Within a week of starting at the Gazette, I meet the mayor. He eats every morning, at seven o’clock sharp, at the Rise and Dine, a local breakfast spot. Armed with that bit of information, I accost him like a true reporter. Though unlike one, all I do is shyly say hi and introduce myself. I like the mayor, an affable middle-aged father of four who is an insurance salesman by trade. He seems to have the perpetual look of a man trying to recall some minor piece of news that slipped his mind.
Judge Bender, the county judge I meet on Wednesday, has the look of a man who hasn’t finished digesting a too large meal. He is overweight, with a bullfrog-like bulge that marries his chin to his neck. He has fluffy white hair and the complexion of a drinker. His round face is ruddy except for a raccoon patch of pale skin around his eyes, like that of a boater or skier, which is odd on a man from a landlocked state with hardly any snow. I don’t like the flare of interest I see in his eyes when Frank introduces us. I feel like a piece of pie he is eyeing for dessert.
That’s about it for the town pillars I meet during my first week.
On Frank’s orders, I explore Hamilton. Although I grew up in a southern state, living in a university town blunted the impact of true southern life. Coming to Hamilton, I have entered the heart of southern charm, hospitality and quirkiness. The gushy friendliness on the streets, the thick accents, charm me to bits.
Spring is blooming and it seems every patch of dirt had tulip and iris and daffodil bulbs hidden in it. Pansies flash their colored faces from window boxes, and the trees are heavy with pale pink and white blossoms.
There are a lot of antique stores in Hamilton, their display windows full of down-home, country-cute decorations. Antiquing is a sport here, and it shows. I poke around in a few stores, but I don’t get the appeal. The overpriced merchandise repeats itself with astounding regularity. Roosters, large tin stars, gingham curtains and angels. Angels are very popular here. Every time I pass a sun-faded angel garden statue or a hand-painted pastel sign about guardian angels, I shudder.
I look over my shoulder and wait for the other shoe to drop.
I wonder if this is what a Mob suspect feels like right before the FBI swoops in to make an arrest.
VII.
TWO WEEKS INTO MY LIFE in Hamilton and more than a month since Raphael spoke to me and no shoes have dropped, nor have any other angels popped in for a visit. On the other hand, I already have a favorite coffee shop and know the librarian and the postman by name.
Although working and living here feels like the calm before the storm and I know I’m not out of the woods, I like Hamilton. It’s already grown to be less of a random spot to crash for a few months and more like the kind of place I want to stay for the foreseeable future.
I feel pleased with myself when I find a shortcut between Main Street and the library by cutting down a couple of alleys and hurrying through a slightly shabby neighborhood. It’s only a few blocks long, but unlike the cottage-like perfection of those near Main Street, this neighborhood has homes that look more … authentic. The lawns are ragged, with large patches of dandelions and clover. The paint on the houses’ siding is either peeling or speckled with mold. There are a few commercial properties intermixed with residential ones: a mechanic’s shop, a pawnshop and a tattoo parlor. Though the houses are tiny, many have been converted into duplexes and apartments.
Hamilton is too small and quaint to have slums, but if it did, then this tiny stretch would qualify, though there’s no sense of menace or danger, just a tired lack of wealth. Several of the buildings on Main Street have strange green and yellow flags displayed this morning, and as I head to the library, I see one of them hanging on a decrepit-looking Victorian with four mailboxes nailed next to its peeling front door. I wonder why the town elders haven’t insisted on sprucing up the place. Perhaps there’s an article here.
Then, in the middle of a thought about getting a quote from the mayor on the scarcity of low-income housing, my bowels clench, my face turns clammy, and I suddenly need a bathroom. Immediately. I scan the street for a restaurant, a gas station—anything that might have a public restroom.
I haven’t had this kind of urgency since grade school. I press my knees together, fighting a wave of panic as I try to think.
The pawnshop is locked and the mechanic’s shop looks abandoned. I eye a big oak behind one of the more dilapidated houses but decide that I can’t do that. The only thing remotely possible is to try the tattoo parlor two houses away. But if I don’t hurry, I’ll soil myself. The urgency is so horrible I nearly weep. In an instant I feel less than human. But the terrible need to go is too strong for embarrassment. Gripping my purse tightly, I race to the tattoo parlor and breeze inside.
I have no time for chitchat, no time to waste.
I take in the hundreds of designs pinned up on the wall. I see a couple of empty dentist-like chairs, a long counter with shelves and supplies behind it. Music from a local rock station is playing, while an underlying buzz that sounds like a dentist’s drill comes from a far corner, where I assume a tattoo is in progress. The most likely place for a bathroom is in the back, and I stride in that direction as if I have every right to.
“Hey, guys,” I say lightly, shooting a glance at the tattoo artist and his victim, a thin guy with wispy facial hair getting his calf tattooed. “Is there a bathroom here?”
“Straight back,” says the tattoo artist, bent over his work and not looking up. “Past the curtain.”
“Great,” I say, never breaking stride. “Thanks.”
I brush aside the curtain, mentally blessing the incurious, straightforward answer while frantically searching in the dim light for a bathroom door. The first one I open is to a supply closet. I bite my lip to keep from moaning. My legs start shaking from the strain. I have no time. The second door leads to a bathroom. I slam the door shut, not even bothering to lock it. Fumble with my panties. Stagger to the toilet in the nick of time.
Afterward, I lean against a midnight-blue wall, waiting for the pain and nausea to pass, for my legs to stop shaking.
I wash my hands, then cup water in my hands and sip, feeling the cool, metallic liquid slide all the way down my throat and into my quivering stomach. I close my eyes and try to regroup. With heavy certainty, I know that something is terribly wrong with my body. It’s an unnerving, frightening thought. Is there an official prayer for “Oh shit, what the hell am I supposed to do now?”
I take a shuddering breath and realize I’d better not stay in the bathroom too long; it was weird enough for me to come in here like I did. Squaring my shoulders, I practice smiling and go back to the main room of the parlor.
The buzzing has stopped, so the tattoo must be finished. The facial-hair guy admires a heavy black cross floating in a rectangle of conspicuously shaved skin in the middle of his calf. The skin around the tattoo is red and puffy.
Are my new symptoms my very own cross to bear? It’s a devastating thought, and one I am unable to deal with in public, in front of strangers. So, for the moment, I push it away.
“Yeah, that’s it, man,” says Facial Hair in front of a large, floor-length mirror, his eyes on the reflection of the cross. “That’s exactly what I wanted. Thanks.”
“Good,” says the tattoo guy, carefully covering the cross with a gauze square, then snapping off his protective black gloves. “Take care of it. No sun. No scratching. Keep it clean and wash it every day, but don’t let the water pound on it—it could smear the ink.”
The two shake hands. Then Facial Hair pulls the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and walks out. A bell jingles as the door closes.
The tattoo artist dons a new set of gloves and starts cleaning his station. He’s probably seven or eight years older than me, tall and shaved bald. Tattoos cover his arms from his short-sleeved black T-shirt to his wrists; tattoos curve down his neck and disappear under his collar. I can’t see if the rest of him is as inked as his arms, since he’s wearing jeans and heavy motorcycle boots. The blac
k rubber gloves somehow suit him better than his natural skin.
In my pink sundress and strappy heels, I couldn’t look more out of place.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was an emergency.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
My face flushes, though his tone is dry, not mocking. I should leave. He turns away and pitches used towels in a medical waste bin. The rock station plays a live recording of “Hotel California.” The ceiling fans create a light breeze, and I don’t feel like walking out. I can’t stop watching him. I can see muscles through his thin shirt, rippling and flexing as he bends over the chair, wiping it down.
“I guess crosses are pretty popular around here,” I say, walking closer to him and leaning a hip against an adjacent black vinyl chair. I feel a strange pull toward him; there’s something elemental about him that is fascinating. Hamilton is charming and welcoming, but there is no denying that people like to live on the surface here. The pleasant, happy surface. The tattoo artist radiates something deeper and darker. Something true.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have one?”
He looks up for a second. He has dark brown eyes, almost black. “No.”
“You don’t need to look so shocked,” I say, though it seems there’s little that would shock him.
He snorts.
“It’s not like there’s anything wrong with wanting a cross on your leg. I mean, it’s a little egotistical, but the intention is nice.” I probably sound spiteful, because he looks at me oddly. I suddenly feel the same constraint I have felt ever since Raphael’s visit: that I must watch my words. Is it wrong to make jokes about the cross? I’m not certain how celestial intervention works, but I suspect it involves paying close attention to the terrestrial subject, which in this case is me. Is someone up there keeping tally of all my sins? When they reach a certain number, do I irrevocably lose? Everywhere I go, I feel eyes watching me, ears listening, minds judging.
“So, can you tattoo yourself, or do you have to find someone to do you?” I ask, changing the subject.
He looks at me again, and I start laughing. “I didn’t mean it like that.” I am a little surprised at myself. The teasing, the one-sided conversation. This isn’t like me. It’s like Mo.
I sneak quick looks at his arms. At first glance they’re a mess of snaking lines, colors, forms melting into one another. But the more I look, the more the tattoos come together into something that almost makes sense, the way the longer you look at clouds, the more familiar shapes you find. I find a dragon, Maori designs, a battle-ax, a dogwood blossom.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” I say, remembering that I’m usually shy with strangers. He hasn’t said much as he’s cleaned up his station, and I suddenly wonder how this looks from his perspective. Flirting and ogling are clearly not my strong suit. I reluctantly push myself to stand. “You’re probably busy.”
“Not really,” he says. “It’s quiet today.” Maybe I’m reaching, but I sense a peace offering there. I wonder if he’s lonely.
“I’m Miriam,” I say, extending a hand.
“Emmett Black.” We shake. His hand is warm, his grip strong but very gentle. It feels ridiculously nice. I let go with a palpable sense of regret.
“So, Emmett Black.” I sit down in the chair because I’m tired of standing and because I want to know more about him. “How long have you lived in Hamilton?”
“Couple of years. You?”
“Couple of weeks. I like it. It’s different here.”
He laughs. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” I say. “It’s so cute and perfect, with this glaze of southern charm over it. People try to be so much like what they’re supposed to be that it makes them a little crazy. It’s the reason I decided to live here. That and the job offer.” And the small matter of fleeing a terrifying encounter with the divine, but never mind about that.
“Where do you work?”
“At the Morning Gazette. I’m a writer, copy editor, chimney sweep—basically, if it needs to be done, I’m the person to do it. Except for selling ad space. I am not a salesperson.”
“No, I can see that.”
I look to see if he’s making fun of me and decide that he is, but not in a bad way.
“What brought you to the tattoo business? I’m not being nosy,” I say before he can answer. “I’m doing my job. We do profiles on prominent and/or interesting citizens.”
“You think I qualify?” His deep voice carries amusement, skepticism and a hint of resentment.
“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” I say. That surprises a laugh out of him, which pleases me no end.
But he doesn’t have a chance to answer, because the bell jingles behind me. We both turn to see two giggling college girls walk in, standing close and bumping into each other for strength.
“How can I help you?” he says. It’s only when he steps toward them that I realize how close he’s been standing to me.
“Hi,” one says uncertainly, glancing at him, then at me. “Um, we wanted to get matching tattoos.” They both start giggling again.
“Yeah, you know”—giggle, giggle—“tramp stamps.”
Emmett looks serious as he listens to the description of the tattoo.
“I can sketch you something. Come back in an hour.”
“Oh.” They’re clearly disappointed and shoot another quick appraising glance in my direction. “We can’t, you know, do it now?” I wonder if they think I’m his girlfriend.
“If you picked flash, I could do it now. But if you want something original, then I have to draw it first,” he explains patiently.
A furious discussion ensues, with lots of giggling, hair-twirling and lip-biting.
“He’s got mad skills,” I pipe in with conviction. Come back in an hour, I think, I’m not finished talking with him yet. Emmett doesn’t look my way, but I feel he’s hiding a smile.
The girls roll their eyes, but it’s settled: they decide they would rather have an “original design.” I can tell how much it pleases them to phrase it that way, and I can almost hear them talk about it at the next party they go to. An original design. One of a kind. Except they’re both going to get the same one: two daisies tied together with a ribbon. The design might be original, but the concept is hackneyed.
The bell jingles as they leave and we’re alone in the shop again. An old Indigo Girls song comes on, their deep, raspy voices harmonizing about a faithless lover.
“Thanks for the endorsement,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of my work.”
“How long before they have a great big fight and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?” I ask, ignoring his ironic tone.
“Six months.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“And no,” he says. “I don’t feel bad that the tattoo will be there forever, long after they’re not friends.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it,” he says in that deep voice. “Everyone does. What a tattoo does is capture a moment. It’s there with you, a part of you, long after the moment is gone and the memory fades.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “But don’t come crying to me when they sue you.”
Again, I feel almost proud when he laughs.
“I should let you get back to work,” I say, sliding reluctantly off the seat. “Today just got a little less quiet.”
“Come back and use the bathroom anytime,” he says—an understated invitation to return.
“Thanks.” I smile. “I will.”
The bell jingles behind me as I go, leaving him to his sketching.
Thinking how nice it was to talk with him, I realize that I am desperate to pretend I’m normal and healthy and not stalked by angels, punished by God.
Yet even without shoes dropping or angels visiting, just the thought of that icy clear light, that terrible voice, makes me feel weak and ill. I glance over at the quiet haven of the tatt
oo shop, which seems like a bastion of normalcy even as it projects a sense of urban edginess in this quaint little town. And just like it forces Hamilton to acknowledge that it is no longer the 1950s, I know that no matter what I want to pretend, the truth is with me. The issue of what drove me into the tattoo parlor is inescapable. I need a doctor, but I fear what I have is nothing a mortal can fix.
As my mother said when we were younger and faced unpleasant consequences, my chickens had come home to roost.
I shiver, though the day is pleasant and warm.
I begin my walk to the newspaper office, wrapped in melancholy.
VIII.
ON MY WAY TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE, I notice the strange flags again. Bright yellow with a large green H. I can’t figure out what they have to do with anything. City Hall doesn’t have one, but the bank, two restaurants and a high-end boutique do. The courthouse doesn’t, but a couple of law firms do. A few private homes have them, though most don’t.
Frank’s in his office, so after peeking in to make sure he isn’t on a phone call, I enter.
“Is there a festival or something?” I ask him.
“What?”
“The H flags—what’s that about?”
He leans back in his seat far enough that it creaks, and I hope it doesn’t break under the strain. “It’s the one hundred forty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hamilton. One of the bloodiest mornings in the history of the war,” he says, rather proudly. “Ten thousand dead in three hours.” The glee in his voice creeps me out. I’m not a Civil War buff, but I did study it in American history and I never heard of the Battle of Hamilton. All that blood didn’t even buy it a place in the history books.
Kindred Page 5
