angry at you?”
“Probably not but it sure feels like it. I guess I just kind of feel bad.”
“For me or for you?”
John contemplated for a moment. “I think maybe both. Oh, the grabber is over by the toilet. I used it to get the spider web in the ceiling.” He shuffled over a bit to allow Dawn into the bathroom.
“What web?” Dawn said as she looked around the ceiling.
“Exactly. You’re welcome.”
She ignored his comment and went to take the grabber. But she paused to say, “And you forgot to tell me something”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll give you a hint, it has three words.”
He was reapplying the shaving cream on the spots he missed but thought for a moment and said, “‘I’m sorry’ is only two, though.”
“‘I’m sorry, dear’, or sweetie, or honey. Or, ‘I’ll buy dinner.’ Whatever you prefer.”
He let out a bit of a chuckle and said, “I’m sorry, love.” He then went to resume shaving but the razor still left hills of foam on his face as it made its way down his face.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said.
“For what?”
“I know you don’t like me nagging on you. I also know you don’t like it when I do things for you.”
“You finished the check for me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did. Do you mind?”
“No, it’s fine. It’s just not fair, you know? Everything I have, the life I’m living, it’s all because of what I made with these damn hands. I can’t just give up.”
“I know, but it wouldn’t be giving up, though.”
“Well it feels like it. I mean, this is who I am. What happens if… when it gets worse?”
“We just have to make it work, that’s what we’ve always done.”
“I know, we always make it work. I just thought I had a few more years left, I’m not ready,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think anyone is ready when these things happen. Ee’ll just take it a day at a time, okay? Just like we always have.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Now can we please change the subject, you’re talking like you’re about to die. I don’t care how old we are, we are still too young to be talking like that.”
John let out another soft laugh and said, “I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll be bugging you as long as possible. And that’s a promise.”
Dawn rolled her eyes and said, “Good to know. Now, come here, you look crazy with that junk on your face.”
John looked at himself in the mirror again. He had almost forgotten about the shaving cream hanging on his face. He thought she was going to clean the shaving cream from his face so he was surprised when she grabbed his hand that was still holding the razor. She brought their hands to his face when he said, “Didn’t you just say you were sorry for doing things for me?”
“Do I look like your mother? I’m not shaving for you, just move your arm down.”
She held his hand as steady as she could and he slowly moved the razor down his cheek. It still wasn’t the smoothest but the blade kept contact with his skin and the stubble on his face disappeared. They continued like this, clearing the leftover hills of foam for some time. It was a slow and concentrated process, but the final result didn’t yield any more nicks or scratches.
Dawn stepped away and John admired his freshly shaven face in the mirror. “Now, look how nice you look. No more of that lumberjack beard,” she said.
“You just really like to over exaggerate, don’t you?” he said.
“I’m really not, it was long and you looked too scruffy. Now clean up so we can get dinner started.”
She went to leave the bathroom when John said, “By the way, thank you… For everything that is.”
“Thank you for everything too.” Dawn lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking in her surroundings. The light from the sun that surrendered behind the rain clouds had dimmed the hallway. The only light left was the soft illumination from the bathroom that bathed the couple in the warmth of its golden glow.
The rain would soon fall onto the house as it had many times before, embracing the home in the millions of ephemeral, pitter-patter raindrops. The trees surrounding them were swaying to the tune of the wind whistling past, warming up their bodies in preparation for the encroaching symphony of rainfall. But among the body of movement was a small reprieve of stillness in the center of the forestry. It was there the home sat, just as it had for many years past, incandescent and unmoving.
Ashley Ring is a sophomore at Rutgers University where she is studying psychology and creative writing. She grew up in her hometown of Woodbridge, New Jersey, but recently moved to Union Beach with her mother and Tilly, a German shepard/beagle rescue. She is looking forward to expanding her experience as a writer.
Ashley wrote this piece in Intro to Creative Writing with Professor Lindsay Haber in Fall 2022. Haber selected this piece for inclusion in Writers House Review.