And then it was a sunny Saturday and we were back in the blue bomb, shooting up I-85 towards Stratton, South Carolina. I got a tingle when we passed through the Perimeter-the more tattoos I had, the more aware I was of the giant magic circle buried beneath Atlanta’s encircling highways-but no dragons swooped out of the sky to scoop us up, dang it, and soon, we were driving beneath happy puffy clouds dotting a bright blue sky over a rolling forested Interstate.
Unfortunately, these happy clouds did not extend to the interior of the car.
“I means,” Cinnamon said, “it was our place. She had no right -”
“No, no she didn’t,” I said, “but you were changed, and snarling, and I was afraid she’d call the cops and they’d haul you off, cage and all, to the Atlanta City Jail. Or the Zoo.”
“Mom!” Cinnamon said, half outraged, half giggling. Then her giggle faded. “The Academy sucks. They’re putting me in the stupid class.”
“What?” I asked. “Why would they do that? They know you’re behind. They should have held you back a grade, not stuffed you in a remedial class.”
“Not remedial,” she said, and I was impressed that she didn’t ask what that meant. “Tutoring, for math. Three days a week, after school.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling off at the Commerce exit. “Okay. That’s not so bad.”
“Why are we stopping?” Cinnamon said. “Isn’t Stratton eighty-four more miles?”
“Hey, she can subtract. Sure you need tutoring?” I said, and she swatted at me. “But Commerce is our stop. It’s as far south as Dad will go, and as far north as I will go-”
“Your demilitarized zone,” Cinnamon said, with a sudden smile.
“Yeah,” I said, grinning. “Our DMZ. I like that.”
In moments we were pulling into Denny’s parking lot, a bright houselike building outside the Tanger Outlet center. Once this was a dark, boxy Shoney’s, Dad’s favorite stop for food on family road trips; now, years later, we still met here out of inertia. I parked, slammed the door, and put my hand on Cinnamon’s shoulder, steeling myself for the inevitable.
Dad stood peering at an AJC newspaper dispenser, trying to “see what they’re up to down here these days.” He was a big, beefy, kindly man, ex-linebacker, balding, with a light fringe of blond-grey hair trimmed close, graying a little only around his ears. His brown sweater and white shirt were old-school but high-quality, the colors rich, the whites pure and luminous.
He saw me, straightened, and threw on a smile which quickly faded.
“H-hey, Kotie,” Dad said, face to face for the first time in three years. His eyes flickered over me, almost wincing at my deathhawk and tattoos; then they flickered to Cinnamon, wary. He swallowed, started forward, extending his hand. “I-it’s great to see you again.”
“Hey, Dad,” I said quietly, trying to hide my disappointment. I already knew what was about to happen; we wouldn’t even get to shake hands first. “It’s good to see you too-”
And then it happened: the grey-haired, drawn-faced, beige-jacketed man who had been trailing Dad stepped between us, forcing his face into a smile.
“Dakota Frost,” he said, taking one hand off his floppy Bible and extending it towards us. “I’m Doctor Price Isaacson. I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too, Doctor Isaacson,” I said, taking his hand and letting him pump mine. Vacant-eyed, pushy, and on a mission: just how Dad liked his pastors. “And what congregation do you preach for, Doctor?”
“Stratton Independent Baptist,” he said, eyes brightening. “I’m glad to see you show interest in the preaching of the Word, but who do we have here?”
Isaacson half-squatted, looking at Cinnamon and extending his hand with a bright foolish smile like he was talking to a five-year-old. She did not extend her hand, but twitched and pressed back against me, letting out a sharp exhale of breath before she finally spoke.
“My name is Cinnamon Frost,” she said, staring down at his hand.
Doctor Isaacson stood and leaned back with something like approval. “Don’t trust strangers,” he said. “But Richard didn’t tell me you had a child.”
“Cinnamon is adopted,” I said. “Just recently, in fact.”
“Well, well, that’s great,” Dad said, stepping forward nervously. “I didn’t know you’d, you’d be bringing her with you. Hey, ah, let’s eat.”
I really don’t remember what food I liked at Shoney’s as a child, and I don’t remember what I ate at Denny’s that day either. As always, there was so much else to talk about. As a child, Mom, Dad and I had always really opened up at Shoney’s, and now, after all this time, I was desperate to tell Dad how glad I was to see him, to ask about what was going on in Stratton, to find out about his consulting work, to hear about Mom’s side of the family- or to tell Dad about Cinnamon. But it seemed like we never really got into that. Instead, almost immediately “So, Kotie,” Dad said. “When are you going to stop tattooing and get a real job?”
“I make fifty thousand dollars a year tattooing, Dad,” I said, “and my hours are my own.”
“Kotie, tattooing is the Devil’s work,” Dad began. “The Bible says-”
“You eat non-Kosher meat, Dad,” I said. “You shave your beard. You wear mixed-weave fabrics. All prohibited by the part of the O.T. you’re quoting-Leviticus 19. Go down that path, you’ll have to close your bank accounts and quit coaching Stratton Police softball on Sundays.”
“He said you were a Bible Bowl champion,” Isaacson said. “But even if we aren’t going that far, there are a lot of reasons to give up tattooing. A lot of people regret them later.”
“I don’t do jinxes,” I said. “No personal names, obscene images or religious symbols.”
Isaacson raised an eyebrow, glancing at my hands: a row of religious icons was on each knuckle: a Christian cross, a Star of David, an Islamic crescent, even a yin-yang.
“I take responsibility for inking myself,” I said, flashing the larger yin-yang on my palm, “but I won’t put a permanent slogan on a living person who may later have a change of heart.”
“That’s wise-even if you change your mind, you can’t easily take ink back,” Isaacson said. “Did you know it can take up to a dozen laser treatments to remove a tattoo?”
“Or you can use magical ink, and peel them off with one wave of mana,” I said.
Isaacson’s eyes tightened a little bit at the word ‘magical,’ but he forged ahead. “But most people leave them in, and if you do, the ink can cause cancers-”
“ Not often, and not with modern ink,” I said, folding my arms. “And as you may have guessed from the Prius, I’m a tree-hugger. Everything I use is hypo-allergenic, and I subscribe to two different dermatology journals. As soon as a pigment proves bad-”
“But how,” Isaacson said, “can you really know it isn’t bad?”
“Fucking jerk,” Cinnamon said, sneezing. Then she seemed to notice us all staring at her and set her chin, sullen. “Mom’s the biggestfuck! -the biggest square of them all, and you acts like she’s doin’ somethin’ wrong making people look beautiful! I means, fuck-”
“Cinnamon!” I said. “We talked about your language, and the insults.”
“Reaping what you’ve sown,” Dad said. “You set a bad example. I’ve told you-”
“Richard,” Isaacson said, staring at Cinnamon intently, “that’s not helping.”
“You tells it. Fuck, I just met her,” Cinnamon said, “and I always talked like this!”
“She didn’t,” Dad said sharply, “and she’s my daughter. ”
“Dad,” I warned, pointing a finger at him.
“ She’s my Mom! ” Cinnamon said, face twisting in anger. “Fuck, leave her alone-”
“Cinnamon!” I said, pointing at her-then stopped; my hands were crossed in front of myself pointing at each of them. I put my hands on the table and sighed.
“All right, both of you, settle down,” I said. “Cinnamon, you watch your language. My Dad is from the old school, but he’s a good man.”
“Well,” Dad spluttered, “well, thank you Kotie-”
“And Dad, grow up,” I said. “I have no excuse for my mouth. You gave me every advantage. Cinnamon, on the other hand, has every excuse; she was on the streets two months ago. She had no advantages, and we’re all going to have to cut her a little slack.”
“Well said,” Doctor Isaacson said, still staring at Cinnamon intently, leaning his head on his closed fist like he was miming ‘The Thinker.’ “You know, Jesus once said-”
