Here We Sell Hands

I was wrapping up a transaction; a woman was buying a pair of hands to braid her granddaughter's hair, when an old man shuffled in—suspenders, cane. I tied the bag with twine, handed the bag over with a smile. No returns. Have a nice day.

"Can I help you?" I asked the man.

His limbs shook. He held tighter to his cane with both hands as his rheumy eyes swept over me and the shop. He cleared his throat the way that old cars do when they're starting up.

"Greatest selection of hands in Door County."

"Just looking," he said. Unlike a bookstore, coming into a hand shop requires intention. I thought he, like my previous customer, might want hands to do what he could no longer do, the tasks old age makes cruel: shaving, opening jars, using the toilet.

It wasn't long before he spoke. "Got this son-in-law," he said. "And, well, my poor Ilana …" He tapered off, coughing over the omission. We talk and talk and what's not said is the loudest. But watch the hands, they speak volumes.

I use my products too. Sometimes I pretend I'm a lefty. I wanted to see what it'd be like to wear nail polish, so now I use my "Generic Female, Polish" when I feel the need. But while working, I use my own. Professional.

I got into this business when my wife left with Hannah. My own hands rubbed her back, brushed her hair. But she knew they were just an imitation of the hands I wanted them to be. Haven't seen them in years. I bet Hannah swings from monkey bars and pops bubbles for fun.

The man was looking at the Shooting Hands.

"These are popular," I said. It was true that several criminal investigations wound up at my door. When I opened shop I was morally against them. Now I realized I needed the money more than I needed other things. If I was going to be able to get my girl back in any way, my business had to be successful.

People generally bought hands for two reasons: for a task someone could no longer do but once could, or for something bad. Grief can be tactile and people thought if they used other hands, their guilt would be mitigated.

"I need strong hands," the man finally said, picking up the thick callused hands of a manual laborer.

I had in mind that he wanted to throttle his daughter's husband. That he was an asshole, an abuser. Hands worked like that. Made the impossible possible. You didn't feel it, though you knew it was you all along.

He opened his wallet, not without difficulty.

"Want a hand?" I ask.

"Fuck you. I got it," he said and he didn't. Not really, and while he was working the intricacies of the wallet, an accordion of baby photos spilled out.

"Just trying to help," I said.

"Stop," he said and then threw his wallet on the ground.

"Won't let me hold my own grandbaby. Barely let me touch her even." His watery eyes filled, but no tears fell. "I raised Ilana by myself." I bent to pick up his wallet. "You hear me?" he said.

"I understand," I said. I didn't. I hated that I didn't.

I placed it in his chest pocket, and I led him to the caretaker section and showed him several Soothing Hands options. I pointed them out, explained this one.

"I can see what they do," he said. And I said nothing in return. Cars and trucks whooshed past on the six-lane road outside, rattling the windows. A thud from the shop on the other side of the wall—a minimart specializing in beer and bait. Then I heard the staccato rat-a-tat of the man's cane on the floor.

I placed my hand on his, as he steadied himself. I expected him to shrug me off, but he didn't. I felt the soft give of his veins, his fading elasticity. I...