Jody Gehrman - Summer in the Land of Skin

“My treat,” she says. A gust of wind blows a sheaf of newspapers strewn about the Goat Kids’ yard, scattering them in the street. One page drifts lightly toward her, and she kicks it away.

“Oh, I couldn’t let you—”

“Sure you could,” she says, showing her small white teeth, miniature and flawless like a doll’s. “It’s no big deal.”

I smile in answer, and we start off down Walnut Street, leaving the butchered guitar and the Land of Skin behind us.

“I think I’ve seen you around,” she says, squinting at me again as she lights a cigarette. Her eyebrows are mesmerizing. They’re shaped like Jackie O’s—two perfect, slim lines that curve elegantly high at the outer corners—and give the impression that she is constantly amused. She is a study in smallness—a tiny, childish nose, delicate, miniature ears. She squeezes her wedge of lime and we watch as the pulpy juice drips into her gin and tonic, clouding the clear bubbles a little. “You have a habit of watching people, don’t you.”

I look up at her, startled. My face gets hot.

“Well, don’t look like that,” she says, laughing before taking the thin red straw into her mouth. She sips from her drink with her eyes on me. “I caught you staring at us once, downtown. We were making fools of ourselves, and you were rubbernecking. I wanted to kill you.” She smiles. “Some people have a habit of becoming public spectacles. Other people watch. It’s how the world gets divided.” She nods at the package of Camels on the table. “You smoke?” I shake my head. “I didn’t think so.”

“Are you from here?” I ask, gripping my Heineken.

“Yeah,” she says. She looks around at the sad little dive she’s steered us into; it is empty except for the overweight bartender and a couple of crusty, flannel-clad locals watching a game show and eating pretzels. “I grew up right here, in this bar. Listen, I’m not into small talk, okay? It wastes my time. We’re all going to die, you know—that’s important to keep in mind. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here in Bellingham?” She takes a drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke sideways. Her lips are a dark, unpainted pink. I blink and gather my thoughts. “Don’t plan everything,” she says. “Jesus, why is everyone so edited, so—”

“To kill my father,” I blurt out.

Her cigarette hand freezes midway to her mouth. “Really?” she says, her eyebrows arching even more. “How?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “He’s dead, but he needs to die a little more.”

Her mouth makes that tight, wry shape again. She taps her cigarette against the edge of the plastic ashtray and says, “My name’s Lucinda, by the way. You can call me Lucy sometimes, but never Lu or—God forbid—Lu-Lu. Nice to meet you.”

We drink all afternoon into evening, and not a moment is wasted. She smokes and pries, drinks and searches, confesses without a trace of apology or sentiment. She talks about death like it’s a bus we have to catch, or a party we’re going to—a pressing engagement that requires we say everything now, without hesitation. She drinks four gin and tonics, one on top of the other; the bartender brings the new rounds without even asking, like he’s a part of her meticulous war against wasted time. After my initial Heineken he starts bringing both of us gin and tonics, with matching red straws and identical wedges of lime. I keep up with her, drink for drink, and I can feel myself getting looser and sloppier, my words coming easily but without precision. The room takes on softer hues; the men at the bar become shadows, while the bottles behind them turn to a blur of blues, greens and golds, catching the light and sparkling like Christmas ornaments.

When the two windows of the bar are turning colors—from the dregs of a terra-cotta sunset to a deep, melancholy blue—Lucinda finally gets around to the pedestrian details. “Where are you staying, anyway?”

I look at my hands. “Above Dr. Gottlieb’s.”

“No way! That fucking sicko? You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“It’s only temporary,” I say.

Her eyes light up, a new idea hatching behind them. “Listen, it’s perfect timing. Why don’t you move in? You can’t go back to that bastard’s.”

“He does give me the creeps.”

“Of course he does! He’s the creepiest! He seriously tried to rape me once,” she says, tapping a fresh pack of Camels against the Formica.

If it weren’t for all the drinks and the overall surreal hue of the day, I would react with shock and sympathy, but between my tipsiness and Lucy’s nonchalance, attempted rape barely registers.

“I’m surprised he didn’t try you, already. You’re staying with me. Absolutely.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, trying to be reasonable.

“Sure, I’m sure,” she says, ripping the Camels free of their cellophane wrapping. “You’ve got no choice.”

“But you just met me today.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” she says, annoyed. She tugs a cigarette free from the others and touches the flame of her Zippo to it with practiced precision. “You want me to check references or something?”

“We’ve had a few, is all,” I say. “I don’t want you to feel weird about it later.”

“Hey, what you see’s what you get. I’m no different, sober or drunk. I’ll still like you tomorrow. Besides,” she says, pausing for a drag, then exhaling slowly, “I’m never alone.”

When we get back to the Land of Skin, the CDs and the Gibson are gone. I suspect they’ve been scavenged by the Goat Kids. In the entryway of Smoke Palace, the carpet is peeling back from the floor, and the air reeks of damp dog and mold. We go up two flights of stairs and Lucinda throws the door open with drunken flourish. It is dark inside. I can make out only vague shapes in the moonlight.

Lucinda crosses the room, stumbling once, and gropes at the wall. There is a flicker of yellow and a buzzing sound as the ceiling light struggles to come alive. It fills the room with ghostly fluorescence, and I see Lucinda in a momentary cameo, digging in her pack for a new cigarette before the light goes out. “Fuck,” she whispers. She crosses the room again. I hear a thud as she bangs against something.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Fuck.”

I can hear her fumbling with another light switch, and then the room goes bright again. I squint against the brightness instinctively, though it is kinder this time—not fluorescent but a soft, filtered red. I see Lucinda, standing next to an old lamp with a red chiffon scarf draped over it. She is struggling with her Zippo, a cigarette hanging loosely from her lips, and then a tall flame shoots up, throwing a gold pallor across her tiny features. Her expression loosens some as she lights her cigarette and inhales, but as she exhales her face goes rigid.

There, seated on a long black leather couch, is Guitar Man. The suede hat dangles beside him on the armrest, and his hair shows the place where the brim was. A couple of strands are standing up, animated by static electricity.

“Hey, Luce,” he says, watching her. It occurs to me that he is like a darker version of her, with their matching brown hair and their black, birdlike eyes. “Who’d you bring home this time?”

“What is this shit?” She tries to put her cigarette in her mouth, but her hand is shaking, so she just dangles it at her side. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know if I’m up for guests,” he says, ignoring her question.

“Anna’s my new roommate,” she tells him, sinking into a chair by the window. She keeps her eyes on him as she adds, “Aren’t you, Anna?”

I swallow hard.

“She can’t stay,” he says, his voice low and even.