Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

Dolores has walked up behind the Kid and touches him on the shoulder startling him. I spoke with Cat, hon, and he says it’s okay for you to stay on the boat and keep it tied up in the slip, if that’s what you want and can afford to keep renting it. It’s off-season anyhow. Not much call for houseboats this time of year.

Cat watches from the far end of the counter, his expression halfway between a scowl and a look of defeat.

In a voice that’s practically a whisper the Kid says to Dolores, You don’t mind having a convicted sex offender in the neighborhood? It’s gonna be on the Internet watch list, y’know. Where I’m living.

Whatever you did, hon, I don’t believe you’re a danger to me or Cat. Are you?

I’m not a danger to anyone. What I did was I guess just stupid and confused. And I’m not as stupid and confused now as I used to be.

That’s what I figured. C’mon, I’ll help you take your pets and your bags to the boat, Dolores says and she lifts his duffel and Einstein’s cage and walks from the store. Einstein hollers, Man overboard! Man overboard! and Dolores laughs and tells him to shut the hell up and he obeys. The parrot seems to like Dolores.

The Kid takes Annie’s leash in hand and grabs his backpack. As he leaves he stops and turns to Cat for a second. Thanks for letting me stay on awhile, Cat.

Thank Dolores. She’s the one with the soft heart.

Hey, I’m really sorry I lied to you, man. About the army and all that. It was very disrespectful.

Beats me, though, why everybody wants to say they been in combat when they weren’t anywhere near it. It’s like wanting to say you worked in a meat processing plant when you never got closer to meat than eating a Big Mac. Consider yourself lucky, Kid, that you didn’t get sent over there. And don’t be ashamed to admit it next time somebody asks. You got enough stuff you should be lying about. You don’t hafta lie about your military service too.

Yeah. Thanks for the advice.

So what got you kicked out of the army anyhow? “Don’t ask don’t tell”? You’re not a gay guy, are you?

No. I got caught distributing porn films to my outfit in basic.

Jesus! G’wan, getthefuckoutahere. Next time lie about that too. Say you’re a gay guy or something.

The Kid can’t tell if Cat is serious or not. But he’s right, the next time someone asks him about his military service he’ll admit it right up front, he’ll say he got shit-canned by the U.S. Army before completing basic training. If they ask him why he was discharged he’ll say it was because of “don’t ask don’t tell” and they found out he’s gay. It’s what he should have told brandi18. It would have saved him a world of trouble.

IT’S NEARLY NIGHTFALL WHEN THE WRITER strolls aboard the Dolores Driscoll. He finds the Kid in the gloom of the cabin seated cross-legged on his cot among a batch of loose sheets of paper, some of the pages on his lap, others fallen to the deck, several held in his hands. With small surprise the Writer notes a Bible lying among the papers on the cot. The Kid’s normally suntanned face is chalk white and his hands are shaking. The Writer pulls up a folding chair, sits down, and asks the Kid what he’s reading.

Some weird shit, man.

The Bible yours? I didn’t take you for a Christian particularly.

I’m not particularly. The Bible’s not what’s weird. It belonged to a guy I knew. I ended up with it and started reading in it by accident, you might say. Same as these papers. They’re like printed-out e-mails that I guess the guy was saving for a case. Or in case of a case. Something like that. He’s a lawyer. Or used to be a lawyer.

The Writer can see that the Kid is upset by what he’s been reading, upset and perhaps frightened. Do you mind if I take a look?

Be my guest , the Kid says and he gathers the sheets of paper, takes a moment to put them carefully in sequence, and hands the packet to the Writer.

As the Writer reads his eyebrows lift and he purses his lips as if to whistle. Then he does whistle. Who is this guy, Big Daddy?

I’m pretty sure he’s the guy I know, the lawyer, since they were in his stuff. I sort of got them without his knowledge, I guess, and forgot to give them back. His name is Shyster. Actually his real name is Lawrence Somerset. Used to be some kind of big-time state politician named Larry Somerset who was on TV a lot until he got caught for being into kiddie porn and arranging over the Internet to set up a love nest for a couple of little girls supposedly being pimped by their mother. Only it was a sting and there wasn’t any mother or any little girls either. You maybe read about him in the papers or heard it on the news. It was a big deal for a while when he first got caught. Mainly because he was this big state legislator with a wife and grown kids and all, and when he opened the motel room door for what he thought was a couple of little girls but instead turned out to be the cops, he was naked or almost naked with a dildo in his hand and a kiddie porn DVD playing on the TV. Asshole probably had a hard-on too. And I thought I was stupid.

Good lord! How on earth do you know a man like that? the Writer asks and the Kid briefly describes life beneath the Causeway, its unintended necessity and nature. He adds that he doesn’t know where the Shyster has been living since the hurricane and points out that he never liked the guy anyhow and especially doesn’t like him now after reading these e-mails which the Shyster must’ve been saving in case he needed to keep the other guy from blowing his whistle on even worse things than kiddie-dipping. The Kid calls the other guy “ the recipient .”

The one who calls himself Doctor Hoo?

Yeah.

Let me take a wild guess. Is that our professor?

’Fraid so. Read the rest.

The Writer asks if there’s a reading lamp and the Kid places a kerosene lantern on the table next to his chair and lights it. A splash of orange covers the wall behind him and shadows dart around the cabin like bats. The Writer resumes reading. The two of them remain silent. When he reaches the end of the stack of e-mails, the Writer exhales loudly, passes the e-mails back to the Kid and simply says, Jesus Christ.

Yeah.

Did you know your professor friend and this guy Shyster or whatever he’s called were coconspiring pen pals?

No. But they didn’t either. Check the dates on their e-mails. They’re all from a couple years ago, back before the Shyster got busted and did time. They’re from when he could still legally use a computer for e-mailing and cruising the Internet for kids. I didn’t know the Professor back then. Or Shyster either. And since it sounds like Big Daddy and Doctor Hoo never actually met in person in real life, despite being heavy into swapping kiddie porn websites and exchanging kiddies-for-hire contact info, when they did meet in real life under the Causeway a few weeks ago it was a kind of coincidence and they didn’t know who they were meeting so they didn’t recognize each other.

Why on earth would this Shyster want to keep these e-mails? They’re disgusting.

Maybe he thought he could make a deal with the cops. Like if he turned in his pen pal they’d let him get rid of his anklet and get off parole and maybe get his old law license back. I dunno. Everybody makes deals if they can.

The Writer goes back to the e-mails and quickly scans three or four in particular, wincing as he reads. He asks the Kid what makes him think this Doctor Hoo is in fact his professor friend.