Читать книгу Summer in the Land of Skin - Jody Gehrman - Страница 10

It’s strange, I know, but I don’t really think about what I’m doing until Tuesday. Thursday the Gibson got smashed, Friday I became Queen of Fanny’s Barbecue Palace, Saturday I retrieved my things from Gottlieb’s and left a note: Have made new arrangements—Anna. Tuesday morning I awaken sitting straight up on the couch, afraid.

The weekend is lost in a haze of gin and secondhand smoke—I’ve never consumed so many drinks in my life, nor spent so many hours in smoky bars. There was the smack of pool balls, the rattle of ice cubes against glass, the torturous seduction of Arlan’s guitar late at night. Lucy and I went to the lake again, we shopped for bras one day, we went to coffee shops. We are suddenly enmeshed in a baffling intimacy, a rhythm of lives interwound, as if my nightly return to their couch were a state as natural and inevitable as the movement of stars.

Still, there are more secrets here than understandings. Where they get their money, for example. Arlan paints houses—that much I’ve figured out. On Monday morning he pulled away in his station wagon, wearing paint-splattered clothes and a baseball cap. Lucy mentioned having recently lost her job at a Texaco station when she refused to provide her boss with the lurid details of her sex life. She’s now stubbornly, willfully unemployed, and I get the feeling this is her status more often than not. Her main interest is the ’zine she puts out every month, a low-budget one-woman operation she calls Pulp. In it she blends feminist parody with National Enquirer–type headlines: “Serial Killer Claims He Saved the Planet from Blood-Sucking Sluts,” or “Confessions of a Mutant Abortion Survivor.” I’d pored over the back issues Sunday night when I couldn’t sleep. The writing was good, the humor morbid and clever. I find it hard to believe this girl barely graduated from high school.

There have been allusions to Arlan’s wealthy grandmother, but other than that, I’m left to assume that they live off Arlan’s occasional painting jobs, and Lucy’s even more occasional month-long stints at gas stations, head shops, ice-cream parlors—whatever takes the least energy. The ’zine, though widely distributed, is nothing but a financial drain, and Arlan’s band gets paid mostly in drinks. Lucy and Arlan don’t live in gluttonous luxury, but I know the expenses must add up: there are the cartons upon cartons of cigarettes to buy and the endless nights spent in bars, drinking heavily, feeding the pool tables with quarters and tipping the bartenders lavishly in moments of giddy, drunken humanitarianism.

But it’s not until Tuesday morning, the fifth of June, that I wake up startled by my own couch-inhabiting role in the Land of Skin. The money from Rosie and my own savings won’t last long in this environment; in fact, after gas, Gottlieb’s room, and all the drinks this weekend, I discover I’ve spent five hundred dollars already—almost half of the paltry stash between me and selling my body on the corner of Garden and Walnut. The air of mystery around my hosts’ financial situation only adds to my general queasiness. I’ve got to figure out what I’m doing here.

In this state of semi-panic, still befuddled with the aftermath of last night’s gin, I eject myself from the terminally firm couch, throw on jeans and toss down a cup of coffee. Lucy and Arlan are giggling in the bedroom. The sky is filling with low, billowy rain clouds. I decide it’s time to face Elliot Bender again.

I had hoped I might find him in plain view, but when I arrive, there’s nothing except the late-morning sunlight breaking through the clouds, washing over the peeling paint of the old boats and the gleaming white fiberglass of the newer ones. I listen to the sound of waves lapping and ropes stretching tight, metal bits clanking against masts, the sides of boats knocking softly against the docks; it makes me a little sleepy. A pelican hovers over the bay, its wings balanced perfectly on the light breeze, then free-falls recklessly into the water. I giggle as it splashes—there’s something so slapstick about pelicans.

“What are you laughing at?”

I turn to see Elliot Bender heading in my direction. He’s got a grocery bag in each arm and a Mickey Mouse ski cap on his head.

“There you are,” I say. “I was looking for you.”

“It’s your lucky day—here I am. Could you—?” He hands me one of the grocery bags and unlocks the gate. “You hungry? I’ve got pork chops in here somewhere. I myself was planning on a Slim-Fast shake, but I always provide solid meals for guests—the four basic food groups all in attendance. You look skinny. Do you eat?”

I realize with a pang of guilt that I haven’t eaten a solid meal in ages. By the time I get ready to answer, though, he’s already forgotten the question.

“Well hey, look at that—it’s my friend, Caliban the Pelican. You can tell it’s him because he’s got that crazed, half-monster look. Hey, Cal! How’s the fishing? Ah well, that’s the trouble with pelicans, they’re always so awkward when you try to engage them in conversation.” He disappears below deck. Something crashes to the floor and I hear him cursing. “Will you hold on a minute?” he calls. “I can’t even walk and chew gum at the same time. I’ll be out in two seconds.”

I unfold his lawn chair and sit facing the bay. He’s certainly in better spirits than I found him in last; maybe that was just a fluke. Caliban lands on a nearby boat and eyes me suspiciously. He does seem to have a crazed gleam in his eye. I wave to him, but he continues to watch me with a look of distaste.

“I don’t think Cal likes me,” I yell to Bender.

“What’s that?”

“Cal. He’s looking at me like I’m regurgitated slime.”

“That’s a good sign. He loves regurgitated slime.”

In a moment, Bender emerges with a can of tomato juice in one hand and a can of Budweiser in the other. “What did you say about the pork chop? You want one?”

“No thanks.”

“You want something to drink?” I nod, and he tosses me the juice.

“My father used to drink tomato beer,” I say. He looks at me for a moment, then nods, but says nothing. “You ever have that?”

“Fantastic,” he says, “A can of Bud, a little Snappy Tom.”

“Did my dad turn you on to those?”

“I taught him the damn recipe!” We both drink from our cans and look out at the water. “Summer’s moody around here,” he says. “Like San Francisco, only more rain.”

“I kind of like it,” I say.

“Gets old.” A mosquito lands on his forearm. He smacks it dead with his big, leathery palm and smears it on his pants. A faint, feathery line of blood appears there. “Not much work in Bellingham,” he says. “College kids snatch up most of it.”

“Yeah?” I say, feeling the panic I woke with swelling anew in my belly. There’s an awkward pause.

“Surprised you’re still here,” he says finally. “Thought you’d be back in San Francisco by now.”

“No. I’m not going back there.”

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

A big, gray-bloated cloud slides in front of the sun. “Because.” My voice is plain and quiet. “I was dying there.”

“Oh yeah?” he says. A small, mean twist creeps into the corner of his mouth. He dents his beer can slightly with his thumb. “What was it? Rush hour? Cost of living?”

“No,” I say.

He chuckles, but any warmth or humor is now obscured by the dark glint in his eyes. I think of an obese wolf. “Listen, Medina,” he says. “You’re young, okay? You’re healthy. You got nothing to worry about. You don’t know shit about dying.”

“When you’re in the sixth grade and your father blows his brains out, you learn something about dying pretty quick.”

To this he burps softly.

I shake my head and stand up. “Obviously, this is a waste of time. I was hoping you could take a momentary break from guzzling Budweiser to show me a few things.” I’m confused. The tomato juice tastes acrid in my mouth, and the tiny, nagging headache I’ve been fighting all morning starts to invade the better part of my brain. It feels like there are bees rattling around in my skull. “I guess you never gave a shit about my father, or you wouldn’t be treating me like—”

“Cut the pathos, okay?”

“—like a four-fingered leper!”

Silence. Caliban crashes into the water somewhere to my right, but I don’t look. I keep my gaze leveled on Bender.

Slowly at first, and then with more speed and rising volume, Bender begins to chuckle. Within seconds, he is laughing openly and hysterically, wiping his hand over his face and shaking his head.

“What’s so funny?”

“A four-fingered—” His face convulses, and his voice is choked with laughter, making it impossible for him to speak. When he catches his breath, he tries again: “Leper—” But he’s racked with giggles, holding his gut with one hand, jiggling his beer with the other. “Oh, man! You got that from Chet, didn’t you. I haven’t heard that in twenty-five years!”

He’s right. I hadn’t realized it until now, but that was one of my father’s expressions. “I—guess so,” I say. I sit again, trying to regain composure, but his laughter is infectious. I find myself fighting a sheepish grin, and once that’s taken over, giggles start rising up out of me like air bubbles.

“Chet,” Bender says. His face is as pink as boiled ham. “He had the godamndest way with words!” He yanks a handkerchief from his back pocket and runs it over his face twice in rapid succession. His fingers wander to the buttons on his shirt, making sure they’re still fastened. “What are you looking at?” he mumbles, patting at his wild, half-greased hair.

In that moment, I like him with such force, I can hardly keep myself from blurting out something stupid.

He saves us from any maudlin show of emotion by gripping his beer a little harder (I can see the fresh dents taking shape under his fingers) and getting businesslike. His voice goes gruff and vaguely paternal. “Listen, I’d like to help you. I would. I can see you’re in a spot. The thing is, I don’t have a pot to piss in. I unload more stuff every day. I’m even thinking about selling this old rowboat and getting a motorcycle. I got some bills and…you know, things stack up. I might need to be mobile.” Here he pauses, licks his lips. “I’m in no position, is what I’m saying…”

“When did you stop?” I ask.

“Stop what?”

“Being a luthier?”

He smiles sadly and fishes a toothpick from his pocket. He uses it to poke at his gums somewhere deep in the recesses of his mouth, then lets it dangle from his lips. “I never stopped being a luthier,” he says.

“So you still make guitars?”

He takes the toothpick from his mouth and runs the tip of it under his thumbnail. “Need a shop for that. I mean it’s in me, is all. Certain things you can’t shake,” he says, wiping his mouth.

Caliban is hovering again, suspended above the water with his enormous wings splayed out, feathers trembling in the light breeze. We watch him, his beak poised like a spear, his beady eyes fixed on something below. “What would it take,” I say cautiously, “to get you back in business?”

He snorts, snaps the toothpick in half. “A lot,” he says. “More than you can—” He stops, midsentence.

I turn and he’s staring at me with his mouth clamped shut, his eyes burning. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Is your mother involved in this?” he asks, slowly and deliberately.

“My mother? No, I told you, Rosie’s—”

“Is Helen in any way, shape or form behind this? I want to know.”

“Sh-she doesn’t even know I’m—” I stammer, but he’s tossing his can down and stomping on it. The boat rocks violently.

“I’m not a goddamn charity case, and you can tell her I said that.”

“Tell who?”

“Don’t give me that! I see it, now. Helen sends her spawn to—”

“But my mother doesn’t even know I’m—”

“I hear she’s doing pretty good now. She can afford a wind-up derelict. I see she hasn’t lost her bleeding heart!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but it’s like he can’t hear me—the wheels in his brain are turning too fast. “My mother never even mentioned your name!” I say, raising my voice.

I’ve stumbled upon the password; his rage dissolves.

He makes a futile attempt to smooth his hair down again, turning away from me. “No,” he says, softly. “Of course she didn’t. How stupid of me.”

“Rosie’s the one who told me about you,” I add cautiously.

“Right,” he mumbles, sitting down on the ice chest. “You said that….”

“I did.”

“Listen.” He scowls out at the water. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re still here?”

I take a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d change your mind,” I say softly. “About teaching me.”

“It’s got nothing to do with my mind,” he says. “I’ve got no shop, no money. I don’t know how else to say it. Go back to San Francisco, find someone there—”

“I’m not going back.” My tone is icy.

He hesitates. “Well, what do I know?” he says to the bay.

“You want me to leave you alone?” I ask, when the silence has gone on too long.

He takes his handkerchief out and blows his nose with tremendous volume. Caliban flaps away across the water. He watches, his face expressionless, and shoves the handkerchief back into his pocket.

“I’m not much company,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, standing.

“Don’t be.”

I step from his boat onto the dock carefully, feeling my headache again. The clouds have moved in full force, though there are still a few stray beams of sunlight leaking through here and there. Bender stays seated on the ice chest, his back to me. His hair matches the color of the clouds. I want to say something so the moment won’t seem so amputated, but nothing comes to me.

I have my hand on the gate when I hear him say, “Medina.” I turn around. He gets up from the ice chest and heads toward the cabin. “Hold on a minute,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

I walk back to his boat, and in a little while he reappears with a paper towel in his hand. He hands it to me. There’s red ink scribbled across it, barely legible. Dr. Riley Evans, it says, and beneath that is a local phone number.

“Guy I used to know,” he says. “Teacher up at Western. Musicology or something. He knows everyone around here—see if he can hook you up. You got a degree?” I nod. “Maybe he’s got some research you could do. No guarantees, but you could give it a shot.” I try to look grateful. “Tell him your name. It means something to guys like him.”

“Because of Dad?”

He picks up a scrap of toast lying on the floor of the boat and tosses it to a seagull, who catches it midair. “You just tell him who you are. You’ll see what I mean.”

We’re playing pool at the Station Pub with Arlan and Bill that night when Lucy mentions Grady Berlin for the first time. “Grady called today,” she tells Arlan. “He’s coming home in a couple weeks.”

“No shit,” Arlan says, sounding happy as a kid. “Is he really?”

I take my shot—a difficult one I’m sure I won’t make—and miraculously the 4-ball sinks gently into the corner pocket. I try not to look overly proud of myself and move around the table slowly, assessing my next move.

“Nice,” Lucy tells me. “You’re getting better.”

“Grady the tree hugger?” Bill says.

“He’s an arborist, asshole.”

Bill takes a long drink of beer, burps quietly and says, “Lucinda, what have I done to make you so hateful?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t waste hatefulness on you.”

I take another shot, an easy one this time, perfectly lined up, and miss.

Arlan steps up to the table and sinks five balls in a row. His face is tight with concentration as he moves about, but his body is loose, leaning over and lining up his cue with the ease of a practiced shark.

“Who’s Grady Berlin?” I ask.

Bill looks at me in surprise. “You don’t know Grady?”

I drink my beer and shake my head.

“No,” Lucy says. “Of course not. He left for Argentina way before she showed up.” She turns to me. “Grady’s the guy you’ll fall in love with,” she tells me. Then she looks over my shoulder and adds, “Oh. Arlan fucked up. Your shot.”

Almost a full week passes before I get a chance to meet with Dr. Riley Evans. It’s summer, so the university is in slow motion, which makes it frustrating tracking him down. I reach him by phone Friday afternoon.

“Anna, you say? Fine, well, let’s see—not that god-awful mandolin again! Good Christ, what have you done to—” and here he drops the phone a moment, before returning, a little out of breath, and laughing. “Who’s this? Right, Anna— Monday, then? Say noon?”

I show up at his office five minutes early, and he appears twenty minutes later, carrying a fake leather briefcase and trailing a long piece of string from his shoe. He’s a slim, lip-licking type with flaky dry skin around his mouth and eyes. His hair is a brown bowl atop his head. He lets us into his office, settles himself behind an enormous desk piled high with books, and points to a chair in the corner for me. I move it slightly so I can see around the chaos of his desk to his enormous, fishlike eyes.

“Well then, what seems to be the problem, Amy? Worried about the midterm?”

“My name’s Anna,” I say. “And actually, I’m not a student.”

He pauses, a little thrown by this—I’ve veered from the script on my first line. He leans back in his leather chair, brings his hands up close to his face and taps the tips of his fingers together rapidly. “Not a student?”

“Elliot Bender gave me your number. I’ve come here to work with him, only…” I pause, looking around the room. “I want to make guitars, but…”

“Yes?” he says expectantly, licking his chapped lips.

“I thought Mr. Bender could teach me, only he can’t—well, he won’t.”

“He’s fallen on hard times,” Dr. Evans says, nodding soberly. “I heard about that. He’s a legend, though—he’s to luthiers what Christ is to Christians—the Les Paul of the acoustic cult, the—”

“Yes,” I say. “He’s quite good, then, I guess?”

He snorts. “Let’s face it, there’s not a soul in the civilized world who knows a thing about guitars and doesn’t positively worship the Bender construction—the signature inlays, the priceless tone. In my History of Stringed Instruments course I spend at least two weeks on Bender and Medina, their collaborative and solo years—of course, Medina was nearly his equal until he went off the deep end in 1988.”

“1987,” I say.

“I’m sorry?” A milky-white string of saliva has been gradually thickening between his bottom and top lips. I watch it quiver as he pauses with his mouth slightly ajar.

“Chet Medina killed himself in 1987,” I say.

“1988,” he snaps, tapping his fingers again quickly.

“1987,” I repeat.

“What is your interest, here?” he asks, after studying me.

“I told you. I want to make guitars.”

“We don’t offer hands-on classes. We study the history, musicology, theory—not the craft. Now I’d like to help you, but I’ve got an appointment across campus in—” he paws through the papers on his desk “—five minutes. Have you got the time?”

“It’s twelve thirty-five,” I say, reading the clock above his head.

“Right,” he says. “Are you looking for information? Is there something in particular I can help you with?”

I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I don’t think so.”