Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) (28 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Hey.” Roddy stepped into the penthouse. Then “Wow,” as he took in the view.

“Did you know,” I said surfacing from my People magazine, “that Donald Trump
owns
the Miss USA pageant?”

“Trump’s not surprising.”

“According to this he also owns Miss Universe and a bunch of other beauty contests.” I let the magazine drop to my lap, like it was diseased, diseased like the past three months. “Fantasy, what we all hope for.”

“Hmm. A
proposed
ideal, proposed by someone or something outside of our own imagination.” Roddy crouched until he joined me, cross-legged, on the floor by the large window.

“But it’s
our
imagination,” I countered. “It’s still fantasy. It’s what we hope for.”

He thought about it. I jumped in before he could speak. “Fantasy and imagination are both unreal.”

“But are they the same? I don’t think so. Take, for instance, your beauty coordinates.”

“Here we go.”

“No, no, hear me out. Trump’s enterprises, your magazines, advertising, porn . . .” He picked up the People and let it tip disdainfully from his fingers and fall back to the floor. “Aren’t they all fantasies planted from outside us?”

“And they require outside forces to be fulfilled.”

“Exactly.”

“So how is imagination different?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, it’s inside here.” I tapped my head.

“What happens in there?”

“Hard to say, most of the time.”

“No, really.” He waited as I considered. “Is it cramped in there?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“But when you’re imagining,
not
fantasizing?”

“It’s spacious. It’s mine alone.”

“You’re being creative. And probably sympathetic.”

“I’m a scientist.”

“Being creative.”

“I need to stay within parameters.”

“You imagined beauty in Harold. And what I imagine to be beautiful is different from another man’s conception. It may be unreal but it’s also worthy. It’s
my
creation.”

He was insinuating. I skirted it. “So you’re saying that objective beauty, what society agrees upon, is just marketed and massed produced. I don’t believe that.”

“Nor do I. But it does seem to arise by imitation, sometimes spread over a long period of time, creating a social agreement, or by a social icon, someone so stunning that society wants to emulate them.”

Atara!
But I said, “Scarlett Johansen, Halle Berry, George Clooney.”

“Take your pick. Maybe even a group like The Beatles. They certainly changed a generation’s hair and clothing style in a matter of months.”

What a mind!
“You’ve certainly thought a lot about it.”

“More since I met you.”

He was hard not to like, especially when he kept dipping my heart in possibilities. And I wanted to but . . .

He looked earnestly at me. “Maybe you should stay here and interview him.”

“Him?”

“Trump. I’ll bet he has many ways to turn fantasized beauty into gold.”

“No, I’ve got to go. Momma needs me.” But the idea wasn’t so crazy. Trump probably knew all the measures of beauty, especially the ones most admired by the American public.

“I’ll bet you could find a way to him.”

“I’m not sure why,” I said changing the subject, “but I wanted to explain a few things to you before I go.” I braced myself.

“If you say so.”

“You’ve been kind to me.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

“I guess. I don’t have a lot of history with friends. I don’t have much history with anything beyond my life in Bemidji, really, except these past five months here.”

“Please stay.”

“There’s nothing to stay for.”

“That’s not true.”

“Ten more hours in this place, then it’s gone. Most people will never see this magnificent skyline; most people in the
world
. But I did. Now it’s gone. Luckily, thanks to you, I can leave the lab – at least for now.”

“It’s not much.”

“It’ll get me to Minnesota.”

“But your work?”

“I’m not sure it’s in a lab.”

“Can’t your brother take care of your mother?”

“No, he really can’t. I wouldn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust himself. My sister wouldn’t even consider it. No, it’s got to be me. But there’s something else.”

Roddy reached for my hand.

“No.” I withdrew. The rebuke was like a slap across his face and he rubbed it. “I’m not like other people.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Let me finish.” I held up my hand and brushed the hair off my face. “There’s something not right about me.” He started to speak but I closed him down. “It’s Harold. He’s with me all the time.”

“That’s natural.”

“Maybe, but I have lapses of memory; things I can’t remember.”
Disturbing things.

“We all—”

“Roddy, there’s truth back there that I have to face. It’s not just my extreme sensitivity to small spaces and the things I may or may not feel . . . or hear.”

“You hear things too?”

“Something happened to my husband, something that I was unable to see coming with all my supposed prophetic gifts or to prevent or . . .” A corrosive drip was underway in my stomach, vertigo traveled up my chest to my temples.

“Or what?”

“I don’t know. I seem to cause heartache for the people I know. Maybe I’m not as nice a person as you think I am.”

“I don’t think, I
know
.”

It was going to happen to Elizabeth, it was going to happen to him too. My neck stiffened. “You and I are never going to be together.”

“What makes you think—?”

“Stop.” I fought to stay cold to those warm eyes of his. My face tightened.
Tell him so he’ll go away.
“I may be just as twisted inside as out. Possibly clinically disturbed. I may have already caused one man’s death.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.”

“I may be dangerous —to myself and others. I don’t know. It’s always been that way. I don’t understand so much that most women my age already understand.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He tried to regain some ground. “And stop blaming yourself. Man or woman, I doubt there are many people who truly understand everything that’s going on around us. Maybe the Dali Lama or Jesus or some guy in Henderson, North Carolina. But we all gotta be careful of believing what we think.”

“No, I’m a freak. I attract freaks.”

“I resemble that remark.” He flashed a little smile.

I wanted him to hold me; I wanted him to push me away.

“It’s a fabrication, that you’re not okay.”

I shook my head.

“Here’s what I know,” he said, “though I heard it and read it so many times before I finally
got
it. The greatest trap is living a life based on what other people think. It’s one of the
instructive
myths.”

“It’s not what
other
people think, it’s what I’ve experienced.”
Just agree with me and leave.
But my mouth wouldn’t stop talking. “What does that mean, instructive myth?”

“We all live by the stories we’ve been told, legend and myth, some of it —much of it— foolhardy, some of it sound instruction.”

I huffed.

He rocked forward. “Look, consider there are two types of myths. One like the politicians throw at us, the one that uses the word myth to mean ‘lie.’ They use it to bludgeon an idea. Like it was a myth, a lie, that the healthcare system in this country wasn’t broken. When we all knew it was terribly broken. Using myth that way is a bastardization of our language, a manipulation, a fabrication. And of course those types of myths get repeated over and over again. Just like false family myths.”

I didn’t want to encourage him, but I loved watching his mind in motion. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me about the other kind of myth.”

“The original, ancient meaning of myth is that it’s a
truth
that’s been passed down through the ages by men and women because of their
experience
. There’s a collective truth to it. It’s
instructive
. We should hold that myth with reverence, even if we don’t believe all of it.”

“But how can you trust any of it? How do you know which are the original myths, the handed-down histories, versus the manipulative or biased lies?”

“Well, knowing
the source
is important.”

“It’s in my head!”

“Okay, if it’s spacious in there and you let your imagination play out . . . I’ll bet you’ll look for a compassionate result. You’ve got the good luck
charm
. And
feeling
the myth, letting it settle in before raging for or against it, that’s what works for me too.” He patted his heart. “It goes beyond language.”

“Seems like a risky business.” I checked my cell phone for the time. Maybe he’d get the hint. One of us had to break out of the eddy.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, whatever. I’m a freak.” I slipped the phone into my pocket. “I need to find out what that means and I have to accept it.”

“Me too,” he said.

I sighed. He was anything but a freak. “Well,” I rose off the floor and dusted myself off, “time to say good-bye.” I said it as if I was saying good-bye to the apartment and, avoiding Roddy, I bid farewell to every corner.

He got to his feet. “Well,” he said awkwardly extending his hand to shake mine, “then I guess it’s off to the great north woods.”

“Yes.” I turned to face him, kept my arms folded in front of me. But then something caved in so deep in my chest that I walked over and gave him a hug, a small one. Our bodies made a low harmonic sound. “I think you’re a good man.” I pulled away, tearing several nerve endings.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Call me, tell me how it’s going up there, okay?”

A small fragment of glass on the floor caught my eye and I stayed glued to it. “If there’s time, sure.”

“Must be busy-busy up there this time of year, huh?”

“I told you, if there’s time.”

“Okay, then.” He patted his thighs. “Good luck with your past, it was never meant to last.” He walked out of the apartment leaving a few small heel clicks in the air, until the door squeaked, swung closed, and latched.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Three things consumed me that last week in New York: swimming at the Natatorium, trying to recover whatever elements of beauty I imagined in Harold, and connecting to Donald Trump. Buried in one of my now discarded celebrity magazines was a reference to Gordon Mingle, in some way related to the Miss USA pageant, to Trump and Trump’s experienced view of capitalism and its correlation to beauty. I emailed Gordon at his office and was shocked to get a quick reply.

“Feel free to call me.”

And so I did. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Oh, I do. I do. You’d be surprised. But I’m not sure I can be of much help. I’m quite downstream from Mr. Trump. Besides, he’s in Beverly Hills now, according to the press.”

“But you’re a celebrity, he’d respond to you.”

“My celebrity is an illusion. You dabble in that sort of thing too, don’t you?”

I had no idea what he was talking about and it made me uncomfortable. But if I couldn’t get to Trump, I had an alternate plan. “I read you’ll be hosting the Minnesota Miss USA trials.”

“Going back the end of this week.”

“Me too. Any chance we could meet?”

He laughed as if he liked the idea. “Try my cell when you get to Bemidji, or if you’re on the Lake Shore Limited next Monday.”

I’d make that happen.

***

As the Amtrak pulled out of Penn Station for Chicago, the station’s dark subterranean passages grinded by and my own distorted reflection sat constant, like a patient jailer. I shut my eyes and rested my head against the window. I fell asleep to the rhythm of the rails, thinking of what my stepfather, Papa Karl, called the dog spikes that secured, with luck, each length of track; an uneven clacking that rushed me back to Momma’s farmhouse and the uneasy questions surrounding Harold’s death.

I slept all the way to Rochester where boarding passengers quickly jockeyed for empty seats. Lyle was spread across our space, eyes closed clutching his guitar. I maneuvered over him and set out to find Gordon Mingle.

Three cars up, there he was.

“Gordon.” I stood over him.

He needed a moment to place me. “Eunis Kindsvatter! You took me up on my invitation.” He stood and shook my hand. An unusually pleasing reception.

“I did.” I nodded at the empty seat next to him. “May I?”

“For a moment, there’s a woman already sitting here.”

I maneuvered in next to him and smiled. He sported a small diamond stud in his right ear and still retained a hint of the plank stiffness that helped define him in high school. “So, family in Bemidji?”

“Actually, they’re all dead.”

My head bobbed in condolence.

“S’okay,” he said. “The preliminary trials in Bemidji will keep me busy. Miss USA. Hard to believe someone thinks I’m a celebrity, like I’ll draw some attention. Anyway it’s a free trip home and my class is having a reunion so . . .”

“Why not?”

“Exactly, why not? Free is a beautiful word in America.” His head tilted, appraising me. “You know,” he said under his breath, “I’m glad you contacted me. I’m glad we could talk here. Who knows if I’ll have time in Bemidji.”

“Really?”

“I know something about you that nobody else does. It’s pretty
dark
.” His smile evaporated with sinister coolness.

My spine arched.
Shit
. Not a clue in his face; nothing more than self-satisfied anticipation. I flashed on Harold swinging from the beam.

“Really?” I was supposed to be the tactician. Nonchalant was the best way to handle it.
The false prom date?
He was two grades above me.
The Valentine flowers planted in shit?

“Why the train?” Maybe he’d drop whatever he was oozing to tell. “Don’t they pay weathermen enough to fly?”
If he knew something about Times Square, he could finger me
.
Maybe he’d heard about Vic King, the attempted rape. Or he was aware of my exploits with Atara and Levi
.

“I’ll share
my
secret if you promise not to pass it along to anyone in Bemidji,” he said cool and businesslike. “I’m a hero there now.”

“Will you make the same promise to me?” I floated it lightly, hoping to gauge the danger.

“I’m not so sure.” His face was blank and serious. “What I know about you could get you in trouble. Like I said, dark.”

Twisting the knife. He wanted money
. This was a mistake.

His chestnut beard rose up like a curtain starting a new act, a broad smile. “Okay, deal.” He held out his hand.

“Deal,” I shook it, holding on to his uncommitted grip. I’d wash my hands later.

“Hey, that’s my seat!” A freckled-faced black woman in her late fifties motioned me to get out.

“Yes, of course,” I said, standing, the aggravation still tacked to her face.

“We’ll catch up later,” Gordon said to me, “catch up on old times.” His face expressionless.

“Yes, definitely.” I felt like I’d set my own trap.

***

On the way back to my seat I weighed the dangers of involving Gordon in my research and decided that I had to stick with my plan. To distract myself I bought the latest Life & Style Weekly, a photo of a young Daryl Hanna and the current Daryl splashed across the cover. The headline:

Ex-mermaid Daryl Hannah says she left Hollywood because her autism made her 'Terrified' of fame

Which reminded me of Matthew Deere. Which reminded me of the fearful trail I’d left behind me, everywhere I’d gone.

When Lyle finally stirred from his extended siesta, he made no attempt to engage me. He unfolded a Guitar Player magazine and began reading.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. He barely looked up.

“Going back to Bemidji like this, aren’t you kind of giving up your music career? That’s always been your dream.”

He paused and put a hand on the magazine. “Yeah, well, we can’t all go to college.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You and Carly.”

“Me and Carly?!” The gall!

“You know what I mean?”

“You know, I don’t.”

“Well, don’t get all Chivas and Mercedes with me. It’s not like you made anythin’ with your dream of test-tubbin’ Frankensteins.”

“So you’re bitter.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Never mind.” My lips tightened. “I’m going to wash my hands.”

“’Kay.” He went back to flipping pages.

***

As soon as I was far enough from Lyle, I picked up my pace. I slid open the metal door between cars, taking in the roar of the accordion gangway and the passing countryside, then hearing the door latch behind me as I slid open the next.

With the lights low and many passengers asleep, I carefully perused each passenger, with the hope that he or she would not wake and look up at me. Mostly on my mind was what I might have to do with myself if Gordon’s secret was as dark as he suggested. Or what I might have to do with him.

I passed through seven or eight cars, and not a few uncomfortable looks, before I found Gordon with the African-American woman, boxing the air above her purple hair, regaling him with a story, loudly, as if the rest of the car was gathered around her rather than trying to sleep.

“Eunis!” he said, glad to have a life preserver.

“I’m not done,” said the woman.

“Beatrice, this my friend. Remember? We planned to have dinner together.” He started to get up. She pushed him back down.

“I remember. I didn’t hear your name called.” Beatrice frowned at the sight of me.

“They’re using mine,” I said. “And it’s last call.”

“Only heard man’s names being called.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m a man. I just look like a woman.”

“No woman I’ve ever seen.” Beatrice puffed out her eyes.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Excuse me.” Gordon tried stepping over Beatrice.

“No hurry, I can come with you. I ain’t eaten yet either. You’ll want to hear the rest of my Michael Jackson story.” She started to get up, propelling her bosom into Gordon’s left eye.

“It’s personal,” said Gordon rubbing the eye and straddling Beatrice.

“What, you one of them gay boys? I’m too much woman for you?” She was eyeball to eyeball with him.

Gordon tugged at his sleeves. “It’s personal.” He lifted his leg over Beatrice, who gave a fake grab for his balls. He balked, almost falling into the aisle.

Beatrice cackled brashly. “Don’t stop till you get enough.”

“It’s personal,” I repeated, stabilizing Gordon and helping him over Beatrice.

“I’ll finish the story when you get back.” Beatrice was miffed.

***

“Where can we go for privacy?” I asked.

“It’s a train,” Gordon said shutting down privacy as an option. “But thank you for that back there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I should have gotten a sleeper. I figured maybe after we switched trains in Chicago —”

“How about this?” We’d come across a door marked “Powder Lounge,” and I opened it to a room almost twice the size of the train’s bathrooms. “Okay?”

I drew him in, closed and locked the door behind us, and assigned myself a stool that didn’t require that I admire myself in the counter-to-ceiling mirror. He took the other seat. I removed my shades.

“So?” I heard myself sinking into deep water.

“So, what?”

“Why didn’t you fly?” My ears wouldn’t clear.

“Oh. You’re not gonna repeat this, right?”

“Neither one of us.” I pointed back and forth. “What you know about me stays secret too. We have a deal. Right? Bemidji buddies.” The hollow timbre of the room solidified in my chest.

“I’m scared of flying.”

“That’s it?” If I could have brushed the hostility away I would have, but it was the room, the atoms in the small lounge. My ears were plugged, ‘my gift’ overtaking me.

“It doesn’t look good for me,” continued Gordon, “to have phobias like that. I’m already the center of enough gossip at the station. People have a lot of stories.” He stroked his beard.

“If you say so.” The tide hadn’t crested. It continued to gather in me.

“How about you? Why not fly?” He pulled out a cigarette, stared at it as if it would talk to him, and when it didn’t he put it back in the pack and in his pocket.

Patience
. “Don’t like the attention, airport security, the lines. I just want to be anonymous.”
Enough frigging small talk
. I took deep breaths. “Plus I feel safe in trains.” I thought of Papa Karlyle, his reassuring way, his commitment to detail. ‘Every spike must be checked, every tie plate secured,’ he’d say. ‘People count on us.’

Gordon nodded.

“So what’s this deep dark secret about me?” I simulated a smile.

“It’s something that happened in Bemidji.”

That let out Times Square, Atara and Levi.
“Okay.” It was Victor. It was
Harold!
“This going to be a guessing game?” My impatience spiked, a rising torrent of bile.

“Come on, take a guess. Remember, I’m the
only
person besides you who knows this
dark
secret.”
Definitely Harold.

Hostility swelled. I sat on my hands to control them. I couldn’t remember being possessed like that —well, maybe the time with the carding comb. The surge strained to break through. I wanted to take him by the neck . . . “Just tell me.”

“Ever pretend to be someone else? You were in plain view, but they thought you were someone or something else?”

The sensation was so strong I nearly leapt at him.

“The Beaver. You were The Beaver.” He grinned and waited, open-faced.

Consciously I breathed in and out, expelling the fury passing through me.

“You okay?” He reached out.

I signaled him off. “I’m okay, just caught my breath.” The possession peaked and began to abate. “It was something . . . in the room.”

“What?”

I had mixed two universes. “Nothing.”

“You’re sure? Because it looked like more than
nothing
. Maybe I shouldn’t have kidded you so much.”

“About The Beaver.” The water ebbed. I regained equilibrium.

“I was Beaver fifty-four, just before you. I never was supposed to know.”

“Of course not.”

“I ran late. I should’ve delivered the suit days before. I dropped it off last minute and I saw you. And by the way, I think you were the best Beaver ever, the way you moved. I could tell when it wasn’t you anymore because the next Beaver, whoever it was, wasn’t very . . . fluid. You were very athletic, moved like you were in water.”