This story first appeared in the out of print fanzine WITHINTHE CRYSTAL ROSE #6, 1992. No copyright infringement is intended,and the story is for the sole enjoyment of the fans.

LET DOWN YOUR HAIR

by

Roxanne Shearer Koogler

It was well after midnight when Mary pushed aside the knittingwhich she had left in her rocker and sank wearily onto the seat. Erichad had another one of the nightmares that had plagued himirregularly since his sister Ellie's death, and she had spent hourstrying to calm the child, finally taking him up on her lap androcking him until he stopped jerking awake each time his eyes closed.

Now she sat in the antique bentwood rocker, her head resting onthe high seat back, bone weary. A Helper had donated ten bushels ofapples, and she had been helping William and Catherine makeapplesauce. Lifting baskets of apples and newly-canned jars ofapplesauce all day had left her with sore arms and an aching back, aswell as a strained shoulder, and she had been exhausted even beforeLena came to tell her about Eric's nightmare. She sat still, tryingnot to move her arms. Holding Eric, she had not had much opportunityto move, and the muscles of her chest and shoulders had started tostiffen. Now lifting her arms any higher than her waist hurt, and sheknew that to raise them above her head, as she would have to do tochange into her nightgown, would be excruciating. She wasn't lookingforward to the experience.

She sighed and pushed herself out of the chair, wincing as theabused muscles protested. No use putting it off, she thought, andwent to the wardrobe. She opened the doors and took out a softflannel gown that had been washed to near transparency. It wasn'treally that warm any more, but it was her favorite, and there wereenough quilts on the bed to make up for any lack of insulation, ifshe could get into bed quickly enough. Gingerly, she slid her armsout of her vest and undid the fastenings of her clothes, pulling themoff several layers at a time in order not to stretch any more thanshe had to. The chill of the chamber--it was always cold to Mary now,even when she was fully clothed--seemed to suck all the heat from herbody at once; she snatched up the nightgown and jerked it on,preferring the scant warmth of the thin flannel to the luxury ofslowly easing her arms over her head. Her fingers fumbled at the tinybuttons, and by the time she had fastened them, she had begun toshiver. She picked up the crocheted wool wrapper from the foot of thebed, where it lay folded neatly, and draped it over hershoulders.

For a few moments she clutched it tight around her; when theshivering abated, she relaxed and went to sit in front of thebattered walnut vanity. She picked up her silver-handled brush, partof a set that was one of the few things she had brought with her whenshe left the world Above. She ran her fingers over the engravedletters on the back of the brush.

Her mother had given her the set for her sixteenth birthday, andshe had been so proud. Her hair had been her one vanity then, and shewould sit before the mirror every night and brush it until itcrackled and flew up around her head like a halo. It had fallen pasther waist, and she had often worn it flowing down her back.

She sighed and looked at herself in the mirror. No one ever sawher with her hair down now. For over thirty years, ever since shecame to live in the tunnels, she had gotten up every morning andcoiled it into a chignon, not taking it down until she brushed it outthe last thing before going to bed at nigyht.

In another life, before the bad times and the drinking and thebeatings had started, there had been someone who loved to help herunpin her hair and brush it the required hundred strokes, but thingshad changed. Violence and madness had shattered her old life andforced her to seek shelter in the tunnels, bruised, battered, andemotionally broken by a husband no longer able to remember that hehad loved her. Now, though she was surrounded by a loving andsupportive and very large family, there was no one to help unpin herhair.

She gave an exasperated snort at her own foolishness and set thebrush down with a sharp rap. Carefully easing her arms over her head,she began to remove the hairpins which held her bun in place. By thetime she had taken out the third pin, however, her arms had grown tooheavy to hold aloft any longer, and she let them fall to her sideswith a soft whoof. She was just putting the hairpins on the dressingtable when a tentative cough came from behind her.

She whirled, pulling the wrapper around her, to find Fatherstanding in the doorway.

"Mary?" he said.

For a moment surprise froze her tongue, and he stood, waiting forher acknowledgement. At last her wits returned to her, and shespoke.

"Father. Come in. Is anything wrong?"

"No, my dear," he said as he stepped into the room. "I just wantedto see if Eric was all right."

"He's fine." Mary's fingers clutched in the wool of the wrapper,pulling it tighter across her chest. "He's sleeping now."

"Good." He said nothing more, and a silence grew. Mary picked upthe hairpins and began to fiddle with them. Father noticed.

"I'm sorry, I'm disturbing you. Forgive me." He turned to go,giving a slight bow. "Good night."

"Good night." When he was through the chamber door she reached upquickly to take out the other pins, and gave a low cry at the sharptwinge that shot through her chest and back.

Immediately, Father was back in the room. "Mary?" he said,concerned, "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," Mary stammered. She waved her handdismissively. "It's nothing, just sore muscles. We were putting upapplesauce today and I strained my shoulder."

Father smiled. "Ah. What you need is a long, hot soak."

One corner of Mary's mouth lifted ruefully. "That's where I washeaded when Lena came to tell me about Eric. And it's so latenow..."

"Well, rest should do almost as much good. What was it that madeyou cry out?"

"Oh! It was my...my hair! That is, I..." Mary's eyes flew aboutthe room, and she began to stammer. "I... I...was tryingto...to...take my hair...down." She felt the blood rush to her faceand turned away, unwilling for him to see how flustered she was.

"Would you like me to help you with it so you can rest yourarms?"

Her heart lurched against her ribs, and she spun to face him."No!" she said, regretting the sharpness of her tone as soon as thewords came out. "It's just a little stiffness, for heaven's sake; youexpect that at my age. I don't need to be coddled!" It troubled herto refuse an offer of help, but the thought of his hands on her hairpierced her with such a terrifying longing that she clasped herfingers together until her knuckles were white, to keep them fromtrembling.

Father stepped back. "I assure you, I had no intention of coddlingyou," he said, with only the slightest trace of hurt. "I was merelyoffering my help."

"I'm sorry, Father." Mary rubbed her eyes and flashed him a small,apologetic smile in the mirror, then turned away again. "I'm just alittle tired. Please forgive me."

His hand on her shoulder startled her, made her tense. She hadn'theard him step closer.

"There is nothing to forgive." He gave her shoulder a gentlesqueeze.

"Thank you, Father, I...oh!" She gave a small gasp of dismay whenshe felt the pin slide from her hair and then his fingers, searchingfor the next one. She could not move, and so stood, frozen between acaught breath and its release as he removed the last two pins. Evenwhen her hair, pulled by its own weight, tumbled down over his hands,she could not move, did not dare to breathe.

He had only meant to offer a kindness, a small repayment of thethousand thoughtful things she did for him every day, but when theheavy mass of her hair poured over his hands and he felt the silkywarmth of it, his intentions were scattered like chaff, leaving himwith a small kernel of knowledge that something, somehow, wasdifferent. He could not tell what the change was; it seemed too bigand bright to grasp at first. Slowly, reluctantly, he drew his handsaway, spreading her hair in a fan across her shoulders.

He looked up to find her watching him in the mirror. Her eyes werewide, almost frightened, and she held herself as though poised forflight, but there was something else in her eyes, something that madehis heart pound and snatched at his breath. "Mary," he said, and thenstopped, not knowing what to say next.

"Yes?" Her voice was small and uncertain, still afraid. He couldnot bear the thought that he frightened her, and reached out tocomfort her, but instead found himself lifting a strand of hair whichhad fallen across her cheek. He let it slide through his fingers.

"You have beautiful hair." It wasn't what he'd meant to say, butthat didn't seem important now. What was important was to take thehaunted look from Mary's eyes. He put his hands gently on hershoulders and turned her around to face him. "Mary," he said, cuppingher face with one hand, "what is it?"

Her eyes closed and she made a small noise in her throat. For amoment he thought she leaned into his hand, but then she swayed andbegan to tremble. When she opened her eyes, they were more hauntedthan before. "Please," she said, her voice strained, "Father,don't..."

Suddenly it seemed intolerable for her to call him by that name."No," he said harshly, "I'm Jacob."

"But, Fa..."

He didn't let her finish the word, stilling her with a finger overher lips. For a fleeting instant, he wondered why he had nevernoticed how beautiful her mouth was. "Jacob," he repeated, lookingdeeply into her eyes, willing her to say it; his thumb skimmed overher cheekbone as he slid his fingers into her hair.

She stared back as though mesmerized. "Jacob," she whispered, andsomething inside him exulted. But her next words brought him crashingback to reality.

"Why are you doing this? Please, I..."

His hand fell away and she staggered; he stepped back, stricken."I'm sorry, Mary, I... That was inexcusable. I never meant tofrighten you, I..." Deeply distressed and ashamed, he turned to leavethe chamber.

"No, wait!"

Her words stopped him, but he did not turn around. "Please," hesaid dully, "I should go. I'm sorry, I...forgot how you came here.Naturally, it must disgust you to have a man touch you that way..."And then, stumbling to a fumble-tongued halt, he realized what hadchanged. She was no longer simply patient, self-effacing, quiet Marywho never intruded on his thoughts, whose scent had never disturbedhis concentration, whose desires were locked away as tightly as herhair. Now, in the space of a breath, she was changed--or he was. Orperhaps they both were. And it might be too late to repair the damagehe had done by frightening her that way.

Cursing himself for six kinds of fool, he stepped forward againand was surprised to feel her hand on his arm.

"It wasn't like that." Her voice was soft, and it pulled at him.He turned slowly.

"Mary, I saw the look in your eyes when I touched you. You wereafraid."

"But not of you!"

"Of what, then?"

"Nothing, it was nothing." Her fingers plucked at the stitches ofthe shawl and she would not meet his eyes.

He tipped her chin up. "Please, tell me."

She gave a minute shake of her head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"You love Jessica."

The apparent non sequitur threw him off balance for a moment, andhe frowned, trying to make sense of it. "Yes, of course," he said atlast. "She's my granddaughter."

"No," Mary said, averting her eyes. "I don't mean thatJessica."

"Then who...?" He cast about in his mind for another Jessica.Finally he realized whom she meant. "Ah!" He looked down at Mary,whose face was set in lines of misery. "I did love her, yes."

Mary's eyes flew to his. "Did?"

He nodded. "It's been over for a long time. But what does she haveto do with why you were frightened?"

She made no reply, only turned her head away.

"Mary?" He lifted her chin again, but she still would not look athim. "Please..."

Then she raised her eyes, and he was unable to move.

For a timeless moment they gazed at each other, the something hehad seen before in her eyes blazing white hot between them, searingaway his breath, and he knew it for what it was. Involuntarily, hisfingers spread, curling around the column of her neck to slidebeneath the hair at her nape. He felt the sudden flutter of the pulsein her throat, and his fingers tightened at the back of her head,pulling her a fraction closer. The blood was roaring in his ears, andhe wondered if she were afraid, if he should release her, but thefrantic pulsebeat he felt under his palm held him like a magnet heldsteel. "Mary," he whispered, a ragged sound in the still room.

Her hands came up to rest on his chest. Her eyes held a look ofamazed joy. "Jacob," she said, barely breathing the word, andstretched a trembling hand to touch his cheek, his hair, hislips.

He caught her fingers when she would have taken them away, andheld them next to his heart. Slowly, drawn forward almost by her verybreath, he leaned toward her, pulling her closer at the same time,and pressed the gentlest of kisses to her lips. She drew in a soft"ah!" of breath, and, as though she had asked it, his mouth soughthers again.

But when he took her in his arms, he found that she wastrembling.

Stepping back, he reached for her hands. They were like ice, andfor the first time he noticed that she was not dressed forwarmth.

"Good heavens, Mary, you're freezing!" He dropped her hands andlooked around the room, searching for something to keep her warm,finally snatching up a quilt from the bed. He flung it around hershoulders and she clutched it to her, wrapping it like a cloak. Butshe looked a bit forlorn.

"Here," he said, putting his arm around her back and pushing hertoward the bed, "You must get warm. Why didn't you tell me you wereso cold?" He bundled her into the bed, quilt and all, and pulled theremaining covers up over her. She gave him a self-deprecating smile."I didn't even notice," she said. She struggled to sit up, and he satnext to her on the edge of the bed.

"Mary," he said solemnly, taking one of her hands in his andchafing it, "why didn't you ever tell me...how youfelt...before?"

"I couldn't." She tried to take her hand back, but he would notlet it go. "It wouldn't have been right."

"But all the time that we've wasted..."

She squeezed his fingers. "You weren't ready to know, wereyou?"

His hands stilled as he thought about it. "I suppose not," hesighed.

She gave a small nod. "Exactly. And it isn't as though we haven'thad time together..."

Father snorted. "No. That's one thing we've had in abundance, istime together. But it isn't the same as being together, knowing."

"I knew."

For a second there was a sad look in her eyes, and he caressed hercheek. "So did I," he said softly, "I just didn't realize it." Hegrinned and took her hand again. "Now, you'd best wrap up and getwarm. You know how bad the cold can be at our age." He was relievedto hear her laugh at that. He stood, still holding her hand. Givingher his most devilish smile, he said, "You know, it would be helpfulif you had something warm in the bed with you, somethinglarge..."

Mary's eyebrows arched primly. "But not at all proper, if youplease." The twinkle in her eyes matched his.

He gave a theatrical sigh. "I suppose not. Goodnight, my dear.Sleep well, and stay warm." He lifted her hand, turned it over andleft a lingering kiss in her palm. Then he left the chamber, hardlyhobbling at all, humming a snatch of a George M. Cohan tune.

Mary sat for long minutes, holding the kiss to her cheek. It wasall so hard to believe, and already it seemed like a dream she mightwake from. For a second fear clutched at her; then she pulled thequilt tighter around her and laughed. "No," she said, "I've believedas many as six impossible things before breakfast, I can believe inthis, too!

She laughed again and settled herself under the covers. Perhapstomorrow she would ask him to help her brush out her hair...