Raya’s face registers equal parts disgust and shock. “How are you surviving?”
“She’s got me,” Harrison says. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find something to whip up.”
Later, over grilled mozzarella and tomato sandwiches and red wine in the living room, Paul Simon sings about Graceland from the Bluetooth speaker as Raya regales us with stories from her day job as a tour bus guide in the city. I lean forward eagerly from my perch on the floor. Raya is funny and captivating and it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, I feel the need to drink her in while she’s here. When she’s exhausted her crazy-tourist stories, she starts catching me up on our art school friends.
“Did you hear about Prisha?” Prisha Khanna was a year ahead of us, and by far the most commercially successful artist to come out of our time at Moore. A photographer, her provocative portraits of women have been part of a traveling exhibition in museums worldwide. I’ve never been particularly drawn to her work, but it was at the opening night of her first showcase at a small gallery in Center City that I met Harrison. For that alone, I’m happy for her success.
“The exhibit’s coming to Philly.”
“Really? Which museum?”
“The museum. Philadelphia.”
“What? Wow,” I say.
“I know! And some big celebrity bought one of her photos. I can’t remember now—Taylor Swift, maybe? Anyway, she’s big-time—that’s why she’s a finalist for Moore’s Visionary Woman Awards.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it was in the newsletter. The gala’s in September. I’ll grab us tickets.”
I make a noise that I hope sounds interested. Just because I’m happy for her doesn’t mean I’m not also a little jealous. I try to swallow it down with a sip of water.
“Oh, and Fletcher. You know how she was always collecting those old lamps from flea markets, but wasn’t sure what she was going to end up doing with them?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, they’re an exhibit now—all fifty-six of them crammed into a room in a gallery on Arch Street.”
“Like a light installation?”
“No, that’s the thing—she put new bulbs in them, but didn’t plug any of them in.” She grins. “She’s calling it: Potential.”
I laugh. “Sounds like Fletcher.”
“Sounds more like Chris Burden, if you ask me,” says Marcel. He’s eaten around the edges of his sandwich like a bird, and he places it back on the plate in his lap.
“Who?” asks Harrison.
“The Urban Light guy?” Marcel says.
Harrison’s face remains blank.
“Artist out in California,” I say. “He installed, like, two hundred vintage streetlamps in rows in front of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”
“At least those were turned on,” Raya laughs. “And they’re pretty at night.”
Harrison leans forward to refill wineglasses.
“Anyway, it’s better than an exhibit of human skin.” Raya eyes Marcel purposefully.
I slowly turn toward him; Harrison’s head follows suit. “Um . . . explain?” I say.
“It’s some article I read—there’s a museum in London that has over three hundred tattoo specimens. Like, real pieces of human skin.”
“Marcel’s thinking of donating his,” Raya chimes in. “After he’s dead, of course.”
“Ew,” I say.
“Thank you,” Raya says. “That’s what I think, too.”
“Why?” Marcel says. “It’s art. Besides, how’s it any different than preserving organs for scientific research? This is for posterity, too, in a different way.” He turns to Harrison, no doubt looking for solidarity from the medical viewpoint, but Harrison holds up his hands.
“I don’t know, man. It’s a little too Silence of the Lambs for me.”
“Yes!” Raya shrieks. “Put the lotion in the basket!”
We all laugh.
“So, what’s the story with your tat, Mia?” Marcel asks. “I’ve never noticed it before.”
I look down at the inside of my left wrist, at the three small Chinese characters, and smile. “It’s nothing.”
“Yes, please tell us,” Raya says. She’s been trying to get it out of me for years.
“Nah. It’s a long story.” I feel Harrison’s eyes on me, warming my skin.
“She lost a bet.” Harrison pipes up. “To me.”
“What bet?” she prods, but Harrison just smiles. Raya groans. “Whatever. Show them your new one, babe.”
“His new what?” I ask. Marcel doesn’t answer. He slides his plate off his lap onto the coffee table and stands up, then turns, lifting his shirt up to reveal his skinny lower back—and a large full-color portrait of David Bowie.
“Oh!” I exclaim, before I can stop myself.
“I know, right?” he says, then quotes the words written beneath the image. “There’s a starman waiting in the sky. He’d like to come and meet us, but he thinks he’d blow our minds.”
“That is . . . something,” Harrison says, catching my eye once again.
I hold my water glass up to my mouth and concentrate on not laughing, but it’s no use.
* * *
That night I dream I’m back in the True Value. Jules is there in her apron and beads, but instead of sleeves her arms are covered in Marcel’s tattoos, the dragon breathing fire onto her neck. She smiles and offers me a package. But her smile vanishes as I take a tinfoil-wrapped gift from her hands. I study the bundle, not understanding. When I look up, she’s gone. And for some reason, a sense of dread fills my belly. I peel back a corner of the foil. A white downy feather peeks out. And then another. I quickly unwrap the rest with urgency, but it’s too late.
The chicken in my hands is dead, and I am gutted. Devastated. I’m grieving the lifeless carcass of a helpless bird and I’m grieving it deeply, as if it were as precious to me as my sister or my dad or Harrison himself. Suddenly the chicken jerks in my hand, its big mouth gaping open, the large beak coming at me, a deafening squawk filling the air. Panicked, I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. And then I wake up.
I open my eyes, taking in the darkness of my bedroom, my heart thudding double time in my chest. I take a deep breath.