Ink for the Beloved Page 4

  “Ah, there she is,” whispered a familiar voice. “Sucking on that hot sauce like a babe to the bottle. Replenishing your fangs, sweetheart?” The voice came from the back of the shop in the shadows.

  “HA HA HA, Dusty,” I replied as I walked towards the little desk in the back office. The place was empty and spotless. I could tell Dusty had just finished cleaning it up. There was jasmine in the air with a hint of cinnamon, and Dusty always used the spicy Jasmine essential oil when she was using aromatherapy.

  “Did you have a walk-in this afternoon?” I asked and headed for the schedule log. I wanted to start on the following day’s confirmations. I found it easily and pulled up the appointments for Saturday. It was easy enough. There were four, and the specifications and partial payments already recorded. Perfect.

  Dusty was leaning back in one of the station chairs on the far end of the studio. Her feet were propped up on a wheeled stool, and she had tilted her black fedora over her eyes, siesta style so she could grab a couple of zzz’s.

  “Yeah, it was a teensy-weensy spider on a shoulder.” She waved over in my direction. “It’s all in the log.”

  Dusty Lorazo works alongside my mother at the tattoo studio. Dusty is a high draw herself in the inked artist world. Dusty’s style is more on the realistic side, and she utilizes the black and grey technique. Her ink looks like photographs to me. Guys dig her stuff as Dusty is famous for her skulls, spiders, and vultures (I have no idea why vultures are popular, but they are). She is also beginning to do more bio-mechanical stuff. Her flash pieces are showing more of this. These are tattoos that make people look like they have metal gears underneath their skin. There is a huge bio-mechanical craze going on. I think those tattoos are incredibly creepy. But it brings in revenue, so I can’t complain.

  About six months ago, we had numerous messages inquiring about that type of work. Dusty experimented a bit and posted some good images on the website. Ever since we book at least four bio-mechanicals a week. These clients like large images, and its detailed work, so multiple sessions are required. And once she has done one, the satisfied client referral sends us dozens more as they proudly post their tats online. As I said, the money is good.

  Dusty is quite a character in her own right. She is one of those people that just radiates “cool.” She and my mom have worked together for years, and they are a great team with a ying/yang vibe. My mother is all frenetic energy and bright colors, while Dusty is low key shades of black and grey with a stillness that would fool the dead. My mother is girlish dresses and ballet flats while Dusty rocks western boots and wide-brimmed hats.

  The one bit of silliness Dusty allows herself are her earrings. The most ridiculous pieces of jewelry can be seen hanging from her earlobes. She has items that are linked to her inkwork like skeletons holding roses and spiders with jewels in their eyes. But then you will also see her wearing flamingos raising up margarita glasses, pineapples with faces, and caterpillars smoking hookah like from Alice in Wonderland. A lot of the jewelry I see on Dusty’s ears are things that make you wonder how anyone thought it would be jewelry, let alone something that someone would plunk down good money for and then wear.

  Dusty has been around as long as I can remember. She is like a second mother. There are times where Dusty’s logic prevails over the nutty ideas my mother sprouts. And all we can say is thank God for that.

  “Where’s my mom?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “The client will be here at five. We have a Beloved ceremony tonight.”

  “Terry keeps her own hours, you know that.”

  I wanted to ask Dusty if she knew anything about my mother dating. But I couldn’t think of a way to ease into the subject. Besides, I could tell Dusty was in a sulky mood and probably wouldn’t be receptive to answering questions about my mother’s social habits.

  “It’s really dark in here,” I said.

  “I’m trying to take a nap.”

  “I need light to set things up and sync the music.”

  “There’s a flashlight under the cabinet by the scrub sink.”

  “Are you serious? You want me to use a flashlight?”

  “I want you to go away. But I have no desire to place the orders, check supplies, and confirm the appointments for tomorrow, so I’m allowing you to be here. But please let me get a nap while the place is quiet.” Dusty didn’t remove the hat from her face the entire time she was talking. “If there is a walk-in now, I’m going to make you do the ink. I’m going to kick your ass, and then make you do the ink.”

  Got it. Dusty was grouchy. A migraine was threatening to broach the horizon. The Ink for the Beloved ceremonies required everyone to be on the top of their game. My mother might be the artist on record and doing the inking, but there was teamwork involved in the same way a surgeon has his team in the operating room. Everyone has a function to play and are integral to making the event go smoothly.

  I groped for the flashlight under the counter, so I didn’t have to turn on the bright overhead lights. I made my confirmation calls easy enough, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t disturb Dusty’s nap. Two were messages left on voicemail, and the others had a few questions about the procedure. With one person, I knew I had gone over some of these questions before in emails, but I was pleasant and assured them after the work is finished, we will send them off with instructions on the care and cleaning of the tattoo.

  I continued my work reviewing stock and making notes of what to order. Above my head was a framed magazine article about the unique services Cosmic Hearts supplied to its customers. The tattoo parlor was billed as a female studio, which was accurate at the time since my mother and Dusty were the primary artists. Since the article was done, there have been a handful of male artists that have blown through. There was this one guy who was great at doing the bio-mechanical stuff, and he helped Dusty really get the edge she needed to gain a following. If I remember correctly, this male artist was great at illustrations, but he had a hard time transitioning to skin as a canvas.

  I took a moment to glance at the magazine article “The Women of Cosmic Hearts Tattoo.” I knew the picture intimately. There was my mother wearing one of her trademark spaghetti strap dresses. This one is white and lacy, and her inked flower garden appears to be spilling out of the dress. It’s like the dress is the vase holding the blooms up and out. Her thick red hair was pulled back into a proper ponytail, high and with a silky bounce. Her smile is wide and big. She is proudly pointing to the painted sign “Cosmic Hearts Tattoo” on the awning over the shop door.

  In the photo, Dusty stands opposite my mother. Dusty is wearing black jeans tucked into weathered cowboy boots. A tight T-shirt shows off the ample time Dusty spends at the gym and then to top it off a grey fedora, cocked to the side, sits on her short blond hair. Big fluorescent pink elephants hang from Dusty’s ears. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and her chin is lifted high, dishing out plenty of attitude.

  However, the charm of the picture resides in the little brown toddler standing in between the two women. Her hair is a mass of dark curls; she would eventually have to tame by braiding. But now, a polka dot hairband is holding the curls in place. A big bright yellow and orange sun with Aztec symbols adorns the center of her shirt. Red shorts and bare feet. The toddler’s face is joyful as she holds out a fistful of daisies in front of her as if she were handing the flowers to the person looking at the picture. It seems like I am bestowing the greatest gift with that bunch of flowers. I look so happy in the picture. Those were the days everyone called me “Mouse.”

  I just can’t connect with that level of happiness anymore. Do I smile? Yes. Do I laugh? Yes. But would I ever feel that level of free abandonment where I could hand a stranger my most precious item of the day? Which when I was three years old, was a handful of white daisies? I don’t think so.

  But, obviously, once upon a time, I was able to do so. I stare at my younger self for a beat, wondering if the emptiness I feel is horm
ones, sorrow, or a reflection of something I lost. When did I become so angry and mean?

  As if in answer to my thoughts, the back door to the studio opens, and the bells jingle. It’s the private entrance which means my mother is entering the shop. I hear a bang as she smacks into something, and a few boxes fall over. There is the sound of hands fumbling along the wall, and I wonder what the hell is my mother doing. The light switch is not near where she is standing, and there is a lot of stumbling going on.

  “Shit! Why is it so dark in here? Where are the goddamn lights?”

  And then some more things fall over. It doesn’t sound like anything breakable.

  CRASH

  I spoke too soon.

  But then I heard something I didn’t expect to hear. Giggling. Silly girlish giggles. And not just my mother was laughing. Her merriment was being joined by someone else. A man. A man was giggling with my mother, and they were clearly sharing an inside joke or something.

  The overhead lights came on, flooding the entire shop. Dusty had awoken from her interrupted nap but remained seated in the chair. I just held my position, staring at the vivid picture in front of me.

  There stood my mother. Her face radiant and flushed. Her abundant auburn hair was clipped high on the top of her head, exposing the nape of her neck. Small tendrils of hair had slipped out of the clip and fell to her shoulders. My mom was looking at me and trying to stifle the giggles, erupting inside of her. She was giggling because a man was standing behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist. And he was softly kissing the nape of her neck. My expression must have been one of silent outrage as my mother started tapping on the man’s arm, signaling him to stop. He didn’t. Instead, it looked like he murmured something into her ear.

  “Shhh. Shhh. Stop. Stop,” my mother said, but she was still giggling. And finally, he did, and he looked over in my direction.

  I was in shock. My mind was blank, and my mouth had probably fallen open. I’ve seen my mother with men in the past. But this was the first time I was seeing her sexually with someone who, by my understanding, she barely knew.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I kept staring at my mother. She was wearing eye makeup, something she never did in the middle of the day. Her eyes were focused on me with an expression of hesitancy and anticipation, but it was mixed with something else, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  A deep voice broke through the silence. “You must be Bess.”

  My gaze shifted to the male figure behind my mother. If it is possible to truly hate someone when you initially lay eyes on them, then that is what was occurring in my mind. First, I should mention this man was impossibly gorgeous. He looked like he had strolled off the pages of a gentleman’s magazine. He had the rugged handsomeness that makes women think they have captured themselves a Han Solo scoundrel. Yes, there was a rogue quality with his strong chiseled jaw, sky blue eyes, and the kind of wavy brown hair that looks like the wind has tousled and teased it as his personal stylist. He was this walking sculpted body of hormones, and even my virgin nostrils could pick up the whiff of sex wafting off the two of them.

  He had to be at least ten years younger than my mother.

  My mother stopped giggling long enough to say, “Bess, this is Todd.”

  My expression hardened. Suddenly I knew what else was mixed in with my mother’s facial features and body language. She was waiting to see my response to her new beau, but her decision had been made. Lust and desire were mixed into the equation, and she was exuding it.

  I felt this rage whoosh up within me. It had been simmering at the beginning, but now it was coursing, overtaking my emotions, and it was bubbling out. I wanted to scream.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I said steadily, but the malice was there.

  Immediately the sparkling smile left her face, and her eyes tightened. She moved out of Todd’s embrace and confronted me head-on. “Who do you think you are talking to?” she demanded.

  I spoke without thinking. “A tart,” I replied.

  The hand came out and smacked me across the face. It stung, but I clenched my jaw and held my defiant gaze. My eyes flooded with tears. Dusty stepped in and forcibly pulled my mother back.

  “Terry,” she spoke in a calming manner and placed her arms around her shoulders. My mother was shaking with rage. She was speaking softly to Dusty, but I could hear what she was saying. Her voice was choked with emotion.

  “Why does she have to be so mean?”

  “You kind of sprung it on her.” Dusty’s tone was measured.

  “We didn’t know she would be here.”

  “It’s Friday, Terry. And it’s after four. She’s always here at this time.”

  I focused on the two of them moving towards the station chairs. I refused to look at the interloper, Todd. He hadn’t moved from the position in front of the back door, and I could tell he was staring at me. Stare on, asshole. And then get out.

  “Maybe you should pay attention to what is going on in your store,” I yelled. “Maybe you would see the work everyone else is doing.”

  Dusty looked up at me with an expression meant to silence. “Bess be quiet.” She turned back to my mother and rubbed her shoulders. “A client is coming in half an hour,” she murmured.

  “I know.” My mother was crying. “I wanted Todd to see what was involved. I wanted him to stay and watch.”

  “That is such a bad idea,” I shouted.

  Dusty released my mother’s shoulders and marched up to me. Her face was hard, and her eyes black. She was mad as well, but I didn’t know if she was angry with me or with my mother for bringing a guy so wantonly into our private and personal workspace. “I think you should go home.”

  “But I haven’t finished with the supply list.”

  “It will wait. Go home, Bess. Go home NOW.”

  I held my ground for a moment, but then decided it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth fighting with Dusty, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what I was throwing such a fit about. Perhaps after a five-month reprieve of no dating and an interlude where the household had finally begun to recuperate from the Luther phase, I had started to believe my mother was content with us, her kids. After all, she went through enough heartache to have us in her life.

  Ordinarily, I would have left by the rear door, but he-man, Todd was still standing there. I didn’t want to look at him and his freakishly handsome face. I walked past Dusty, and my mother, whose back was turned towards me and headed out the front door, keeping myself in check and not slamming the door like I really wanted to.

  As I moved over to my bike, I was beginning to feel ashamed. I knew I had behaved badly, but in my mind, I kept justifying the fury I felt. I was tired of the boyfriends on the dating carousel. My mother’s capricious nature didn’t allow her to hold onto anyone for longer than three months. I hated the older guys because they would “move in” once they tasted Ollie’s cooking and park themselves on the couch. I hated the younger guys cause they all thought my mother was a fun time. However, once they got an eyeful of the baggage she was carrying, they would scramble for the hills. I hated the women because, well, there was just one woman, and her name was Meredith. It was a phase my mother was going through, but nobody told Meredith it was a phase. The whole thing was frightful and dramatic with lots of screaming and name-calling and bitch this and bitch that.

  Todd fell into the younger guy category. Aside from the fact he was abnormally good looking, he looked like a guy who could have any woman he wished. Lord knows what he wanted with my mother beyond a few laughs, a soulful dance, and good sex. Guys who looked like him were not keepers when you are talking about a single mother with two children, and one of them is a mouthy teenager.

  I unlocked my bike and shouldered the lock. I then remembered I had left my book bag inside the studio. Well, I wasn’t going back for it now. The study session with Rueben would have to be accomplished off his notes and my gift of recall.

  As I threw my leg over the b
ike to pull out, I saw a green Prius navigate itself into parallel parking in front of Cosmic Hearts Tattoo. The driver did the maneuver tight and neat. Stephanie Gaige was half an hour early for her appointment. I hope the emotional cauldron inside the shop dissipated before she walked in.

  I got home and entered from the back porch of the house, smelling the pungent aroma of garlic coming from the kitchen. On Friday nights, Ollie liked to build a marinara sauce, and he kept a variety of pasta going from baked penne to ravioli (which was Echo’s favorite). Garlic bread was a staple. It was Rueben’s favorite. (Ollie must have known I had invited him.) And then an enormous green salad filled with all the vegetables leftover from the week that Ollie would toss in.

  I shuffled into my bedroom. I had cried all the way home, and I felt I needed to pull myself together before seeing my friends. The craziness of my life was bad enough, I didn’t need them to see how it affected me. The other problem with leaving my backpack at the studio was in addition to not having my economics notes, I also didn’t have the lovely bag of hot sauce packets Rueben had gotten me. I rifled through the top drawer of my dresser, tossing aside sports bras and socks. But I came up empty, no hot sauce containers to be found. I was out, and my defenses were low. Not a good place to be.

  Ollie poked his head in the doorway of my room. “Miss Joanie is here,” he announced in a sing-song voice. Ollie took one look at my face and gasped. He quickly stepped into the room and slid the door closed behind him. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Ollie was incredibly perceptive, but I’m sure my face was a wreck, and it was apparent I had been crying.

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “No, I can see you’ve been crying. And you are not the boohoo type.”

  “Oh god, I don’t want to make this into a thing.”