Scales

      Shelly had spent the first of her tip money filling up the Scirocco on her way out of town, and then she decided that the jar was opaque enough with bills to enable her to buy a carton of grapefruit juice, a pack of Marlboro menthols, and a tube of cortisone cream stronger than the one she had been using. The cashier’s eyes flickered over her body as he scanned the cream. Shelly hugged her waist with one arm, suddenly fearful he could see the diseased skin, even though she was wearing three layers to prevent such an occurrence. She tugged the bill of her hat lower to hide her bruised cheekbone and slid her license across the counter to prove she was over eighteen.
Scales

      Shelly had spent the first of her tip money filling up the Scirocco on her way out of town, and then she decided that the jar was opaque enough with bills to enable her to buy a carton of grapefruit juice, a pack of Marlboro menthols, and a tube of cortisone cream stronger than the one she had been using. The cashier’s eyes flickered over her body as he scanned the cream. Shelly hugged her waist with one arm, suddenly fearful he could see the diseased skin, even though she was wearing three layers to prevent such an occurrence. She tugged the bill of her hat lower to hide her bruised cheekbone and slid her license across the counter to prove she was over eighteen.

      The Dance Inn was just outside of town on Highway 99 headed to Skiatook. In their eagerness to appeal to the high population of Osages living in the area, the white owners had commissioned a local artist, Elvis Redeagle, to paint an Indian-themed mural on the sides of the building. He assured them his work would render their hotel the most unique in all of Hominy. Six months and thirteen businesses later, nearly every alleyway featured some variety of a wide-nosed, black-haired Native American superimposed on a herd of purple buffalo, or else a bucking turquoise horse with lightning emanating from its white hooves. The back brick wall of the Dance Inn displayed a string of wolf silhouettes each with an oversized heart pulse overlaid in electric blue.

      Shelly turned off the shuddering engine and traced the painted pulse with her eyes. She thought of her father, who had had his own heart rate monitor, except his moved and beeped and then went flat after his body rejected his new kidney. The nurses had rushed in, barking multisyllabic words at each other. Their voices rose until they drowned out the unwavering tone issuing from the monitor. Her mother had let her carry the bottle of cyclosporine pills they were supposed to administer to her father once they got home, and Shelly had tried to thrust the bottle into the nurses’ hands. But they’d pushed her away into her mother’s grip and lost her father anyway. Neither her mother nor the hospital had asked about the medicine, so Shelly had kept it these two years. Now she reached for the orange bottle from the side compartment of her duffel bag and turned it over in her hand, the pills rattling gently as she ran her thumb over the words August Bighorse.

      “I need a room,” Shelly said to the old woman behind the counter. The little lobby was hazy with smoke from the burning cedar sprigs arranged on a white ceramic plate. Her mother had burned the same thing when her dad had died; she said it brought the good spirits, like her dad, and scared the bad ones away. She’d also set out a plate for him at dinner so his spirit could eat during the night. Shelly had first seen him a week after his funeral, seated at their lacquered pine kitchen table and hunched over the deep-fried catfish bits and slaw she and her mother had had for dinner a few hours ago.

      “Daddy?” Shelly whispered in a voice that was barely audible. She rubbed her eyes hard, and felt silly and also very sad for having addressed what she couldn’t be sure was there.

      “What are you doing up so late?” her father had asked between forkfuls of the white flakes of the catfish. The kitchen was dark except for the orange streetlamp light that seeped through the blind-less window and spilled over him. Shelly crept closer, hardly allowing herself to breathe and fearful that he would disappear before she reached him. The floors creaked under her tip-toed progress. She lowered herself into a wobbly chair across from her father and stared at him for a full minute, watching the progress of his fork up and down and the similar motion of his Adam’s apple. “I have to go pretty soon, Shelly,” her father prompted her softly without looking up. Shelly wiggled forward on the loose seat cushion.

      “I can’t sleep,” she said, tracing greasy swirls on the tabletop with her fingertips.

      “I can see that,” he said. “Why not?”

      “I miss you so much, Daddy,” she whispered and began to cry, holding in the noises so she wouldn’t wake her mother. Shelly folded her arms on the salt-and-crumb-flecked tabletop, the granules pressing into her forearms; so painful considering their size. She dropped her forehead onto her arms, wetting them with warm tears, and reached blindly for her father’s arm, retracting her hand at the last second for fear of what she might feel.

      “It’d be just like touching water, honey,” her father had said sadly. Shelly had nodded, suddenly overcome with weariness different from what she’d experienced in the week since her father had died. This wasn’t like what she felt when she had to smile at the people who reminded her what a wonderful man her father had been; this weariness felt like it could be fixed with sleep. She embraced it with a deep sigh as she listened to her father chew and breathe, the latter making the same whistling noise to which she’d become so accustomed throughout her life but had forgotten in the week since he’d been gone.

      Now she realized the old woman before her at the Dance Inn did not sound so different when she breathed. The old woman’s ridged, yellowing nails continued to click over the keyboard, obscuring the whistling.

      “How many nights?” the old woman asked, addressing the computer screen that was reflected in her gold-rimmed glasses.

      “I don’t know,” Shelly said, holding up the jar and examining the remaining bills as if they were cocoons in the process of hatching. “One, I guess.”

      “Smoking or—?”

      “Smoking,” Shelly answered.

       The room was only a little bigger than the bedroom she and her husband Prentice shared at their house on the Osage Reservation. All the houses there were built in the same shotgun ranch style, and the unmown yards served as storage space for old cars and unplanned puppy litters. She’d always dreamed of living on a ranch somewhere, but Prentice worked at a machine shop and was paid under the table, and she was a waitress making an average of seven dollars an hour. They had supplemented their income with Shelly’s babysitting, but once she took the kids she was watching to Lake Hominy, where they were playing in the shallows. A sucker fish found its way to Shelly’s scales, and it was still hanging on when she stood from the water. The children were fascinated, but she was too embarrassed to explain to their parents what their children’s man-eating fish story had to do with her or her psoriasis, so she had quit.

      Shelly spilled her recent purchases over the polyester bedspread and rubbed the new cream on her scales, trying to soothe the flare-up brought on by her and Prentice’s fight earlier that morning. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 10:30, and she imagined her husband outside the machine shop in his greasy coveralls taking a smoke break and laughing. He had laughed when he found out she slept with the bottle of her dad’s medicine.

      “Most kids have teddy bears to cuddle with and you have a bottle of fucking pills, Shelly. You’re too old for that shit, anyway,” he’d said. They were seventeen and about to graduate high school.

      She put a menthol between her lips and called her mother.

      “Mama, I left Prentice,” Shelly said out of the corner of her mouth as she rummaged for a lighter in her purse.

      “Why?” her mother asked.

      “He hit me,” Shelly said and took a long drag, the menthol burning and tingling in her throat.

      “Is that all?”

      “In the face, Mama,” Shelly said, louder.

      “I used to hit you when you were bad.” Shelly exhaled in a huff, the smoke curling away from the receiver.

      “Mama, I didn’t do anything wrong!” Shelly yelled, smoke still escaping her nostrils.

      “Well, what are you gonna do now? You ain’t got no money, and Prentice is just gonna be madder when he gets home and you’re not there.”

      “Don’t you tell him where I went,” Shelly said, inhaling harshly. Her mother only made a clucking noise with her tongue. “Mama, don’t!”

      “I won’t, then. How in the hell you gonna pay for a lawyer, Shelly?”

      “I’ll save up,” Shelly said quietly, flicking her ashes on the carpet. She eyed her savings jar and, thinking of how long it had taken her to accumulate the $417.39 it contained, even having managed to hide it from Prentice until this morning, when he’d found it a portion of it sealed and stuck in the reservoir of their toilet.

      “What the fuck is this, Shelly?” he’d yelled, brandishing the jar inches from her face. She had stared past the jar, past him.

      “It’s for my belly,” Shelly had said, turning back to the sink and trying to keep her voice steady. “I’m saving for some medicine.”

      “Shelly, we got better things to spend on than fixing your little scales,” Prentice said. “Just keep them covered up.” He started to laugh. When Shelly didn’t smile, he grabbed for the hem of her shirt and cocked his head to see the scales beneath, theatrically grimacing all the while. Shelly slapped his hand away and hissed, “What, like your drugs or your little girlfriends?”

      Then she was on the cold linoleum, eye-level with a dusty clump of hair. A throbbing bump already rising from her cheekbone into her vision, and Prentice was gone, along with the jar of money. She’d recovered her other stashes, numbly packed some clothes and the Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum her father had left to her, and driven away before she had planned beyond a stop for gas.

  Her mother’s loud, mirthless honk of a laugh and consequent lapse into a coughing fit interrupted Shelly’s thoughts. Shelly took another drag as she waited.

      “So he hits you sometimes. So what?” her mother wheezed. “You’re a big girl, Shelly, you can handle a few knocks to keep a roof over your head.”

      “Daddy never hit you, did he?” Shelly asked quietly, exhaling slowly.

      “No, he didn’t. He wasn’t that kind of man.” Shelly nodded but said nothing. Her mother sighed. “Look, honey, don’t leave Prentice.”

      “Why shouldn’t I?” Shelly was indignant. She took another drag.

      “You were lucky enough he’d already married you when your… your skin thing cropped up. Do you really think another man would have you?” Her mother’s voice was soft.

      “Mama, that is a terrible thing to say,” Shelly said robotically, unwilling to admit that even Prentice made her bandage her scales when they had sex.

      “Well, you called me, Shelly. And that is my advice to you.”

      “OK, Mama,” Shelly said and hung up before her mother could say anything else. She fell back onto the bedspread, took another drag and absentmindedly ran her hand over the psoriasis on her abdomen.

      Shelly sat up and smashed the cigarette into a Z, groaning a little as she thought of having to call her mother back and beg admission into her house when the money got low. Shelly leaned across the bed for the grapefruit juice; it was the only thing that made the aftertaste of the cigarettes go away. Shelly looked around for a cup and then realized with a dull amusement that there was nothing stopping her from drinking straight from the carton.

      She sidled into the bathroom with all its cracked and stunted fixtures and watched herself take a drink in the mirror before setting the carton down on the stained edge of the sink. Shelly stood on the edge of the tub to better see her whole body and held onto the shower curtain rod with one hand for balance. With the other, she pressed her sweatshirt against her stomach and examined her profile in the rust-spotted mirror. She’d gained some weight since she’d married a year and a half ago, but she didn’t look too heavy. She lifted her shirt and stared at the scaly welts that covered the skin on the left side of her abdomen and disappeared around the curve of her waist. Her chest seemed to fill with heat the longer she stared. Shelly turned her back to the mirror and scratched furiously at the scales, watching in satisfaction as they floated down like ash and brown snow into the tub. Then she washed the scales down the drain and used toilet paper to absorb any yellow-cream pus and blood that had bubbled up.

       Shelly hopped off the tub’s edge and brought her broad face very close to the mirror, fogging it as she examined the ever-growing and darkening bump beneath her bronze skin. As if she needed one more deformity. Shelly sat on the toilet and wept.

      When she finished crying, she wandered into the motel’s lobby, where the old woman behind the counter had been replaced with a “Back in 10” sign and the blue light of the TV from the employees’ lounge lit up the crack of the slightly opened door behind the counter. Fruit flies buzzed around the bowl of mottled bananas and overripe apples next to a sign that read “Free Continental Breakfast.” Around the corner was the ancient twin to the management’s computer, and Shelly sat down to pick her nails while she waited for the dial-up to connect her to the Internet.

      She searched for the phrase “how to divorce” and copied down form numbers and the names of state offices onto a coffee-ringed napkin.

      Then she typed in “psoriasis.” The images of the disease on strangers’ bodies comforted her somehow, and she peeled up her camisole and two T-shirts to better compare the pictures on the screen before her. She could definitely have it worse: it could be in her hair or somewhere not so easy to hide as her belly.

      Shelly scrolled down the page, glancing over the section titles until she came to treatment options. She barely glanced at the topical treatments or phototherapy options because she already had the cream and she could never afford a phototherapy session: her healthcare through the Indian Health Service had expired when she turned eighteen and her mother couldn’t claim her as dependent because she’d gotten married.

      Text and images flashed jerkily past on the screen as she scrolled down the webpage. Shelly stopped suddenly and leaned closer. That word: cyclosporine. Her heart pounded, and she was almost afraid to read further, but there it was: cyclosporine in pill form may be used as a systemic treatment of psoriasis.

      “Dear lord,” Shelly breathed and stood so quickly she knocked the chair over.

      In the room, her heart was pounding as she read and reread the smudged label, spelling out the word “cyclosporine” letter by letter in her head. Shelly twisted the cap off with shaking hands and dropped one of the tablets into her palm, holding it as if it were the bread of communion. She grabbed the lukewarm grapefruit juice from the bathroom counter, placed the pill at the back of her throat and took a swig. She imagined that she could already feel it healing her, dissolving the disease from the inside out. The whole bottle would probably last her until she found a new place, got a new job; it would probably last until her first paycheck. Shelly laughed out loud and wrenched her engagement and wedding rings from her finger. She held them over the stopper-less sink drain, but closed her hand when she realized it would probably be smarter to pawn them. There was the handgun, too, if things got really bad. Shelly bit her lip and thought of the .357 in its case under all the crap in the trunk of her car. She remembered how she and father used to stare at it reverently there in the trunk before lifting it out and carrying it across the abandoned quarry to shoot on Sunday afternoons. So many afternoons there with her father. Shelly clasped her hands behind her head and exhaled slowly, staring unseeingly into the mottled mirror and realizing that even if she did not have to sell the gun for money, she sure as hell wouldn’t be shooting it off in the Hominy quarry anymore, no matter how close to her father it felt; it was too close to Prentice and hopefully too far away from wherever it was she was going. She decided she would shoot it off one last time to say a just-in-case farewell to the gun and goodbye to the last place in Hominy where she did not have to care about anything or even think.

***

      The quarry was empty when she arrived, silent under the pastel winter sky. Against the back wall were the donated targets accumulated over the decades; some of the cars were classic by now, but shot up beyond repair. This saddened Shelly, so she always aimed for whatever household appliances were available. Fridges were preferable; they were the most likely to fall over and cause even more damage.

      Shelly affixed the blue shooting muffs to her ears and the yellow shooting glasses over her eyes. She bent down and snapped open the pistol case. A dizziness enveloped her, but she closed her eyes till it passed. She smiled when she realized it must be the medicine working. The smell of gunpowder emanating from the gray foam of the case reminded Shelly of her father and the times he used to bring her out here to teach her to shoot. She flicked open the cylinder, spinning it just to hear the clicking, then inserted six .38 caliber bullets into the chambers and snapped the cylinder back in place. Shelly stood and wiped perspiration from her forehead, though it couldn’t have been more than 50 degrees outside. She shrugged and took off her sweatshirt; she could aim better without it anyway.

      Shelly strode across the orange dirt toward a relatively new-looking fridge with only a single band of duct tape barely keeping it closed. Its dented side leaned heavily against the bumper of what appeared to have once been a Chevy Nova. She left about ten yards between her and the intended target, which would be the strip of duct tape if she got lucky.

      “Square up,” she could hear her father saying, “Arms almost straight. Bend your trigger arm more. One eye closed; use the sight.” Shelly obeyed and tensed for the shot and imminent kick. The shot vibrated in her chest as a jagged hole appeared just below the strap of duct tape, and the refrigerator rocked violently, causing the Nova’s bumper to squeak and the rest of the glass to crash down from its previously-smashed windshield. She squared up and shot again and again until the cylinder was empty and the refrigerator door was rippled with the impact. When she removed her muffs, the echoes still rolled around the quarry like high-pitched thunder, the volume ebbing and flowing as the sound roved over the rocky walls and the rusting targets.

      Shelly suddenly felt dizzy again and nauseated, as if she had closed her eyes after spinning around too fast. Her breath caught in her throat as she sank to one knee and dropped the gun in the dirt with a soft thud; she vomited and the thirsty ground quickly drank down most of the liquid. Shelly massaged her throat, trying in vain to sooth the burning of the expelled grapefruit juice. She spit a pink glob into the dirt and blew her nose one nostril at a time. Shelly was shaking now as she lay down, breathing heavily and staring up at the sky. Even her outermost T-shirt was soaked with sweat. Was she pregnant? Was this morning sickness?

      “Please God, no,” she whispered, absently rubbing her belly and imagining life beneath, life that would have to compete with her scales. The psoriasis would win, she knew; it would suck all the life from her baby. She imagined giving birth to a tiny skeleton, its finger joints breaking off at the smallest prod. She moaned and pressed both hands harder against her stomach.

      “You’re not pregnant, Shelly.” She sat up immediately and tried weakly to scoot herself backward on the dirt. She looked around wildly but everything was spinning so badly she couldn’t tell her car from the abandoned ones at the far end of the quarry.

      “Who’s there?” she yelled, her voice cracking.

      “Don’t you know that if your gun ain’t in your hand, it’s in the case?” Shelly fell sideways onto the dirt trying to spin around toward the voice. She saw boots and the raw denim of jeans, the hem reddened and frayed by time and the ground on which she now lay. Her eyes traveled up past a silver belt buckle bearing the seal of the Osage Tribe, and finally came to rest on her father’s face.

      “Daddy,” she said weakly, letting her head fall back to the ground, content to stare at his boots. The dirt reddened her temple as it absorbed the sweat beads there.

      “You took my pills,” he said evenly.

      “They’ll make the disease go away,” Shelly said, her breath stirring the red dust into an eddy. “I read about it.”

      “Those pills weren’t meant for you,” her father said, his voice suddenly sad. Her eyes shot open. He knelt down, balancing himself on the fingers of one hand. Shelly lifted her head to see his face, which was an even bronze color, with crow’s feet radiating from the corners of his squinting eyes. He looked like he had before the hospital. She remembered the white sheet that had once made a hill over his belly that had collapsed little by little as he wasted away. The muscles in Shelly’s neck strained and shook.

      “But they kill it—the scales,” she trailed off, unable to hold her head up any longer. Her lungs felt too small to be efficient: the harder she fought for air, the more it evaded her.

  “That’s not exactly how it works,” her father said, removing his hand and standing up with a grunt. Shelly stared at the divots in the dust where his fingertips had been. “Each of those pills has way more medicine than you need to begin with, and then there’s the grapefruit juice.”

      “I threw it up,” Shelly said breathlessly.

      “That’s because you’re not supposed to have it when you take cyclosporine,” her father said softly.

      “Help me,” Shelly heard herself say. She opened her eyes to slits. Her father’s blurry form knelt down before her again, and she saw him put his hand to her face. It felt the same way as when she sat in the tub and slipped slowly under the water.

      “Dad—” Shelly started to whisper, but then the liquid-feeling touch tingled against her skin, and she felt it spreading, like she really was being immersed. Yet her temples didn’t feel so damp and clammy anymore. She felt warmer.

      “Shelly, are you sure you don’t want to stay?” she heard her father say. The warmth ceased to seep over her.

      “Stay where?” Shelly mumbled. Surely he couldn’t mean the Dance Inn. Or no, the quarry, that’s where she was. With her gun and the fridge with the duct tape. No, she didn’t want to stay here. But the hotel didn’t sound good either, nor did the house on the Reservation. She didn’t want to stay, and she tried to say so, but the words stuck in throat. The bathwater feeling picked up again. It spread and tingled, and kind of hurt, like all of her had fallen asleep and now she was wrapped up in a blanket of poking things. Shelly tried to squirm, but nothing would move. She panicked, gasped, but couldn’t exhale.

      And then she was standing next to her father, his hand gripped tightly on her arm, still pulling it skyward. She was standing on her own and felt as if her skin had been scrubbed raw after being filthy for so long. She recognized her father’s scent of leather and smoked meat and the alcohol of his aftershave. They were in the quarry still, but it looked like someone had turned down the contrast on everything; the dirt was more of a pink now than a red, and the trees and sky were barely distinguishable from one another. Shelly glanced down to see a girl lying at her feet, apparently asleep. Her T-shirts were bunched and her belly was exposed, revealing white scales that wrapped around her side and disappeared beneath the waistline of her jeans.

      “Dad, who is that? What’s on her belly?”

      “It’s nothing, honey,” he answered, moving his arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

      “Is she…?” Shelly began to say, looking to her father quizzically. He gazed at her steadily. “Am I…?” Shelly tried to start again. “Well, never mind.”
 


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05/15/2012 20:35

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