by Stephen Law
It was always good to see the white clapboard home she and Desmond had grown up in.
Shaking off the water, she gulped for courage to carry her up the steps.
“Ahem.”
Shaz swung around.
“What up little sister.” His voice was deep, baritone. He wore grey sweats that hung unnaturally low, revealing the red banner of his Hilfiger boxers. A black school track jacket covered the extra-large Raptors basketball jersey half tucked into his sweats. A Chicago Bears ball cap kept the rain off his head and he carried a bag from a convenience store in his hand, a carton of orange juice and a bag of ketchup chips just visible through the plastic.
Shaz snuck a glance back towards the house. No one appeared at the window to welcome them.
“Hey little brother.” She tried for calm in her voice.
She’d never been scared of him. Scared for him, maybe, as a kid teetering on a stool grabbing at sharpened tools in the basement. The stone lump that had formed in her belly when he’d disappeared into a crowd at MicMac Mall. She could feel it next to her mole, now, pulsing and real.
He stood in her space, his feet almost touching her own. If the sun had been shining, he would have cast a shadow across the whole of her. She met his gaze.
He was smirking. She couldn’t read his eyes. “Fancy seeing you here,” she said, using her voice as a defence, a shield, until she could gather more information.
She’d practised Wendo with Aleysha when they were in their twenties, conscious of the need to defend, assault stats making it clear they might need to protect themselves, that they were not immune. Kneecaps and elbows, private parts and the bridge of the nose. She knew the playbook but was rusty on the execution. She parted her feet slightly, for balance.
“You look scared.” A deadened timbre resonated in his voice, but she couldn’t tell if it was something she detected, or just imagined.
“Should I be?” She snuck a glance at his hands.
Nana opened the door and Desmond said, “See you inside,” as he brushed past her into the house. As she gave her nan a hug, she felt the lump in her stomach grow.
***
A HOUSE FULL OF relations and neighbours. A boisterous crowd milling around, eating, laughing, celebrating.
She tried to stay in the parts of the house that were populated, keeping Desmond at a distance. He would come into the living room, and she would skirt around the coffee table. If he entered the kitchen, she’d squeeze through the crowded doorframe into the hallway. If he came to grab food from a counter, she’d slip around the table, making sure she had both witnesses and exits.
As she moved, she watched him. If he was nearby, she managed to place Aunt Rose or cousin Kalee or some other relative between them.
He seemed so carefree, kissing their mom and hugging Nan with smiles and affection. Talking as easily with a neighbour as with the pastor or Uncle Lester. He ate and drank freely. She watched him rip open the bag of ketchup chips and serve a bowl to Amanda and Raynor, second and third cousins who were still in primary. She overheard him talking about school, how he enjoyed gym and history. He was completely at ease.
When he looked her way, she snapped her head in the opposite direction, feigning interest in a still life above the mantel. It was a piece she had done in art class, a scene from the house in Africville: hand-hewn rocking chair woven with reeds beside an old kettle stove. In the mirror on the wall, there was the silhouette of Aunt Ida, peering around, overseeing everyone.
Shaz swept the room, but didn’t spot him. She spun around, a rabbit poised to bolt. Breathe. She slowed down her pulse. The house was full of people. She was with her family. What was likely to happen?
Heading to the kitchen for something to drink, she felt herself jolted off her feet and dragged to the corner. Twisting around, she could see Desmond’s hand gripping her forearm, digging into the fleshy part of the bicep.
“You avoiding me?” He squeezed.
She tried to tear away, but he maintained his grip.
“Just trying to survive a family gathering.” A hard yank and she managed to pull free. She tried to make it look playful, like siblings engaging in horseplay. Reaching, she grabbed hold of her cousin Conrad, who had been lingering by her side. She placed him between her and her brother. Conrad had been crushing on her since she was twelve. For the first time, she was grateful. “Tell Des about that Chevy you were getting souped up.”
Time to get away.
She hurried to the bathroom and locked the door, then called Aleysha to come and pick her up. She didn’t want Desmond to follow her, and couldn’t stomach heading back over the bridge on the bus. Knocks and pleas on the door were to no avail. She wasn’t moving until Aleysha texted to tell her she was out front.
“Bye, Mom! Happy birthday, Nan. I left a gift by the mantle.” Shaz gave them each a peck on the cheek. She noticed Desmond still talking to Conrad, a coterie of male cousins now circled around him. He gave her a wink as she looked at him. She turned and ran down the steps of the bungalow and bolted for the car.
***
BREATHE.
After shooing Aleysha away, she settled herself on the couch, breathing hard and pretending she had it together. She just needed to get centred. Focusing on the walls, her work, the things she created. Hand to chest. Heart into rhythm. Inhale. Exhale.
Four guys stumbled in. Husky, shaved, boisterous boys.
“You open?” They’d been drinking.
Shaz jumped up, shoulders back, legs set apart. She’d forgotten to lock the door behind her.
“A Canadian flag.” They nodded as one.
“On the ass!” one of them hooted.
Rugby? Football? Swimmers, maybe? Most tattoo artists were men, so coming to her in their state was potentially volatile. Under normal circumstances she would have pushed them out the door.
“Who’s first?”
Flags she did in her sleep. A maple leaf was de rigueur for artists in a city that hosted one of the largest Canadian Armed Forces and where the Atlantic naval fleet floated its boats. There was always a surge in patriotism when there was a war — or the Olympics.
The tallest guy, the hooter, started to undo the buckle on his pants.
“Over there.” Shaz pointed to where she did her work. “Drop ’em. Just the pants,” she clarified. “And lie down till I’m ready.” As she straightened the sheet, she let the guy strip while his buddies watched, catcalling and hollering. With her back to them, she arranged the instruments. Her mace was in the drawer at the ready if needed. She rolled her chair over to the station, where he was still standing.
“Where do you want it?”
Grinning, he looked down at his boxers, then seeing her face, turned his back and pulled down the waistband to show some cheek. The boys cheered in the background.
“Lie down!” She spun him around. He did as he was told and then she shoved him onto his stomach to keep him from moving.
“Size?” They hooted louder.
She put her head down and got to work — the balancing act. If she gave them too much leeway, it could get out of hand.
Patch of hair shaved, thermofax screen on the skin. More hooting. She waited till they were done. They simmered to rowdy and she focused on the outline, injecting the red and white of Canada. The other guys faded to the background as she worked. This guy faded, too. He was no longer a person, just a patch of skin.
A flag surrounded by the colours of fall amid a forest of trees: red, yellow, green, orange, and brown. That would have been more interesting. But the sports boys got the red border, the white middle, and the red maple leaf.
She repeated the process, moving through the next two efficiently. By the time the third guy had his turn, the novelty had worn off and the catcalls stopped. One of them was snoring in a chair. Another was trying to find a way to get co
mfortable while flipping through a binder of flash designs.
Finally, only one more guy to go.
“Go take a leak before you lie yourself down. You don’t want to be pissing over the poor little lady when she gives you a prick.” Canada flag number two gave his friend a shove.
“At the back.” Shaz pointed to the bathroom.
The door clicked and the ringleader came over. “Stan wants something a little different.” The whole thing had probably been his idea — some kind of man contest he now wanted to change the rules to.
The rest of his crew came up and surrounded her. She pressed her hand to the drawer.
“Make him into an ass.” The guys started to chortle, getting in on the prank.
“He’s always talking about his ass, so make him into one.” Guys making mischief. How original.
“It’s a joke. It’s a great joke.”
She knew when she’d inked the first guy on the table that these were a bunch of fools out on the town making lots of noise, getting attention. Confused, angry, and agitated, she wasn’t in a state to be working on them, or on anyone. But the work had allowed her to stave off going home. The guys in the studio were idiots, but they were keeping her sharp, had her worrying about the danger right in front of her instead of speculating on the one in the shadows.
A great joke, except it wouldn’t seem like a joke to Stan.
“All right, bitches. Ready to go!” Stan came out of the bathroom, stark naked, prancing around and throwing his hands up in the air like he was entering the stadium for the championship game.
The guys started to howl, laughing and shouting.
“Table. Your ass. Now!”
He didn’t know. Not at first. The others were watching, egging it on, not sure if she would actually do it. And she was giving it to these guys.
Before her hand injected the first hit of dye, she hesitated. They were young, probably not much older than her brother.
Looking out towards the front of the studio, she felt a surge of anger at Desmond for stealing up behind her at Nan’s and strutting like a peacock while they circled each other.
She ran the needle and began the outline on his skin. An elegant stencil of the words. Then the filling in.
“Get dressed.” She wiped the last bit of stray ink from his skin.
“Let me see it?” He tried turning his head to get a peek.
“Get your fucking clothes on.”
The guy shrugged and sat up. His buddies were laughing into their hands as he walked delicately to the bathroom to collect his things. They surrounded him when he came out, whooping it up, howling and banging each other on the shoulders, as though they had just won the cup.
Her hand had been steady as she inked “I am” clearly on his ass. There would be no mistaking it once the skin healed.
They paid her for her time and she charged them every penny for it — all of it — tossing the “how to care for your tattoo” sheets after them as they carried Stan out, the conquering hero, the MVP.
Shaz wanted to scream and chuck things around the room.
Locking the door, she banged her fists against the glass. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”
Her hands began to shake. She tried cupping them and noticed her shoulders had begun to shudder. She flew around the room: autoclave off, needles unplugged, everything shut down. A surface swipe. No longer meticulous. Now it was only “fuck it.” She managed to hold her key still long enough to lock the door. Then she ran home.
She felt sick. Into the bathroom. Door shut tight.
“Ahhhhhh!” she screamed into a towel. Spinning around, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. “Fuck!” Tap wrenched all the way, bath filled till it was full, hot as she could stand it. Peeling off her clothes, she shoved them in the waste basket. Then she lowered herself into the tub and sank below the water.
With a gasp she resurfaced. Spotting the lufa brush, she scrubbed herself over and over. The ink stains on her hand wouldn’t come off. A wash cloth and more scrubbing. She stood up, drained the water and turned on the shower to scour off what else she could.
Her skin was raw. Out of the tub, she wrapped a towel around her body and scampered towards her bedroom. Hesitating outside her door, she listened to see if anyone was inside. She couldn’t stay in the hall, so she thrust open the door. There was no one.
Ignoring her bed, she slunk to the desk. The towel dropped and she shivered, but wouldn’t pick it up. Small drops of water ran down her back and pooled on her rug.
She’d been wrong to ink that guy. It hadn’t felt good. It hadn’t felt like vengeance.
A dash to the bathroom, where she grabbed her shaving razor, moving quickly so that if anyone saw her, they would only get a flash, inhaling all the way, trying to keep from gasping, trying just to breathe.
Engineered as it was to prevent deep incisions, the razor wasn’t what she wanted. Shaz thought of the Swiss army knife she used to sharpen pencils or trim her toenails. With the screwdriver attachment, she removed the metal blade from the razor. She placed it on her palm.
The blade was small and hard to grasp. She pinched it between thumb and right forefinger. Right: the hand she used to steady herself on clients, wipe away the ink that seeped around the needle when she punctured the skin. Left: the hand that took the lead, a mashup of pigment on the palm near her pinky — red, white, black, and brown. She hadn’t worn gloves with the sports boys. It was stupid and illegal, putting both her and them at risk.
Taking the blade, she ran it along her palm, lightly, gauging the pressure. Satisfied, she brought the blade up to her left index finger. Slowly, the blade ran along the top layer of skin, scraping off the epidermis, scraping off the evidence of her act. Like shaving her legs, she scraped upwards, using stroke after stroke, enough to remove skin, but not to bleed. She could have used rubbing alcohol, but that would merely have cleaned the surface. She wanted it gone from her body. Not erased, but removed. The trail and the trace eliminated. It took her a few hours of meticulous, patient work. Sitting in her chair, naked, using a cheap ninety-nine cent razor, she scraped her left hand raw.
Going old school, she took a blue pen from her desk and removed the ink, dripping it into an old sushi container that held wayward paperclips. The ink drained into the bowl like cheap soy sauce. Then she took the safety pin she kept clipped next to her window for fashion emergencies and bent it so she could hold it in her hand, pointy edge down. She dipped it into the blue ink and pricked her left index finger, penetrating into the dermis, the layer that keeps colour everlasting.
Pin pricks of ink mapping along her finger, past her thumb to the palm, down her wrist, along the forearm, up the inside of her bicep to her shoulder and finally coming down to her breast, stopping at her heart. When she was done she bent the needle back into shape and clipped it back next to the window.
With a little mirror from her desk, she followed the tracks on her skin, tracing their trajectory from hand to heart. Then she lay down on the bed and wept.
4
NECK, BELOW THE HAIRLINE
eastern painted turtle
“HELLO?”
She paused to hear the silence.
The quiet of the kitchen, hum of the fridge. The emptiness of the living room. Shaz eased open the door to the basement. Still, stale air. Desmond wasn’t home.
She called out down the hall, her voice carrying on the quiet. “It’s me, Nana. Just came for a visit.”
The muffled reply sent Shaz back to the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea.
With one hand balancing cup, saucer, and cookie, she knocked at Nan’s bedroom door and waited.
“Come in.”
Majestic. That was how Shaz always saw Nan’s room: queen bed covered by an indigo bedspread, curtains fringed with scarlet and purple beads and little mirrors that bounced lig
ht around the room. Perfume on the air.
“Well, have at it.” In the bathroom, her nan flicked at her eye, smoothing out the eyeliner.
“Tea.”
Nana took the cup and went and sat on the edge of the bed.
Nan had grey hair, cut short, almost to the skin, and manicured nails, colours matched to a scarf or necklace. She always looked immaculate, even if she were just mucking about the house. As a child, Shaz could easily imagine her as Empress Candace of Ethiopia, though when they were children, the bedroom had been off limits.
Once, when she was about thirteen, she’d entered on a stealth mission. Desmond had been dumped in her care while everyone was out, and she was angry with responsibilities and hormones. Plopping her brother in the crib and ignoring his protests, she slid into Nana’s sanctuary. Chests, royal gowns, and troves of treasure were what she envisioned. Long, silver teardrop earrings in the jewellery box were what she found. Curious, she held them up to her eyes, to see what the world looked like when she was crying. Needing more, she smeared her nan’s makeup on her skin, applying cover up and mascara and bright red lipstick to highlight her cheeks, eyeliner to accentuate her eyes. With dental floss, she affixed an earring to her forehead — now more jester than queen.
Hearing the family return home, she put everything back in its place, everything except the earrings. The earrings she kept.
The jewellery box still held its place of honour on the dresser. Shaz walked over and grazed it with her fingers, then brushed over the set of silver combs that sat alongside. Spinning around, she faced her nan.
“I took these.” Shaz removed the long silver drops from her ears, one after the other.
Scared of getting caught for having gone into Nan’s room and through her things, she’d concealed the earrings in the pouch of the blue jumper worn by her favourite stuffed bear. At the time, she told herself they were her rightful share of the Empress’s treasure, payment for her loyalty. But she couldn’t take them out and wear them, so she left them cached in the teddy bear, like hidden tears.