The next morning, Ted woke up early, his tendons in sharp recoil, with one thought in his mind: I’m gonna shave this fucking beard. It was slow going, though; the beard was wild and thick, and he’d had it for maybe five years. Took some hacking at it with poultry scissors before he could even attempt a razor. When he finally could, all he had was Marty’s old single-edge razor, a lethal weapon. Ted was just lucky he didn’t hit a vein, and before he was halfway done, his face was dotted with toilet paper to stanch the bleeding. Marty appeared behind him in the mirror like a ghost in a horror film. All of a sudden, Ted saw this vision over his shoulder—his father with a red rubber Boston Red Sox swim cap tight on his head like a second skin.
“Shavin’ for his lady,” Marty said.
“What? Where did you get this razor, Dad, the village smithy? How old is this fucking thing?”
“An hour of yoga and the Splinter’s a trout on a hook.”
“Don’t call me ‘Splinter.’”
“That’s your namesake. Ted Williams, also known as the Splendid Splinter. You are just the Splinter, no Splendid.”
“I know. It’s a weird nickname.”
“It’s affectionate. I’m being affectionate. ‘The Splinter shavin’ for his lady.’ That’s affection.”
“Do you know the difference between affection and affliction?”
“There’s a difference?”
“Stop. I’m not shavin’ for any ‘lady,’ I was getting tired of it.” Ted pointed to a significant amount of gray in the shorn hair on the floor. “Can you believe how much blond I have in my beard?”
But Marty wouldn’t be thrown off the scent. He was just smiling and nodding. “If the Splinter cuts that stupid hippie hair as well, then I know the Splinter’s a goner. I remember when the Splinter didn’t even have hair under the Splinter’s arms.”
“Stop with the third person.”
“You seen my bathing cap?”
“It’s on your head.”
“Fuck me, you’re right. I’ve been looking for it for an hour.”
“What’s with the lid, Captain, you going lugeing or something?”
“When the Sox hit a skid, I go get a swim at the Y. Wash away their sins. Does the Splinter want to come with?”
“Does the Splinter have a choice?”
“The Splinter does not. The Splinter must drive his father.”
“Ah, but the Splinter doesn’t have a bathing costume.”
“I’ll lend you an old Speedo of mine.”
“Sweet. The Splinter is fucked.”