Beneath Human Skin
by Featured Writer:
Stephanie Feldman
Mandy Cano Villalobos, Sisyphus IV (detail), pig blood on paper, 17 x 22 inches, 2014. Courtesy of the artist.
Beneath Human Skin
Stephanie Feldman | SEPT 2022 | Issue 18
Alicia sliced the steak, fanned out the thin layers, and then wiped the blade on her cloth napkin and slipped it into her purse.
Mallory watched, chewing, with a look of disdain, as if the $30 eggs in her mouth were rotten but she would swallow them anyway. Always the martyr.
“What?” Alicia said. “I can’t have a souvenir?” She forked the meat into her mouth. The piece was too big, but it melted against her teeth like butter.
That exchange ended what had been, up until that point, a civil reunion. Now, in between polite banter with the waiter and polite smiles at the jazz trio passing by the table, the sisters hissed and glared at each other.
Mallory told Alicia: “You have no respect.”
Alicia told Mallory: “You should thank me. You love being the good one.”
Mallory was offended: “The good one? You mean the reliable one.”
Alicia was indignant: “I mean the one everybody loves!”
Mallory paid the check. They went outside to wait for a cab.
“I’m taking a walk,” Alicia said. “I’ll be back before Mom and Dad’s flight lands. They’ll be none the wiser.”
“None the wiser about what?” Mallory asked, but Alicia was already crossing the street.
It was early spring and the summer’s crushing humidity was just a premonition in the air. The trees were like giant blossoms, the houses towers of porches, shutters, and ornate trim. Just like the tourist guidebooks, and far nicer than Mallory’s apartment building farther uptown.
“None the wiser about what a bitch you are,” Alicia muttered.
Soon she came to a stone wall interrupting the neighborhood’s archaic mansions. She recognized it immediately: one of the famous historic cemeteries. “It’s not that great,” Mallory had said when Alicia suggested a visit. She had been already. That’s what she said about everything Alicia found interesting: her job as floor manager at a Mediterranean-fusion bistro, her French bulldog, her axe-throwing league, the tattoo she had just gotten on a whim, a butterfly on the back of her neck. (“At least your hair is long.”)
What Alicia hated most of all, though, was that Mallory was right. Her job was repetitive and populated by assholes; Coco had a terrible skin rash that no veterinarian or expensive prescription could heal; she had poor aim, her axe always landing in the straw; and she couldn’t even see the tattoo.
The plaque at the cemetery gate said it was closed to the public, but when Alicia pushed the gate, it swung back.
If the wealthy surrounding neighborhood lived up to its name, as lush as a garden, so did the cemetery: a city of the dead. The tombs were shades of gray, packed tightly, urban construction with nothing but white pebbles and dirt surrounding them. Their front faces — doors, Alicia wanted to say, but of course they weren’t doors — were inscribed with columns of French names. All the bones heaped inside.
Alicia heard a voice up ahead and walked toward it.
It was a tour group — a man walking backwards, speaking animatedly, pointing one way and then another, while a small crowd shuffled behind him.
Alicia crept closer.
“… a great Confederate general,” the tour guide said, pointing to a tomb. The tourists took photos. “And five generations of his family, stretching all the way back to the colonial era. You can also visit their plantation, just outside the city. We run a tour for that, too, with an air-conditioned bus and a stop for a real.” He paused. “Authentic.” He paused. “Cajun lunch. Ask me at the end if you’re interested.” He smiled widely and bowed his head, sales pitch complete.
The tour guide was Black and the group, most of the group, was white. Alicia was white. She wondered how he felt about his job showing off this “great” confederate — she had missed the general’s name and was too far away to read the tomb.
“Excuse me,” she said. Everyone looked at her. “Isn’t that woman buried here, too? The one that burned her slaves alive?” She was giving him a little assist — let him tell the truth about this place. Plus, she was curious to see it. There was something staid and boring about these rich families’ monuments, like so many expensive bottles of wine they served at her restaurant. She and the sous-chef often drank the dregs the guests’ left behind. They all tasted the same. Sometimes they had sex in his car before she went home to rub more ointment on Coco’s sores.
The tour guide’s smile contracted by a fraction. “If you’re talking about who I think you’re talking about,” he said, “no, she’s buried in St. Louis No. 1. And this is a private tour.”
“Can’t I buy a ticket?” Alicia asked. She reached into her purse. Her fingers hit the heavy handle of the knife; the blade tip was stuck in the polyester lining.
His smile widened again, almost imperceptibly, but still perceptibly. “We’re full. But if you check the website there may be spots later this week.”
Everyone looked away, except for one person, who eyed Alicia with disdain. She had the same highlights and long bangs as the sous-chef’s wife.
“Okay, okay,” Alicia said, holding up her hands in surrender. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.” It was meant to be a joke, but it left a burnt taste in her mouth.
She turned around and walked back down the path.
“Moving… on,” the tour guide announced and everyone laughed.
Alicia’s jaw clenched. She could feel those little lines deepening around her lips.
The cemetery gates were in sight when she heard another voice.
“Got bored?”
It was a man, sitting on the lip of one of the tombs. He had curly hair and a curly beard, both the color of lead — a shade that could have been gray or black. He was short, wiry, with shoulders that bulged in his t-shirt and veins that bulged on his forearms. She couldn’t guess his age; as he smiled, deep grooves descended from his eyes, but he was also ferociously tanned.
“Something like that,” Alicia said.
He stepped forward, held his palm open. She took a step forward, too.
It was a stick of gum.
“I don’t take candy from strangers.”
“Ha,” he said, and winked at her. He stuck the gum in his mouth and the wrapper in the pocket of his painter’s pants. “You’re a tourist.”
“Yeah.”
“City of the Dead.” He held out his arms, as if showing it off, as if welcoming her. “I’m a local. My great-great-great granddaddy’s buried here.”
“Really.”
“Don’t believe me?”
Alicia crossed her arms. She didn’t know why she was entertaining this conversation, except that she had nowhere to go and no one else to talk to. No one else to say things to like, “Well, you’re not very believable.” Her voice, if he could see it, would shine like ice, but he didn’t seem cold.
His grin widened. “You know who else’s buried here?”
“The woman who burned her slaves,” Alicia said. She suddenly felt like the tour guide had lied to her, just because he didn’t like her.
The man snorted. “Which one?” he said, sarcastic, and then, “Oh, that one. No, but we got something even better.”
He cocked his head, started walking down another path. Alicia followed.
The tombs, arched and angel-topped, were just high enough to make the path feel secluded, though she could still hear the musical tones of the tour guide’s speech in the distance.
The man glanced back at her. “You ain’t scared of monsters, are you?”
“I don’t believe in monsters.”
He snickered. “You’re in the wrong place, then.”
“You mean the Big Easy?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
The path branched and he turned left. She followed him down another row of tombs.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The man paused and Alicia caught up. He scratched his arm, revealing a muddy tattoo under the short sleeve of his t-shirt.
“Michael. What’s yours?”
“Alicia.”
Neither of them extended a hand. Instead, he gave another name: Madame someone, a mellifluous mush of French syllables. “Heard of her?”
“No.”
His grin returned — lopsided, his lips parting, his canines shining yellow. “That’s why you need a local like me.”
She didn’t know if he was trying to flirt with her or frighten her or both, but she felt a strange buzz inside, some combination of indignation and adventure. Alicia almost said, You don’t know what I need. She had given that retort before — men were always telling her what she needed, a drink, a night out, a good time, either a promise or a threat, and they were always right, but that’s still how she responded. You don’t know what I need.
But this time, she only said, “Okay, show me the monster.”
Michael’s bicep twitched under the smudgy green tattoo, like he was going to reach for her, but he didn’t — he just turned and continued on. Alicia rushed to keep up, keep close enough to hear his explanation, delivered over his shoulder: “1700s, I think. She got bit and turned hairy, blood-hungry. They put her down like an animal. Had to bury her in holy ground to keep her from coming back. Rabid bitch.”
He caught her eye, then, curious how she would react. She didn’t. She’d been called worse.
Michael spoke again. This name was garbled, like he was eating the word.
“What?” Alicia asked.
He spit the gum out. “Rou-ga-ru,” he enunciated. “It’s like a werewolf. She’s buried right here.”
He had stopped on a sparse patch of grass between a tomb and the corner of the stone wall.
“Where?”
Michael stamped the ground. “Under here.”
“There’s no tomb.”
“Exactly. They don’t want people to know. But look.”
He crouched and picked at the ground with an already dirty fingernail. “See?”
Alicia knelt, leaned in. Something peeked through the dirt. A fleck of silver ore, a buried grave plate? A speck of red, like blood? She realized, now, that’s what she wanted to see: a bloody fucking monster.
“Alicia.” Michael laughed a low rumbling laugh. “Alicia,” he said again, his voice an unsettling mix, a gravelly giggle. “I can see down your shirt right now.”
They jumped to their feet at the same time. He took a step, she took a step, and suddenly Alicia realized she had her back to the wall, the coolness collected in the stone reaching under her shirt, too. Michael stood between her and the rest of the cemetery. Alicia clutched her bag, as if that’s what he cared about.
He grinned again, a twitch in his cheek. He was shorter than her, but she knew he was stronger. It was so unfair. Alicia did Pilates and push-ups, but men were always stronger, desire exposing the monsters under their human skin.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t go.” As if she could.
Alicia opened her purse and pulled out the knife.
She gripped the handle — heavy black wood — in her fist. The stance was awkward but powerful; she could feel power in the way her skin hugged the wood and see it in her flesh pressed bone-pale. The sun found the film of grease still streaking the serrated blade. The point was several inches from Michael’s t-shirt, pointed up — it would go through his flesh and behind his sternum.
They both looked at it.
“What’s that?” he said. “A steak knife?”
The corner of his mouth was still turned up but his eyes were grim.
“What are you gonna do with that?” he asked. “What kind of girl are you?”
“A rabid bitch,” she answered.
He reached for it and she whipped it back. The blade caught his palm just before the cemetery wall caught her back, clapping the breath from her lungs; she felt his skin give.
Michael sucked his teeth, cradled his fist in his other hand.
“Come on,” he said again, though she didn’t know what he meant. What he wanted her to do. Give up the knife. Strike him harder. Deeper. Maybe that’s what he needed. Maybe that’s what she needed, too.
In the distance, the tour-guide’s voice sounded. Not too far, just beyond that row of tombs, or the next. She could almost make out his words, something about governors and mansions, not wolf-women or blood.
Michael’s eyes flicked in the same direction. It was over, they both knew it. If she screamed, the group would hear; they would dash around the corner or squeeze between the tombs. They would forget they had laughed at her. They would feel sorry for her, guilty, even, for leaving her behind — just like Mallory should feel guilty, for rolling her eyes, for letting Alicia walk off, for dragging her and their parents to this city just to remind them who the good one was.
Michael stepped back — away from her, away from the monster he had pretended was buried there, just to lure her to a hidden spot among the graves. Because he was no longer interested, not because he was frightened of her, not because he saw her as a danger or prey. He didn’t see her as anything at all.
Alicia lifted the knife.
“Time to put that away, Alicia,” Michael said — though she was sure, now, that his name wasn’t Michael. Why would he give her his real name? He thought she was stupid, but now he knew she wasn’t. The nasty humor in his eye had completely blown away, leaving the mica sheen of fear.
A moment later, Alicia would scream, Michael would run, and the tour group would appear and comfort her. They would offer to call the police and she would refuse; she would pretend to cry and they would stop pressing. They would stand with her while she waited for a cab. She would go straight to Mallory’s house, where her parents were waiting, and cry, real tears, huge heaving tears, and everyone would feel bad for her and everyone would forgive her and everyone would love her and all of her mistakes and her failings would be forgotten, like a bloody knife in the bottom of her purse, which she would — later — drop in an airport trash can before getting in line for the metal detectors.
But first:
She looked the man who wasn’t Michael in the eye. She smiled. She lifted the knife. She put the point against her cheek and she pressed and she dragged until a wet fire sparked and the pain spread like a stain from temple to chin. She ripped herself open while he watched.
After the wound healed, the scar was discreet. It didn’t mar her looks, but enhanced them, made her lovely in her mysterious victimhood, a secret she carried in her cheek like a morsel. Only two people knew who she really was: Alicia and the unnamed man, whose eyes blazed with terror when she split her skin to show him what lay beneath.
Stephanie Feldman is the author of the novels Saturnalia (forthcoming, October 2022) and The Angel of Losses, a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, winner of the Crawford Fantasy Award, and finalist for the Mythopoeic Award. She is co-editor of the multi-genre anthology Who Will Speak for America? and her stories and essays have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Electric Literature, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, The Maine Review, The Rumpus, and Vol. 1 Brooklyn. She lives outside Philadelphia with her family.
Mandy Cano Villalobos is an interdisciplinary artist whose work spans installation, 2D, performance, and sculpture. Her projects explore ideas of home, memory and cultural identity. Cano Villalobos has exhibited in venues including Bridge Projects (Los Angeles, CA), POSITIONS Art Fair (Berlin, DE), Proyecto T (Mexico City, DF), the Ruth and Elmer Wellin Museum (Clinton, NY), Maryland Institute College of Art (Baltimore, MD), the Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art, (Chicago), The Museum of New Art (Detroit, MI), Hillyer Art Space (Washington, DC), Gray Contemporary (Houston, TX) and La Casa Pauly (Puerto Montt, Chile). Her work has been reviewed in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Sculpture Magazine, Hyperallergic, and The Chicago Reader, among others. She is the recipient of a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellowship, and has been awarded grants from multiple organizations including the Gottlieb, Puffin, Frey, and Chenven Foundations, and the Foundation for Contemporary Arts. Cano Villalobos is represented by Mu Gallery in Chicago and drj art projects in Berlin. She works in Grand Rapids, MI and Brooklyn, NY.