Tats

by Layce Gardner

  Vivian sighs, “Oh, I just adore happily ever after.” Then she’s off to sleep for good.

  I crawl out of the tent and find my ugly Midge doll. I strip her down naked and carefully dress her in Ken’s jeans and turquoise wife-beater. Somehow this small act comforts me. I crawl back inside the tent and lay down beside Vivian with Midge clasped tightly in my fist.

  I pose aloud the question that’s been bugging me lately, “If I never have sex again, am I still a lesbian?” With this question echoing in my soggy brain, I nestle up next to Vivian and fall into a deep, deep sleep.

  I wake up to a nightmare. Vivian’s face is hanging upside down just inches from my own. Why is her hair suddenly orange? Her upside down mouth moves—she’s yelling and talking non-stop—oh my God. That’s not Vivian, it’s her mother. Her mother has pulled up a tent flap and is looking in at us. I just manage to catch the last bit of what Mom is saying: “—Are you pregnant?!”

  Vivian props herself up on both elbows and shouts back to her mother, “I’m not pregnant and stop yelling! I’m not deaf either!”

  But that doesn’t faze Mom. “Well, then you better stop stuffing your face with Daddy’s cupcakes because you look pregnant! And what in God’s good name is with your hair? Did you cut it that way on purpose?! Get ready, I’m going to take you to my beautician! She can fix that mess! She does wonders with overprocessed hair! I’ve been wanting you to meet her!”

  Mom rips the bedspread off us and whips it back on the bed, shouting the whole while, “She’s the prettiest little thing! Though Lord knows she wasn’t always so little! She’s lost a whole bunch of weight, but she always did have such a pretty face! Her name is Cindi and she married a Negra man and has three kids! Those Negras don’t seem to mind a big tookus on a woman, but she lost it anyway, thank the good Lord!”

  Mom smooths out the wrinkles on the bedspread and stands back with her hands on her narrow hips to admire her handiwork. “Those kids of hers are all such a pretty color!”

  She looks over at me still lying on the floor and wrinkles her nose in disgust. She whispers loudly to Vivian like I’m not even in the room, “What have I told you about bringing strange men into this house?”

  Vivian giggles and shouts back, “He’s not that strange, Mom!”

  Mom spins on her pointy high-heeled shoes, shouting through the doorway, “R.J! She’s back!! And she brought home a tattooed sailor this time!”

  Mom exits the bedroom with a bounce and a flourish, taking most of the oxygen with her.

  Vivian and I stare at each other, unblinking, for a solid minute.

  “She’ll calm down after her morning pills kick in,” Vivian states.

  I fetch my jeans and boots and jacket out of the car while Vivian takes a shower. I go through her closet and find a really cool old Chargers T-shirt. I jump in the shower after her and scrub all the makeup off my face and let my dreads down. I’ve never felt so good to be just myself.

  By the time Vivian and I make our appearance in the kitchen, Dottie (Vivian told me her mom’s name is Dottie) is flipping the pancakes off the griddle. Vivian’s dad, R.J., is pouring a gallon of syrup over his stack of pancakes.

  R.J. is a pretty good-looking man. Kinda skinny, but in a good wiry kinda way. Strong chin and bright blue eyes. His hair’s all gray, but he has lots of it. And the man’s not afraid to eat.

  Vivian beelines straight up to him and plants a kiss on his cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes light up.

  Dottie points her spatula at Vivian like it’s a weapon (and maybe it is for all I know). “Aren’t you even going to introduce us to your young man?” she asks.

  Vivian laughs, cups her hand around her mother’s ear and whispers. Dottie’s eyes open wide and she looks me up and down.

  “Well...” Dottie starts, “does your lady friend want some pancakes?!”

  “Yes, ma’am, please,” I say, taking the chair across from Vivian.

  I feel the urgent need to fill the conversation void so I steer to friendly territory. “I see where Marie Osmond has another fan. Besides me, I mean.”

  Vivian throws me a look like I’ve lost my mind, but Dottie brightens and gives me a huge smile. “Oh, do you like Marie also?” she asks.

  “Who doesn’t,” I say. “You know her career has spanned forty years now. That right there is a testament to her God-given talent,” I lie profusely, “...if you ask me, that is.”

  And that’s all it takes. Dottie is off and running. “Marie has eight children, you know! And she still finds time to run her doll business, write books and even do shows in Las Vegas with Donny, that adorable brother of hers! She’s lost a lot of weight, too! She’s on a commercial for that diet lady! Jenny Craig? No, I think it’s Nutrisystem! She says she’s lost forty-one pounds! But I think they’re lying! It looks to me just like they fluffed her hair higher and had her stand at an angle!” She leans down and whispers, “Poor thing. Her son killed himself, you know.”

  Vivian and her dad and I grin at each other over our pancakes.

  I volunteer to wash the breakfast dishes like a good Eddie Haskell and as I dry and stack, I listen to Vivian and Dottie yelling at each other in the back part of the house. “You’re not supposed to take three ibuprofen all at the same time, Vivian! The directions say to just take one tablet every four hours!”

  “I’m taking a whole day’s worth!” Vivian shouts back. “Besides, those are suggestions, not directions. The more pills you take, the happier you feel!”

  “You take this lightly and you die!” Dottie shouts again.

  “Well, I wish someone would put me out of my fucking misery!”

  A door slams from somewhere deep within the bowels of the house.

  Then, thank God, I hear the siren call of an engine in distress.

  I walk out to the backyard and see R.J. sitting on a brand-new riding lawnmower. He’s red in the face and sweating in the hot sun. He’s giving ’er hell, turning the key and pumping the gas, but the engine only catches hold for a few seconds before petering out. He’s tried to turn it over so many times the battery’s damn near dead. I watch him for a moment in silence. I know better than to tell a man anything about engines.

  He catches sight of me and one side of his mouth turns up in a self-conscious smile. “Must’ve flooded it,” he says.

  “No, sir,” I say. “Sounds like you got some condensation in the fuel line. Happens a lot round here with all the humidity in the air.”

  “You think?” he asks, his tone neutral.

  I take his response as an invitation to proceed, so I do. I locate the gas tank and follow the fuel line to the in-line filter. I unclip the filter, drain it, and wave it around in the air, drying it out. After a while I blow on it just to make sure.

  R.J. interrupts my blowing by asking, “How long were you in for?”

  I shrug like I’d been expecting the question. “Twelve years. How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t for sure. Till you just told me.”

  I smile. I think I’m going to like this man.

  “Does Vivian know?” he asks.

  “Sure. She knows,” I say. “I told her all about it.”

  I pop the filter back on the fuel line and clip it.

  “I mean does she know that you got feelings for her?” he asks.

  That one sets me back a minute. I look him in the eye. Vivian’s got his eyes. It’s like he’s looking straight into my head and seeing what’s there. “That obvious, huh?” I answer.

  “She have those kinda feelings for you?”

  “No, sir, she doesn’t.”

  “There’s been a man calling here for her. Has a foreign accent. Like that Benny Hill character. You know anything about it?”

  I look down at my shoes for the answer, but when I don’t find it I say, “I might know something.”

  He pooches out his bottom lip, deep in thought (just like Vivian does), climbs back on the mower and looks out over the yard like he’s surve
ying it.

  “You’ll have to excuse my wife for yelling all the time,” he says. “After thirty years I started ignoring her. I guess she got it in her head that I was going deaf. Now she screams and I pretend not to hear. It’s just the way it is.”

  It reminds me of the old Hell’s Angels adage, ‘It is what it is.’ Sometimes that just explains it all.

  R.J. doesn’t seem to need a response from me, so I don’t give one. He pumps the gas pedal, pulls out the choke and turns the key. The mower coughs a couple of times, starts up with a loud growl then idles to a purr. He gives me a big thumbs-up and shouts over the engine, “Be careful!”

  Somehow I know exactly what he’s talking about.

  He takes off on the mower, spitting cut grass out on the driveway, leaving me nodding after him.

  I amble back inside the house. It’s deathly quiet. Vivian isn’t in the kitchen. She’s not in the Marie O. living room. Or if she is, she’s standing so still she blends in. She’s not in the bathroom. I open the door to her bedroom, but it looks the same as when we left it. She’s not in her bathroom either. I hear the lawnmower cut off outside. I’m thinking I might have to go have a second look at it when Dottie looms in the doorway.

  “What’re you doing to her?” she asks.

  I look over my shoulder thinking maybe she’s talking to someone behind me. Nope, nobody there.

  “With who?” I ask, softly.

  “You know who,” she says. “She’s all hepped up on pills and God only knows what else.”

  Dottie’s slurring a little herself. Guess those morning pills are working their magic. She continues, her eyes glazed over, “She looks like homemade soap. She used to be so pretty. Now she’s dressing like a you-know-what and doing drugs. What’re you doing to her?”

  “I’m not doing anything,” I answer. “I found her that way.”

  “I know what you are. You’re one of those...” she pauses for emphasis, then hisses the word, “...liberaltines.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  I make a move to leave the room, but, oh my God, she sways over in front of the doorway blocking the exit. I glance around the room, looking for another way out. There’s the window, but I don’t know if I want to do anything that drastic.

  “A sexual deviant is what you are. Doing all kinds of nastiness with my daughter. You’ve brainwashed her with your ugly, unnatural ways.”

  “You got me pegged, Dot.” A nervous giggle rises to the surface, but I swallow it back down. I can’t laugh right now. This woman is so close to the edge, that would send her right on over.

  “I’ve read about people like you. Miss or Mister or whatever you call yourself. I’ve seen entire TV movies about your type. Picking up unsus...unsuspectant...unsuspecting young girls and forcing them to do strange spelunking things,” she says.

  “I think you’re getting me mixed up with a National Geographic show.”

  Dottie drops to her knees and clasps her hands in front of her face, saying, “I’m going to pray for you. Pray with me.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be praying for the same thing,” I say before I open the window and crawl out.

  I drop to the ground and hear Vivian scream, “Get your motherfucking hands offa me!”

  I haul ass in the direction of the scream, but as I round the house I slam on the brakes. There’s Prince Charles and his two goons. P.C. has Vivian backed up over the grille of his black BMW. The two goons hold her dad back. Each one has R.J. by an arm and he’s fighting them like a madman, but he’s no match for these heavyweights.

  Vivian lays back on the Beamer’s hood and kicks her spikey heels at P.C., letting loose with the longest stream of obscenities I’ve ever heard. I can’t hear what he’s saying over her screaming, but he still has control over his composure. Of course, he’s British and they always seem composed.

  I hide behind the corner of the house. I run through all my options. I don’t have a gun. They probably do. They got us outmanpowered, so mano a mano won’t work. I could call the cops, but what would I tell them? That these nice British men just want the money we stole from them? We’re in the middle of a residential street and it won’t be long before a neighbor calls the cops. I don’t have much time.

  Then I remember Elvis.

  I climb back through the window and am relieved to see that Dottie has finished praying, left the room and moved on to another corner of her Republican, Xanax-soaked mind. I go straight for the cabinet in the living room, throw open the door and pull out fat Elvis. I hope Vivian wasn’t exaggerating about the game her and R.J. play. I uncork Elvis’s head and find, sure enough, R.J. has already filled him back up.

  Next I dash into the kitchen and grab the newspaper from the top of the table. I rip off the top sheet (leaving the sports section behind in case R.J. hasn’t had time to read that yet) and wad it up. I take a giant swig from Elvis, thinking what the hell’s it going to hurt, and stuff the newspaper as far down Elvis’s throat as I can. I pat my pocket. Yep, I got my trusty pocketknife and my Bic lighter with me.

  Ready to roll. I run out the front door and sneak Davy Crockett-style to the Mercedes we left on the street the night before. I climb in and peek over the dash. Yep, Viv is still kicking like a hellcat and R.J.’s still straining against the goons. It’s taking both of them to hold a seventy-year-old man and they’re the ones sweating. Good for him.

  I start the car, stick Elvis between my legs and the Bic in my mouth. Okay, you stupid British, red-coat wearing sumbitches, here comes the cavalry. Drawing on all my TV Roller Derby viewing, I gun the car straight toward the Beamer.

  R.J. and the goons see me coming first. The goons drop R.J.’s arms and dive in opposite directions. R.J. backpeddles as fast as he can, which is pretty darn fast. P.C. catches sight of me, his eyes widen in terror, and he looks like he might just piss his pants. So much for composure.

  Vivian rolls over on the hood, recognizes me and smiles the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. She hops up on top of the Beamer and, my God, I think, she’s going to start cheering right here. I bear down on them fast and at the last possible second, pull out my best Roller Derby move. I jerk the wheel hard to my right, send the car spinning clockwise and hip-check the back of the Beamer.

  Unfazed, Vivian jumps from the hood of the Beamer to the trunk of the Mercedes and before you can even say Revolutionary War she’s in the passenger seat. I step out of the car, light the newspaper serving as Elvis’s head, look P.C. directly in the eye and yell, “You English may have a Queen, but we’ve got the King!”

  I wind up and pitch Elvis into the front seat of the Beamer. He shatters and a couple of mad flames jump.

  I throw myself back into the Mercedes, stomp on the gas and we are so gone. We’re already three blocks away when—BOOM!

  Viv sits on her knees and stares out the back window. She mutters with awe, “Holy shit...” She turns to face me as I pull out onto the highway, merging with the traffic. “That was amazing, Lee, truly fucking amazing. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  I shrug like it was nothing. “Your mom called me a liberaltine. It pissed me off.”

  Chapter Nine

  “It’s not like I knew a Mercedes would just break down like that,” I mumble to Vivian’s back side.

  Vivian and I are walking down some deserted country road and I have no idea if we’re walking toward town or away from it. Thank God for a full moon or I wouldn’t be able to even see the road under my boots. Vivian struggles to balance in her high heels and that leaves me to carry the two bags of money and her giant red bag that has all her essentials for life in it. I feel like some kind of damn packhorse. Sweat rolls down my back forming a little river down my buttcrack.

  “You told me you were a mechanic,” she answers without turning around.

  “Not on cars. Especially German cars. Hell, they’re not even supposed to break down in the first place. Mercedes is like the Maytag of cars. And even if I could fix
it where am I going to get the parts? Out in the middle of the country? You’re the one who thought we should get off the main roads. Like we’re Bonnie and Clyde or some such shit.”

  I set a bag down and unstick the back of my shirt from my skin.

  “Pick it back up,” Vivian orders with her back still to me. I heft it back up (not because she told me to) and wonder not for the first time how little pieces of paper could weigh so goddamn much. Is this what rich people feel like, money is a burden? I think I was a lot happier when I only had ten dollars in my pocket.