My hands are starting to age.
You can always tell a person's true age by their hands. There's an old World War II movie from the '50s, To Hell and Back, where the war-hero-turned-actor Audie Murphy plays himself, recreating the same real-life feats he himself had performed more-than-a-decade previous when he was more-than-a-decade younger; it was released when he was 30, and he's playing a teenager, but Audie Murphy, he's handsomely baby-faced, and actually really convincing as a minor-who-had-to-lie-about-being-18-to-get-into-the-army. He's actually really convincing, except for one scene. It's near the beginning, before his mother dies, and he goes to hug her, the actress playing her, and he wraps his arms around her back and the back of her head, and you can see his hands. And they're broad and veiny and starting to go boney. A man's hands. A mortal's hands.
My hands.
And I wonder, as I survey the reddening sprawl of suburbia before me from the top of this hill, orange trees and brown rooftops under a salmon-colored sky, I wonder if Audie Murphy felt the same way looking at his hands then the way I do looking at mine now? Even when his best films were still ahead of him and everyone knew it, would he have occasion to feel old? I set the skateboard down on the ground and mount it gingerly.
I think about Tony Hawk a lot as well. I hadn't done it in probably over a decade, but I've been skateboarding recently, going down the concrete-plated cul-de-sac hills and wiping out and skinning myself all over, and, realizing, I don't have it anymore, not like when I was a kid; though I can keep lying to myself alright, or keep on trying to push back against it, push against it like I push against the ground now, sneakered back foot scooping against the concrete sidewalk sneakered front foot feeling the grit of the sandpapered deck as it vibrates with the irregularities of the sidewalk rolling under me as I begin my descent. And Tony Hawk is getting older too and he wipes out plenty of times and he doesn't let it get to him, but I'm letting it get to me, and that's, fine. Tony Hawk is better still now than I ever was, and it makes me feel old to think he's getting old, and having looked up to him since I was a kid and being the age I am now the feeling would probably be mutual were we ever to meet. And we would just do a loop-de-loop of feeling old against each other, I guess.
And there's a third person I think about a lot as well, Nick Northrop from when I was in second grade, whom I'd seen at the grocery store just the other day, I'd say two months ago buying baby stuff where I was buying condensed bean-with-bacon soup. And he looked so, well, not old, but those adult features for him looked old, impossibly so. Maybe to an outside observer he'd just appear a normal man, but all I could notice as I looked at him that day two months ago was his eyes starting to sink back in their sockets and his hair starting to fade. And we're the same age, and am I starting to look like that? And I pray that it's just because he always seemed so much older and wiser than he really was, that's probably it. Thin Nicky Northrop, who would tell us all the secrets of the grown-ups, about guns and politicians and sex stuff and the end of the world, and all the scary stuff like the axe-faced waterbabies who'd been drowned at the lake and came back to pull you under if you got too close, and Mother Whispers who appeared to you in mirrors if you called her in the darkness, and the Midnight Cat of the Rustling Leaves who would speak to you and tell you secrets and steal your skin.
There's a gust of wind and a swirl of dead leaves out of the corner of my eye, which whip against my legs like a cat trying to rub against you, and the sidewalk falls out from under me and everything's a blur, but a crystalized one like an out-of-focus snapshot. I'm momentarily weightlessly airborne, and I'm coming down again, and I'm on the ground and I'm rolling bodily downhill for a thump-thump-thump on my side as I catch myself and twist to minimize damage. Tony Hawk doesn't let it get to him but I let it get to me, because I wipe out, eat dirt, biff it, and when I pick myself up, as I push myself up from the ground like I do now, I catch a glimpse of my hands and they're broad and veiny and starting-to-go boney. And the skin is getting loose and it doesn't heal as well as it did and the scars don't fade like they used to, but that part's fine, more distinguished or something, makes my fingers easier to bend. The practice seems to have worked, not a scrape on me, a little more dirt and gravel on my jacket but bodily none the worse for wear.
I look up from myself, and around, and there's a cat across the street who seems to have seen my mishap, though its eyes are inscrutable. Um so yeah who am I kidding, it's easy for you to make that connection, this baby is gonna be the MIDNIGHT CAT OF THE RUSTLING LEAVES, let's get to that skin-stealing babey! I mean, it wouldn't really be fooling anybody if I made it seem like, oh, actually no, this is a different cat. Because I mean, let's take a look at her:
She's a black cat, her fur is all midnight-y. Seems to suck in light, be a little be too dark for the time of day, still light outside. As she advances toward me, maybe in her silver eyes is the moonlight on a clear night. And though it doesn't seem strange at the time, because hey-that's-what-wind-does, the leaves from earlier are nowhere to be seen. Maybe I would have made the connection a lot earlier had that not been...
But, no, I'm not sure at all how accurate any of Nick Northrop's stories were anyway. Did the leaves have anything to do with the cat? Was that part just a coincidence, and a minor one to boot? Dead and dry and rustling, that's what all the leaves look like right now. So, whatever. Nick Northrop, he was probably wrong about some things, he was wildly off about how sex works after all (and, hey, you don't want to know, you just don't.)
You just do not. You may think you do, but you-...
And, anyway, well, he was right about the leaves, yes, and more right about the skin thing than I could probably have hoped.
I'm on my haunches now, hands outstretched nonthreateningly, beckoning the cat over. She hesitates, but draws closer, closer, she's nearby now. She brings her face up to my hand. Tentative movements- slow to advance, quick to retreat, but steadily, with minute jerks, advancing, till I can feel the autumnal warmth of her breath on my palm. I look up and away, making no eye contact lest it be perceived as a challenge. I hear sniffs and sniffs, and finally she tentatively licks my hand. But my oh my, that's good skin, says a soft voice warmly, from the cat's direction. I think I'm going to take it.
I startle downwards. "Um." The cat looks back up at me. Your skin, I'm going to take it, I think. The creature talks, physically opens its mouth and speaks, voice crackling around the edges like old leather. I feel my own mouth twitch at the corners. I'm not as surprised as maybe I should be, perhaps a sign that I'm not as old as I fear, and not so set in my ways, or perhaps the opposite of that somehow, that as I age I grow weary and accept things as they are.
My twitching mouth pulls into a line. "That's not how this works," I find myself saying. "You don't take my skin until you tell me a secret," and as I say the words the idea starts to feel more familiar. Is it right, though? Was there anything in the stories about a deal?
Very well, then. Would you like to know a secret? The cat spoke in a soft kind voice, just like a perfect gentleman. There is no bargain here, I would like to take your skin either way, but it does seem a fair trade.
"I..." I find myself wishing to go back to something like earlier, flying through the air, a moment frozen in time. There's no rush here, is there? There's no way out of this, right? The way the cat speaks, like my skin would be a courtesy rather than a necessity, gives me hope. "At least let me wash off first," I shove syllable-by-syllable through numb lips, gesturing down at myself, still covered in the dust of the wipeout.
The cat eyes me with those full-moon eyes, narrows them up at me. As the sky dims, they begin to glow the suggestion of stars. Strange request, but very well. There's another gust of wind, and the creature is gone in a scatter of fallen leaves.
I'm back on the ground again, where I had been, as though none of it had happened, not that I had moved from my spot at all in the first place. I feel at my pulse, slightly saggy skin on my wrist tugging a little more loosely than I'm comfortable with. Heartrate checked, I lift my gaze to the sunset. The encounter... It already feels like it hadn't been real. It hadn't felt real in the first place.
My fingers slide up to my palm to feel the patch of skin where the cat had, possibly, licked me. Dry, of course, but that wasn't what I had been feeling for. I suppose I should go home now. Go home and get washed up, even. If I don't wash again, ever, will the cat decide never to come back? No, she'd probably take it regardless. Maybe she'd get bored and take someone else's skin instead? Or maybe she'd do that regardless. Why did cats have to be so fickle. Why does my skin have to be so smooth. Why couldn't it be a midnight dog of rustling leaves, then at least I'd better know what to expect.
So I'm back at home now, in the bathroom, washing my hands. I live alone, no-one forcing me to clean myself up like this, but by this point I've managed to convince myself that I'd hit my head in the tumble. Nick Northrup, Nick Northrup is the one who'd sent me into this minor crisis. Stupid Nick Northrup and his stupid old-looking face. I went skateboarding, and I hit my head, and his stupid horror stories inspired me to dream, or hallucinate, or something, one of the stories he'd told.
I do not look into the mirror above the sink, even out of the corner of my eye, though; do not choke out Mother Whispers' name. Made sure that the window was closed before I washed up, that no cat could get in. What was the third one, waterbabies, well that was a lakeside thing, I'm sure a bath would be fine. I force myself to look into the mirror. This was safe. This was safe.
And so I strip down and take a bath and feel better, allow myself to crack open the window to let out the moisture, and as I get dressed again fallen autumn leaves tap on the window behind me, blowing in a windless night, fluttering in through the crack and landing on the sill in a tiny pile which I turn around in time to witness constituting themselves into a cat of midnight black.
I fall to the ground with my pants only halfway on. Another moment in time, panic setting in a lot more rapidly now. Undoing so much goodwill of that bath, waste of lavender.
Thank you for washing up, she says in a suave, cheerful tone. May I have that skin of yours now please?
"No..." I rasp. There's no way out of this, is there, think, think...
Please, I would like your skin. She grows more agitated now. If you do not surrender your skin I may have to steal it.
My mind is reeling, entire sentences passing in between heartbeats. I'm-kidding-nobody lubdub what-do-I-have-to-live-for lubdub I'm-a-total-failure-anyway lubdub nobody-will-ever-love-me lubdub by-this-point-all-I-have-to-look-forward-to-is-dying lubdub might-as-well-do-that-in-an-interesting-way lubdub.
And I give in.
"Sounds good," I say, my voice surprisingly even. "Go ahead and come get it."
She stops writhing, seeming just as amazed as I feel. Thank you. And she hops down from the windowsill, pads towards me- and pokes into the bathroom wastebasket.
Uh. What?
I can feel the blood in my veins beat through my skull as she rifles around through the tissues and cardboard tubes. She stills as she finds what she's looking for, and she plucks her head in and out, like a heron snatching a fish. Pulling her head up past the rim of the basket, and between her teeth is...
An old scab of mine, which I had peeled off a few weeks back after skinning my knee two months ago in the first recent skateboarding accident. Thisth'll do justh nithely, thang you, nods the cat, hopping back up onto the windowsill and pushing the window more fully open with its forehead.
"Um," I say. "You're welcome."
She looks back at me as though she thinks me expecting something. Ah, bugt of coursth, the cat grumbles, hopping back down and sauntering over to me. I stretch out my hand, which now seems so smooth, so small, and slide my fingers down the fur on the back of the cat's head in a long stroke as she pulls her head up to mine. She lisps a secret into my ear, hops back up on the windowsill, and disappears out the window, in a burst of browning leaves.