Ink for the Beloved Read online

  Rueben was also unreachable on Saturdays. He worked his Aunt’s tamale booth at the farmer’s market until two o’clock. I could go down there, but I didn’t want to infuriate his Aunt Rosita, who was my primary connection when it came to brand name hot sauce packets.

  I was feeling antsy. I needed something to do. I needed to engage my brain. I needed to have friends who didn’t have family obligations on a Saturday morning. I opened my phone and looked up Tobacco Joe. It was a smoke shop located on Telegraph near the university campus. I scrolled through a few pictures. It didn’t seem like there was much there. It wasn’t the type of place that would jump out at you. You’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it. It looked like the size of a closet.

  I knew better than to go there. If anyone who knew me, like Todd or Duane (or possibly Annika, as I still didn’t know how connected she was) saw me in the area, then the gig would be up. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to ride my bike past the place. I threw on an oversized denim shirt of Luther’s I had been wearing lately, grabbed my bike helmet, and headed out of my room.

  However, when I went out to the kitchen, I saw my sister at the table. The expression on her face was heartbreaking. On the table were pieces of torn paper, and Echo was trying to tape them back together. Tears were flowing from her eyes as her fingers tried to maneuver the paper correctly so she could apply the tape. She kept wiping the water from her face, and unfortunately, damp fingers make using tape more difficult.

  I slowly approached the table to see what picture she was trying to tape back together. But I knew. I already knew.

  “What happened?” I asked softly.

  Echo’s crying intensified, and now sobs were heaving from her chest. I looked at the crayoned images on the paper, and my gut feelings were confirmed. Echo had drawn a family picture that included Mom, me, and Echo. We were standing in a garden of flowers and green grass and, suspiciously, there was a white kitten at Echo’s feet. (Echo was dropping hints) Echo’s drawings of me always showed me with wild curly dark hair down around my shoulders, even though I didn’t wear it that way. My abundant dark hair matched her red hair, and I believe it was her way of showing we were sisters.

  Her drawings of our mother always had the high ponytail that she wore while doing her inking work. And instead of covering our mother’s body with floral tattoos, Echo would suggest the ink by placing one or two on the body and then having our mother stand in a bed of flowers. I always thought it was an effective creative decision.

  My brain was whirling as I pieced the images together. Why had Echo’s family picture been torn up? But as I said earlier, I knew. Deep down, I knew. Within seconds I saw the confirmation. One of the images Echo was trying to tape back onto the picture was of Ollie. She had drawn Ollie with his blue and white kimono and the butterfly sleeves. But it was the other image I was sure had created the fury. It was Luther. Echo had drawn him big and smiling, holding an orange kitten in his arms. Luther and Ollie were ripped out of the picture. This action also caused my right arm to be torn off as well.

  I bent down to assist Echo with repairing the picture. Echo’s crying was so loud, I didn’t hear my mother enter the kitchen. Suddenly, she was upon me.

  “Give me your phone,” she demanded.

  “What? What’s going on? Who ruined Echo’s picture?” I asked.

  “Just give me your phone, Elizabeth. NOW.”

  I went to my room and retrieved the device. As I walked back, I thanked Jehovah for giving me the wisdom to delete the earlier text messages from Joanie and Rueben and not storing Luther’s number in my phone. The minute Terry snatched the cell out of my hand and scrolled through the recent calls and messages, I knew she was looking for evidence of Luther.

  Echo’s sobs dwindled down to baby whimpers as my mother searched for confirmation we were betraying her. Her fingers swiped up and up as she scrolled through the phone numbers and text messages. Every now and then, she’d pause and read something through, but thankfully, thankfully, I knew there was nothing there to incriminate me. Terry stopped at a number. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Whose number is this?” she asked, holding up the screen so I could see.

  It was the phone number for Officer Lopez.

  “The policewoman who came to investigate the break-in a few months ago,” I answered.

  “Why do you have her number in your phone?”

  I shrugged. “She gave it to me. I thought it would be good to have it on the phone instead of searching for a card, in case there was another break-in.”

  My mother scrutinized my face for signs of falsehood. “You should delete it.” She said and handed the phone back to me. She looked back over at Echo, who had patched the picture back together. I noticed the drawing of Luther had not been added back in, and it was gone from the table. Where had Echo hidden the picture?

  My mother turned and looked at me again. She was pretending she had calmed down, but I could feel the sparks flying off her body. “Would you like to tell me why she is drawing pictures of Luther?”

  Instead of answering that question, I asked, “What happened?”

  “She showed me this picture she did at school of the family.”

  “What was in it?” I asked.

  My mother’s face was turned away. She was looking at Echo, watching her. “She had the three of us.” I noticed my mother didn’t mention the kitten. “I said someone was missing. I asked her if she could add him to the picture, and then I would display it on the kitchen cabinet.”

  She paused before continuing, but I already knew what was coming next. Echo’s tears and the torn picture told me what had happened. “And when she came back, she had added Ollie in that ridiculous costume he wears.”

  I waited, knowing there was more.

  My mother continued. “I laughed, trying to play it off and said she was still missing someone. She smiled at me and said, “of course, mommy,” and off she went.” My mother turned and looked at me. Her face was stone. “So, you tell me why she came back with Luther in the picture. Tell me, Bess! WHY?”

  Her fury was barely in check.

  “She loves him,” I answered. My voice was a whisper. I said it as if it was obvious. It was obvious.

  And the fury escaped. “When are you girls going to drop this? LUTHER. IS. OUT. I blame you, Bess. I blame you. I know she is seeing him somehow. I know it!”

  I peeked a glance over at Echo. Her face had reddened when Terry mentioned seeing Luther. Echo must have cracked under pressure, but she hadn’t mentioned Ollie. Thank God.

  “It is embarrassing to have my daughters sneaking around to visit a man I kicked to the curb,” my mother shouted. I don’t know what’s wrong with everybody here. Todd volunteered to go to the auto shop to speak to Luther, but I told him it was not necessary.”

  My body stiffened when she said that. If there been an altercation with Todd and Luther, that avenue of escape would have been compromised. Luther needed to remain on the sidelines.

  “There is still too much Luther around this house!” my mother went on. She pointed her finger at me. “You read his books and listen to his music. Don’t tell me that you don’t. I can tell. I CAN TELL. I swear, sometimes I think I can still smell the man!” she exploded. “No more Luther. No more Aretha Franklin. No more pictures of him. I got rid of him. He is a menace. Or have you forgotten what happened? Have you forgotten, Bess? He threatened me. He punched a hole in my wall.”

  I couldn’t let that statement go without a challenge. “He punched the wall so he wouldn’t hit you. You started the fight. You attacked him. You scratched his face. You trashed the room.”

  My mother went silent. Her chest rose as her breath vigorously went in and out of her body.

  “Is that what he told you?”

  I didn’t answer because Luther hadn’t said anything about that night. I knew because I overheard the cops talking while Echo and I were sitting in the back seat of the squad car.

  “Don’t put Echo t
hrough what I went through,” I said.

  “And what, pray tell, was that?”

  “An endless train of potential daddies.”

  I expected her to slap me, but instead she glared with flames in her eyes. “That’s coming to an end. You understand? That’s coming to an end. The current one…he’s… he’s a keeper. He’s good to me. That’s who you should have drawn in your little picture, baby girl.” she snarled in Echo’s direction. Echo whimpered and kept her head down.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” blared through my head. I kept that thought to myself.

  “I’m going to the studio,” my mother announced. “Clean yourself up!” she barked at Echo. She looked at me and added, “Do something with her hair! It looks like a rat’s nest.”

  After the front door slammed, I took my sister and her ruined picture into her bedroom. I smoothed the image out on her polka dot bedspread and gazed at the happy figures my sister had drawn. By taping Ollie back into the picture, my right arm had been restored. Echo’s artwork was always bright and cheerful, and the fact this picture had been attacked for what it depicted, saddened me greatly.

  “Can I have this?” I asked.

  Echo nodded. She then pulled out a folded-up piece of paper from the elastic waist of her leggings. “But this is mine,” she said. It was the drawing of Luther and the orange kitten. She had hidden it away. Echo kissed the paper and then reached under her bed and pulled out a shoebox. The shoe box was one I had seen before. She made it in kindergarten, and it was covered with a collage of pictures cut from magazines. Rainbows, cookies, and kittens were represented all over the box. They were things my sister loved. She placed the drawing inside the box. Before she closed the lid and slid the box back under the bed, I saw there were other drawings of Luther in there.

  Echo climbed into my lap, and for a while, I just held her. I rocked a bit from side to side, mainly to soothe my troubled thoughts than to comfort my sister. I looked at the picture on the bed. Our sunny and lively family unit.

  Echo spoke softly. “Mommy didn’t understand. The teacher said we were to draw what made us happy. And that’s what I did. I drew what made me happy, Bess.”

  I smoothed her hair and pulled her in tighter. “I know, baby. I know.” We stayed that way for a long time.

  SALLY’S STORY

  Terry heard the tinkle of the star chimes when the door opened from the street, but she didn’t look up to watch the person who had entered the studio. It had been a quiet morning with little traffic coming in. Dusty was due to arrive any minute, and Terry was glad her business partner hadn’t seen her throwing up in the bathroom when she had gotten to the shop after her argument with Bess. Nerves, that’s what it was. Nerves and emotions had made her nauseous. Now she was enjoying her cup of coffee and the crossword puzzle on her lap. If the person had questions, they would ask.

  At the moment, the crossword puzzle was taxing her into a mental frenzy. These were answers she should know. The subject matter was centered on mermaids, and she was quite familiar with the breed as she had inked enough of them to last her lifetime and the lifetime of her daughters, and probably their daughters as well. Still, she found herself taking too long to answer questions like “Hans” for the four-letter spot asking, “Danish author of Little Mermaid” or “Manatee” as the seven-letter response for “sea cow.”

  So often, she could see the answer dangling in front of her, taunting and teasing, but not coming into focus enough for her to grasp the answer. Her brain was foggy. She wasn’t sleeping enough. Terry took a sip of her coffee and reflected on the fact that even with the current lack of sleep, her life was good. She was happy. Yes, she was damned happy. Business was booming, as they say, she had a man in her life, and her children were healthy - thriving even.

  The next question, eight down, was not making sense. “Location of little mermaid statue.” The answer was Copenhagen. Terry had been there, she had seen the statue herself, touched it. But the space would only allow seven squares. Christ, this wasn’t making sense.

  Bess would know this, but Bess wasn’t really speaking to her. Especially considering the blow-up, they just had.

  Terry sighed, exasperated at the estrangement that was growing like thorns between herself and her oldest daughter. If only Bess could move past Luther and put him in the rearview mirror where he belonged.

  She listened to the footsteps as the patron roamed over by the counter, showcasing Dusty’s ability to create ghastly spiders and lightning bolts that appeared to sizzle off the skin. Listening to the person’s movements, Terry realized the individual was wearing high heels, but there was no click on the floor. This person’s soft steps were measured and mature. Terry stole a glance at the customer’s footwear and confirmed a very stylish pair of Jimmy Choos were adorning the end of a sculptured leg. That was surprising. Jimmy Choos didn’t usually step into Cosmic Hearts.

  The polished older woman was still examining Dusty’s work but had moved over to the biotech display. Terry was now brimming with questions, but she waited to see if the woman chose to engage. Was this someone shopping for a tattoo for her daughter? Her son? Husband? Or had she entered Cosmic Hearts to escape the panhandlers on the street, and now she was viewing the tattoo shop as a fascinating art museum with presentations of the tawdry, the obscene, the enchanted, and the childish?

  The woman had now made her way past Dusty’s section of the shop and was moving up on Terry’s right. Terry kept her face down as if she was disinterested, but every pulse of her blood was dying to look at this woman who had entered her studio. But now she had committed to not-speaking until spoken to first, it would be hard at this point to look up and just watch. Terry decided the two of them were engaging in a secret battle of wills.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Terry could see a tailored cream suit. It floated with the body’s movement, and she caught a whiff of perfume. It was a crisp floral scent and expensive.

  The movement had stopped, and Terry could feel the heat of the woman’s gaze on the back of her neck. C’mon lady, talk.

  She kept her focus on the crossword on her lap. Where the hell was the little mermaid statue, if not Copenhagen?

  “Are you the artist?”

  Finally, the woman had spoken. Terry released a silent breath of relief and looked up with alert eyes and her best “May I help you” expression.

  “My work is over here to my left. If you’re looking for something less sinister and dramatic, I’d suggest heading over there.”

  The woman didn’t move. Her manicured hands rested on the counter.

  “That’s a striking display on your body,” she said. “You clearly didn’t do it yourself. Your partner, then?”

  “No, I go see someone who is up in Guerneville.” Terry leaned back in her chair so she could get a proper look at her unusual customer. “I did, anyway.” Terry amended.

  “Did they die?” the woman asked.

  Terry gnawed on her lip when she answered and looked back down at her puzzle. “They moved on.”

  There was a silence, and the woman looked past Terry’s head as if she was studying another piece of inked artwork, but Terry knew there was nothing behind her except for the calendar and the framed photo of her and Dusty and Bess outside the entrance of Cosmic Hearts the day it officially opened. Bess had been a huggable doll baby at that age, not the willful She-dragon hatchling that lived in the house right now. Terry missed her little “Mouse.” When had she stopped calling Bess by that nickname? Hey, diddle diddle.

  “Are you the person that does the tattoo ceremonies?” The voice startled Terry out of the lovely memory she was having. And the question caught her by surprise. Jimmy Choo lady didn’t look like a woman who would ever seek out her premium service.

  “Yes, I am. Is that what you are interested in?”

  The woman paused before she spoke as if a decision was being made within the moment. A decision she couldn’t take back.

  “My name
is Ellen Somerville.”

  And then, everything fell into place.

  “I know who you are,” Terry replied, and she gazed at Ellen’s face with compassion. It was an elegant face with few signs of aging, just some crow’s feet crinkled at the eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she added.

  The woman nodded, accepting the words she must have heard multiple times in the last year and would hear murmured gently for the rest of her life.

  What happened to the Somerville family reverberated throughout the town. Their sad story was now a cautionary tale.

  There were four daughters in the Somerville family. They were tall statuesque beauties with long hair and the bodies of slender giraffes. When they had walked together as children, they resembled steps moving in unison. When the girls reached adolescence, they all hit five feet ten and looked like a volleyball team missing two players. Three of the girls were smart, delightful, and engaging; wonderful to be around. But then there was Sarah, known as Sally.

  Sally Somerville hit adolescence like a ton of bricks. She hated being the third girl in the family and decided to break out and rebel in every fashion she could. Sally chopped off her hair and dyed what was left of it black. She regularly wore makeup and bright colored lips in direct contrast to the freshly scrubbed look her sisters had. Sally started smoking pot, and when that didn’t get enough of a rise out of her parents, she switched to cigarettes. She’d proudly come home and strut through the door, smelling like an ashtray. It was so bad Ellen asked the housekeeper to separate out Sally’s clothing when the laundry was being done so the smell wouldn’t permeate the attire of the rest of the household.

  Ellen and Byron Somerville convinced themselves Sally was only going through a phase and if they made a big deal about her appearance and behavior, she would escalate matters. Ellen noted Sally’s grades were still good in school, and her friends weren’t too objectionable. If black hair and smoking was the worst thing Sally was going to throw at them, so be it. They were getting off lucky.