by R C Barnes
Our mother is the only one who has her own bathroom. It is connected to her bedroom and could only be accessed through her room. I followed my sister to the bathroom, where it was apparent mom had just washed all her lingerie and tiny see-through T-shirts. Many bras, panties, and delicate items were hanging to dry off the shower stall and towel racks. Echo pointed to the item in question, which was hanging on a hook on the back of the door.
The minute I saw the bra, I knew my sister was right. Mom was dating again. Shit.
The bra that caused all this anxiety was a padded number and gave my mother the illusion of cleavage. It was a bold cheetah print and so obviously designed to be seen and to be taken off. Our mother only wore this bra for one purpose. The fact she had recently washed it was evidence the dating had started. She wasn’t just contemplating it; she’d already done some test runs.
I went into her room and opened the disc player next to her television. The tray slid out, and there sat the second confirmation our mother had found someone she wished to attract. In the disk tray was her cardio dance program. It was the program she used when she was interested in getting her body toned and firm. Damn it.
Echo stood next to me and looked at the dance disk as well.
“Any idea who it is?” I asked.
She solemnly shook her head, and her massive red hair flopped down over her face.
Another chill shimmied through my body. Our mother was dating, and she hadn’t told us. I wondered why. Whatever the reason, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. I took my sister’s hand and led her back to my bedroom.
“Here. Stay here for a while.” Echo smiled and made herself comfortable on a small patch of rug on the floor. I handed her some loose paper and the tin can where I stash my colored markers and crayons. Echo got to work, carefully selecting the colors she wanted to use and laying out her workspace. She began humming to herself, which was a sign of contentment.
Before I got back to my analytic geometry challenges, I pulled out a packet of hot sauce from my drawer and started sucking on the sharp, tangy liquid. The pop of the pepper in my mouth allowed my mind to focus. Sucking on hot sauce wakes me up and gives me an edge so I can think clearly. It also makes me a bit bitchy and mean, and I like that. I visualize myself as a rattlesnake, sucking on my own venom. It’s liquid power.
I listened to the song Echo was humming and was surprised. I recognized it. It was a Negro spiritual known as “Wade In The Water.” It looked funny hearing the majestic song come out of the mouth of a six-year-old white girl. A little girl with freckles splashed across her nose and a crazy hairdo, combining her red hair with plastic flowers and fairy doll hair clips hanging this way and that.
Echo started doing her own hair this school year, and her creative attempts were regularly photographed by my mother. Describing the hairstyles to other people didn’t do them justice. They had to be seen to be adequately appreciated. Echo’s newest obsession was these three-inch yellow and green fairy dolls. She liked to attach them as decorations into her curls. You could tell what kind of phase Echo was in by what she was sticking into her hair.
My mother had a social media page that highlighted Echo’s hairstyle expressions.
My mother encouraged my sister’s artistic appearance but washing Echo’s hair and combing out the snarls and removing the things she had stuck into the curls was a pain in the butt. Which, of course, meant it was not a chore my mother ever found herself doing. I tried to keep Echo’s hair in two braids down the side, and then she could stick whatever toys she wanted into the weave of the braids.
Echo had reached the refrain of the song, and I heard her quietly sing about all God’s children being in the water. My sister humming this song could only mean she had been hanging around Luther, and she was forbidden to do so. There was a restraining order against Luther. If Echo saw Luther, that meant my mother wasn’t the only person in this household keeping secrets.
I reached for another packet of hot sauce.
SPIDERWAND
Before I continue, there is something I should explain. This information is not general knowledge. In fact, there are only a select number of people who know this about me. One of those individuals is now in the hospital. At this point in my storytelling, I have not decided whether I am going to disclose this information to Tammy, the Assistant District Attorney, or to Detective Kline. I think I can relay the events without having to share this fact. Because to be honest, most people don’t believe me when I tell them. I have already revealed myself to Tammy, but I don’t think she picked up on what I was demonstrating.
It’s very simple.
I know why a person gets a tattoo.
I know the story. The true story. Everybody gets a tattoo for a reason. The inked symbol always signifies something. It could be obvious like an oak tree representing strength or a clock representing punctuality and order. Or the ink on your skin can have hidden meanings, and they must be explained for the viewer to understand its importance. Perhaps the daisy on your ankle is a reminder of the perfect day you had with your first boyfriend. The guy has vanished, but his memory lives on in your heart and now on your skin.
People sometimes lie about the story of their tattoo. Perhaps they have become embarrassed over time and feel the need to make the image about something else. It doesn’t matter. I know the truth. If I touch the tattoo and run my finger over the design, I see the truth. I know the cherubic faced angel on your shoulder is really the image of the little boy who died in the car accident you were responsible for. It’s not a random guardian angel like you claim to others.
The fact is, I know the pain. I know the sorrow. I know the hunger. I know the desire. I know the why. I know the lies. I know it all.
One of the reasons why I decided to talk to Assistant District Attorney Blount is she told me the truth about her tattoo. She had it done for empowerment, which meant there were times in her life when she was not sure of herself despite the chocolate power suit and the wine-colored silk blouse. I imagined her sneaking glances at her special star before she rose from her chair to address the jury.
Some folks love to embellish the story behind the art on their bodies. They become enamored more with the story than the artwork. They tell the story so often; it becomes their truth. For example, they believe the lotus flower on their shoulder is symbolic of their struggles. The lotus flower is an amazing plant that pulls itself out of the mud and guck of the swamps and blooms into the most glorious flower the eye can see. The flower represents success extracted out of adversity. The person sees themselves as the lotus; they can triumph out of the thickness of the swamps. When in truth, they are not the beautiful blossom but the mud itself. They are the guck that mars and covers beauty. They are the obstacle keeping the beauty from expanding. My mother has a lotus flower on her back, and as you can see, the ink has many interpretations.
How did this ability grow? How did this gift reveal itself to me? It’s hard to say. There were hints of the talent when I was little, but it flourished into being around the time I was twelve. It scared me at first because knowing the truth about people isn’t always something you want to know. Luckily my strange psychic connection is limited to tattoos and the aura energy I can extract. But it doesn’t help I am the daughter of a famous tattoo artist. Her name is Theresa Wynters. Perhaps you’ve heard of her.
If you haven’t heard of my mother’s name, then you definitely have seen her out and around Berkeley. She is the free-spirited woman running in the park with the kids and the dogs. She sprints with barefoot abandon, and her laugh hits this high squealing pitch. If there is a kite flying on the beach, she is the woman standing there glorifying the wondrous heights of the kite, complimenting the kite flyer, and giving words of encouragement and skilled advice. She is the woman at the flower stand, chatting brightly with the florist and remarking on how fragrant the roses are. At the coffee shop, she is the woman complimenting the barista on their selection of spiced cinnamon apple buns.
My mother is Theresa Wynters.
Everybody knows her.
In addition to being the woman who happily greets and befriends all the people she meets, my mother has a body that stops traffic. Yes, I said it. And it’s true. A flower garden is literally in bloom all over my mother’s body, and it is magnificent. The tattoos are an artistic accomplishment, and my mother displays them by wearing clothes that show off the ink. Her usual attire is a thin-strapped dress in a solid color. This outfit makes it literally appear as if flowers are sprouting from the fabric and moving up across her body. I am used to the tattoos now. But it is amusing when someone gets their first glance at the eye-catching ink. Old men, toddlers in strollers, policemen, and Cal students in their university gear - they always stare. Always. You must.
In the same way, everyone knows my mother, hardly anybody knows I am her daughter. I look nothing like her. Where she is wiry, thin, and small, I tower over her with a solid athletic build. Where she has warm auburn hair that falls in ringlets around her shoulders, I have long, unruly, curly brown hair, which I usually must keep in line by braiding it into two braids on either side of my face. I use the same style on Echo. It’s the only thing I know how to do with hair. It’s what my friend, Joanie, calls the “Beyonce Formation” look. I’ll do French braids in the front when I’m feeling fancy.
I have a bronze complexion, and I darken like a nut in the sun. I am of mixed race, and my father was black. My mother has a few pictures of him, and I’ve seen them, but the actual man is gone. The images I viewed show a happy person with a wide-open face, a bright smile, and deep dark brown eyes. The pictures are all taken at the same dinner party. His name was Charles, and he was only with my mother one weekend. I don’t feel abandoned, however, because, in all honesty, I don’t think he knows I exist. I don’t believe my mother ever informed him she was pregnant, and once I came along, she had no desire to share me.
My mother has never been married. She is one of those women who doesn’t believe in being tied down or allowing a piece of paper to declare the status of her heart. Those are literally her words – “the status of my heart.” Ordinarily, this does not pose problems. But it has created complications from time to time when it comes to her children. My sister, Echo Haydn Wynters, is ten years younger than me. We don’t share the same father. Poor Echo doesn’t even have pictures of hers, but my sister looks like a miniature version of our mother, so no one questions her connection to the Wynters family.
And as I’ve said, my mother is known.
With all her floral body ink, she is a walking billboard for her tattoo studio. Cosmic Hearts Tattoo is located on a corner plot in the Southside of Berkeley on Telegraph. The studio is half a mile from our house, which makes it easy to get back and forth on foot or by bike. Being on a corner lot allows my mother to take full advantage of the side of the building and a splendid mural greets motorists and pedestrians who are traveling from the north.
A long time ago, an artist who called himself Spiderwand stayed at our house for several months. Initially, my mother thought he could work out of the studio as he had a keen eye for detail, and his outlining work was impressive. However, Spiderwand was never able to get a handle on skin work. Skin is a challenging canvas. He needed a place to crash until he could hook up with an artist friend in Minnesota, so my mother let him stay at the house with food privileges in exchange for the side mural she wanted him to paint. She had been having a tagging problem in the last year on the wall, and she believed getting a painting done would cut down or end the tagging. She was right.
The mural is a collection of multicultural eyes and hands. There are times where it looks like the hands are holding the eyes, and there are times where the eyes are floating in space. The cosmic universe is depicted with the Milky Way, the planets, and variations of the cycles of the moon. The painting shows vignettes, and some are humorous like a cow jumping over a moon and an astronaut floating around a space shuttle.
The mural has hands of all different shapes, skin tones, and genders. There are rough and stunted hands and manicured and elegant hands. Some are pairs, and some are singles. And whenever you think there isn’t a balance to the piece, you step back and you realize you were wrong. Every little thing is connected. A constant balance moves with an ebb and flow.
My favorite hand on the mural is of a child with honey-colored skin and rainbow nail polish on their fingers. A beaded butterfly bracelet dangles from the wrist. The little hand points to one of the moons in the sky of the mural. A tiny mouse sits on top of this moon. He is nibbling on a piece of cheese as if he just pinched off a bite. The moon is smiling and slyly winking at the viewer. I was around six or seven when the mural was painted, and I liked to believe the hand with the butterfly bracelet was my hand. The little mouse was symbolic of me as this was my nickname for years. When I hit middle school, I told everyone to quit calling me “Mouse.” It’s embarrassing to be called “Mouse” when you’re twelve.
It took Spiderwand four months to complete the mural. I remember I didn’t like him at first, and I complained to my mother about him being around. Ollie had started cooking for us then. I liked Ollie, but I felt Spiderwand was taking advantage of us. I don’t know where I got this idea, but it seemed like he was never going to complete the mural. There were days when he didn’t go out and work on it at all. He would lay on the couch with a cloth over his eyes and claim he was thinking and visualizing. One of his thin-fingered hands would flit up and dance in the air as if he were painting in the sky. Ollie said Spiderwand got his name because of his long slender brown fingers.
Spiderwand would don these huge black rain boots and take walks up around Grizzly Peak and the fire trails. The boots looked ridiculous on him because he was this tall spindly guy, and when he walked, he stomped like an astronaut doing a spacewalk.
I told Ollie to over salt Spiderwand’s food so he would go away. Ollie is a great cook, and people do hang around our house just to eat. Ollie released the low chuckle he has. It comes from his gut, and his whole body shakes and quivers like pudding. Ollie wagged his finger and told me I was too analytical, and I didn’t understand the creative process. “Get your head out of them numbers,” he would say to me. “You’re always declaring stuff doesn’t add up. You need to look at the art and beauty around you.”
“Spiderwand is not beautiful,” I declared, haughtily. “And he smells like garlic.”
“His work is beautiful. Watch him. Watch him work. And if he ever complains about his food, I’m going to know who to blame.”
So, I did. I watched Spiderwand work. I would return from school, get my snack from Ollie, and sit near the fire hydrant to watch Spiderwand slowly move his brush across the wall. His long greasy hair would fall across his face, but his concentration was so intense he didn’t seem to notice. An area, once a blob of color, would take form and become a woman’s hand holding a single flower.
Later, I realized the hand with the flower was my mother’s hand. Spiderwand used a color on the painted fingernails, which matched a polish my mother favored. My mother keeps her hands well-manicured as she says nervous people will focus on her hands as she is working with the needles and having them clean and polished was reassuring. My mother always thinks of little details, and I could see Spiderwand was as meticulous and detail oriented as my mother. Even though he smelled like garlic.
I’ll be honest and admit I was sorry when Spiderwand left. By the time he finished the butterfly bracelet on the little girl’s wrist, I had become fascinated with his work and his strange process. I’m around artists constantly, and Spiderwand was the first person who would take substantial breaks and do something else while he was “working” and in the zone. He would even watch game shows on television as part of his process. He said game shows are the most organic way to see how people think.
Most artists I knew sketched out their ideas and images beforehand. Spiderwand didn’t. I never saw a sketchbook in his possession. How he put togethe
r this enormous and beautifully detailed mural of the solar system and eyes and hands, I will never know. For a long time, when I approached the painted wall from the street, I would remember Ollie’s words and marvel at the beauty. There was always something new to see.
Many people come and go in my life - especially artists and men, but Spiderwand left too soon. He never reached his friend in Minnesota. The friend contacted my mother about a month later, asking where he was. My mother called many numbers she had as references and friends for Spiderwand to try and locate him, but he had vanished. For months I would stare mournfully at the beautiful mural and wonder how someone could just disappear.
TEEN LIFE
It was Friday, and I was leaving the high school campus with a giddy heart. I’m a teenager, so this is a rare thing. I was actually having a good day. My classes had gone smoothly, and I knew I aced the physics quiz. Earlier, my friend, Rueben, had handed me a big plastic bag of hot sauce packets from his aunt’s taqueria. Rueben’s aunt carried my favorite hot sauce, and whenever Rueben went to her restaurant in Sonoma, he would grab handfuls for me.
I was unlocking my bicycle and preparing for my escape when Rueben came running up. Rueben is a bit of an egghead. He is a little guy, and he keeps his hair cropped short and slicked back. Luckily, he doesn’t wear glasses, but I do suspect he wears contact lenses because there are times when we are studying together when he squints his eyes while looking at the charts and images. It’s how adults look when they need to read menus in a darkened restaurant.
Rueben is the friend who knows a little bit about everything, and sometimes he can be obnoxious about it. If you are meeting Rueben for the first time, he will slip in the fact he skipped a level of math in high school within the hour. Rueben has four older brothers, and they were all football players at Berkeley High when they came through. In fact, when Rueben started in high school, some teachers were shocked to find out he was the youngest brother of Javier, Carlos, Timothy, and David. Everyone knew the legendary Martinez brothers, and poor Rueben is the runt of the family litter. But as the brawn went down with each son being born, the brains went up. Rueben is a national merit scholar and has plans of his own greatness. His current ambition outside of an Ivy League education is recognition on the game show Jeopardy. He says all the great trivia minds compete on that show, and he wants to make it clear he is the trivia master. We’ve been friends since eighth grade at Willard middle school.
