by Davis, SJ
***
Mateo was right. I’ve had one foot in two worlds my whole life.
“So, maybe you’re right,” I looked out the window. “But how do I get rid of you? Can everyone see you?”
He cleared his throat and looked strangely hurt. “I won’t be as visible after you say the words. You won’t need me. You’ll be strong enough on your own.”
No you won’t. You never will.
“Did you hear that?” I ask him. “And what word?”
“Yes, I do hear her too. The voice is merely a threat. You can overcome her.”
“So I’m not making up these voices?”
“No, the voice is real. But, it isn’t part of the real world. Sometimes we hear voices that hurt us, but those voices are from our own soul.” He holds up my right arm and turns it over, exposing my scars and cuts. He looks down at me closely; his forehead is damp with sweat. He bends down and kisses my scars.
Chills and fever enveloped me. Black and white words swirled around my mind, tangling in my thoughts like fishing line. I grasped at them, but lost them. Cold and hot flashes slammed my brain like electric shock, and shadows undulated on my walls, swirling on my ceiling. My name, Sparrow, appears on the ceiling in a shiny red scrawl.
I stare at my name above me. Mateo’s lips are still on my inner arm. Smoke dances around us like flames.
Mateo looks to me and says, “It’s beautiful, smoky shades of blood like the ink. Say the word.
Istowun-eh’pata can’t save you. Not from me.
***
On my way to the metro, I passed “The Black Line Tattoo Shop” again. A small sign announced Stuart’s availability so I opened the unlocked front door and stood alone in the entrance. A small Asian woman left the check-cashing place next door and looked at me. She turned quickly in the opposite direction, almost running away from me.
“Closed!” A man’s voice yelled from the back.
“Are you Stuart Gilkison?” I shout back. My voice sounded tiny and frail in my own ears.
“Why?”
“You tattooed my mother. She sort of sent me…” I searched for words. “Before she passed…” The screen door creaked shut behind me and suddenly slammed, bouncing several times in the frame.
“I’ve tattooed a lot of people.” He walks out from the back, brushing off his hands. “Can’t remember most of them.”
I don’t know whether Stuart is dangerous or crazy. His worn leather jacket barely covered the tattoos that snake out from his sleeves and curl up the back of his neck. Ink black eyes are drawn on the back of his neck surrounded by black and gray knot work. A chaos star was on his calf, a black feather on each point.
“Well, I am here for a tattoo. And I really don’t care if you will remember me,” I answered, sounding petulant and young. I felt a chill run up my leg, the heat from the radiator clicked and echoed through the room.
“How old are you?” He squinted his eyes and crossed his arms.
“Twenty two.”
Stuart studied my face and walked to a bookcase filled with art books. Squatting to look for something, he rests his hands on his legs.
“Here.” He got up and brought me a small book. “This is a good art book to work from. I think I remember your mother now, but that was a long time ago. You look like her, but smaller.” He stepped back to appraise me further. “She brought her own ink with her. Native Ink. She told me to keep the leftovers safe and that the ink would only get stronger. She even told me to save it for someone – and that I would know who when the time came. So I did. I guess that person is you.”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
You’ll never have that ink. I will kill you first.
As soon as I took hold of the small book, the size of an old photo album, I missed my mother more than ever. My eyes watered and I forget to breathe.
“You aren’t ready for a tattoo,” Stuart said as I trembled and my lips quivered. My legs quaked beneath me as I backed out the door, tossing the book on a side table. I stumbled several blocks to a new friend’s apartment, Jenny Lee and I feel someone’s eyes on me. I just don’t know whose. Not for sure anyway.
They are my eyes.
***
Jenny’s roommate smiled as she directed me to the basement where Jenny is developing her film. I know I look pale as I clench the railing down the stairs; my knuckles were blanched and bony. The red light above the door stopped me from barging in the darkroom, but I peeked in a small window to watch her. I admired Jenny’s concentration as she pinned the photos onto a clothesline to dry. Her short hair accentuated her cheekbones and the bluish lights made her look like an angel.
I watched her in silence. The smell of the ocean shot through the air and I felt the change in the room. It’s Layne, her boyfriend’s best friend, behind me. I met him at Blues Alley, a jazz club and I immediately wanted him. He was eating melted Brie and apples, and his blond dreadlocks were swaying to the Jazz. Now, I looked over my shoulder and we are eye to eye. He smiled without opening his mouth and his dimples deepen. My breathing quickened and I felt my skin burn as he came closer. Every inch of my skin reached up towards his body.
His arms wrapped around my waist, underneath my shirt. His hands felt calloused against me from playing guitar, but I enjoy his roughness.
“God,” he breathed into my hair. His mouth leaned into my ear. “You are so soft.” Our feelings and actions balanced on the point of a needle. We could go one way or another, but right now, nothing seemed more impossible than turning away from him. His eyes were half closed and by the way the heat emanated from his hands, I know he felt the same.
The red light turned off above Jenny’s door and she popped out of her darkroom. She looked at both of us. “Am I interrupting anything?”
Instinctively, I took a step away from Layne, but he pulled me closer to him by my belt loops and I felt his fingertips glide along my hips underneath my jeans. His smile sat by my ear as he rested his cheek against my hair, his chin on my shoulder. Everything was how it should be.
***
I spent the rest of the weekend following Layne’s band as it wound through Richmond and Virginia Beach. The volume in the clubs drowned me in sound. I am never certain what I should be doing while he plays. I felt like a lurker, a hanger-on. Groupie girls are everywhere – funky, stylish, seemingly cool and indifferent girls who sang along with him. They seemed to speak a secret language with him as he sings. I stood against the walls and chewed the split ends of my hair.
Layne sang and looked at me. The sound of his voice and the dank smell of the venue sucked me in, I stared at his face, luminous under the stage lights, his lips touching the microphone. As the show ended, he came offstage to me, sticky with sweat and shaking with fatigue. I wanted him all to myself, no more sharing.
Upstairs in the dressing room, the fans descended again. I skirted out to the bar, though Layne tried to gather me in. He stroked my arms and wrapped his arms around my waist. He stood behind me with his chin on my shoulder, claiming me in front of everyone. The other girls looked me up and down. Nervously, I pulled away.
“Aren’t you into me anymore?” he asked when the crowds dissipated. He laughed, but part of him sounds hurt.
“I feel like I am keeping you from something here. I don’t fit in with the energy here and I know you keep checking on me and worrying about me…and I feel, I don’t know, uncomfortable.”
Layne, always searching for what is true, stroked the ends of my hair. He held me gently, his arms around me. “You will see what is good here, in your own time I guess. But I’m here for you.”
But you won’t be there for him.
***
When I opened my eyes the next morning, the air felt heavier. It is daybreak, but darker than usual. I walked into my bathroom and turned on the warm water.
“Not too deep,” the razor whispered as it slid in tiny motions across my inner arm. “Just until you feel it coming out.” I hear the words pounding in my
ears mixed with the blast of the water falling. I see the blood come out. Red first, then diluted into pink with the tap water’s flow.
“Crimson is the most seductive of colors,” I breathe into the mirror as it is blurred and fogged from the steam. I rest my head on the mirror and close my eyes.
Yes…do it for the sake of beauty.
I saw a flash of the accident rip across my mind. Dust, ripped metal, broken glass. The windy noise in my head made me dizzy as I clutched the sink for balance. I gagged and coughed, tears stung my eyes. I returned to bed, relieved somewhat, to have bled away some of my burden.
When I woke up again, it was the afternoon and I was wearing the same clothes that I’d worn the day before. I’d slept more than twelve hours, but I still didn’t feel rested. Downstairs, the news droned softly in the kitchen, a low buzz under the chatty sounds of Jenny and her boyfriend Max along with the laughter of Aunt Shelby. With a calm that felt miraculous, I got out of bed and opened my door. I look down at my arms, scabbed but pink and irritated, I grab a cardigan to cover my arms. At the top of the stairs, with his back to me, sat Mateo. I ignored him and walk past as if I can’t see him.
“Don’t ignore me.”
I stood, deciding what to do. Stay or go. The indecisive quiet felt like hours. He says nothing more as he stands, but slowly, he reaches his arms around me. He isn’t a ghost, certainly. He feels solid, warm, slender and firm. I don’t speak or move away. He smells of a forest and in his arms was a sense of eternity. Whatever he wants, I am not afraid.
“So you can touch me and you feel real…even when I’m not dreaming?”
He quickly released me, almost pushing me away. “This is enough.” He rubbed his hands up and down his cheeks. “I’m not here to get close to you.”
“You are doing a pretty good job it,” I joked as I fidgeted with the frayed edge of my t-shirt. “I mean, you’re in my bedroom at night.”
“I guess I still have some human instincts. Certain feelings transcend time, I guess.”
“What exactly are you?”
“A guide. A native spirit. You were right, your mother sent me.”
I stared at him, I looked in his dark eyes and see years of my people fighting and running. I see the screams of women and the war cries of men. His dark hair holds the strength of warriors and women who fought over time and his wide cheekbones carry the secrets of timeless battles.
“I don’t know how my emotional connections or physical connections affect things,” he said. “But I’m not here to find out.”
We stand at the top of the stairs as I wonder if he is as unwilling to end this moment as I am. I much prefer him in the daytime, even as the light is fading under the darkness of a coming thunderstorm.
“So,” he started. “You’re getting some coffee. At Higher Grounds.”
“What? How do you know? I don’t know what we are doing, to be honest. I just woke up.”
“I know. It’s my job to know what you do. However, there are still elements of unpredictability.” He tucked an errant strand of hair that didn’t make it into my ponytail behind my ear.
“To be honest, you seem to be the only unpredictable thing in my life. You could be the person who I need protection from.”
He looked at me sideways through a lock of fallen dark hair. He leaned in to kiss my cheek and was gone. A pocket of cold air where he once stood enveloped me as I walk down the stairs. “To put something back that is missing,” I heard him say though I could no longer see him.
Chapter Four
“Tylenol?” Max offered. “You look like you have a pounder of a headache.”
Max’s tall frame stepped towards me, his reddish hair glowed under the skylights of the kitchen. But over his shoulder was a pale skinned waifish figure with straight blue-black hair. She was delicately framed but not vulnerable. Her violet eyes seethed with anger and disgust at the two of us. Max, imposing and tall in his thrift store coat, seemed dwarfed by the space she takes up in the room.
My eyes burned and my mouth tasted metallic as she looked at me. I tried to point but am frozen. Max quickly turned to see what has captured my attention. Nothing. He sees nothing. The angry girl disappears, first fading around the edges until she becomes translucent, and next…gone.
Jenny breezed into the kitchen. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” I said. “Did you text me? My phone was in my jacket. I’ve been so tired lately.” My mouth was dry and my eyes were itchy.
“I know, sweets.” Jenny handed me my jacket. The wooden chairs squeaked as I pushed them in around the table.
Jenny gave me an encouraging squeeze. Part of me wanted to stay here and wait for Mateo. I have so many questions. Questions only he can answer. There is something in his presence that makes me feel safe, but is he real?
We headed to Max’s loft. His living area was cluttered but spotless at the same time, at least from what I could see in the warm light of the galley kitchen. One wall was nothing but shelves with old CD’s, iPod chargers, and music books piled everywhere. On the other side of the room, two battered skateboards lie next to a snowboard.
Max is in front of his MacBook Air using Garage Band when my phone vibrates. It’s Layne.
“You haven’t answered your phone all day. I texted you all night.” He sounded a mixture of weary, confused, and annoyed. “Where have you been?”
I felt like my throat was closing in on me. I couldn’t breathe and the air around me felt crushing. “Well, I finally slept late and now we are just hanging at Max’s. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No,” he snapped. “I called YOU remember?” His tone was sharp, but he sighed and his tone softened and quieted. “I miss you. Not to sound obsessed, but things are dark when I’m not with you.”
At first I didn’t know what to say. Max and Jenny were next to me, trying not to pay attention. I whispered into the phone as I walked away. “I don’t know that you see me for what I am, Layne. There’s a lot you don’t know about me. But I miss you too. I miss you being here.” I sighed but I felt warmer just knowing he was thinking of me.
Layne changed the subject and we are instantly more comfortable. “I’ve been thinking of my next tattoo. I’m getting psyched for more ink.”
“Where will you do it? Vegas? New York?”
“Ha ha, but no. Stuart at The Black Line is one of the best. I like to support local business.”
“He did my mom. Years ago.”
“Wild. I had a bizarre dream…really tripped out. The idea for the tattoo just came to me.”
“What was the dream, Layne?” In the corner of Max’s loft I saw the pale girl with dark circles under her eyes. She was on her toes, as if dancing ballet, her arms lifted over her head as her fingers touched gracefully. She had no shoes. I shake my head, blink, and then she’s gone.
“Well, it was more of a feeling, really. It was as if my emotions found a form, an actual dimension in space.”
He’s as crazy as you.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been crazy lately. You know that. Touring, hotels, diners, late nights. Half the time I don’t know how I feel or where I am. Sometimes scared, sometimes pissed, sometimes ecstatic. But never in the right zone.”
“Layne, I do miss you. Please come home.”
“Soon, Sparrow. I will. But this dream…it was filled with things that were wrong or inverted. People with feathers for hair, markings and vines on their bodies, and the air had color, like a rainbow. You could breathe in color. Unreal things.”
“Come home soon, Layne. I think you might be catching my dreams.”
Your dreams will destroy him too.
“Soon, I’ll be there soon.”
***
“What is that?” I asked Stuart.
“The ink for Layne’s tattoo.” He lifted the bottle and poured some of the ink into a series of miniature paper cups. The shop was dim and I couldn’t make out the colors very well but the liquid drops down li
ke huge black tears from a bottle. I was so happy that Layne is home for a week’s break in his tour, and after seeing me; the next thing on his mind was the tattoo shop. When we both come in, Stuart acts like we’ve never met before. No eye contact, no greeting, no nod, nothing.
The machine hummed as the needles touch Layne’s bare back.
“Do you want me to wait outside?” I asked. Watching him get his tattoo seems almost too intimate.
“No. Stay.” There is something very sexy about watching the needles as they pierce the surface of his skin. His face is a mixture of concentration and pain.
“Are you okay?” I felt a need to move around now. I feel tingly and my legs feel numb. The room begins to smell strange, like heat and blood.
And you think that you can do this? That you can get your mother’s ink? Fool of a girl.
“I’m good,” Layne manages between breaths. There is a fine line between the excitement of being tattooed and of being in pain. Layne is in that place.
Afterwards Layne comes to my house to rest. We go upstairs; he walks with a slight stoop.
“Get rid of the bandage,” he says between his teeth.
“I can’t. I mean, you aren’t allowed. Doesn’t it need to heal more before it’s exposed to air and bacteria?”
“I don’t care. I can’t breathe with it on. It’s too tight. It’s hot.”
“Okay. Hold still.”
He took his shirt off and I peeled back the bandage carefully. It was damp, not with blood, but with pinkish-clear plasma mixed with tiny spots of ink. “Your shirt will stick to your back if you put it back on. We should have left it on.”
“No. I’m glad it’s off. How does it look?”
“Painful. Sore. Red.”
He motioned for me to lie next to him on my bed; he was stretched out on his stomach. “You can take your shirt off too if it would make you feel better.”
I laid down and looked at him. I moved closer to him but was careful to avoid the shiny red skin around his new crow tattoo. I blew on it gently; he winced as his skin tightened with goose bumps. The Celtic knots and pattern around the crow intertwined with arrows pointing in four directions, like a compass. Finally, a bridge of sparrows flew across his shoulder blades.