Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (25 page)

Even Ruthie could see my irritation, my rush of anger. “You can’t come with me, Lyle. That’s it.”

“No,” Ruthie shook her head. “You right, bad idea.”

He gave her a dirty look then thought better of it.

“You stay here,” she said to Lyle. “We got room upstairs. Couple nights.”

He was speechless.

“He has no money,” I said.

“Who has?” Ruthie motioned Lyle to come closer. “It be okay, trust me.” She pat me on the shoulder and escorted me to the door. “But that room be yours when you come back, sistah.”

“He’s trouble,” I said aside, guilty for saying it. But I’d have felt worse if I hadn’t warned her.

“Don’t you worry. You think careful. Loud up di ting.”

My mouth went slack, I didn’t understand.

“You clean up your business, okay?”

“Yes.”

“And thank you. I knew you special, and not just cuz you special like me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It was closing in on midnight. Something fresh infused the evening, something I couldn’t quite taste, a tide that lifted me up, reminded me of bounding rhythmically around in The Beaver, with no history to burden me. Being useful. I saw it in Ruthie’s eyes. I was being useful and that made a difference. It made me lighter.

Across the open Octagon lobby, shoulders back, I resolved not to change course, regardless of who appeared. As I got into the elevator a hand reached in to stop the doors from closing.
Cufflinks
.

“Sorry,” he said before I even saw his face. It was the distinguished sixty-something gentleman, wearing the same blue striped suit and still carrying a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yes.” I focused on the floor display above. I shoved my hand into my skirt pocket to ground myself, surprised to find the feather Levi had given me still wedged in there. Even as the elevator doors closed, atoms bounced around the elevator cage. I removed the feather and looked at it again.

“A wren feather?” he asked.

“Why yes.” Again I was puzzled. But I hardly glanced at him.

“Good if you’re a sailor. It’ll keep you from shipwreck or drowning.”

“Oh, okay.” He didn’t look like the superstitious type.

I stuck it back in my pocket. We rose silently and I felt our mutual discomfort, which is why I suppose he offered more small talk.

“You see the latest news on that Times Square caper?” He tapped his paper, eyes also on the LCD display.

“No, too busy in the lab.”

“A lab? What kind?”

“Pharmaceuticals. What about Times Square?”

“They say they have several suspects. Personally I think it’s interesting what they did, quantifying facial beauty or something like that, wasn’t it?”

The day’s encounters with Ruthie’s family and Rolf Lund must have reorganized my matter because I heard myself pushing the conversation. “I’m not sure, but can I ask you something?” I took my eyes off the indicator and turned to him.
Breathe
.

“Yes.” He turned to me, as if it were a normal request from a normal person.

“Working in a lab,”
and as isolated as my rats
, “I’m something of a research junkie, and as you can see from my appearance, not the most attractive person in the world . . .”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head, demurring.

“. . . But what elements of the face might someone like you find beautiful?”

“Someone like me?”

Attractive
,
like in GQ
. “You’re obviously successful and probably well-educated, if that isn’t a rude generalization.”

He laughed. “It’s not rude, but why does it make a difference?”

“I’m not sure that it does, but you just happened to get stuck in here with me, so . . . what do you find most beautiful in a face?”

“Don’t you think that’s subjective? One man’s opinion?”

“Okay, maybe. But there must be something. Some
things
you look for in a face.”

“Lots of things, I guess.” He chuckled. “Never thought about it much.”

“Tell me one.” I kept eye contact.

“One. Very well. That you faced that mob, that you stood up to them.” He stretched out his hand and I took it hesitantly. “James Dorward, Jim. I live on the eleventh floor.” His hand was cool, not cold, and quite pleasant. He let go, reluctantly, it seemed. “I’m Helen Dorward’s husband.”

“Dorward.” The pressure inside the elevator and in my chest and throat was still rising.

“Yes.”

I exhaled deeply. “Your wife is the President.”

“Only of the Homeowners Association.” He smiled. “Although she often thinks of her position and domain as grander, without, of course, the
noblesse oblige
.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter really. But you were treated badly. You didn’t deserve that, although your response to the HOA was a bit—”

“Terse.”

“Yes.” He shook his head. “But I would probably have said the same thing. Anyway, if you’ve been to your apartment you know that your key still works. Your lease-to-buy option does not allow you to be formally evicted if you’ve paid the first half year in advance, which apparently you did.”

He was really quite attractive. I’d like to have quantified him.

“And the HOA cannot keep your deposit unless you’ve been legally evicted, which they cannot do for another thirteen days when your advance rents will be used up.” He touched the side of his nose. “You know the saga: The Ides of March, the assassination of Caesar.
Se défaire.
Chase out the old. It’s an opportunity.”

“Thirteen days?”

“Lucky thirteen.”

A superstitious GQ. Still, the fundamental forces holding my atoms and molecules together were clearly shifting, I couldn’t deny that. I had thirteen days to embrace the change or be blown apart.

He stretched his neck and I heard it click. “Something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Your hair.”

“My hair?”

“It’s like white lightning, hypnotic. And this . . .” he said, stepping out of the elevator door and siphoning with him the unmistakable energy, “is my floor. Goodnight.”

***

The splendor of New York’s skyline twinkled before me, the high back chair a throne. I’d resurrected two candles and their light illuminated the rubble surrounding me.
Hypnotic hair
. I ran my fingers through it, pulled it forward and studied it. Just my usual achromatic hair.

Clean up the business
. Harold’s box of books reached out for me. I stared back at it. Somewhere in there was that Dickens quote that Harold so often repeated, now so annoying and so damn prescient:  “An idea, like a ghost  . . .”

Outside, the wind buffeted my windows. I heard it wailing. Harold had quoted Dickens so many times. I searched my memory for just the right one, the one that might offer an answer, a way out. Words fluttered around my head like moths, but nothing alighted. On the floor, jumbled amongst the detritus:
Hard Times
and
Bleak House
and Poe’s
Tell-Tale Heart
.

I
did
have a duppy
.
Admitting it drew an inkling of fear and relief. Momma would have been pleased; she always thought I needed an exorcism. How I would do it was another question, but I could start by cleaning up the mess I’d allowed to amass around me.

“I can fix this.” I lifted myself up and began to collect the debris scattered throughout the apartment. One dish. A mug. Both chipped. A spoon, bent. They went into the large plastic trash container from under the sink. I picked up a torn Life & Style Weekly, considered it, and tossed it into the bin. I righted the two kitchen stools. My shoe crackled over glass. My diploma, wrenched from its frame, tattered but salvageable. I folded it and put it in my pocket, admittedly a prideful act signifying some misbegotten vanity. I re-stacked
Bleak House
, the Poe short stories, and the other Dickens books that Elizabeth had removed from Harold’s box. They went into a grocery bag, determined this time to actually read them.

I wiped the counters; I swept up. I straightened the high-backed chair, the triangular table, and the stools one last time. Candles snuffed and discarded with the rest. All but the bag of liberated books and Harold’s large box of books went down the incinerator shaft.

Next step: Nan and Levi.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Did you know,” I whispered loudly to the sleeping Nan, pulling off my clothes and snuggling in between her and Levi, “that a 1995 study by Thornhill found that women have more orgasms when their men have balanced facial features and bodies, regardless of their romantic attachment or the guys' sexual experience? Is that nuts?”

Levi snorted and rolled over. “Wha, what?”

Nan, groggy, peeked over to the bedside clock. “It’s not even five AM.”

I was in Nan’s face, pulling back her ebony hair. “What is it exactly that drew you to Levi? That first thing? What made him beautiful, handsome to you?”

“It’s late. Go back to sleep.” Her eyes already closed again.

“No, come on. First thing.”

“Are you crazy?” Nan waved me off.

“What does a perfectly beautiful woman like you find enticing, what was the first thing?” My lips purred close to her ear. “First thing?”

“Ah . . .” She was disoriented, eyes still closed. “I don’t know . . .”

“Come on.”

“Probably his tattoo. Go to sleep.”

“His snake and mermaid?”

“What? It’s a serpent. Yes.”

“Why?”

Nan opened her eyes. “Listen, where were you—?”

“Why?” I persisted.

“I don’t know. The tattoo, the serpent, and Atargatis together, they made him look . . . dangerous.”

“You liked that.”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you get your tattoo? Did you want to look dangerous too?”

“I
am
dangerous, that’s why I got mine.” She crooked her head back.

“Okay, move over, I want to do your husband.” I climbed over Nan, spooned around Levi, and reached to fondle his dick.

“Damn it, get away from him!” Nan began to clear.

Levi started to awaken.

“You know what else is crazy?” I continued over my shoulder to Nan as I brought Levi to life. “They have machines that rank facial features and create algorithms of desirable elements of attractiveness. And according to some, it’s stress that determines how the face develops. Stress, we all got that. So what was it about
their
story —the attractive ones— that made their lives less stressful?”

Levi moaned.

“Get your hands off him, his body’s mine! I say
when
. I
own
him.”

“Or was it that they were less stressful in their lives simply because they were attractive?”

“Mmmm.” Levi reached behind for me. “You’re so good, Eunis. It’s beautiful what you do.”

“Get the fuck out of our bed!” screamed Nan, now fully awake and thrashing the pillow. She readied to strike me before Levi reached up and stopped her fist mid arc.

“Okay.” I let go of him.

“No. Nooo!” groaned Levi. “Why the fuck did you do that, Atara? Eunis, come back here.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said exiting the room. “Maybe.” Over my shoulder I heard Levi continue his rant. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“She’s a bitch. And fucking ugly too,” Nan shrieked.

“I think that depends on who she’s fucking.”

“Asshole.”

***

The next morning, around fifteen minutes after I heard the front door slam behind Levi, Nan came into my room. “I think you better leave.”

I stretched lazily on the big bed. “Why? I like it here.” I yawned expansively and prepared for her attack.

“We don’t need you anymore.”

“You needed me?”

“We tried to help you out but you obviously don’t know your limits.”

“But I like Levi, Leviathan. I like his dick, and he likes my—”

“I said get out.”

“But we were having so much fun.”

“The fun is over. Besides, I’ve got someone else coming in. You’re taking up space.”

“There’s so much I still need to study. I want to take measurements of your face. You’re so, so beautiful.”

“Well, ya can’t.” Nan threw her head skyward, as if taking a mental snapshot of herself.

“Hmm. Will Levi be happy that you’re throwing me out?”

“He’ll like your replacement. He always does. He likes freaks.”

“I see, and you so beautiful, so perfect. Well, let’s make a deal.”

“Just get out.” Nan advanced toward me.

No blade in her hand. Could I take her in a fight? Maybe in a
fair
fight. Maybe if I had clothes on;
ridiculous
. “I don’t think so.”
Breathe
. “I’ll be here when Levi returns and we’ll see what he says.”

Nan went no farther. “You know that brown shit you have on your face?” She stabbed a finger at me.

“Congenital melanocytic nevus.”

“Yeah, that shit. Well the lore behind that that . . .” Nan circled her hand in the air unable to restate the technical name.

“It’s a birthmark.”

“Yeah, well you got it because when your mother was pregnant she never got what she wanted. And you won’t either. So take your favorite dress and get the fuck out.” Her face was taut, her eyes flaming. She showed teeth.
A demon
.

Never get what I want
. I continued to luxuriate in the bed, for Nan’s sake, slipping the sheets over and around me, taunting her without a word. As I did, her face softened. Just like that, the flow reversed, water tugged around my feet, coursed between my toes. As if the tide had shifted to her command.

My thighs quivered to the rhythm of the sheets. I was swimming in them. My belly tingled. My chest opened. My nipples became erect. I was aroused. I’d lost control. My resistance siphoned off with the surf.

“What kind of deal?” As if her munificent current swept away all hostility, she bowed to me. “Maybe we should take a nice warm tub together and talk this out.”

An accord? Nan’s strong hands rubbing down my shoulders, the loofah on my spine; our bodies touching each other, then separating, then slipping together again, folding in to each other.
Her hair, those aquamarine eyes
, s
o pleasing
. . .
even when she was angry
. Especially
when she was angry
. Desire engulfed me: bathe away the hurtful words, return to pleasure.

“Come.” Nan undid the tie from her raven hair and shook it out, the strands falling like satin around her bronze shoulders and flawless neck.

I ceased moving among the sheets. Ruthie wagged her finger at me.
Fight, fight back
.

“No,” I said sitting up rubbing my shins. “No tub. The deal is: a patient at the hospital. I want you to check how he’s doing. Where he is. Malcolm somebody, has PSP. You’ve heard of the guy. Thinks he’s Charles Dickens part of the time.”

“That’s it? That’s what you want?”

Clean up my mess
. “For now.”

Nan dripped sweetly, “How soon will you get your fuck-ugly face out of here?”

She was planning something
. “You know,
Atara
—it is Atara, isn’t it— that depends on how fast you get me the information. My phone is miraculously working again. Why don’t you call me from the hospital and I’ll be gone by the time you return.”

“Why should I do anything for you?”

“Levi. I think he likes me.”

“You’re full of shit. But okay. Then you better be gone.”

“And by the way,” I didn’t miss a beat, combing my fingers through my own mane, “if the information is not complete, I’ll be back. I’ll come visit Levi. So get it right the first time. I don’t want to play detective on this one.”

***

The minute Atara left the room I sprang out of bed, dressed, and collected my few possessions: my laptop, my grocery bag of books; my cell phone. I checked the phone’s settings and, sure enough, almost everything had been turned off.
Sonovabitch
.

As I waited for Atara’s call, I wandered nervously, distracted. I wanted to remember that place, remember it clearly. I wanted to commit to memory my secret addiction to the physical.

In the Moroccan Room, my phone rang. “Okay, bitch,” said Atara, “here’s your info: Malcolm Jones was a patient until recently. Delusions of Charles Dickens, etc. etc. But he’s gone now. Released almost two months ago. They couldn’t do any more for him here.”

“Home town?”

“Nothing in the intake forms or in his history. But with
your
history maybe an extended trip to the psych ward would be good for
you
. I can arrange it. Levi and I can’t do any more for you, so get the fuck out before I’m home or serious shit is gonna come down on you.” She hung up.

There, at the lip of the oval tub, both beckoning and repelling, was the X-Men Wolverine comb. Part of Ruthie’s legend. Electromagnetic forces, I guess, I pocketed it and quickly left the apartment.

***

After a day of searching homeless shelters, calling hospitals and clinics, no one had ever heard of Malcolm, nor of his Charles Dickens alter ego. The police were of no use, and it really wasn’t a department I wanted to stir up. I could only hope that Malcolm had found a home or that he had passed peacefully and with some dignity. I’d been of no help.

At Ruthie’s, Simone sat at the kitchen table reading a book to Anthony Jr. She made brief eye contact, but I enjoyed a homecoming welcome from Anthony and Vinnette while Lyle, concurrently clinging to and lightly strumming his recovered guitar, mooned over Vinnette.

The family’s faith in me was overblown, especially with Warring finalizing my ouster, but I’d purchased the syringes. At least I’d be applying what I’d learned and I’d be useful —
if
I could get in and out of the lab, which I’d have to do quickly once I’d drawn their blood.

After putting down my laptop and the rest of my things, I drew samples from Simone and Anthony. Anthony Jr. was less receptive to me and my needle. “What a brave little boy you are,” I said to him, but he had none of it, kicking and screaming that I scared him. “What are you reading to him?” I asked Simone.

“The legend of Jack Mansong.” She showed me the cover.

I placed the syringe to the side. “So Anthony, you like Jack Mansong?”

He stopped sniveling. “He was brave and kind.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a slave and he freed other slaves. He had magic Obi.”

“Is that a picture of him on the cover?”

“Yes.”

“He had three fingers.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

“But my face scares you. You’re afraid I’ll hurt you with the needle.”

“Yes.”

“But your great grandma has a face like mine, not dark and black like yours, and you love her.”

He nods.

“Well, your mom and dad and grandma and great grandma all trust me, even though I look different. They let me take a sample. Can you be brave like your mom and dad? And see, I have
five
fingers.” I wiggled them and tickled his side.

He giggled.

“You have five fingers too, but they hurt sometimes, don’t they? I think we can make that pain go away. You just have to be brave like three-fingered Jack Mansong.”

He looked at his mother. He looked at his father. They both nodded. He closed his eyes and stuck out his arm. I knew the feeling.

***

As I sealed Junior’s sample and gathered up his parents’ vials, I stared into Jack Mansong’s eyes. In my haste I’d missed something important. “Oh no.”

The others ceased their small talk.

“My scrapbook, it’s back at . . .”

“No big deal,” said Lyle putting out a cool vibe for Vinnette to see. She continued ladling soup into the chaffing dish.

“It
is
a big deal.” Fifteen years of work and over 600 images quantifying beauty in that scrapbook, at least ten inches thick with
data
. “I have to go back.”

“Go back where?” Ruthie walked into the storefront carrying a bolt of lime cloth.

“Back to the apartment where I was staying. And here,” I fished through my pocket, “here’s something for Junior’s medical bills. Maybe you can get something for it, you know, a collector. I’ve read you can get good money for these things.”

“What’s this?” Ruthie turned the child’s plastic comb over and over.

“You said Ribba Mumma’s comb . . . I thought maybe . . .” I’d rationalized that I’d earned it, but I’d been complicit in petty theft.

“Worthless. It’s a toy.” Ruthie frowned, put the comb down. “You don’t take legends seriously. Give it to Junior. Worthless.” She brandished her meaty hand above her head like a parent fed up with trying to bring sense to things and turned with the bolt of cloth into the back room.