Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

LOST MEMORY
of SKIN

RUSSELL BANKS

To C.T.
And in memory, to F.T.B. (19142010)

Now I am ready to tell how bodies changed into different bodies.

METAMORPHOSES

Contents

I T ISNT LIKE THE K ID IS LOCALLY FAMOUS for doing a good or a bad thing and even if people knew his real name it wouldnt change how they treat him unless they looked it up online which is not something he wants to encourage. He himself like most of the men living under the Causeway is legally prohibited from going online but nonetheless one afternoon biking back from work at the Mirador he strolls into the branch library down on Regis Road like he has every legal right to be there.

The Kid isnt sure how to get this done. Hes never been inside a library before. The librarian is a fizzy ladyginger-colored hair glowing around her head like a bug light, pink lipstick, freckleswearing a floral print blouse and khaki slacks. Shes a few inches taller than the Kid, a small person above the waist but wide in the hips like shed be hard to tip over. The sign on the counter in front of her says R EFERENCE L IBRARIAN , G LORIA ... somethingthe Kid is too nervous to register her last name. She smiles without showing her teeth and asks if she can help him.

Yeah. I mean, I guess so. I dunno, actually.

What are you looking for?

Youre like the reference lady, right?

Right. Do you need to look up something in particular?

The air-conditioning is cranked and the place feels about ten degrees cooler now than it did when the Kid came through the door and he suddenly realizes hes shivering. But the Kids not cold, hes scared. Hes pretty sure he shouldnt be inside a public library even though he cant remember there being any rules specifically against entering one as long as hes not loitering and its not a school library and theres no playground or school nearby. At least none that hes aware of. You can never be sure though. Playgrounds and schools are pretty much lurking everywhere. And children and teenagers probably come in here all the time this late in the day to pretend theyre doing homework or just to hang out.

He looks around the large fluorescent-lit room, scans the long rows of floor-to-ceiling book-lined shelvesits like a huge supermarket with nothing on the shelves but books. It smells like paper and glue, a little moldy and damp. Except for a geeky-looking black guy with glasses and a huge Adams apple and big wind-catching ears sitting at a table with half-a-dozen thick books and no pictures opened in front of him like hes trying to look up his ancestors theres no other customers in the library.

A customerthats what he is. Hes not here to ask this lady for a job or looking to rent an apartment from her and hes not panhandling her and hes for sure not going to hit on hershes way too old, probably forty or fifty at least and pretty low on the hotness scale. No, the Kids a legitimate legal customer whos strolled into the library to get some information because libraries are where the information is.

So why is he shaking and his arms all covered with goose bumps like hes standing naked inside a meat locker? Its not just because hes never actually been inside a library before even when he was in high school and it was sort of required. Hes shivering because hes afraid of the answer to the question that drove him here even though he already knows it.

Listen, can I ask you something? Its kinda personal, I guess.

Of course.

Well, see, I live out in the north end and the people in my neighborhood, my neighbors, theyre all like telling me that there might be like a convicted sex offender living there. In the neighborhood. And they tell me that you can just go online to this site that tells you where hes living and all and they asked me if Id check it out for them. For the neighborhood. Is it true?

Is what true?

You know, that you can just like go online and itll tell you where the sex offender lives even if you dont know his name or anything.

Well, lets go see, she says like he asked her whats the capital of Vermont and leads the Kid across the room to a long table where six computers are lined up side by side and no one is using them. She sits down in front of one and does a quick Google search under convicted sex offenders and up pops the National Sex Offender Registry which links straight to www.familywatchdog.us. The Kid stands at a forward tilt behind her shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He thinks he should run now, get out of here fast before she clicks again but something he cant resist, something he knows is coming that is both scary and familiar keeps him staring over the librarians shoulder at the screen the same way he used to get held to the screen when cruising pornography sites. The librarian clicks find offenders and then on the new menu hits by location and another menu jumps up and asks for the address.

Youre from Calusa, right? Whats your neighborhoods zip code?

Its... ah... 33135.

Any particular street you want to look up?

He gives her the name of the street where his mother lives and he used to live and she types it in and hits search . A pale green map of his street and the surrounding twenty or so blocks appears on the screen. Small red, green, and orange squares are scattered across the neighborhood like bits of confetti.

Any particular block?

The Kid reaches down to the screen and touches the map on the block where he lived his entire life until he enlisted in the army and where he lived again after he was discharged. A red piece of confetti covers his mothers bungalow and the backyard where he pitched his tent and built Iggy the iguanas outdoor cage.

The librarian clicks onto the tiny square and suddenly the Kid is looking at his mug shothis forlorn bewildered faceand he feels all over again the shame and humiliation of the night he was booked. Theres his full name, first, last, and middle, date of birth, height, weight, his race, color of his eyes and hair, and the details of his crime and conviction.

Slowly the librarian turns in her chair and looks up at the Kids real face, then back at the computerized version.

Thats... you. Isnt it?

I gotta go, he whispers. I gotta leave. He backs away from the woman who appears both stunned and saddened but not at all afraid which surprises him and for a few seconds he considers trying to explain how his face and his description and criminal record got there on the computer screen. But theres no way he can explain it to someone like her, a normal person, a lady reference librarian who helps people look up the whereabouts and crimes of people like him.

Wait. Dont leave.

I gotta go. Im sorry. No kidding, Im really sorry.

Dont be sorry.

No, Im probly not even supposed to be here, he says. In the library, I mean. He turns and walks stiff-legged away and then as he nears the door he breaks into a run and the Kid doesnt stop running until hes back up on his bike heading for the Causeway.

L IKE EVERYONE OVER A CERTAIN AGE THE K ID has a name naturally but none of his neighbors under the Causeway knows it and he has no intention of giving it out unless the alternative is getting beat up or cut by one of the more occasionally violent wing-nuts living down therealthough violence is not really their thing or why theyre down there. Or unless hes required by law to give his full legal name which happens often enough to make the Kid stash his ID in his right sneaker where he can snatch and deliver it quickly if he needs to prove his age to buy booze or cigarettes or if a cop or an officer of the court or a social worker calls for it. Everyone elsethe men who live alongside him under the Causeway and the waiters and waitresses and the other busboys he works with at the Mirador and even his boss Dario who because he hands out the paychecks actually does know his real nameeveryone else calls him Kid and refers to him in his absence as the Kid.