Kindred (7 page)

“I don’t mean to bother you,” I say, remembering that I’m usually shy with strangers. He hasn’t said much as he’s cleaned
up his station, and I suddenly wonder how this looks from his perspective. Flirting and ogling are clearly not my strong suit. I reluctantly push myself to stand. “You’re probably busy.”

“Not really,” he says. “It’s quiet today.” Maybe I’m reaching, but I sense a peace offering there. I wonder if he’s lonely.

“I’m Miriam,” I say, extending a hand.

“Emmett Black.” We shake. His hand is warm, his grip strong but very gentle. It feels ridiculously nice. I let go with a palpable sense of regret.

“So, Emmett Black.” I sit down in the chair because I’m tired of standing and because I want to know more about him. “How long have you lived in Hamilton?”

“Couple of years. You?”

“Couple of weeks. I like it. It’s different here.”

He laughs. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Sure,” I say. “It’s so cute and perfect, with this glaze of southern charm over it. People try to be so much like what they’re
supposed
to be that it makes them a little crazy. It’s the reason I decided to live here. That and the job offer.” And the small matter of fleeing a terrifying encounter with the divine, but never mind about that.

“Where do you work?”

“At the
Morning Gazette
. I’m a writer, copy editor, chimney sweep—basically, if it needs to be done, I’m the person to do it. Except for selling ad space. I am not a salesperson.”

“No, I can see that.”

I look to see if he’s making fun of me and decide that he is, but not in a bad way.

“What brought you to the tattoo business? I’m not being
nosy,” I say before he can answer. “I’m doing my job. We do profiles on prominent and/or interesting citizens.”

“You think I qualify?” His deep voice carries amusement, skepticism and a hint of resentment.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” I say. That surprises a laugh out of him, which pleases me no end.

But he doesn’t have a chance to answer, because the bell jingles behind me. We both turn to see two giggling college girls walk in, standing close and bumping into each other for strength.

“How can I help you?” he says. It’s only when he steps toward them that I realize how close he’s been standing to me.

“Hi,” one says uncertainly, glancing at him, then at me. “Um, we wanted to get matching tattoos.” They both start giggling again.

“Yeah, you know”—giggle, giggle—“tramp stamps.”

Emmett looks serious as he listens to the description of the tattoo.

“I can sketch you something. Come back in an hour.”

“Oh.” They’re clearly disappointed and shoot another quick appraising glance in my direction. “We can’t, you know, do it now?” I wonder if they think I’m his girlfriend.

“If you picked flash, I could do it now. But if you want something original, then I have to draw it first,” he explains patiently.

A furious discussion ensues, with lots of giggling, hair-twirling and lip-biting.

“He’s got mad skills,” I pipe in with conviction. Come back in an hour, I think, I’m not finished talking with him
yet. Emmett doesn’t look my way, but I feel he’s hiding a smile.

The girls roll their eyes, but it’s settled: they decide they would rather have an “original design.” I can tell how much it pleases them to phrase it that way, and I can almost hear them talk about it at the next party they go to. An
original
design.
One of a kind
. Except they’re both going to get the same one: two daisies tied together with a ribbon. The design might be original, but the concept is hackneyed.

The bell jingles as they leave and we’re alone in the shop again. An old Indigo Girls song comes on, their deep, raspy voices harmonizing about a faithless lover.

“Thanks for the endorsement,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of my work.”

“How long before they have a great big fight and aren’t speaking to each other anymore?” I ask, ignoring his ironic tone.

“Six months.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“And no,” he says. “I don’t feel bad that the tattoo will be there forever, long after they’re not friends.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it,” he says in that deep voice. “Everyone does. What a tattoo does is capture a moment. It’s there with you, a part of you, long after the moment is gone and the memory fades.”

“That’s nice,” I say. “But don’t come crying to me when they sue you.”

Again, I feel almost proud when he laughs.

“I should let you get back to work,” I say, sliding reluctantly off the seat. “Today just got a little less quiet.”

“Come back and use the bathroom anytime,” he says—an understated invitation to return.

“Thanks.” I smile. “I will.”

The bell jingles behind me as I go, leaving him to his sketching.

Thinking how nice it was to talk with him, I realize that I am desperate to pretend I’m normal and healthy and not stalked by angels, punished by God.

Yet even without shoes dropping or angels visiting, just the thought of that icy clear light, that terrible voice, makes me feel weak and ill. I glance over at the quiet haven of the tattoo shop, which seems like a bastion of normalcy even as it projects a sense of urban edginess in this quaint little town. And just like it forces Hamilton to acknowledge that it is no longer the 1950s, I know that no matter what I want to pretend, the truth is with me. The issue of what drove me into the tattoo parlor is inescapable. I need a doctor, but I fear what I have is nothing a mortal can fix.

As my mother said when we were younger and faced unpleasant consequences, my chickens had come home to roost.

I shiver, though the day is pleasant and warm.

I begin my walk to the newspaper office, wrapped in melancholy.

O
N MY WAY TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE
, I notice the strange flags again. Bright yellow with a large green
H
. I can’t figure out what they have to do with anything. City Hall doesn’t have one, but the bank, two restaurants and a high-end boutique do. The courthouse doesn’t, but a couple of law firms do. A few private homes have them, though most don’t.

Frank’s in his office, so after peeking in to make sure he isn’t on a phone call, I enter.

“Is there a festival or something?” I ask him.

“What?”

“The
H
flags—what’s that about?”

He leans back in his seat far enough that it creaks, and I hope it doesn’t break under the strain. “It’s the one hundred forty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hamilton. One of the bloodiest mornings in the history of the war,” he says, rather
proudly. “Ten thousand dead in three hours.” The glee in his voice creeps me out. I’m not a Civil War buff, but I did study it in American history and I never heard of the Battle of Hamilton. All that blood didn’t even buy it a place in the history books.

“The
H
is for Hamilton?”

“
H
is for hospital, Miriam. After the battle was over, twenty-eight makeshift hospitals were set up. The battle was fought all around the town. Every house still standing was turned into a hospital.”

“Where did they get doctors from?”

“No doctors. Maybe one or two medics rushing around and sawing off limbs. Mostly it was the lady of each house, using up her linens, drawing water, giving comfort as boy after boy died from their wounds. You’ve seen the cemetery, right? The one behind the Linden Plantation?”

My chest feels tight, and sweat pools under my arms. More proof of God’s distant disinterest. How could such terrors exist? This town no longer seems so cute and quaint. I think of all the buildings I pass every day and the horror that occurred in them. I’d seen glimpses of the old cemetery with its small faded markers, its maple trees and wildflowers, and thought it a peaceful place.

“Think of it, Miriam,” Frank continues. If nothing else, the man loves a good story. “Boys your age dying as their legs were sawed off with no anesthesia, bleeding to death or, worse, rotting from the inside out from gangrene. No antibiotics then, remember.”

“Yeah, I knew that,” I say weakly. And where was Raphael
then, that cold healing angel? Where was the meddling, the divine concern that has landed me in this current situation? Once again, I’m shocked and frightened to be singled out like this.

“They were burying them as fast as they could dig. It was the last Southern offensive of the war. After that battle the Yankees took the initiative, so to speak. You all right there?”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing I look pale. “Gruesome, though.”

“Nothing like history to give you a bit of perspective, eh? Now, was there something you wanted?”

For a second I’ve forgotten what I came here for. Then my stomach cramps up and I remember.

“I might be coming down with a bug or something. Do you have the name of a good doctor?”

“Poor thing,” he says, instantly solicitous. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Dr. Robert’s a great young doc, one of the best in town. He’s my aunt’s neighbor. You tell him I sent you.”

In my cubicle, keeping my voice down, I make an appointment.

But even with the name-dropping, the soonest Dr. Robert can see me is in two weeks. I try to convince myself that by the time the appointment comes around, I will be all better. I can always cancel.

On Saturday Frank sends me to the farmers’ market to meet and mingle with the hippie/yuppie/family crowd. It’s my first story assignment. Until now I’ve interviewed a few sources for the other stringer on the paper and done a bit of research. Frank, in his dramatic fashion, declared me ready for
the responsibility. The fact that Alex, the other reporter, is off for a couple days isn’t mentioned by either of us.

I call my mom and tell her that next week I’ll have an article.

“Really?” The delight in her voice zings across the phone line and straight to my toes. “Are they online? Maybe I can subscribe—do you think they would mail me copies?”

“Don’t get so excited,” I say, though I can’t help grinning. “It’ll just be a little fluff piece in a tiny little paper.”

“Nonsense,” she says. “It’s your first professional piece and you’re only eighteen.”

“Cameron Crowe was writing for
Rolling Stone
by the time he was sixteen.”

“And what did he ever amount to?” she asks.

“Mom, he’s a really famous screenwriter and director.”

“I’ve never heard of him.” As if that’s supposed to be an inarguable point.

It’s funny to me that my friends always liked my dad better than my mom. My dad comes across so cool that no one gave me much sympathy when I complained of the ridiculously high standards he set for my brother and me. My mother was a bit aloof with outsiders, which, combined with her past as a former nun, intimidated my friends. But when it was just us with her, she radiated acceptance. No matter what I did, I could never disappoint her. Both my parents are five foot eight, but while my dad seems taller than his actual height, my mom seems shorter. Something about the way they stand and take up space in a room always makes it hard for me to believe they’re the same height. My mom’s short gray hair in a
perpetual bowl cut contrasts with my dad’s messy auburn curls—it’s like her hair spurns attention, while his demands it.

My mom didn’t like to talk about her life before Dad, but it wasn’t a secret that she had been a nun for six years before leaving the order. She’d lost her parents in a car accident when she was five and was raised by a deeply religious uncle. She told me she became a nun at eighteen thinking she’d find the home she’d never had. But like many women who marry young, she and her groom grew apart. Life in a religious order was nothing like she’d imagined. Less
Sound of Music
, more
Big Brother
. At twenty-four, she left the church with a heavy heart. Three years later, when she and my dad got together, she was getting her doctorate in comparative religion, living a completely secular life. She agreed to raise the kids Jewish; hence my bat mitzvah. It was quite a scandal at my dad’s congregation when the rabbi married a former nun, a shiksa from England. I’m sure the nuns were equally horrified.

Mom would come with us to synagogue and read from the prayer book, speaking the Hebrew words in her proper English accent. I do believe her commitment was genuine, but as we got older, she rediscovered her Catholic faith. After the divorce, she quietly resumed attending Sunday mass.

Faith is something that seems to imprint on you when you’re young. After the divorce, I grew very close to my mom, and part of that meant I went with her to mass. Though my father and I never spoke about it, he must have worried I would convert to Catholicism. But I never found it hard to separate spirituality and dogma. Being raised Jewish had taken hold,
and even after my mom began attending mass regularly, even after I started going with her, I enjoyed the spirituality of Catholic service without being confused by dogma.

Obviously the doctrines of the two religions are different, which is why many people can’t look past their incompatibility. Perhaps it’s because I was raised by parents who found a way to reconcile that conflict that I found myself attracted to the sense of quiet gratitude for the beauty and preciousness of life that is such a big part of both services. Catholic worship is also a visual feast. The beautiful stained-glass windows, the robes—even the churches themselves—create a sense of peaceful serenity. I understood why my mother craved it. Nothing else must have ever felt quite right to her. The songs, the words, the language, weren’t the same, but after a few years of reciting the same prayers side by side with my mother, I found the same comfort, the same peacefulness, the same sense of hope that I found from chanting the Kaddish or the Shema in synagogue.

As I hang up the phone, it occurs to me again that if I told my mom the reason I left school, if I told her about Raphael’s visit, she would believe me. I’m not sure if this is a flaw or not, but my mom always believes whatever Mo and I tell her. It used to be a game we played, to tell her outrageous stories about the things we saw on the way to school, the people we met. She would listen and ask questions and never seem to doubt the possibility that maybe we didn’t really meet the president of the United States at school or weren’t really invited to join the NASA program as the first children in
space. When I started to giggle and Mo would admit we were “just teasing” or “making a joke,” she would laugh right along with us. The one time we fooled my dad, telling him we’d been expelled from school for refusing to take communion—this was a public school, mind you—he was angrier at the fact that we tricked him than at the thought that the school had mandatory communion.