Ink for the Beloved Page 30

  Everything about Michael screamed wannabe Renaissance man. However, instead of presenting an aloof demeanor, he seemed delighted to see us. His eyes were alive with excitement, and there was manic energy in his movements as he practically shoved Rueben and me through the door of his apartment.

  We had left Joanie waiting in the car out in front of the apartment. I thought it was essential to keep Joanie as distant from the “investigation” as possible. Driving Rueben and me to a person’s home wasn’t dangerous. It was the deception involved once we were inside, that Joanie (and her father) would have a problem with. I was just looking out for my girl. Besides, as Joanie pointed out, once we pulled up in front of Willingham’s building skirting the shoreline of Lake Merritt, it was smart to have a lookout person as part of the crew. It was also smart to have someone who knew where we were and what we were doing, in case - you know, the police asked. Joanie waved us out and then settled into the solitude of the car, reading “The Handmaid’s Tale” for English.

  I didn’t know Willingham at all. He wasn’t one of my mother’s regulars like Xtina. When I called him following our dinner and Rueben’s enthusiastic congo line, he quickly invited me over once I mentioned Terry Wynters. His eagerness prompted me to have Rueben and Joanie along.

  I only knew what Dusty had mentioned to me when I casually asked. She said, “he’s nice enough, I guess.” I practically rolled my eyes at this non-committal, non-judgmental, no-damn-kind-of-description comment. All I had to go on was “he’s nice enough,” and the knowledge he had asked my mother to tattoo a golden lyre on his bicep. She had called him Wednesday, saying she suddenly had an opening in her schedule and could fit him in.

  When I gave Joanie and Rueben this information, they both responded at the same time. Rueben said, “what’s a lyre?” and Joanie replied, “he must be a musician.” Ignoring Rueben, the 1570 ignoramus, I looked at Joanie and said: “My thoughts, exactly.” A lyre is one of those words that must be spelled out for people to grasp your meaning.

  However, once I stepped into Willingham’s apartment, I quickly realized we were all kinds of wrong about the musician assessment.

  “Welcome to my home,” Willingham said with a theatrical flair. His spruced-up bathroom with matching hand towels and burning fragrance candles (Ugh. Gag) was to our immediate left. But my nose was picking up some marvelous smells, and I knew it wasn’t from those ridiculous candles. To the right was a shotgun hallway that presumably led to the bedroom. There was an ample open space directly in front which held the living room, and we could see a tiny deck with two chairs overlooking the sparkling water of Lake Merritt. But it was what lay to our left that captured our eyes and quickly excited our bellies.

  Sitting on the countertop functioning as a divider between the living room and the kitchen was an array of finger foods. The aroma in the apartment teasing my nostrils was an overwhelming fresh smell of chopped farm stand fruit and fragrant pungent spices. It smelled heavenly, like a ripe summer day. I took a deep breath and smiled. Rueben’s eyes grew as large as pizza pies as he took in the smorgasbord displayed in front of us.

  Michael slapped his hands together and gleefully rubbed them, like the old cliché indicating, “let’s get started.”

  “You two are going to help me out since you’re here. I’ve been playing around with Asian fusion, and I want your opinion on these turkey meatballs.” He stepped into his kitchen and gestured for us to move forward as he explained the dishes presented in front of us. His hand gestures were like a magician’s, delicate, and quick. I was mesmerized as they danced and spun in the air, pointing at the plates as he talked.

  “These meatballs are a combination of tart cherries and ginger. These meatballs are sweet cherries with ginger, and these over here to the far-right have cranberries, mandarin oranges, and a pinch of ginger.” He gestured to small yellow index cards, perfectly lined up in front of each platter. “I have little cards in front of each plate, and I want you to rank your preferences. 1, 2, and 3. And then place the cards face down back in front of the appropriate dish. When you’ve done that, please move onto the fresh salsas.”

  I wanted to dive into this fabulous opportunity that had presented itself to us, but first things first, Rueben and I were here on a mission, and I didn’t want to forget as I savored the food. God, I loved fresh ginger, and it was a spice Ollie detested, so we never had it at home.

  Good old Rueben had already speared two meatballs from the tart cherry platter. He almost swallowed them whole and announced: “I thought you were a musician.”

  Michael’s face scrunched up into a tight fist. “Wherever did you get that idea? I’ve been cooking for years. I went solo with my catering company six years ago.”

  Rueben looked over at me, confused. I glared back at him because I needed to be leading the questions, and I didn’t want Willingham to be on guard, and now he was. There was a long pause. Long enough for everyone in the room to feel weird and awkward. Rueben covered by eating and scooping up some salsa two-fisted. I remained silent, not sure how to save the moment or what to do.

  Willingham gave it a try. He arched his eyebrows and smiled. “Well, people have called me a virtuoso in cuisine…“. The joke trickled away, and he decided to plunge back into describing the banquet of food.

  “This here’s a summer salsa with ginger. There are fresh peaches, heirloom tomatoes, ginger, torpedo onions, lemon juice, and a dash of balsamic vinegar! Over here is a spicy avocado and jalapeno dressing. I’ve dribbled it across salad samples. Cobb salad here and a more Tex Mex salad here. Four samples altogether. One Cobb is with Reed avocados, and the other is Haas. Then I did the same with the Tex Mex salads. Which combo sings to you more? Please take advantage of the index cards for notations. So, while you are doing that, you can tell me why you are here. I love having people over, but you called me.”

  “What’s the Asian fusion with avocados?” I asked. I was stalling, and I knew it. The meatballs were tantalizing, and I popped two into my mouth.

  “There isn’t any. They just had Reed avocados at the market, and I started getting creative.”

  I seriously wondered what Michael Willingham served when he wasn’t creative. These ginger meatballs were popping like tiny bombs of orgasmic flavor in my mouth.

  Willingham was eying me now, his dark eyes directly focused on me. “What’s this all about? You said this had something to do with Terry Wynters. I just got ink done by her. And you two seem really young.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s why I’m here.”

  “What’s wrong? Does this have something to do with the attack?” So, he did know about that.

  “I’m Terry Wynters’ daughter.”

  Michael Willingham drew back, pulling himself to his full and formidable height. He was a rake; thin and tall. “Oh,” he said softly. Oh…I’m…dreadfully…” He tightly pushed his lips together and then broke his gaze from my face. “I’m sorry.” He looked out the picture window, and it seemed for a second he was watching something on the street. His gaze was distracted. But then he turned back and looked me square in the eye. “I admired your mother quite a bit. I had heard so much about her. I was excited when she called and told me she could fit me in sooner than originally scheduled. Now that I look at you, I see the resemblance. I’m sorry I didn’t notice it before.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I don’t expect people to remark on any resemblance to my mother and me. I’m so over that.

  Michael leaned over the counter, focusing on me. “I still don’t understand why you are here. I don’t usually receive visits from the children of the artists who ink me.”

  “How much do you know about the circumstances surrounding my mother?” I asked. I decided speaking closer to the truth would be the best tactic. Besides, I wanted to eat the Asian fusion, avocado sampling, or whatever this was displayed in front of me and that Rueben had practically devoured.

  “Not very much, to be honest,” Michael replied. His eyes softened
. “I only heard she had been attacked. And things didn’t look promising.” He said the last part very softly.

  Good, I thought to myself. He’s uncomfortable, so he won’t ask too many questions. “I don’t know if you are aware of this, but you were one of her last clients.”

  Michael Willingham visibly shuddered.

  “I’m kind of seeking closure, and I am visiting the people who saw my mother at the shop to… (I allowed myself to stammer here) …well, to see what she worked on the last day…”

  “Oh, my dear…” Michael swept me up into his arms, giving me a hug much stronger than it looked like he could possibly deliver. Over his shoulder, I saw Rueben wasn’t paying us any mind and had consumed half of the Cobb salad with the Haas avocados (or were they the Reed avocados. I’d need to look at those cards)

  “Your mother WAS AN ARTIST. So extraordinary. I sought her specifically to do the lyre on my arm” He pulled back then and looked at me and then over to Rueben. A smile spread across his face. “THAT’S why you thought I was a musician. Of course, it all makes sense now. Why would a man who cooks have an instrument tattoo?”

  “I had the same question” were the words floating through my head, but I said, “Can I see it?” The story about the lyre must be good.

  “Of course, of course.” Michael whipped off the flannel shirt and pulled up the sleeve of his white T to show me the lyre my mother had inked upon his body. The tattoo was fresh and beautifully detailed. Many accents made it recognizable as the work of Terry Wynters. The color of the lyre was, in fact, golden, and sun rays were leaping from the strings as if the music the instrument played was intense and volatile instead of harmonious and melodic. It was the inclusion of the fiery sun rays that made the work compelling and distinct - much more than just a simple harp or lyre.

  Michael was looking at my face, trying to read my expression. I’m trying to figure out what it means, and he thinks I am judging the design. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s my mother’s work. I love it. I like the added touch of the sun rays.”

  “Yes, that was her idea. When she added them to the sketch, I freaked. They were perfect.”

  Now came the loaded question. “What does the lyre mean to you?”

  “When I was a kid, my mother wanted me to pick up an instrument. But I never could find the discipline to practice, and none of the instruments in the orchestra interested me outside of the harp. And that seemed like a useless instrument to learn for a boy. Besides, those suckers are huge and expensive.” He sighed and looked out his picture window at the jeweled lake below. “When she passed away, I wanted to get something to remember her by, and an instrument seemed fitting.”

  “But why a lyre and not a harp?”

  “That was your mother’s idea, as well. It looks close enough to a harp, and the sun rays are pretty cool.”

  Something was missing here, but I couldn’t put my mental finger on it. Looking at the tattoo and hearing Michael talk wasn’t enough. “Can I touch it?” I asked.

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  I ran my finger over the image, making sure I caught the sun rays that vibrated with intensity. But the story played before my eyes did not connect to what Michael Willingham had said about the lyre. What I saw were multiple images of a little boy drawing pictures of Star Wars looking space capsules and astronauts floating in space tethered to rocket ships. The little boy’s room was filled with Buzz Lightyear type of stuff. When he wasn’t drawing pictures of space, the little boy was putting together spaceships from Lego sets. Every now and then, I could hear classical music playing on a stereo somewhere in the house, but it was the only musical connection to the story the tattoo showed me.

  Hiding my disappointment, I looked at Michael and smiled. “Thank you,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” he answered and gestured to what was left on his countertop. “Now dig in and give me notes. It looks like your friend here has left a few morsels for you.”

  I helped myself to what I could, and it was delicious. I tried to leave detailed notes on the cards as Michael asked, but how do you differentiate from amazing and fantastic? I made shit up.

  Forty minutes had passed since our arrival, and Rueben was telling Michael how he had skipped a level of math in high school, so I believed it was time for us to go.

  “I hope we have both been helpful to one another,” Michael said as a farewell. “I did admire your mother’s work. All the best to you.”

  I felt grateful, even though the story from his tattoo did not match the story he told me. There were things here that didn’t fit. It was like a door that doesn’t stay shut. It remained slightly open because there was something keeping it from latching correctly. Later, I would have to visualize the story and images and match it up against Xtina’s cow tattoo. These thoughts were whirling around my head as Rueben, and I descended the stairs to the street.

  Suddenly, Rueben grabbed my arm and looked at me with a horrified expression. “Omigod! Joanie’s still in the car. She is going to be mad when she hears about the food she missed.”

  I had forgotten about Joanie as well. Ugh. I was a lousy friend. I wanted to kick myself. But I knew of a way to stay in her good graces and not have her ditch us out here in Oakland.

  “Why don’t you give Joanie those meatballs you stuffed in your jacket pocket,” I said.

  The shocked look on Rueben’s face when he registered my knowledge of the pilfered snacks made me laugh all the way to the car. It felt good. I felt like myself again.

  ATOMIC ALLURE

  “Ariel Sanchez is a pole dancer! Omigod, this is fantastic!”

  The information excited Rueben, and I quickly explained the differences between a pole dancer and a stripper. (To be honest, I had to look them up myself) Initially, I was terrified about Ariel being a dancer as I had visions of having to sneak into a nightclub with a fake ID and dressing up with makeup and shit.

  Rueben’s excitement dimmed once the realization of getting to Ariel and her tattoo presented a logistical challenge. I had called the number listed in the client files for Ariel and learned it was a place of business. The voice recording said Atomic Allure. It then talked about the location of the studio, parking issues, and the closest Bart station. Since it was where she worked, I felt weird, leaving a message identifying myself and asking if I could see Ariel’s tattoo. I had no idea what Atomic Allure was but searching around online quickly yielded some answers.

  For the most part, Atomic Allure was a dance studio, specializing in pole dancing classes. They also did specialty birthday and bridal parties, and the studio could be leased out for events. I found a listing of the classes offered, and realized Ariel Sanchez was an instructor. The website also provided a picture, and I could see the tattoos on her body as she was dressed in what looked like her underwear and high heels. The three other women who were listed as instructors were wearing similar attire.

  Ariel Sanchez was a knockout. She had beautiful creamy bronze skin with a luxurious mane of cinnamon-colored hair. Her eyes were the depth of black coffee, and the smile in the picture was inviting - not in a sexual way, but in a way that made you want to take her classes, which I’m sure was the desired effect.

  The note my mother had written next to Ariel’s name simply said, “phases.” I had no idea what that meant. And looking at the picture of Ariel’s body on the Atomic Allure website, my mother was not the only ink artist she visited. Ariel had at least fifteen visible tattoos on her body. They weren’t connected in a unifying theme but scattered all over her arms, neck, and fingers. Like Xtina Cross, Ariel had been a regular of my mother’s, but looking at the photo, I could only guess which ink jobs had been done by my mother’s hand.

  Joanie and I did a trial run and drove past Atomic Allure to get a feel for the place. It was in a sketchy part of town, and the studio doors were only open when classes started and ended. You couldn’t just enter. You signed up for sessions online, and this determined your
entry into the studio. There was a bouncer, and I didn’t think I could talk my way in.

  When we brought the dilemma to Rueben, he suggested I sign up for one of the classes and then be a bad student. I hated this idea because of the truth behind it, (I’m an awful dancer), but it seemed like the only way I could get inside and have an audience with Ariel. While taking the class, I would express an interest in getting a tattoo, which would prompt her to talk about the ones she has. This is where not looking like Terry Wynters becomes an asset. Ariel will not suspect anything. Something inked on her body will have a hint about phases or going through a phase (which is what I suspected). I’ll do my accidental touching routine with the tattoo and get the information I needed. Easy Peasy.

  Of course, it was not easy. It turns out Ariel doesn’t teach any beginner classes. Then I thought I would sign up for her intermediate level and act all embarrassed when I get there and realize it is not a beginner class. That way, I still get to interact with Ariel.

  Again, not so easy. The online booking system would not let me sign up for an intermediate class without prior permission from one of the instructors. I couldn’t accidentally sign up for the wrong category.

  This required some new problem-solving skills. I tore open a hot sauce packet and sucked down the juice. I continued to stare at the computer screen and click around the website. I was trying to figure out how to get myself in front of Ariel without it looking like a girl stalker move. I realized I was probably going to have to tell her I was Terry Wynters’ daughter. I had learned with Michael and Xtina that telling them I needed closure had opened the door immediately to them, showing me their ink. People like to believe they are helping you with an emotional hurdle.