Summer in the Land of Skin

by Jody Gehrman

“You promised you’d tell me,” I say. “Remember?”

  The food arrives; we spoon the fish and noodles onto our plates. Finally, Bender says, “I don’t think your mom would like it if I told you everything.”

  “She shouldn’t have any say in it.”

  “Well, that may be true, Medina, but what gives me the right to spill what’s been unspilled all these years?”

  “You haven’t even talked to her in a couple decades,” I say. “Why should you care what she thinks?”

  He sighs, looks up at the ceiling. “We might as well start there, if you insist on forcing confessions. I have talked to your mom. Fairly recently.”

  My stomach drops. “You didn’t tell her where I’m staying, did you?”

  “No—not that recently. I mean, you know, a year or two back. We met in Seattle.”

  “On purpose?” I toy with my food, suddenly not interested but trying to look casual. He nods. “What for?”

  “Well, when people know each other for such a long time, and care about each other, and, you know, have certain tragedies in common, it’s natural.” I’ve never heard him speak like this—like someone going out of his way to find euphemisms.

  “What’s natural, exactly?”

  “Please don’t look at me like that. You wanted to know, I’m trying to tell you. If you get all pouty, I’m not even going to try.”

  I force a small grin. “I’m not pouting. Go on.”

  “So, yeah, your mom and I have been in touch, here and there.” I want to ask him why he never told me this before, but I know it will sound accusatory, so I keep quiet. “And we—well, we were always fond of each other.” He says this so stiffly, I almost laugh, but I force my face into a neutral expression. “She’s a very particular woman, you know—um, unique and—”

  The waitress comes by and asks if we’d like more water. I turn abruptly toward her, startled, and as I see her small face framed in blunt bangs, her meticulous eye makeup, her manicured nails wrapped around the glimmering pitcher of ice water, it hits me with all the force of a dream forgotten and then, all at once, recalled in totality: they were lovers. My father wasn’t crazy; my mother and Bender were in love. They might be still.

  “Medina,” Bender says, “you want water?”

  “Um—sure. Sorry.” I hold out my glass and the waitress fills it to the top, hurries off to the next table. I take a sip and swallow with effort. I suddenly feel like everything I put in my mouth has the potential to choke me.

  “So we stayed in touch, after your dad died. We sort of needed each other, I think. But years before—well, you know how your father felt, from his letters. He was jealous. He thought we were sneaking around. He thought…a lot of things.”

  “And he was right,” I say quietly, barely above a whisper. “Wasn’t he? You were in love.”

  “Oh, hell, I try not to use that word.” I’ve never seen Bender blush before. “A word like that can turn on you, can’t it? Who knows what it means?”

  “Is that why you sold him the business? Because you loved Mom?”

  “Things got very tense.”

  “Did you sleep together?”

  “Look,” he says. “Try to keep an open mind, okay? This isn’t easy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Back before you were even born, when me and Sheila were just starting out, we did something kind of…dumb. It was Chet’s idea, actually. He was reading all this Margaret Mead and he got the idea that monogamy was just a middle-class construct; he thought it was something we had to ‘transcend.’ You know your dad—he’d get an idea in his head and that was that. Anyway, one night we had too much to drink, too much to smoke, and we…” He pauses, wipes his mouth with his napkin, though he hasn’t eaten a bite. “Chet went home with Sheila, and I stayed with your mom. It was an experiment—just one night. But it ended up haunting us.”

  “You swapped?”

  He nods, and his face is bright red. The food grows cold in our silence. The Drunk Noodles are slowly congealing, but we don’t lift a fork, we don’t move at all. “I would have told you sooner, except I didn’t think it was all that relevant.”

  “Not relevant?” I say, incredulous.

  “Well, is it?”

  “Come on—it explains everything!”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, looking profoundly uneasy.

  “It’s why you sold him the business, it’s why they weren’t happy—it’s probably why he killed himself, even.”

  “Oh come on, Medina.”

  “Don’t ‘come on, Medina’ me! If your wife and your best friend were in love, wouldn’t you go a little crazy?”

  “There are worse things,” he says. I know from his tone he’s thinking of his son, but I’m mad now, and I don’t want to slow down to think about his loss.

  “You don’t want to feel guilty…” I say. “Or Mom, either. That’s why nobody ever told me.”

  He leans forward a little, and there’s an edge to his voice. “You think it never occurred to me? To both of us? If only we hadn’t—felt how we felt—maybe he’d still be alive?” There are tears in his eyes. “But there’s no point in thinking like that. It just makes you crazy.”

  “I can’t believe you saw her a year ago and you never said anything!”

  “I knew she wouldn’t want me to tell you, Anna—”

  “Did you sleep with her then?” An older woman at a nearby table glances at me with a furrowed brow; I lower my voice slightly. “Did you?”

  “We never did. After that time, I mean—back before you were born. We did feel guilty, okay? But after your dad died, we only saw each other because—I don’t know—we needed to talk, I guess. About the old days…”

  “Great. How come she never wanted to talk to me about the old days? I’m his daughter—don’t I deserve to know?”

  “Yes. You do, Anna. You do. That’s why I gave you those letters.” He takes a sip of water; he looks tired and sad. I feel my anger draining away, seeing how sad he is. “Well, it was partly that. Mostly I was sick of trying to figure them out by myself. I’ve spent a lot of time—hours and hours—trying to make sense of them. But I’m never going to know why he did it. Neither are you.”

  “I—I just thought—” I stammer, feeling very young. “I thought if I had some idea about who he was, you know? I thought then I’d be…”

  “Be what?”

  I look at the ceiling. “Real,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

  He reaches around our plates to hold my hand. “Look, I’ve spent years imagining who Scott would have been, if he’d made it. Every day I think about how old he’d be, what he’d be like. Hell, he could even have kids of his own by now. And where does that get me? Seven years of sitting on my ass, drinking beer, making up a life that’s never going to be.”

  “But that’s different,” I say.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’m looking for what happened, not what might have happened.”

  He shakes his head sadly. “It’s all the same thing. Past, future—none of it’s right now. ‘It’s all the same fucking day.’” He squeezes my fingers in his. “I wish I could change a lot of things—so what? Right now, I’m working on making one good guitar. That’s what matters—doing something you give a shit about, with people who are alive and listening. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to tell me?”

  I smile a little. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I’ve got nothing against history, but you can’t get lost in it.”

  We sit there for a few seconds, just looking at each other. Then he lets go of my hand and clears his throat, waves at my plate with his fork. “We’ve barely touched this food, huh? The noodles are getting soggy.”

  I pick up my fork and try a little fish. He digs in.

  Halfway through the meal, I get up the courage to speak. “Bender?”

  “Yeah, Medina.”

  “Thanks. For telling me.”

  He’s chewing, but there’s
a tiny smile there, too. “No problem,” he mumbles, careful to barely open his mouth.

  That night, as I’m lying on my back in the living room, thinking about everything Bender said, my mother calls. Lucy brings me the phone with her hand over the mouthpiece. She looks sympathetic as she mouths, Your mom.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this how you wanted it?”

  “Mom. Rosie told me you were—”

  “You want me tracking you down? Huh? Is this what you had in mind?”

  Lucy brings me a stiff gin and tonic. I smile at her, take a sip. “Okay, let’s try that again,” I say. “Hello, Mother. How are you?”

  “Don’t toy with me!” I can hear her exhaling smoke. “I’m in Seattle. Are you going to tell me where you are, or do I have to call the police?”

  “Mom, you’re not going to call the—”

  “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to fill me in.”

  “I haven’t slept in weeks! You never even bothered to send me a note, Anna, Jesus! Of all the inconsiderate—” She stops herself, aware perhaps that she’s shrieking. “I’d like to see you,” she says, her voice softening a notch. “I want to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, Mother, really.” Lucy stifles a giggle. “There’s no need for you to come here.” She bites her wrist to keep from laughing and disappears into the bedroom.

  “You will see me,” she says. “Whether you like it or not.”

  I sigh. “Why are you being like this?”

  “I’m your mother! Don’t you remember me? I’m your goddamn mo—”

  “Look, maybe I should come there,” I suggest. “It’s not that far to Seattle.”

  “That’s not the point,” she says. “I want to see what you’re doing. I want to know who you’re with.”

  “Mother, I can explain what I’m doing when I come down—”

  “I want to see,” she says. “With my own eyes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to put myself on display. You can’t always get what you want, you know?”

  There’s a brief, terse silence. I wonder if she actually heard me, for once. Finally, she takes a deep breath and exhales a breathy “Goodbye, Anna.” Then the line goes dead.

  I sit there, staring at the phone in my hand, mystified.

  “Sounds like a basketcase,” Lucy’s voice comes through the dial tone. It takes me a second to realize she’s on the other phone.

  “Lucy!” I yell, running into the bedroom in time to see her putting the receiver back in its cradle. “You little sneak!”

  “Don’t get mad,” she giggles. “You needed a witness.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “She’s worse than ever.”

  “Well, at least she’s not coming here.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That would be a nightmare.” But somehow I can’t quite believe I’ve gotten off that easily.

  June 2nd, 1986

  Einstein,

  The moon has a stone-cold face; she is unmoved by my terror. She watches like that old woman behind the counter at the minimart tonight—the one who wore orange lipstick and stared at me like I wasn’t human, wasn’t even there. Her eyelashes were fake and the name tag pinned to her smock read, “Hi, I’m Stella.” The moon tonight is just like her—cynical, cold, unmoved.

  There is nothing but dark and ash.

  When I met Helen, it was her hands that drew me in. I watched her fingers on that harp, stroking the notes. Her hair, that’s what everyone remembered her by. “What gorgeous hair,” they said. But for me, it was her hands—the delicate, birdlike bones and the pale skin and the movement of them, so rapid, light, like wings. She kissed each string with her fingers.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  Chet

  The next day, Bender and I work on the guitar from dawn until sunset. We’ve been applying coat after coat of lacquer; yesterday we glued the bone on, and in the afternoon Bender removes the clamp carefully. We install the tuners, put on the strings, and adjust the truss rod. By the time the shadows lengthen and a chill begins to seep into the room, our work is done. We sit there looking at it for a long time. Its curves are sensual, smooth, like ripples in water. Every inch of it, from the abalone inlay around the soundhole to the gold Grover tuners, is undeniably beautiful. It’s built of only the best materials—ebony fingerboard, Hawaiian koa back and sides, Sitka spruce top. The koa back is bookmatched, with a tiny black seam down the center. Bender calls the sides “flamed” because the grain looks like fire. He holds it in his hands for a long time, turning it this way and that, squinting at it with a scientific air. He hands it to me and I touch it reverently, afraid I’ll drop it.

  “Why don’t you play something?” I ask, handing it back.

  “That’s the real test,” he says, eyeing it nervously. He rests it on his knee and I marvel at the fit of it there; I never realized before what an ingenious instrument the guitar is. The spruce top has such a glossy sheen I can see my reflection in it. The pick guard is tortoiseshell with blond flecks—Bender let me pick that out. He tunes it, scowling and pursing his lips in concentration. He increases the tension on the strings, and my skin starts to feel clammy. “Haven’t played in years,” he says. He looks at me; his blue eyes are a little bloodshot from the long hours of work, but his face looks young, too—eager and scared. He strums a few chords to make sure it’s in tune. As he begins to play, the whole shop is suddenly filled with the miraculous sound of the thing. Every time he strums a new chord, another memory comes back—fragments of summer nights spent with my parents, lulled by the smell of star jasmine and the sound of my father’s guitar. I can hear his deep, raspy voice and my mother’s angelic harmonies. The tune Bender’s playing goes bright to dark and back again from one bar to the next; I know before he’s through it’s a song my father wrote.

  “What’s that one called?”

  “‘The Garden of Earthly Delights.’ Like the painting—you know—by Hieronymus Bosch?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “He loved that guy. Those pictures used to give me bad dreams.”

  “Your dad was a trip,” Bender says, smiling sadly. He hands the guitar to me again. “You want to try it?”

  “I don’t remember how to play, really.”

  “Just strum it,” he says. “See how it feels.” I press my fingers against the strings in a D-chord and strum. I can feel the body vibrating subtly against me. I find the A and strum again. “There you go!” Bender says, leaning forward. “You didn’t forget.”

  “I’d like to learn again.”

  “Well, now you’ve got something to practice on,” he says.

  I look at him in surprise. “Wait a minute,” I say. “I thought we were going to sell this one.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head solemnly. “This one’s yours.”

  Night. I’m alone on the black leather couch, reading the last of my father’s letters, whispering each word softly as the refrigerator hums and shudders in the kitchen. Lucy and Arlan have been gone all evening.

  For days, the sunlight has poured down on Bellingham with wild abandon. Everyone in the Land of Skin walks around scantily clad, their naked limbs gleaming in the sun like those of alabaster statues. Even the nights are hot, and as I read my father’s last letter, warm air perfumed with freshly cut grass pushes through the open window.

  April 24th, 1987

  Einstein,

  We cannot know how many years it will take before the earth has ears. Now the moon loops around us night after night, trying to get our attention, but we spin on, oblivious, deaf to her cries.

  I am tired. The taste of ash is thick in my mouth. I want only silence.

  I heard Dylan is jamming with the Dead in San Rafael. I shouldn’t even think about it. Tonight I took Helen and Anna to a movie—something insipid, about ice-skaters; they both cried when the girl hurt her leg
. I wanted to hit them both. Wonder where my life is, the one I meant to lead? Even fruit tastes like ash.

  When I sleep, there is absence. I let go of fear, then. Only I don’t sleep well, these days. When I do, too often I dream.

  I am dead weight in this house. I sit for hours, wanting to hear something, anything, but there are only the sounds of this small life—nothing beyond. The neighbor calling to her dog. Helen moving quietly through her tooth-brushing routine. Anna laughing at the TV. I am a still, heavy stone in the living room—a lump of a man. Inert.

  This afternoon I saw a snake in the yard and I wanted, for a second, to kill it. Then I saw it was just a garter snake, and on a curious impulse, I lifted it in my hands. I looked into its eyes, and I saw there the truth: cold, silent, impersonal.

  We try to warm ourselves with small fires of gossip, scandal, sex, but then the fires go out and we find ourselves lost, wandering among the ashes.

  I don’t want

  And here it ends—one last fragment of a sentence, trailing off into dead space. No signature, no nothing. I read the whole thing again and again, whispering it to myself, and each time I come to those final words, I imagine the sentence will heal itself, become whole before my eyes. It never does.

  I can hear a man’s voice shouting. It’s my father. “Why’d you do it?” he’s crying. “Why the fuck did you do it?” I’m bewildered—what have I done? But now I’m being pulled back to Smoke Palace. I can feel the hard black couch beneath me, and it is Arlan’s voice shouting, and Lucy is answering him with a half moan, half whimper. She sounds more animal than human. I’m suddenly bristling with fear, wide awake, and I can feel my skin going prickly. After a pause, Arlan speaks again, this time with a terrible sadness: “Please, Lucy, Jesus.”

  “What do you want from me?” Her words are slurred; she sounds loaded.

  “I can’t take this again.”

  “I don’t belong to you!”

  “Oh God,” Arlan says, and the pain in his voice makes my stomach churn. “Don’t say anything. Just— Please.”

  “Get me a drink.”

  “Don’t say anything!” Then, screaming, “DON’T SAY—”