The RH-Factor

It was early one morning in May, 2017, before dawn. The California landscape was shrouded in countless black shadows and shades of dark gray. The Milky Way shimmered above and, from the west, a dim knife-edge crescent was nearly setting at the horizon. All was just as it was most mornings, except that three points of light had converged near the moon’s setting sickle of reflected radiance.

Gene Shipley had been sleepless for hours. He had risen from his bed earlier and was now hunched over his Bible, staring down at it to prompt as much drowsiness as inspiration. He was still staring back through time to ancient Judea, when Joey knocked at the door to his room and scurried in.

“Hey Gene, there’s an omen in the sky. You need to see this.”

“Omen?”

“Yeah, Jupiter, Venus and Mars all together. And the moon. Hurry, come see! It’s like Jesus is coming back. You know. Remember the three kings with frankincense and myrth.”

“I believe it was called myrrh,” Gene quipped, as he pushed his wheelchair away from his desk. He wheeled toward his closet, snatched his jacket and laid it across his lap.

“Myrth, schmerth . . . close enough,” urged Joey. “Out on smoke break and saw it. My phone says it’s three planets.”

Joey gestured that he could get behind and push, and Gene nodded his okay. After several brisk steps, Joey stopped them at a door, where Gene leaned forward to pull the handle. Seamlessly, they slipped through the doorway and out into the night.

Gene eagerly stared up into the sky. His gaze rested on the three tiny beacons and fading crescent. “Ah,” he whispered reverently.

“Do you think it’s foretelling something?” Joey ventured.

Gene grinned, “Could be.” He began to slip his arms into his jacket, still gazing at the heavens.

“Are you cold? I could bring you out a blanket.”

The jacket now donned, Gene tugged the zipper to his chin. “Hate to bother you, but yeah, please.”

“Sure thing. Then I need to get back on the clock.”

Joey darted back through the door as Gene shifted in his wheelchair, then settled again. In the bleak hush, Gene again stared out into the western sky. His face was motionless, but faint glimmers from the waltz of heavenly orbs above appeared to coalesce in a dance of shadows across his face. It was for a moment as if he was reveling in the triumph of heaven itself. Then, with a blink and apparent shift of shadows, the lines in his face suddenly unveiled deep remorse and resignation.

In another moment, Joey sprang back through the door, unfolded the blanket and laid it across Gene’s lap. He then glanced to the sky just in time to observe the moon’s final decline into seeming oblivion.

“There he goes, Mr. Moon,” Joey said gleefully.

“Slowly swallowed up by the advancing horizon,” added Gene, grinning wryly, his voice indicating pleasure in having captured words for a unique picturing of the event. He then glanced over to Joey, who seemed oblivious, and spoke again, “It’s a beautiful sight, for sure. Thanks for the blanket and for bringing me out here.”

“Everybody else is asleep. But I knew you’d like it.”

Gene grinned again, then asked, while his gaze remained skyward, “So, what do you say? Will those planets be drawn to a single point before dawn?”

Joey smiled, “Tell me how it goes, if you see some sign from heaven. Gotta go. I need to clock in. Back to work ’fore there’s trouble.”

Just two hours later, eight or so miles away and on the outskirts of town, in an over-sized shower stall, Walter Chambliss turned the faucet knob to off, completing his morning shower. He then reached up to the hook where he always hung his towel away from the spray and it wasn’t there.

“Oh, my,” he grumbled, then pushed the glass door open, simultaneously stepping to the floor and stretching his long arm out to where he had lain his towel. In that exact moment there was a frantic call from the other room.

“Walt! . . . Walt! . . . Come quickly! . . . Hurry.”

Walt’s head jerked toward her call. “Coming, dear,” he shouted calmly, his perturbation barely perceptible. But, having turned his eyes away from the hanging towel, his hand missed its mark and he lost his balance. His wet foot lost its grip and slid. His six-foot-six-inch muscular frame wheeled through the air as his legs left the floor and his arms flailed. His eyes suddenly filled with the sort of surprise and panic he had not known since childhood.

Walt’s right thigh struck first, astride the shower enclosure curb. His femur was like that of a horse and when it snapped the bolt of sound was like the crack of a whip. Suddenly, this 81-year-old man—who seconds before was as fit as an old buck—lay broken.

“Walt! Would you hurry up!”

Walt lay motionless, as though he were an old-time cartoon character with stars spinning about his head. His gaze did not yet focus.

“Walt! Get off your damn phone and come help me! There’s a fire!”

Walt blinked a few times. Awareness slowly flooded in, and then the pain. The pain became a wild torrent rushing through. He moved slightly, then howled out, as a lightning-like second bolt thundered through his thigh.

“What did you say? Are you still talking to that woman? I mean it, you’d better get in here right now.”

Walt began rotating his head back and forth and through his neck’s full range as though using it to sort and unwind his predicament. He knew there was no fire; these flashbacks had become regular. He then shouted back, “Please find my phone and bring it to me. I have an emergency.”

“I had the first emergency!”

“OK, sweetheart, your emergency first. Please find my phone and bring it to me so I can call 9-1-1.”

Each time Walt shouted, bolts of pain shot through him.

“I don’t use that damn phone, you know that.”

“Please look for it on my nightstand. I’m in my bathroom. Bring it quickly, so we can call for help with your emergency.”

“I’m very busy here! Walt, you’ll just have to get your phone and call the fire service.”

Walt groaned deeply, causing another sharp pain.

“Sweetheart, I know you are busy. Thank you for your patience with me. However, I have fallen and broken my leg. Just this time, you need to bring my phone to me before I can help you. I will call 9-1-1 as soon as you bring my phone. I promise.”

In a few moments, Judith entered the bathroom, then gasped, “Walt! You’re naked! What if one of the firefighters is a woman?”

Walt turned his head away so that Judith would not notice his extreme incredulity. Then, once again composed, he looked into her mysterious, darting eyes as he reached his arm out to take the phone.

She hesitated. “Really, aren’t you going to put something on?”

“I will,” he replied, as he gestured again for her to place the phone in his outstretched hand. “Let’s get some help for your emergency.”

Judith stepped closer, dropped the phone into his palm, then walked from the room, muttering about what he should wear.

The very same morning, twelve miles away and on the opposite side of town, there were sweet aromas wafting through the neighborhoods near the La Bonne Vie bakery on San Pedro Avenue. Savory baked-butter bouquets and the elegant perfumes of sugary gluten, as well as chocolate, cinnamon, apples, peaches, apricots and berries pranced through the streets as might pied pipers. So irresistible were these pipers that it was often remarked in this neighborhood that opening one’s windows in the morning was akin to tempting the devil.

A tall, broad-shouldered woman, who carried herself much like a man, had been standing just outside the door to the bakery when another woman arrived wearing a Muslim hijab and designer sunglasses. This second woman had been brought there by an Uber driver in an older-model Prius. The two women shook hands and sat down together at an outside table drenched in the warmth of morning light.

La Bonne Vie is situated on the ground floor of an eight-floor residential high rise. Far above, as the two bakery patrons began chitchat, 97-year-old Clair Becker, who owns the building and resides in its penthouse, was savoring pastries, patio vistas and even more, the concern for her shown by her four early-morning visitors, all seated comfortably and awaiting the arrival of a granddaughter.

Unfortunately, since the bakery had been opened five winters prior by her son-in-law, Grandma Clair’s weight had ballooned and pain had crept into her lower back, gradually becoming more and more debilitating. She was tense as she sat, both from her agony and from being too snug in her chair. Her belly had become so rotund that it would be easy to imagine one of her plush throw pillows had been stuffed in under her pullover blouse.

Much of Clair’s daily activity was for the sake of her aching back. Whenever her guests sat on the deck, Clair’s place was always at the center of a semi-circle of her rattan chairs. Seated thusly, it was unnecessary for her to twist for long to either one side or the other when conversing. A view of gentle rolling hills assuaged her pain, which was further allayed that morning by deck heaters stationed around the perimeter of the chairs, radiating gentle warmth and insulating from the remaining cool morning zephyrs still stirring.

For four years, Clair had received, as a pain remedy, carefully placed shots along her lower spine that had blocked the pain for several months each time. The current exacerbation, which seemed to be her worst yet, was being left untreated, due to it being the fourth day of her doctor’s three-week vacation.

Until recent years, though, Clair had lived very comfortably. When her late husband was alive, she and he had purchased the building as one of their many holdings. They eventually renovated to include retail shops at ground level and a penthouse for themselves. When Clair became widowed at age 69, she further remodeled the penthouse, decorating lavishly. Back then, she was vibrant and healthy—well-matched to her grand apartment—and lived as a high-styled duchess of a prior age might have. During those years, her decline was imperceptible.

Recently, however, familiar mementos and reminders of former joyous times had become intertwined with trappings outworn and worse for wear. As a final blow to former majesty, views of sunrises, once unobstructed, were now blocked by a taller building. There were doors that creaked when opened, and Clair’s once trendy east deck was strewn with boxes, stacks of keepsakes and abandoned potted plants, long-ago withered.

Clair’s marriage had produced wealth, six prosperous children, numerous grandchildren, abundant friendships and connections among the privileged. However, at 97, she had outlived her friends and connections. Recently, visitors were infrequent. Other than birthdays and holidays, she seldom saw anyone other than her two daughters, a son-in-law, and a granddaughter—those family members who still lived nearby—and her live-in aide. Her daily associations were with caregivers.

When Megan Forsyth, Clair’s stalky, brown-haired granddaughter with an ever-engaging smile arrived at the apartment building that morning, she had nearly choked with amusement as she strolled past the man-like woman standing at the bakery entrance. She was also struck with wonder when the Muslim woman stood from the back seat of the Uber driver’s Prius. The delicately colored hijab appeared to have been added last to a mismatched disguise that was betrayed by $700 sunglasses.

Megan had next encountered two elderly women standing near the elevator door and chatting. The doors soon opened and Megan smiled graciously to one and then the other as they entered before her. One of the women reached and pressed the button for the sixth floor. Megan stepped in and, as she turned to face forward, she pressed the eighth-floor button. The ladies continued their conversation and it soon became evident to Megan that news of her grandmother’s predicament had already spread through the building.

“Round and rumpled? You are very cruel,” one said with a catty grin. “Jo, I hope you never have that to say of me.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure no one will ever say that of you,” replied the other. Then, after pausing, she added, “Of course, Maggie, one does not live forever, but she was athletic . . . such a shame now.”

Megan suddenly straightened her posture, eyed each of their faces, then again faced the front.

The two women glanced toward each other, and one sighed remorsefully. A moment later, the elevator chime sounded and the door opened. Megan made room for the ladies to exit. One of them, Josephina, took a step forward and instead of continuing, turned and smiled to Megan. “You must be a granddaughter,” she said.

Megan softened to the old woman, whom she then recollected seeing with her grandmother from time to time, even as far back as when she had been a teen. Josephina seemed guileless.

“Yes, I’m a granddaughter.”

As Megan answered, the other woman, Maggie, turned toward Megan as well, and spoke. “We don’t mean your grandma any harm. We simply love her. It’s just that your uncle Charlie needs to stop those pastry deliveries to the penthouse. We see him heading up there every morning with his fritters and bear claws and such. Doesn’t he know he’s killing her?”

Looking suddenly alarmed, Josephina shook her finger at Maggie, “Oh, Maggie, don’t go bringing up your silly notions.”

Megan had become speechless, seeming to be gathering her thoughts. The elevator door automatically began to close between her and the two residents, which cued the two ladies to turn toward the hallway.

The door opened again to the eighth floor. At the penthouse door, Megan keyed in the entry code, entered, and made her way to where the others had gathered on the deck.

Maria, Clair’s trusted live-in aide, spoke as Megan served herself a pastry and filled a mug with coffee.

“You need more helpers than me while you wait for Dr. Mead,” Maria pleaded.

Clair replied, “Oh, nonsense.”

Clair’s eldest daughter, Ruth, spoke up, asking, “Mom, are you sure your reason isn’t that you are not willing to have strangers come here?”

“Of course that’s the reason,” Clair coughed. She paused for a moment while thinking, then quipped, “But, you know, there might be a darling man who could drop by wearing . . . hmm, we just might have something here.”

Megan sank low in her chair and stared down into her lap hoping to avoid snickering. Clair’s other offspring feigned embarrassment. Megan couldn’t resist and glanced back again to her grandma’s eyes. To her surprise, she caught a glimmer she was not quick to recognize. She grinned warmly, then, as she realized it was a sparkle she had known well as a child, back when no one doubted who was in charge.

Charlie, Ruth’s brother-in-law, married to Clair’s youngest daughter and the person who ran the bakery, soon spoke, bursting the swelling bubble of silence.

“What if you stay at a care center for a week or so? There’s a nice place just two blocks away, on J Street. The place where I take the unsold pastries in the afternoon—for charity.”

“Sure,” added Cherie, Clair’s youngest daughter and Charlie’s spouse. “Charlie can bring you something tasty every day, same as here. Maria can take a vacation. Certainly, she’s due for one.”

“No need to worry about me,” replied Maria, “You need more stronger helpers like they have there. Terapeutas, too. Oh, excuse. I mean therapy. Maybe you get stronger, walk better, no mas pain.”

A mischievous grin formed on Clair’s face as she then asked, “That’s it? I’m to be hauled over there like one of your left-over, going-bad apple fritters?”

As fates were being discussed on the deck of the penthouse and downstairs in warm sunlight outside the fragrant bakery, seven miles to the northwest and perched atop a hill with views opposite Clair’s—that of the valley and rolling hills to the east—John and June Sullivan were also sitting outdoors. The cushiony seat there was a swing for two on which John and June were cuddling, quietly savoring vistas and vicissitudes. As they swayed slowly to and fro, there was the subtle dance of June’s delicate strawberry-blonde-colored gray locks about her neck below her knit cap. This dance of locks mirrored a whisper-like stirring of seemingly countless colors in the foreground of their grand view.

Some men have gun collections, others have stamps or coins or any number of other rare specimens that intrigue or delight. John’s pride for nearly two decades had been his vast collection of irises. For about one month of each of those years, visitors and passersby had admired a splendorous array of blooms and savored the subtle fragrance. This year’s first blooms had opened nearly four weeks prior, and the numbers and variety of colors had begun to wane. John and June had sat swinging on an earlier day, celebrating the first blossom of the year, and it was then that their plans were set for today’s events. As the day grew nearer, it weighed more heavily on them that this would be the final day of the iris collection saga.

Each year of the last eight, it had become a little more difficult for John to kneel and stoop to tend his trophy irises. The previous fall, he decided the line had been crossed, and that he was no longer capable of traditional gardening. As June was not one to dirty her hands in this way, perhaps his irises had to go. During the intervening winter months, John and June had many long deliberations regarding the future of the garden patch.

Key to his gradual overall decline was worsening arthritis in John’s right hip joint—his pain becoming more biting and constant. In recent months, especially if days were inclement, he would sit in his chair near the fireplace for most of the day, merely staring out the window. As his condition worsened, in early February, June finally confided to a close friend she was concerned that John might be contemplating suicide.

A break came when John and June were visiting a fellow parishioner of the local Episcopalian church, who had been hospitalized after fracturing his hip. This had earned the fellow a hip joint replacement, and a light went on for John that morning regarding his nagging predicament. That same afternoon, he phoned and made an appointment with Dr. Holt, his friend’s surgeon. X-rays were taken and at Dr. Holt’s desk just 11 days later, John and June were assured there was an excellent prognosis for a pain-free outcome. John was smiling, but then groaned as he stood up from the leather chair where he sat. June reached to assist him.

“We will let you know,” said John, his voice halting. “Need about a week . . . lots of other contingencies at play here.”

Indeed, there had been much to consider and they strolled away in no apparent hurry. Once they were seated again in their immaculate 1985 Mercedes Benz 300TD Wagon, which they had purchased when John retired, June had then driven them to other establishments where they received other types of proposals.

This day, as they swung effortlessly, their mood was that of calm anticipation. All was set. In the early evening, they would leave in the car and have dinner with friends. Later, John would check himself in at the hospital to get ready for early morning surgery. Presently, they were resolved to relax together and pass the day in revelry, as might two adventurers about to set sail on a course fully charted.

John’s scarlet red felt ascot cap covered the age spots that freckled his brow and added texture amid the sea of elegant blooms, their mood and their grand surroundings. Earlier, when he was getting ready to join June on the swing, he had considered only warmth when browsing his closet for a hat to cover his bald head. Then, as he stepped past the sofa toward the door and out into the yard, he picked up his chocolate-brown cardigan where he had left it the evening before.

They sat and swung back and forth with the gentle sweep and sway of a long pendulum. Mid-sway, June reached over and playfully tapped her index finger on the bill of John’s cap.

“My love,” she began, “despite your obsession for these exquisite, ungrateful blooms—that make you wait eleven months before yielding their elegant display and perfume, and then for only about, what, four weeks, total, from those earliest blooms to today’s stragglers—even at your age, you could model clothes for a manly-man magazine. You know, a magazine about rifles or antique muskets, marlin fishing, handsome hats.”

John grinned, always grateful for the adoration of this woman who often held him spellbound. He stared affectionately into her blue eyes as emotion welled within, and then he directed his gaze back to the landscape. In a moment, he drew in a deep breath to speak.

“Goes without saying . . . life has been kind to us.”

“Goes without saying, and yet we must say it,” chimed June, with a thoughtful grin. “Like a prayer we’ve recited ten thousand times over the course of our many years and then we recite it once more.” As she said this, she spied over and noticed his gaze was out at the distant hills. It was as though the gushing of gratitude had unbound a flood of memories.

“They called us the ‘Creoles of Color’.”

June’s gaze became lost as well and she added, “A rich heritage.”

“As is yours, of course.” Another wide grin graced his face. “Ha!” He chuckled. “Slaves and slaveholders. And yours, the Slavs.”

June rested her head against his shoulder partly to humor him—for he had chuckled at that same notion many times before—and partly to encourage him.

His hand rested on her thigh, “Thanks for indulging me once again. This time I’m reflecting on those centuries of melding, first in the sugarcane fields of Haiti, and then in the New Orleans stir pot that resulted in making me what or how I am, with my burned toffee color skin that you say goes so well with scarlet red caps.”

“Your lovely parents . . . rich in flavors . . . ha, ha . . . and their gumbo, too.”

“Ha, ha . . . yes, to be sure.”

“Put you through med school, that famous recipe.”

“It did. Oh, my, how different this scene would be without my having grown up with that silver spoonful of shrimp gumbo.”

“The morning would be likely pu-u-unctuated by different sorts of puns, for sure.”

“We could go on and on.”

“Oh, let’s do . . . of course, until we’re taking a gander, if we do, at the other side, the misery, the many, many hardships endured.”

“Agreed.”

“Fascinating. White slaves, black slaves, free blacks, mulattos, voo-doo. Perhaps the weirdest is that back then your son or daughter or grandchild might also be your property, your slave, your pet. How did people stay sane?”

“Oh, the pain of it all!” John exclaimed.

June and John then seemed satiated, as they might if they had just shared sips of Oloroso sherry with a slice of aged Gouda cheese, a not uncommon indulgence at their swing.

After their long moment in silent revelry, June continued, “You know, dear, as with your ancestors, you are no stranger to pain. I forget, how many years were you in agony with your sore neck before finally selling your practice?”

“Pretty young when I was first annoyed by it, late thirties. Full-blown, daily pain by 44. Retired by 57.”

“But your 34 years of retirement sure haven’t been pain-free, either.”

“Pretty easy for it to sound like mine has been a tale of misery, and . . . Whoa! Didn’t mention those years of migraines way back then during residency! A life of hardship.” Saying this, he peered over his shoulder at their stately surroundings, nearly giggling.

June chuckled.

“At this moment, this very instant,” he said, still grinning, “The two sides of my life’s misery/bliss ledger are balanced. However, I may not say the same tomorrow.”

The 81-year-old Walt Chambliss, who had fallen in the shower that morning, had four middle-age children, nine grandchildren and fourteen great-grandchildren. Only one of these offspring lived nearby, however, a 36-year-old grandson, Bryan W. Chambliss.

When Bryan, a sandy-haired man with thinning at his crown and early graying at his temples, received a call that day to inform him of his grandfather’s injury, he was slumped low in the sheepskin-covered seat of his 1990 Miata Roadster just outside a neighborhood post office. The convertible top was folded down. His pale-blue Gatsby newsboy cap and his white car appeared speckled as dappled light streamed through the eucalyptus branches that hung like clouds of omen overhead.

He had stopped to retrieve a certified letter and, for an extended moment before his phone chimed with the call, the imperious, beacon-white pages lay on his lap, and he seemed near to fall into tears.

The street had been surprisingly still. The only sounds had been the occasional scratch against the steering wheel of the crisp, linen-laden papers and the rustle of eucalyptus leaves above, each giving sway to the whims of a fleeting breeze.

The letter had flattened Bryan in his seat like a hard punch to the gut, for he was being sued by one of the largest companies in the world. He had never imagined himself crossing anyone, making waves, being sued. During his college years, he had received degrees in geology and journalism and, for several years, he scratched out a meager living as a freelance writer and blogger, with a narrow focus on benign market trends of the oil industry. But months prior to this day, his exposure and risks began to pile into a heap. One of his informants had handed him incriminating documents and these then goaded him further until he delved far off and away from safe terrain.

Much was now at risk. This was partly because Bryan had gradually developed a loyal following of readers and his income had become less sporadic; partly because he was happily married and his husband’s income as a hand surgeon provided them an upper middle class lifestyle that seemed suddenly jeopardized. But mainly because there was a second threat from the law firm: he had been given 48 hours to close his blog or 77-year-old Cezar Paciencia, one of his longstanding sources and his husband’s father, would face consequences as well.

Missy Chase, the woman who had scarfed a hajib about her head to disguise herself, was in fact Bryan Chambliss’s primary informant. Months earlier, she had begun providing information that was incriminating to an oil company. Her sleuth work in disguise that day at the bakery had been related, but impromptu; the conversation intricate and astonishing.

Missy had first told the bakery server she wasn’t hungry, but as Ellen, the other woman, told her tale, Missy waved to the server and ordered a cheese danish with coffee, then ordered again and again as she listened. She tore at the pastries, looking like a starving raptor ripping through the flesh of its prey.

At the end of this meeting, the same Uber driver was waiting. While riding, she removed the hajib and stuffed her hair up into a ball cap. Upon arrival at the Stevens Creek Maserati valet parking booth, Missy tossed the driver two 100-dollar bills and crowed “keep the change” as she turned to scoot from the car without allowing eye contact. The driver sped away smiling jubilantly and chanting her love and respect for Muslims.

In another minute, Missy was on the road again. The rumble of her tuned-up, regal-blue Maserati was like the purr of a tiger as she eased into the driver seat. With the touch of a button, a computer within the chair caused tiny motors to mold the seat’s contours to conform precisely to her quintessential-female curves. Likewise, the mirrors reset to her prior settings. She smiled with relief, for her ride on the rear Prius seat had been only marginally better than a Bedouin’s ride on the hump of a dromedary.

Beyond the comfort of the seat, however, the Maserati pomp and power were wasted on Missy. On an expressway, she always drove at moderate speed and in the middle lane. Instead of an exhilarating ride that day—while thrilling to the muscle of her magnificent automobile—her 55-mile return through Santa Clara and San Francisco counties and across the Golden Gate Bridge to her home in Sausalito was as relaxing as if her 80 minutes had been spent drifting about in her heated pool on her floating lounger and listening to Spanish guitar or Celtic harp.

Where she lived was hilly, and the hills were packed with homes, all ingeniously situated for optimal overlook of the bay and across to the San Francisco skyline. Her garage doors were at street level and inside the garage there began a 73-foot walkway that tunneled into the side of the hill to reach the door to an elevator. The three levels of her home were several stories above, but the 20- to 30-second wait while the elevator motor hummed was well worth it: the door opened again to spacious surroundings and spectacular views.

As with the Maserati, however, much of the elegance and splendor of this home was wasted on Missy. Having grown up on a farm in Wales, her tastes were simple, and starting at about age 30, arthritis had developed in her ankles and feet. Even the simplest of tasks often required agonizing treks on hard, polished limestone floors.

Mostly, though—and more so each year—her husband, Pete, an oil executive, was usually away from home on business. It was just her and Griz, their pet Rottweiler, who cohabited in this perch atop a Sausalito precipice.

Years earlier, Griz had been her treasured friend and protector, but there was one day during the prior October when the two were out on a walk together that she witnessed Griz rip into the flesh of a supposed rival dog with unstoppable ferocity. She had feared him ever since and when Pete was away, she would send Griz on his daily walks tethered to the hulking arm of Doug Daniels, a retired professional wrestler and part time dog walker.

Still, when she and Griz were in the house alone, Missy was always on guard. Returning from her drive, she parked the Maserati, tossed the hajib in a trash can and ambled to the end of the long tunnel. At the door to the elevator, she reached to lift from a hook a belt and holster. The holster allowed her to carry at her hip a can of pepper spray labeled for use against charging bears.