Two Sides to Every Towel

Clarise stood in front of the fogged up bathroom mirror aligning her face in the circle she had wiped clear with her towel. Staring back at her were two dull blue pools of swirling emotion, not the eyes she expected to see. Drifting her focus down past her mouth, her hand came up to confirm that the thin sagging skin on the neck in the reflection was hers.

“That can’t be my neck.” She murmured as she turned away.

She reached for her bath towel to hang it up, but burried her face in it and let out an exasperated cry. The passing of time left its mark on her face, evidence of its steady march. Clarise dried her tears and prepared to hang her towel next to her husband’s, ensuring enough space between them so they didn’t touch.

Locating the label on the edge of the towel, she folded it inward, plush side out, thirsty side in, then dropped the labeled end between the wall and the rack. She adjusted the corners until she was content with their evenness. Based on this, she could find which side of the towel to dry her face when she took it off next time.

Moving by her husband, Hal’s half of the split vanity, she shuddered at the chaos surrounding his sink. Regular items cluttered the countertop. Toothbrush in the cup, bar of hand soap, hair brush, plus the regular manly accouterments; shaving kit, after shave, hair gel. Shaking off the crawly skin, she thought men and women shouldn’t share a bathroom.

On her side, the counter was clear of the normal things one might see; make-up tray, bottles and jars of lotions and creams for the skin, hair styling products. She had a limited assortment of those things in the cabinets and drawers. Everything in its place and a place for everything. That was her motto.

Clarise hummed along with her iTunes the notes to Cannon in D as she prepared her face and hair for public viewing. She found the rhythmic nature of the music soothing. Once her modest routine was complete, she turned again to the wall behind her and adjusted her towel admiringly.

It was a plush, cream-colored piece that didn’t match the other navy blue towels in the room. Its thirsty protruding loops were for her and her alone. A deep and personal attachment to her bath towel was an indulgence she had adopted after her first marriage.

A jealous and controlling man, John had manipulated Clarise with angry threats that left her living on the edge. Her anxiety manifested in some obsessive behaviors she learned to hide. With therapy, most of the post marriage trauma dissipated. The one habit that stuck involved her bath towel and a routine that few would understand. Her therapist explained that the towel, or her obsession with it, was her way of shielding herself from intimacy. Clarise denied that possibility.

After John, Clarise had made a rule. Her towel was not to be touched by anyone but her. Her towels were a different color, a distinction not to be questioned. She believed that handling the towels in the same way each time they were laundered, folded, stored, and used was imperative. The thought of drying her face with part of the towel someone else may have used randomly to dry their own body parts was unacceptable.

When made aware of her feelings, the next two husbands had challenged her convictions. She was subject to taunts and teasing. Threats to sabotage her by using her towel without her knowledge became a symbol of their lack of respect. With the initial wound still not healed, husbands two and three followed the same path to divorce, driving more stakes through Clarise’s battered heart.

After each divorce, Clarise’s towels became more important. Each time she needed one, the fibers absorbed any lingering reminders of the recklessness of marriages she had endured. And now, husband number four lounged in the next room, watching TV and waiting to take her to dinner. His uninhibited laughter at something on his program was in sharp contrast to the churning emotions she felt inside.

“Clarise, are y’all coming?” Hal called, his undemanding voice scalloped with warmth that only made Clarise feel colder.

Lately, she had become suspicious. Checking her towel in passing throughout the day, she would come into the bathroom just to sniff, touch, and adjust it where it hung.

“I’ll be right there!“ She replied, but found herself unable to move her feet while scrutinizing the towel. She picked up the towel, fingering the abundance of soft fabric, marveling at how something so mundane had become a security item, an emblem of support and healing. As she traced the textured loops and followed the rolled edges, her mind became engulfed in a whirlpool of thoughts.

“Every fold has to be just right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself. “Otherwise, who knows what could happen next?”

Clarise held the towel as if it were a lifeline protecting her from an ever present threat. Divorce number four loomed like a ghost, a specter shrouded with evil and ready to pounce. Clarise lived in post traumatic fear and became hyper-vigilant of Hal’s every move.

Until now, her husband had been deferential and mindful of her wishes. He showed no reaction to her requests regarding the towel. There was no taunting or laughing and no threats to use her towel or sabotage her needs. Treating her with care about what he called a fetish, Hal’s obliging nature kept Clarise’s worries at bay. But deep in the recesses of her mind, she was waiting for Hal to morph into a fourth version of the three men who had proceeded him. Her only defense, the only thing that provided comfort, was her bath towel. A blanket of protection and a remover of evil. If she could just maintain its perfect condition, she could depend on it to always be precisely how she had left it.

Doubt fogged her thoughts. Was she the common denominator in all her failed marriages? Remnants of guilt clashed within her mind. Initially, her ex-husbands were all decent men. It was only regarding their marriage to her that their nastiness came out. What if Hal found out it was her towel fetish that had ruined her previous marriages?

In anger and embarrassment, Clarise ripped the towel from the rack, leaving the bar to squeal as it turned in protest. Wrapped in each fold was the truth. The trials and tribulations she had expressed during the many fitful cries. She had screamed into the loops of terry as the towel soaked up her tears. Within each towel was an accounting of her inadequacies as a wife. The failures of the past lurked like unwelcome shadows. Paralyzed with fear, Clarise stood in the bathroom, gripping and twisting the unfolded towel, wishing she could wring out the pain of her thoughts.

“Uh-hmmm, Darlin’?” Behind her, Clarise heard her husband clear his throat. “We’re fixin’ to be late.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Clarise spun around and plastered what she hoped was an amused expression over a strained smile.

“Reckon I’m glad I ain’t that towel,” Hal drawled in his Texas accent and gave Clarise a wink.

Under Hal’s scrutiny, Clarise loosen her grip and flipped the towel over itself, then, with a toss, left it hanging awkwardly on the bar.

“I’ll be right out.” Clarise threw the words towards her husband’s retreating backside. When she was certain he had left, Clarise went back to her towel and scooped it off the rack.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she whispered, as she caressed the already forming wrinkles that wouldn’t be there if she had folded the towel and hung it properly. With each crease smoothed, the magic fabric brought warmth and forgiveness, boosting her spirit.

The unclenching of every muscle in her tense body came with knowing that even in the most unpredictable world full of chaos and uncertainty, Clarise would have her towel ready and waiting. Hanging in perfect folds, all the edges even, with the label turned in. She knew she could take the towel off the rack, open it to the correct side and dry her face first with the same part as the last time she showered. By following her protocol, she would detect any tampering with her towel and easily replace it with one from her own stack in the linen closet.

Clarise turned to walk away and thought she saw the towel flutter, but there was no breeze. Believing the towel had waved goodbye, Clarise raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss.

“Here I come!” she announced, smiling as she descended the stairs. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Ain’t no thang. Yer worth it.” Hal crooked his arm and the couple headed out.

Clarise eased her mind, knowing she was doing what needed to be done to keep away the demons that threatened to ruin yet another marriage. The towel thing might seem silly to some. Others might see it as downright disturbing. For Clarise, it was a link to her sanity. It harmed nobody. It was the one thing she could rely on, unchanging in the face of anything, and she had no intention of making any changes.

Clarise left the house that day same as any other day and in her wake, the silence fell. The bathroom was fog free by now, and the smell of her perfume dissipated.

The towel held firm in its position on the rung. Its terry loops that absorbed not only moisture from her skin but the stresses found in everyday life, would soak up whatever she needed to unload in the future.

For some, showering is a chore, a necessary part of personal hygiene. Others use showering as therapy, a magical time when we can get away for a minute from the troubles of the world. For Clarise, it was all the above and then some.