Melanoma  

       by James Hanley

 

Nora rested on a lay-back chair on the deck of her house. Her eyes were closed, and the breeze passed over her face, weakening the heat from the undiminished sun. Her uncovered arms and legs were pale, while her face showed the early pink of a burn.

“What the hell are you doing? No wonder you have melanoma.”  Her husband, coming onto the deck, shouted.

Nora woke with a start, nearly tipping over the aluminum and webbed chair. “I dozed when the sun was behind the house, and the deck was in full shade.” She squinted as she looked up.

Bruce squatted by her chair, grabbing the plastic handle. He looked at her. Nora’s cheeks were flat against her jaw and her teeth. Her eyes were deeper into their sockets, and her nose seemed larger as her surrounding flesh had shrunk.

A yellow-tipped leaf floated from a nearby tree, passing over Nora’s shoulder, and she swatted at it as if it were an irritating insect.

He picked up the prescription bottle in the cup holder at the end of the arm of her chair. “Did you take a pill?”

She reached toward the vial, but he held it slightly beyond her grasp.

“No, as I told you, I fell asleep. I‘ll take it now.”

“You need water. You have no tolerance for pills without something to wash it down. “

The screen struck against the wood frame as he went inside. Nora heard the sound of the water running in the kitchen and smiled at her husband when he came back outside with a half-filled glass. He shook out a single pill, placed it in her open palm, and handed her the glass with his fingers around the base so she could grab the glass near the rim.

“You know the sun’s movement across the back of the house, yet…” His hands ran up and down her arm to soften the rebuke.

Nora interrupted. “I know Bruce, please don’t lecture me.”

“I’m only worried, it’s been over a year.”

               

 A few years before, while attending Bruce’s convention, they stayed in a hotel on the southern shore of Long Island with access to the bleached sand. On a bright morning, Nora put on her bathing suit, which exposed copper sections of flesh rimming her breast. Her stomach was uncovered to above her pubic hair; the rear of the material protected the center of her buttocks. Loading a large towel, a bottle of low-SPF lotion, a watch, and lip balm, she went down to the water’s edge. Lying down, she looked up at the sun through black lenses, impervious to the sun’s heat and the scorching of her skin. Placing the watch close so that she could see the hands, Nora closed her eyes, opening periodically to check the time and turning to cook each side like a sausage rolled in a pan over a fire. Later, when she felt her back stiffen from lying on the ground, she sat up and looked around; Nora watched a man press the pointed edge of an umbrella into the yielding sand. A circle of shade formed where he’d placed a blanket. Nora stared at him, his alabaster skin tucked under the gray cover. She shook her head.

An hour later, Bruce came to the beach wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt. He’d tried to tan, enduring painful redness soothed only by gobs of cream, but he could not duplicate her brownness, leading to jokes from friends who contrasted their skin coloring. As soon as seated on the low folding chair, Nora pointed to the man under the umbrella, then sleeping, “What’s the purpose?”

“Are you going to just stay at the beach getting brown?” Bruce asked.

Her sunglasses slid down her nose. “I don’t do this only to darken my skin, I need to feel the sun burning out the stress from my body. The sound of the waves, the salt smell in the air, and the pliant sand calm me.”

“Am I part of the stress?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly and laid back.

In a half hour, she fell asleep, her black-lens sunglasses covering her closed eyes. Bruce stood and walked to the ocean’s edge. He saw a woman leaning over a child where the tide had diminished to a weak flow. She was rubbing lotion on the little girl's shoulders and neck while the child dug into the softened sand. He smiled when the girl scooped up water and tossed it at her parents’ legs. The mother laughed and sat back, hugging her daughter.

In the evening, Bruce and Nora went to a company-sponsored dinner party. She wore a sleeveless dress, the hem stopping above her knees, displaying the edge of her thighs. Throughout the evening, women with sun-charred skin approached her and put their arms against hers, comparing shades, some with a layer of reddened skin over the darker coloring.

 At night, in bed, Bruce stared at her naked body against the white sheets, illuminated by the sole light in the corner of the room. The room had faulty air conditioning, and sweat had formed on her body, giving her a sheen over her bronze epidermis. He touched her to see if the heat was emanating from her body. Spreading his fingers on her lower stomach above her dark brown pubic hair, he hoped she would wake, but she rolled away. Before sleeping, she had asked him, “Do you like how I look?” When he’d smiled and nodded, she touched his cheek. He called her ‘his brown bunny,’ which she hated.

In the morning, they sat at the small table and chair on the deck outside their room, drinking coffee and nibbling on the lightly buttered toast. She smiled, the thin, white lines around her eyes contrasting with the rest of her face.

“It’s lovely here. Clouds seem to stay away,” she said. 

 In winter, she sat by the window, facing the midday sun’s rays weakened by the panes, or sat on the deck wrapped in a heavy coat, her face pointed up. When they went out, she covered her skin in a glossy cream to give it a glimmering coating. In January, they traveled to Florida from their Connecticut home to stay at a beach rental for two weeks, after which she returned darkened, her skin’s hue contrasting with the white snow mounds that had formed while she was away.

 Six months after the diagnosis, Nora’s sister visited her, bringing an apple pie, which she placed on the kitchen counter.

“I brought you your favorite,” she said while hugging her sibling. “You’ve lost more weight. Are you eating well?”

“Most times,” Nora answered. “Bruce has become a gourmet. He’s put on the pounds,” she added with a laugh.

“I hope you are being cautious about sun exposure, you look tan, but much less than in the past.”

“I’m trying, Monica, but old habits die hard. Oops, bad cliché.”

“That’s not the least bit funny. I never understood why you needed to darken your skin, it’s not our heritage. You had a pale complexion before it all started.”

“Like you? I don’t have your beauty, which you augment with makeup. I rely on a natural means.”

“Natural is the wrong word, it's killing you.” Monica quickly added, “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”

“I couldn’t alter my features, shrink my nose, move my ears slightly closer to my head, thicken my lips unless I paid someone an exorbitant amount to carve my face. Instead, I wore dresses split nearly to my crotch so that with every step forward, my browned legs were visible; my sleeveless tops were shaped to rim my breasts. I could control not just my appearance but how people saw me, maybe even admired me, looked at me enviously or lustfully; that was important. You don’t get it. When I was tan, folks thought I was healthy. I considered my tan a mask, a carefully formed cover hiding flaws.”  

“Are you saying if you knew the eventual outcome, you wouldn’t have changed your obsession?”

“Speculation is useless.”

“Now you are a cautionary tale for parents to tell their sun-worshipping teenagers. ‘Use high SPF lotion, or you will wind up like Nora Tremain.’ Maybe you can appear in a public service ad. Is that the kind of attention you want?”

Before Nora could respond, Bruce came in. She looked at him. “I’m being criticized for what my loving sister calls my obsession. Do you want to join the chorus?”

“Hello, Monica. Good to see you.”

Nora laughed sarcastically. “Not going to defend me?”

“Did you expect me to?” Looking at Monica, he said, “Did she tell you she ordered self-tanning lotion? Last week, she wanted to buy a tanning lamp.”

“I wasn’t serious about the lamp, you should know my dark humor.”

“Knock off the puns.” Bruce looked at his sister-in-law, “Did she tell you about the time we were at the beach and a little boy pressed against her skin, wondering if it was like a tortoise shell.”

“You hypocritical bastard. You encouraged me.”

For a moment, Bruce stood frozen until he began to cry. Sitting beside her, he said, “I know, I know.”

 When Bruce returned home from work, Nora was standing near the couch holding a glass of wine which she handed to him when he approached and kissed her. She was wearing makeup, which she had eschewed previously. Her lips lifted into a wide smile as she remained standing with her hand behind her back.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

Nora swung her arm around and handed him a paper with a typed listing.

“I wrote out my more list—all the things I want, including changes.”

Bruce smiled and took the paper from his hand. 

“You're going to be more cheerful, more kind. Those are good things. When does this all start?” He chuckled, “skiing, you’ve never skied. It’s spring, so that will have to wait. Oh, I like number seven: more sex.”

 In late October, the sun shined more brilliantly in the haze-less air. Nora sat on the couch, watching television, her eyes straying toward the picture window. Bruce came into the room and asked if she needed anything. She raised her hooded eyes and mustered a weak smile.

“I want to lay in the sun, it can’t do harm now.”

 Bruce took hold of her arms and, reaching under her stick-thin legs, lifted her. He slow-stepped toward the sliding door leading to the deck. After brushing off the color-drained leaves that had settled on the webbing of the folding chair with one free arm while he held her at the waist, Bruce lowered her gently.  Her smile pushed against her sunken cheeks, and she moaned with pleasure. Covering her body with a light blanket, he stayed with her for a while until he knew she was in a deep sleep.

 

After he chose the casket—a light pine over the mahogany selections, Bruce ordered a silk dress to cover her pale body. He checked the weather report and, finding a day that the murderous sun would be blocked by thick clouds, chose the funeral date.

Betraying the forecast, the sun seared through the nimbus, and the unprepared procession of friends and a few relatives squinted during the short walk to the shoveled grave.

 

Bio: Jim Hanley’s background includes a career in the military, human resources, and adjunct teaching. His short stories have been published in South Dakota Review, Steam Ticket, The MacGuffin, Hedge Apple, and others.