Ink for the Beloved

by R C Barnes

  Rueben and Joanie had a good time even though they were listening to ‘old folks’ music. Rueben was enjoying himself immensely as he was on his fourth corn dog. It had been incredibly easy to get them to attend the Monterey fair. We drove past the perimeter, and I said, “Hey look” while pointing at the Ferris wheel. Joanie responded with, “I love Ferris wheels! Let’s go!” And that was that. We bought three tickets and were inside. I wish all my deceptions were this easy.

  When the musicians were done, I moved to the front of the stage and stood beyond the metal barriers. A few roadies were positioned as makeshift bodyguards, waiting for the band to meet and take pictures with their groupies. There definitely were folks who followed Purple Medfly regularly. They greeted the musicians by name and took tons of photos, promising to post and promote them on social media. Ian was there grinning for the cameras. He had a loud disruptive laugh, and his movements were uncontrolled and sloppy. Even to my sixteen-year-old, untrained eyes, I could see the guy was both repugnant and drunk.

  I began to weave myself through the crowd, moving like a needle in a giant loom. I was focused on the spot I was trying to reach. Still, if someone had been watching me from a bird’s eye view, it would appear like there was no rhyme to my reason. I’d take six steps to the left to dodge the low dangling cigarette at the thigh, and then two steps front and a swivel of the hips to escape tripping over a stroller. Then, a quick dash to my right to take advantage of a sudden gap in the crowd as bodies shifted. When I finally managed to foist my way to the front, I was dismayed to find Ian was no longer there. In fact, I hadn’t heard his booming cackle of a laugh for a while.

  I leaned over the barrier designed to keep the festival goers from entering the designated backstage area. My eyes scanned the moving bodies lifting gear and loading the trucks. I didn’t see Ian, and my biggest fear was he had already skipped out. Perhaps he had taken advantage of an offer from a comely music fan and was now out of my reach. I quickly looked to my right and left to see if anyone was observing me. It appeared I was in the clear, so I threw my legs over the barrier and moved across.

  Ten seconds after hopping the barrier, I heard my name being hissed. I looked back, and Joanie was staring at me with an expression that was a mixture of annoyance and “what the hell are you doing?“. Rueben was standing next to her consuming a funnel cake. I gestured to the two of them to stay put and moved back behind the stage area, trying to walk as if I had a purpose for being there. Because, well, I did.

  It didn’t take long for me to locate Ian. I had been correct about the alcohol consumption on stage as the guy was puking his guts out in a bush. He was by himself. The roadies were moving music equipment and packing things up, and no one was paying any mind to the bass player. Perhaps this was a common occurrence.

  I took on the role of the concerned Samaritan and dipped down next to Ian. I got low on my knees and placed my hand on the small of his back, mimicking a gesture I had seen many people do with my mother when she was vomiting in the bathroom. I leaned in so he could hear me.

  “Ian. Ian, can you hear me.”

  “Oh, I’m so sick. Shit.” He groaned.

  He was bracing himself on all fours. The hard retching had stopped, but the body was still heaving. His pile of sick was laying in the dirt in front of him. He clearly had been drinking on an empty stomach as there was hardly any food particles in the mess. It also meant there was very little smell. Thank God.

  “Ian, did you need some help?” I just thought I’d say that as it seemed like the right thing to say. My mind was racing as to how I could get my fingers on the tattoo. I was going to have to ask him, and I needed to take advantage of his weakened state of mind.

  “That vodka was shit,” he cried. “Who got the vodka? They got shitty vodka.”

  I patted his back and answered. “I’ll check into it. Ian, would you like me to get you some water? A cloth to wipe your face?”

  He groaned again and then, after a beat, slowly nodded his head.

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  He responded with a high-pitched moan, but it appeared as though I had his trust. I was helping him, and he would accept the kindness. In his condition, he wouldn’t remember me later, so I needed to take advantage of the situation quickly.

  Now I had the semblance of a plan, and I moved with more purpose. I approached a man with a beard screaming for membership in ZZTop and asked him where I could find a cloth or a rag.

  He looked at me suspiciously and asked: “Whatcha need it for?”

  I smiled and tried to look sheepish. “Ian is over there. He’s sick. I thought I’d help clean him off.”

  The bearded roadie looked over at Ian in the bushes and rolled his eyes. This was definitely a common occurrence. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a navy bandana. “Here. Use this. You’ll find water bottles over there.” He pointed over to where there was a table set up with snacks and beverages for the crew.

  I thanked him and dashed over to the table as I could see it was in the process of being broken down and packed away. I grabbed two bottles and hurried over to Ian’s side.

  “I’m here,” I said, and I placed the palm of my hand on his back again. “You want to sit up so I can clean your face off?”

  “Not yet. I’m not done.” He groaned loudly, but the sound was interrupted by his body heaving. There wasn’t anything left, but it would take a while before the reflexive action of eliminating the toxins would cease. Next would come the head spinning, and I was hoping I could get him to talk at that point before the pressure of his pounding head caused him to pass out.

  I opened one of the bottles of water and doused the sick on the ground and then piled leaves and sticks on top so no one would accidentally lean or sit in it. That no one being me.

  “Who got the shitty vodka?” he gasped out.

  “I told you I’d find that out. Right now, I want to help you. Can we get this jacket off, so you don’t puke on it?”

  He liked this idea and allowed me to slowly peel off his rather nice leather jacket and laid it to the side. I was glad to see he was wearing a tank shirt underneath. Ian was holding the position on his hands and knees, and I could see there was a lot of inked artwork over his body. His shoulder and upper arm on the right side had a design that was difficult to make out at first, but I realized this was the ink my mother had done.

  I had to stare at it for a long time before I realized I was seeing a stylized Day of the Dead image of a woman wearing a golden gown like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. There was a coquettish nature to the woman’s expression, even with the painted skull features on her face. It was not the type of work my mother usually did. Like Ariel’s tattoo, this seemed to be a customer request.

  Ian was gasping to steady his stomach and the heaving. He took deep breaths and began to slowly push the breath out of his nose. Watching the way, he was forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing made me think he had ridden this rodeo before.

  I needed to engage him before he started to line up his brain cells and wonder who this good Samaritan was. I figured the Day of the Dead tattoo was the one I needed to focus on and receive my mother’s clue. Next to Ian’s name, she had written “crab,” and there were no crabs on the inked design.

  “Here, this should help,” I said. I had gotten the bandana wet and began to softly place it on Ian’s forehead. The dampness on his brow had a positive effect as I saw the muscles in his face relax.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Great. That feels great. Keep it up.”

  “You guys were wonderful tonight. I loved the Ramones songs.”

  “Yeah,” he gasped out. “Those are fun. Say, what’s your name? Do I know you?”

  That was information I wasn’t going to share, so I decided to move closer to my target goal. “I couldn’t help noticing the tattoo you have on your back and shoulder. It’s beautiful. The woman has a lovely expression on her face, and I heart
the dress. It looks like she is dancing. It’s really cool.”

  Ian closed his eyes, and a mournful expression flooded his features. “That’s Chloe. That’s my Chloe.”

  “Oh,” I responded. “Is she your girlfriend?” I threw the question out there knowing I was striking a match and possibly having it land on gasoline. I had already seen this guy hit on every scantily clad female under the sun. If he had a girlfriend that he was inking on his back, it would just underscore what a cretin he was. But the lost look on his face was beginning to tell me something else.

  “She was. She was my girlfriend. She’s gone now.”

  And by “gone,” I knew Ian didn’t mean she had moved to New Jersey. He meant Chloe had died. The Day of the Dead makeup on her face was confirmation. I was out of my league here. Knowing the story would be unpleasant, I braced myself and touched the tattooed face commemorating Chloe.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, which seemed like the only thing to say. I added more water to the bandana and continued stroking Ian’s brow. My hands shook as the powerful emotions I received from his ink, speared my heart, and then sank and settled within me. Ian didn’t notice. I kept my strokes gentle and comforting, operating the way I would if my sister was suffering from a fever. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really,” he answered. But then he did. He shared his story with the nameless Samaritan, who already had the tale from the ink on his skin.

  ALL FOR CHLOE

  Ian’s Story

  Ian Kramer and Chloe Brandt met at Berkeley High School. In Chemistry, to be exact. Under the owlish glare of Mrs. White, they performed lab assignments as chemistry partners. They laughed at the fact they were both bumblers and unable to execute the exact measurements Mrs. White required. They bonded over spills and toxic fumes.

  One day Chloe mentioned she needed a beach vacation. She was coughing due to the plumes of smoke that were either her fault or Ian’s. It didn’t matter, the entire classroom needed to be vacated so the room could be adequately aired out. There were tears in her eyes, and Ian thought she was crying, but it was really the chemicals. They were both huddled together in the hallway. Chloe was coughing, dabbing her eyes with a tissue while Ian furtively glanced at the other students. The other members of the chemistry class were glaring at them. The toxic duo was going to be reassigned, and nobody wanted to be their lab partners.

  “This sucks,” Chloe exclaimed. “I need to go and chill at my favorite place.”

  “Where’s that?” Ian asked.

  “The beach. I need the white noise of seagulls and waves hitting the rocks. It calms me, and I can breathe.”

  At that moment, Ian was determined to ask Chloe out and take her to the beach. It would be their first date, and his mom could help him assemble a picnic. Ian was incredibly happy because he had a plan.

  As anticipated, Mrs. White scolded the two of them and paired them up with different lab buddies. The new chem partners groaned upon hearing their names linked with the toxic duo, as they could see their grade point averages plummeting. But Ian didn’t mind. He didn’t hear a word of Mrs. White’s lecture or the sulking noises of his new chemistry buddy as the only thing threading through his elated brain was “I have a plan. I’m going to take Chloe to the beach, and she’ll love it. It’s her favorite place. I can’t lose.”

  Two weeks later, when he was sure the East Bay weather would hold up, Ian asked Chloe out to the beach. He said he would prepare a picnic, but Chloe needed to choose the spot. There were lots of beaches on the coastal line, and Ian wanted to go somewhere Chloe favored. She was delighted, and they went out to Stinson Beach. Ian brought along a wicker picnic basket and checkered tablecloth. They were the kind you saw in the movies. Ian’s mother had prepared thick ham sandwiches with mustard and spicy pickles. There was also potato salad, chewy cookies, strawberries, and sparkling water to drink.

  The temperature was chilly, so they didn’t completely strip down to their bathing suits. But they ran on the beach, laughed and played in the waves and Ian was enchanted. Chloe was too and wanting to make the date perfect and not wishing to hurt Ian’s feelings, she didn’t tell him she was deathly allergic to strawberries. And Ian failed to notice she didn’t touch them at all.

  Beach destinations became the focus of their courtship. Before Chloe was in his life, Ian hadn’t spent much time at the beach. His mother had always disliked taking her children to the coast. She intensely disliked sand and hated the fact that a good gust of wind could send the grainy particles into what would have been a perfectly put together meal. She also hated the seagulls dive-bombing for your food if you weren’t paying attention. Then there was the sand that followed you back home. You just couldn’t get rid of it. The sand would hide in your shoes and the cuffs of your jeans. It was maddening. But Ian’s mom saw her son was madly in love, so she encouraged the beach trips. Having Chloe in his life had transformed Ian from a snarling seventeen-year-old to a darling lovestruck goofball.

  Mrs. Kramer, Ian’s mom, wished she could clone Chloe and have her around always. So much got accomplished because, in Ian’s eyes, it was all for Chloe. Graduate from high school? Sure, because it was all for Chloe. Go to San Diego State? Yes, because it was all for Chloe. Get an apartment in Oakland? You bet because it was all for Chloe. Chloe loved the music from the seventies, and Ian joined a cover band because it was all for Chloe. They struggled with the struggles young couples do, but their lives were full, and it was all for Chloe.

  Their love for beaches expanded beyond the California coast. Once Ian owned a reliable car, they would spend their vacations driving across the country to visit the beaches in the Gulf of Mexico and the east coast. One time while they were at Pickering beach in Delaware, Chloe heard about the horseshoe crabs and their mating season in May and June during the high tides and the full moon. This was something she had to become a part of, so they registered to be volunteers in Delaware Bay for the Memorial Day weekend.

  The first night they spent on the beach rescuing the crabs was spooky and exhilarating. The crabs came out of the waves following a primal spawning ritual. Their movements were eerie as they crowded the sands seeking mates. Ian had never seen horseshoe crabs move before, and it was very different than the Maine and Maryland crab sidestep he was used to seeing. The crabs stumbled along. Some found mates, and some kept moving farther and farther away from the water. A few got flipped on their backs from stones and the uneven terrain.

  The head of the rescue team encouraged them to wait until early light to turn the crabs back over. Daylight was necessary to help the ones that got stuck in driftwood and other encumbrances keeping them from being able to return to the water. Even with a bright moon in the night sky, there was the danger of a volunteer not seeing a crab before they heard the crunch under their feet.

  Ian and Chloe helped rescue the stranded and upside-down crabs at dawn. Chloe’s face was flushed from the excitement, and wild strands of hair flew about her from the brisk morning wind coming off the Atlantic. This simple act of compassion for the sea creatures brought out the best in her. She was making a difference. Ian had never seen her more beautiful.

  That afternoon, Ian called his mother and asked her what had been in the picnic basket on the first date he had with Chloe at Stinson Beach. Ian intended to recreate the meal, and he and Chloe would eat while they watched the crabs come onto the beach. Mrs. Kramer recited the items: ham sandwiches with pickles, potato salad, chocolate chip cookies, strawberries, and sparkling water. Ian decided to switch out champagne for the sparkling water. They were celebrating, after all. It was the last conversation where Mrs. Kramer heard any joy in her son’s voice.

  That evening as they watched the crabs slink out of the waves, Ian told Chloe he had a surprise. He brought out the champagne and poured a glass for the two of them. They sipped and talked about their future. Chloe mentioned maybe they could leave Oakland and live on the east coast. Ian replied he was okay with that. Then, Ian told
Chloe to close her eyes for the surprise. He broke off a piece of the ham sandwich with pickles he had the local deli prepare and placed it in her mouth. Chloe chewed and giggled as Ian fed her, but she dutifully kept her eyes closed. Then Ian fed a spoonful of potato salad to Chloe. She gasped as she recognized this was the picnic from their first date.

  Then Ian placed a strawberry on Chloe’s lips, and she took a bite. Chloe’s eyes flew open. She spat the fruit out, and her face teared up.

  “Why’d you give me a strawberry?” she cried.

  “It was part of the picnic,” Ian answered. He had no idea what was happening.

  “No, I’m allergic.” Chloe choked. Her throat was swelling, and the tightness in her chest made her wheeze.

  They were two miles away from the car, where Chloe had left her bag along with her EpiPen. Ian stood up and looked around for the other scattered rescuers who were on the sidelines of the beach.

  “Help!” Ian called. “Help, we need an EpiPen. My girlfriend can’t breathe.”

  A group of the rescuers came to Ian’s aid. No one had an EpiPen, so they helped Ian carry Chloe to the car. Three other men hoisted Chloe up so they could run, and others moved ahead using flashlights and lanterns to light up the ground, so the men didn’t stumble.

  Chloe was in shock and barely coherent. “Don’t hurt the crabs, Ian,” she gasped. “Don’t hurt the crabs.”

  Ian sobbed and apologized profusely. He promised her everything from the moon and back. “Just hang in there, baby,” he said over and over.

  By the time they made it to the car and administered the dose, twenty minutes had passed. An ambulance was called, but Chloe had already stopped breathing.

  ***

  Ian’s sadness was profound. The guilt he endured because he fed his girlfriend, the morsel that killed her was intense. This story explained so much. The lack of connection, the wandering, the drinking. Ian didn’t care anymore.