by R C Barnes
Mr. Whittier returned to the table with a chai tea for me and a single espresso for himself. We shared basic pleasantries for a minute. He asked about my family and my schoolwork. We even talked about the Golden State Warriors as Mr. Whittier mentioned he had playoff tickets, but Joanie had declined to go with him. Is this why he wants to talk to me because Joanie didn’t want to see the Warriors play? Now that I think about it, that’s odd. Joanie likes basketball.
“I imagine you are curious about why I asked to see you” Yes. Yes, I am.
He took the lemon peel and rubbed the rim of his espresso cup. “Recently, there have been many spirited discussions in my home, and most of the time, you are the center of the debate.”
Oh shit, here it comes. The only thing in recent memory I had asked Joanie to do was follow Duane Rodriguez to the Tobacco Joe smoke shop. But her father couldn’t possibly know about that. Could he?
Mr. Whittier continued. “I understand you are an excellent student.”
I shrugged. I mean, what are you supposed to say? Hell yeah, I’m an excellent student.
“Your other friend, the boy. Joanie says he is going to be attending a school back east.”
“Probably,” I responded. “But Mr. Whittier, I’m not sure what this is about. This is our junior year. Rueben and I haven’t made any decisions. We haven’t even applied yet.”
“Allow me to get to the point,” Mr. Whittier said. He took a sip of his coffee. I decided this would be a good time to take a sip of my tea. It was still too hot.
“You know I lost my wife, Joan’s mother, when Joan was ten years old. Since that time, I have struggled to raise my child as a single parent. The last few years have been very difficult because Joan is looking more and more like her mother and behaving like her. I must fight within myself to not be overly protective. Allowing Joanie to drive when my wife perished in an automobile accident took an enormous amount of prayer and faith. But I don’t want to lose my daughter by clipping her wings or shielding her from the outside. Many Witness families watch their children flee from the domestic cages they construct - never to return. Denying college or higher education can be a cage. I understand allowing my daughter to leave and not keeping her from leaving will ensure that she returns. That is more important to me than whether or not she remains a Witness.”
I remained silent. I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt if Mr. Whittier had a tattoo on his body, this would be the story I would see. I was hearing what the tattoo would show me. It felt odd to have someone directly share their pain. Most of the time I inadvertently stumble across it by touching their ink. As Mr. Whittier spoke, I envisioned a tattoo I see on many bodies, showing a cage with the door open allowing the bird to escape.
There is a single portrait of Joanie’s mother in the house, and hearing Mr. Whittier talk, I began to understand why there was only one picture. His grief was too much to withstand multiple images throughout the home. He saw his wife daily through Joanie. Every day he heard his wife’s laugh. Every day he saw her pull her hair back from her face. That must be painful but also strangely comforting.
“You are a good friend to my daughter,” Mr. Whittier added. “I am aware your home is ….” He paused for the word. Uh oh, here it comes. With Ollie’s homosexuality and my mother’s promiscuity and my illegitimacy, our home was a living embodiment of Christian values “Don’t do this.”
“Challenging” was the word Mr. Whittier settled on. “But all homes are challenging. Joan says yours is filled with spirit and freedom and love. Those are her words.”
I almost choked on my tea. Joanie thought all that?
“Elizabeth, I want you to know I support my daughter’s friendship with you. I trust her and I trust her judgment when it comes to you and your family.”
While Mr. Whittier continued talking, I felt like sinking into my chair. All I could think about was the lies I had told Joanie and how I was deceiving her regarding the situation with Todd.
I had never had an adult talk to me about trust and felt so shitty about it.
“I will finish our meeting by saying Joanie has my blessing when it comes to attending college. I know this is important to her and you, and Rueben - you said his name was - are setting good academic examples and increasing her desire for learning without compromising her values.”
I wanted to blurt out, “You’re saying if she can be friends with me and my challenging family values and still be a good Witness, then she can withstand anything Satan throws her way.” But I didn’t say that. I’m not stupid.
Instead I said. “Thank you, Mr. Whittier.”
“It’s because of my daughter’s association with you, that I believe she can handle going to college or pursue opportunities beyond my home.”
I nodded in acceptance to what I viewed as a back-handed compliment.
“Joanie’s friendship means a lot to me,” I said. “I value her a lot.” But deep down, I wondered. Do I value her if I’m lying to her? I was only telling her what I believed she could handle as if she were a four-year-old. I realized I was treating Joanie like a child while her father was sitting here, saying he was ready to allow his baby bird to leave the nest. I didn’t want to lose Joanie as a friend. I had to stop deceiving her.
Mr. Whittier sipped his coffee and smiled at me. I smiled back and sipped my tea. It was cold.
VIENNA WAITS 4 U
Saturday
It was Dusty who provided the initial concept of the Ink for the Beloved service for clients. It came out of an inspired moment after she had gone through a cathartic inking herself.
Dusty has an Italian background. Her blond hair comes from a bottle. She grew up in a Catholic household in New York City with two older brothers. One was a priest, and the other was a cop. The three siblings were close in age, and the brothers allowed their kid sister to hang around them. They were probably aware her tomboy inclinations went far deeper than just a desire to avoid dresses and the nice boys their mother kept picking out for Dusty to meet.
The siblings all planned to take a trip to Vienna after Dusty reached the age of 21. But Anthony, the brother who became a cop, didn’t make the date. He was killed in the line of duty two weeks before they were scheduled to leave for Austria. Dusty and her surviving brother, Francisco, took the bittersweet trip without Tony. They both felt he would have wanted them to go and not cancel the excursion. When they returned, both Dusty and Francisco had a few lyrics of Billy Joel’s song tattooed on their shoulders. In beautiful calligraphy, the words “Vienna Waits For You” and the coordinates of the city are inked to honor the loss of their brother.
Years later, Dusty shared this with my mother during a late night of red wine and female bonding. Terry jumped on the fact the emotional meaning of the tattoo and song had profound significance for Dusty and Francisco, and there was something to be built out of that. The story of the tattoo was compelling and could be communicated. Plus, by then, my mother was aware of the psychic ability I was displaying around tattoos. The idea behind “Ink for the Beloved” was born.
The Ink for the Beloved ceremonies were always money makers. But they were time-consuming as well, and when Echo and I were younger, my mother didn’t like doing more than two a month. But with all the added support and the enhancements Annika (supplied by Todd, cough, cough) brought, the ceremonies have turned into sold-out money-making extravaganzas. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but whenever we sold tickets, a lot of money was generated by looky-loos. Some of these people, I now believe, were Todd’s customers.
When Todd discovered Ellen Somerville was opting for a private ceremony and not selling tickets, he blew a gasket. At the time, my mother could not figure out why Todd was going berserk. Their argument was filled with thunderous roars and vicious spite. I was in my bedroom, pretending to study, but I was listening to every single vowel being spat out between the two of them.
“What is wrong with you,” my mother was screaming. They had already reached high pitch levels, so
it was easy for me to follow what was being said. Echo was at a sleepover - thank you, Maisie Kelly and the Kelly family! And Ollie was out who knows where. He was probably clubbing in San Francisco. He had left his truck if I wanted to use it. I was going to call Rueben and see if he wanted to have pizza, but then the fight had started, and I remained quiet so they would forget I was there.
“Look at the books, Terry. We have to sell tickets to the ceremony.”
“It doesn’t matter if we need to or not. Ellen has requested it be private.”
“She’s paying for Annika.”
“Yes, and she still wants it private.”
“Nobody else? No family members?”
“Private means private, asshole.”
I could hear some stomping across the floor. It sounded like Todd was pacing back and forth.
“What is the problem here?” my mother continued. “I’m offering a service, and this client has made her specifications. If she wanted a manicure done with pink polish, I wouldn’t then paint her nails blue.”
“I just know you can make more money off of this appointment,” Todd responded.
“It doesn’t matter if I can make more money. I’m not going to force people on her if she doesn’t wish it. The woman is mourning the death of her daughter. The death was already public, and so was the funeral. I’m happy to give her the privacy and peace she is seeking.”
“It’s because the funeral was public, that you can sell seats to the tattoo.”
“The funeral was public because THREE TEENAGE GIRLS died. The entire high school attended and half of the city. What is wrong with you? My God, this thinking is ghoulish.”
“Just talk to her again,” Todd spoke as if this was a demand.
“I will not. The fact Ellen is even getting a tattoo is private. She doesn’t want it broadcast all over town. She’s one of those old money “town and gown” people.”
“Then why did you say doing the work for Somerville will bring in more business if it is not publicized?”
“Because women talk, you idiot! They talk among themselves. Why do I have to explain this to you? If I respect her wishes, she will share that with other women and other families. But if I’m crass and rude and using her grief to make money, then she is not going to refer me to anyone. I know my business, Todd. Don’t interfere.”
“Fine. Fine. But I am going to remind you with all the time you have taken off…”
“You know why I took that time off.” My mother spit those words out with venom. It was said with such hostility I found myself leaning in and listening harder (if such a thing is possible). When had my mother taken time off? As far as I knew, she was at the studio regularly. I was the one who wasn’t at the studio as much. One, I was keeping my distance from Todd and two, I had been focusing my after-school time on Echo so Todd wouldn’t be the one my mother sent to the school.
“Good. We don’t need to discuss that again.” Todd’s response was forceful but not combative. It sounded like he was crossing the floor. I hoped he didn’t bring the argument into the kitchen, because then they might see I was home. The door to my room was slightly open, and I feared if I got up to shut it, they would hear the creaking of the wooden floor. I heard some items being moved around before Todd spoke again.
“I need you to hear me out,” Todd said. My mother must have scoffed and moved away because then Todd raised his voice, and it bellowed through the house.
“HEAR ME OUT DAMMIT!”
“WHAT?” I could almost see my mother standing there with her hands on her hips, staring him down with the flaming gaze of a pissed off dragon. “What is it, Todd? Are you going to tell me how to run my business? Is that it? I’ve been doing this for over twelve years. What do you think you can tell me?
“I’ve helped you out a lot. You were just breaking even a few months back. You told me you were worried about your property taxes and the expense of Bess going to college.”
My eyes widened, and I leaned in even harder. This was the first time I have ever heard my mother mention there could be problems with me going to college.
“There were also the hospital bills from Echo being sick. I saved your ass. I brought in Annika.”
“That was my idea,” my mother replied.
“Perhaps, but I found the girl. You owe me.”
“I owe you what?”
“That Beloved ceremony for Ellen Somerville has to be open to the public. You owe me that.”
“WHY?” my mother screamed. “WHY?”
Todd’s response was quiet, but it sounded like he said he had sold tickets or something because then my mother screeched even louder.
“Are you stupid?! Why would you do that?! You can’t sell tickets to an event that is not happening. That’s fraud, you idiot! Jesus Christ!”
“I know,” Todd thundered back. “That’s why you have to convince her to allow outside people to attend.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“I’m going to spell this out so you can understand it.” Todd’s voice was low, and the edge was so sharp it sliced through the air. “I have sold four tickets to the Somerville ceremony, and they will be honored, and I have five more tickets that I plan to sell. Maybe six. And all those people will be allowed into the studio. ALL of them.”
“Let. Go. Of. My. Arm.” My mother’s voice was hostile, but there was pain behind it. And I could detect a little fear.
“I just want to make sure you get the pretty picture I’m painting for you.”
I was leaning in so far; I knew any second I would topple over. Gravity was pulling me down. I was saved by the physical sounds of two people wrestling with each other. I think my mother was pulling herself out of Todd’s grasp, and something got knocked over. That sound cloaked the squeaking noise the bedsprings made when I readjusted my weight by pulling back on the comforter.
I sat very still and waited.
And listened. I wondered if I had to make my presence known. How far was the physical action going to advance?
Right when I wondered if I should do something, the tussle stopped. I could hear them both in the living room. Their breathing was hard. I imagined my mother was staring angrily at Todd, fury zinging out of her body like lightening.
“You are such an asshole,” my mother said.
“That should come as no surprise,” was his measured response.
I waited to see what my mother would say. I waited for the sharp retort to his power play, but instead, she went out the door with a slam. A few beats later, and Todd left as well. I was now alone in the house with my thoughts, and they were very disturbing thoughts.
First, there was the stunning realization, my mother had given in. She was going to let Todd sell tickets to the Somerville ceremony despite the wishes of the client. She was not going to fight him. In fact, it had sounded like Todd had physically grabbed her, maybe even had hurt her. In all the years and all the men my mother was involved with, no one had ever hurt her. I believed at that moment; she was in shock.
The second piece of information that had stunned me was the mention that my mother had not been at the studio for a few days. She had taken time off, willingly taken time off. My mother is devoted to her work and her art. The only time she didn’t engage with clients was when Echo had been sick and when she had spent a night in jail back when she and Luther had the fight. But even then, she had only missed a day and had scheduled her mandatory community service around client appointments. This sounded like planned time off, and I hadn’t been aware of it. It couldn’t have been more than one day maybe two days, otherwise I would have known. What did she do?
Third, were we having money problems? If so, this was news to me. Echo’s hospital bills would only be disastrous if we didn’t have insurance, but I knew we did. Unless it had lapsed. Also, why was my mother worried about college tuition, and why would she even discuss that with Todd? All of this told me my mother divulged a lot more than I thought to Mr. Mackey. My body
trembled with the knowledge of exposure and raw vulnerability. This guy was dealing drugs out of Cosmic Hearts, and we were so fucked.
I sucked down four packs of hot sauce in a row, and for the first time, my stomach revolted, and I vomited the fiery substance back up.
DANGER, WILL ROBINSON
There was a period in my life when I used to play “The Charles Game.” I was about five when I created the game. It was around the time when you are at school, and the teacher is asking you to list family members, and I would put down my mother and sometimes Dusty, and my mother would get upset because she didn’t want people to think she was in a lesbian relationship with Dusty. I was confused when she would tell me to just list her. That was the family – her and me. I would do this for some time, but then I would get puzzled by all her attempts to enlarge the family with the boyfriends and the babies.
Clearly, it was not just the two of us in her mind. She was dating men and after a few months, wanting me to call them Daddy. I didn’t want to draw pictures and include Simon or Thomas or whoever my mother was giggling with in the other room, so I started drawing pictures of Charles. My father.
I knew what he looked like. I had seen the pictures from the dinner party - the night I was conceived. I didn’t know anything else about him because either my mother didn’t know, or she just didn’t want ME to know. So, Charles became a prince. Or a fireman. Or a scientist. I would draw tons of pictures of Charles and give him multiple occupations. They were detailed pictures complete with backgrounds. Prince Charles was sitting on a throne with beautiful tapestries behind him. The scientist Charles was holding up a beaker with bubbles and smoke coming out of it, standing in front of a blackboard with scribbles of numbers and equations. The pirate Charles had a ship and a colorful crew, and of course, a parrot on his shoulder. The fireman Charles was saving a child from a house where flames were coming out of the bedroom window.
