Summer in the Land of Skin

“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.