Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  He’s been my father for almost thirty years, and I’m just now figuring it out.

  At the last family gathering he’d asked Jason and Ryan the same question, but to Chris, he’d simply asked, ”How are you doing,“ because Chris was doing fine, and he knew it. If Chris and Lisa’s marriage was any sweeter, they’d both have a mouthful of cavities.

  Jason dropped his voice low. “How long, Dad. How long did you know?”

  “What? About Ryan and Eve, or you and Shelley?”

  “Me and Shelley.”

  “Jason, you know I’m not one to meddle. I leave that to your mother. I believe everyone has to make their own way and along the way, make their own mistakes. I always figured if you wanted to talk about it you would have.”

  “I didn’t know how bad things were,” Jason said. “I mean, I knew I was unhappy, but…”

  “Sometimes it’s like fine print. You know it’s there, but it’s too blurry to read. You can’t see it when you’re in it, but you’re out of it now, so that’s all that matters. The rest? It is what it is.”

  Despite the lump in the back of his throat, Jason smiled.

  “Your mom is out right now, she’ll be home later tonight. Maybe you should give her a call, but only if you want to, okay? And I know she’ll remind you, too, but don’t forget that we’re having a birthday party for your brother here on Saturday.”

  Shit. He’d made plans with Mitch.

  “You are coming, right?”

  “Yeah, of course I’ll be there.”

  A throat cleared; Jason’s boss stood in the doorway with a stack of paper in his hands.

  “Okay, Dad. I have to go. I’ll give Mom a call tonight.”

  11

  “Oh, come on,” Jason said, slamming on his brakes to avoid the front bumper of the car in front of him. He’d left the office later than usual, thanks to a new, time-sensitive project his boss had dumped on his lap, but not late enough to avoid the rush hour traffic. He sighed, glaring at the string of brake lights in front of him, and picked up his phone, regretting the decision as soon as his mother picked up the phone.

  “Have you talked to Shelley? She won’t return my calls.” Her voice was hard, her words clipped.

  “Mom, please. No, I haven’t talked to her. We are not getting back together.”

  “Jason—”

  “I know you keep thinking this is just some type of separation or argument but it isn’t. We’re done. It’s really over. We’ve been having problems for years. Years. I’m glad it’s over because it’s been miserable. I’ve been miserable.”

  Sometimes she only sees what she wants to see.

  “But—”

  “I’m serious. This is not a bad thing, okay? And she’s already involved with someone else.”

  “What? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “No, I’m not. She’s been seeing this person for a long time.”

  His mother fell silent for so long he thought she hung up. As he passed a three-car accident, the drivers’ yells mingled with the smell of exhaust and gasoline, and traffic slowed even more.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she finally said, the hard edge gone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought you and Shelley might stay in touch, and this person isn’t the real reason we split anyway. I wasn’t lying about the problems. This split has been a long time coming.”

  He inched his way to the far right lane as his exit approached.

  “I’m sorry, I wish you would have told me. No wonder she hasn’t called me back. And what about you? Did you have someone else, too?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said, as he pulled onto the exit.

  “Good. I raised you better than that.”

  “I know you did. Before I forget to ask, what time is everyone getting there on Saturday?”

  “Two o’clock. Will you bring a bag of ice? I asked Ryan, but I’m afraid he might forget. He always does. And Jason? I’m sorry I blamed you. I really am.”

  Jason pulled into his driveway a few minutes after they said their goodbyes. He grabbed his backpack, humming under his breath as he stepped up onto the back porch, but a cloud of foul-smelling air turned the hum into a strangled gasp.

  “Oh, shit.”

  A long black tail, with dark streaks of blood matting the white tip, lay curled in a neat spiral in the center of the doormat.

  Did I walk right past it this morning?

  He replayed the morning in his head: the frantic leap from the bed, the five minute shave and shower, the rush downstairs, the quick grab of his backpack, keys, and cell phone, the bleary-eyed run to his car, not thinking about anything but getting to the office. Yes, it could’ve been there. He must have stepped right over it, because if he’d stepped on it, the squish of flesh and fur and the crack of tiny bones would’ve stopped him in his tracks.

  And were there maggots? Oh yes, plenty of them, squirming and twisting on the ragged end, partially obscuring the gore. A soft breeze pushed the sick-sweet smell of rot in his face and down his throat, and his stomach lurched. He shoved the key in the lock, thrust the door open and stumbled into the kitchen, the stench following close behind.

  Once inside, he turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face, then drank from his cupped palms, washing away the slick taste of roadkill in his mouth. He wiped his hands dry on his pants and grabbed a trash bag before heading back outside.

  Suppressing a shudder, he rolled up the mat and slid it into the trash bag. His stomach twisted as he knotted the bag. Two cat tails? No coincidence there. And why were they left in his yard? He held the bag away from his body as he carried it to the trashcan at the end of the yard and took several deep breaths once he slammed the lid shut.

  He’d never seen a cat and a raccoon fight, but raccoons were tough; a cat wouldn’t stand a chance. After a fight, bits and pieces might be left over. As he approached the porch, his breath caught in his throat. A wad of bubble gum was nestled in the crack at the base of the bottom step—bright pink bubble gum.

  12

  Another storm rolled in Thursday night, carrying a heavy veil of humidity. Jason sat in his living room with the windows open and his laptop on his lap, pretending to work. A distant rumble of thunder sent a neighbor’s dog into a fit of barking, then a voice called out and a door slammed shut, cutting off the sound. He stared at the long columns of price plans and minute usage until his eyes blurred, giving up once the first raindrops landed on the roof.

  He closed the windows, grabbed a beer and went out to sit on the back porch. Dark, oily clouds roiled across the hazy sky, brightened at the edges by flashes of intermittent lightning. Rain bounced off the tin roof with small echoing ticks; the sound held a peaceful, hypnotic rhythm.

  Many years before, Shelley had wanted to change the tin for a regular shingled roof, but Jason had refused—one of the few battles he’d won. The tin roof reminded him of summer nights spent at the house during his childhood. Whenever it rained, his grandfather would grab a beer and sit out on the porch. He told Jason there was music in the rain, if he listened hard enough.

  Wind blew through the trees, rattling the branches, and the leaves made slapping noises as they shook. A light spray of rain misted his face. He’d not said a word to anyone about the cat tail and the gum, although he’d come close to telling Mitch when he called to change their Saturday plans. He was sure the neighbor boy was responsible, but how could he tell the parents? He should tell them, but they weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he saw the mother, and the father was just a vague, suited blur who emerged from the house in the morning at the same time as Jason. His car, a sleek, dark thing with tinted windows, was never in the driveway when Jason got home. There was an older sister, a red-haired girl with long, coltish legs and a perpetual frown on her pale face, and although she didn’t seem as strange as her brother, she wasn’t friendly. />
  The family never attended the annual block party; they were quiet and kept to themselves. And wasn’t that what Jeffrey Dahmer’s neighbors said? The old stereotype—he seemed like such a nice kid. The bicycle-riding, gum-chewing kid didn’t fit that bill, though. He was odd, yet odd didn’t mean he was into magic tricks.

  Poof, watch the kitty disappear.

  Jason could imagine it, if he summoned up the courage to pay them a visit. “Hello, I live across the street and I think your son is playing doctor with the neighborhood animals. Oh yeah, he also likes to peek in windows.” They’d slam the door in his face. And wouldn’t he in the same situation? Watching crime dramas on television didn’t make him an expert in anything but a Hollywood construct of crime scenes and lab work.

  He took a sip of beer and shifted in the chair, wincing at the pain in his left arm. He’d woken up with it tucked under his body, and until the pins and needles started, it hung at his side, nothing more than a lump of dead flesh, as if Dr. Frankenstein had snuck in during the night, removed his real arm and replaced it with the inanimate limb of a corpse.

  The wind picked up, blowing rain across the porch. He finished his beer and went inside.

  13

  Jason woke up at 3:30 a.m. with a shout caught in his throat. He sat up in bed, beads of sweat cooling on his brow and trailing down his spine. His mind tried to shake off the hands of sleep, but the dream didn’t want to let him go. A vague sense of chaotic movement hovered in the back of his mind, a remembrance of being dragged him by his arm to an unknown, hostile place of heat and stone, some unpleasant place where his struggles meant nothing.

  The dream lingered, beckoning him back down into the deep. He fought against it, but his eyelids slid shut, his chin dropped down, once, twice and—

  The horrible smell of smoke, ash and cinder. Distant, pain-filled screams. His feet burned as they scraped across rocky ground. Sweat from the heat stung his eyes. A voice. A scream. His own? Heat. Fire. Wind. Angry, flapping wings. And so much—

  Jason’s eyes snapped open. No. He was not going back. He stood up on shaky legs and stumbled to the bathroom. His hand missed the light switch but found the cold, porcelain edge of the sink, then the curved faucet. He ran the cold water for several long minutes and splashed his face until the dream retreated.

  As the water bubbled out of the sink, he turned on the light. Dark purple smudges shadowed the skin underneath his eyes. The left side of his neck hurt, stiff where it curved into the shoulder, and he rubbed it hard. His fingertips found a hard little knot under the skin, and he pushed it, gritting his teeth when discomfort turned to pain. When the knot finally released, his shoulder sagged in relief.

  Heading out of the bathroom, he flipped the switch with his left hand and stopped. He took a step back and turned the light on again, walking backward until his body reappeared in the mirror over the sink, with eyes as wide as a carousel horse.

  Several dots of dried blood marred the skin on his left arm only an inch above the crease of his elbow. Small specks so dark they appeared almost black. They weren’t horrible. A bug bite, or scratches made by the edge of sharp fingernails in the midst of a dark dream. No, they weren’t horrible at all, but his skin… His skin was horribly wrong. No gaping wounds or torn flesh. No signs of violence but wrong nonetheless. He made a sound in the back of his throat. The beginning of a what? A yell? A scream? Maybe the dream still held him tight. That would make sense. Asleep and dreaming. And maybe in his dream world he didn’t have a tattoo because the skin on his arm was as ink-free as it had been the night he met Sailor in the bar.

  No tattoo. Geryon, Frank, or otherwise.

  Jason couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mirror. He grabbed the edge of the sink with both hands, holding tight to the porcelain as if it were a talisman or a totem of good luck and reappearing tattoos. He closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  Tattoos don’t disappear. It’s just my eyes playing tricks.

  No matter what, he wouldn’t say a word, and he definitely would not yell. He held onto the sink hard enough to make his fingertips ache while the exhaust fan whirred overhead. A faint, metallic smell wafted up from the drain. The smell of coins piled up at the bottom of a fountain filled with scummy water. The smell of a man killing time.

  Jason opened his eyes.

  He looked in the mirror first, then down at his arm. His heart gave a heavy thud. No trace, no suggestion, of ink at all. His right hand lifted. Stopped. Lifted. Stopped. He raised his hand again and turned off the light. His fingers itched to turn it back on and check again, but his mind refused. Tattoos, nothing more than ink drawings, did not get up and walk away. A very loud voice in the back of his mind shouted in protest. It called him a wimp, an idiot, a fool.

  He wasn’t going to turn on the light again, not for all the money in the world. The bathroom rug felt warm under his feet, too warm to be anything but real. He could accept the fact he wasn’t dreaming, but he would not accept an ink-free arm. It didn’t work like that.

  It’s there. It has to be.

  He walked back into the bedroom, his steps slow and heavy. He’d left the light on, and it bathed his room in a soft bluish glow, low lighting but bright enough to see the socks he’d tossed on the floor. Bright enough to see a tattoo or a lack of one.

  The compulsion to look down at his arm felt like a strong hand on the back of his head, pushing it down. Look. Look. The kid in the back room at the party with a joint in his extended hand. You know you want to. Come on, it won’t hurt.

  No. Not for a second, not for a half second; it was better to be a fool than a madman. If he looked and saw bare un-inked skin he might not be able to hold in a yell. He might scream out loud. If he saw its absence again how could he convince himself of a dream, a daydream, a hallucination? It wasn’t worth the risk.

  And anyway, there’s nothing to see. Move along, nothing here.

  A smell lingered in the room, an odd, musky scent like an animal’s fur—a feral, hungry smell—and the voice in his head shouted things that did not (and could not) make sense. He shoved back at the voice until it choked on its own words and gave up.

  Dream trickery, that and nothing more.

  He climbed into bed, burying his face in the pillow, and the smell of Mitch’s coconut shampoo kept him company. He thought of her face, her smile, the soft noise she made in the back of her throat when he kissed her neck. He did not think about ink or skin.

  14

  When Jason woke up, his eyes protested the sun’s invasion of his bedroom. The curtains were wide open, and the overcast sky had gone on holiday. He moved on autopilot into the bathroom. The sun turned the walls into panels of luminosity so bright they sent a searing pain through his temples.

  He gripped the edges of the sink, the porcelain cold on his palms. The metal smell drifted up again, and he fought the urge to go back in his room and grab a coin. Heads, he looked. Tails, he didn’t. Near the very bottom of the sink, a single hair curled into a small, backwards C. Too short to be Mitch’s and anyway, it was dark, not light and—

  Stop being a coward and just look up.

  White-knuckled, he did. His hair stood up from his scalp in crazy, porcupine spikes, bruise-colored shadows marred the skin under his red-rimmed, bleary eyes and his arm… He sagged against the sink in relief.

  “Hi, Frank.” His voice, ragged at the edges, came out in little more than a whisper.

  The tattoo, with all its intricate lines and shading, did not answer back.

  A dream. All of it. The illusion of unmarked skin, the panicked flutter of his heart, the strange smell. Nothing more than a late-night subconscious trick, no matter how real his imagination made it.

  Of course it was a trick. Tattoos don’t disappear.

  15

  John S. Iblis stood before the wrought-iron gate surrounding the Washington Monument, staring up at the structure—178 feet of white marble with a standing figure of good old George Washington himself on top. T
he monument had been built in Baltimore’s Mount Vernon area more than fifty years before the one in Washington D.C., and such a fuss it had created. Rumors of portents in the shape of shooting stars and an eagle landing atop the monument. Or so John had heard.

  With a sigh, he gave the sturdy padlock barring his entrance one last tug, then walked away. Such a shame, really. He had always been fond of the view from the top.

  Chapter Five

  Below the Waterline

  1

  The bag of ice slapped against Jason’s thigh as he carried it into his parents’ house. His sister-in-law’s distinct laugh, high-pitched with an odd lilt at the end, rang out from the kitchen and, a moment later, his mother’s followed. Ryan slouched on the sofa next to their dad, his lips pressed in a tight line and his eyes shadowed. Problems with Eve, no doubt. The two spent more time arguing, although in quiet, clipped tones, at family functions than not. They did their best to hide it, especially from his mom, but the tension was always palpable.

  But Mom just sees what she wants to.

  Judging from Ryan’s expression, the argument had already started. Jason knew the rules, though; the problems between he and Eve were off-limits.

  “The cooler is on the back porch, as always,” his dad said, after giving Jason a hug. “Can you take the ice out?”

  Ryan followed him out the sliding glass door to the porch and lit a cigarette while Jason dumped the ice in the cooler. “I heard the big news about you and Shelley splitting up. Mom told me when she called me the other day. You really shook her up with that one. Maybe you should’ve waited a while, you know, gave her a few hints first before dropping the bomb.”

  “Believe me, it would’ve been worse if I’d waited, especially if she’d called Shelley, thinking everything was okay. Did she tell you about my tattoo, too? I think that freaked her out more than the split.”