“Are you sure?” He’s not handsome, but something about him draws her in. Can it be that stepping through the door of this shop has brought her into a world where another fate is possible?
“I’m sure,” Shelby tells him. She hopes that if you reveal something on the outside, it won’t cause as much pain on the inside. It will float to the surface and leave you alone.
The tattoo artist holds up his hands, as if giving in to someone who is clearly making a mistake. “You’re the customer.”
They go into the back room. The tattooist says his name is James. He informs her that he learned his craft at the School of Visual Arts on Twenty-Third Street and in prison. If that’s supposed to scare her, it doesn’t. She’s always felt she should be in prison for what she did to Helene. She used to fall asleep in her parents’ basement waiting for the police to knock on the door.
“Drugs,” the tattooist tells her. “When you’re young and desperate for something you act before you think.”
“I don’t believe you were ever young,” Shelby blurts. Then, embarrassed, she apologizes. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Because it’s true. Old soul.”
There are several tattoo chairs separated by black curtains and one faux leather table that reminds Shelby of something a masseuse might use. The room smells like sweat and incense. For a minute Shelby’s afraid she might have to get naked. She already feels overly exposed. “I’m not undressing,” she says.
“Did I ask you to?”
Again, she feels embarrassed. They exchange a look that makes her even more ill at ease.
“Just the clothes that cover the area,” he tells her.
Shelby slips off her raincoat and sweater, then sits on the table.
“Do you want me to tell you about the process?” James pulls up a stool. “Some people feel more comfortable if they know what I’m doing. Like when a doctor explains the steps of a surgery before he starts cutting.”
“Don’t tell me anything,” Shelby says.
She tugs her T-shirt over her head. She’s wearing a bra, which she assumes she can keep on. It’s nothing special, she doesn’t believe in name brands like Victoria’s Secret, despite her Burberry raincoat from Ben. Her bra is simple, black, a little too small for her, something she didn’t realize until this moment.
“We haven’t discussed the art,” James says, his eyes all over her.
“It’s a name.”
“Of course.” He sounds contemptuous. “You want a heart with that? And a forever?”
Shelby glares at him, unsettled. “Do you make fun of all your clients?”
“Names are usually a bad idea.” He sits beside her on the table, close enough so that their legs touch. Shelby feels burned. She moves her leg away. She’s here for only one thing. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, she wants to get this over with, but the artist won’t shut up. “I think of life as a book of stories,” he goes on. “You move through the stories and the characters change. But once you have a name on your skin you are stuck with one story, even if it’s a bad one.”
Shelby is surprised by the way he expresses himself. It’s not what she would have expected given his tough appearance. But she disagrees with him and isn’t afraid to say so. “Well, I think of life as a novel. You can’t just hop out of the mess you’re in and into another story. You carry it all with you.”
“You’re wrong,” he says.
Maybe she is. She tells him about The Illustrated Man, how it’s a book of stories, but those stories are threaded together, tattoo by tattoo, until they become a novel. Bradbury’s book is a hybrid and that’s why she loves it so. That’s what life is, Shelby claims.
“I’ll have to read it. Sounds great.”
“You read?” Shelby says.
It’s supposed to be a joke, but it falls flat. James smiles wearily. He’s used to this kind of judgment. Everything he’s wearing is black, including heavy black boots, not unlike the ones Shelby used to wear. Now her pretty leather boots have high heels. Frankly, they’re not very good for trekking through snow. James takes off his sweatshirt, and she sees his arms are colored sleeves filled with dragons and roses, skulls and blue-black geometric patterns. She wonders if James’s tattoos come alive in burning color when he sleeps. If she spent the night with him would she know everything there was to know about him?
When he sees her staring, James rolls his shirt up his forearm. Inside a circle of thorny, blue vines there is a name. Lee. “Sometimes what feels right turns out to be wrong. It turns love into a burden.”