Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

“All right, I can understand that. So let’s discuss this unconventional living arrangement.”

They were standing in a parking lot on the edge of downtown, at the corner of Hope Street and Tenth. In front of them was a long, low trailer, a mobile home, old, a minor classic, humped rather than streamlined, its outer walls paneled in eye-popping blue and yellow, with a striped aluminum awning overhanging its porthole-shaped windows.

“You’re living in a trailer in a parking lot, Mr. Moore.”

“Well, I do own the parking lot.”

“You do?”

“Sure. This is what I do. I’m in the parking business now.”

“That’s your job?”

“My career. My passion, Mrs. Marcus. My old life’s behind me. I’m here to serve the people who need somewhere to park.”

He said it jauntily, though it wasn’t entirely a joke. The social worker nodded noncommittally but not dismissively.

“And the trailer?”

“It’s not just a trailer,” Billy Moore said. “It’s a Lofgren Colonist.”

“Is that good?”

“Well, it’s not as good as an Airstream, but it has its fans. Come on in, take a look around.”

Dutifully she followed him up a couple of steps, through the low doorway, into a brightly colored though dimly lit blob of space.

“This is the living room, the famous Lofgren Luxury-Look interior,” said Billy. “This is the dinette, the step-saving kitchen, the patented Thermograce windows. The full-size bathroom is through there.”

“It seems a little poky.”

“Feels like the wide-open spaces to me.”

“And there are two bedrooms?”

“Sure.”

“One for you, one for your daughter?”

“Oh no,” said Billy, “she has her own place.”

“Excuse me?”

Billy Moore pulled back the bamboo-patterned drape from a Thermograce window to reveal a view of another trailer, just a few yards behind this one, similar in most respects but scaled down, only half its length.

“Your daughter has her own trailer?”

“It’s a Lofgren Scamp,” said Billy. “The budget model. Carla’s in there right now.”

“Let’s go see her,” said the social worker.

“Sure.”

Billy Moore opened the rear door and took the few steps necessary to get from one trailer to the other. With some ceremony he tapped on the glass of the small trailer’s window, and a moment later Carla Moore, Billy’s twelve-year-old daughter, appeared. She was wearing a school uniform, had her long black hair in a ponytail, glasses perched uncertainly on the end of her nose. She was holding a weighty math textbook, her thumb lodged inside to keep her place.

“Come on in,” said Carla brightly.

Billy let the social worker go first. She stepped inside, looked around at the fold-down desk with the laptop, at the well-stocked bookshelf, at a vase of flowers, some fringed scatter cushions, at a large cuddly koala bear perched on top of the mini refrigerator. There was a plate of oatmeal cookies and some freshly made peppermint tea, and classical music played in the background, its volume pitched perfectly between the audible and the unobtrusive.

“That’s Bach,” the social worker said.

“Yes, it is,” said Carla. “Are you a fan?”

Mrs. Marcus surveyed the space again, more slowly this time.

“This,” she said, “this is quite lovely.”

“Isn’t it?” said Carla.

The social worker sat down carefully, helped herself to tea and cookies: that occupied her for a while. At last she turned to Billy, crumbs still dusting the corners of her mouth, and inquired, “So how is Carla’s … condition? You’ll have to remind me of the name, I’m afraid.”

Carla was quite capable of describing her own condition. “Dermatographia,” she said.

Carla had already pushed her right sleeve up and was drawing on her bare arm with the end of a key. She drew a heart and a peace symbol. On healthy skin a brief white impression would have been left behind, fading and disappearing within seconds. On Carla’s arm, however, the marks showed red, and a few seconds later cherry-colored wheals appeared in the exact shape of the lines she’d drawn.

“Dermatographia,” she repeated. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. ‘Derma’ means skin. ‘Graphia’ means writing: skin writing. The classic medical photographs always show a patient who’s had someone ‘write’ on them with the wrong end of a pencil, so that the word ‘dermatographia’ appears.”

Mrs. Marcus looked at the girl’s arm, tried to appear sympathetic and understanding, though she feared she might be gawking inappropriately.

Carla continued, “The skin cells become oversensitive to what they call ‘minor trauma,’ like scratching,” she explained. “When you touch the skin, the cells release chemicals called histamines. They’re what cause the redness. But really, it’s no big deal.”

“Does it hurt?” the social worker asked.

“No. It itches sometimes, but it’s not really painful. And it never lasts very long, and in any case, the doctor says I’ll probably grow out of it.”

“It must be a bit of a problem at school, yes?” said Mrs. Marcus.

Carla shrugged. “One of them,” she said.

“I hear there are worse problems in schools,” Billy Moore said, hoping he sounded intelligent. “There are worse problems everywhere.”

Half an hour later he was able to escort a satisfied Mrs. Marcus off the premises. She told him she was impressed by what she’d seen. If standards were maintained, if there were no “issues,” as long as Carla’s “condition” didn’t deteriorate, and as long as he didn’t break the terms of his probation, she saw no reason why his daughter shouldn’t continue to live with him, at least until his ex-wife was out of rehab, when the situation might have to be reassessed. For his part, Billy Moore told her that if she ever needed some good, secure downtown parking, there would always be a spot waiting for her.

He waved her off and returned to Carla’s Lofgren Scamp, by which time his daughter had torn off the school uniform, thrown aside the nonfunctional glasses, and turned off the music. She had already opened a can of beer for her dad, which she now handed to him.

“The Bach was going a bit far,” said Billy.

“What?” said Carla. “You think subtlety’s going to get us anywhere in this world?”

“Okay, probably not.”

“Just as well she didn’t see my other arm,” said Carla.

She pushed up her left sleeve to reveal, on her skin, a hastily drawn, and now faded but quite distinct, skull and crossbones.

“Aren’t I a pistol?” said Carla.

“That’s one of the things you are,” said Billy.

“And as a matter of fact,” Carla added, “I thought the shirt and tie looked pretty sharp.”

Something is over: something has stopped. Not the pain, that’s still completely with her, but for now there are no new shocks to the flesh. The process is finished, the damage has been done, though she can’t tell the extent or even the precise nature of what has just happened to her.

She was walking home, and yes, it was late, and yes, she’d been at a party, and no, she wasn’t completely clean and sober, and she was wearing heels, and she certainly knew the risks in this, or any other, part of the city. Perhaps she was trying to test herself, prove something about her toughness, her self-reliance, her ability to shrug off the all too obvious dangers, but when the moment came, toughness and self-reliance had nothing to do with it.

She had no sense that anything bad was about to happen. He was on her before she knew it. He came at her silently from behind and she never saw him, but she had the sense of a man who was strong rather than big, fiercely purposeful but not frenzied. He knocked her to the ground, pressed her down. She started to scream, not so much because she was afraid (though she was), but because she thought he might be and the screaming would scare him off, but it didn’t, and already there was something being placed over her head, a bag, a fetish hood made of leather, no openings for eyes or mouth, but with a small rubber valve to breathe through. Apparently he wanted her alive, at least for the time being. The smell of cowhide and somebody else’s sweat and saliva filled her nostrils.