by Stephanie Reddoch
My brick hammer tap-tap-taps on the lathe and plaster wall of our 1876 farmhouse to expose the three-foot-thick stone wall underneath. Below my ladder, the plastic drop sheet accumulates wooden slats and chalk-like debris.
A dirty yellow section suggests signs of water damage probably from before the previous owners replaced the roof twenty years ago. Dust clings to the walls when I try to brush it away. A dry, gritty texture that tastes a bit like earth fills my mouth. I should have worn a filtered mask. Dipping my head down, I bury my nose and mouth underneath my crew t-shirt and ignore the warm fog that appears in my safety goggles.
As I chip and pry the plaster from the walls, I uncover a soft patch, maybe the beginning of a mouse nest as it’s not too large. A small clump of hair. Hair? I scan the pulled-away parts and notice more strands. Would someone hide a dead body in a wall or worse, a head? Agatha Christie’s mysteries surface but I tamp down these thoughts and consider other possibilities. I step down the ladder one shaky foot at a time, clutching the side rails to brace myself.
I Google lathe and plaster on the computer and discover that these master tradespeople added horsehair as a binder to a mixture of sand, lime, plaster and water. The flexibility of horsehair allowed workers to form the hair into many shapes. When I call my husband at work he says, “Cool, save some. I want to see it when I get home.”
Ewww. I would not be saving any hair.
After I blow my nose and tie a handkerchief around my face, I make my way back up the ladder. Slowing my pace, I insert my putty knife between cracks to separate the strands from plaster. The hairs bend in a circular shape like a kiss curl that reminds me of my baby hair—a snippet my mother tucked away in an envelope.
There are no photos of me, the youngest of five; enthusiastic picture-taking petered out by baby number four. But, there was this. I would sneak into her room and open the drawer of her dresser to look at this younger me, amazed at the fine texture and caramel shade that didn’t resemble my older, darker hair. The envelope released a whiff of my mother’s Chanel No 5 each time I opened it. Scent and texture intertwined. “You were as small as a broach. Held you with one hand to my chest,” Mom always said.
My mother didn’t save my hair in a picture frame or fancy locket. Maybe she knew that it wouldn’t fade or decompose like other body parts. Hair lasts forever if kept somewhere safe. Her top dresser drawer held her most cherished things: my grandfather’s war medals, collector coins, and dad’s pocket watch. There wasn’t a lot of privacy in our two-bedroom house, but I felt like my hair was protected in the “do not open” drawer.
The horse is long dead but her hair has been encapsulated in this tomb, preserved. I pull away more plaster and many hairs poke out, more careful this time as I expose the limestone underneath and disturb a piece of history and artistry. With one tug, out comes the little nest and I hold it in my palm. Over a century ago, her mane glistened as she pranced in the sunlight. Descending the ladder, I search for an envelope.
Stephanie Reddoch is a retired educator. She lives in rural Eastern Ontario with her husband and menagerie of rescued animals. She’s published in Sweet Lit, Ekphrastic Review, and White Wall Review. When not reading or writing, she parents broccoli sprouts and baby radishes in her garden beds. You can find Stephanie on Twitter at @brut11.
Emerge Literary Journal 