Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
My pants swished together as I hustled toward the tattoo shop, the three widows screaming behind me.
“Have you lost your marbles?” Alice called.
“You can’t be serious!” Sylvie cried out. “Doris! Stop!”
I ignored them, the pull toward that neon sign like a beacon in a storm. Like God himself was pushing me to speeds my plantar fasciitis wouldn’t normally support.
“Doris is having a full psychotic break! This is awesome!” Marge laughed.
Sylvie and Alice continued screaming as they caught up to me when I reached the door with the name Ink and Iron stamped on the glass.
Sylvie caught my shoulders and spun me around, her wide eyes meeting mine. “Doris, you’ve been drinking! You rarely drink, and I cannot let you do something crazy like get a tattoo when you’re drunk!”
“I’m not drunk!” I argued, then pursed my lips. “Okay, I don’t like lying, so yes, I’m a little drunk, but that’s not why I want to do this.”
“Make it make sense.” Alice popped a hip, planting her hand on it. “Is this a head injury from when you fell off the bull?”
“Don’t talk her out of it. This is incredible!
” Marge pushed past them. “Always wanted some ink! I think barbed wire around my bicep would be cool. Or maybe a flaming skull! Or both! Oh, man. This is awesome captaining, Doris. Go big or go home. I love it.” She rubbed her hands together, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“See!” I pointed at Marge, feeling the whiskey courage bubbling in my veins. “Marge gets it! And we all have to get them because they’ll be matching. It’s for the group!”
“Not happening.” Alice crossed her arms over her chest. “This body is a pristine masterpiece, Doris. I am not marring the canvas.”
“I’m out too,” Sylvie said. “I’m terrified of needles. Like, actually terrified. I once fainted getting a flu shot.”
“You fainted getting a flu shot?” Marge repeated.
“The nurse had to get me juice.”
I turned to face them fully. “I am the captain. And I say we are getting tattoos.”
They all started talking at once.
I straightened my Viking helmet and lifted my chin.
“Listen to me. I would never have done this before. I thought the body was a temple, and you know you… you shouldn’t put graffiti on the walls.
But now? I think... God made the world full of colors and colorful people.
He created the singers who make the music we just danced to.
He created the doctors who are going to save Alice’s life”—I looked pointedly at her—“and artists. He created them so they could fill His world with beauty. And then He created people who can put that beauty right on your skin. What’s sinful about that? Nothing, that’s what.”
I stepped closer to them, my voice dropping. “This Doris? New Doris? She’s saying God made ink. God made artists. And God stuck that neon sign right in front of my face as a beacon. I can feel it in my gut. He wants me to do this. So I’m doing it. I can’t force you, but I’m going in.”
I grabbed the handle and pulled.
Instead of whipping open with the dramatic flair I’d intended, it didn’t budge.
“What the heck?” I tugged again.
Nothing.
“Well,” Alice said, looking relieved, “it seems the Lord has spoken. He’s closed the shop.”
“No!” I pounded on the glass, pressing my face to it and peering in.
Inside I saw a burly bearded man with a beanie and arms covered in dark sleeves of ink.
Normally, I would have run screaming from someone who looked like him, but tonight I decided he was just one of God’s many colorful children.
And he was the one that was going to give me my tattoo.
He looked toward the door, shook his head, and pointed to a sign that said CLOSED.
I pounded harder. I didn’t stop until he sighed, stomped over, and cracked the door a few inches, speaking through the gap.
“Sorry, ladies. I’m closed for the night. I was just cleaning up.”
“Please.” My voice cracked. “I have to do this. I need a tattoo. Tonight. If I go back to that RV and go to sleep, I’ll chicken out, and I’ll never be this brave again.”
“You mean you’ll sober up,” Alice muttered behind me.
I ignored her. “Please. I know it sounds silly but—it’s important.”
He gave me a kind look but shook his head. “I appreciate that, but I can’t tattoo anyone who’s been drinking. It’s policy. Come back tomorrow. I’ll take good care of you.”
He started to close the door.
Behind me I heard Marge’s voice, low and urgent. “Do it.”
“Do what?” Alice asked.
“The card,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Pull it. Pull it now.”
“Marge, what—”
“The cancer card, Alice. Drop it. Do it right now before he closes that door.”
“I am not—”
“Alice. DO IT.”
A pause.
Then Alice stepped forward, put her hand on the door, and after a deep breath, said, “I have breast cancer.”
The man stopped.
“I have surgery and a massive battle coming up in the next few weeks,” she continued.
“And right now we are on a road trip, making memories. Before everything changes, I want to get a matching tattoo with my three best friends.” She met his eyes.
“I’ll pay you four times your normal rate.
Late fee, inconvenience fee, whatever you want to call it. ”
He was quiet for a moment, looking at her. Then he opened the door wider, leaning against the frame.
“I’m not charging you four times. In fact, I’m barely going to charge you at all.
” Something shifted in his face. “My best friend is in the final days of her fight. Chemo’s done.
They think they got it all, but she’s been through hell.
” He looked at the four of us at his doorstep.
“If she were here and four old—excuse me—youthful ladies of a certain age showed up at my door during a breast cancer journey and I turned them away, she’d never forgive me.
” He pulled the door open fully. “Come on in. Name’s Rip. ”
I squealed and hopped up and down as I followed him in. Marge was at my side in an instant, clutching my arm.
“Oh, man! This is so cool, Doris! You are really surprising me, and I am here for it.”
I’m surprising myself, I thought as I looked around the parlor that smelled like antiseptic. Flashy art covered every inch of the walls—traditional roses and anchors and geometric patterns, all framed and lit. Glass cases held jewelry. A leather chair sat under a bright arm lamp like a throne.
Rip set a portfolio book on the counter. “Take a look. Tell me what speaks to you.”
We gathered around a book of designs, but nothing felt right. Not the anchors, not the roses, not the barbed wire.
Nothing was… us.
Rip looked at my hat. “What’s with the horns? You a Vikings fan?”
“It means I’m the captain of our trip right now,” I said as I flipped. “Whoever wears the Viking hat gets to make the decisions, which is why we’re here right now.”
“Sweet. I dig it,” he responded. “Love the energy you ladies have. Still having adventures at—”
Alice looked up. “If you say ‘your age,’ I’ll take that tattoo gun and stick it in your ear.”
He burst out laughing, lifting his hands. “Not a peep.”
She leveled him with a stare, smirking. “Smart man, Rip.”
“What are you looking for, exactly?” Rip asked, watching us flip pages.
We all looked at each other.
“Something that means us,” I said. “The four of us. What we are.”
“And what are you?”
“The Wilder Widows,” Marge answered with pride.
He raised an eyebrow. “That what you call yourselves?”
“We started as a widows’ group. Mostly knitting,” Sylvie explained. “And then we got drunk one night, wrote down a wish of something we’d missed out on in life, and helped each other achieve it. Now we do it every year. We’ve been to Las Vegas, Paris, Spain, Africa, Australia—”
“Diving with great whites,” Marge jumped in. “Skydiving. Dogsledding. Ziplining. Whitewater rafting—”
“Yes, tell him how that went, Marge.” Alice inched up an eyebrow.
“What happened?” Rip leaned in.
“Well, she picked a trip too difficult because she doesn’t actually speak Spanish.
We got capsized and were stranded in the jungle.
She lost our passports, so we hired a coyote to sneak us back into the States to make it back for Sylvie’s wedding, got caught by border patrol, were locked up, and then—”
Marge snickered. “We had to piss in—”
Alice cupped a hand over Marge’s mouth. “We don’t talk about that, Marge.”
Marge nodded beneath her hand, and when Alice released it, she just snickered. “So, now we’re on a road trip, driving to Mardi Gras, so Alice can show the world her tatas one last time. And tonight, we’re here getting tattoos with you.”
Rip just stared at us, then burst into laughter. “Okay, I want to be a Wilder Widow because this sounds amazing! You ladies have more fun than me and my friends and I’m only twenty-nine!”
“We try.” Sylvie shrugged.
He then looked at us, tipped his head, and said, “Give me a sec.”
He pulled a sketchpad from under the counter. We waited. I watched his hand move across the paper, quick and certain, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
Two minutes later, maybe three, he flipped the sketchpad around.
I squealed before I could stop myself.
Two Ws, interlocked slightly, but the outer peaks of each W formed Viking horns—unmistakable, bold, with just enough whimsy to be fun. And crossing through the center, two knitting needles arranged like a coat of arms.
A shield. A sigil.
Ours.
“THAT!” I pressed both hands to my cheeks. “That is exactly it. That is us.”
“Oh, that’s actually good,” Sylvie said softly. “Maybe… maybe I could endure a needle for that.”
Marge was already nodding with enough enthusiasm to end up with whiplash. “Do it. Right on my forehead.”
“You are not getting it on your forehead,” Alice said.
Marge stomped her foot. “Aw, come on. How cool would that look? And if I—”
“Don’t say pair it with a shark tooth.” Alice sighed.
Marge shrugged. “I bet Rip will think it’s cool.”
He grinned. “Okay, when I’m doing these tattoos, I need you to tell me everything.”
“Deal.” Marge grinned back.