The Skin Beneath

by Nairne Holtz

  Sam would like to tell her how sorry she is, but the words seem inadequate. She wants to hold Romey but waits for her to finish her story.

  When Romey continues, her eyes are lashed with tears. “I knew I could never do something like that again, so I left home. My parents begged me not to—Italian girls don’t leave home. But I just couldn’t live in the same house as my brother. He still had Paulo over. Anyways, I told Chloe about what I did, took her with me when I got this tattoo.” Romey lifts her wrist up. “I tried everything to get rid of the scar, aloe vera, vitamin E, you name it. And I guess that’s why I didn’t go to Chloe’s funeral. One part of me felt too guilty. I hadn’t been a good enough friend to her, I didn’t deserve to go. But another part of me was pissed off at her. I told her how fucked up it is to kill yourself, and she went ahead and did it anyway. Like it was a personal ‘fuck you’ to me.”

  Sam can understand this. Taking a deep breath, she says, “You know, Romey, I’m in love with you.”

  Romey crushes out her cigarette. Moving to the other end of the couch, she rests her chin on Sam’s shoulder. Sam can feel Romey’s chest lift, can feel the heat of her breath, can smell the smoke of her cigarettes. Why isn’t she saying anything? Doesn’t she love Sam? Sam wants to take her words back but realizes there is no point; she told Romey the truth. And Sam loves Romey so much she doesn’t care whether or not Romey loves her back, as long as Romey lets Sam be with her.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go to Detroit,” Romey murmurs.

  Sam disentangles herself. Turns so she’s facing Romey. “I have to tell you something. I came to Montreal because I got an anonymous letter claiming Chloe was killed while investigating a political conspiracy. According to Francis, Chloe was looking into something to do with the Gulf War. Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”

  Romey jerks back. “No! Are you sure the letter isn’t someone’s idea of a weird joke?”

  Sam doubts that. “I don’t think so. And I know my sister—she was a hothead. If she stumbled onto some kind of political cover-up, she would have tried to find out more. And someone could have hurt her.” At home, Chloe had acted as if youth and attitude could protect her—that other people, like her father, would respond with maturity and refuse to engage. But when Chloe left Toronto, she slipped into the lives of people far removed from her middle-class family. “Just before Chloe died, she dated this guy in Detroit.If I can find him, he might be able to tell me more.”

  “I hope he can.” Romey reaches over to seal Sam’s hands in her own. “I love you, too, Sam.”

  Relief courses through Sam. Love—this is what counts.

  Love is more important than the stories she and Romey have to tell each other.

  When Sam’s boss refuses to give her time off to go to Detroit, she gives him her notice. No one seems surprised, especially not the manager. A few days before Sam is supposed to leave, she and Romey go to the Tarn Tarns, the weekly drumming and toking festival at the foot of Mount Royal. Summer has arrived in a hurry with blasts of dry heat. Throngs of people gather in the park to enjoy the weather, to enjoy themselves. On the steps of a monument with a marble statue of one of the so-called founding fathers of confederation, white men with beards and Guatemalan vests pound on drums in frenetic unison. Below them, a gang of student-age dykes with identical short haircuts dance with varying degrees of self-consciousness beside a group of teenage boys, who are playing Hacky Sack. Two women in vintage cotton sundresses give bowls of water to their big bruisers of dogs, which look like they were rescued from the pound. In another example of familial love, a bald white man and a black woman with a foot-high nimbus of hair grasp the right and left paw of their confident, ambulatory toddler. A few other people are selling stickers and jewellery in a laid-back way, not bothering with stalls. Such an absence of capitalist zeal would never happen in Toronto, Sam thinks. The whole event has the sweetness of homemade cake.

  Romey spreads out a blanket for them. Sam sprawls on her back, hands stretched out and touching vibrant green grass not yet bleached of colour by the sun. The air is redolent with dope. A woman in orange pantaloons comes over to them to ask if they would like to buy organic menstrual cups. Romey replies that she works in a G-string and anything besides tampons doesn’t cut it.

  The woman smiles at Sam. “How about you?” she asks with gooey earnestness.

  “No thanks,” Sam says. The woman bows her head as if in prayer and meanders on. Sam wonders aloud how many more politically correct products people are going to try to sell to them.

  Romey bursts out laughing. When Sam asks her what is so funny, she just pounds her hands against the blankets. Finally she gasps, “You know those President’s Choice salad dressings, ‘Memories of Thailand’ and so on? I just thought, ‘President’s Choice Menstrual Cups, Memories of Feminism.’”

  Sam grins. “You’re bad.”

  When Romey takes some suntan lotion out of her purse, Sam offers to put it on her. Sitting up, Sam draws down the straps of Romey’s little blue sundress and smears the cream onto her skin. It has only been hot for a week, but her neck and shoulders are the colour of toasted coconut. All of her is, except her tattoo and the scar, which shines like porcelain. Sam dabs extra lotion on the area, as she knows it is more vulnerable to ultraviolet rays. Then she puts lotion on her own pale, freckled, tattooed, cancer-soliciting arms and shoulders. Because she is wearing black jeans, she doesn’t need any lotion for her legs. Finding non-dorky shorts was impossible (the camp-counsellor style was big this year), and summer makes her feel defenceless enough. Now that she’s not wearing a jacket, and her breasts are visible in her T-shirt, people have stopped calling her “monsieur” and “buddy.” Metro ticket collectors and grocery clerks pause for a moment, then ask for her bank card or give her change without using any pronouns.

  A shadow slices the grass in front of Sam. Using her hand to shield her eyes, she makes out Omar standing over them. He’s wearing a pair of black wraparound shades, which remind Sam of 3-D glasses. Romey springs up to kiss him on both cheeks, but he doesn’t kiss her back, just stiffly holds his cheeks to her. When she finishes greeting him, he crouches on the grass beside them. Looking sideways at Romey, he says, “Thought I might find you here.”

  Romey flicks her eyes in his direction but only for a few seconds. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  Omar doesn’t answer. He removes papers, a pack of cigarettes, and a baggie of pot from the pocket of his vest and begins to make a joint, rolling it on his knee with casual expertise. He licks the end closed, lights it up, and begins to smoke. He doesn’t offer any to them. After a few tokes, he begins to lecture Romey. “We’re supposed to be best friends, but I haven’t heard from you in over two months. I bang chicks, but I still call you. You bang chicks, and you still call me. I even get involved, and you still hear from me. But you? You never get serious about your, what do you call them, Romey? Your fuck buddies.” He pauses to look meaningfully at Sam.

  “I’m sorry.” Romey’s eyes widen. “I really am.”

  Omar raises his joint to his lips again and puffs his cheeks in and out like a giant toad. “I thought, ‘why’s she bugging?’ We haven’t had a fight, nope, no unkind words. Then it hits me.” He leans over and snaps his fingers in Romey’s face. She flinches but doesn’t move away from him. “She doesn’t want me to tell her new girlfriend the whole down-low on why Chloe and I stopped seeing each other.”

  Sam props herself up on her elbows.

  Omar pinches out the joint, then turns to Sam. “You see, the reason Chloe shot herself was because she walked in on me and Romey banging.”

  “How could you,” Romey rasps.

  “Did you really sleep with him?” Sam cries.

  Romey nods her head, and Sam’s heart feels as if it is clamped with steel pins. The three of them sit in the hot grass, not speaking. Omar canvasses the crowd with his eyes, but his body remains still, listening, waiting. A stranger breaks the p
eculiar tension—a shaggy-haired boy sitting beside them asks Omar to leave. He says, “You’re creating a bad vibe, man.”

  Omar snaps, “Why don’t you bounce out of here, cave boy?”

  Sam says, “I’ll leave.” She stumbles down the hill, knocking into groups of people and muttering apologies. She’s hurt and pissed off. How could Romey do that to Chloe? Romey’s explanation of why she didn’t go to Chloe’s funeral omitted some important details, reminds Sam of the way Romey confessed to the priest about boys in order to receive penance for her real sin: wanting to kiss girls. How many layers does Sam have to peel away to get the truth from her lover? How far would Romey go to protect the best friend she used to fuck? Would she lie about a political conspiracy? Would she cover up a murder? Or did she just turn away from certain facts? She’s good at that.

  When Sam reaches the street, she hears footsteps behind her and spins around.

  It’s Romey. She puts her hand out as if to touch Sam, then seems to think better of it. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sam longs for the comfort of Romey’s touch while knowing it is impossible since she is the cause of the pain. Turning from Romey, Sam begins to walk down the street.

  Romey dashes after her. “Don’t you want to know what happened? Don’t you want to know why?”

  Sam stops so suddenly Romey bumps into her. Sam moves to the side of the curb and sits down on the grass. She plucks a strand of timothy-grass and begins to chew the end. “Okay.”

  Romey drops to the ground beside Sam. Words race from her mouth. “I was in love with Chloe. She wasn’t my type sexually, but I didn’t have enough experience with girls to know that yet. I knew Omar found me attractive, and I thought, maybe all three of us could get together, take care of each other’s needs. What can I say? I was young. One night we were smoking up, listening to music, and feeling the peace, and Omar kept talking about how he thought women together were hot, so I, um, leaned over and kissed Chloe.” Romey pauses, her face flushing. “And do you know what she did? She wiped her mouth and said, ‘Don’t be a pig’ I felt so ashamed, you see, because I wasn’t very comfortable about liking girls. And I felt humiliated. She was my best friend, and she had just reduced me to the level of the guys I take my clothes off for. She refused to talk to me about it, to talk to me at all, so I fucked Omar three days later. I wanted to hurt her, and I figured I couldn’t get any lower in her eyes. And I guess I was also trying to prove to myself that I was bi, that I wasn’t a dyke.” As she tells her story, her hands pat her body looking for a pocket containing her cigarettes. The gesture begins absently but intensifies until she glances down and realizes her dress has no pockets. Her cigarettes are in her purse, which is back on the blanket where they were sitting. Romey’s head swivels towards Omar. Seeing he hasn’t left yet, she turns back to Sam to gauge her reaction.

  When Sam is sure she has Romey’s full attention, she spits out the piece of grass she was chewing. How can Romey imagine her explanation offers Sam anything? Omar cast an emotional grenade, but the professional arsonist is Romey, who stuck around to watch the fire. Romey fucked Omar and fucked over Chloe. Words bang in Sam’s head like the tam-tams. Fuck. Bang. Gang Bang. The gang’s all here. When Chloe refused to have sex with Omar and Romey, they punished her by letting her know they went ahead and did it anyway. But Omar and Romey didn’t hive off because all three were connected in the same cat’s cradle, no move possible to set these friends and lovers free.

  Romey wipes her eyes with her arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid of how you would react.”

  “Don’t.” Sam thrusts her hands out—she doesn’t want to hear any more. She walks away from Romey. Keeps going all the way down Pare Avenue to the subway.

  That night at work she cleans cutlery in a daze of misery, not speaking. She feels like bad poetry, a soppy country and western song—nothing anyone wants to hear. She puts the same rack of plates through the machine three times. During break, as she shakes fries in a bowl with a pinch of salt, she wonders why she’s making herself dinner since she’s not hungry. Beside her, Dang is using a paintbrush to spread barbeque sauce over a giant rack of ribs, cooking them part way so the cooks can make the orders more quickly. He indicates the ribs with a swish of the paintbrush. “That’s my country when I left. Everyone dead.” Before the Khmer Rouge came to power and murdered his parents and seven of his eight brothers and sisters, Dang was rich. His family owned a restaurant, he was attending university, and he spent his days driving around on a moped. He says, “When bad things happen, you never forget.” This is the first time Dang has talked to Sam about his life, and she’s touched by his subtle commiseration with her.

  After work, Sam sits down at the bar and drinks one beer after another. Maybe Chloe forgot about her promise never to leave Sam. Maybe her sister killed herself because her best friends hurt her. It isn’t hard for Sam to imagine Chloe blundering into death with the same graceless outrage with which she lived her life. If it weren’t for the postcard, Sam could believe it. But whoever sent the postcard was right about the gun, was right about Chloe investigating something. That’s two out of three. Good odds for the author of the letter being right about murder. Much better odds than Romey or Omar telling the whole truth to Sam.

  She orders shots, splashes them into her mouth. The tequila scorches a hole in her throat, melts her brain. The bartender is arguing with a waitress, but Sam can’t make out what they are saying, even though they are speaking in English. Words don’t make sense anymore because, as her father’s boyfriend likes to say when he drinks, she’s all liquored up. When Steven drinks, his Cape Breton accent emerges. After last call, Sam leaves the bar, teetering down the steps to the curb. One of the waitresses skitters after her. “Are you okay?” she asks. Her fingers smooth Sam’s gelled hair.

  No, I’m not, she thinks as she pitches forward and pukes. She can’t seem to stop puking. Some cops walk by, their gait constrained by the weight of the gear riding on their hips. Their batons look particularly lethal; more so than their guns.

  “C’est quoi le probleme?”

  “Elk est soule.”

  The cops leave Sam’s line of vision. She sits up and wipes her mouth with her shirt. The waitress lends Sam money, then convinces a cab driver to take her home. Sam has to pay the waitress back tomorrow—she has kids to look after. Did Sam know that? Sam didn’t but doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about anyone or anything. At least that’s what she tells herself.

  It takes twenty-four hours for Sam to recover from her hangover. It’s the worst she has ever had. She leaves the house to pay back the waitress, then returns home to bed.

  Over the next few days, Romey doesn’t call Sam, and Sam doesn’t call her. Sam keeps waking up at dawn, unable to go back to sleep, her brain kneading information like dough. The last time, the only other time she had insomnia, was in the months following Chloe’s death.

  Sam’s doorbell rings a few hours before she has to get up to drive to Detroit. Even though it is well after midnight, Sam opens her door. She is half asleep but wakes up as soon as she sees Romey standing outside. Without a greeting, Sam lets Romey in. When they get upstairs, Sam stares at Romey, who is wearing a tiny silver dress with black platform shoes: she has come straight from work. They gaze into each other’s eyes, sex and anger jangling, competing for priority. Sam seizes Romey’s shoulders. “I could kill you.” “Really.” Romey pauses. “How would you do that?” Sam places her right hand on the stem of Romey’s neck. “I’d strangle you.”

  Romey produces a slight smile. “I’m stronger than you so I don’t think you can.” It is true—when they wrestle, Romey usually wins. She’s a little bigger than Sam.

  Sam kisses Romey. Except it is less of a kiss and more of a plunder. Nonetheless, Romey immediately moans. When Sam grasps Romey’s nipples, they are pointy. After a moment, Romey wriggles away. She says, “Let me take a shower.”

  Sam shakes her head. “You’re not allowed.” Whe
n Romey opens her mouth to protest, Sam puts a finger against her lips. “Don’t talk. Just use your mouth to make me come,” Sam says, shoving her boxers down to her ankles and kicking them off. Romey kneels down, leans forward, and gutters her tongue along the seam of Sam’s cunt, straying on her clit. As Sam’s hands rest on the sides of her lover’s head, clamping her in place, Romey lifts her tongue ever so slightly. She slides it down, then up, so each lick overlaps half of the previous lick, a backstitch sewing Sam’s desire tight. With a fist wrapped around Romey’s hair, Sam’s commands soon veer towards pleas. When her pleasure twists free, she loosens her grip on Romey.

  Romey lies on her back on the floor, pulling her dress up and panties down but keeping her high heels on. She plays with herself, something Sam always does for her. Sam stares at Romey, aches to touch her, to feel her, to see her bouncing on their dick, but instead watches her like a creepy voyeur. Romey’s finger jiggles and her belly lifts in orgasm while Sam feels both turned on and distant. When Romey finishes, Sam puts her boxers back on and sits on her futon mattress. Romey observes Sam as if she understands something Sam does not.

  “I can’t do this,” Romey says. “We should break up.”

  “What?” All of Sam’s anger smudges away. She has been ignoring Romey to punish her, not to end the relationship. Fear trickles along Sam’s skin. “Romey, no.”

  “I need some space.” Romey hauls her underwear up, yanks her dress down. Then in an almost calm tone, she adds, “I hope you find what you’re looking for in Detroit.”