Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  “Ugh, I don’t like those either. I’m not against gross stuff, but at least dress it up inside a real story. Anyway, there’s a new movie out now,” she said. “A remake of a Japanese film about a haunted house, and it looks incredibly creepy. Want to go with me to see it?” She lifted the mug to her lips but kept her eyes on his.

  “Yes, I would, and I promise to hold your hand when you get scared.”

  “Nope, I’ll hold your hand when you get scared.” She refilled his mug and touched the edge of the bandage on his arm. “Can I see it again?”

  “Sure.”

  She pursed her lips together when he took off the bandage. “Just amazing. It looks as real as my brother’s painting. I don’t think I’ve seen a tattoo like this one. The detail. Was it expensive?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “I don’t mind you asking. It wasn't too bad. Four hundred bucks.”

  “That’s it? For something like this? How long did it take?”

  “About two and a half hours.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Jason shook his head. Vic had said the same thing. Mitch’s eyes widened, very blue in the bright kitchen.

  “Two and a half hours for this detail? The guy is brilliant. I so want his name. Maybe he can redo mine.”

  “I have his card.”

  Jason checked his wallet but couldn’t find the card. “Sorry, I guess it’s at home.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can get it later.” She ran her finger down his arm, next to the tattoo. “Does it still itch?”

  “Not now. It feels sort of like a sunburn.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What?”

  “The griffin. He has to have a name. One like this definitely has to.”

  “Okay, now you’re joking.”

  “Nope. Mine is Maxwell.”

  “Maxwell?”

  “Yes. Maxwell the Great.”

  Jason laughed, and she pushed his shoulder with her hand. “Okay, I know it’s silly.”

  A name floated into his thoughts, like a ribbon of smoke in candle flame. “Geryon.”

  “Geryon? Interesting. I think I’ve heard the name before, but I can’t remember where.”

  “I have no idea where it came from, it just popped into my head.”

  “Griffins guard treasure, you know.”

  “That’s what I read.”

  “So what’s he guarding? What’s your treasure?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Myself. So I don’t do anything stupid like Shelley, ever again.

  “Maxwell guards my heart.”

  “Against?”

  “Nefarious men.”

  Her grave eyes belied the tone of her voice. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m not nefarious. I promise.”

  “I know. I can tell.”

  2

  On Sunday, he arrived at his parents’ house a little after five-thirty. The air held a promise of rain, and faint clouds hovered in the distance. His parents still lived in the same neighborhood, the same house, he grew up in, a neighborhood with well-kept lawns, towering trees, and canvas awnings over the windows and porches. Jason’s dad had handled the paperwork for a construction firm for thirty-five years before he retired. His mom worked at a bank until she got pregnant in her thirties with his older brother, Chris. The pregnancy and the two that followed were surprises. They’d married young and resigned themselves to being childless when children didn’t arrive right away. Jason followed two years after Chris and Ryan, two more after that.

  His dad met him at the door and smiled at the flowers in Jason’s hand. Daisies, his mom’s favorite. His mouth watered as soon as he stepped into the kitchen and smelled his mother’s lasagna, hands down the best he’d ever had. The Italian restaurants in town couldn’t come close, even the oldest, most established ones. She made the sauce from scratch and refused to tell anyone exactly what spices she used; as a kid, Jason used to eat the sauce by the bowlful, with a slice of white bread to wipe the bowl clean.

  His mom stood next to the oven with a floral apron covering her clothes and a wooden spoon in one hand. She smiled at the flowers and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume, the same one she’d worn for the past twenty-five years, made him smile. Neither expensive nor designer, but it held childhood memories in its scent, memories of ice cream after school on Friday afternoons, of Sunday matinee movies and holiday cookies covered in sprinkles.

  She took the flowers and smiled a small, tight smile. “Go talk to your father while I take care of this,” she said, pushing him out of the kitchen. “I’ll call you both in when the lasagna is finished. Since it’s just the three of us, we’re going to eat in here.”

  Jason sat down at one end of the sofa; his father sat on the other with his feet propped up on the edge of the coffee table and the television on, scrolling through channels at the speed of light. He finally stopped at a news channel and put the remote down. “How are you doing, son?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Everything is okay, it really is.”

  “You’re warned. Your mom is pretty upset.”

  “I know,” Jason said. “I have a feeling she will be for a while.”

  “She still thinks you and Shelley are going to work it out. Are you?”

  Not for all the money in the world.

  Jason shook his head, and his dad gave a small nod. “Well, it is what it is.”

  His dad’s stock answer for everything. Had a bad day at work? Car accident? Your wife left you? It is what it is. The phrase always irritated the hell out of Jason. Such is life, another Dadism. These statements were always delivered with the little nod and the implacable feeling the matter was settled, at least in his dad’s opinion.

  Except he’s right. It is exactly what it is. Mom might not see it, but Dad does. Just like always.

  “Did you get a lawyer yet?”

  Jason shook his head. “It’s only been a couple of days. A few more won’t hurt.”

  “What are you waiting for? Christmas?”

  Jason laughed. Another Dadism.

  “Don’t wait too long.” His father dropped his voice low. “I could see Shelley making things hard for you. Don’t let her. You file for divorce first. It’s better that way. Is it someone else?”

  Jason thought of lying, not to protect Shelley, but to protect that little nagging doubt inside. He’d been a good husband. He knew he had. Shelley leaving him for a woman didn’t mean he lacked anything other than the wrong shape, but a small, quiet place inside wondered. The memory of Mitch’s face after they made love swam up unbidden, and his face grew warm. If he lacked anything in that department, she hadn’t noticed. No, Shelley's leaving had everything to do with herself and nothing to do with him.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “I figured as much. She had no other reason to leave you. I guess she found someone else to take her crap better than you did.”

  “Dad, she—”

  His dad lifted one hand in the air. “Nope, sell it to someone else. She did give you crap, son. You can’t lie to me about that. Maybe your mom has some idea that things were grand and wonderful, but I saw the way she talked to you. It wasn’t that she wanted to be the boss. Any man knows a woman wants that, and a smart man lets his woman think she is, but Shelley had a mean side to her that had nothing to do with being boss. I think her upbringing made her hard. You deserve better than that. And that is what it is.” Jason’s dad reached over and patted his shoulder. “You’ll be okay. You’re strong on the inside, where it counts.”

  A lump formed in Jason’s throat.

  “Ryan’s tough, but he’s not strong, like you are, and Chris? He was born with a horseshoe up his ass. He’s never had to handle any hot water. All three of you have been good sons, in your own ways, but you’re stronger than you think you are. I’m glad Shelley left. Now you can be who you are, not who you think you
need to be.”

  Jason turned his head to the side, blinking back a sting of tears.

  Strong? He thinks I’m strong?

  He knew his dad wouldn’t think less of him if he saw the tears. At his grandmother’s funeral, he’d said, ”Let it out, son. Tears are nothing to be ashamed of when they fall for the right reason.” Still, he kept his face turned away.

  “You know we’re here for you, if you need anything. Once all this blows over, your mom will be fine too. She’s your mom, not Shelley’s. Once she remembers that, she’ll be fine.”

  His dad picked up the remote and changed the channel. Jason settled back on the sofa, watched the television through blurred eyes and waited for his mom to call them to dinner.

  He was on his third bite of lasagna when she spoke up.

  “I left Shelley a message on her phone, I want you to know,” she said.

  “Okay, that’s fine with me.”

  “I’m sure it’s some kind of misunderstanding you two can work out.”

  “It really isn’t that simple.”

  She gave him the look—the one he used to get when he snuck in the house after curfew or when she found the stack of men’s magazines in the back of his closet. Disapproval and disappointment all wrapped up in one. Her I am your mother look.

  “Nonsense. Of course it’s simple. The two of you will get back together and work it out. It might not be easy, but you’ll manage. You can even go to counseling if you need to.”

  “Mom—”

  “No, Jason. You and Shelley have been together for nine years. You don’t just throw that away.”

  Jason tossed his fork down on his plate. “It was her decision to leave, not mine,” he said.

  “Well, I’m sure she had a reason.”

  How could he tell his mother the end of his marriage made him happy? How could he explain the sense of relief underneath the surprise and the anger? His mother wouldn’t understand. And sometimes you did just throw it away; sometimes it was better that way.

  “All marriages have problems, Jason. They all come with good years and bad years. You don’t just throw it away when things get tough. That’s not what marriage is about, Jason.”

  “Shelley and I have had a lot of bad years, Mom. A lot. It’s done. I’m sorry, I know you like her, and you can still have a relationship with her if you want, but it’s really over between us.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  He should just tell them about Shelley and Nicole, but he couldn’t. Despite the memory of Mitch’s parted lips and flushed cheeks, he couldn’t go there with his parents. His father would laugh, maybe interject one of the familiar Dad phrases, but his mother had antiquated and incorrect thoughts about sexuality. She thought lesbians just hadn’t found the right man, so what would that make him in her eyes? And bisexual? He didn't think she even knew what the word meant.

  “I don’t understand. You don’t even seem upset,” she said.

  He wanted to say “I’m not,” but the words ran away when he looked at her face. Under the anger, she had tears in her eyes, but she blinked several times and they disappeared.

  “Jack, tell him please. Tell him how ridiculous he’s being.”

  Jason’s dad looked up from his plate. “Maggie, if Jason says it’s over, maybe it is. Come on, let the boy eat.”

  His mother tossed her napkin down. “I can’t believe this.”

  Jason rubbed his arm, wincing as his shirt slid against the skin.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” his mother asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Jason.”

  The only thing worse than his mother’s look—the voice. A by-product of childbirth, maybe. The last time he went to the mall, a little kid of about six threw a temper tantrum until his mother used the deadly duo together. The kid’s tears vanished in a heartbeat, like magic.

  Fine.

  “I got a tattoo, and the skin’s a little sore still.”

  His dad looked up again and couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. The corner of his mouth lifted up in a quick smile, but his mother folded her arms across her chest.

  “You got a what?”

  “A tattoo.”

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You and Shelley are having problems, and you went and got a tattoo? What were you thinking?”

  Freedom. Nothing but freedom.

  “Mom, it’s no big deal. Lots of people have them.”

  “If lots of people jumped off a bridge, would you follow? Bikers and trailer trash get tattoos. I raised you better than that.”

  “Maggie, you’re overreacting. It’s just a tattoo,” his dad said. “And lots of people get them, not just bikers.”

  The chair legs dragged across the tile when she stood up. “Our son is separated from his wife, and he went out and got a tattoo. I am not overreacting. What would you like me to do? Throw a party?” She pushed the chair in, gave them both the look, and left the kitchen without another word.

  Jason’s father rolled his eyes at her back. “What did you get, son?”

  “A griffin,” Jason said as he pushed up his shirtsleeve.

  “I’m not a big fan of tattoos either, but that’s pretty decent. The damn thing looks real. How much did that set you back?”

  Jason shrugged. “Not too much.”

  And worth every penny.

  3

  When Jason got home from work Monday night, the smell of Shelley’s perfume hung in the air like rotting, overripe fruit. She’d taken all the books on the first floor, a lamp she bought a few months ago and the fleece throw from the end of the sofa—a fleece throw she never used. She’d left a note on the coffee table, but he didn’t pick it up. What else could she possibly need to say? It was a bit late for origami heartbreak.

  The stink of perfume was even stronger on the second floor. Her closet door stood open, with nothing left except a few wire hangers. She’d taken all her makeup from the bathroom. Ditto for her shampoo and the expensive face creams from the medicine cabinet.

  When he walked back downstairs, a faded rectangle of pale gray on the wall at the bottom of the steps caught his eye. He stood in front of the empty space for a long time, but he could not remember what had been in the spot. He walked by it every day more than once, and yet he had no idea. Maybe a bit of artwork that Shelley picked up? Maybe a gift? It must not have been important. He stared at the blank spot, trying to conjure up the image in his head. His mind said absolutely nothing in return and called him a fool for standing there so long. He finally gave up and went over to the coffee table.

  If you find anything else of mine, let me know. I’ll have my lawyer contact you soon. I hope you don’t plan on making this difficult.

  He folded the letter back in half, his mother’s words echoing in his head. ”You don’t even seem upset.”

  Jason took the letter into the kitchen, pulled out a beer and tossed the cap onto the counter where it rolled a few times before landing with a soft clink. The refrigerator hummed, and the ceiling fan overhead whirred as it spun in lazy circles. The palpable absence of Shelley’s presence and her voice and the knowledge of its permanency were finer than his mother’s cooking.

  “Cheers,” Jason said to the empty room, lifting his beer. “To freedom.”

  His freedom, like the beer, tasted sweet. He took a long drink and washed the taste of Shelley’s perfume down. Had she walked around the house with the bottle, spraying everything? He could imagine it—her eyes narrowed, her lips held together in a tight line as she pushed down on the perfume bottle’s nozzle to leave behind a little mist of floral memory, a little bit of don’t you dare forget.

  Jason opened the trashcan, and a whiff of perfume rose up. He waved his hand in front of his face, pushing the scent out but not away. A mass of broken glass and splintered wood lay in the trashcan like a macabre game of pickup sticks. The glass gave a tiny rattle when he tossed Shelley’s letter in.

  Scraps of paper littered one corner of
the counter. Previous letter attempts? Doubtful. Their surfaces slipped and slid against his fingertips. Not pieces of paper at all but the remnants of a photo ripped to shreds. Nicole must have been with her; Shelley’s anger was cold, not destructive. Jason flipped a few of the pieces over. A scrap of white, a bit of black, and then his face and Shelley’s. Their heads close to each other, their mouths wide with smiles—genuine, happy smiles. It clicked into place. The wedding photo. The blank space on the wall.

  Nicole saw it and it pissed her off. I bet she smiled when she ripped it up. I bet Shelley didn’t say a word, just let loose with another toxic spray of perfume.

  Nicole had always been cool toward him, but he’d never given it much thought. It made perfect sense now. Jason picked up the rest of the pieces, carried them over to the trashcan and smiled when he dropped them in.

  4

  By ten-thirty, the smell of perfume had faded, and the itch in his arm returned. Not the maddening symphony from the restaurant, just a few musicians playing a soft, mournful tune under the skin, almost low enough to ignore. Jason went into the bathroom and pulled out the tube of ointment. It didn’t cure the itch, but it helped. It smelled of petroleum jelly and something else, something spicy like cinnamon but not. The unlabeled tube, as plain as the white tiles in his shower, had no name, no ingredients, nothing. Sailor’s special blend?

  Jason squeezed out a dime-sized bit and rubbed the slippery substance into his skin. The itch backed down another notch. One lone musician winding down for the night. The tattoo’s detail stood out sharply in the bright glare of the bathroom light, every line, every curve, even those thinner than the edge of a fingernail, dark and well defined. The ointment made the vivid green of the griffin’s eyes shimmer like twin emeralds. His father hadn’t lied. It did look real enough to spring off his arm, real enough to jump up and out and take off, flying into the night with curved talons extended and ready to strike.

  Jason smiled and flexed his bicep. The griffin shifted. He washed his hands, shook the water from his fingers, then curled his arm up again while his laughter bounced off the tiles. When he straightened his arm and turned it from side to side, the eyes gleamed. He moved his arm, imagining the griffin’s flight. The play of sunlight on its wings as it circled in the sky. The loud push of air as its wings moved up and down, gliding over a mythical city filled with people watching its passage. Its sleek silhouette as it dove down. Intent, focused, strong—