Summer in the Land of Skin

by Jody Gehrman

  I think of my mother, her mouth haloed with tiny, intricate lines as she tightens her lips around a fresh cigarette. She must wonder where we’ve all gone—the people who used to consume her days. I can see her there, sitting in her kitchen, and the image is startling in its clarity, as if I’m viewing it through binoculars. She’s just laid a pen down on a half-finished crossword puzzle, and now she’s using her thumb to scratch a flame from her pink plastic lighter, touching it lightly to her Virginia Slim. The TV babbles on, preaching, seducing and threatening. Her hair is slightly squashed on one side. She’s wearing her pale yellow bathrobe—the one I gave her—and her eyes look hollow, unlived in, as she flicks a few tiny tobacco leaves from her sleeve. She leans her head to one side, pulling a little at her hair, not primping, just feeling, absently, and then she exhales one long, snaking plume of smoke into the sad bluish light. The ashtray’s erupting with butts, sprouting white stalks, a garden of tiny, pale bones.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Skins

  January 3rd, 1968

  Einstein,

  Went to see flamenco last night. Whoa, man. You would have tripped on this scene, I’m telling you. Lady moved like an animal—all color and blur—like some wild, tropical bird showing off her feathers. Can you see it? Moon rising over the courtyard, everyone just stuck to their seats, eyes glued to the magnificent flying skirts of this woman. It’s trite but true: wish you were here.

  After, I talked to the cat playing guitar, a real virtuoso, I mean REALLY. Those fingers were moving so fast, my head was spinning. Found out he was playing an Enrique Garcia. Pretty fine piece of work. He said something about Segovia, but his English wasn’t too hot, so I never did quite catch his drift. I wanted to run my hands all over that guitar, but the guy looked a little scary (picture a Spanish Boris Karloff with a limp) so I maintained my cool and stuffed my hands in my pockets. You know I always get too excited.

  España—España!

  I don’t mind telling you I might never come back. The women here look a lot like Aida. They dress up all the time, like she did, wear perfume and jewelry even when they’re just going to the market. I love their gleaming hair and their sealed-up faces. I’d like to write a song for every one of them. In the afternoons everything closes and everyone has a big meal, drinks some wine and falls asleep. It’s my fantasy! I love to dream through the afternoon, wake up with excitement in my chest, and go out into the world as evening is just dimming the sky. They call the natives in Madrid los gatos because they sleep in the day and go out all night. It’s my city.

  I met a girl in Paris named Virgo. I don’t have to tell you, writing that sentence gives me a thrill. Virgo—can you believe it? She’s from Greenwich Village, and she’s got legs up to here (try to imagine—I know, I know!). She says she’s a model and I half believe it, though she doesn’t have a dime. We took the train to Italy and things got a little—how do you say?—out of control. The Village must be pretty kinky, because this chick wasn’t pulling any punches. Man. I spent more than I should and I smoked enough hash to do me in, but she smoked twice as much, I swear. If everyone from the Big Apple’s like Virgo, I want a bite.

  Say hello to your folks, man. Did you get the new Dylan album? I can’t find it here.

  I’m telling you now: beg, borrow or steal to get over here and we’ll have a party to remember.

  Keep it real,

  Chet

  March 31st, 1968

  Einstein,

  Blackest day. I’ve got a headache so treacherous I want to die. No, I’m not hungover from wild nights of Stolies and sex with Danish blondes (is that all you ever think about?). Just a regular old mundane head cold.

  Don’t worry about Rot Gut. He’ll be fine. I’ve never written that name before. Maybe it’s Rott Gutt? Looks more like him that way. He’ll never stop making guitars. I don’t care if his liver shrinks to the size of a pea, that old bastard’s never going to lay down the tools, so stop worrying. Just tell him to lay off the hard stuff for a while. He won’t listen—he never does. Tell him anyway.

  Virgo Banfield. Oh my God. If only you could see the way she walks into a room, with her amazing breasts caught in a tight, teasing bodice, her legs so long you think they’ll never end. She’s so regal and wanton all at once. She makes my cock ache, just looking at her. I swear I could eat her for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  I know I’m supposed to be playing the field, sewing my wild oats in this vast, fertile continent, but what can I say, brother? I’m in love with a girl from New York City—do wop do wop ad nauseam, etc. Her parents play bridge with Paul from Peter, Paul and Mary—did I tell you that already? She grew up on a steady diet of Chuck Berry and Chet Atkins. That’s how I convinced her to go out with me—my name. Thank you, Mother, may you rest in peace, for your wonderful, wonderful taste. I know I must be boring you by now, but this girl, man. Mmm. She’s like no other.

  I’m going to ask her to marry me. I’m taking her to this little Danish village and I’m going to weave flowers in her hair, get her good and stoned, then pop the question. I’m terrified, so wish me luck. Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man.

  Think of me next weekend. She’s supposed to arrive here in Copenhagen on Friday. If all goes well, I’ll marry her Sunday morning at a little country church. So we don’t speak the language. Who cares? I do is I do, no matter what country you say it in.

  My head is pounding like it’s wedged between an iron block and a sledgehammer, and I’ve never felt so alive.

  What a bastard I am. I haven’t even mentioned your cousin. That’s a G.D. pity, Einstein. I mean, even though you weren’t that close, it’s got to mess you up a little. What a ridiculous situation we’ve got ourselves into over there in Vietnam. Stay in school, man. As far as Uncle Sam’s concerned, I’m still in, otherwise my number would be up by now. Those sorry bastards—what do the pols think they’re up to this time? So glad I’m away from our mad, reckless country right now. But the point is, I’m sorry about John and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way when I say it’s a wasted life and a shame. I’m afraid the red, white and blue is barking up the wrong tree this time.

  Keep it as close to yourself as you can,

  Chet

  “Here. Take them back,” I say, thrusting the bundle of letters at Bender. It is eight o’clock in the morning and he is barely awake, but I am bristling with rage. The boat still rocks slightly from my furious entrance.

  “I can’t do that.” He isn’t looking at me.

  “Who do you think you are?”

  “All right,” he says. “Come on, Medina, calm down.”

  “As if I’d want this schlock! Why in the world would I—”

  “I can make tea,” Bender says, quietly.

  “What?”

  “Tea,” he says. “Would you like some?”

  “Don’t patronize,” I say, my voice dangerous.

  “Or coffee,” he says. “But you seem like the tea type.”

  “Okay. Fine. Make tea.”

  He comes back with the folding chair and a steaming tin cup. He hands me the cup and struggles a moment with the chair. I can see by the particularly insane state of his hair, the crushed-pillow pattern etched into one check, and the inefficiency of his movements that he is still half dreaming. Possibly he is already drunk, too, or still drunk from last night. He sits on the ice chest, leans his elbows against his knees, and gazes at his hands.

  “Go on,” he mumbles. “You were saying…?”

  His half-bored tone enrages me. “When’s the last time you read these?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “I take them out now and then.”

  “Who is this Virgo person?” I hadn’t meant to ask, don’t want to know, but there it is, a question already formed.

  “Look,” he says. “Chet was just a man.”

  “Just a man! Fine! But if you think I want to read his pornographic descriptions of some hippie chick named after an astrological—”

&
nbsp; “What’s the big deal? He met her in his twenties, when he was traveling. He wanted to marry her, but she died. I don’t see what you’re getting so upset about.”

  This stops me. “She died?”

  “You didn’t get very far in those letters, did you.” I can feel my face heating up with embarrassment. “He knew her long before he even met your mom, if that’s what you’re so worked up about.” He sighs, finally looks at me, and I am startled again by the blue of his eyes. “Lots of men have them, you know. Fantasy women. Your dad was like that with Virgo—he made her up, in a way.”

  I think of all the hours I’ve spent caressing Arlan’s perfect shoulders, kissing his neck in my mind. I wonder if that’s how my father was with Virgo. “I thought—I don’t know. I just never pictured him with anyone but my mom.”

  “Chet was with Helen, after Virgo. He was with her, and he wasn’t always happy, but that wasn’t their fault, you know—things just happen—” his voice goes on, searching, lost “—like things you don’t plan on or want or know you need until they’re right there in front of you.” He seems confused.

  “What’s your point?”

  He stands up and shoves both hands into his pockets. “Lots of men have problems,” he says, “with sex, and family, things like that. Men aren’t like women. It’s hard to explain.”

  “Look,” I say. “I’m twenty-five. I don’t need the birds and bees talk.”

  He opens the ice chest, looks for a beer, finds none, curses, spits, sits back down. “There’s things in those letters you won’t like, Medina. I can’t help that.”

  “Like what?” My throat feels tight, and the words come out small and dry.

  “A man wrote them, not God—just a regular guy trying to make sense of things. Maybe you’re not ready for that.”

  “Then why’d you give them to me?”

  “I figured they were yours.”

  “It’s not like I’m some little girl who figures her daddy’s perf—”

  “You didn’t get past the first couple letters, did you?”

  “So? I had a couple questions! I mean you gave them to me without even a word of explanation!”

  “Chet should speak for himself.” There’s a brief silence, and then Bender takes the letters from me. “Or maybe you’re right,” he says casually. “Maybe I should just keep them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not ready for them.” He runs his rough, hairy hand over the smooth leather, picks at the twine absently. “Are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, petulant.

  He gets up, letters in hand, and walks away from me. He’s messing with something near the stern, but his back is to me, so I can’t see much. “If you were ready, you wouldn’t have come storming in here at the crack of dawn.”

  “I told you,” I say. “I had some questions.”

  “What’s wrong? Can’t old men be young, once?”

  This I don’t answer. Something is getting away from me, here.

  “You’re not ready for these, and I’m tired of reading them at three o’clock in the morning. They’re not doing anyone any good.” There’s a splash, and Bender brushes his hands together a couple of times.

  It takes me a moment to understand—the letters. Gone. Heart pounding in my ears, I envision the ink bleeding into salt water, pages turning rapidly bloated, swollen, like a drowned corpse.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m diving overboard. The cold swallows me with numbing force. I find myself fighting buoyancy, kicking hard for the murky, dark shape that floats easily down, twisting as it goes. I’m right behind it, arms outstretched, fingers straining, but it’s sinking faster than I can, and in a moment it’s dropped out of sight. I feel my lungs tightening. Air—need air—a glance at the surface tells me I’ll have to kick hard to get there. My lips purse against the urge to open and gasp; I keep my eyes on the shimmer of light above, the pale blue sky gone wavy and distorted. I break the surface just in time to suck at the air madly.

  Bender’s smile is so big, it takes up half his face. “Guess you are ready,” he says, and laughs so hard he has to lean on his knees for a moment.

  “What the hell!” I sputter. “They’re gone!”

  Magically, he produces the bundle of letters and holds it aloft, his eyes bright with amusement. I stare, uncomprehending, blinking the salty water from my eyes. “That was a bottle of motor oil,” he says. Then he laughs some more.

  “You actually enjoy this,” I say, as he helps me back on board.

  “Enjoy what?”

  “Humiliating me.”

  He hands me a towel; it’s a greasy, suspicious-looking thing, stained in rust-colored stripes. “Not at all,” he says, still looking like he’s having the time of his life. “Hurts me more than it hurts you.”

  When I leave Bender’s I’m still damp and shivery, too pensive to go back to Smoke Palace. I get in the truck and drive south, through Fairhaven, onto Chukanut Drive, down the coast, watching as the islands appear for brief moments through the thick lining of trees. The air coming through the window smells like morning and water, sunlight and distant fog. I think of Bender and my father as they must have been: young, handsome, a little unkempt, with intense eyes and messy hair, trading insights on Dylan LPs and carving techniques.

  I remember, without meaning to, the day of my father’s funeral. It was a small service, attended by a ragtag group of hippies who quoted Kahlil Gibran and Leonard Cohen in their speeches. When we came home, my mother went into her room without a word and shut the door. I wandered into the kitchen, and I saw my father’s favorite coffee cup sitting on the counter. I picked it up. There were a couple inches of cold black coffee in it. I couldn’t decide whether to dump it down the sink or not. For a split second, I considered throwing it against the wall with all my might, watching the black inside splatter into an inky pattern on the white wall. But I didn’t; I knew it was too precious to waste. Two days ago he had been drinking from this cup, and if this coffee disappeared down the drain, then that much more of him was gone.

  I took the cup to my room, coffee and all, and hid it under my bed until the inside grew so moldy it repulsed me just to look at it. On the day my mother took all his things to the Goodwill, I buried that mug in the backyard, memorizing the exact spot. I knew that to keep such a precious artifact above ground was to risk losing it entirely.

  The bundle of letters are sitting on the seat beside me, and I vow to read at least a couple more before the morning is through. Instead, I drive and drive, turning from one strand of country road to the next. I pass a rotting barn being devoured by morning glories. The world spreads out before my windshield: green fields, rolling hills, snow-tipped mountains in the distance. The sun crawls higher, and the air warms so much that by ten, I’ve rolled down my windows all the way, letting the gusty breezes toss my hair. It seems I can smell the snow on the mountains, and the espresso beans roasting in town; I can smell the islands out in the Sound overflowing with pine and cypress and wildflowers. Under it all is one constant, though: the smell of leather, as persistent and familiar now as the smell of my own skin.

  It doesn’t take long for Arlan’s band to take shape. When I get back from my hours of driving that afternoon, they’ve just finished practicing for the fifth time this week, and are cracking open beers, looking smug and sweaty. Grady, it turns out, scored a secondhand drum kit right away. Lucy tells me he’s not exactly good, but he’s not miserable, either. According to her, Arlan’s songs are so filled with genius they’re impossible to screw up. I haven’t heard them yet. Most of their rehearsals have been out at Bill’s mom’s, since she’s been out of town; today’s the first time they’ve played Smoke Palace.

  Arlan looks up from latching his guitar case; he’s got a pinkish tinge to his cheeks. Sometimes he reminds me of those old sepia-toned photos of Indians—dark and brooding. But today he looks satisfied and radiant.

  “Aaaanna!” Bill, who is still wearing hi
s bass, serenades me to the tune of Roxanne, plucking out the bass line and wailing plaintively. “You don’t have to turn on the red light!”

  “Anna?” Lucy calls from the bedroom. I back down the hall and poke my head in.

  “Yeah?” She’s seated before their ancient computer, stabbing at the keyboard in a furious rhythm. “Would you get me more smokes? Arlan’s got them.” Beside her, an empty Chinese food carton is bursting with butts.

  “Sure, princess.” I take the disgusting carton-turned-ashtray from her and head for the kitchen.

  “Oh—and maybe a gin tonic?” she adds, still transfixed by the screen. “I need some inspiration.” She’s wearing Arlan’s old boxers, hopelessly large and droopy on her, the elastic sagging around her waist. An ancient white tank top, also several sizes too big for her, keeps falling off one shoulder as she types.

  “Coming right up.”

  In the kitchen I take the bottle of Seagram’s from the freezer and fill the better part of a mason jar with ice, then gin, noting the viscosity as it snakes its way around the glistening cubes. Liquor just wasn’t a part of my world until this summer, and I still regard it with a wary respect. “Arlan. Lucy needs more smokes.” He fishes a pack from his shirt pocket and tosses it to me. I lay the Camels on the counter as I slice a lime and watch with pleasure as it fizzes among the ice cubes and tonic.

  I move past the boys and carry the mason jar back to Lucy.

  “Cigarettes?” she says, when I hand her the glass.

  “Shit. I forgot.” I go back to the kitchen and retrieve the pack I left on the counter. Grady is messing with Arlan’s harmonica, sliding up and down the scale randomly. Bill stands at the window, trying to strike up something with a couple of girls down on the sidewalk by leaning halfway out the window and hollering, “You girls want some candy?” Arlan’s gathering bottles, and when we have to scoot past one another in the kitchen, his arm brushes lightly against mine.