The Table of Truth - Chapter Two, Part 1c

I began noticing that some of the other waitresses had tattoos in “special spots.” Usually on the smalls of their backs reaching down into their pants. The boys often ran their fingers down the tattoos while they talked with the girls. And the waitresses let them because they knew that a five dollar bill was usually waiting for them at the end of the conversation. It was an investment.
I entered the tattoo store the next time I was passing by. It was near closing time. The place was empty of customers. I studied the art on the walls, recognizing the work from the waitresses. They were templates placed on dozens of people.
I spied the tattoo artist watching me from the next room. He was a man with long hair and thick arms. His body was covered with his own work. I asked him about the designs, and he described each like it was his child. Some of them were Chinese characters. Others were designs he’d gotten out of a catalog.
I looked down at the table where a sketch book sat open to a page. On it was the drawing of a butterfly struggling to be free. It wasn’t as well drawn as the rest, but I felt a connection to it. I could relate with that animal, struggling to be free and see the world.
I interrupted the man and pointed at the design on the page. “How about this one?”
He explained that it was his private sketch pad, and that he had just been doodling.
“Can you draw it on my back?” I asked.
“I suppose I could do it. It’s not one I usually do. So it's going to be harder.”
“So it's completely unique?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do it? For me? Just me? And never put it on anyone else.”
“Well, if I’m not going to put it on anyone else, that makes this one more valuable.”
I squirmed. I could barely afford to do any design, let alone a more expensive one. I had hoped to flirt my way into having a cheaper tattoo, not a more expensive one. “How much is it going to be?” I asked, tensing.
“I suppose I could give it to you for free,” he said with a smile.
“Really?” I was so surprised. No one gave anything for free. Not even when they were helping each other. The man’s face was beautiful when it grinned. So refreshing. It was one of those rough faces that put you at ease when it relaxed. He walked to the front door and closed it while I exclaimed, “Thank you! Thank you! What do we do?”
He walked back up to me, still smiling, and stopped just in front of me. “First,” he said, “You have to suck my dick.”
I froze. I thought he was telling me to get lost. I felt so bad. So rejected.
Then he unzipped his pants and I knew he was talking literally. “You suck my cock, and I’ll paint the butterfly on your back.” That beautiful, refreshing smile was replaced by the serious scowl of a businessman.
I looked at the design. I knew that having it tucked into the back of my pants would catch the attention of men from across the room. That the tips would increase. This was just one thing. I could do it quickly. Get it over with. But that would make me a whore. Or would it? Whores took money for sex. This would be in exchange for a service. Was it really the same? I had to think about it. I excused myself and hurried for the door.
“I can't say the offer will be any good tomorrow. I'm horny now,” he said.
I looked at him a moment, then opened the door and walked out. It was like a different world outside. One where I could breathe. Everyone walked by calmly. Like nothing evil could ever happen.
But how evil was this really? I looked into my purse. At the sparse tips. No one cared what I did or didn't do. No one would care if my children starved. I looked back at the store. At the lights being turned out. I closed my purse, held it tight, and walked back inside.
I had only given head to one man in my life.
“On your knees,” he told me with a smile. I did as he ordered.
I only knew what pleased one man.
He unzipped his pants and let them drop with the underwear. His penis pointed at me. It reminded me of something from a long time before.
I had promised myself I would only have sex with men that I loved. I had hoped it would only be one man, the man I would marry.
The tattoo man saw my hesitation and grabbed my head. He helped me start. I did as he ordered. I closed my eyes and pictured my children eating a feast.
When I opened them again I realized he wasn't grasping so hard any more. The tattoo man was so lost in the moment he had all but forgotten me. I began to realize how much power I had over him. It was the same power I had always had over Diego, but never dared to use. The tattoo man looked at me furiously. I grasped his penis with my hand to remind him what he could have if he obeyed me.
“I want two colors on it,” I told him.
“That's extra,” he responded. I could see him panting. How much he wanted me to continue. I released my hand and began to turn away. “All right! All right!” he exclaimed. “I'll give you three colors if you want. Just...”
I slowly moved my lips to his penis again. I blew on it, and he looked away. Moaning. I licked it and he shook. Almost screaming. When I put my mouth on it again I had full control over his emotions.
That's when I learned how I could control men. That's when I learned how easy they are...
And that's when I learned how to count.
For the next hour, while I lay on his table and he drew on my back, I stared at the floor in numb silence. I tried to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth by thinking of what I would eat with the money I saved. I hoped it would help at the restaurant.
It did. Boys sometimes grabbed at my back pocket and yanked me toward them so they could touch the tattoo. I felt occasional slaps on the butt by boys who thought they were the only ones clever enough to come up with that. But they all tipped. Sometimes they even stuck dollar bills into the back of the pants by the butterfly. Some of them were drunk enough to stick large bills and we’d eat for a week off of it.
I always explained the tattoo as an investment. Which it was. I never explained how I earned it. And I never walked by that parlor ever again.
Diego Jr. began asking about his father again. He missed him. He had started school and all of his friends had fathers who lived at home with them. Why did he have to hide from his?
One day Diego Jr. came home with a guilty look on his face. At first I thought he had gotten in a fight, or did something wrong at school. But I later learned that his father had come to see him. He had told Diego Jr. not to tell me. So I had to learn about it from a teacher. From that moment forward I told little Diego that if he wasn't home thirty minutes after school he was grounded.
Diego Jr. followed my orders. A couple weeks later I was awoken in the middle of the night by whispers at the window. Diego Jr. was there talking with his father. Asking him questions. Wanting to know about his past. “Diego, get out of here before my father wakes up,” I hissed at him.
“Marisela, please don't send me away,” he whispered. “I've changed. I've got a job. A good job. And a house. You'll be proud of me. It's a house on the beach.”
“On the beach?” I asked. This wasn't the lazy Diego I had known. That is, if he was telling the truth.
“That's why you didn't hear from me for a while. I went back and cleaned up my life. I'll be a good father. I will. Please, Marisela. This is the only thing I've ever done right in my life. Let me do it again.”
I looked at Diego Jr.'s pleading face. I didn't love Diego anymore, but how could I refuse him his own children if he truly had cleaned up his act? Worse yet, how could I deny the children their father?
I went to the house. He had been telling the truth. It was about the size of my parents' home, but it was four rooms all to ourselves. The patio let out straight onto the beach. We had a view of the ocean. The calming sound of the waves could put us all to sleep every night. I always loved the ocean for that very reason. The slow rhythm of it.
And Diego seemed different. Proud of what he was doing for a change. But most importantly, the children were happy around him. He boxed with Diego Jr. and Mario and held Tino like the most fragile of eggs.
My father begged me not to go to him. He told me this was all an act to get me back. That things would change once I was there. I became angry and yelled at him. I told him to go to hell and stormed away. I disregarded the hurt look on his face. He deserved it.
That night I made wild love to Diego. It was partly to make up for the time we had lost. But also it was to spite my father. How dare he tell me I'm wrong? This was right. This was SO right!
I didn't pay much attention to what Diego did for a living. He didn't want me to know. Any time I asked, he told me not to worry about it and gave me a small wad of cash. I probably knew all along what he was doing, but I turned away. I quit my job at the restaurant so I could take care of the children full time. Diego had enough to take care of us all. So we didn't need anything more.
The houses on either side of us were mostly owned by Americans who only occupied them for short spurts. Most of the time we had the beach to ourselves, which gave Diego the privacy he needed to do his business. He often met his clients next to the wall of one of these empty houses. They walked out of sight and I never saw what they did.
We lived further from my family than we had before. So I didn't see them very often. I began to miss them. But none of my sisters or parents felt comfortable around Diego. Berta and Claudia came by a couple times. But as soon as Diego entered the room, they began making excuses and left.
My father never even called. I noticed that he was partially right about Diego. Once I was in the house he no longer made efforts to please me. He was typically more interested in his beers than how my day went. I couldn't ask him about his. That was the secret job he didn't want me to know anything about.
I figured it out, though. One day he let me see some of his leftover “supplies.” He taught me to sniff it in a rolled up peso, and we fell backward on the bed, our heads in the clouds. I think I heard the children knocking at the door later that evening, but I didn't want to leave my comfortable nirvana.
The next morning I found out why they had been knocking. Tino's diaper needed to be changed, and Diego Jr. had gotten poop all over the floor trying to do it himself. I put the white stuff away and never looked at it again.
His business apparently began to pick up steam when an American who could smuggle the goods across the border partnered up with Diego.
I tried to save every peso and dollar I had. But typically the money never passed through my hands. Diego began enjoying more of his own “supplies” and much of the rest of the money went to beer. It was all I could do just to keep Diego Jr. from drinking it.
When there was nothing in the refrigerator I confronted Diego. I reminded him that he promised that he had changed. His response was to hit me... several times.
It was time to leave again, this time for good. But how was I going to convince the children it was the right thing to do? They would never forgive me. I could live without Diego's love, but I could never live without theirs. I knew a woman who divorced her husband. She went to my mother's church. She and her ex moved to opposite sides of town. After the divorce was final she only saw her children every other week. She didn't do anything those weeks she was alone. Just laid on her bed and cried. Then her husband moved out of town and she had to live without them every other month. We never heard from her during those months.
Then I missed my period. It couldn't be happening again. I was always so certain to take my pills. I never missed a day. Yet it was happening whether I believed it or not. I got a home test and it came out positive. I bought a second one. And a third. I begged them to tell me different. But they didn't.
I went to my mother's church. After she was gone, of course. After everyone was gone. I went to the front and fell to my knees. I begged Jesus, who I hadn't paid attention to for a long time. I begged him to say it wasn't so. I begged him to turn back the clock, to put me back. To place me in myself before it all started... Before I was eleven.
And then I realized that I was doing the worst thing I ever did in my life. I was wishing away my children. I jumped to my feet and ran out. As though the man hanging on the wall was responsible. As though he had threatened to take my children from me. I ran home and I grasped Diego Jr. and held him tight. He squirmed, unaware and annoyed. But I held him regardless.