Ink for the Beloved Read online

  “Hey!” Rueben called as he ran up. “You want to help me put together a study guide for economics?”

  “Sure.” I readjusted my backpack on my shoulders so it wouldn’t slide too much as I mounted the bike.

  “Why don’t you handle fiscal policy in Macroeconomics and I’ll do the charts on inflation. I think we should get the guide completed by this weekend because I suspect a pop quiz coming out of Meyer soon.”

  “Fine,” I answered. “But please write up a regular study guide and don’t use something from Star Trek or Dune as the widget example.”

  Rueben stared at me as if I had snatched a beagle puppy out of his hands. “What’s wrong with Star Trek and Dune?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Just use something normal, okay. I get tired of reading about Tribbles and alien spices.”

  “Melange,” Rueben said. “The spice in Dune is Melange. My Tribble chart showing their multiplication patterns was ingenious,” Rueben argued. “I sent them to the writers on the Star Trek series. They thought they were fantastic, and they sent me signed autographs from everyone on the show.”

  By now, I was rolling my eyes because I cannot tell you how often I’ve heard the story about Tribble charts and the writers on Star Trek. Just note I do like this guy even though he can be incredibly annoying.

  We were joined by Joanie, who is the third member of our friend group. Joanie is the most gorgeous girl in the school. Hands down, no questions asked. Joanie is tall with long elegant legs, and she shows them off with skinny jeans and ankle boots. She has impressive brown velvet hair that is the envy of all the high school girls. When Joanie walks, it bounces and moves behind her like it’s starring in a shampoo commercial. Her skin is flawless. I don’t think a bump would ever dare to mar her creamy brown complexion. It’s hard to look at Joanie and not be envious; she took the blue ribbon in the genetic pool competition. I believe all the boys have secret crushes on Joanie. I know Rueben does.

  Joanie is the opposite of me when it comes to her personal worldview. I’m the skeptic, always looking for the angle folks are taking and guessing what their selfish motives are. Joanie thinks well of everyone. I mean, everyone. She gets visibly upset when she observes nasty, manipulative behavior and cries at news stories on TV. She’s not naïve; she understands what happens in the world. It just hurts her heart. I worry about Joanie, but then again, she worries about me.

  Most people don’t understand how we can be friends because Joanie is so lovely, and I am so mean. And I must admit there are times I can’t understand it either. But we are.

  “Are you guys getting together tonight?” Joanie asked. “Cause I want to come even if we’re not working on the same thing. I can study my algebra, and you two will be there to help me.”

  Rueben and I have almost all our classes together. We both operate at an accelerated level and taking a course load of AP classes like Meyer’s economics class. Joanie was on a more normal module of classes. I only saw her in between the bell periods when we were dashing to our next class and at the lunch break when we would hurry to the burrito stand located off-campus to get our bean and cheese burritos with extra onions, (and extra hot sauce for me).

  “Isn’t there a basketball game tonight?” Rueben asked.

  Joanie is a cheerleader. She is a reluctant participant and rolls her eyes every time the subject comes up. The cheerleading squad at the high school insisted. In fact, the whole school kind of insisted. Administrators and students cajoled and sweet-talked Joanie into trying out, and then she was unanimously voted in.

  The skeptic in me initially thought Joanie was being set up for a horrible Carrie style prank. But I was wrong. There must be a high school/cheerleader code. You can’t have a girl who looks like Joanie walk around the high school campus and not be on the cheerleading squad. Plus, they were tired of people asking if that beautiful black girl was a cheerleader, so they placed her on the squad to shut people up. There is Joanie with her kicks and pom-poms, even if she is a bit of a klutz. She may be black and have the legs of a gazelle, but Joanie has no rhythm whatsoever. It is one of the things that keeps the rest of the girls at school from secreting hating her. Thank God for small favors.

  “No game,” Joanie answered. “We travel on Saturday to Vacaville. So, what’s up?”

  “Nothing,” I responded. “We were just figuring our schedules out. But I’m working tonight, guys.”

  Rueben’s eyes perked up. He loved hearing me talk about the tattoo studio. But since he and Joanie were minors, they weren’t allowed to hang out there.

  “Are you doing one of those …ceremonies?” he asked.

  I sighed. “Yes,” and out of the corner of my eye, I could see Joanie turn away and look off into the distance as if something fascinating was coming around the corner. Unlike Rueben, she hated hearing about Cosmic Hearts Tattoo. Especially when I talked about the “Ink for the Beloved” ceremonies as she believed they were séances. Joanie is a Jehovah’s Witness, and the religion frowns upon rituals and any type of contact with ghosts or spirits.

  “Yes, it is a Beloved ceremony, and I have to get to the studio and prepare before 5:00.”

  Rueben was eager to hear about it, but I could see Joanie getting frustrated.

  “Hey, listen, why don’t you guys come over to study at my house around 7:00. The ceremony will be done, or at least my portion will be, and if you want to eat, I’ll ask Ollie to add enough food to cover you.” Joanie smiled and nodded her head. I knew I had her when I mentioned eating Ollie’s cuisine. She loved hanging out with Ollie at the house, and his food was sublime. Joanie was an only child, and her mother had died in a car accident years ago. Her widower father brought home take-out regularly for the two of them, and Joanie’s klutziness kept her away from the stove.

  My mother is a lousy cook. Bowls of cereal in the morning was the biggest challenge she could handle. When Olliver DeMatteo offered his cooking services in exchange for the apartment studio on the second floor, it was an agreement that brought immense joy to everyone’s gastrointestinal tracts.

  Joanie dashed off happily, promising to see us later tonight. She managed to avoid plowing into the tree, blocking her path, but she tripped over the tree’s roots, so it got her anyway.

  “I want to hear the story for tonight,” said Rueben. The boy was practically salivating. I guess I hadn’t told him about studio stuff in a while. He was becoming very impatient like I was holding out. Then I remembered I had a large plastic bag of hot sauce packets from Aunt Rosine’s Taqueria courtesy of Rueben. He deserved to hear a full story and not just the bullet points.

  “Alright,” I answered. “But I only have ten minutes, and then I have to get to the shop.”

  “Walk your bike,” Rueben said. “And I’ll go some of the ways with you.”

  “You’ll have to take the bus back to your house,” I pointed out.

  “It will be worth it. Begin.” He snapped his fingers. I began.

  STEPHANIE GAIGE

  The client at 5:00 tonight was Stephanie Amelia Gaige. Stephanie had requested the Ink for the Beloved ceremony, which is a unique service my mother performs. It is not a séance, as Joanie believes. There is no attempt to talk or communicate with the dead. My mother is a tattoo artist, not a medium or a fortune-teller. The ceremony honors the dead, we don’t contact them. I seem to be the only family member with any type of supernatural ability. And even then, I don’t like to call it that. I haven’t determined if the tattoos are talking to me or if I’m super perceptive like Sherlock Holmes. I want to think I am super observant like Sherlock Holmes.

  (And for obvious reasons, Joanie DOES NOT KNOW about the tattoo reading thing. Joanie is against tattoos entirely. Again, it is astounding the two of us are friends.)

  The Ink for the Beloved service is one my mother executes when the tattoo an individual is requesting links to a loved one that has died. Not everyone who gets a design for a deceased person asks for the ceremony, but for many peo
ple who are using the tattoo as a part of their grieving cycle, the IFTB ceremony is a means to achieving closure.

  Stephanie Gaige is a twenty-four-year-old woman who works as a marine biologist at the East Bay Aquatic Center. She is small in size but brazen with an adventurous spirit. She grew up in the landlocked state of Kansas with happy childhood memories of playing capture the flag using water guns and hoses on a fort her father had built for her and her twin brother, Aaron.

  When Stephanie Gaige had her introductory meeting with my mother, she shared memories and photos from her childhood. This is in preparation for the ceremony. Stephanie told my mother a particular story that will be recited back to her during the ceremony. While my mother inks the design, she talks about the person who is being memorialized. Sometimes music is played, and other things like poetry are woven into the speech. It is a live performance but personalized for the client.

  Stephanie told my mother about the day she lost her brother. And that was the story I shared with Rueben.

  ***

  Aaron and Stephanie were inseparable. They loved water, and when they were old enough, they started taking swim lessons at the local community center. At the swim center, there were four levels of instruction. The beginning level was called the guppies, the next level was the tadpoles, the third level was the seahorses, and the fourth was the dolphins. Stephanie and Aaron couldn’t wait until they reached the level of seahorses because it was at that level their mother said they could swing on the rope and jump into the man-made water hole at the rock quarry.

  They were ten years old that summer. They started their lessons, and within two weeks, their mother said they were ready. It was a hot summer day in Kansas, and by 11:00, the quarry was filled with kids. Swimming was allowed in the morning until noontime, and then everyone was sent out of the sun until 3:00. There were tents erected and ice coolers with snacks and bottles of water for the kids that didn’t want to go home for lunch. After three, when the sun was less intense, the kids were allowed back in. The whole area was well monitored by the adults. After all, most of their children from the ages of ten to sixteen were swimming at the quarry. At nightfall, the whole place was locked down for protection. There had never been a problem until Aaron Stanley Gaige took the rope swing.

  The rules of usage on the rope swing were quite clear. Signs were posted all around the area where the quarry rope swing hung. And even if kids didn’t read the signs (but they all did), the older youth always mentioned the rule when passing the rope to the next rider in line. Swing out. Swing back. Let go. Do not hold on to the rope. You must let go. Swing out. Swing back. Let go. (Actually, it was swing back halfway, so you dropped in the center of the water.) If you can’t let go, you lose rope privileges FOREVER.

  The older kids always said “forever”, to make sure the meeker children understood the gravity of the situation. But really, the offender would lose rope privileges for the rest of the summer. The reason for emphasizing swing out, swing back (halfway), let go, is if a kid didn’t drop into the water in the middle of the quarry, the rescue mission of getting them off the rope and pulling the line back to the raised shore took a full hour. Adults had to be called, and an inflatable yellow boat had to be paddled out into the water with life jackets. Lifeguard trained swimmers had to coax the reluctant child to drop into the water (this could take up to twenty minutes alone!), and then they were lifted into the floating rescue craft and returned to shore.

  After swimmers were cleared from the quarry, the rope was hooked and pulled up to the high rocks. There were only two individuals in the area who were skilled enough to hook the line with a lasso toss within ten tries. And, if Maynard or Mark Cross weren’t there at the quarry swimming themselves to retrieve the rope if needed, the swing would hang still until one of them showed up. Eighth graders, Stacey Upton and Craig Granger, timed the whole operation two summers ago when Kerry Rogers refused to let go of the rope. It had taken an hour and a half to reset. An hour and a half.

  As the line inched up and they got closer to their first rope swing, Stephanie shared with her brother she was terrified she would be like Kerry Rogers and not let go. Not letting go of the rope swing was a public shame, tarnishing your reputation all the way through high school. People still weren’t talking to Kerry Rogers. Stephanie was so worried; her body was trembling. Aaron reassured her. He rubbed her shoulders and reminded her they had gotten this far. They were mighty seahorses and had earned this privilege. He also told Stephanie their mom had packed a cooler for them at lunch, and it was filled with fried chicken, peaches, and oatmeal raisin cookies. Aaron loved food as much as he loved adventure.

  When the time came for them to take the rope, Aaron told his sister to go ahead of him. He gave her a quick wink and squeezed her hand. Stephanie took the line, and the mantra ran through her head; swing out, swing back, let go. The rush of the swing swooping out was exhilarating. Stephanie had never felt anything like it. As the swing lifted her over the rocky ledge on the opposing side, she fearfully looked away and closed her eyes. The speed and the height over the water were scary, and fear took hold of her body. She instinctively tightened her grip on the rope. As the swing headed back to where the other kids were waiting for their turn, Stephanie opened her eyes, and her focus zeroed in on Aaron’s face. Her brother looked happy. He looked proud. He was mouthing something to her. He was mouthing, “Let go!” And Stephanie did.

  The fall into the water took less than two seconds. To her heightened senses, the quarry had rushed up to greet her, and the plunge roared in her ears. She sank deep into the water, allowed herself the opportunity to still herself in the coolness and the calm of the depths. She then kicked her feet to propel herself up and out.

  The moment Stephanie walked, dripping, onto the shore, she turned up to look at Aaron, who now had the rope in his hands, eagerly waiting for his shot. The sun was shining in her eyes, and she could hardly see him, but she lifted her hand and raised her thumb in the “Okay” signal. She was smiling like she never had before. The adrenaline was rocketing through her. She watched her twin jump up and swing out on the rope. She was so happy to share this incredible rush of excitement with him.

  Swing out. Swing back (halfway). Let go.

  But Aaron must have been so fired up, his mind left his senses. He let go of the rope before it had reached its full height of the fulcrum swing. The momentum sent his skinny little body flying to the rocks on the opposite side of the shore. They said he died instantly.

  The rope swing was shut down for the remainder of the summer. But even when it opened again the following year, Stephanie never got back on the rope swing. She never went to the quarry again, and on hot days she did her swimming at the community center pool.

  Years later, after she had graduated from college, Stephanie’s mother had a stroke and needed to be in hospice care. Stephanie was helping her father downsize their belongings when she found a box of childhood drawings in her mother’s closet. Most of Stephanie’s pictures had been simple illustrations of the stories and books she read, but Aaron had been the artist between the two of them. On top of the stacked artwork was a drawing of two seahorses. Their tails were curled under and wrapped together in solidarity. Around their necks were little capes. The capes were drawn as if the seahorses were flying instead of floating in the water. At the top of the page was written “To Stephanie from Aaron. We are mighty seahorses.” Aaron had died before he could give this to her. Stephanie wept for days.

  ***

  I finished talking and looked at Rueben. His eyes were glistening. I knew he would be crying on his walk home. We had reached the tattoo studio, so Rueben would have a long bus ride before coming back later tonight. “Do you want to just stay at the house and wait until I’m done?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Naw, I need to change and shower. I’ll get Javier to drop me off later before he goes out for the night. So, is that what she is getting done? A tattoo of a seahorse? For her brother?”
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  “She’s mirroring the drawing. She sent it to my mom a month ago, and my mother designed something from it. So, it will be two seahorses with capes, but it won’t look like a kid’s drawing. They will be done with a more realistic touch since she is a marine biologist.” One of the added touches my mother incorporated was enlarging the eyes of the sea creatures to give them expression. Expressive faces in her designs are a strong suit of my mother’s.

  “Can I see it?” Rueben asked. He always wants to see the work after he hears the story.

  “I’ll show you the pictures when you come by later.”

  Rueben gave me a fake pout. But then he dashed up to the corner as he saw his AC Transit bus approaching in the distance.

  I took a few breaths to clear my head. Telling the story of Stephanie Gaige and her brother, Aaron, had gotten to me a bit. It was sad. I was glad I would not be there during the ceremony and was just responsible for the prep and making sure everything was clean and ready.

  SNAKE IN THE GRASS

  I parked my bike and secured the lock. Right before going inside the studio, I zipped open my backpack and pulled out one of the hot sauce packs Rueben had gotten for me. Might as well treat me now. Besides, I needed to clear my head and focus. I shouldered the backpack as I tore open the packet. The sharp tang of the sauce felt good as it went down my throat. My nose picked up the smoky hint of chipotle just as my tongue captured the flavor. Damn, I loved hot sauce. I pushed open the door to Cosmic Hearts Tattoo and stepped inside.