Summer in the Land of Skin

He sighs, starts patting at his mess of hair, stroking it into submission like it’s an animal that must be tamed. “Do I know you?” he says, his tone still wary.

“Sort of,” I say. “I’m Anna Medina.”

He stares at me. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs once in a hard swallow.

“Just a minute,” he says finally, and disappears down below.

Stumpy climbs over onto the dock and opens the gate for me. “Man doesn’t know how to treat a lady,” he says, winking.

I thank him, then stand there awkwardly, waiting for Elliot Bender to reappear. I am still exhausted from the hours of driving, and feel ill-equipped to deal with this unexpected turn of events. I imagined my father’s partner as a quaint, pipe-smoking man, with an immaculate, spacious studio filled with the finest guitars, smelling of lacquer, spruce and rosewood. Here I am, with a midget sailor and an overweight, half-naked man who thinks I’m trying to collect on a dentist bill.

“Climb on board,” he says, having reappeared in a pair of ragged corduroys and a flannel shirt whose buttons don’t match up, holding a can of Budweiser.

I carefully make my way onto the boat; it is old, plagued with layers of peeling paint, and as I get a better look I see it is cluttered with beer cans, crumpled newspaper, piles of tangled rope gone black with grease.

He sees me looking around and shrugs. “Home sweet home,” he says, his voice flat.

His free hand floats again to his hair, patting it down. I see he has attempted to slick it down on top, though rather unsuccessfully; it is now matted and greasy in places but springs rebelliously to life everywhere else. I look around for a place to sit, find none. He sees this, sets his beer down and scurries below deck, then emerges with a lawn chair in one hand and a bucket in the other. He flips the lawn chair open and sets it down, nodding at it in invitation, then sets the bucket upside down and sits on it, reclaiming his beer and taking a long swig.

“You take the chair,” I say.

“Never,” he says. “Go on, sit.”

I do as I’m told, though the sight of him balancing on that bucket is dangerously comic, and I’m afraid I might laugh, I’m so giddy with nerves and lack of sleep.

“Offer the lady a drink!” Stumpy yells from across the dock.

“Hey,” Bender says over his shoulder. “Mind your own damn business!”

He smiles a little, sheepishly, and for a second I catch a glimpse of the handsome young man he must have been, with the square jaw and heavy brow of a young Marlon Brando. The sunlight glints on his eyes; they are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen.

“You want a beer? You old enough to drink?”

“I am,” I say, sounding prim in spite of myself. “But no thank you.”

He lets his eyes rest on my face for an unnaturally long pause. I touch the back of my head, feeling the foreign shortness of the hair there, and start to blush.

“Yep,” he says, softly. “You’re Medina’s kid, all right.”

“What makes you say that?” I say, smiling at my shoes.

“That smile,” he says. “Your mouth’s got Medina all over it.”

I look up and see him feeling for the button of his shirt at the place where his belly is biggest, making sure it’s still fastened. I realize it must be very hard for him to find shirts that fit, and for a second I feel sorry for him. He looks back at me intently, and I find myself staring shyly at my shoes again. He drinks from his beer, a long hard swig, then he crushes the can beneath his foot and tosses it near the bow, where it settles with a tinny clang amidst a pile of others.

“You sure you don’t want a beer?” he says, getting up and grabbing another Bud from a beat-up ice chest.

“No thanks,” I repeat.

He pops open the can and tilts back his head. Then he sits on the ice chest, and I’m relieved that I don’t have to watch him teetering on the tiny bucket anymore.

“I don’t have guests very often these days,” he says. “Don’t have much to offer—you just let me know if you change your mind about the beer.” I nod. “So, what brings you to Bellingham?”

“Well…” I can feel my face going hot. I take a breath and say, “I’m interested in learning a trade.”

“What trade is that?”

I force myself to look him in the eye. “I want to be a luthier.”

“Is that right?” he says. “Your father teach you much?” I shake my head.

“Still doesn’t really explain what you’re doing up here.”

“I was hoping you could teach me.” He’s staring out over the water, that serious brow and the silver stubble making him look like an old-time sea captain. He brings the can to his lips again, fastens his mouth to the hole, and slurps loudly, then burps.

“You want to be a luthier….” He won’t look at me now. He gets up abruptly and fishes in his pocket, produces a book of matches. “You smoke, Medina?”

“What?”

“Do you smoke?” he says, exaggerating his enunciation as if I might be slow.

“No. Why?”

“I quit. Ten years ago. But times like this I could really use a smoke.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. I want to say something that will put him at ease, but I’ve got a feeling just my being here is the worst part. He shakes his head and stares out at the bay, shifting his weight from side to side, making the boat rock a little. I hold on to the aluminum armrests of the lawn chair.

“Do you still have a shop?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. This right here’s my shop,” he says. “They come from miles around for their Bender guitars!” He shakes his head again, drinks his beer.

“My aunt Rosie says you’re the best.”

A small grin takes over his mouth, seemingly against his will. “Rosie. I should’ve known. She put you up to this?”

“She told me about you.”

“Your aunt is one crazy woman,” he says. “Almost as crazy as your mother.” He sits back down on the ice chest. “I guess your dad didn’t tell you much about me, huh?”

“Not that I remember,” I say.

“No,” he says. “I guess he wouldn’t.” The grin is still there, but now it looks more like a grimace; his mouth curves up at the edges, but there’s no pleasure in his eyes. “Well, I’m sorry you came all this way, but I can’t teach you anything, Medina. I haven’t touched my tools in a long time.”

I swallow, try to make my voice sound polite. “So, what do you do now?”

He finishes his beer, leans forward so his elbows are resting on his knees and twists the empty can in his hands. “This is what I do,” he says, staring at the mangled can. “You’re looking at it.”

I wander the streets as the sun goes down. It’s moving in slow motion—a torturous slide into the water. The mill sits like a big rusty beast near the bay and belches white smoke into the air. Clouds huddle along the horizon, gradually starting to display a spread of garish pink. I pace the sidewalks, trying to concentrate on the windows. In the orange light, the neighborhood takes on a watercolor glow.