One of the motifs of The Shadows had been the yearning of displaced, homeless people for home. The physical dwellings, views from windows, trees, gardens, filigree of cracks in ceilings, random and unremarked sights of surpassing beauty and anguished worth, once they are lost. Joshua Seigl who’d never in his lifetime been lost, a cherished son, had played a ventriloquist’s trick in reverse, taking as his own the voices of others who yearned for home.
Now he knew the feeling. Now, he was no trickster of words.
Hoisting himself up, grunting. Atop the grave marker of one Horace Joseph Renneker 1843–1871. He massaged his legs roughly. Sensation was returning in the left leg, which thrummed and throbbed like roiling ants, and more slowly returning to the right leg.
Now, he had something to report to the neurologist.
He was bareheaded, his tweed cap had fallen off and lay in the grass too far away for him to retrieve. Still it was 7:20 A.M. by his wrecked watch.
“Hello? Help . . .”
Seigl’s voice was faint, blown by the wind. He cupped his hands to his mouth. Below the hill, perhaps a quarter-mile away, the cemetery groundskeeper lived in a small stone cottage. If the man happened to be outside . . .
“Hello? Hello!”
So Seigl called into the wind. Not panicking: he’d be able to drag himself, if all else failed. And sensation was returning to his legs, which maybe meant muscle-strength, too.
Easy is the way down into the Underworld: by night and by day dark Hades’ door stands open; but to retrace one’s steps and to make a way out to the upper air, that’s the task, that’s the labor.
8
Don’t hit me.
Don’t hurt me.
Don’t send me away, please . . .
But why would he send her away when the Tattooed Girl was of use. So long as there was interest in the Tattooed Girl.
I can’t go back.
I’m so tired . . .
I’m not pregnant I swear. I’m not sick like with any . . . disease.
A female mollusc she seemed to him. Boneless, white. As if somebody split open a giant shell, spilled out what was inside. Some guys are crazy for it. Female that’s big soft floppy breasts all over.
The Easy Inn, the Bide-a-Wee. Where Dmitri had his reliable contacts.
This place I came from, they don’t want me back.
My own family, see . . . They’re kind of pissed.
Also in the county there’s what they call bench warrants . . .
I don’t know why. I don’t!
I got mixed up with these people. These guys. They were trading in some stuff.
All some people want to do is fuck you up. If they can’t fuck you, fuck you up.
Makes me so tired sometimes I want to die. But I won’t.
Because I believe in God, yes. I believe in Jesus Christ as a hope someday, to come into my heart. Someday.
A mollusc is so soft you want to squeeze and squeeze until your fist shuts upon itself . . . But better not. Yet.
Hey listen: I’m not dumb! People misjudge me, see?
I can do lots of things not just . . .
Like wait tables, kitchen work. Been a nurse’s aide, clerked in stores. I worked in a strip club in Pittsburgh, needed the money but I hated the work. Guys coming on to you all the time. Like you’re raw meat and they’re flies, or worse.
I graduated from high school. Akron Valley High. I did! I got my driver’s license when I was sixteen. I was going to start classes at Akron Community College but . . . OK you’re laughing at me, I guess. But I did these things.
DIDN’T LIKE TO kiss her or be kissed by her, her mouth was so wet and needy. And the tattoos.
They were mildly intriguing. Nothing to turn a guy seriously on. A guy who is into tattoos, body piercing, that kind of shit. To that kind of guy, Alma would be a disappointment.
In bright light the tattoo on her face looked like a faded bloodstain. Like a bruise from her eye that had slid down onto her cheek. Like her face which was this soft baby-girl face was marred, marked. Like a moth with frayed wings spread like it was trying to fly away except when you look closer the thing’s dead, won’t ever fly. And you want to swat it. Pow!
Oh! Oh why . . . Why’d you hit me, honey, I didn’t do anything wrong did I?
Right away Alma’s guilty. Takes the blame. Sleepy wide eyes and slutty hair like broom sage so dry somebody’s going to light a match and toss it. The temptation is to swat the moth again, too. Pow!
Oh, honey! Don’t, hey please don’t hit me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for whatever dumb thing I did, honey please?
AT THE EASY INN. He made the arrangements with the manager. They hadn’t been in contact for six, eight months . . . Thought you were out of the business, Mikey. Welcome back.
He’d taken her back to the house with him. Bathed her, disinfected/fumigated her. Shampooed the heavy tangled hair with his own bare hands fascinated if slightly revulsed. There was so much of this female, quivering in the soapy water. Practically kissing his hands she was so grateful. He’d fed her, he’d spoken kindly to her. He knew how to speak to strung-out females. Lost females. Females that other guys, including possibly their own fathers, have scraped off their shoes like dog shit.
I love you. Let me . . . let me love you?
Wet, the Tattooed Girl smelled like a wet dog. Big beautiful white breasts like bags of warm milk. Nipples like big brown wide-open lidless eyes. And goose pimples in the flesh around the eyes. Just to touch her, stroke her head like a dog, Alma shuddered with being so happy, so grateful, grabbed his hands and kissed them so he laughed, embarrassed.
Shrewd-eyed seeing how fleshy this girl would get, one day. A female in her prime, already she’s past her prime. Those boobs would droop to her waist by age forty-five. And at the waist she was soft, flabby. He pinched, his pinches were rough. And her belly, so round he thought for sure she was pregnant but she insisted no, she could not be pregnant, wasn’t pregnant, a few days later she began to bleed which was disgusting but a relief.
Still, she looked pregnant. Fatty thighs, hips. That belly that was so tight and round like a drum. And the big milky breasts. Some guys are crazy for this, actually. They’d pay extra.
I told you: it wasn’t done in any prison.
It wasn’t done by any girl.
OK maybe I was inside a, what’s it called, detention center for women, in Pittsburgh. Not a sentence, just booked. Forty-eight hours. Maybe some other place . . . But I was let go.
He didn’t know how he felt about the tattoos. They made Alma a novelty, which is good, but they were amateurish, the ink was faded. Like scribblings, some asshole jabbing with a needle. On the back of the girl’s neck, on her right shoulder, belly, buttocks, on the insides of her thighs. On the belly there were what looked like open gashes leaking blood. Or the raw female cunt leaking blood. Sick-o. But some guys would like it, Dmitri knew.
Honey, I told you: I didn’t know their names. Whoever did this to me. But definitely it was men, or a man.
I don’t remember too much what happened. It was a weird time for me. I know, I am lucky to be living. Not everybody is.
I run into those bastards again, I’m gonna kill them. I’ll get a gun. Or a knife. Think I won’t? I will!
I’m tougher than I look. Smarter, too.
FUCK AND FUCK and fuck and her wet screams in his ear. And her white mollusc-body heaving and bucking beneath him. And the scratchy-dry pubic hair, and the moist sucking-slapping noises between her legs. He sank himself into her up to the hilt. He pumped, spaded her like with a shovel. One of those sharp-curved pointed shovels. He had to press the palm of his hand over her mouth to quiet her. Subdue her. He was dripping sweat. Felt like blood drops oozing from his forehead like a fucking crown of thorns leaking blood down Christ’s face. He was crazy for this female. He had a wish to finish himself off and her just closing his hands around her throat, and squeezing. And squeezing.
Eager as a puppy licking his ha
nds. Oh I love you! Love you so much. You saved my life . . .
WHICH WAS TRUE. He did, and she owed him.
HE DOLED OUT meds to her. It was a ritual with all his girls: capsules on the palm of his hand lifted to the girl’s mouth, and the quavering-grateful way she craned her neck for them, swallowed them down. He liked the sensation. He was a kind person, basically. The gene for being a doctor, a healer. The gene for leadership. Alma’s wide wet fishy-gasping mouth aroused him. The way she breathed like her head was stuffed. He’d grip the nape of her soft neck, push the meds against her mouth and hold his hand against her mouth until she swallowed, swallowed again, began to whimper, choke. Mollusc is so soft you want to squeeze squeeze squeeze.
He wouldn’t, though. She trusted him. He was a trustworthy guy. He had a soul, in his dreams he saw it bright and shining as a copper penny on the pavement.
Except: possibly when he was finished with her. When she went stale on him. That had to happen, that’s life.
He’d have lots of takers. Customers. Sign her over to some guy who’d pay $$$ for the privilege of whatever he’d wish to do with the Tattooed Girl with no last name.
There was this in her favor: nobody was looking for the Tattooed Girl. Judging from what she’d said, nobody gave a shit about her.
Codeine. Oxycodone. Demerol. Anectine. Dmitri Meatte had his sources at the university hospital. Strung-out orderlies, nurses’ aides. Himself, he had not dealt seriously in five years. He’d gotten out of the business in time. Just in time.
If he made it to thirty in another few months which it looked like he would, he wouldn’t be dying young like he’d expected.
Hey no. Hey honey . . . no.
See, I love you. I love you.
I can do other things, let me? Please?
The Tattooed Girl wasn’t cooperative always. There was this side to her, and it was a surprise, and he didn’t like surprises. Like a big balloon you’ve blown up, a rubber balloon, suddenly it’s resisting you.
No! I won’t!
Her eyes rolled white in her head. She flailed, kicked. He had to take extreme measures. It began to be, after a week, ten days, twelve days of his investment, she’d wake up sometimes not the Tattooed Girl but Alma, and Alma had her own way of behaving. The Tattooed Girl was basically sweet female meat that could barely utter a coherent sentence and her eyes were out of focus and she breathed through her mouth like a dog and gave off a wet doggy heat but Alma was different, Alma could look straight at you and see you.
I said no I won’t. Oh please, honey . . .
I’m not going out there again. I’m not.
He laughed, enjoying this. This cunt! This cunt was too much. Trying to fend him, Dmitri, off with her feeble outspread fingers like trying to fend off machine gun fire with your bare hands. Made him laugh aloud. Cunt, he called her, fat cunt, knocked her staggering backward with a clip to the jaw, so hard he hurt his knuckles, one-two slamming her in the fat boobs, he’d knock her fucking teeth out, she tried this shit again.
A human punching bag, the Tattooed Girl.
Every guy needs this, sometimes.
Her mouth was bleeding. Her nose. Handful of hair yanked out. A tear in one of the soft dopey-looking nipples. Toe of Dmitri’s leather boot slammed between her legs, tearing. The Tattooed Girl screamed, fell to her knees clutching herself there between her legs like it was something precious she needed to save. Began to puke onto the rug which was more disgusting than funny.
SHE STOPPED TALKING. Hours, days. But she was unresisting now.
Those flat glassy eyes on him. Accusing him?
But no, she loved him. The Tattooed Girl loved who screwed her up the ass, kicked her in the cunt. Knew the names to call her.
He drove her to the Easy Inn Motel where he’d done business in the past. St. Paul Street South near the Greyhound station. There was a minimum of risk. Guys would pay $50. Some would pay $75. It added up. Except the Tattooed Girl was clumsy, dazed like a sleepwalker. Trying to smile, licking her lips like they hurt her. She wasn’t a pro, didn’t have the knack even when she tried. You’d be led to believe that any female looking like her would be a natural but not this one. Alma couldn’t suck a guy off to save her life, not even Dmitri she was crazy for, said she owed her life to, not even him. Mellowed on enough oxycodone to put out a wild cat, still she couldn’t. Strictly amateur. The poor bitch choked, gagged. Breathing loud like an asthma attack practically. Guys ended up disgusted, or feeling sorry for her. It wasn’t exactly a turn-on.
He was thinking he’d have to dump her someday. Maybe soon. He knew just the place. Nowhere near the city. Thirty miles away at Point Huron on the lake. This empty stretch where you could walk out onto a spit of land, there was a drop-off and the water below was at least twenty feet deep. And an undertow would carry the body out farther. He’d weigh her down of course. No one would know. No one would trace her to him. He didn’t even know her name. And she didn’t know his.
Honey, why? I love you . . .
The tattoos were shit. If you had tattoos, you had gorgeous tattoos not shit like that. He thought of taking her to be tattooed across the river. The breasts, maybe the nipples. The big soft sweet white ass. He thought of dosing her with Anectine, the muscle relaxant, hauling her over to Rochester to this guy he knew, tattoo artist he called himself, it was a great idea except it could mean trouble, revealing Alma to somebody who knew him and what if something happened to her afterward, and the cops came looking for Dmitri Meatte . . .
In his new life waiting tables at The Café he was clean. He was believed to be one hundred percent clean even by people who sniffed around him pretty closely. All that could change.
It’s OK, honey? Is it? I don’t have to . . . ? I can work some other way?
SHE GOT THE wrong idea, and giving her the right idea took some time. Eventually it was the Bide-a-Wee in Waterloo. One-storey cinder-block motel by the Thruway. Two of the crimson neon letters were burnt out so it was Bid-a-We. She’d begin to lose it half into the room. Like a big windup doll waking, blinking her eyes and seeing where she was and going crazy. No please. Nooooo.
Like a TV turned up loud. You wanted to kick in the screen to stop the noise.
GOD DAMN! He was disgusted with her lying on the floor twisted in the torn-out covers. A stink of vomit. Vomit in her hair. She was lying curled up, naked, knees to her breasts that looked rubbery, flattened out. Where the guy’d left her obviously disgusted. Her mouth was open and damp looking like a fish’s where the hook has torn the flesh and she was whistling-breathing. He’d left her for two hours, that was the arrangement, drove to a tavern in town and returned and there she was alone, looking like she’d been kicked around pretty seriously and who the fuck could blame the guy. The TV was on loud, Dmitri turned it off. He’d thought she was unconscious but she was aware of him saying in this eager pleading voice like he’d plugged her in and immediately she was back to saying this. I can work some other way, honey. Give me a chance?
9
IN THE BOOK SELLER, negotiating the familiar creaking spiral staircase to the third floor, where antiquarian and secondhand books in history, philosophy, classics and “the occult” were shelved, Seigl swore under his breath, hauling himself in an upward direction by way of the railing. His cane, useful on reasonably level surfaces, was useless here.
Seigl’s cane! Friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers and virtual strangers in Carmel Heights expressed the most ridiculous surprise and concern, seeing it for the first time. You’d think Jesus Christ was hobbling about nailed to His cross. Seigl learned to steel himself for the inevitable: “Joshua? Is something wrong?”
Tersely Seigl replied, “My knee.” Or, “My back.” Or, “Turned my ankle, jogging.” Sometimes he attributed the knee ailment to jogging, sometimes the back ailment. Sometimes he answered with an unsociable grunt.
Strangely, the cane was often singled out for examination. As if it were Seigl’s surrogate limb, one that could be examined
without embarrassment. Seigl had intended to buy a cheap utilitarian cane at the Carmel Heights drugstore where such items were sold along with walkers, wheelchairs, bedpans and portable oxygen tanks, but rummaging through a closet in his house he’d found this specimen, very likely a cane used by his Steadman grandfather. It was sleek and polished as a mahogany carving, with a slightly discolored yet impressive ivory handle. It had, Seigl thought, a certain je ne sais quoi, which is more than one could expect of a prosthetic limb.
Often, in conversation, Seigl spoke of the cane dismissively as “temporary.” Often in public he disdained to use it. (If he could walk reasonably well without it.) Yet, recalling the incident in Mount Carmel Cemetery, he carried it with him. It gave him an unexpectedly dandyish look. No doubt there was something primitive and appealing about a cane to which both men and women responded unconsciously. A talismanic scepter, a sword. A sleekly stylized phallus.
Seigl smiled. A mahogany phallus was a far better idea than a merely fleshly, mortal penis, you had to suppose.
Someone was speaking his name: “Joshua?”
“Yes? Hello.”
At the top of the stairs there stood an attractive Carmel Heights matron, wife of a lawyer, a woman with literary pretensions, a social acquaintance rather than a friend, who had not seen Seigl before with his cane. She was asking him about it now: “Is something wrong? Did you—injure yourself?” Smiling uncertainly, and touching her perfectly coiffed streaked-blond hair.
The Tattooed Girl Page 6
