The Scars

The shooting starts, red and white stripes fill my sight.

I peer up at Lizzie’s mother, glaring at me from the opposite side of the grave. She needs someone to blame for the death of our only child. As soon as the Army’s three gun salute is over, she and her new husband beeline for their car.

Life is funny, even when its ironies are cruel. Ten days after the funeral, I move to San Antonio to pack up Lizzie’s house and I land a gig filming PSAs for the Army.

There’s something about the young veteran that reminds me of Lizzie. So I take her laptop when she hands it to me and peer into the void before the page loads. All at once, a hot wave sweeps through my body as I realize I’m staring at naked people.

The profile pictures of a dozen men and women stare back. Most aren’t smiling. I click on a few profile pictures to get a better look. My eyes aren’t drawn to the usual places on naked bodies. I can’t stop staring at the scars. A door slams and I close the laptop.

The studio is nearly deserted. Marty and his entourage have vanished, probably to the gratuitously expensive edit suite parked outside in a large RV.

I notice the collage of faces taped to the back of the laptop’s screen. There’s a lot of Army green in those pictures. A lot of smiles and people eating or drinking or doing something goofy.

I’m looking for your dimpled, freckled smile. Odds are you won’t be there, but I linger. Always looking for lives you may have lived.

Alyssa notices me studying the collage. —I was supposed to return the laptop when I was discharged, but they said I could keep it.

I look up at Alyssa. The young veteran is tall, early twenties, blonde hair, brown eyes, her face a clear window for all the serious things going on behind it. She motions to the laptop.

—I should be near the bottom. She says, her lips barely moving. I reopen the laptop and scroll down.

—Wow, you’re on the front page? Shit, I’m on, like, page forty, Jeremy says and laughs. Jeremy is a big, young man with dark hair, blue eyes, big smile with white, straight teeth. Alyssa squares her back to him.

For her profile picture, Alyssa sits on a windowsill, two columns of plastic venetian blinds hung behind her. She’s topless and wears a pair of gray sweat shorts. A constellation of deep, wine colored scars spreads out from her navel to her neck. Alarming enough by themselves, they are overshadowed by the long vertical and horizontal lines that carve a large, neat addition sign into her stomach. Her shoulders are slouched inward and down. I’ve seen wounded birds do that to cover bite marks from a predator. The expression on her face is the same as it is now: Please don’t look at me.

Marty has tried all kinds of tactics to get Alyssa to shake that expression. It doesn’t help that Jeremy is a natural at seeming natural. Adding to the problem is Marty just being himself. From long or short distances, Marty resembles a short, plump, tanned vampire with feathered brown hair. He stares at Alyssa the same way he stares at everyone. With unblinking, pin-hole eyes, a grinning mouth that is perpetually open as if his lips can’t close over his large teeth.  

Marty turns his full attention on whoever is talking, even moves in closer. He nods ever so slightly, encouraging one to say more. For someone who doesn’t want to be looked at, Marty is a nightmare. I could tell from the moment Alyssa arrived on set, she was forcing herself to do this. Forcing herself to get up that morning, shower, put on clothes, comb hair, toothbrush, keys to the car, give your name, shake the hands, nod, listen, nod, stand in light, smile, say words you don’t believe into a black hole that absorbs you whole.

—What do you think? She says.

—I can help you.

—OK. Thank you, sir. When do you think you might have time?

—How about this Sunday?

—OK. What time?

—Sunset’s the best time for light. How about I come by at seven?

Alyssa nods, and doesn’t say anything more.

When I get back to Lizzie’s, the small, white guest house appears optimistic in the twilight. Inside it’s hot from the day’s heat. In the dark, the ceiling fan is a reassuring exhale on my exposed skin. The guest house is halved into two rectangular rooms, placed side by side. A living room and kitchen on one half, a bathroom and bedroom on the other. I’m standing in the kitchen, near the threshold between the halves. For some reason I do not know, this is my spot.

Where are you now? You’re not nowhere. When I open my eyes, will you be here with me in the dark? Place still smells like you.

I make myself still, trying to feel the slightest movement. The ceiling fan doesn’t help, maybe I should turn it off. A couple floor boards creak in the threshold, feet away, I open my eyes and stare.

—Wyatt, you in there? Sam says, standing at the screen door, her hands cupping her eyes for a better view.

I try not to sound annoyed. —Yeah, I’m here, Sam.

—Are you decent?

—Yeah.

—Damn. Sam laughs and opens the screen door, flipping on the lights. Mangus runs through the door before it closes. He pauses on the living room rug, gives himself a flurry of rapid-fire chest licks. Then continues toward his empty food bowl, meowing.

Sam wears a new top, bright with spaghetti straps. A single mother’s salary doesn’t leave much room for new clothes. I feel ashamed for feeling annoyed, and that I’m not going to mention her new top, much less tell her the truth, that she looks lovely in it.

—What are you doing? She asks.

—Too tired to turn on the lights, I guess.

Sam skips over to me, her hand outstretched to take mine, —That’s perfect, I’ve come to invite you to dinner.

—Sam, I’m beat—

—It’s on the table right now. C’mon, a man’s gotta eat.

Sam’s house looks like she’s expecting company. Everything’s in its place. I sit on the bench next to sweet little Mona, who looks freshly bathed. She places fistfuls of peas into her mouth with one hand, clutches a large spoon in the other. We’re in the middle of dinner when Mona stops and looks up at me.

—When’s Lizzie coming back?

—Mona, honey—

—I wanna know when she’s coming back.

—Mona, we’ve already talked about this.

—I wanna know!

—She’s not coming back, Mona, I say gently.

—Why? Mona asks.

—Because she died in the war.

Mona stares at me. A half-eaten pea sticks to her cheek. The room gets quiet. Mona looks at her mother.

—You OK, bunny? Sam asks.

Mona nods.

—It’s OK to be sad, Mona, I say.

—Are you sad, Wyatt? Mona asks.

I nod. Mona loads her spoon up with peas and moves it carefully toward my face.

—I’ve got something to make you feel better. She says, pushing her peas into my mouth. Then we talk about dinosaur ballerinas. I didn’t know they’d made a comeback.

Dinner is finished and dessert is too hot to eat. A neat conflict has been brewing in me since I stepped into Sam’s tidy house. I know I’ve got to leave before I’m left alone with Sam. But I can’t leave without doing something for her. So the solution is to maneuver Mona into a barstool at the counter while I load the dishwasher.

Sam has other ideas, though. She blocks the entrance to the small kitchen with her body, looking up at me, her hands clasped at the small of her back.

—You are not doing dishes.

—No, the dishwasher is. I can’t leave without cleaning up.

—No, you can’t leave without having dessert. Sam says and there’s an expression on her face that lets me know what I know.

—Sam.

—Nope.

—Have it your way. I pick her up, turn, and set her down behind me. Sam pounds on my shoulders playfully and yells, —Damn you, Yankee!

I make short work of the dishes while Mona fights to stay awake. I ask her a steady stream of questions that normally would make her light up. Every time her mother brings up bed, Mona protests. Hang on, kid, I’m thinking, just a little longer…

The timing works out. Mona finally nods off as I finish wiping off the counters. I wait until Sam has her in her arms before thanking her for dinner.

—I’ll just be a minute. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.

—I can’t, Sam. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.

Sam strokes Mona’s hair. I remember that. A small person, lying against me, reviving my weary spirit with every small breath.

Sam steps toward me, intercepting my gaze. Something underneath the flirtatious veneer is fierce. —Wyatt, I’m gonna be upset with you if I see you smoking cigarettes on your stoop for the next hour.

I smile at her, —Just one, then.

I found your cigarettes a couple weeks ago. I’ve been going through your things. I was surprised by the cigarettes, but also not surprised. Three cigarettes were gone. I was never a smoker, neither was your mother, but I’m quickly understanding the appeal. I only smoke your cigarettes once in a while.

A light in Sam’s bedroom snaps on, and it illuminates the pale yellow shades of her bedroom windows, which line the entire length of her bedroom. I notice right away that the lamp next to the window has been moved because now I can see Sam’s silhouette with remarkable clarity on the window shades.

She removes her top and skirt in two fluid movements. My mouth goes dry as she turns her profile to the light. I take a long drag on my cigarette. I could just walk the twenty feet to tap lightly on the window. My body certainly gives this idea an avenue of green lights.

But a part of me knows something different and makes it plain. Without much thought, I give Sam a wide berth, but not too wide. I feel like there’s a balance to be struck here. And I’m no longer interested in striking balances. A good portion of my life has already been spent trying to accommodate other people’s preferences.

An urgency sweeps over me to remove myself from this scene. I slide around the guest house and take a piss, then pop the screen off the bedroom window and slide in the guest house like a burglar.

The following Sunday, I step into Alyssa’s bedroom. I recognize the yellowing venetian blinds. They appear even worse in person, despite glowing with the last of the day’s light. Alyssa’s bedroom is sparse. A full bed on one side of the room, a dresser and antique chest on the other, framing a set of sliding closet doors that look like they’ve been there since the eighties.

—Can I get you anything, sir?

—I’d love a glass of water, please. And you can call me Wyatt.

—OK. Alyssa says and disappears into the darkened hall. I put my bags down and quickly set up my tripod and camera.

Alyssa comes back with two glasses of water. She hands me a glass and takes a long drink.

—So, why do you want your profile on this particular site?

—It’s only for veterans. And I’m not looking for sex with anybody. I just want someone who’s kind and understands where I’ve been.

She pauses, then finishes her water and stands. —I’m gonna get a cider, would you like one too? Alyssa asks.

—No, thank you.

—OK, I’ll be right back.

I decide to skip lights and go into my scrap bag for some gauzy muslin. I grab a couple of tension rods and set to work creating make-shift curtains.

Alyssa returns carrying two large, dark bottles. —If you don’t drink the second one, I will. She says, backing against the door to close it.

She puts a bottle on the window ledge behind me and sits on the edge of the bed. I pull up the venetian blinds and hang one of the muslin rods, studying the light on her skin.

The forest green bedspread isn’t working. —What color are your sheets?

—White.

—OK, let’s take the bedspread off.

She folds up the bedspread. I position the camera at the foot of the bed off to the side.

Alyssa is naked. She takes a long pull off her cider. I stare at her body, the dark stains, the giant addition sign across her belly. They’re more startling in person.

She walks over to the bed, puts the bottle down on the floor. The sun is about to set behind some trees. She looks at me. The Don’t look at me expression is gone. I start taking pictures.

—What do you want me to do? She says.

—How would you like to be seen?

Alyssa smiles. —Just make it quick and painless, doc.

Alyssa stares out the window, I take photos in long bursts. She suddenly grabs the top sheet, pulling it loose. She drapes it around her body like a shawl. Then lies down on her side facing the window and unwraps herself.

—Make sure you get a close-up of my stomach.

We shoot more. She drinks more. The light warms and softens.

—Shall we take a look at what we’ve got? I say.

Alyssa stands up in front of me, —Take a pic of my pussy. She says.

I look up. —I need it, she says. —Pic for pic.

I focus on the fan shape of her pubic hair, but this doesn’t feel right. Disembodied parts. I lie on the floor, so I can photograph the entire front side of her body, all the way to her face. She gazes down at me.

—Can you see everything? She asks.

—Yes.

The addition sign looks like intersecting grooves in her smooth flesh and even the wine colored scars are slightly raised, like birth marks. The light catches her eyes, staring down her body into my camera and into me.

I take several pictures, —OK, I say.

Alyssa steps over me. She grabs the unopened bottle of cider from the windowsill, and sits on the bed.

I set one of her night tables close. Alyssa rewraps herself in her top sheet. I grab my laptop out of my bag and open it. All the photos are already there.

Alyssa takes her time, studying each one. Sometimes she goes back, looks at the previous picture again, then cycles forward.

As I’m packing my gear, I wonder if I left Mangus outside or inside. I also notice the AC is still on. What felt good when I got here now feels confrontational.

When Alyssa closes the laptop, the room is dark. —What do you think? I ask.

—You’re a good photographer. I look better in your pics than I do in person.

—Thanks. You’re lucky, most of us look bad in both.

Alyssa doesn’t move or say anything.

—I had a daughter your age, she was a soldier, too. She went over.

—Is she dead?

—Yeah.

—My momma and pa were so proud of me when I left. Alyssa laughs. —I haven’t even told ‘em I’m out. Wrote them every week, they never once wrote me back.

Alyssa jumps up, flips on the light. She squints at me, swaying on her feet. She rips the bedroom door open and runs down the hall.

Another door slams.

I take the cider bottles and water glasses to the kitchen. Passing the bathroom door, I hear Alyssa throwing up. I take a glass of water back to her room, grab the folded up bedspread and make the bed.

I’m gathering my bags when Alyssa huddles back into the room and slips underneath the sheets. —Thanks for making the bed. She says as she assumes a fetal position with her back to me.

—You’re welcome, I say and head for the door. Alyssa turns over.

—Hey, she says.

—Yeah?

—I don’t ever wanna see you again, fella. You got that?

—OK, I say, feeling stung. —I’ll email the photos with an invoice.

Alyssa gives a quick nod to the door. —Turn off the light and close the door behind you.

—Yes, of course.

The ceiling fan is off when I get back to the guesthouse.

Eyes closed, I let the sweat trickle down my limbs in the darkness. The floorboards in the threshold creak. I keep my eyes closed and imagine my spirit is frayed at the edges and the loose threads, which reach out like tentacles, connect me to things I cannot see.

Something butts against my shin. A furry head. I open my eyes, kneel, and pet Mangus. He struts off to the screen door, I follow him out. The air is still and hot. Fireflies pulse all around us, Mangus tries to sniff one that lights up near his nose.

He doesn’t kill anything. It’s one of several remarkable traits about him. He herds Sam’s goslings around the yard like an Australian Shepard, he must’ve been one in a previous life. Even waits for them outside the baby pool that they wade into from a one-by-four Sam’s got rigged as a little launch ramp. He meows at them as they quack along contentedly enjoying the water.

I don’t know what to do about Mangus, but I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want to leave you. When you were little, all it took was a visit from a nightmare or late night thunderstorm to feel your small hand pulling me out of sleep, out of a warm bed, to balance myself on the edge of your twin mattress as a shield around your gangly body. But that body is gone now. I had them slide it into an oven. I watched your body burn. I saw the heat and light take your form and vanish it.

A few days later, a good breeze has the trees in a flurry of conversation. Wind chimes from different houses sing spells in beautiful, improvisational riffs. I smoke one of my cigarettes. I don’t want the wind stealing drags off one of Lizzie’s. A big cherry pie sits in the oven and the guest house starts to smell like a holiday. I close my eyes and take it in.

I hear some movement on the grass. When I open my eyes, Sam squats next to me.

—Sam.

—Hi. Can I bum a cigarette?

—You bet. I give her a cigarette and cup a hand around the flame of my lighter.

—Thanks, she says.

—Rough day at work? I ask.

—Yeah, you could say that.

—Wanna talk about it?

—Not really. Sam exhales, —Something smells good in there.

—I’m baking a pie. You and Mona want to come over later?

—Fuck you, if my dessert’s not good enough for you, yours isn’t good enough for us, Sam says with a smile, flicks her ash, tucks errant strands of hair behind her ear. —What kind of pie? She asks.

—Cherry.

—Goddamnit, Wyatt, why won’t you take up with me?

I laugh out loud, then am quiet for a moment. —I’m gonna leave soon, Sam. And I’m not really in a good space to take up with anybody.

Sam nods, takes a drag, exhales. —Well, the leaving part is its own thing. I’ve never been in a good space to take up with anyone, but I didn’t let that stop me. I wouldn’t have Mona if I’d waited.

A car pulls up in Sam’s driveway. —That’s Mona’s sitter, Sam says, —It’d sure be nice if you’d bring me and Mona a slice of pie.

—I will, Sam. You want ice cream with it?

—Now what the hell kinda question is that? Of course we want ice cream with it.

Sam strolls over to the garage and I go inside to grab the pie and the half gallon of vanilla. Then I head over to Sam’s kitchen.

Over half the pie is gone in less than twenty minutes. Mona has a giant, red clown mouth. Sam eyes me scrapping a spoon-full of gelatinous cherry filling onto my spoon.

—Did you want this, Sam? I ask her.

—It’s my favorite part of the pie, Sam says.

I bring my spoon to Sam’s mouth, she stares at me as I feed her the cherry filling.

—Mama. Mama. Mama!

—Yes, bunny. No need to shout, Mama’s standing right next to you.

—I want to read books!

—We’re going to baby, Sam says.

—Do you want me to leave the pie? I ask.

—No, you take your handsome self and one of the best cherry pies I’ve ever tasted and get out of here. Sam says,

I scoop up the pie dish and Sam beams at me, —Thank you, Wyatt.

—Thank you, Wyatt! Mona shouts.

The trio of Army Recruiters wear nicer uniforms today. I’m beginning to feel like I’ve been working this gig too long because all the decisions Marty’s making seem superbly considered.

Like featuring Jeremy by himself. We’re blazing through spots, on track to wrap a full day’s work by lunch. The studio is brimming with energy. Some high-ranking officers have shown up to watch Jeremy, who finishes his last PSA with a holler. An Officer steps forward and punctuates in a deep voice, —You didn’t choose to be born, but you damn well get to choose who you die serving!

Everyone applauds. That’s when Marty glides out of a pool of darkness. —I read something recently claiming we do choose to be born.

—What? The Officer says.

—Oh, yes, Marty says, his big teeth gleaming. —Yes, some believe you even choose your parents. That you’re in the room with them when you are conceived.

—And you believe that? The Officer says, audibly disgusted.

Marty’s smile grows, his mouth opens, as if he’s been waiting his whole life for that question.        

—Oh, I don’t know what to believe now. There are so many possibilities.

Everyone leaves for the day. I sit on the camera dolly jotting down notes when I hear a voice.

—Excuse me, sir? Wyatt?

I look up at Alyssa. —Hi, how are you? I ask.

—I’m OK, thanks. I had to stop by and I wanted to thank you for the photos. They’re even prettier than the other night.

—Yeah, I touched them up a bit. Are they gonna work for you?

—Yeah, I’ve got a couple dates this week.

—Well, I’m really pleased to hear that.

Alyssa nods, staring at the floor. —I was mean to you. I wanted to tell you in person I’m sorry.

I smile at Alyssa. —I really appreciate that. I accept your apology, thank you.

Alyssa nods, flashes me a smile, and is gone.

Can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the full moon tonight. Maybe trying to go to bed at sundown was a bad idea. It’s only nine o’clock, I have time to turn this around. I stand in my spot in the threshold between the two halves of the guest house, close my eyes.

The fan is off, a breeze blows in through the screen door and caresses my bare legs. Marty is on my mind, moving out of the darkness with glee. You get to choose, you are present at your own conception! I don’t know why I’m thinking about him, but I let him show himself out of my head. Everything becomes still.

An awareness that someone else is here settles over me.

Is it you Lizzie? Do I finally get to say I’m sorry? Lizzie, I’m sorry. You didn’t fail yourself. I’m sorry I said that.

The space over my heart warms, as if someone has placed a hand there. Then I hear a voice—barely audible—whisper.

—Hey.

I open my eyes and stare into the threshold. A shape emerges from the darkness, a figure. The figure steps toward me. —Lie down. The figure says, guiding me over to the sofa. I lie down, she is above me, I can almost make out her face.

I close my eyes. Then a pair of hands cradle my face, flesh and bone hands. Lips gently kiss my lips, I open my eyes and blink, staring into eyes that are wet with life.

—Are you decent? Sam whispers, smiling at me. I notice the small space in between her two front teeth, which glow from ambient moonlight. That space does it for me.

—No, I’m not. I whisper.

—Bout time. Sam says, kissing me again, then pulls off her t-shirt, stands, pushes down her underpants. She sets a crib monitor on the floor next to the sofa. —Just in case Mona wakes up, she whispers, giggling.

I push off my boxer shorts, Sam straddles me, fits our bodies together.

—It’s that time of the month, so you can’t come inside me unless you’re gonna stick around to raise a couple kids. Sam says. I stare into the dark corner of the room, at the figure in the wing-backed chair.

—Wyatt?

—Yeah, Sam.

I see you sitting in the chair.

—Oh, Wyatt…

—We can’t stop, Sam.

—Don’t you dare stop! Sam says, breathing hard.

Are you ready, Lizzie? Is that smile a yes?

—Wyatt…Wyatt…

—I’m right here with you.

I’m right here with you.

Right here.

With you.