Leaning
over him, Eve brushes his long hair aside and examines her work: the five-point
star that spreads across his bare back in 9K White Prizm ink. The star
was his idea, but beyond the idea of the shape, he had no idea as to how
he wanted the tattoo to look.
Eve had asked him
at that moment in the very beginning to trust her. He had said he was
nothing but trust.
The star is a work
in progress, far more complex than the simple white line he had asked
her to do. She did that line with a 6 Round needle, and when she saw that
it just wasn't enough she insisted on a finer line (with a 4 Round) that
would hug the original. Still, it was not enough. She added a fine mist
of white with a 4 Flat, but then, when that was complete, the inspiration
came: a mesh of pale, branch-like lines, filling the fleshy heart of the
star.
She talks of dotting
a pale celestial sky between those white lines.
You're never gonna
finish at this rate, he laughs.
She tells him that
it is always that way with her work: completing one thing only to "see"
a line that needs to be added, a color that needs to be pricked in. "That's
why I like working at home, I can take my time with my creations. Like
this," Eve says, holding her tatooed leg at an angle to the mirror-tiled
wall. "When I started, all I wanted was a snake around my ankle." But
as she had inked in the serpent, it grew, wrapping around and around her
leg until it hooked its fangs into her hip. Along the way she discovered
spaces of skin that begged for vines, and windows of flesh that inspired
third eyes and evil eyes and symbols only she understood. In time, a tree
took root below her navel and grew until its limbs cupped her breasts
and wrapped around her arms. Green leaves flanked one shoulder, and a
bird of paradise rested its beak on the other. A bare branch climbed up
her neck but stopped at her face, stopped at the point where the temporary
-- six months and counting -- palsy had frozen one side in a constant
droop.
The medical doctor
had said "virus" and the homeopathic doctor had said "food additives,"
but neither had anything to say when asked for a cure.
*
His
Stetson rests on the kitchen table. Outside the little house, birds chirp
and caw from the trees. He lies on the work table, motionless. His back
is smooth under her hands and the smell of green soap seems to relax him.
He's waiting for her to finish the last little bit of charcoal shadow
that makes the star seem to float over his back. They talk. He tells her
many things, but she's never quite sure whether she should believe him.
He tells her, for example, that his name is Tú Bob Huong, but she can't
believe that anyone would name anybody that. He tells her he's on TV:
well, he is pretty enough to be on TV: that could be true. When he says
he's the singer for a televangelist show, she's back to not believing,
though he swears up and down that he doesn't know the first thing about
lying. He tells her about Brother Billy, about the letters and phone calls
he gets at the mission, and about the women who help out at the mission,
praising Jesus one minute and making passes the next.
"Nice fringe benefit,"
she laughs.
"Not when there's
a clause in your contract that forbids you from having 'sinful sexual
relations'," he explains. "Unless I get married, of course. But if I got
married, I'd have to do it on the show. It's in the clause."
And she's back to
not believing.
"I can show you
my contract," he says. " I can show you the clause where it says I can't
have sex, and if I get married I have to do it on the show, or at least
let them film the ceremony."
"To make sure you
really did get married?"
"Nah. For the ratings."
Not that the show needs the boost.
Pipeline to God
is getting picked up in San Antonio and Galveston just this week, he says.
Folks are starting to take notice. Of him, of his songs -- two a show.
There's talk about adding a third. There's talk about setting up a fan
club.
"Evangelists don't
have fan clubs," she says. "They have prayer lines."
"Televangelists
have prayer lines. Singers have fan clubs." He turns his head to the other
side. "Though I can't really call it a fan club. So Brother Billy's coming
up with another name, like Faithful Friends. Or something like that."
Eve looks into the
mirror and catches him smiling, eyes closed. She smiles, but when only
half of her mouth responds she looks away. She bites her lip. Sometimes,
when he's buttoning his shirt, she finds him looking. Staring. She keeps
her distance, afraid that he'll come close enough to see. She leaps like
a cat, tittering, chattering aimlessly, her eyes darting from here to
there to the view through the window, a view walled in by plantlife and
evening. It's a response she can't control; if she could, she'd let him
see her fully, palsy and all, and not be afraid. If she could, she'd toss
her hair back and hold his gaze for long, time-devouring moments that
would expose not just her face but her whole being, flesh, bone, and soul.
He'd know her as no one ever has. She'd take him by the hand and take
him around the property--land willed to her by her father--showing him
the trees and the flower patches, the wells and the sacred spaces. He'd
finally understand why she doesn't bother with television or newspapers
or the world beyond her garden. He'd understand that nothing can match
the bliss of looking up into a tangle of tree branches, or top the elation
in spotting the sun's last burst in the illuminated underbellies of nest-bound
birds. That nothing, or anything, can thrill or terrify the way the panorama
of sky does as it floats and drifts, leaving one helpless to contemplate
its enormity, mystery and distance.
*
The
show ran late. He was late for his appointment. She had an inspiration
and the session took longer than expected. "You might as well stay for
dinner," she says.
It's late. He is
hungry. He stays.
As the water heats
to a boil she changes from shorts and T-shirt to a shimmery green veil
of a dress she bought but has yet to wear. When she steps back into the
room she busies herself with setting the table, fully aware of his gaze
on her bare back with its network of branches filtering a full moon and
a night sky, on the mesh of vines reaching and tangling along her bare
arms, on the snake hugging the left leg, and on the strands of leaves
and flowers climbing up the right.
She takes a clay
bowl from the table. A small, ruby-colored apple rolls around at the bowl's
bottom; she takes the fruit and tosses it to him. She lights some candles.
Tiny flames mince short wicks. She says it is said that Rimbaud's spirit
comes alive in wine and candlelight.
He balances the
apple on his hand. "You know, I never could get into Rambo. Saw the first
one, but after that...." He hands the apple back.
He opens a bottle
of red wine. Warmth seeps into the room. Forks scrape against bowls, marinara
splatters the tablecloth, and an open window lets the nightnoise in. A
second bottle is opened and drained as she watches how his hair falls
darkly to his shoulders and how his body tosses lean-muscled shadows to
the wall.
He tells her about
the show, about the fan club, about the recording deal. He sings detached
fragments of "Failing in Spirit when Not Feeling the Spirit," a song that
is just written and not fully formed. He drums bread sticks on the table
and eats cold pasta wisps from the serving bowl, grabbing them with his
fingers then slowly sucking them through his lips. She smiles as he balances
on the legs of a tilted chair, spills his wine, laughs through his apology.
The room grows warmer
still. Wine makes her tongue heavy. "God, look at you," she says. "You're
a mess."
His mouth full of
salad scraps, he looks up. "I'm sorry. You want some?"
"Yeah," she laughs.
"I do." She sips her wine, smiles her lopsided smile.
He looks at his
lap. "God, I am a mess."
"You're a beautiful
mess."
He rolls his eyes.
"Men aren't beautiful."
"Men with fan clubs
are." She reaches for the bottle, and tops off her half-empty glass. "People
think you look better than you do when you're on TV." He looks at her.
He keeps looking at her, stealing glances. "Most people look better on
TV. It's all in the lighting."
"Oh, yeah? Think
I'd look better on TV?" A strong wind rattles the mini-blinds, shivering
the tiny candle flames. He looks away.
"You didn't know
me before," she says. "I used to be pretty, I think. I mean, I didn't
think so at the time, but now, well, I guess I actually was. Past tense.
Pretty."
"The....droop."
He puts the bowl down and rubs his palms over his thighs. "It's really
not all that bad. You notice it, but, well, it's not something that's,
well, horrible."
She laughs quietly.
"You have such a way with words."
"What I mean is
--"
"Next thing I know
you'll be writing a song about me."
He stares at her.
"Hey, you can call
it'She's a Fallen Woman with a Fallen Face.'"
"I would never--"
"Or 'She Lost Her
Faith When She Lost Her Face.'"
"I don't talk about
other people in my songs."
"Well, then let
me write a song about me." She looks upward, slapping her hands against
the table with a steady cadence. Then, eyes closed, sings at the top of
her lungs:
I
am a marked woman
I left my mark on my body
But God, oh my God
Left His mark on...my...face.
She opens her eyes and looks at him. "And when I'm finished, that Brother
Billy of yours can walk on over and heal me."
His eyes flash.
"He might help you, at that."
"Oh, come on!" She
throws her head toward the table and buries herself in her arms. "Don't
even tell me you think....you can't possibly tell me...you don't believe...."
"You should see
the people that come on the show--arms all mangled, legs bent up--and
Brother Billy just lays his hands on them."
"Honey, if I were
to let anyone lay his hands on me, it wouldn't be Brother Billy."
"You mean me." There
is a pause. "Really?"
Slowly, she looks
up and matches his gaze. "Yeah. Really." Sweat runs in tickly rivulets
along the garden that is her body. She straightens in her chair as he
stands.
"There's nothing
to be afraid of." He walks to her and, grabbing her hands, pulls her to
a standing position. She closes her eyes and seeks his mouth with her
own parted lips but is stopped cold by the impact of his palm flat against
her forehead. When she tries to turn her face away, he places his other
hand at the back of her neck to hold her in place. "Brother Billy does
it like this."
"Let go."
"There's nothing
to be afraid of."
"This is not what
I meant."
"Trust me: that's
what you always tell me, now isn't it?" He smiles as he presses his hand
harder. "You feel something?"
Her eyes locked
onto his, she reaches toward his zipper and touches him. "Don't you feel
something?"
He lets go of her,
jumping back.
"There's nothing
to be afraid of!" she spits, taking a step toward him. He stumbles as
he backs away. The chair falls over. "I told you--"
"Yeah, I know, I
know, the fucking clause." She takes what's left of her wine and swallows
it in one hard lump, then throws the glass. It shatters against the wall.
"Or, should I say,
the no-fucking clause." She turns her back to him and storms off to her
bedroom. She can hear him pick up the chair. She hears his boots crunch
quickly over glass. She hears the door open. There is a pause and she
holds her breath and listens and hears the wind and the crickets and her
own heart and nothing, but then the door closes and she lets out her breath,
and the soul-struck sound that falls from her mouth both scares and astonishes
her.
She rips her dress
off and anoints her wrists and throat with a scent heavy enough to rid
her mind of his maddeningly sweet musk. She turns off the bed-side lamp
with a yank of the chain and quick ripples of misty light flash and evaporate
as her eyes adjust to the blackness closing in around her. She falls to
her bed.
Beyond the doorway,
a stubborn, single flicker of candlelight dies. In the dark, her inked
and patterned body is like any other. She isn't thinking when her hand
drifts to rest in the familiar warmth between her legs, but the abrupt
thrust of a branch against the roof frightens Eve and, suddenly aware
of her hand, her body, her nakedness, she yanks the sheet up and around
her, and listens.
