Kindred (6 page)

My mother’s Catholicism meant she turned to Jesus in her
daily life: we owed him an impossible debt for saving us from original sin and he looked on us with kindness and mercy. Sins could be and were forgiven with proper repentance, and we must love and serve God in this world.

Neither of them ever lost sight of the fact that God was the creator of all things: the sun, the moon, dancing honeybees, pregnant sea horses, and all the other wondrous creatures that live on earth.

I see now that attention to detail would have helped prevent the pickle I’m in now. I hope that I can be forgiven. My repentance is sincere.

Their shared belief that God is interested in all things great and small—the tiniest detail and the incomprehensible concept of an expanding universe and black matter—leaves me frightened about what will happen to Mo.

I worry and nibble on a fingernail. I’m not sure what I can do about his enchantment with the devil. We’ve texted and e-mailed this past week, but despite his excitement and assurances, I don’t buy his conviction that the devil isn’t all bad. I remember the heated arguments he and my dad would get into around the time of his bar mitzvah, Mo claiming that the Bible was the world’s bestselling novel, a great adventure story but a silly book to base your life on; my father, eyes flashing, insisting that the Bible is the word of God. Has meeting the devil only reinforced Mo’s belief that God is irrelevant?

Tired as I am, thinking about my father reminds me I’m supposed to check in. I call him and ask that he tell my mom about my safe arrival.

“I said two prayers when I arrived,” I tell him. There is a pause, and I wish I could see the expression on his face. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“
B’sha’ah tovah,
” he says, which literally means “in a good hour” but is used to say “Congratulations!” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. It always strikes me as odd how he is so devout and so cynical at the same time.

“Okay, Dad. Don’t forget to tell Mom.”

“I won’t. Love you, sweetheart,” he says. The kindness and love in his voice make me doubt the earlier snarkiness I thought I detected. “Take care of yourself.”

I’ve never been much for praying, but those two prayers felt right. Call me crazy, but I suspect there’s more than an even chance that divine intervention brought me here. It seems like a good idea to appreciate that, for the moment, it’s a benign, pain-free intervention. I know how quickly and easily that can change.

My job at the
Hamilton Morning Gazette
is part errand girl, part copy editor, part headline writer. The bone of contributing to a story is occasionally tossed my way, usually when a stringer has dropped the ball. I have a day, sometimes two, to catch at least three sources willing to be quoted and to verify facts, write a catchy lead and work with the existing fragment until it resembles a six-hundred-to-nine-hundred-word article. Sometimes I even take the photos that accompany the story.

I tell myself that such a well-rounded introduction to the newspaper business is every cub reporter’s dream. Or what
they would dream about after the
New York Times
gave their prestigious summer internship to someone else. I’m learning the ropes, top to bottom—though, if I’m honest, mostly bottom. But really, apart from the fact that my salary is so low that after rent and utilities I have about two hundred dollars a month for food and entertainment, I actually like my job.

Within a week of starting at the
Gazette
, I meet the mayor. He eats every morning, at seven o’clock sharp, at the Rise and Dine, a local breakfast spot. Armed with that bit of information, I accost him like a true reporter. Though unlike one, all I do is shyly say hi and introduce myself. I like the mayor, an affable middle-aged father of four who is an insurance salesman by trade. He seems to have the perpetual look of a man trying to recall some minor piece of news that slipped his mind.

Judge Bender, the county judge I meet on Wednesday, has the look of a man who hasn’t finished digesting a too large meal. He is overweight, with a bullfrog-like bulge that marries his chin to his neck. He has fluffy white hair and the complexion of a drinker. His round face is ruddy except for a raccoon patch of pale skin around his eyes, like that of a boater or skier, which is odd on a man from a landlocked state with hardly any snow. I don’t like the flare of interest I see in his eyes when Frank introduces us. I feel like a piece of pie he is eyeing for dessert.

That’s about it for the town pillars I meet during my first week.

On Frank’s orders, I explore Hamilton. Although I grew up in a southern state, living in a university town blunted
the impact of true southern life. Coming to Hamilton, I have entered the heart of southern charm, hospitality and quirkiness. The gushy friendliness on the streets, the thick accents, charm me to bits.

Spring is blooming and it seems every patch of dirt had tulip and iris and daffodil bulbs hidden in it. Pansies flash their colored faces from window boxes, and the trees are heavy with pale pink and white blossoms.

There are a lot of antique stores in Hamilton, their display windows full of down-home, country-cute decorations. Antiquing is a sport here, and it shows. I poke around in a few stores, but I don’t get the appeal. The overpriced merchandise repeats itself with astounding regularity. Roosters, large tin stars, gingham curtains and angels. Angels are very popular here. Every time I pass a sun-faded angel garden statue or a hand-painted pastel sign about guardian angels, I shudder.

I look over my shoulder and wait for the other shoe to drop.

I wonder if this is what a Mob suspect feels like right before the FBI swoops in to make an arrest.

T
WO WEEKS INTO MY LIFE
in Hamilton and more than a month since Raphael spoke to me and no shoes have dropped, nor have any other angels popped in for a visit. On the other hand, I already have a favorite coffee shop and know the librarian and the postman by name.

Although working and living here feels like the calm before the storm and I know I’m not out of the woods, I like Hamilton. It’s already grown to be less of a random spot to crash for a few months and more like the kind of place I want to stay for the foreseeable future.

I feel pleased with myself when I find a shortcut between Main Street and the library by cutting down a couple of alleys and hurrying through a slightly shabby neighborhood. It’s only a few blocks long, but unlike the cottage-like perfection of those near Main Street, this neighborhood has homes that
look more … authentic. The lawns are ragged, with large patches of dandelions and clover. The paint on the houses’ siding is either peeling or speckled with mold. There are a few commercial properties intermixed with residential ones: a mechanic’s shop, a pawnshop and a tattoo parlor. Though the houses are tiny, many have been converted into duplexes and apartments.

Hamilton is too small and quaint to have slums, but if it did, then this tiny stretch would qualify, though there’s no sense of menace or danger, just a tired lack of wealth. Several of the buildings on Main Street have strange green and yellow flags displayed this morning, and as I head to the library, I see one of them hanging on a decrepit-looking Victorian with four mailboxes nailed next to its peeling front door. I wonder why the town elders haven’t insisted on sprucing up the place. Perhaps there’s an article here.

Then, in the middle of a thought about getting a quote from the mayor on the scarcity of low-income housing, my bowels clench, my face turns clammy, and I suddenly need a bathroom.
Immediately
. I scan the street for a restaurant, a gas station—anything that might have a public restroom.

I haven’t had this kind of urgency since grade school. I press my knees together, fighting a wave of panic as I try to think.

The pawnshop is locked and the mechanic’s shop looks abandoned. I eye a big oak behind one of the more dilapidated houses but decide that I can’t do that. The only thing remotely possible is to try the tattoo parlor two houses away. But if I don’t hurry, I’ll soil myself. The urgency is so horrible I
nearly weep. In an instant I feel less than human. But the terrible need to go is too strong for embarrassment. Gripping my purse tightly, I race to the tattoo parlor and breeze inside.

I have no time for chitchat, no time to waste.

I take in the hundreds of designs pinned up on the wall. I see a couple of empty dentist-like chairs, a long counter with shelves and supplies behind it. Music from a local rock station is playing, while an underlying buzz that sounds like a dentist’s drill comes from a far corner, where I assume a tattoo is in progress. The most likely place for a bathroom is in the back, and I stride in that direction as if I have every right to.

“Hey, guys,” I say lightly, shooting a glance at the tattoo artist and his victim, a thin guy with wispy facial hair getting his calf tattooed. “Is there a bathroom here?”

“Straight back,” says the tattoo artist, bent over his work and not looking up. “Past the curtain.”

“Great,” I say, never breaking stride. “Thanks.”

I brush aside the curtain, mentally blessing the incurious, straightforward answer while frantically searching in the dim light for a bathroom door. The first one I open is to a supply closet. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. My legs start shaking from the strain. I have no time. The second door leads to a bathroom. I slam the door shut, not even bothering to lock it. Fumble with my panties. Stagger to the toilet in the nick of time.

Afterward, I lean against a midnight-blue wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass, for my legs to stop shaking.

I wash my hands, then cup water in my hands and sip,
feeling the cool, metallic liquid slide all the way down my throat and into my quivering stomach. I close my eyes and try to regroup. With heavy certainty, I know that something is terribly wrong with my body. It’s an unnerving, frightening thought. Is there an official prayer for “Oh shit, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

I take a shuddering breath and realize I’d better not stay in the bathroom too long; it was weird enough for me to come in here like I did. Squaring my shoulders, I practice smiling and go back to the main room of the parlor.

The buzzing has stopped, so the tattoo must be finished. The facial-hair guy admires a heavy black cross floating in a rectangle of conspicuously shaved skin in the middle of his calf. The skin around the tattoo is red and puffy.

Are my new symptoms my very own cross to bear? It’s a devastating thought, and one I am unable to deal with in public, in front of strangers. So, for the moment, I push it away.

“Yeah, that’s it, man,” says Facial Hair in front of a large, floor-length mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the cross. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks.”

“Good,” says the tattoo guy, carefully covering the cross with a gauze square, then snapping off his protective black gloves. “Take care of it. No sun. No scratching. Keep it clean and wash it every day, but don’t let the water pound on it—it could smear the ink.”

The two shake hands. Then Facial Hair pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and walks out. A bell jingles as the door closes.

The tattoo artist dons a new set of gloves and starts cleaning his station. He’s probably seven or eight years older than me, tall and shaved bald. Tattoos cover his arms from his short-sleeved black T-shirt to his wrists; tattoos curve down his neck and disappear under his collar. I can’t see if the rest of him is as inked as his arms, since he’s wearing jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. The black rubber gloves somehow suit him better than his natural skin.

In my pink sundress and strappy heels, I couldn’t look more out of place.

“Thanks,” I say. “It was an emergency.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

My face flushes, though his tone is dry, not mocking. I should leave. He turns away and pitches used towels in a medical waste bin. The rock station plays a live recording of “Hotel California.” The ceiling fans create a light breeze, and I don’t feel like walking out. I can’t stop watching him. I can see muscles through his thin shirt, rippling and flexing as he bends over the chair, wiping it down.

“I guess crosses are pretty popular around here,” I say, walking closer to him and leaning a hip against an adjacent black vinyl chair. I feel a strange pull toward him; there’s something elemental about him that is fascinating. Hamilton is charming and welcoming, but there is no denying that people like to live on the surface here. The pleasant, happy surface. The tattoo artist radiates something deeper and darker. Something true.

“Yeah.”

“Do you have one?”

He looks up for a second. He has dark brown eyes, almost black. “No.”

“You don’t need to look so shocked,” I say, though it seems there’s little that would shock him.

He snorts.

“It’s not like there’s anything wrong with wanting a cross on your leg. I mean, it’s a little egotistical, but the intention is nice.” I probably sound spiteful, because he looks at me oddly. I suddenly feel the same constraint I have felt ever since Raphael’s visit: that I must watch my words. Is it wrong to make jokes about the cross? I’m not certain how celestial intervention works, but I suspect it involves paying close attention to the terrestrial subject, which in this case is me. Is someone up there keeping tally of all my sins? When they reach a certain number, do I irrevocably lose? Everywhere I go, I feel eyes watching me, ears listening, minds judging.

“So, can you tattoo yourself, or do you have to find someone to do you?” I ask, changing the subject.

He looks at me again, and I start laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.” I am a little surprised at myself. The teasing, the one-sided conversation. This isn’t like me. It’s like Mo.

I sneak quick looks at his arms. At first glance they’re a mess of snaking lines, colors, forms melting into one another. But the more I look, the more the tattoos come together into something that almost makes sense, the way the longer you look at clouds, the more familiar shapes you find. I find a dragon, Maori designs, a battle-ax, a dogwood blossom.