Summer in the Land of Skin

“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.”

CHAPTER 5

Déjà Vu

Lucy and I are eating lunch in the filthy little room next to the taco stand we love. I watch as red liquid drips from the tilted curve of her folded corn tortilla; it is difficult to tell if it is blood from the carne asada or just salsa. It lands in dark drops on the paper lining her plastic basket. Flies buzz impatiently in the air.

Tacos Jesus hovers between two poles: earthy hedonism and food poisoning. The tacos are amazing, the meat so tender and perfectly spiced, you have to close your eyes as you chew, thinking of Mayan hunters closing in for the kill. Your immediate surroundings are more mundane; the only place to sit is this weird, dirty room sandwiched between the taco trailer and a butcher shop. The tables are always sticky, the floor is covered in green, peeling linoleum. There’s nothing to drink but Mexican sodas that come in lurid colors or fake sangria that’s really just sugary grape juice. Still, Tacos Jesus is strangely addictive; after you’ve had it once, it is impossible to go more than a couple of days without craving the firm texture of the carne asada between your teeth and the soothing warmth of the tortillas in your hands.

“So,” I say. “Tell me more about this Grady guy.”

“What’s there to tell?” she says. “The important thing is that you’re curious.”

“Come on,” I say. “Of course I’m going to be curious. You told me I’m going to fall in love with him.”

“Or not,” she says. “I mean, he’s definitely not good enough for you, but I doubt you’ll let that stop you.”

“What’s not good enough about him?”

“He’s smart, but he’s not as smart as he wants to be. Like most men, he doesn’t listen—he’s good at pretending, but he won’t hear you. He’s incredibly cute, but don’t tell him that—he’ll assume you’re shallow. He climbs trees for a living and he’s supposedly an anarchist or a communist or something, but if you’ve ever seen him fold a shirt you’d know the anarchist bit is bullshit, and he went to Yale, so I have a hard time imagining him a communist. Those are the most important things to know about Grady.” She wipes a little drip of salsa from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Now, let’s stop talking about him—Grady’s boring, especially since you’re not even fucking him yet.”

I have to concentrate on swallowing so I won’t choke on my tamarind soda. “I haven’t even met him!”

“Right. My point exactly.” She spreads her lips into a grimace and exposes her gleaming little teeth. “Do I have food in my teeth?”

I look. “No. Do I?” She examines mine and points to a spot. I dig with my fingernail until I dislodge the leaf of cilantro.

“Forget about Grady for now,” she says. “If you say too much you ruin everything.”

On the way home, I let Lucy drive, and I find myself gripping my own arm so hard, there are fingernail punctures for hours afterward. She handles the wheel with nonchalance—it’s merely an accessory she can fling around, while her cigarette is the main event.

A cop passes us on the left. Lucy is digging down into the seat-belt hole, trying to find her lighter. The truck veers dangerously in his direction, and I can no longer resist—I grab the wheel and tug the vehicle back to the center of the road, as gently and firmly as I can. I can see the cop car gliding slowly in the lane next to us; he hovers there for a long moment, assessing us in his rearview mirror. Lucy, unhindered by her seat belt, digs deeper into the recesses of the hole, oblivious to the road. By the time she returns to the wheel with the lighter, an “Aha!” of triumph on her lips, the cop is slowing to a crawl beside us. “What’s your problem?” she asks me, and when I nod toward the cop in answer, she says, “Ha! I eat them for breakfast.” After a couple of seconds, the cop moves on. I reluctantly surrender the wheel to her again, leaving traces of sweat behind.

“Lucinda,” I say, letting out my breath.

“What? I’ve got it!”