This story was written by Ben's mom shortly after his death. Barbara Coffey June 2, 2007 American Lit. The Tat Her heartbeat quickened with joyful anticipation at the sound of the distinctive ring tone coming somewhere from the depths of her new purse. Her eyes darting from road to purse and back again, she fumbled for the source of the sound. “Damn! Why did I buy one with so many compartments?” She cursed herself. “Got it!” She flipped the cell phone open and put it to her ear as she slowed while maneuvering a curve and wondered if she would ever feel comfortable driving and talking on a phone at the same time. “Hi, Sweetie. How’s it going?” “Great, Mom,” replied the voice of the young man who had always warmed her heart. “Wassup?” “Excuse me, Benjamin?” his mother replied in her familiar “don’t speak slang to me, I’m your mother” voice. “What- are- you- do-ing, Mom?” He overemphasized the distinction of each word in a sarcastically loving way. “I’m on my way home from class; we were let out early tonight. What are you up to?” “Sitting sideways. I ate too much Chinese for supper---Jeesh” His mother smiled and chuckled at the vision now in her head. He’d described his first apartment at length to her when he’d first moved. He’d enthusiastically shared, talking on his brand new cell phone, describing every detail, beginning as he’d walked through his front door. His description only took about five minutes. It was a small apartment. She had laughed till tears came when he told her about the bathroom. It was so small he had to sit sideways on the toilet. She heard a flush as he said, “Whoa, man, big problem! I’m out of room spray. I think the paint is actually peeling on the living room walls. I gotta open a couple of windows.” He made her laugh. He always did that, made her laugh. Whenever she was down, she could count on a call from her son to lift her spirits and make her laugh. She loved him so much, and he was such a wonderful kid, and he could always lift her out of her doldrums. “Ben, you work at a grocery store! Why don’t you keep a list of things you need with you?” “Yea, good idea, Mom. I guess I’m just not used to thinking of stuff like that yet. Now I understand those lists you always carried around, and to think I always thought it was because you were so old----.” She heard the grin in his voice. “Hey, Mom, I’m thinking about getting a tat—whaddaya think?” “A tat? What’s a tat?” Ben’s mother was clueless. “A tattoo, Mom—whaddaya think?” She didn’t want to rush to answer. She had to choose her words wisely. He was eighteen and not her baby anymore; well he was, but she sure didn’t want to treat him like one. “Ben, I’m in heavy traffic.” There wasn’t another car on the road. “Let me call you right back when I get home—I’ll call you back in about four minutes.” “Gotcha. Love ya, Mom,” he answered. She clicked her cell closed. During the drive home, the vision of her son sitting in some sleazy tattoo parlor, getting snakes or skulls and cross bones permanently marking and marring his beautiful skin sent shudders down her spine. She even envisioned the person doing it. She saw a dirty-nailed man with the fingers of one hand labeled “hate,” the other labeled “kill.” She saw black-ink filled needles grinding into her son’s flesh. She had put her son off much longer than the four minutes she had promised and, her cell was ringing “his tone” again. “Hi, baby, just unlocking the front door,” she lied. Sitting in her recliner, she’d been thinking and planning her response with more consideration than most combat generals. “Honey, I heard somewhere that something like eight percent of the people who get tattoos end up with hepatitis C.” “Mo...om,” he drew out his voice in an exasperated pleading, “not when you use new needles.” “Who’s going to do it?” she queried, still not convinced this was a good idea. “A buddy.” “Does he have a license; does he know what he is doing?” “He’s really good, Mom; but no, he’s not licensed yet. He’s an apprentice under another guy, but, Mom… he’s really good.” “Where do you want to get it? I mean, listen, Ben… you’ll be going for job interviews and college interviews, and if it shows… He cut her off, “On my leg, Mom, my calf. It’ll be covered by my jeans.” “What will it look like?” “Tribal, kind of like Brady’s.” The picture of her next younger son’s tattoo on his right bicep was immediate. She had been amazed at how well it actually set off his muscular frame. “Well, Brady’s is more what I would call body art than a tattoo.” “Cool,” Ben replied. “What color?” “It’s called Blue Meadow—kind of a blue-green with a black border with shading and then into green.” Suddenly Ben’s mom realized the truth of the matter. “So did it hurt getting it” she asked in her ‘I figured it out’ voice. “No, well-- maybe a little, but it itches like heck where the hair is growing back. Mom, it’s really sweet.” Sighing a mother’s sigh, she offered, “Use some baby power. It’ll stop the itching.” “Thanks, Mom. I knew you would know how to make it quit itching. Like I said, Mom, it’s really sweet. I think it’s better than Brady’s even; I can hardly wait till you get here for graduation and see it. I love you, Mom.” “Oh, Benjer, I love you, too. I’ll see you next week, and, honey, some of the rest of the family is coming—I don’t know who all will be there, but I want you to know how proud we are of you. Talk to you in the morning.” She hung up the phone and said out loud to no one. “Sweet, my ass.” The next days flew by, and when she met her son at the service station so she could follow him to his commencement, he gave her a quick hug and kiss, and then immediately pulled up his slack leg to show her his tat. Though it was actually artfully done and really quite attractive, she felt the identifiable pang of an apron string being severed. “Whadda think?” He twisted and turned his calf, obviously proud. “Sweet,” she grinned. That earned her a bigger hug and kiss. After the ceremony she followed behind Ben’s car down several back roads finally arriving at the ultimate eighteen-year old male’s “bachelor pad.” Holding down a job, finishing high school and getting his own place because he wasn’t getting along with his dad and step-mom had been a huge step for her son; but she’d encouraged him once it was apparent he couldn’t be talked into sticking it out just a few more months. It had actually come down much like the tattoo. He’d told her he was thinking about getting a place of his own and feeling her out. She’d only later learned he had been in his own place a week when he had first broached the subject. The fruit hadn’t fallen far from the tree; she had done the same thing, so had his dad. The apartment was nothing like she’d imagined. His landlord was obviously a slum lord, but Ben had done his best to fix the place up, and he could afford the rent. It was obvious he’d cleaned before she came because his room at home had always been a pit. She was very proud of his efforts. Three full-sized sofas formed a “U” around three walls; a beer keg with a board on top served as an end table; a coffee table covered with a clean towel centered the room; and her son’s old chest of drawers was topped with a TV. He didn’t have cable or satellite. It wasn’t in his budget, but he did have the luxury of watching DVDs. As Ben had suspected, his mom fell madly in love with his new ten-week old puppy. He proudly showed her around the entire apartment, and, indeed, when she’d finally used the bathroom, she too had to sit sideways. Later that night Ben brought his mother a sketch. It was for another tattoo. She knew immediately it was for his first love. Her initials adorned the top of the art; the date of her tragic death in an automobile accident was across the bottom. “Mom, I want to show you this one to you before I get it.” “Oh, Ben, are you sure? I mean, one day there will be another woman in your life.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Mom, you have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about her lately. You know I’ve dated other girls—lots of other girls.” Yes, mama knew, he had told her about each one, often in more detail than she really wanted to know— “But Marissa was special. She was…she was…,” he leaned into his mother’s shoulder and began to sob. He might be eighteen, but he was still her baby. She wrapped her arms around his big shoulders and held him close. “I know, Sweetie, I know. I miss her too.” When his tears finally stopped, his mama asked, “Where are you planning on getting this one?” He showed her how the sketch fit perfectly on his inside forearm, and then he had hugged her frequently that night telling her how much he really really loved her. A week later the familiar cell tone was answered immediately, “Hi, sweetie”. “Well, Mom, I just got the outline and shading done on Marissa’s tat. It hurt more than on my leg, so I’m gonna wait till tomorrow to get the color filled in.” The rest of their conversation was about weather, his dog, and how much laundry he would bring home on his visit the next weekend. Three days later Ben’s mother received a phone call. Her world, her life would never be the same. The hundred and fifty mile drive to identify her son’s body was a numb blur. A wreck, seatbelt failed, no air bags, his body thrown. The nurse tried holding her back as she struggled to get past the final door to the room that was blocking her from her baby. The nurse was trying to warn her, tell her what to expect, but she would not be stopped and pushed past. The moan of her spirit from deep within broke forth in the howl that sounded more animal than human. She leaned close and her tears fell, raining on her son’s bruised and battered body. The nurse was close behind. The mother gingerly caressed her son’s once beautiful face. One side was darkly bruised, and blood dripped from his ear. She demanded a warm washcloth and gently patted it clean. Kissing his cold lips and forehead over and over, she desperately tried to make the hurt go away. The nurse tried to stop her as she pulled back the sheets and examined his right leg. The tattoo looked brighter on his now pale leg than when his blood had flowed. She moved to his arm, to his tribute to Marissa, now complete and colored. She studied it closely, tracing the art with her finger, and then she finally said to her son’s silent body. “Oh, baby, you are so right. It is so sweet.” The night before the celebration of her son Ben’s life, his mama sat on pillows stacked on the floor of her son’s apartment. She placed his photograph on the coffee table. “Are you sure?” The young man’s voice coming from behind her asked respectfully. “I’ve never been so sure of anything.” Ben’s mama sat for three hours; smiling at the face in the photograph that was smiling back at her. “All done,” the voice finally announced. The young man handed Ben’s mama a mirror and she went to the tiny bathroom, sat sideways on the toilet before bouncing up and looking over her shoulder. Then she heard the voice of her son Benjamin meld with her own, “Sweet!”