by R C Barnes
This was information I filed away in the back of my brain as it wasn’t anything I wanted to share with Rueben. And having Joanie know was a big no-no. Telling Joanie Ariel’s story was about losing her virginity to a boy in high school was stressful enough. Purple Medfly might be playing nearby, but I would never convince Joanie to enter a club with me. And Rueben had a hard time convincing people he was sixteen, forget about twenty-one.
I realized dealing with an inebriated Ian Kramer might be okay. People seemed to be more honest when they have been drinking. Not honest like you’re beautiful to someone who clearly isn’t, but accurate in a truth serum type of way. If there were secrets to hold back, the brain didn’t remember those facts as quickly as when someone was sober.
I kept going back to the tattoo story showing Michael Willingham playing with Lego Star Wars sets. It didn’t match up with his claim that since he couldn’t play an instrument, he had one tattooed on his arm. For what? Punishment? Michael Willingham and his lies kept toying with me. I wondered if I would have to go back and talk with him again. My mouth also still drooled over those fantastic meatballs.
There was a television show I used to watch all the time with Luther, where there was a doctor who was a jerk. He felt justified in his demeanor because he claimed all patients lie to their doctors. I remember when I first heard the character declare this on the show, I turned to Luther and said, “That’s not true. Why would people lie to their doctors?” Luther pulled me in for a hug and answered, “people are embarrassed. They know their bad habits are usually the reason they are in a doctor’s office, to begin with, so they lie to the doctor to downplay their bad behavior.” I shrugged my shoulders at the time, not really believing what he was saying.
Later in the evening, my mind wandered as I lay in bed, and a thought crossed my mind. I lifted my left foot, so the arch of my sole was illuminated in the moonlight coming through the window. The remnants of the sparrow tattoo, inked on my foot when I was a baby, were barely distinguishable. As I grew, the features of the bird had become blurred and altered, so it was unrecognizable as anything. Someone in the know could possibly suss out the outline of a wing, but for the most part, it looked like a strange birthmark.
However, Echo’s sparrow was still discernible. Her growth had not yet blurred the bird’s image. Instead, it looked like her foot had expanded out and around the tattoo, distilling the image down. This made the sparrow even more apparent. The thought crossed my mind that one of the reasons Terry had spent hours watching over Echo in the hospital was that she was terrified of someone seeing the tattoo. Maybe she could lose her license to work or have it suspended. Or even worse, she could lose custody of Echo and possibly even me.
Tattooing one’s children is not a rational thing to do, but in those moments, my mother was not rational. The deep grief growing from her excessive miscarriages created an insane focus on the daughters that survived. We weren’t songbirds kept in cages, but pieces of DNA she felt compelled to claim, to stamp with a brand. When I did something noteworthy in school, she would smile and say, “Shoot for the moon, baby. Shoot for the moon”. But the way she said it was more for her than for me. It was a mantra spoken to soothe her soul. She was telling a piece of herself to aim high.
Luther would shake his head whenever he heard Terry say the phrase. He was a man who finished what he started, so hearing half a statement drove him nuts. He would add the rest of the words, which were “And land among the stars.” It was a phrase spoken often in the house back in the Luther days. Shoot for the moon and land among the stars.
I had been checking the Purple Medfly website daily, looking for opportunities to see Ian Kramer. There were dates set in July and August, but nothing for May or June. This made me believe they were not touring yet. Every now and then, the webmaster would post pictures of the band in rehearsals. I hoped they were hanging out in the East Bay, especially since three of the band members (Ian included) were from the Bay Area.
Finally, after checking for three days, I hit the jackpot. The group was scheduled to show up at the Monterey County fair in a surprise appearance for Memorial Day weekend. This was perfect! Monterey is a beautiful coastal city about two and a half hours away on Big Sur. It is a destination spot. I would need to convince Rueben and Joanie to take the weekend to go out there. Because of the work he must do at the farmer’s market and the occasional flea market, Rueben does not enjoy street fairs or carnivals. I guess it feels like chores to him. However, food is a good enticement for Rueben.
I started formulating a plan, figuring out how I could pull this off with Rueben and Joanie’s help. The following day I met Joanie at the library to help her cram for her environmental science. I had the chance to present my sales pitch.
“Monterey County is loaded with unique activities. We’re finishing off our Junior year. It’s been stressful, don’t you think? We deserve to get out and grab life by the moments. Monterey is the perfect getaway.” I sounded just like the tourist website. In fact, I had written down keywords that would appeal to Joanie and memorized my spiel. However, she was looking at me like I was a talking squirrel trying to sell her a car.
“It will be so much fun,” I continued. “Rueben loves clam chowder. YOU…you love clam chowder. We can challenge ourselves to find the best clam chowder on Old Fisherman’s Wharf. We can try them all!”
Joanie smiled. She liked the idea, and I literally stole that one right from the Monterey webpage. I was getting to her.
“And after sampling all the clam chowder the wharf has to offer, we could hike to the top of Garrapata State Park. They say it’s quite the view!”
Joanie was peering at me with a skeptic’s eyes. “I don’t get it. Why are you so anxious to leave? Is it even a good idea for you to be gone overnight or for a weekend? What about Echo and stuff with your mom?”
From her point of view, it looked like I was gallivanting to Big Sur less than a month after the attack of my mother. I took a beat before responding. I really needed to have Joanie on my side, but I couldn’t tell her about Todd and the drugs or the threats. I couldn’t tell her there was a ticking clock involved regarding solving the puzzle. If Joanie knew anything about this, she would go right to her father or, worse, the police. I had to sound reasonable. My requests to get away needed to make sense to her. Rueben, on the other hand, would follow me if I had bacon in my pocket.
“You’re right,” I said. “It seems sudden. But all this stuff with my mother is getting to me. I’m still kind of in shock. Maybe lost is a better word. I go to visit her and just stand there. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I have so many questions, and she can’t answer them. I need to connect and find remnants of her where I can.”
“The tattoos of the last day…” said Joanie. She nodded her head as if she understood a whole new side to me.
“Yes, seeing the last tattoos is really bringing it home that there won’t be anymore. There is nothing new to add to Terry’s gallery pages. There will be no more animal characters. No more ink. The work she has done is finished.”
Hearing this, Joanie’s eyes teared up, and she threw her arms around me. “Your mother’s work isn’t finished.“, she whispered into my ears. “You are your mother’s work. You and Echo. It’s not about the ink, Bess. It’s not just the ink.”
I allowed Joanie’s words to sink into my heart. I remained still and fought the urge within me to respond. I wanted to say something dismissive and comment about my mother’s crazy behavior, but I knew it was the wrong thing to do.
From the way Joanie was holding me, I could sense this wasn’t about me. Joanie needed this, as well. Joanie had immediately come to my side when she heard about what happened to Terry. It was 2am, and she made her father get up and take her to the hospital so she could be there. Joanie wasn’t family, and they made her wait down the hall until I came out of the hospital room. She waited for two hours for me. No word. No message was passed. But somehow, I knew when
I released my mother’s hand and entered the hallway, there would be someone outside for me. I looked up and that someone was Joanie.
Joanie lost her mother when she was eight years old. She understood the shock and the emptiness and the feelings of being adrift. She held me that early morning in the hospital corridor the same way she was holding me now. It was for fortitude and faith, not only for me but for her. Motherless girls must watch each other’s back and be the cloak over each other’s shoulders.
Joanie talked to her father, and the Monterey plan was in effect. In fact, Mr. Whittier contacted a member of the Jehovah’s Witness congregation who lived in Monterey, and she agreed to allow the three of us to spend the weekend in her home. She had an extra bedroom for Joanie and me, and Rueben would be on the couch. I wasn’t sure how I was going to pull off the county fair portion of the weekend and getting close to Ian Kramer. I might have to do that on my own while Joanie and Rueben were slurping up chowder.
Or I could come clean and tell my friends that the “I” in Maxine is playing with a band called Purple Medfly. They are performing at the Monterey Fair, which I have every intention of attending. Yeah, I could say that, but lying just seems to be my default.
I really don’t know why I didn’t tell them.
GET OVER YOURSELF
I am known for being a studious and organized individual and a welcoming presence in a teacher’s classroom. But the last few weeks had made it impossible for me to focus on academics. I couldn’t think about anything beyond my family, my friends, and my home. Discussions about college exams and personal statements bored me, and I would roll my eyes at the drama displayed in the hallways over grades and test scores. None of that shit was life and death. None of that shit was important.
A few weeks before school let out, Kelly Dallas was having a breakdown in the C building over a B- in French destroying her GPA. “I won’t get into Stanford without a 4.3”, she wailed. “My life is over! I’m going to die!”
I walked right up to that idiot, zoomed in on her tear-stained face, and said, “Go ahead. There will be more air for those of us who don’t give a shit.” A nearby vice-principal overheard my comment and goose-stepped me to the office along with the wailing Kelly, who kept crying she was going to press charges. Really? Press charges? Body shaming is an issue. So is slut-shaming. But crybaby shaming? I don’t think so. Did she think I had besmirched her character? Or stolen her pride? She had none that I could see. I almost wanted her to get a lawyer and press charges just to prove my case she was an overwrought child who didn’t have her priorities straight.
In the eyes of the school administration, having a mother in the hospital after a brutal beating gives one a lot of latitude in their behavior. I was out of the vice-principal’s office and sucking my third packet of hot sauce in ten minutes. Kelly Dallas was still texting her parents to pick her up because she was too devastated to walk home. Give me a break. My mother is comatose, and I have a drug dealer breathing down my neck, and I can still function, but this child won’t get into Stanford, and now her world is falling apart. Stanford has dodged a bullet, in my opinion.
All in all, Berkeley High School and I needed a break from each other. My counselor, Mrs. Clemson, let me know I was passing two classes and receiving incompletes in four others. I could make up the work over the summer. Mrs. Clemson gave me a bear hug, engulfing my face into her bosom and her cloying flowery perfume. She patted the back of my head, saying, “We’re rooting for you, honey. Take all the time you need.” I wanted to ask her who was “we”? And what were they rooting for? But I was anxious to get out of there and didn’t need to test any more of Mrs. Clemson’s patience.
This weekend was the planned Monterey excursion. For a profoundly religious man, I found Mr. Whittier to be quite accommodating. He never made a stink about how much time Joanie spent with Rueben and me. He didn’t question our relationship or make incorrect assumptions about Rueben because he was a guy. He made the arrangements with Mrs. Marshall down in Monterey for us to spend the weekend with her, and he gave Joanie gas money. Even though we were staying with a member of a sister congregation, Mr. Whittier expected Joanie to check in every two hours while we were gone. With Mr. Whittier, there was respect and expectations mingled with his parenting.
It was realizations like this that made me feel terrible. I knew I was not matching Mr. Whittier’s moral assumptions. I was deceiving his daughter by not telling her the whole truth, and she was such a great friend she was aware of this and not pushing the issue. I knew this would all come back and bite me in the ass. Cause, you know, Karma.
Rueben had the biggest hurdle in clearing the weekend as Saturday was a workday in his family at the farmer’s market. He needed his older brother to agree to a double shift. I jumped in and offered to work David’s shift the following two weekends, so the guy was getting two Saturdays off in the future. David was cool for one of Rueben’s older brothers, but he was always smiling at me. By working his shift, it was a win for me as I was ensuring I wouldn’t have to deal with David’s stupid grin that was always on his face whenever I caught him looking my way.
Of course, in my household, there wasn’t anybody I needed to clear my schedule with. Both Ollie and Dusty knew I would be gone for a few days, and Echo would be spending the night with Luther. I knew Ollie disliked the feeling he was responsible for Echo, and her being with Luther was best for everyone around. However, I couldn’t help being worried about the law and Child Protective Services. The police acted as if we didn’t make a big deal about it, they wouldn’t scrutinize the situation. Besides, the neighbors didn’t know there was a restraining order against Luther. They were used to seeing him around.
I spent a few hours with Echo playing school, which was her current favorite game. She’d line the dolls and stuffed animals up and then do presentations of whatever was her most recent obsession. Today’s topic was peas and how to watch out when a grownup tries to slip these little green balls into your spaghetti or guacamole. Her mention of the guacamole betrayal caused me to smile as Ollie had recently done this to Echo in his attempt to make the green dip lower in fat content. Echo was outraged. The look on her face when she discovered there were peas in the guacamole was priceless. If I were more social media savvy, it would make the perfect kid GIF showing shocked betrayal. Echo believed it was necessary to train her doll posse on the ways adults were underhanded with peas in one’s food. (Please, nobody tell her about the spinach in the chocolate protein shakes) I played along and pretended to be one of the students. I raised my hand, asking obnoxious questions about other vegetables and whether there are good ones or bad ones. Perhaps we can just go by their color, like green is bad and orange is good.
I loved doing stuff like this with Echo as you could really see her thought process in action. She wanted to condemn peas all together as being in the green food group. Still, I knew she liked celery. I was able to get her all worked up and flustered as she tried to explain that celery was the exception in the green vegetable rule. Finally, she dismissed me for talking too much and bothering people in the classroom, and I had to wear the “naughty” hat and sit in the back of the room. Boy was she learning how the world works.
Later Luther picked her up and promised to attend a nighttime nutrition class with the dolls after dinner. Echo ran down the hall to complete her packing and giving Luther time to focus on me. Great. (that was sarcasm)
Luther eyed me for a while. He was standing on the back porch outside the kitchen, so technically, he was not in the house.
“Ollie says that you’re spending the weekend in Monterey.”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Why?” Luther asked.
“Have you been there? It’s pretty nice.”
“Yes, it’s nice. Why are you going?”
“I just needed a break, and there is a fair going on. Seemed like a good time.”
“Ummm, Hmmmm,” was Luther’s reply.
“What you don
’t believe me?”
“No.”
I opened my mouth in mock dismay. “I’m shocked you think that. Joanie is coming with me. And Rueben,” I added.
“Now, I know you’re up to something.” He wagged his finger. “Joanie is your buffer.”
Echo came running back. She had her overnight bag and a handful of her dolls and stuffed animals for the nutrition class on peas. She handed a few to Luther for him to hold, and he cradled them in his arms.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Luther said. He turned his back and descended the back stairs.
“Mom says we shouldn’t say stupid,” Echo admonished.
“I stand corrected,” Luther replied. He looked back at me. “I mean it. If anything happens, you give me a call. Running off to Monterey, my ass. You’re still playing Nancy Drew.”
Okay, so what if I am.
PURPLE MEDFLY
Purple Medfly started the set going right into the guitar riff leading into Van Halen’s “Eruption.” They followed that with some Cheap Trick and then transitioned into The Rolling Stone’s song “Miss You.” The lead singer was strutting like a rooster, channeling his best version of Mick Jagger. He wasn’t half bad, the mostly middle-aged crowd loved it. However, my eyes kept drifting over to Ian. Earlier assessments of him were correct as the guy was pulling long sips from a container that couldn’t possibly be water.
The group played something by Sweet, which I knew my mother had in her music collection and then went into a Ramones medley. Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll” brought on a huge cheer, and so did Dire Strait’s “Sultans of Swing.” Purple Medfly was good. They ended their set with a hilarious rendition of “King Tut.” The musicians did the whole Egyptian hand gesture thing and had the audience mimic them.
