Summer in the Land of Skin

by Jody Gehrman

  In the morning, my body feels like one big bruise. Lucy leans against the passenger door, scowling in her sleep. I think of the kiss and the pack of jeering men, feel briefly irritated, then try to push it from my mind and get out of the truck to stretch. The trailer is parked in a large field of lushly unkempt grass dotted with yellow and purple flowers. There’s a Volkswagen Bug, a gleaming motorcycle, a few gnarled apple trees, and a metal post with a deflated yellow ball hanging at the end of a rope. The scent of bacon is in the air, which fills me with a tentative optimism.

  I really have to pee, but I can’t bring myself to go inside the trailer. I’m not accustomed to squatting outdoors, but my bladder’s so full, I can’t think of what else to do, so I find a small bush—a large clump of grass, really—and get it over with. Soon, Lucy stirs, and she lights a cigarette before she’s even rubbed the sleep from her eyes. There’s something sad about the smell of smoke mixing with the foggy clean of the grass and air. I want to stretch out somewhere and sleep for real, but this is what I get today: a scowling girl, smoke, and my body curled in on itself like a pretzel. The inside of my mouth feels dirty. I spit.

  “What?” she demands.

  “Nothing—why?”

  “You’re staring at me,” she says, her voice a challenge.

  “Look, I’m not in the mood, Lucy.”

  She looks away. “My mom’s finally home,” she says, pressing a finger against each eyelid. “Fuck. I hate this place. Why did you let me come here?”

  “You begged me.”

  “I tell you, it’s some kind of chip she implanted in me at birth. Remote control.” Through the window of the trailer, I can hear the sound of a man snoring. This, too, seems sad. “Maybe we should just go,” she says. I look at her.

  “Without saying hi to your mom, even?”

  “Jesus.” She flicks some ash into the grass. “I really hate it here. Did I mention that?”

  “Do you think she’s up?”

  “Yeah. No. Probably.” After a moment, she walks over to the trailer, tosses her cigarette into a dilapidated flower box, and goes in. I wait by the truck, trying to stretch the kinks out of my joints. I listen as high-pitched sounds of greeting come from the trailer. They talk for a while, then the door bursts open and a tiny woman with Lucy’s eyes and a helmet of reddish hair says, “Come on in, honey—don’t be scared!” She’s got a thick Southern accent and a huge, frightening smile. I smile back and go on into the trailer.

  The smell of bacon is thick, and as soon as I’m seated, Lucy’s mom starts clearing away the figurines and car parts from the table, and shoves a plate of white toast, bacon and an unidentified gray mush in front of me. “You like grits and bacon?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Mom! Grits?”

  “Nothin’ wrong with grits.” She lights a cigarette, and so does Lucy. They stand there, watching me eat. On the bed, the stepdad snores on, facing the wall. I nibble at the bacon.

  “Try the gray shit,” Lucy says.

  Her mom swats her on the butt. “Watch your mouth!”

  I take a small forkful of the grits and taste. “Mmm,” I say, nodding politely.

  “You’re so full of it!” Lucy laughs. Her mom laughs, too, a shrill, whinnying sound.

  Things seem better with Lucy’s mom here, though she’s a little over the top with her Southern hospitality and her aggressive grinning. We pass the morning sitting outside on lawn chairs, drinking coffee. Lucy and her mom smoke cigarette after cigarette and talk about people I don’t know, the volume of their voices rising and falling according to the topic. I’m content just watching the fog burn off, listening now and then to their conversation, but mostly letting my mind drift randomly from memory to memory, dozing in between. I think of Arlan getting sick on the Fourth of July, and of my father’s habitual silence in the mornings. I think of how long my mother’s hair was, once—how silky and shiny it would get, like some exotic fabric, after she washed it.

  I start wondering how I ever got to be friends with Lucy. We’re so different. Look at how she grew up; this whole scene is the opposite of the places I spent my childhood, with their gleaming hardwood floors and billowing linen curtains. I guess we never had loads of money, but my parents both had artistic, bohemian taste, and our apartments were always beautiful in a spare, European sort of way. Even my father, with his disdain for shopping, had a good eye for nice things, and he wasn’t above indulging once in a while.

  For the first time, I try to imagine Lucy’s childhood, and I have to say it makes me a little sick. I know there have been at least three stepdads in her past, and her real father never bothered to make an appearance. It’s one thing to lose your father, but what’s it like to live with a series of bizarre, predatory dads—men like this lumpy, volatile guy in the trailer now? And even though she’s never said it straight out, it doesn’t take a genius to intuit that Lucy’s been fucked with big time. Maybe not by this one—maybe not since she was little—but one of the dads, at least, messed with her. I feel suddenly guilty for having judged her so harshly last night. What could I possibly know about the nightmares she’s survived? So what if she tried to kiss me? Yes, half the time she’s possessed by the spirit of reckless boredom. Is that a crime? I think of something she said that night at the Ranch Room: “Sex is always an act of hostility.” Maybe the first time for her was hostile, and so she kept on thinking of sex as a battlefield, a bloodthirsty game between animals.

  I’m yanked out of my drowsy half dreams by the growl of a black Camaro speeding toward us. As it careens closer, I can see it’s Lucy’s sister behind the wheel, and when she stops and before she’s even slammed the car door, I know this can’t be good. She looks even more hostile than when I met her in Seattle, and not nearly as pretty. Her face is slightly swollen. Her eyes have a distant, stoned appearance; she’s outlined them with gobs of black eyeliner, making her look absurd and ghoulish in the afternoon sunlight. She’s got on a pair of tight Guess jeans and a pink sweatshirt with the neckline cut out of it. Across her chest, in sparkly letters, is the word Princess with a little crown on the P. Her left cheek is sporting a yellowish bruise, and above her left eye is a dark blue one the size of a silver dollar.

  She greets Lucy the same way she did in Seattle: “What are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Lorna.”

  “Mom, what’s she doing here?”

  “She came to visit, sweetheart. Look at this! I’ve got both my girls at once. Anna, have you met Lucy’s sister, Lorna?” I nod, and Lorna looks at me without a trace of recognition.

  “What happened to you?” Lucy asks, taking a step closer and squinting at Lorna’s injuries.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Lorna,” her mother chides. “We have guests.”

  “Fuck her, too. Do you have any Diet Pepsi?” She slams into the trailer without waiting for an answer. Lucy and her mother exchange a knowing look.

  “Tim?” Lucy asks.

  “Who else?” her mother says.

  It takes only a minute or two for an argument to erupt inside the trailer. Their voices are low at first, but as they grow in volume I can make out his rant: “Soon as you pay the bills around here, you can talk shit! But as long as you’re—look at me when I’m talking to you—as long as you’re sniffing for handouts, you better just shut up, missy!”

  Lorna explodes out the door, clutching a can of generic diet cola. “Since when did you stop buying Pepsi?” she says to her mom. “This shit’s nasty.”

  “Tastes the same to me.” Her mother pats her helmet of hair and turns to me. “Sweetheart, would you like a soda? I’ve been so neglectful, haven’t I.”

  “No thank you,” I say.

  “Lucy, go get us a couple of sodas, would you?”

  “Mom, we’re going to take off,” she says.

  “Oh, no! Not so soon! Stay another night!”

  “Huh!” Lorna scoffs. “You never say that to me!”

  “Of
course I do, sweetie. I want you both here—please? Anna, you can stay one more night, can’t you?”

  “I, um—”

  “No, Mom. She has to work. She’s got a life, all right?” Lucy wraps her arms around her mother and squeezes her.

  I can see her mother’s face over her shoulder; the skin at the corners of her eyes gives way to an intricate burst of wrinkles. For a brief second, the pain in her face is unmistakable. As soon as Lucy releases her, she goes back to beaming.

  “I’ll call you in a couple days,” Lucy says.

  “No, she won’t,” Lorna says.

  “Shut up, Lorna,” Lucy tells her.

  “You think you’re such hot shit.”

  “Come on, Anna,” Lucy says, touching my arm.

  Lorna takes a step toward her. “You just prance in here and act like—”

  “See you later, Mom.” Lucy starts to move in the direction of the truck. I nod at her mom, then follow Lucy.

  “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you!” Lorna shouts at her back.

  “Fuck off, Lorna,” Lucy says, still not turning around.

  “I said, don’t walk away from me!”

  We’re almost to the truck when I hear the sound of someone running up behind us; Lucy’s head yanks back and she yelps in pain. I turn to see Lorna with about half of Lucy’s hair gripped in her fist. Lucy twists to escape, but then screams louder, as this only intensifies the pain.

  “Bitch!” Lorna sneers. Her face is pink and her black-rimmed eyes have narrowed to slits. “You little cunt! Don’t walk away from me!”

  “Let go!” Lucy screams.

  I lunge forward and push Lorna as hard as I can. She loses her grip on Lucy and falls backwards into the weeds. Lucy sees her chance and jumps into the truck, starts it up. I run around to the passenger side and get in. We drive off, but we’re not on the road—that’s behind us; we’re bouncing through the open field, over huge clumps of mud, small boulders and weeds. We narrowly miss an apple tree.

  “Lucy! Turn around!”

  “I’m not going back!”

  “But the road’s back there!”

  “So?”

  “We can’t just drive through this—look, it’s all wet up there—go left!”

  “I can’t go—”

  “Hard left!” She swings the wheel to the left, but it’s too late. Our front tires are already sinking deep into a swampy field. She keeps her foot pressed hard on the gas, but the wheels only spin wildly, splattering the windows with plumes of mud. The motor dies; the truck makes a soft, groaning sound and falls silent.

  Lucy turns the key in the ignition again and again, but nothing happens. She starts hitting the steering wheel as hard as she can with her fists, yelling, “Goddammit, you stupid motherfucker! Go!” She turns the key one last time, but again, nothing happens.

  Finally, she gives up and lights a cigarette. I take a drag off hers and we stare through the windshield, dazed, letting the smoke fill the cab.

  A couple hours later, after Lucy has smoked most of a pack, we see the black Camero driving off at top speed. Lucy walks back to the trailer then, and convinces her stepfather to take a look at the marooned truck. He comes over wearing a filthy yellow bathrobe and knee-high rubber boots. He wades out into the swamp, takes a couple of pulls from a bottle of malt liquor he keeps in one pocket, pops the hood and squints at the motor, whispering instructions to himself. After about fifteen minutes, he slams it shut and nods at us, his huge, fleshy face shimmering with sweat.

  “Got your distributor all wet,” he announces.

  “Oh,” I say. “Is that serious?”

  “Depends. You in a hurry?”

  I look at Lucy uncertainly.

  “Can you fix it?” she asks.

  “No. No fixing it. You’ve just got to wait.”

  “Wait?” we say in unison.

  “Sure,” he says. “You got it all wet! What do you usually do when something gets wet, huh? Think, girls, think!” I can see he’s enjoying this immensely.

  “Dad. Jesus. Cut it out. You’re saying it’s, like, too wet to work?”

  “Bingo!”

  “And it’s got to dry out?”

  “Ding-ding-ding-ding!” he cries.

  “How long do you think that will take?” I ask.

  He looks at the storm clouds gathering in the east and says, “Around here? Fuck if I know. Now, if we were back in Texas—”

  “But we’re not,” Lucy says. “Thank God we’re not in Texas. How long will it take out here?”

  “Let me say it again—fuck if I know.”

  Lucy wants to hitchhike. “Let’s just go,” she keeps saying.

  “How?” I keep asking.

  “You’ve got a thumb, don’t you?”

  “What—and leave the truck here?”

  She doesn’t ever answer; she just sulks, eyeing the trailer warily.

  But I’m not hitchhiking all that distance through these backwards towns, and I’m not leaving Rosie’s truck here in this sad little swampy field. We spend the night in Sequim, stretched out in the truck bed, wrapped in the blankets Lucy’s mom brings out to us. Luckily, the storm clouds bypass the peninsula, and it’s not too cold with all the layers of wool above and below us. When the stars are all out, I can’t stop watching them; the sky is vast and thick with specks of light. It’s a relief to feel so small.

  Trying to fall asleep, I can’t stop thinking about Lucy’s family and this claustrophobic world they inhabit, filled with glass trinkets and auto parts packed together in an airtight trailer. It’s pretty amazing that Lucy turned out as sane as she did. It occurs to me that ever since I was a kid, I assumed other people had it better than me. I imagined their families huddled in warm communion on couches, munching popcorn from one big bowl and planning rapturous seaside vacations. It never even crossed my mind that some families were more tragic than mine.

  Lucy is murmuring softly in her sleep—something about teeth and Pepsi. She’s curled semi-fetal on her side and her jaw slopes slightly, dangling open. “I hope you get into Santa Cruz,” I whisper, glad that she can’t hear me. I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You deserve it. Even if you are a bitch, sometimes.” Right now she’s like someone behind glass; she’s at once vulnerable and far away, unaware of my eyes on her. I’ve watched very few people sleep, in my life. It’s weirdly intimate and lonely.

  In the morning, before Lucy wakes, I try the truck. When it still won’t start, I go inside the trailer and use the phone to call Bender. Lucy’s mom is cooking breakfast—bacon and frozen hash browns. She’s still beaming and smoking, smoking and beaming. I wonder if all that smiling is hard on her facial muscles. I can see the DNA at work in her small hands—so like Lucy’s—and in the Jackie O eyebrows.

  I have a short talk with Bender, explaining as little as possible. It’s not exactly comfortable, pleading with him under my breath to tell me what to do, but I don’t have enough money on me for a tow truck, and I’m not staying stranded in Sequim. I thought about calling Arlan or Grady, but Lucy insisted she would kill herself if I did. I guess she hates to be saved, but we really need saving this time, one way or another. So Bender agrees to borrow the Jeep of a guy who owes him and drive the three hours out here.

  After I hang up with Bender, I decide to call Arlan, just to let him know we’re okay. I give him an estimated time of arrival and tell him not to worry. He tries to ask more questions, but I whisper that I’ve got to go. His voice is so warm and familiar, it makes me want to tell him everything, but I force the phone back onto its cradle; I’ve betrayed Lucy enough already.

  When Bender arrives with his hair shooting out in all directions, a pair of big, bug-eyed sunglasses on, I want to wrap my arms around him. Instead I just smile shyly and mumble my thanks. Ever since I called him this morning I’ve been a little worried about introducing him to Lucy; I know it’s irrational, but I’m afraid that if my two Bellingham worlds touch, some sort of nuclear reaction w
ill ensue. Much to my relief, Lucy’s too exhausted to say more than a sullen hello, and Bender doesn’t seem interested in pursuing the conversation beyond that, either.

  On the ride home, with the truck trailing behind us and Lucy asleep in the back seat, I sneak glances at his face, illuminated by the dashboard light. I’m pretty exhausted, too, and at times the soft rocking motion of the Jeep almost puts me to sleep, but some bright little sensation in my chest keeps me awake. Unlike Lucy, who hates to admit defeat, I’m oddly exhilarated by this rescue. I guess being saved is a luxury I’ve gone without for too long.

  “Bender?” I say, when we’ve been driving for a long time in silence.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you think two people who are completely different can be friends?”

  He thinks about this a minute. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. Your dad and I were nothing alike.”

  “Was it hard being friends with him?”

  “Sure. Very hard.” He puts his blinker on, and eases around a Greyhound bus that’s creeping up the hill. He’s a good driver. He makes me feel safe. “I guess I never pick people who are easy. Seems to be a habit. I always like the difficult ones.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Bombay Sapphire Gin

  We arrive in the Land of Skin just after dark. We’re exhausted, our hair is irrevocably tangled from the long ride in the Jeep, and we haven’t showered in a couple of days, so we’re both pretty ripe. As we make our way through the yard to the front door, a loud, two-fingered whistle sounds from the upstairs bedroom. There’s Grady with his elbows on the windowsill. “Hold on,” he calls out. “Stay right there!”

  “Go away,” Lucy snaps. “We’re tired.”

  “You absolutely positively must not move!” And with this he disappears. Just as we reach the front door, he pops out from behind it and puts a hand on each of our heads. He closes his eyes and, in a thick, poorly executed French accent, says, “I sense you are returning from a very long journey….”