by R C Barnes
“I need a seven-letter word for ardent. Hopefully, it will begin with the letter “Z”,” cried a voice sitting on the other side of the store.
“It’s zealous,” I answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Z E A?”
“Yes.”
“It fits! Yay!”
IS EVERYBODY HAPPY
The dinner party was going well – all things considered. Everyone was trying to make sure there were no fireworks. My mother and I had drawn up further lines of distinction in our truce, and the two of us were doing an excellent job of keeping ourselves in check. Terry tried not to fondle Todd with every opportunity she had – however, I did see them sneak an embrace in the hallway with Todd grabbing two large handfuls of my mother’s behind in his paws.
For my part, I worked at not sending out nasty verbal zingers even when the temptation was laid bare. I sucked down a lot of hot sauce packets. We both were hiding our frustration with over the top smiles. What do they say? – “Fake it until you make it” or some mess like that.
It seemed the guests understood they were human buffers to keep the drama from flaring up. I had both Rueben and Joanie with me. They always help me from mouthing off in front of my mother – Rueben dissolves the tension with his humor. His jokes are usually stupid, but that’s what makes them work.
And Joanie, well… let’s just say I never want Joanie to see me misbehaving. It’s not that Joanie is a saint. She is a complete goofball, but Joanie does not have a mean bone in her body. I do, and I don’t want her to see it. I don’t want Joanie to disapprove or be ashamed of me, and possibly rethink our friendship. It’s weird, but with all the concern about folks not judging each other, I care about how Joanie sees me.
My mother had Dusty and Dusty’s new squeeze there as her buffers. It turned out Dusty’s new gal pal was Carla, not Carrie. And I created a firestorm by calling her Carrie and Dusty had to convince Carla there wasn’t a Carrie. Carla was a tiny birdlike looking woman with short, cropped black hair. She looked fearful of the crowd, and a bit overwhelmed. She was cute, but I could already tell she was not going to keep Dusty’s interest for long. Her quick accusations of infidelity based on me tripping over her name was indicative of someone who was incredibly needy and insecure.
Later Dusty asked me to perform my parlor trick on Carla. She wanted me to touch the tattoo on Carla’s wrist and talk with Carla and then give Dusty the extra information I would glean. As I’ve said, Dusty thought I was overly sensitive and intuitive. She leaned towards the Sherlock Holmes route of acute perception.
Carla had the inscription “words fly away” on her wrist, and even I could see without touching the tattoo, there were tiny slits of scars on her wrist. These had come from cutting herself. I feigned interest in her ink and asked to look at it. She was hesitant because the tattoo was there to cover the scarring of her self-destruction. However, she didn’t want to look like she was a baby in front of Dusty, so she laid out her arm for my perusal. For me to “read” anything of significance, I must directly touch the tattoo. Carla looked like she was about to flinch and move her arm away, so I gently placed my other hand under her arm to steady her. I rubbed the tattoo with my finger as if the words were in Braille, and I was reading them in that fashion.
“Words Fly Away,” I repeated. “I like that. I also like the wings you have sprouting on either side like bookends. It’s really cool.”
She gave me a weak smile. She feared me. And after touching the tattoo, I understood why. This woman had been viciously bullied. She had been taunted and ridiculed and screamed at. Through the tattoo, I was able to see the central tormentor in her life. The person who had been instrumental in her misery and was the reason she had tried to take her life when she was in college. The woman in my vision spewed hateful things from her lips. “You idiot. What are you doing? You’re stupid. You weak, pathetic thing. Of course, you like girls. What guy in their right mind would want you? You’re not a woman, you’re a waste of breath.” The barrage was endless. The sad thing was I believed the tormentor was a family member, perhaps a sister. As the features on the face were like Carla’s, except the hair was longer.
“Thank you for showing it to me,” I whispered. I was embarrassed for her and felt sorry because, despite the fact she had survived her suicide attempt, and she intended to not allow hurtful words to road map her life, Carla was still vulnerable.
About half an hour later, I shared my thoughts with Dusty. Just like when I read a client for her (i.e., Glenn), I structured my findings as if I was a detective reading hidden clues or a soothsayer.
“So, what do you think?” Dusty asked.
“I think Carrie has been abused.”
“Carla,” Dusty corrected.
“Huh?”
“Her name is Carla. Oh god, I hope you didn’t call her Carrie again.”
“No. No. I’m sorry. But she seems like a Carrie. Anyway, I think she was abused…”
“Sexually?”
“No. Definitely not sexually. But seriously verbally abused. She had a bully in her life. A female bully. It was constant. Someone who called her names and told her she was stupid.”
“Her sister, I bet!” interjected Dusty.
I nodded my head as I was pretty sure that was the identity of the tormentor.
“Do you know she attempted suicide?” I asked.
Dusty looked down at her boots and shifted her weight from one foot to the next. “Yeah, I knew. I guessed when I saw the tattoo was covering something up on her wrist.”
“She seems nice,” I shared with Dusty. “Good Luck.” I wondered how Dusty would handle things now that she knew Carrie/Carla had been bullied. Carrie/Carla was the type of gal you would have to walk on eggshells around, and Dusty liked to stomp around in those cowboy boots of hers.
On the other side of the room, I heard Joanie’s familiar squeal of laughter. She and Rueben were hanging out with Ollie and a guy named Duane. Duane had come with Todd.
Todd had brought human buffers as well. My mother had already met his crew as she greeted them both with her trademark scream of a welcome and warm embrace. They laughed about some previous jokes and talked about going to some concert in Sonoma County. Both of Todd’s friends called him “Mackey” which is Todd’s last name. (insert eye roll) Watching this exchange from afar, I wondered just how long my mother and Todd had been seeing each other. These guys knew her.
Todd’s friend, Duane, was the oversized doofus of the group. He’s the one they keep around for a laugh, probably gets drunk quickly, and then does some outrageous stunt. He was large and round and delivered a boisterous chuckle, causing his torso to heave under his flimsy t-shirts. Duane went outside the house a lot during the night. I smelled cigarettes on him, so I assumed this was the reason for his disappearances. I hoped there weren’t a bunch of cigarette butts outside my bedroom window for me to find in the morning.
The other friend of Todd’s was tall and angular. He had a sharp nose and small dark eyes. When he first looked at me, it felt like his gaze was a knife sliding through me. I felt exposed. I shivered. I glanced over to the couch where Echo was sitting quietly with her collection of tiny stuffed animals. I quelled my instinct to go over there and touch Echo as if I were warding off a dark spell. This man had that effect. Later I learned his name was Nick. Nick Ryder. Nick Ryder gave me the creeps.
The house was filled with music and joyful noise. Ollie had created a taco bar, and my mom had the tub in her bathroom filled with Mexican beer and ice. It was a regular house party.
The evening came to a delightful climax when Dusty brought out her guitar and began strumming. Everyone sang along to the seventies folk tunes Dusty loved to play. Joanie has a strong, well-defined voice and sang “If I Had a Hammer” on her own as nobody wanted to drown out the clarity of her sound. Afterward, everyone begged for her to do something else, and she sang “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and I could s
ee both Ollie and Carrie/Carla wiping away tears from their eyes.
Joanie had driven to the dinner party and she gave Rueben a ride home. I had Echo come sleep in my room as I never trusted her being on her own the nights my mother had strangers in the house. Some people might think I was overly cautious, but Echo’s room was next to the bathroom. Bad things can happen, and I didn’t want someone accidentally stumbling into my sister’s room at night. My bedroom door has a lock on it. And I locked it that night.
As I suspected, Todd spent the night. When I came into the kitchen the following morning, he was there going through the dishwasher and pulling out two coffee mugs. He was wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. I walked out of my bedroom, saw him, saw his attire or lack of it, and turned around and walked back into my bedroom. I slammed the door to register my disapproval.
“Put some clothes on,” I shouted through the door.
“Sorry,” Todd answered with the voice of a car salesman. “I didn’t think you were there.”
“It’s my house. Of course, I am going to be here.” I shouted back. I whispered, “Dumbass,” under my breath. I glanced over on my bed and saw Echo lying there with her eyes open, looking right at me. I gestured for her to pull the covers over her head. She did.
I could hear my mother entering the kitchen. “What’s all the shouting?” she asked. “Bess, open the door!”
“No. Go tell him to put clothes on.”
My mother knocked on the door like she meant business. I opened it a crack and saw she was standing there in a bra and panties, and Todd was still over by the dishwasher.
“For crying out loud, mom! You go put some clothes on too. Why are you guys running around in your underwear?” I cried.
My mother’s hands flew to her forehead. “Stop with all this racket,” she scolded. “Great, now I have a headache.”
I groaned and closed the door. “Just go away,” I shouted through the door.
“Come out, Bess!”
“No. Not until the two of you are decent.” A thought then crossed my mind, and I opened the door a crack. “Tell Todd he shouldn’t prance around like that. He might give Ollie ideas.” I slammed the door and locked it. She smacked her hand on the door and tried to open it.
“I hate that lock,” she mumbled.
I heard Ollie cry out from upstairs, “I heard that comment, Missy. Don’t think I didn’t,” as my mother stomped off.
Despite the disastrous way the day began, after I emerged from my room later, my mother was in high spirits. Ollie had come down and had made scrambled eggs and had mixed in the leftover taco fillings and shells to create a delicious brunch. We were so lucky we had Ollie. My mother said he was better than Mr. French. (I have no idea who that is, but I think he was on a TV show) As I consumed my food, I could hear my mother scurrying around in the living room. Todd must have left the house as I didn’t hear his voice at all, and no sounds were coming from the bathroom.
I was tired of fighting with my mother. Bolstered by the delicious food and carrying a soothing cup of chai tea in my hand, I decided to approach her in the living room. Her face broke into a wide smile when I came in. She was on the couch and patted the area next to her for me to sit down. She then fixed me with a look like she was about to bust with anticipation.
“I had the most fantastic idea last night.”
“Yes?” I was wondering what it could possibly be. Her excitement was palpable, and I wanted to match it, but it was making me uneasy.
“We’ve wanted to add a fixed musical component to the Beloved ceremonies. We have clients bring in playlists, and that is effective. But a live performance is both compelling and emotional. What if we had a soloist who could sing certain selections for the client. Songs like “Amazing Grace” or love songs associated with the person connected to the tattoo. Wedding songs or the song from their first dance. Stuff like that. It would be an added service. And a paid position for the singer.”
It was brilliant, actually. It was a smart idea. Many people would want this added touch of intimacy to the service. The businessperson inside of me did a mini happy dance as I thought about all the revenue it would bring in. Then suddenly, I realized where my mother was going with this, and my heart dropped like a stone.
“I thought your friend, Joanie, would be perfect for this. It would allow her to make a little extra money. She has such a lovely voice. I am sure there are many songs she already has in her repertoire. We can do a two-tiered invoice structure, where if a song is something we consider a standard, and we will list them, then we will charge one cost, but if the song is something that is a special request, we can charge a bit more because Joanie will have to learn it. What do you think?”
Inwardly I groaned inside. I knew Joanie would never go for it. And now another fight was going to unfold with my mother, who failed to comprehend other folks may not approve of her lifestyle and her unstructured outlook of life.
“We can launch this pretty soon,” my mother continued, not noticing the look of dismay which must have been splashed across my face. “We have a woman coming in next week…either it’s next week or the week after that. You can check the books. But she is doing a Beloved ceremony, and the tattoo memorializes her mother. Check the books. Her name is Liza, I believe, and the piece is a dragonfly – apparently, her mother loved them as a little girl. She wanted music, and I was pulling together soundtrack themes and orchestras and violins, but if we could get a solo work from Joanie, that would be marvelous. Oh my god, I am getting goosebumps just thinking about it. Look at my arm!”
My mother threw her arm out for me to inspect. She looked at my face for confirmation, and that is when she must have seen my expression. She slowly lowered her arm, and her face shifted from wonderment to suspicion. “What is it? Don’t you like the idea?”
“It’s a great idea, mom. No, really, it is a great idea.” I gave her a smile, but I knew it was weak.
“So, what’s the problem?” My mother’s eyes were penetrating.
“Joanie would never do it.”
“Why not? You just said it was a great idea.”
“Joanie thinks tattoos are a sin. She wouldn’t want to be a part of it and…, and her father would never let her.”
“WHAT?!!!” My mother leaped from the couch like an army of fire ants had taken over the cushions.
“Witness’ believe marking your body is a sin against Jehovah.”
“That girl has been to my house and had dinner with my family and friends, and she thinks I am a sinner?!”
According to the Bible, my mother is a sinner. The tattoos were a minor infringement compared to the big fornicator part. I wished I had never opened my mouth, but what was I going to do? Lie to her? And then have her approach Joanie and then Joanie telling me I had to come up with some reason for her to decline. All that drama was a pathway to awkwardness and messy deception.
Tattoos and sexual freedom are my mother’s path. They are her choices, and there are consequences to those choices. One of which is Joan Whittier will not be a soloist at her spiritual ceremonies housed in a tattoo parlor.
My mother was screeching now.
“Mom, wait. Wait. Calm down.” I said.
“I am not going to calm down. You just told me your little friend thinks I am a sinner. Who the hell does she think she is?”
“Mom, a lot of people think you are a sinner. If you go by the ten commandments you are.” I always go right to the ten commandments because everybody has heard of those even if they don’t attend bible study. I don’t have to list the commandments or the ones she has broken. We both know what’s on her list.
My mother was glaring at me. Her arms crossed over her chest in pure defiance. “I can’t believe she has come over to my home and has the nerve to eat my food.”
“Mom, the house is different. The house is not Cosmic Hearts. She can be here. Her father allows her to come here. She just wouldn’t feel comfortable in the shop. Joanie is a Witness,
and she abides by certain truths. That is how she refers to it. She lives in the truth. But you don’t live in the truth. She is not expecting you to live in her truth.”
These words seemed to soften my mother a bit.
“It goes both ways. Joanie respects you and is respectful of you in your home. She doesn’t have to approve of the flowers all over your body. Mom, there are tons of people who dislike tattoos. You know that. You just have to respect the fact she is uncomfortable with the notion of marking your body.”
“Why do they not like it? What’s wrong with it?”
I shrugged, not really sure, but then the answer came to me. “I’m sure it has something to do with idol worship. Many pagan believers marked their bodies with runes and symbols, and they worshipped many gods. You know… a god for this and a god for that… Greeks, Romans, Native Americans, Druids…all pagans. Christianity is about worshiping the one true God.”
“Does she know about you?”
“Does she know about me, what?”
“Does she know…has she seen your foot? I mean, goodness Bess, you spend a lot of time with that girl.”
“Yeah, but I’m never barefoot.”
“Are you ashamed of it?”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I kept my mouth shut and let the silence speak for me. The inked symbol on my foot was a tether to my mother, and one Joanie would completely understand despite her probable disapproval. I just wished to avoid the hard conversation it would provoke, so I have never allowed Joanie to see me without tennis shoes on. It really wasn’t hard with the skateboarding and bike riding; I’m not a barefoot kind of gal.
I think Joanie is terrific, and I feel lucky she is my friend. She knows I am the daughter of a mega sinner, and she is okay with that. I just don’t want Joanie to think some of my mother’s queasy morality has tainted me. Even though all logic dictates it has and will. How could I escape the sin if I was living in her house?
Seeing I was also enveloped in this judgment on our household, and it wasn’t just about her, my mother dropped her angry stance and allowed her arms to fall by her side. She twisted her body this way and that in a sulky childish swing.
