Ink for the Beloved

by R C Barnes

  What was I going to do? I had to convince my mother, and that was not going to be an easy task. She questioned and challenged everything I said when it came to Todd.

  The Beloved ceremony began with a slow drum beat and then a soulful song delivered by Annika. Before the final note of the song ended, my mother spoke, saying the name of Wendy’s belated boyfriend, Gregory Steven Fox. Wendy stood beside my mother, beaming with excitement. My mother introduced herself and said she was here to tell the story of Gregory. To share his life and ink his tale onto Wendy, his beloved caregiver. Wendy then took her position in the chair, facing out so she could watch her audience. (By the way, most people don’t like to watch their friends. Instead, they chose to face away, and the audience is looking at their profile). But this was Wendy’s party, and she wanted to see the faces and expressions of everyone as she got the tattoo honoring Greg.

  As my mother’s clear voice carried across the room, she began the outlining ink. She talked about the earlier bits of Greg’s life as a child growing up on a farm in South Dakota. Greg dreamed of working in biotechnology and finding cures for the suffering or a means of alleviating their struggles. But Greg’s work focused on animals, and he began building prosthetic limbs for animals suffering a loss either through illness or amputation. He loved his work.

  Listening to this, I started to think more highly of Greg and, by extension, Wendy. Greg clearly was a good guy with his heart in the right place. When I first heard Wendy was getting one of my mother’s rockabilly creations and using a fox. I snorted at the unoriginal connection of having a fox and that Greg’s last name was “Fox.” But as I heard about Greg’s work, I could see there was a deeper connection.

  Dusty had mounted pictures of the animals Greg had helped, and she displayed them to the audience. There was a series of photos showing a red fox that had gotten its paw snapped off in a hunter’s trap. He was now running around an animal sanctuary with an orange prosthetic leg thanks to Greg Fox, the animal lover.

  There were more pictures and more animals, and as Annika sang another song, folks began to cry. I was ready with boxes of kleenex I had purchased earlier. I moved up to Todd, who had positioned himself in the back. I tapped him on the arm right where his Maori warrior band was and handed him the kleenex boxes. He smiled at me appreciatively (UGH, my stomach clenched) and moved around the chairs, offering the teary-eyed ladies something to dab their eyes. He relished his role as the Mayor of Cosmic Hearts.

  By the time Annika was finished, and the displays of Greg’s humanitarian work concluded, the outline work of the tattoo for Greg was done. My mother paced things out so when the ceremony (party) ended, most of the tattoo would be completed. This was mainly because it was being filmed. Many times, the full tattoo was not done because of the hours involved, but she was trying to give the audience more of a sense of completion.

  My mother began to talk about Greg having leukemia and meeting Wendy at a support group holding sessions in a church basement. Wendy’s smile grew as the story expanded to encompass her. I was just beginning to wonder what Wendy was doing at a support group if she didn’t have cancer when I saw the delivery guy from the pizza place hovering near the entrance. I went out to meet him and directed him to the back entrance so he would not walk in front of a bunch of people with boxes of pizzas. As I was orchestrating the situation with the pizza, I reflected on what Todd’s s warrior tattoos had told me about the guy.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t much. As I had suspected, Todd had gotten his warrior bands with a bunch of friends on a drunken night of bonding. They all had chosen the bands to show solidarity and strength. The choice of Maori bands wasn’t even significant. The guys had no idea the bands represented something. They just thought they were cool. So, it was a bust. I would have to glean something about Todd another way.

  People were starting to shift in their seats as the aroma of garlic, and hot melted cheese filled the air. My mother was nearing the point where she was going to take a break and let the guests eat. She would continue with the inking work but get back to the story of Greg Fox after people had eaten.

  I was working to move the food along and make sure that plates got tossed in the trash can and not left unattended on a counter somewhere. The atmosphere was filled with expectancy and enjoyment. This was going well, and based on the strong reception, I suspected we would get future bookings at this profitable scale with food and multiple performances by Annika.

  (Hmmm, with this much money, maybe it was time to hit my mother up for a new bike. That would be cool. The minute the thought crossed my mind, I felt guilty. I loved my old banged-up bike.)

  While the guests were eating, I went up to my mother and Wendy. They were continuing with the inking work. I asked Wendy what type of pizza she would like me to set aside for her. I already knew my mother would want the mushroom and green pepper. Wendy gave me the order and then babbled on about what a great time she was having and wasn’t this party fantastic. (See, I was right, she viewed the event like a party.)

  While I was talking to Wendy, I noticed she had a bright red apple tattooed on the wrist of her right hand. A little worm was wriggling out of the fruit. I looked over at my mother, who was watching me, and she saw I had caught sight of the tattoo. My mother nodded her head, indicating for me to continue. She wanted me to touch the apple.

  I did. I didn’t ask for permission either. I made the touch look like an impulse, and I couldn’t help myself.

  “That’s so pretty,” I said as my finger glossed over the image.

  “Thanks,” Wendy beamed. She took a sip from her wine glass and then waved at a friend across the room. She didn’t see the horrified look I gave my mother.

  “So, what do you like?” I asked. “Apples or worms?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The tattoo,” I continued, forcing myself to be pleasant and interested. I was keeping a level tone in my voice because inside, I was vomiting. It was like mass hysteria in my gut. Imagine all the hot sauce packets I consumed over the weeks and months revolting and exploding within me.

  “The apple is New York, you know, the big apple,” Wendy answered. “I lived there for a while. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker.” She laughed.

  “Why did you add the worm?” I continued. At this point, I knew I was going to throw up. I needed this witch of a woman to answer my question immediately because I was heading outside to vomit in the alley.

  “The worm was cute. I saw this on a design in the studio and just added it. I thought it was sweet the way it was wiggling out of the apple. I guess it was like me trying to escape, New York.” She laughed harder, throwing back her head. “I couldn’t wait to get out.”

  My mother was looking at me quizzically, and then she looked back at Wendy. She was worried. I think she could see I was sick to my stomach. Maybe my face was green. It felt like it was.

  I bolted out the back door of the studio and ran a distance so I could vomit, and no one would hear. Tears were running down my face, and I needed to wipe my nose. I had nothing but my shirtsleeves, so that would have to do. I made a mental note to throw my shirt in the laundry before Echo greeted me at home. She always buried her face in the folds of my clothes. If I had dried vomit on my shirt, that would be gross.

  Almost as gross as what I had just witnessed. People might wonder why I don’t touch tattoos that often, why I hold back. It’s simple. It’s an intrusion. I learn something about a person’s inner thinking that is private and not for public scrutiny. It might seem it is like reading someone’s diary, but it’s more profound than that. People can edit their thoughts while writing a diary. They don’t always write the truth or the whole truth. They might not even be aware of what the truth is.

  When I touch a tattoo, I learn the truth, and it’s not the truth that is loved and crafted within the heart. Sometimes the truth matches what the person says, but many times the truth is unblemished, and it is not given the touch-up memory allows. It’s like
the photo service high school portraits offer. They will remove the acne and discoloring from your skin, so the pictures your parents’ purchase make it look like you don’t have a pizza face. As the years unfold, it is the picture of the smooth skin that stands the test of time. Everyone else begins to forget the ugliness that used to be there. When I see the truth of the tattoo, I see the picture before the touch-up. I see the sprouting zits.

  Wendy was a horrible woman that was pretending to be a saint. What I saw was a woman who intentionally befriended guys who were ill or had suffered from an accident. As a nurse, she had easy access and was able to find men with soft hearts. She pushed the relationship, and these men were so happy to have a companion showing interest in them and their situation. They just didn’t know she was pretending.

  And what did Wendy get out of these uneven relationships? She got glory and admiration. People were in awe of her and her remarkable patience and ability to be optimistic in the face of tragedy. It was a drug to her; it was better than Ecstasy.

  She had thrown bereavement parties in the past. Greg was the third boyfriend of Wendy’s that had died. The worm in the apple was boyfriend number two. Which meant there was a number one somewhere.

  The thing that had made me ill from touching the apple tattoo was the knowledge she had nudged things along. She had grown impatient because the guy wasn’t dying fast enough, and she wanted to leave New York. She didn’t directly kill him by putting a pillow over his face or something. But she had intentionally moved this guy’s medicine out of his reach and then left the apartment for hours so she could return to a still body on the floor. Wendy was a murderer.

  I would have been happy to live my life without knowing this about Wendy. It wasn’t going to change anything. She was going to continue to have her inked memorial for Greg and her bereavement bash at the studio. I wasn’t going to call the police in New York and tell them a death they ruled as an accident ten years ago was murder. Where was my proof? Her tattoo told me, officer. Yeah, right.

  I wasn’t even sure if I was going to tell my mother. I leaned my back against the concrete wall that ran down the alley defining the boundaries. A few deep breaths of crisp air, and my mind began to settle, allowing me to think clearly. I could hear the soft sounds of the Beloved ceremony continuing in Cosmic Hearts. My mother’s voice carried through the night air as she shared the virtues of Wendy, now becoming Greg’s saint and finding ways to continue the excellent work he was doing with injured animals. The party would end with a closing song by Annika.

  A few more breaths and clarity revealed itself. My mother liked to hear what I learned from clients’ tattoos, but this was a situation where the knowledge was not going to benefit her. It wasn’t like Glenn and his discomfort with returning to Vulture Tattoo. This was not going to be something that brought in business or hindered the business. Even if Wendy and her despicable actions were revealed, our association with her wouldn’t be tarnished. I mean, how were we supposed to know she was a fiend.

  I wouldn’t tell my mother. I would say I was sick from the hot sauce, and that’s why I bolted for the alley. She’ll cluck her tongue, wag her finger, and tell me to stop that nasty habit. I’ll shrug my shoulders, and that will be it.

  There. I was decided. I’d make up something that matched what Wendy said. The worm was her wiggling out of New York to freedom.

  Because I had to know, I stayed up on the computer that night, downing coffee to keep the screen from blurring. It took a while, but I eventually found it in the New York obituaries. His name was Jason Grubb.

  FIRST FIGHT

  We were seven months in on the Todd Mackey relationship. Seven months and finally, they had a fight.

  It was Tuesday, and I had started the kettle to brew my morning tea. My red mug was ready with a chai tea bag in place. WHAM. A door slammed open, and my mother stomped barefoot down the hallway, not caring that she wasn’t covered up for public view. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so her breasts jiggled, and I got a full view of her floral ink job. Her short silk robe flew behind her like a cape as she entered the kitchen. She quickly snatched up a cup and stood behind me as the coffee maker slowly did its business of making coffee.

  “What’s taking so long?” She was testy.

  “It’s brewing.”

  “How long ago did you start it?”

  “It’s on a timer, Mom. It starts at 7:15, like it always does.”

  She impatiently waved her hands in the “hurry up” gesture as if the coffee maker could see and respond in kind.

  “Can’t I pull the pot out and pour a cup now.”

  “That only works for coffee makers that have the stopping mechanism.”

  Hot breath blew out of her mouth and floated stray hair tendrils hanging over her forehead.

  “I thought we could do that. I remember doing that before.”

  I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “That coffee maker broke nine months ago.” I wanted to add you threw it across the room, but I didn’t. “This is the backup coffee maker,” is what I said instead.

  “I don’t like your tone. Don’t talk to me like a child.”

  We stood there for a full minute staring at the coffee maker chugging away. Finally, I was saved by three chimes, which signaled the task was done, and we could remove the glass pot.

  Terry pulled out the pot and poured her cup. She then added the milk and sugar to her drink. I reached up and removed another coffee mug from the cupboard. I thought Todd could have the camel humpday mug, even though it wasn’t Wednesday, but my mother was already heading back to her bedroom.

  “Hey,” I called. “Aren’t you going to bring him a cup as well?”

  She stopped and turned around. “I’m not getting that asshole anything.” She snarled with the viciousness of a harpy who has been denied her food. She then whirled back around and flew down the hallway on her harpy wings.

  Inside, I felt like a beacon of light had just exploded inside, and I swear I could hear angels harmonizing in my ears. I placed the camel coffee mug back up in the cupboard. I wanted to do the type of dance football players do when they score. A smile crept across my face as I poured the hot water into my red mug, but that movement felt too contained for how I was feeling. I wanted to dance. I wanted to sing. I wanted to scream. I must have started humming as a voice behind me interrupted the happy thoughts in my head.

  “What’s that noise? Are you singing?” A harsh honking laugh then followed the words, and I turned around to look at the person who had already caused emotional havoc this morning.

  “I was humming,” I responded defensively, and moved to head towards my bedroom.

  “Oh, don’t leave on my account.” He was over by the cupboard retrieving a mug and pouring himself some coffee. I noted he did not take the camel one, but instead chose a cup which read “100lb gorilla”. The mug wars were still on even though I had been stashing my mug in my room. Todd poured his coffee. He looked up at me, watching him and smiled. He glanced down at the tea I was holding in my red mug. The smile was confirmation he knew. He knew what was going through my mind. Even though I was hiding my mug in my room, the coffee mug war was still on.

  He took his coffee and moseyed over to the kitchen nook and pulled out a stool. He looked like he was about to say something to me when Echo hopped in all bushy-eyed and ready for breakfast. In the heat of her anger, Terry had not set out the cereal for Echo and placed it on the table, so I did it while she pulled out the stool across from Todd and climbed up.

  We hovered at a stalemate while Echo was at the table.

  “Can I have juice please?” The tiny voice cut through the tension vibrating in the air.

  “Sure.” I poured out orange juice and placed it in front of my sister. She was still in her pajamas and was wearing a mismatched pair. This was intentional as Echo liked to play around with different patterns. Her pajama bottoms were an autumn print of fall leaves, pinecones, and acorns while on top she was wearing a de
sign with puppy dogs and bones and balls. I think the uniting color was yellow, but that was about it.

  “Oh, there’s orange juice. Could I have some?” Todd was smiling when I looked over in his direction. His smile was more like a smirk. He gestured in my direction. “While you’re up.”

  I poured him the juice and placed it down in front of him, glaring the entire time.

  “THANK YOU,” he responded, but he delivered it as if he were singing in a community theater production of “Oklahoma” with an aw-shucks smile.

  I reminded myself to pull back and not engage, even though he was egging me on.

  Down the hall, I could hear my mother banging doors and slamming drawers as she got herself together to walk Echo to school. Walking her children to school was one of life’s pleasures my mother insisted upon. It didn’t matter if she was in a bad mood or slightly hungover, walking to the neighborhood school was my mother’s method of connecting with the community and her past.

  Since we were living in the house she grew up in, both Echo and I attended the school my mother had gone to when she was a girl. It was one of the things my mother liked to expound upon. She enjoyed pointing at the different trees along the path and talk about the days she would climb them as a girl. The house with the blue shutters had once been a house with green shutters. The triplex with the noisy grad students was once a duplex where a family from New Zealand kept an ostrich in the backyard.

  On the days my mom was chatty, the walks to Malcolm X Elementary were enjoyable. Well, I’m guessing they were. I don’t remember those as well as the days when she was a female troll in pajamas and fluffy slippers. When my mother was in a mood, she wouldn’t bother putting on street clothes and would escort me to school in her pajamas and slippers and a large traveling mug of coffee. I hated walking to school when she was like that. Not because of the lazy attire, but because it meant she was in a nasty mood, and I had to suffer for it. She snarled and barked and made the whole thing unpleasant.