Tattooed Moon (5 page)

“She loved going to the opera house plays and musicals. As a child, I found that to be a bit strange. I didn’t know many, uh…” She paused to size him up, as if becoming suddenly aware of his existence.

“You didn’t know many
what
?” Julian questioned without looking up from the paper.

“Black people that liked opera,” she said in almost a whisper, like it was some great secret that she’d been sworn to never divulge.

He was duly amused at how she was talking so low, but kept his face straight. “… But, now that she’s gone, I listen to it, too. It makes me feel closer to her.” Her voice was now clearer again, confident.

“Mmmm hmmmm….” His hand kept moving along the paper. “Keep going…”

“Let’s see.” She sighed loudly and clasped her hands together as she looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, that’s right…” She was drifting further into her thoughts, so deep, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to retrieve her once the time came. But, he was okay with that. He understood clearly, inexplicitly, the need for this to play out just as it was.

He quickly glanced at her then back down at his paper. She grinned a bit wider, and began to speak again. “We played scrabble when I was a kid, and then again…towards the end, when she was getting sick. I always looked forward to it.”

“Mmmm hmmmm…now, how do you feel about portraits? Did you want her actual face, or just her name, or just images that evoked the fondness of her memory?”

“Well.” She winced ever so slightly. “A portrait, I don’t know. I never really contemplated that. I mean, I’ve seen some really nice ones on other people, but I never considered myself to be that type of person, you know?”

“Mmmm hmmmm.” He continued to sketch and write. “Do you have a photo of her with you right now by chance?”

“Oh.” She seemed slightly put off as she searched about her person. “I didn’t expect that, um…” She laughed nervously. “You know what? I do.” Her confusion dissipated. “I have her obituary in my purse… For some reason I don’t want to take it out, get rid of it.”

“Well, sometimes things like that make us feel closer to the person we lost. It is like the last notification, to some degree,” he offered as he waited for her to find it.

She’d paused, seeming to reflect on his words, then continued her search.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die and how long has she been gone?” He looked back down at his paper while she dug inside her over-sized pecan colored leather purse. Julian felt the more he knew about someone, the better the artwork turned out to be for memorial tattoos. If he could grasp onto something tangible, something that turned them into not only the customer’s loved one, but
his
friend too, then he could transfer that passion into the ink.

“Oh, well, she had dementia. We found out it was due to the fact that she had Alzheimer’s.” She swallowed and averted eye contact. The woman drifted away right before his eyes, though her mouth still moved as if she were living for the moment. “She died two and half weeks ago…on the 8
^th
.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely, though he had to say it to many people that walked through his doors. It didn’t matter; each woeful confession was like a new fallen leaf, and each one was individually unique along the forest floor of life. No two were alike. Nor would another be created that emulated the exact likeness…

“Alzheimer’s?”

She handed him the obituary and nodded.

He immediately opened it, taking a good hard look at the photo of the woman. She, too, had a pleasant smile. Typically, dementia was associated with older people, and he was surprised a woman as young as Milan, could have a mother in that age bracket. He didn’t dare go there however; he kept it to himself. He perused the written words, catching the woman’s birthday. As if on cue, Milan was inside of him, roaming around amongst his veiled thoughts, and plucked out the one at the vanguard, the notion sitting front and center.

“I was an only child. A surprise baby… My mother had me late in life. She was told she couldn’t have children, and my parents accepted that as truth. She was 48 when she gave birth to me.”

Ahhhh, now it all makes sense…

“Mmmm hmmmm,” he handed her back the obituary and continued to sketch. “Give me just a couple seconds.”

“Of course,” she said, barely audible as she placed her folded hands into her lap, the creased obituary in her tight grip. The woman looked wounded, down on her luck, and if it had been appropriate, she’d probably drop to her damn knees and pray; maybe cry a bit, too. This sort of thing never got easier for Julian. He was happy to serve the people that weren’t just coming in there to get something ‘bad ass.’ Badass was fine, hell, badass was great, but heartfelt was better…People like Milan made his job soul enhancing. He got his rocks off, his thrills, his spiritual boost based on these sorts of individuals walking through his door and telling him,
“Hey, I’m suffering right now, and I need to feel a little pain, to get some healing pleasure.”

“Okay.” He looked over the paper one last time, then turned it toward her. “Here is an idea.”

“Oh…my…God.” She raised a trembling hand and traced the sketch, while the obituary slipped from her lap, falling softly like autumn foliage, apparently without her notice. “It’s…beautiful!” As she clasped both hands around her mouth, a tear streamed down her face. His chest felt tight as her eyes continued to gloss over until her cheeks were wet from top to bottom.

There she goes… I knew it was coming. She held out a long time, though…

The tattoo design featured a heart, outlined and framed with of a cluster of dark musical notes. Along the bottom portion of it were theater masks and seven scrabble board pieces that read her mother’s name:

K.A.T.R.I.N.A.

An intricately drawn rose sat in the woman’s hair, and the portrait of her face was soft, but the flower, immense. The woman wore a bright smile, as if she were laughing after hearing a wondrous joke.

“I was thinking, keep it with no color, you know? Except the flower…” he licked his lips as he glared at her, unable to turn away from the invisible pain etched in the deep crevices that ran along her forehead now. He wanted to smooth them out with a kiss, make her relax a bit in his embrace. “I, uh, was going to make the flower, bright yellow with a coppery glow, just as you described,” he offered as he allowed her to have her moment.

“Yes…yes, that’s perfect. I have no idea how you drew this that fast. It …it is just, just perfect… Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” The paper trembled in her quaking hand.

“Well, the finished production will be better. If there is anything you don’t like, or want me to change or move, let me know.”

“…No, I think I like it just like this…just like this.” Her voice trailed and her eyes appeared suddenly vacant once more.

“Fine. So, here is the next step, okay? I am going to have you wait twenty-four hours, sleep on it.” He glanced up at the turtle clock on the wall then set his sights back upon her. “Then, you can come in tomorrow night, or sometime next week, and we can do it. I want you to read this information.” He reached behind himself and handed her a small packet. “Everything in there describes what you should expect. Like, how I do my tattoos, forms you need to have filled out, after-care of your tattoo, associated costs, medical history, things like that.”

She nodded and handed him the drawing back.

“You get to keep this. I’m going to make a copy of it, then give it back to you, okay?”

She nodded, seemingly unable to speak for several moments as she nervously massaged the side of her neck. The tears had slowed down, but still trudged down her face.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. Her voice had deepened during her choked-up episode—richer, more haunting. He hated to admit something at such a time, but it was even sexier than when he’d first heard her on the phone.

“No need to apologize.” He reached across his table, strained and grunted, and pulled a tissue from a small green and white box. “Here you are. I’ll be right back.”

He came from the school of thought that believed tears had a purpose, a reason. A tissue stifled the process, caused the emotionally wounded to be bound a bit longer, needlessly. He’d waited until he couldn’t any longer, fearing to be perceived as rude or uncaring. No, she’d purged a bit; now it was time to give her a rest from it all so he’d offered her the tissue for her to calm down and collect herself. Still, at least for a short while, her heart had been fed.

Julian swallowed and sailed into the back office area. He stood there for a moment, his heart racing. The woman was so fucking beautiful, and her energy was amazingly pure, so clean, like the spirit of a newborn baby. She was in tremendous poignant pain, and he feared she didn’t have an outlet to truly grieve properly. What perplexed him most was, he couldn’t sort out why he cared. People came in there all the damn time with hard luck stories, but with her, he felt a pull, as if he wanted to make it all better, make the pain go away. He was genuinely concerned about her, as if they’d been friends or something. He found it a bit unnerving, for he realized his attraction to her was bleeding into his natural desire to heal others. It created a cocktail he wanted to drink from, a recipe he craved to try out to see if it tasted as good as she looked. He feared her torment was still all bottled up inside. No, he didn’t fear it on second thought, he simply knew it. He didn’t want that for her. Oddly enough, she mirrored what he still wrestled with from time to time—the mourning of those gone, never to be heard from again. After a while, people think,
‘Hmmm, still upset? It’s been a while, right?’

That was the kind of shit that made Julian want to punch a bastard dead in the middle of their throat. He wasn’t the overly sensitive sort, but he
was
a spiritual person—one that revered life, understood death, and embraced both. He had a healthy respect for the living and the dead. Who the hell had the right to define what time frame was long enough to grieve?

I wonder what she likes to do to relax?

He surmised from her attire that she was a career woman, probably had some stressful job that wasn’t making things any easier. He sighed and made his way to the copy machine, opened the top and placed the sketch under the hood to make a couple reproductions. Once he returned, he found her sitting a bit higher, the obituary put away and a forced grin on her slightly reddened face. Her eyes, still glossy with recently fallen tears, pulled at his damn heart, which bled a little on her behalf.

Iron and Wine sung, ‘Fever Dreams’ in the background.

“Okay, here you go.” He handed her the drawing back. “Read that information and if you have any questions,
any
at all, call me. Um, hold on.” He gently took the packet from her lap, and scribbled another telephone number on the front page. “This is a number to reach me at in case for some reason I’m not here.” He scratched the side of his head, no doubt ruffling up his hair, possibly undoing the bun he’d loosely braided that morning, jamming an ink pen inside of it to hold it in place. One thick spiral of black hair hung over his face now as he met eyes with her.

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Julian—”

“My last name is Savant, Julian Savant. Like I told you, I own this place, and we take a lot of pride in our work, so,” he shrugged, “you have
nothing
to worry about. You’re in good hands.” He put his palms up, as if surrendering.

“Thank you so much. I’ll uh…” She sniffed and rose from her seat, grabbing her purse. “I’ll take this information, look it over and maybe come in sometime next week.” She began to walk away. “… Maybe tomorrow, but I know you’ll be busy and I—”

“Wait a minute, Milan,” He gently touched her shoulder, forcing her to turn and face him. “I told you that we can pull curtains, and we have a private area.” He pointed towards the back. “If you tell me now, I can ensure that you have one for tomorrow, if you’d like to come in. Just make sure you have all your paperwork completed, and that will save time. I’m not trying to rush you, but I do want you to come back and get…”—he paused, feeling his heart moving faster than his mouth—“…get something beautiful, in honor of your mother. You deserve this.” He felt like his mouth wouldn’t shut up, but he was compelled to tell her this, and he meant every word.

I wonder if she likes white guys…

She smiled weakly at him and nodded. “Okay.” She took the tissue he’d given her, relaxed her grasp around it, blew her nose gently into it, and looked back into his eyes. “What times do you have available tomorrow?”

“Uh, that’s a good question!” He laughed as he made his way past her and up towards the front of the room where Angela was busy on the phone and with a customer. He impatiently tapped her leopard print covered shoulder causing her shirt to bunch a bit beneath his touch. He then did it once again, with a bit more urgency.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Pull up my schedule real quick for tomorrow.”

“I don’t need to, you’re booked solid. You know how Saturdays are around here. We even had to turn some people away.”

“Shhhh!” he reprimanded as her voice carried. Angela reared back like a snake ready to strike.

“What do you mean, shhhh?!”

“I mean,
shhhh!
You’re talking too loud!” His face flushed with hotness as his brows dipped low in anger. “Look, I need you to clear off my last appointment for tomorrow night.”

“What for? Never mind, I can’t do that, Julian.”

“I didn’t
ask
you for your opinion, Angela. I’m not giving a request, I’m
telling
you,” he said sternly. “Now look, call the customer, and tell them I will give them thirty percent off due to this late notice, and then reschedule them for either Sunday afternoon, or Monday morning, their pick.”

Angela sighed, nodded in understanding, and returned to the customer and an incoming phone call while he stomped away, back towards Milan.

“Okay, it just so happens that I could get you in tomorrow night. Does seven sound okay?”