Under Her Skin

by Stephen Law

  “Come on you two, don’t be laggards. We’re going to miss the bus,” the older woman scolded. Sensible black pumps filled with nude nylons clipped along the sidewalk followed by the softer sound of two sets of polished black dress shoes.

  Closing her eyes and holding herself still, she cursed the gods for venturing out on this day. In a few minutes it would be over and they would have moved on. But a sense told her she wasn’t alone. One eye popped open to reveal a face peering down at her with eyes like Rashid’s, wide, brown and deep. But smaller. The little guy had found her, and was about to expose her trapped in her hideaway.

  Now she had nothing to lose, “Boo!”

  The little boy shrieked and jumped up and down on the sidewalk beside her head. Holding her breath, Shaz braced herself for the sound of footsteps.

  “Hurry up Boyden! We’re late.” The old woman’s voice trailed up from down the road. No footfalls returned in her direction.

  Wiping a drip of grease from her cheek, Shaz decided the coast was clear. Was someone going to return, pull her out from her hiding place, scold her for scaring the boy and spying on them as they passed? Excuses surfaced to her lips, but there was no need. No one came. A crazy lady under a car clearly didn’t hold enough of an interest to the boy. Down to the bus stop they marched. The nice little family.

  She stared at the metal inches from her face for a few minutes, surrounded by oil stains and pavement bits, her nose taking in the scent of tires and stale exhaust. She would have curled up if she could, with the car as her blanket.

  Finally, she scrambled out from under the engine and dusted herself off. Trudging back home, she maintained her distance from the pup tent officers and the harbourfront. She dragged herself through the north end, up along the hill, past Needham Park and the old fort, past the upscale homes of the Hydrostone, and on to the government housing apartments and box house neighbourhoods in the deep north end.

  She must have looked a sight to the people she passed on the street, the clusters of families barbequing on their porches, weeding their gardens, with her grease-stained hair and scowls. Crows, severed penises, daggers and all sorts of other macabre images crowded her thoughts as she made her way home.

  ***

  THERE WAS NO POINT in delaying any longer. It was time to confront her brother. No excuses, no escapes.

  Her mom was working late. Shaz had just popped in to say hi to her nana, who was reading the paper in the living room, when the basement door swung open and Desmond sprang out.

  “Hey!” He was surprised to see her. He spun around to the counter and began to put together a snack while avoiding looking in her direction.

  Heart pounding through her fingertips, she gave her hands a shake, like an MMA fighter might do as they enter the octagon cage before a match. This was the time. It had gone on far too long. Peeking through the kitchen pass to see if Nan was paying attention, Shaz observed her adjust her reading glasses and take a sip of her gin and grapefruit, not giving them the slightest of minds. She turned back to Des, who was spreading peanut butter on his bread.

  Her opener: “Have you talked to Donald?” She had to start somewhere — a quick jab to distract him and clear the path, make sure they were on the same page around their father. Then she’d follow through on the take down with accusations about Frank.

  He licked the spoon. “Yup.”

  So, on that count she’d been right. He had contacted both of them. She waited, expecting something — a curse, or dismissal, a disparaging remark — about their dad, but Desmond didn’t offer anything further. It was like he wasn’t even in the match. A large dollop of jam dropped onto the bread, and he managed to spread it around evenly. It was on her. She was going to have to direct the fight.

  “Did you tell him to fuck off or did you let him down easy?” Making her way over to the fridge, she searched for something to occupy her hands while she spoke. She couldn’t see her brother’s face.

  “I get tested later this week.”

  Tested?

  A smattering of condiments, the red ketchup bottle holding her eye.

  “Close the door. We don’t need any more air-conditioning,” Nana scolded from the living room.

  Jumping up, Desmond squeezed in beside her and snatched the milk, brushing by as he went past. It shook her into motion, though she had to resist giving him a shove and putting him in a headlock. Grabbing a plate of leftover cold cuts, she closed the fridge.

  Desmond turned on the little TV and sat at the counter with his sandwich and glass of milk. On came the news with something about Syria and refugees.

  Sitting there as though he had not shared anything of import, as if getting tested to see if you could donate an organ for your bastard father were the same as sharing a comment that you had a pop quiz in chemistry later.

  Her nana focused on the paper and Desmond was glued to the television. Fighting the urge to shower him with slices of salami or run to the basement to grab his box of crimes, Shaz remained motionless. Stuck. Her brother was willing to give their dad his kidney. It was not what she’d expected.

  They were not on the same page, but she already knew that, so why was she surprised?

  There were predictions of unsettled weather, rain, thundershowers, might even be some flooding on the way. It was all Shaz could do to sit on the stool with her brother and listen to the forecast. Unsettled, immobile, engulfed in the storm.

  10

  UPPER BACK

  serrated dagger and shattered glass

  SHE TOOK HERSELF TO hot yoga, thinking maybe she could burn it out. Nope.

  Talk to Aleysha? Not a word, not about this. Not about her brother.

  She might have meditated, but her mind was not playing by the rules. Om so easily transplanted by OMG and WTF.

  Computers could have their memories erased, but people couldn’t. Hurrying to get on her jogging tights and pull on her running tank top, she worked at disrupting her mind from the negative thoughts that were twisting inside of her.

  She was going to try jogging to the studio, to see if she could outrun it.

  She’d had enough chances to confront Desmond. Why was she being so ineffectual? She seemed to be taking any chance or distraction to slip out of it. The talk about testing was just the latest excuse. She didn’t want to confront him, because she didn’t want to confront herself.

  Her guilt had opened the door to her memory, and as she passed an alley, the flash of recall leapt out at her, leaving her startled and on edge. She tried to sprint, imagining she could outrun the feeling. But her mind was still moving faster than her legs. In the sharp daylight, the sun’s rays were like searchlights hunting her down. She couldn’t keep up the pace. Shuddering to a stop in front of a home on Duncan Street with grey painted shingles, burgundy trim and a porch with potted flowers, Shaz collapsed to her knees, crushing the grass with her hands. She thought she might vomit.

  Danton. It made her shudder, the name.

  Danton could sneak her into places she shouldn’t have been able to go: parties, bars, raves. It was all coming back to her. She wanted to howl, but all she could do was ride the memories.

  He moved about freely. His was the kind of power that accompanies a particular kind of physique. He smelled sweet but at his core was mean. The looks, the edge, that’s what drew her in. Watching him denigrate check-out clerks at WalMart or eviscerate acquaintances over beer were an attraction. It was a testing time, a “me” time. Vaguely conscious of the impacts of his actions, she’d imagined everyone was as tough as she wanted to be and could withstand the assault. Somehow that had been important to her. Aleysha and Frank stayed away — it was not the best of times for their friendship.

  Her mom and Nan had an event at the Black Cultural Centre and Shaz had been assigned to look after Desmond. Shaz had a fit. It was the weekend. She’d been planning an adventure with
Danton. Her brother was five, she was seventeen.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I don’t have anyone else.” Her mom was checking in her purse for her keys. She couldn’t find them and seemed to be taking it out on Shaz. “Just do what I say!” she snapped. Off she went, searching in her bedroom.

  “Fine, but only for the afternoon,” Shaz yelled down the hall. “I’m still going out tonight whether you’re back or not.” All her plans, ruined. They had agreed to connect at Penhorn Plaza, hang out in the parking lot in the car and meet up with others. After pissing around the afternoon, then they’d head over to the Palace.

  “I have to look after my little brat of a brother,” she whispered to him over the phone.

  “That means your mom and old lady are out, right? Hey, that’s cool. I like kids. I’ll help you out.”

  She set Desmond up in the basement with video games.

  How quickly Danton made himself comfortable. “Hey babe,” he said, “I’m starving.” He went to the fridge and pulled out some food, then opened cupboards, snooping around to see what else he could find. He opened a jar of Nutella, used his finger as a spoon. In the living room, he jostled Nan’s trinkets and made the little figurines smooch and hump one another.

  Watching to make sure nothing got broken, Shaz put everything he touched back in its place.

  “Where’s the little guy?”

  Feeling a little wary as to how it might go, she hesitated. But he said he liked kids, so she took him downstairs.

  “Hey buddy, whatcha playing?”

  “Mario Kart,” Desmond answered, his eyes never leaving the screen. His little body swayed with the curves of the imaginary road.

  “Scoot on over so we can go head to head.”

  Shaz watched them play and smiled. It was fine. Everything was fine. Ducking into her room, she went to put together her outfit for the night. By the time she came back, Danton was getting schooled and Desmond was screaming in triumph.

  “You letting a little kid beat you?” she joked.

  Danton’s face went hard. “This is pablum shit. Ain’t no Grand Theft.”

  “Mom won’t let him play those games. He’s too young.”

  “You’re not scared of some video game are you little guy?”

  Desmond shook his head no, of course.

  “Hmmm. Well, fuck Mario.” Throwing down the controller, Danton rose and began snooping around, inspecting all the hidden corners. What was he hoping to find? Or was it just paranoia?

  “What’s back here?” He pointed to the pantry where Nana kept the homemade preserves and jam. “Go get me a drink, a Pepsi or something.”

  Not wanting to irritate him but not wanting to leave them alone, she didn’t know what to do. But he was staring at her, waiting, so she scurried off to get the drink.

  When she returned with pop can in hand, he’d turned the stereo on, the music cranked up so high she couldn’t hear anything he said. Things had been moved about, to make space in the room.

  Spinning her back up the stairs, Danton directed her to where he could be more easily heard. “We were going to try some wrestling moves,” was the explanation. “But, then Dessie said he wanted to have a nap, so I told him to go into your room.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he leered at her. “So now we have some privacy.”

  “The music?” she asked, wondering how Desmond was going to sleep with it blaring.

  Danton winked. “It’ll keep the noise from travelling.”

  She tried to skirt past him, not sure she wanted her little brother messing around with her things, but Danton pulled her back, put his finger to her lips and began kissing her neck. Shaz tried to twist back down the stairs, but Danton cupped her breast and held her in place. Nudging his hand away, she closed the door to the basement, to at least keep her brother from peeping.

  She headed them towards the living room couch, but Danton shook his head and pulled her down the hall. He checked the first room, the bathroom, and kept going. When he opened the next door onto her nana’s room, he said, “Yeah, in here will do just fine.”

  Shaz hesitated.

  “I brought something to enhance the mood.” Hustling her in, he extracted a little plastic bag from his pocket and sprinkled a mound of white powder onto the dresser top. With the back of one of nana’s combs he stretched and straightened the powder into a line.

  Pushing her forward with his hand on the small of her back, he said, “Ladies first.”

  Shaz wasn’t sure this was something she wanted to do. Not sure at all.

  “It will heighten the experience.”

  She realized then that he was between her and the door. She’d asked him to come over. This must have been something she wanted. He must be someone she wanted. She tried not to sneeze when she drew the white line up her nose. Danton snorted the rest. Staring into the mirror, worried about what she was witnessing, he stood behind with his arms clasped around her waist. Then his hands sought out her body.

  “Not here.”

  Danton insisted. “I want to fuck you in your nana’s room.”

  “Somewhere else.”

  Picking her up, he threw her onto the bed.

  Struggling to get out from under him, she said, “Danton, I don’t know.”

  He had already pulled her shirt over her head and had unzipped his jeans. “Don’t talk baby.” He was working to get her pants down.

  “But …” With the coke in her system, she felt like her hands had lost substance. Each molecule of her skin vibrated, the walls dissolved and reformed, colours traded places with each other, and a pounding ensued. She lost touch with herself.

  Flipping to the side when he was finished, he gazed up at the ceiling while the loud stereo thumped through the floor. The walls grew solid and thoughts settled back into place. Tuning in to her surroundings, into herself, Shaz bolted up. Danton brought her back down.

  He pointed to his body sprawled on the bedspread. “I want your nana to see this.”

  Shaz pushed him aside. “Get out!” Scrambling off the bed, she pulled up her jeans and put her top on. Shaking, she gathered up his clothes and held them out.

  Danton remained where he was, so she yanked on his arms, trying to get him off the bed.

  Still, he remained where he was.

  “Get the fuck out of here.” She stood over him, surging with coke energy, shame, anger, confusion. “Now!”

  “Whatever, bitch.” He stood, scanned the room, picked up a corner of the bedspread to wipe himself off. He sauntered naked, out of the bedroom, clothes in hand.

  Not waiting for the sound of the slamming door, Shaz wrenched the cover off the bed and took the bundle down to the basement. The music was still blasting and she snapped it off. A glance into the rec room showed the dark TV against the pantry door. It took her a moment to realize. Racing to her bedroom, she looked around. Desmond was not there. Panic rose in her.

  Running, she shoved the TV aside and whipped open the door.

  Desmond was a mess. Soiled and with blood on his hand and his cheek, he’d cut himself on glass when he’d banged into a shelf in his frenzy to get out. Tear tracks marked his face. She tried to wipe them away, remove the shards from his hand, but he shoved her off. The look he gave her was the same one she reserved for her father. The time he’d spent in the dark while she’d been high on coke with Danton in Nan’s bedroom had darkened him.

  All cleaned up: bedspread back onto Nana’s bed, the room vacuumed to gather up any remaining coke dust, the pantry rearranged, Desmond bathed, and then all of it wiped from her mind. Neither Shaz nor Desmond made mention of it ever again, not to her mom or Nana, and certainly not to each other.

  On the grass in front of the house with burgundy trim, the memories coursed through her. She shook, felt every motion. It built in her stomach, roiled around until she retched ont
o the grass, convulsing, her body expelling what had happened.

  Back home, she drew a bath and cleaned her mouth: brushed her teeth and rinsed with mouthwash. She put three different soaps, bubble bath and two types of essential oils into the water, then lowered herself below the surface.

  There were other times, other memories. Good ones. Feeding Desmond mashed potatoes and peas at the table, sneaking into his room to watch him sleep in his crib and make sure he was safe, waking up to his cries for milk at night and sneaking out again before her mom came in for his feeding, sitting on the couch, teaching him to read, repeating rhymes and Munsch classics till he could do them on his own. She taught him how to ride the unicycle, which was too slow for him — he wanted it fast, he wanted to speed. Trying to remember these things she held her breath, let the water hold her down. She willed her mind to focus on the better memories, focus till she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  ***

  AS HE TRACED HIS finger along her back, she could feel the nails moving along her skin. They glided along the curve of her hips, up along her shoulder blades, outlining the thrust of the serrated dagger, and above the shards of glass that dropped down her back. He drew down, moving with his fingers and brushing with his lips. She tried to swim in the sensation, concentrating on how touch, sound, sight, and taste mixed. How touch could stimulate and evoke. What he was now doing on her body was what she did — drawing patterns, creating contrast, thick and thin, more and less. A reminder of what was good, feelings that were good.

  With her back to him, she kept him out of sight. As the last piece of clothing was removed, he leaned into her. She thought of his hands and drew him in closer so she could feel him along her back. Letting him explore, he breathed into her neck. Generous, he took his time, savouring her skin, feeling the contours, touching, pressing, lightly and not so lightly.

  Meeting in darkness during a party held by her roommates at the house, their fingertips discovered each other. She breathed him in.

  He wanted to face her but she kept him behind. Eyes closed, mouth pressed. She felt for him, drawing his lips to her ears, compelling him to motion.