The Skin Show (5 page)

She
sighed. “There we go.”

“Comfy?”

“Very
comfy.”

Andy
stroked her back, noting the slick warm feel of her skin through the shirt.
She’d used his soap and shampoo to clean herself, and yet she still smelled
different than he would after a shower. Better. Cleaner. He took a heavy whiff,
hoping she wouldn’t notice him sniffing her.

She
put an arm over his midsection, then draped a leg over his knee. Her skin felt
smooth and warm against him. He fought not to rub her thigh.

“This
is nice,” she said.

Andy
didn’t reply. They laid in silence a few moments.

“I’m
thinking about divorcing Danny,” she blurted.

Andy’s
eyes rounded. “What?”

“I
think it would be best.”

“Why
all of a sudden?”

“Not
all of a sudden. Sadly, it’s something I’ve been contemplating for years. I
just could never bring myself to do it.”

“Honestly
I’ve wondered why you haven’t yet.”

He
felt her shrug. “I think I’ve just felt so sorry for him. And when he was
arrested last time, he promised he would be a new person when he got out.”

Andy
almost laughed.

“And,
he was,” she continued, “he was the old Danny, like before he got really screwed
up. He was funny, sweet.” She sighed.

Andy
wondered if she regretted all the times they’d had sex while Danny was locked
up. She’d practically lived here those eight months. And they were like a real
couple again. She stayed here on her days off from the grocery store while he
went to school. He’d come home to a clean house and dinner. He couldn’t have
been happier, and she’d seemed like a different person during that stretch as
well. Always smiling, her skin glowing, eyes full of life. But when Danny’s
probation was approved, she’d packed up and left so quickly it was as if she
hadn’t been there at all. She never told Danny about their time together.
Sometimes Andy wished she had. Maybe Danny would have gone away much sooner.

Awful.
You’re such a dick.

“Danny
would mention you sometimes. Wondering what you were doing. He’d say things like
‘Andy is the first Raab to ever go to college. Maybe he’ll be the first one to
get the hell out of Brickston.’ Believe it or not, he was proud of you.”

Why
is she telling me this?

“He
had a hell of a way of showing it,” said Andy, letting his anger show. “The
last time he and I spoke, he punched me in the stomach and told me I was always
Mom and Dad’s favorite.”

Nicole
tensed against him. “Yeah…I remember. But he was high that day.”

“I’m
not allowing that to be an excuse anymore. It took me a long time to convince
myself that I had to
stop
blaming meth for the way he is. I think he
always was like that and the drugs just nudged it along.”

“You’re
probably right,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ve been telling myself that a lot here
lately, too.”

“I
hope you have, Nicole. He’s my brother, and I’ll always love him, but I don’t
need
him.” He hoped that hadn’t sounded as selfish to her as it had to him. The
truth was since Mom died, Andy felt as if he’d lost all his family, Danny
included. Because everything had been left to Andy, Danny now resented him. He
could understand why, but he’d planned on giving Danny some of the insurance
money if he could prove he could stay off drugs.

“Do
you need
me
?” asked Nicole.

Andy’s
heart lurched. His mouth went dry and cottony. “What?”

“I
know things have always been…a little crazy between us, but do you need me?”

“You
know how I feel about you. That’s never changed.”

“Will
you help me through this?”

“Let
me ask you something.”

“Anything.”

“If
you’re really thinking about divorcing him, then why do you need to know where
he is? In a couple days his probation officer will have a warrant out for his
arrest and the problem will be solved.”

 Nicole
lifted her head, gazing at him with piteous eyes. Full of tears and red, they
were swollen and puffy. Her lip trembled. She looked so vulnerable, like a
little girl. “Can we not talk about it anymore?”

“It
needs to be discussed.”

“I
know. Just not
now
. Can we stop talking about for a little while and
just pretend it didn’t happen?”

He
wanted to know more. After all, this was his brother she was talking about. As
much as he wanted to keep asking her questions, he let it go. “Okay,” he said.
“We can stop for now.”

“Will
you hold me, Andy?”

“I
already am…holding…”

“No,
I mean
really
hold me. With both arms.”

He
should
say no, but he was unable to resist. He leaned his head down on
top of hers. Her hair was wet and slippery under his chin. They embraced.
Nicole held him so tightly it was hard for Andy to breathe. He didn’t make her
stop, allowing her to squeeze him. A few minutes passed and her hold softened.
He waited a couple more minutes until he was certain she was deeply asleep.
Then he squirmed his way out of her arms and climbed out of bed.

Grabbing
his pillow, he paused to look at her. Her face was scrunched up, a deep crease
in her brow. Even in sleep she was stressed. He shook his head on his way out
of the room. He wanted to stay in bed with her, but knew where it would lead. Sometime
in the night, he’d wake up to her kissing him. They’d have sex. Even though he
wanted it to go there, it shouldn’t. It was better for them both if they just
pretended they didn’t have feelings for each other.  

He
tossed his pillow on the couch, then went to the kitchen and mixed up another
glass of strawberry milk. Times like these, he wished he hadn’t quit drinking
beer. A cigarette would have been nice too. He carried the milk into the living
room with him, and sat down on the couch. The cushions were soft and broken in,
so he sank deeply into them. He saw Nicole’s pack of Pyramid Blues sitting on
the end table.

Don’t
do it. You’ll be no better off than Danny—all it’ll take is one to get you
hooked again.

Andy
guzzled his milk. When the glass was empty, he sat it on the floor next to the
couch. Lying down, he stretched his legs. It wasn’t long before they started to
tingle as his body relaxed. Even though he was exhausted and comfortable, he
knew he wouldn’t sleep much. His conflicting mind would never allow it.

Plus,
he had some planning to do.

Waiting
in the car, Miles Faircloth could barely keep his eyes open. They’d driven most
the day and half the night. He raised his arm, squeezed his watch, and checked
the time when the face started to glow.

Almost
three in the morning.

Still
early, compared to other nights.

He
put his arm down in his lap, leaning back in the seat. He tried to see into the
motel’s main office window but couldn’t see through the cloudy glass. The motel
was a flat row of doors that opened on tiny rooms, with the office jutting out
at the tip like an L. The sign promised double beds, which was why Hoffman had
stopped here. Seeing the small rooms, their narrow gashes of glass for windows,
made Miles wonder if the sign had lied.

A
year had passed since Hoffman saved Miles’s life. Now twelve, his birthday had
been spent at a rest area picnic table with a cake from a grocery store’s
freezer. The celebration was Hoffman’s idea.

“Can’t
ever
disregard the opportunity to celebrate another year of life,” he’d
said.

Two
numeral candles put together to form a twelve had guttered wildly in the
mid-spring breeze as pollen sprinkled all over them. There had even been
presents: a Nintendo 3DS and some games. A way, as Hoffman had put it, to remind
Miles he was still a twelve-year-old, not a boy sprung into adulthood much too
early.

Three
months later, Miles still didn’t understand what he’d meant. At least Hoffman
had cared enough to acknowledge his birthday. It was better than his eleventh
for sure. Eyes glued to the tiny screen, earbuds in his ears, helped him to
overlook riding shotgun on a drive through Hell.

Hoffman
had been the one to say that, too. Hoffman was very smart and eloquent words
seemed to flow from his scarred lips. And, Miles had to agree with Hoffman’s
statement. After going home that night and discovering what had happened to Mom
while he was at The Skin Show, Miles was convinced that Hell was
real.

“It
was one of those things,” Hoffman had said as he covered Mom’s mangled corpse
with the bed sheet.

Miles
had seen her first, just a glimpse, but it was enough to leave an interminable
memory. Insisting on making sure everything was okay when dropping Miles off at
home, Hoffman had walked him to the back door. It had been busted. Jagged
sections of the door clung to the frame like broken teeth.

Inside
was trashed even more than usual. The couch had been overturned. Dad’s recliner
had been thrown into the wall, the footrest extended and jutting as if someone
had been sitting in it. The sight was almost humorous.

Glass
crunched under their shoes as they moved through the mobile home, following the
evidence of carnage into his parents’ bedroom.

Blood
painted the walls in a sticky crimson coat. Mom was displayed on the bed. On
her back, legs spread wide. The area between her thighs was devoured. Miles had
never even considered his mother had one of those. He knew all girls did, but
he’d never looked at Mom in that way. But, seeing her naked on the bed proved
she was like all girls, and she’d been violently violated.

Her
chest was shredded into pulpy mounds of meat. Dark gray branches of ribcage
could be seen between the gaps in her skin. Her stomach was split open, innards
spilling out—overall, a grotesque image that Miles had never been able to excise
since Hoffman laid the sheet across her. It still brought him the same numbing
pain as it had the first time.

“I
want to go with you,” Miles had said when they’d gone back into the living room.

Hoffman
stared at him gravely. “No.”

“I
have nothing left here…”

“I
know you think that, but coming with me is not the solution to your anger. If
you become obsessed with vengeance, it’s the same as being dead on the inside.
Stay here. Once you call and report this, you will probably be sent to live
with a relative until you’re old enough to collect the life insurance check. Go
to school. Leave this behind you.”

“We
didn’t have any insurance…unless you count Medicaid.”

Hoffman
frowned. “It’s better…”

“And
the only relatives I have are an uncle who makes my dad look like a saint. No.
I’d rather go with you and hunt all these bastards down.”

It
looked as if Hoffman wanted to dispute further but instead he only nodded.
“Fine. But, if you’re coming with me, you’ll have to do what I did.”

“What?”

“We
have to make it look like you’re dead too.”

Miles
felt a chill in his stomach. “How are we going to do that?”

“Wait
here.”

Hoffman
hurried out of the house while Miles struggled to get the couch set back right.
Miles half expected him to take off and he supposed the man probably considered
it, too; but a few minutes later he returned with two jugs of gasoline and a
leather bag hanging by a strap from his shoulder. He set the jugs on the floor,
and then went over to where Miles waited on the couch. Shrugging off the bag,
he sat next to Miles.

“I’m
giving you one more chance to change your mind.”

Miles
looked at the bag, his eyes moving to the gasoline cans before returning to
Hoffman. He looked to the closed bedroom door that kept his mother’s gory
remains. Nothing could keep him from going with Hoffman. “I’m not changing my
mind,” he said.

Hoffman
nodded. He unzipped the bag and stuffed his hands inside. Miles heard the tinkling
clatters of him digging around. He came back with a large bottle of some kind
of booze. Passing it over, he said, “Start drinking.”

“Wha…?”

“It’s
going to taste like shit and burn like acid, but you have to keep drinking
until you feel numb.”

A
syringe came from the bag next. Miles’s eyes widened at the sight of the
needle. He hated getting shots, hated needles. This one was empty, though,
sealed in a plastic sleeve that crinkled in Hoffman’s hand. Hoffman paused,
watching Miles. Finally, Miles unscrewed the cap, raising the bottle to his
lips. Hot vapors singed his nostrils as he breathed in the fumes. The liquor
smelled nearly identical to the gasoline inside the jugs.

He
took a small swig. Hoffman was right. The liquid burned when it touched his
lips, leaving a searing path down his throat and into his stomach. Deep in his
gut, it felt as if a fire had been ignited.

As
Miles swigged from the bottle, Hoffman sat the syringe on the couch beside him.
Then he took out a pair of pliers with tips that curved outward to tiny points.
Miles wanted to ask what he was planning to do. Instead, he kept drinking. It
didn’t take long before Hoffman’s plans no longer mattered to Miles. Nothing
mattered as the alcohol soothed the trembles in his body, calmed his clamoring
thoughts.  

“I
can tell by the hazed look in your eyes that the liquor is working, so what I’m
about to say should be easier to handle. To make it look like you’re dead too,
we have to leave some evidence of you behind…and the simplest way of doing that
is by removing one of your teeth and some blood. Even in the ashes, the fire
marshal should be able to recover the
evidence
of foul play.”

“Ashes?”

“We’ve
got to burn the place down.”

“But…my
stuff…my toys…”

“It
has to be left behind. We can’t take anything of yours with us. If they were to
realize some of your belongings were missing, the police will continue looking
for you. If all your things burn in the fire, and all they find of you is a
tooth and small traces of some blood, the search will be short-lived.”

Miles’s
head was like a swirling fog. He was saddened that he’d have to lose it all. Although
there wasn’t much to begin with, he still hated to let it go. “Wait…”

“Change
your mind?”

“No,
but there’s a picture on my dresser. I want to take that.”

“I
told you…”

“Please!
It’s a picture of me with my parents. Just let me take that.”

Hoffman’s
mouth tightened to a narrow line. “All right. We’ll get it on our way out.”

“Thank
you.”

“Let’s
get started.”

Hoffman
had Miles lean back on the couch and tilt back his head. He opened his mouth
just as he would in the dentist’s office. Hoffman chose a tooth in the back,
clamped the pliers’ mouth on the white nub and started to pull. He wiggled as
he tugged. Surprisingly, there was very little pain. All he mostly felt was the
pressure of Hoffman working along with some grinding sounds. Then Hoffman’s arm
flew back and the pressure was gone. Clamped between the curved points of the
pliers was a bloody chunk.

“Got
it,” said Hoffman.

Miles’s
mouth filled with slobbery blood. Hoffman flung the tooth across the room, then
fished out a rag from the bag and handed it to Miles.

“Bite
down,” said Hoffman.

Miles
put it in his mouth, and clamped down on the rag.

Next,
Hoffman tore the syringe out of its sleeve. Miles watched him nervously as he
uncapped the needlepoint.

“Unfortunately,
there won’t be enough blood from the extraction to use for this next step. So,
instead of cutting you or anything else truly painful, I’ll withdraw some blood
and sprinkle it around the trailer. Okay?”

Miles
replied with a single nod.

With
his skin feeling the effects of the liquor, the piercing needle felt more like
a soft tap in the bend of his arm. Hoffman took a generous amount of blood,
Miles observed, as the clear tube filled with murky fluid. After he’d taken
enough, Hoffman stood up and walked through the trailer, squirting dabs of blood
in various places. He disappeared down the hall that led to Miles’s bedroom. A
few moments later, he returned, carrying the framed picture. He handed it to
Miles.

“Time
to go,” he said. His solid white eye seemed to stare deeper into Miles than the
remaining good one.

Miles
nodded. “Okay…” His legs felt useless and weak. “I can’t move.”

Hoffman
scooped him up, draped him over his shoulder, and carried Miles to the car.
Then he returned to the house. Minutes ticked by before Hoffman came back.
There was some banging around at the rear of the car as Hoffman put the gas
jugs back in the trunk. A thump and soft vibration of the lid being slammed
followed. Then Hoffman came around to the front and climbed in.

As
they drove down the driveway, Miles watched the trailer in the side-view
mirror. Through the windows he could see the sputtering orange shadows of a
spreading fire. Before they were on the road, a window burst and scrabbling
flames poured out of the open space.

Miles
closed his eyes, not wanting to see anymore.

“Are
you asleep?”

Miles
opened his eyes. He was in the passenger seat still, but the location was
different. No longer at his trailer, he was back in front of the motel. Looking
left, he saw Hoffman leaning into the car, the man’s scarred face wrinkled with
concern.

“Yuh-yeah,”
he sighed. “Dozed off…”

Hoffman
sat down. “Well, let’s get to our room, and you can lay down while I bring in
our stuff.”

“I’ll
help you. It’s okay.”

Hoffman
studied him a moment, the concern on his face seeming to spread into his eye.
After a beat, he nodded, then shut the door. “Want to talk about it?”

“About
what?”

“About
whatever’s on your mind.”

It
was hard keeping anything from Hoffman because he could always tell when Miles was
upset, scared, or sad. “Not really.”

“You
sure?”

“Yeah.
It’s all been said before. “ 

“I
see.”

They
drove alongside the motel’s strip, passing mostly empty spaces, and parked in the
slot allotted for their room. There was no light in the walkway, so when
Hoffman killed the headlights, Miles could hardly see beyond the curb. The
number on the door was fourteen, the brass numbers twinkling in the moonlight.
This motel looked like the others they’d stayed in; the states changed, but the
lodging arrangements never did.

This
was North Carolina, though, and Miles hoped that at least the beds were
comfortable and free of bed bugs. Their stays in South Carolina were terrible,
each hotel having the worst beds. There was no way this motel could be any
worse.

The
thought had barely left his brain when he noticed a woman walking under the
canopy that roofed the doors. She wore a skirt that adhered to her body like
slick skin. It hid nothing of her body, of its curves.

“Here
comes the welcoming wagon,” said Miles, referencing the prostitute.

Hoffman
saw the woman and sighed. “Hopefully she’s just a hooker and not someone
waiting to ambush us.”

It
had happened before: fake hitchhikers, tenants in other hotels, broken down on
the side of the road shams. All of them tricks in the hopes of getting their
guard down so they could be attacked and overcome. Hoffman was normally a
genius at telling the real ones from the fakes.

Hoffman
pulled the keys from the ignition, watching the woman stop in front of the door
to wait for them. “We’ll know in a second, though. If she
is
a prostitute,
then just like all the others, she’ll see my face and run off.” Hoffman turned
the light switch, the cab light came on.

The
woman leaned down, eyes narrowing as her face twisted into a grimace. She
turned around and hurried away in the opposite direction.

They
laughed.

“Come
on,” Hoffman continued. “Let’s get in there, so we can get some shut-eye.”

Miles
nodded. He wanted sleep but was terrified of the nightmares that would return
during the night.