And just what do you mean when you say 'normal'?
Don't think about that kind of thing, she told herself and tried to concentrate on the moment at hand.
"Can I get you something from the bar?" the waiter was asking.
Annie looked up and gave him a bright smile. "Actually," she said, "I have a question about your meat entrees."
"Sure. What do you want to know?"
Kerry immediately took a liking to their waiter. He was young—barely twenty, she guessed. A nice-looking young man with bright, cheerful eyes, dark hair pulled back into a small ponytail, trim physique. He was so friendly that she couldn't understand why Annie proceeded to give him a hard time.
"Where do you get the meat from?" Annie asked. The waiter appeared as confused as Kerry felt.
"The meat?" he said.
Annie nodded. "You know. The chicken, the ham." She glanced down at the menu. "The beef and lamb."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Were the animals raised to provide you with their meat, or did you just find it?"
"Find it?"
Kerry felt so sorry for the waiter. She looked at Rory, but all he did was shrug as if to say he'd been here before.
Annie was nodding. "Sure. Like, is it road-kill or something?"
"I can assure you," the waiter said, "that all the meat we serve is government approved."
"Oh." She actually seemed disappointed, Kerry thought. "I guess I'll have a Caesar salad then, with the bacon bits on the side."
That made Kerry remember how at breakfast Maida—or was it Zia?—had eaten all the peaches on her plate but only sniffed at the bacon she'd asked for. "I just like the smell," she'd explained. "Not the taste." It made no more sense than Annie's asking for bacon bits on the side. What was she going to do? Smell them like Zia had?
It obviously made no sense to the waiter, either. He hesitated for a long moment, but quickly recovered.
"And for you?" he asked Kerry as he wrote Annie's order on his pad. Kerry ordered a grilled cheese and ham—which made Annie pull a face—and Rory had the special of the day, a seafood pasta. After they ordered their drinks, Annie excused herself to go to the washroom. Kerry watched Annie's receding back as she wound her way through the tables before turning to Rory.
"What was all that about?" she asked.
"It's just Annie," he said. "You never know what she's going to do. I've pretty much given up trying to ever figure her out."
"But all those questions she was asking. It was so weird."
Rory nodded.
A thought suddenly occurred to Kerry. "I wonder what she'd have done if the waiter had said that they did serve road-kill."
"Probably would have ordered something."
Kerry started to laugh, but then she saw that Rory wasn't smiling.
"You're not serious, are you?" she asked Rory now.
"I don't know. Lord knows I love the woman, but sometimes she gets strange."
"I feel sorry for the waiter."
"It can get embarrassing. I was with her once when she told this bag lady to thoroughly crinkle the tinfoil she was using to line her hat with, because if the surface could catch any sort of a complete reflection, it would transfer it directly into her brain. The poor woman was terrified—I mean, we're talking about someone who wasn't all there in the first place."
Kerry shivered at the casual expression. She found herself asking that question all the time. Am I all here?
"When I asked her why she'd done it," Rory went on, "she said, 'Because for her, it's true.' " He sighed and leaned forward a little. "Actually, you're going to find that most of the people living in the Rookery are a bit strange. It's not that they're particularly dangerous or anything—though I know Brandon can look a little fierce. I guess it's just that you're going to find they're different from most folks you might know."
Want to bet? Kerry felt like asking, but all she said was, "Who's Brandon?"
"He lives in the coach house out back—second floor. The Aunts live under him. Lucius and Chloë live up on the third floor of the house."
"So they're a couple?"
"I don't even want to think about it."
"What do you mean?"
Rory shrugged. "You'll see. But since Paul died, that's about it—if you include the three of us."
"Paul used to live in my apartment?" Kerry asked.
"Yeah. He and Annie were pretty tight—best friends kind of tight."
"She must miss him."
Rory nodded. "Everybody misses him—he was a great guy—but Annie and Brandon miss him the most." He paused for a moment. "Anyway, you'll probably meet them all in the next week or so." He grinned, adding, "Though, of course, you've already met the crow girls."
"Who live in a tree."
Kerry smiled as she spoke, only now a part of the conversation she'd had with them earlier in the morning returned to her—not so much the actual words as the strange, off-kilter feeling the words had generated. She felt a touch of dizziness and had to take a quick breath, let it out slowly. Rory didn't seem to notice.
"Who might as well live in a tree," he agreed.
There was an odd note in his voice. More hidden currents, Kerry decided.
"Who might as well live in a tree?" Annie asked, slipping back into her seat.
"Maida and Zia," Rory said. "The banes of my existence."
Annie laughed. "You shouldn't let them get to you. The only reason they tease you as much as they do is because you let them get away with it." She turned her attention to Kerry before he could reply. "So do you still have to register for your classes, or did you set that up before you came?"
"How did you know I was going back to school?"
"Chloë told me."
"Oh." That made sense. "I should go upstairs and introduce myself to her. We've only spoken on the phone so far."
"How do you even know her?" Rory asked.
"She was a friend of my grandmother's." Again she got that twinge. Something in the conversation she'd had with Zia and Maida. She took another steadying breath and made herself ignore it. "When I decided to move back here, she was the only person I could think of to call who might know where I could find a place to live. I guess I was just lucky that there was an apartment available right at the same time."
Rory looked surprised. "You used to live here?"
"Not in the city. Up north, in the hills. In a little town called Hazard."
"One of the old mining towns," Annie said.
Kerry nodded. "We moved to Long Beach when I was just a kid, so I never really knew the city."
"What're you taking at Butler?" Rory asked.
"Art history. I … I've always been interested in art. I used to try to draw like my grandmother always did, but I was never much good at it and …" She shrugged. "I guess my parents didn't much like the idea, so I never really followed through on it."
Annie gave her a sympathetic nod. "So they've come around?"
"No," Kerry said. "They're dead now, so I can finally do what I want to do." She put her hand to her mouth as soon as the words came out of her mouth. "Oh, God. That sounds so horrible."
There was a moment of awkward silence, before Rory said, "You can choose your friends, but not your family. Sometimes we don't get much luck with the draw."
Annie nodded. "Blood doesn't always tell."
"I guess."
Kerry was grateful for their support, but it didn't seem to be enough to prevent the day's good spirit from draining away. She wanted to be alone. She didn't want to have to try to make more conversation. She didn't even want to eat anymore. All she wanted to do was crawl away somewhere and—
"Okay," a voice said suddenly, making her start.
Their waiter was back, cheerful once more. She hadn't even noticed his approach.
"Grilled cheese and ham for the quiet lady," he said, placing her order in front of her. "Pasta special for the gentleman. And for you," he added, placing Annie's salad on the
table with a flourish, "one Caesar, bacon bits on the side." He winked at Kerry. "Enjoy your meal."
"Isn't he sweet?" Annie said as the waiter retreated.
Kerry and Rory exchanged glances, then they both had to laugh and the awkwardness of a moment ago was gone.
Much later in the afternoon, laden with shopping bags, the three of them trudged down Stanton Street toward the Rookery. It was cooler under the shade of the oaks, but still warmer than Kerry had been expecting for early September in Newford—not that she really knew what to expect, she'd been away from the very idea of seasons for so long. She was looking forward to experiencing them again—things like actual snow and leaves falling and everything—but not so much that she didn't appreciate the perfect weather that had been with them all day. Clear skies, sun warm, the air filled with the promise of the colder weather that wasn't with them yet. She could smell the coming change.
"I'll bet the deliverymen have already been," Annie said, "and we'll have to lug all that stuff upstairs by ourselves."
"Oh, you don't have to do that," Kerry said. "I don't want to be any more of a—"
"Bother," Rory said, finishing the sentence for her. "We know. And you're not."
"It's just that …" Kerry looked from one to the other. "You guys have been so great today."
"Greatness is one of our specialties," Annie told her. "Along with humbility and a patient sufferance for those not quite so great as us."
Rory's eyebrows rose in a question. "Humbility?"
"If it's not a word, it should be," Annie said. "And look. I was right. The porch is full of furniture with not a deliveryman in sight."
Kerry's gaze followed the direction Annie indicated with a bob of her head, but before it could reach the porch, something made her look up through a small gap in the heavy foliage above them to the roof of their building. What she saw made her stop in her tracks.
"Oh, my God," she said.
"What's the matter?" Rory asked.
His obvious worry was mirrored in Annie's features. Kerry pointed toward the roof of their building that could no longer be seen because they'd taken a few steps beyond the gap.
"Up … up on the roof of the house," she said. "There's a woman sitting on the peak."
Rory relaxed. "That'd be Chloë," he said. "She likes to sit up there," he added in response to Kerry's confused look.
"Reminds her of the long ago," Annie said.
Kerry looked back and forth between them, trying to see the joke.
"But isn't it dangerous?" she asked.
"Apparently not," Rory said.
"And if she ever started to slip," Annie added, "all she'd have to do is fly away."
Now it was Rory who looked puzzled. He regarded Annie thoughtfully, then shrugged and started walking again.
"Sure," he said. "Why not? Everybody's bird-crazy in this house."
"What did you mean about long ago?" Kerry asked as she fell into step beside Annie.
Annie gave her a teasing look. "You know. When we were all animals."
Kerry still didn't get it and it was obvious Rory didn't either, though the phrase seemed to mean something to him because it took him deep into thought again until he saw or felt her looking at him. That earned her a wry smile, as if to say, I'm as much in the dark here as you.
Annie punched her lightly on the arm. "Oh, don't take everything so seriously."
"I'm not. I mean, I won't."
"Look at this," Rory said as they joined him on the porch. "Notice how when there's work to be done, the crow girls are never to be found?"
"You really think it would go quicker if they were here to help?" Annie asked.
Rory nodded. "You're right. What was I thinking?" He hefted a corner of the table to test its weight. "So who's going to give me a hand with this?"
"You hold the door," Annie told Kerry as she put the bags she was carrying down on the wicker bench. "We'll get this and the chest up first and then come back for all the smaller stuff."
11.
When had the number of tattoo parlors in town doubled? Hank wondered as he read down the list he'd copied from the yellow pages. He recognized some of the old names. Al's Tattoo Parlor, an old biker hangout on Gracie. The Tattoo Garden, down in the Market. The Buzz, over on Williamson Street where Terry's sister, Paris, worked. But there were as many he'd never heard of before. Zola's in the Zone. Silverland. Needles and Pins. Most of the newer ones also offering body piercing.
Tattoos had never been Hank's scene, not even when he was inside. Tattoos, like jewelry, got in the way of being invisible. They attracted too much notice, made people remember you.
For a long time he hadn't really understood the compulsion to take needle and ink to the skin and make a mark. Then he met Paris Lee. If you saw her in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, her black hair hanging down in a curtain over her neck, you'd never know that most of her body was covered with tattoos.
"It's my diary," she'd explained. "Every mark I've had drawn on my skin connects me to where and who I've been—so I never forget who I am and how I got here." There was no humor to the smile she offered him. "And you know what the real beauty of it is?"
Hank had shaken his head.
"Nobody can take it away."
Nobody could understand the diary, either, because the images all referred to her own personal mythology; even their positioning had a symbolic meaning. But what other people understood wasn't important. What was important was that she did. That she was able to read the complex story that was related in the bewildering pattern that ran across her torso and limbs. Some of the images were there to remind her of the things that were worth living for. The others stood as mute witness to a long dark time when a needle entering her skin wasn't adding to the story, but searching for a vein, offering only oblivion.
So Hank learned to understand the need to leave a mark, if only on your own skin. But he didn't want his to be anybody's canvas—not even his own.
Al's Tattoo Parlor was closest to the gym where he'd stopped off to change into more casual clothes, so he started there. The Al who'd given the place its name was long gone, victim of a turf war in the early seventies. The outside of the building looked like a concrete bunker, one window boarded up, the other holding a sun-faded display of tattoos. There was a sour smell inside, an unpleasant mix of body odor, machine oil and old cigarette smoke. The half-dozen bikers hanging out were old and fat or wasted-thin, all of them out of shape, unable to muster much more than tired sneers at his entrance. The young turks had their own hangouts now.
The man behind the counter was tall and lean as barbed wire and unlike the rest of them, he was still dangerous. He wore his dark hair slicked back in a ducktail. A cigarette hung from his lips, smoke curling up the side of his face. His name was Bruno and he'd done time with Moth, back in the sixties. A real wizard with a needle, inside or on the street. He recognized Hank and gave him a nod.
"Got a weird question for you," Hank said.
"Shoot."
"You do penises?"
One of the fat bikers snickered. He broke off when Bruno turned to look at him.
"I'm guessing this is someone you're looking for?" Bruno said, returning his attention to Hank.
Hank nodded.
"Ellie might have done some, but that was back when Al was running the place. Don't touch 'em myself."
That brought another snicker from where the bikers were lounging. Bruno didn't even bother looking at them this time.
"I don't suppose you keep records?" Hank asked.
Bruno gave him a thin smile. "What do you think?"
"It was worth a shot."
"What was the tattoo?"
"A cobra—goes the full length, circles around."
"Cute."
Hank shrugged.
"You might try some of those new places. They do cock-rings, the whole shot."
"Thanks. I will."
Hank got as far as the door when one of the bikers called out t
o him. He turned, leaned against the doorjamb. It was the one who'd snickered earlier.
"That dog of yours," the biker said. "The one you run with."
"He's not mine."
"Whatever. I was just wondering, what kind of a dog is it?"
"Tombs-mutt."
"I was thinking it might be part bear."
"That, too."
"Ugly son of a bitch, ain't it? Surprised nobody's taken a shot at it."
Hank knew he was just trying to save face from the way Bruno'd shut him up earlier, so he didn't take the implied threat too seriously.
"You going to be the one?" he asked, keeping his voice mild.
The biker shrugged.
"Well," Hank said. "Just remember this: I know your face."
Before the biker could respond, Hank nodded to Bruno and stepped outside. A bus was going by, leaving a cloud of diesel fumes in its wake, but it still smelled better than it had inside. He waited a moment, but no one came out. That suited him fine. He didn't need the extra grief.
He didn't get to the Buzz until two fruitless hours later. It was clean inside and air-conditioned. Spot lighting, black-and-white checkered floor, the monochrome coloring extending to the walls and ceiling. Paris was standing at the counter, talking to a customer, a striking woman, willowy and tall, with an amazing psychedelic tattoo on her shoulder. Paris blew him a kiss when she saw him come in, then returned to her conversation. The woman was looking into getting her clitoris pierced and wanted to know if it would hurt.
Jesus, Hank thought as he took a seat on the black leather couch by the window. What do you think?
Paris suited the place perfectly, as monochrome as the decor, black jeans and combat boots, a white short-sleeved shirt, her hair like black jet against her pale skin. Black lipstick, dark eye shadow above her almond-shaped eyes. The only color in the room came from her forearms and the other woman's shoulder, a kaleidoscope of swirling patterns that seemed all the more intense because of what surrounded them.
There were tattoo magazines scattered on the coffee table beside him, but Hank didn't pay any more attention to them than he did to the conversation between Paris and her customer. He went into no-time while he waited, that place where the idea of linear time held no meaning. He could sit like that for hours, aware of everything around him, but only on an animal level. The world spun on around him while he sat patient, timeless, spidered in the center of a meditative mandala, one of his own making. He didn't need a tattoo to remember who and why he was. He simply was. Only today, who he was missed Lily, and that he didn't understand at all. He barely knew the woman, didn't know her angle, didn't know if she even had an angle. But there she was in his thoughts anyway, a warm presence, a small ache, a piece of happiness all the more precious because of the landscapes he'd been walking today. County jail. Seedy streets. Tattoo parlors.
Someplace to Be Flying Page 14
