Summer in the Land of Skin. Jody Gehrman

‘Fingernails like knives, mouth like a red bleeding wound, stay away from me.’” I sit there a moment in stunned silence, taking this in. “I’m working on a collection,” he says. I stand, and lean against the opposite wall, near the door. “I’ve got a hundred and twenty-four of these. The working title is Ex-Wife.”

      “That’s great,” I say, my voice thin and insincere. “I mean, good for you.”

      “I’m sending them to a publisher next week,” he says. “Guy I did a root canal for.”

      “That’s great,” I repeat, unsure of what else to say.

      He looks up at me and licks his lips. “You think they work?”

      “A hundred and twenty-four of those, huh? Wow.”

      He gets up from the bed and takes a step toward me. “I’m getting better,” he says, clutching the poem in his hand. “I’m just starting out, but I’ve been reading this book about the artist within and—”

      “You hayseed bastard!” A woman is screaming in a murderous voice. “Get out of my house, you goddamn redneck!”

      I rush to the window, my curiosity momentarily eclipsing my urge to flee the dentist. There, flying down the pink porch steps, is Guitar Man’s girlfriend. She flings a stack of CDs onto the sidewalk, and when she stomps on a couple with her boots the sound of plastic cracking is audible from here.

      “That girl again,” Gottlieb says bitterly, peering over my shoulder.

      I watch as she marches back into Smoke Palace, taking the steps two at a time. “You know her?”

      “Name’s Lucy—short for Lucifer.” He snorts. “She’s a real live wire.”

      “I wonder why she’s…” I begin, but I trail off, hypnotized by the sight of Lucy charging down the stairs again. She marches into the street. A truck turns the corner going too fast and swerves just in time to miss her. She appears not to notice. She’s got her boyfriend’s beautiful old guitar in her hands—the rosewood gleams in the afternoon sunlight, and she’s holding it high above her head. I’ve studied this guitar through my binoculars for days. I’m pretty sure it’s an antique Gibson. I could tell from the way Guitar Man touched it that this thing is as much a part of him as his own lungs. He is both familiar and reverent with it. Something in me panics at the sight of that beautiful Gibson hovering on the edge of destruction. I bolt down the stairs, through the lobby, out the front door, and stop dead on Dr. Gottlieb’s porch.

      Guitar Man is out there now, trying to coax the guitar from her as she holds it to her body and screams like an enraged child: “Get away! Get AWAY!” She keeps twisting to evade his grasp, but he is at least a foot taller, and her arms are so occupied with the guitar that she can’t keep his from surrounding her. This only seems to incite more rage. She raises her voice to a volume beyond screaming, beyond any comprehensible words, yanks herself out of his hold and thrusts a knee into his crotch. He doubles over in pain.

      Gottlieb appears behind me and hollers, “Leave him alone—Jesus!”

      “Shut the fuck up!” Lucy cries. “And don’t look at me like—”

      Guitar Man sweeps one arm around her waist from behind and, holding her immobile, tries to wrench the guitar from her grip. She grunts like a little ape and hugs the Gibson furiously, struggling to keep it from him. I watch in frozen fascination as a Ford Explorer turns the corner and Guitar Man’s girlfriend flings the Gibson in its path. I see it as if in slow motion: two children pressing their faces against the glass in the back seat; a harried mother craning her neck as she drives, trying to see what the fuss is about; and all the while, the Gibson is crushing, splintering, making its last sounds under the weight of that mammoth front tire.

      The woman in the Explorer leaves the motor running, gets out with a confused diatribe already spewing—part concern, part irritation about being late for yoga. Occasionally she turns to the children, who remain captive and staring from the back seat, and calls, “Mommy’s coming. Stay put!” Gottlieb is lecturing Lucy in loud, dogmatic tones, but she herself is now remarkably quiet. She lights a cigarette and looks bored, as if none of this has anything to do with her.

      Guitar Man goes to the remains of his Gibson and stares, then kneels and rubs his hands over the splintered mess of strings and wood. “I didn’t even see it until—” the woman begins, but one quick look from him silences her. Lucy holds her cigarette in the air, frozen in place. I do not dare to breathe, as Guitar Man examines the irreparable damage gingerly. He runs a hand through his hair, stands and stalks into the house.

      “That’s all you give a shit about!” Lucy explodes as the front door slams. “You wish that was me under those tires!”

      “I sure do,” Gottlieb says, just loud enough to be heard.

      Lucy, who is making her way toward the house, spins on her heel and screams at the dentist. “What did you say?”

      “Chump needs to show you the door!” He laughs, glancing at me.

      She narrows her eyes at him. “You stupid fucking rapist!” He takes a couple of steps toward her, and she stands there, ready, chin jutting out defiantly.

      “Is everything all right?” the woman calls from beside her Explorer. She is patting her upper lip with a handkerchief. Nobody answers for a long moment; I can hear someone starting up a lawn mower in the distance. “Is everyone okay?” the woman says again, a little impatiently.

      The front door of Smoke Palace whines open, and Guitar Man emerges in a wide-brimmed suede hat, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a sleeping bag tucked under one arm. He does not look at any of us, just moves quickly down the steps, tugging the brim of his hat a bit lower as he turns the corner and heads for his station wagon.

      “That’s it!” Lucy yells. “Just slink away, you lowlife bastard!” The engine revs aggressively, and she raises her voice above it in a challenge. “Just drive off, you fucking hypocrite!” The station wagon yanks into reverse and arches backwards, wheels spitting up gravel, then disappears.

      “Do I need to call the police?” the woman from the Explorer asks, digging in her handbag for a cell phone.

      “You need to mind your own fucking business,” Lucy says, her voice cold and flat.

      The woman stands there, bewildered, with one hand on her vehicle. She’s sweating profusely, though it’s not that warm out. The armpits of her blouse are two large, dark patches, and her big pale face is glistening. She looks questioningly at me, and I nod reassurance at her. She finally gets in her car and drives off, leaving a cloud of exhaust.

      Gottlieb retreats in the direction of his office, a little unsteadily.

      “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” the girlfriend says, squinting at me.

      “I’m Anna.” I put my hand out for her to shake, but she just stares at it.

      She makes a sound, something between a scoff and a sigh. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” She is already turning toward downtown, taking a couple of steps in that direction. “You coming?” Her eyes are dark brown, with thick lashes. She pauses and jerks her head slightly in the direction she’s headed, as if convincing a dog to get moving. Her lips are curved into a small, wry smile, barely discernable. I watch as her sheer summer dress flutters in the breeze, pressing and then releasing from the curve of her breasts and the slim shape of her hips. “Come on,” she says, quietly, knocking the toe of her combat boot against the pavement. “I could use some company.”

      “Sure,” I say, fumbling in my pockets. “I’ll have to get some money, though—”

      “My treat,” she says. A gust of wind blows a sheaf of newspapers strewn about the Goat Kids’ yard, scattering them in the street. One page drifts lightly toward her, and she kicks it away.

      “Oh, I couldn’t let you—”

      “Sure