Turnskin Read online

  Turnskin

  ◉◉◉

  TURNSKIN

  ◉◉◉

  Nicole Kimberling

  Blind Eye Books

  blindeyebooks.com

  Turnskin

  by Nicole Kimberling

  Published by:

  Blind Eye Books

  4 Grant Street

  Bellingham, WA 98225

  blindeyebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced

  in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for

  the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Tenea D. Johnson

  Cover art by Sam Dawson

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations

  are fictitious. Any resemblances to actual people, places or events are

  coincidental.

  First edition March 2008

  Copyright 2008 by Nicole Kimberling

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN 978097898624

  Library of Congress Control Number: 200793364

  This book is dedicated to Dawn.

  (Who else would it be dedicated to?)

  1

  Tom hiked along the gravel shoulder of a two-lane highway, hoping for a ride. Midnight came and went. The air grew cold and the crickets got tired of chirping. Near the county line, drawn by the sight of approaching headlights, he turned and stuck out his thumb. The driver slowed down, probably checking him out. Tom stood in the blinding glare of the headlights, wondering what part of him the driver noticed first. His red backpack? His torn jeans? Or maybe it was Tom’s black skin with its thin layer of velvety hair? His yellow Shifter eyes?

  Tom smiled and waved, hoping the driver would still stop and offer him a ride but internally despairing. He’d have had a better chance with a pickup than a private car.

  The moment of uncertainty elongated as the car inched closer.

  Massive irrigation sprinklers activated in the cornfields to Tom’s right, and the summer air grew heavy and damp. Tom stepped up and saw, with a zing of fear, that the low sedan was actually a police cruiser.

  Tom’s skin prickled and his hair stood on end. Officer Mayle had told Tom straight out that if he found Tom hitchhiking one more time, he’d take him to jail. Tom’s friend Shorty had been arrested by Officer Mayle once. He’d needed sixteen stitches. And Shorty was even a Skin. How many stitches would a Shifter need?

  He’d have to run. But there was nothing but acres of knee-high corn. What if Mayle had a dog with him? Or a partner? He’d be worse off if they had to chase him down.

  And even if Tom did elude Mayle, Mayle knew where Tom lived. Everyone knew where Tom lived. He was the only Shifter in town.

  Tom stood his ground. There was still a chance that it was not Mayle. Tom peered into the car and almost fainted with relief at the sight of Officer Simpson. Simpson was slightly shorter than Tom and more thickly set. He had coarse blonde hair and a fair complexion that freckled more than tanned. Tom could see red stubble along the line of his square chin. He lounged in the car seat, the unlit stub of a cherry cigar pinched between his first two fingers.

  Officer Simpson often picked up Tom hitchhiking around town. Sometimes, as they rode together, Tom would catch Simpson looking at him in an inappropriate way. Or at least that’s what Tom hoped. Simpson’s swift, insinuating glances defied Tom’s interpretive skills.

  Simpson pulled onto the shoulder ahead of Tom. As was customary, Tom opened the passenger door and got in. He lodged his backpack between his bare feet and curled his toes underneath it, self-consciously realizing that he should be wearing shoes. Civilized people wore shoes.

  “Evening, Tom.” Simpson pulled a disappointingly businesslike smile. As usual, he wore too much cologne.

  “Hi.” Tom stared at the cold, milky coffee congealing in Simpson’s cup holder. Simpson reached over to pick the cup up, and Tom’s heart raced as his knuckles brushed against Tom’s knee. Simpson sniffed the coffee, then tossed it out the window.

  “Walking down the side of road in the dark isn’t safe. Other people don’t got Shifter eyes like you. It’d be real easy to get run over.” Simpson put the empty cup back in its holder and lit up his cigar. Tom wrinkled his nose against the rank pungency of cheap tobacco and sneezed. Simpson cracked his window a polite quarter inch. “You’re pretty far from home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where were you heading tonight?”

  “The capital.” Tom tried to sound completely casual, as if he had the perfect right to go there.

  “Really? Have you got your transportation papers on you?”

  “I applied, but the Shifter Office wouldn’t give them to me. They say since I’m an agricultural worker, I’ve got no urban job skills.”

  Simpson eased the car into drive and flipped a wide U-turn across the empty road. “I’ll take you home then.”

  “But I’ve got urban skills,” Tom said. “I’m a playwright. I wrote playwright down on the form.”

  “You don’t say?” Officer Simpson puffed his cigar thoughtfully. “And they denied you anyway?”

  “And I’m an actor. In the capital there are plays with nothing but Shifter actors in them. My cousins own a theatre in the Shifter district. I’ve got a postcard of their theatre.”

  Tom rooted through his backpack searching for the old, faded card. The front showed an old-time theatre front with a massive painted sign reading Snakegrass Theatre. The back held a couple of old stamps dated more than a decade prior as well as a short note from his Uncle River to his mother.

  “I’ve been to the Shifter District, you know. It’s true that some streets you walk down there’s nothing but fur as far as you can see. Black, brown. Even some of them Silents.” Simpson’s police radio suddenly spouted a noisy string of police jargon. Simpson frowned and turned it down. “But what I think you may not be considering is that the capital’s full of rotten guys, furry and not, who are looking to latch onto a person such as yourself for purposes I don’t believe you’d be amicable to.”

  “I still want to go.” Tom leaned his head against the car window. Speaking was pointless. Simpson couldn’t understand Tom’s curiosity about Shifters any more than he could understand the pain of being isolated. The only other Shifter Tom had ever met was his mother, and she had avoided teaching him any Shifter customs or their low, growling language. She wanted him to fit in better with the Skin children.

  What little Tom knew of Shifter society had been gleaned from the library and made for TV movies. His favorite had been Doctor of Hope: the Daniel Cox Story. In the beginning Dr. Cox is among a band of Skin refugees escaping tyranny in their homelands. Dr. Cox tries to live harmoniously on the new continent with the resident Shifters, but the Shifters won’t allow the refugees access to the Blacksnake River Ford and war breaks out. Capable of terrifying transformations, the Shifters almost win, but at the last moment are brought low by Cox Fever. Their malleable bodies are riddled with tumors, and they die en masse until Dr. Cox finds a vaccine and an armistice is declared. When Tom was little, Dr. Cox, played by the gorgeous, young Fred Brandt, had been Tom’s TV boyfriend.

  Tom’s mother had never liked Doctor of Hope.

  Tom wondered what Simpson thought of Dr. Cox. He looked over and caught Simpson giving him another of those appraising, electrifying glances. Maybe, Tom thought, Simpson did understand what it was like to constantly seek one’s own kind after all. Maybe Simpson wasn’t a Shifter, but he was still an unusual kind of man. He looked at Tom with such open desire that Tom turned shy again.

  “Why don’t you see what’s on the radio,” Simpson suggested.

  “The police radio?” T
om asked.

  Simpson smirked. “The FM radio.”

  Tom spent the next hour twisting the radio dial, trying to find something good to listen to while Simpson green-lighted or vetoed songs with no detectable pattern. A casual closeness developed between them.

  Eventually, Officer Simpson turned onto a dirt road between two onion fields. At the terminus, a collection of decrepit mobile homes slouched against each other. Tom’s trailer stood apart from the others, right at the edge of an onion field. Old and dusty, the trailer had once been pine green. Now rust bloomed intermittently across its surface.

  The trailer closest to Tom’s was Angela’s place. When they drove up, the curtains in Angela’s trailer pulled back and then snapped closed at the sight of the police cruiser. Tom saw that Simpson also noted the quick motion, but disregarded it, focusing on him instead.

  “So you say you write plays?” Simpson toyed with his cigar, apparently fascinated by the burning ember on the end.

  “Yes, I’m putting one on in a week.” Tom felt awkward to be in familiar surroundings. Driving down the highway, they’d been in a special kind of limbo. In between towns. In between their two worlds. Here among the trailers, Tom felt guilty. Here the police were nothing but trouble, and he was consorting with the enemy.

  “Will you be using your unique skills?”

  “Acting?”

  “Shifter skills.”

  “I will,” Tom said, “since I can.”

  “Seems strange that you’d want to put yourself up on display like that,” Officer Simpson said.

  “Everyone already knows I’m a Shifter. Why not?”

  “Sure they do, but town folks don’t like to see it happening right in front of their eyes. They get unsettled.”

  “I’m not doing the play in town,” Tom said.

  “Where will it be, then?”

  “At my friend Angela’s trailer,” Tom said.

  “Well, that should be okay.” Officer Simpson crushed out his cherry cigar. “But you should be careful who you shift in front of. Some cops take too much latitude with the laws regarding changing one’s physical appearance.”

  They both knew which cop Simpson was talking about.

  “I will.” Tom got out of the car and then ducked back down to lean inside the passenger-side window. “You could come if you wanted to. It’s on Saturday night.”

  “Sure you won’t run off to the capital before then?”

  “I won’t,” Tom said. “I just… I just got worried that my play won’t look right. I wanted to see a real one. I mean, what if I forget my lines?”

  “I suppose you’ll have to make some new ones up,” Simpson said. “You have a good night, now. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Wait! Do you want to come in?” Tom asked in a rush. “I’ve got some beer.”

  “I’m on duty now.” Simpson finally gave Tom the slow, sensual smile he’d been waiting for. Tom instinctively leaned forward, heart hammering in excitement. Simpson shook his head and glanced around the collection of trailers. Tom saw curtains pulled open, just a crack, in almost every dwelling. Everyone was watching them, afraid of what the law might want here. Tom knew he should be cautious too, but Simpson wasn’t like other cops. Not to him, anyway.

  “Maybe I’ll have that beer next time.” Simpson’s smile broadened, as though he couldn’t suppress his pleasure at Tom’s invitation.

  “Sure.”

  Officer Simpson drove away. The air was thick with mosquitoes, which buzzed around the exposed skin of Tom’s inner ear. The curtains in the surrounding trailers closed again, and Tom went inside.

  Though he didn’t need it to see, Tom turned on the overhead light. The faceted fixture cast yellow shadows throughout the room, which helped him feel less lonely. He tuned his radio to the station he’d been listening to in Simpson’s car, picked up his costume, a needle, and thread, and started sewing purple rickrack on the left cuff.

  With Opening Night only one week away, Tom’s confidence suffered intermittent, panicky fluctuations. He wished his mother was still here with him, but she’d passed away months ago, her presence reduced to a dusty stack of records that Tom disliked but couldn’t discard and a closed bedroom door. Tom had locked all her belongings in there: the plastic flowers, the macramé owl, and the half-finished hook rug.

  He had tried to make the trailer his own. He painted the warped living room paneling with stylish, green paint called Brookside Moss. It didn’t look too bad with the avocado-colored carpet. He cleared away all his mother’s tabloids as well as her reading glasses, pill organizer, and sunflower seeds.

  He could no longer bear the sight of sunflower seeds; they made him want to cry.

  Tom’s coffee table sported a couple of men’s fashion magazines and a neat stack of books—An Actor Observes, Costumes of the Expansion Period, and 100 Classic Scenes—which Tom had gone through numerous times underlining his favorite monologues in fat, dull pencil. A single black and white film poster decorated the wall: Fredrick Brandt in The Killers.

  As he sewed, Tom whispered those favorite lines to himself in a mantra of admiration, as if through repetition alone he could make himself the greatest playwright who ever lived—ever lived in an onion field, anyway.

  Tom fell asleep on the brown and orange plaid couch, listening to the radio signal gradually diminishing to static and endlessly reliving the moment Simpson smiled at him. When he woke up, he discovered he’d lost his needle.

  ◉◉◉

  The next afternoon Tom was crouched between two rows of onions. Sunlight beat down on his back. He pulled prickly vines from between tall, green stalks. Pungent onion vapors hung in the air around him. His best and oldest friend, Angela, worked the row next to his. She was a pretty woman with thick, light brown hair, which she alternately protected with a wide straw hat and nourished with a stinky, homemade botanical oil concoction that even now trickled fragrantly down the back of her neck.

  Angela rubbed her lower back, mumbling, “Ah, what a fucking life.”

  Tom scooted along his row. Bending didn’t hurt him like it hurt Angela. He just adjusted his back to fit his new posture. He shortened his legs and bent his knees backward like a cat in order to rest comfortably. His mother had showed him how to do this when he was little. Tom would creep along beside her, picking strawberries or cutting broccoli, emulating his mother’s motions and entertaining her with stories.

  “I saw that cop Simpson brought you home again last night. He stayed talking awhile. What did he say to you?” Angela adjusted her hat.

  “Nothing much.”

  “I hate cops.” Angela sat back and lit a joint. Her fingernails were dirty and broken. “I was sure he was here for Shorty.”

  “Don’t worry about Simpson.”

  “He pays too much attention to you. I think he likes you. He’s going to ask you for a date. He’s going to say, ‘Let me take you away from the onion field and give you a new life…’ And then you’ll get to go live in his big cop house and watch his big cop TV all day.” Angela leaned in, making smooching noises. Tom hung his head until Angela relented. “Just kidding. I think he wants to kick your fuzzy ass.”

  “Probably,” Tom agreed. Angela could never understand how Tom felt about Simpson. She hated the law too much. “He kind of said that it might be dangerous for me to put on my show.”

  “What? He’s got no right to tell you what to do! You aren’t doing nothing wrong! Fucking asshole thinks he can judge us.” Angela looked worried. “You’re still doing it, right? It’s Cathy’s big moment. Her grandma is coming to see it. She’s bringing her camera. We handed out all those flyers!”

  “I’m still putting the show on.”

  Tom had spent the previous half-year working on this play. After writing and revising the text, he had started assembling his costume and training his face. In Love Among the Cabbages, Tom portrayed both the hero, an iconoclastic cattleman named Burt Butte, and the heroine, the feisty widow, Ermaline Truehea
rt. The only other actor in the play was little Cathy. She played Ermaline’s daughter, also called Cathy. Her job was to toddle out on stage and grab Burt affectionately during the denouement.

  Tom had included Cathy mainly to make Angela happy.

  Tom’s first plays had been for his mother, then for his mother and Angela. He had only begun to entertain the notion of staging a public performance after half of his own private audience had passed away the previous winter. His mother had always worn her nice skirt to watch his plays since polite people dressed up for the theatre.