Bury This (10 page)
“Huh. Can you describe it, do you remember?”
“Yeah, it was a blue-and-white locket with a lady's face. Like a silhouette. Um . . . what is it called . . . a cameo?”
O
utside the blizzard night air goes
whoosh whoosh whoosh
, sweeping past the windows,
swoop swoop swoop
. The windows tight but still knocking up against the frames. The blue wood bedroom at the top of the stairs, wife asleep beside Detective Samuel Barnett, arm tucked in around his waist. Conked out. How could she sleep through the
click clatter click
of the windowpanes, the
whoosh whoosh whoosh
of the wind? A champion sleeper, his wife. He envied her.
What soft, padded dreams lay out before her? What easy fluff clouds carried her away each night on a sea of calm, placid waves. A simple wife. Solid. Trying recipes, reading under the warm glow from the bedside lamp, always a blanket at her feet, to her waist. Packing up sandwiches, trying a new dessert off
Redbook
, sending their two daughters articles over the internet. Oh, how she loved the Internet. Always a new story, a new wonder, a new curiosity over the Internet. Always a new favorite thing, a new interest. Genuinely curious, his wife.
Nancy.
Genuinely, actively, happily digging up facts, cures, ideas, exclaiming upon a new discovery, exhilarated by a new find, a
new study, a new invention. A lover of innovation. A lover of the future. A true optimist. How lucky he'd been to find her. How drizzly and lonely his life without her. Without her exclamations over a rump roast, her fake gasp over a vulgarity, her excitement over the latest Harry Potter book. “You know that J.K. Rowling, she was on welfare, you know.”
Almost silly, in a way, his wife. But always knowing she was being silly. Always knowing she was being silly and being silly anyway. A choice not to be morose. A choice not to be self-serious.
People just liked her.
Nancy. The kind of wife who got on with anyone from rookie cop to the professors down at Hope. Always something funny to say, always some common ground to say it. Never judgmental. Never rude. An easygoing kind of wife. Easily judged as simple but not simple. As time goes by, complicated even.
Every once in a while, a strange sort of surprise thing coming out of her mouth. An off thing. A sharp and macabre kind of thing you'd never expect. No, there was wit and acumen underneath that brisket-baking exterior. She chose to be happy. That was the thing with her. She knew it was easy to fall apart, how easy it could be. But, simple, silly and strong. His wife. A goofy rock. A why-not foundation.
Rolling over in the
clack-clack
storm, her arm burrowing itself under the pillow.
“Honey, what? Why are you up? It's late.”
“Thinking about this case. This guy came in today. Said he met her.”
“Hm.”
“Said she was drunk. The Friday before. Said she was laughing and crying, crazy.”
“Hm. Sounds like love. You should ask her friend.”
“Huh?”
“Her friend. That Boggs girl. Bet she'd know.”
C
oming off the shift at Smart-tek, an eight-hour day, starting at dawn, Shauna in a brick wool sweater and jeans, galoshes, heading out through the bite-your-face wind to her champagne-color Nissan, Detective Barnett trying to fake a casual encounter, a surprise even in the cement lot shared with RadioShack, Payless, Applebee's.
Over the wind, or into the wind, “Shauna? Shauna Boggs?”
And yes, that's her, Shauna Boggs in the giant cherry pullover, lumbering Shauna Boggs making her way over the slush slush snow lot to her champagne sleigh, a sad-sack Santa, in fire-engine red.
“Shauna. How funny! I was just thinking about you!”
A stop in the snow, not a turn. Let me go. Leave me alone.
“It's me. Detective Barnett. Remember? We met . . . way back, oh when was it . . . ?”
And turning now, a face to greet, a flush-face force-smile for the nice officer. A cheery run-in. Oh, yes, what a coincidence! How long do I have to feign interest? Is this enough? Please make this enough.
“Oh. Hi. Didn't see you there.”
“I'm sorry. Jeez. Hope I didn't scare you. Hey, you know, I had a few things I wanted to ask you. Just a few quick questions. If you don't mind.”
“What? Here?”
Looking around the North Pole sheet, the gale of wind sweeping through the parking lot, a concrete canal, a wind tunnel of commerce.
“No, no. How stupid. How 'bout . . . what about over here . . . I'll buy you a drink. Some coffee maybe?”
Pointing out the Applebee's. This very special, unlike any other Applebee's on earth. Inside, a family crowd, a high-chair crowd, a night out with the folks.
And Shauna, nodding glib, “Sure. Sure thing.”
Ass-aching from these hours and hours, at Smart-tek, ear glued to the phone. Dawn 'til dusk, nighttime now, skip daylight. Smart-tek for a smart future! What a bowl of shit.
The menu at Applebee's, a pornography of food. A baked potato vagina in close-up, oozing sour cream. A roast beef sandwich spread wide open, red dripping juice. Eat me fuck me eat me. A Polish sausage bursting between two heaving buns, lick me suck me lick me. An x-rated cornucopia of burgers, buns, poppers, wings, tanglers, riblets, sliders. And suddenly, Shauna famished.
“Order whatever you want, I'm hungry, too, actually.”
And Shauna would, and Shauna did.
“I'll have a double cheeseburger, mushroom-styled, with fried onions, onion rings instead of fries, and an Oreo cookie shake. Oh, and also the southwestern chili to start.”
The crying of babies seemingly from every corner, bouncing
off the Kelly-green and burgundy booths, walls, molding. Molding at the Applebee's. Nothing but the best.
Balloons, stripes, high-chairs, baby wailing, Mom cooing, Dad checking out the game. A big game tonight, Vikings versus the Bears. All husband eyes on the screen. All wife eyes on baby and toddler but not on kid. Poor kid, no eyes on you anymore. You grew up. Eat your vegetables.
“Oh, and an Applebeetini, please.”
“Sure thing, ma'am.”
Ma'am! How she hated to be a ma'am. How she missed being a young lady, a miss. Miss? You left your umbrella. Miss? You dropped your keys. How she missed those lusty, devouring eyes. People used to pay to fuck me, you know! But now, the dull and terminal ma'am, grunted out with a resounding thud. Ma'am. It's over. Ma'am, you don't exist.
Can't eat enough to get through this so-called chance encounter, can't put this, those, that in my mouth fast enough. More, more, more! I'll have dessert. That Peanut Buster Parfait Banana Boat inspired by Dairy Queen. Maybe that. What about you? How 'bout the key lime pie? Oh, I'll try that. If you get it, I mean. I'll have a bite.
“Shauna, do you remember anything unusual about the week before the incident . . . the weekend before?”
“Mm. Hmm? Let me think . . . ”
Peanut Butter Parfait over a fudge-filled chocolate brownie. Mile-High Ice Cream Pie! Triple Chocolate Meltdown! Sinful. Chocolate always sinful. Chocolate always out of reach, a temptation. Cheat! Cheat with me, with chocolate. Decadent, oozing
chocolate. Gobble me up, satisfy your darkest urges, your deep dark chocolate cravings, come to me, an ecstasy in chocolate.
“Not really, Detective. It was so long ago . . . ”
People are beginning to stare. Even here. Even during the third quarter of the Bears against the Vikes, staring at the three-hundred-pound girl wolfing down fudge. The nice charcoal detective, concerned, dignified. Here he is with an Old Style and, I swear, that's her fourth Applebeetini. Swear to God. Yes, four.
“Anything about that Friday night before?”
“Um. Let me see . . . ”
Applebeetinis can go swirl in your head. Oh, the game's on. Go, Bears! I hate those fucking Vikes. Everyone knows the Lions suck anyway, gotta root for someone.
“No, I just . . . I really can't re-mehm-ber.”
“No problem. I understand. I know it was a long time ago. Gosh, you know, feels like yesterday sometimes.”
“Yeah. Kinda does.”
The words coming out strange, not coming out on the consonants. Put the words on the consonants, Shauna. Put 'em back.
“Yes. I mean. It. Kind. Of. Does. Feel that way.”
Jesus, get a hold of yourself. People are staring, whispering, not the babies, not the toddlers. The wives. The kids. The kids have nothing to do but that Fun-4-Kids placemat. A search-a-word, a treasure map, a word scramble. Too easy. They must make these things for slow kids. Crayons make it come to life. Crayons make your kids shut the fuck up.
“Do you remember . . . that place called Dreamers? That bar? Do you remember Beth saying something about going there?”
Fuck, man, what's wrong with my mouth? It's not that hard to say it. Dreamers. Dream-ers. There, I said it. Jesus.
“Do you remember anything about a locket? A locket she had?”
“You know, Officer. Detective . . . Barnett. Beth was a real sweet girl . . . real kind, you know. She . . . ”
A wash of DeKuyper Luscious Red Apple emotion, an Applebeetini lament, spilling over now, a green apple tsunami. A pucker gone sour.
“She just didn't deserve that. Any of it. She was really . . . sweet, you know.”
And tears now, coming down that pink pudge face, those swine-slit eyes. Applebeetini tears down into the green apple sob, slobbering, shoulders shaking. Misery at the Applebee's! A spectacle over blooming onions.
And the wives tell their kids not to stare, and the babies coo and the toddlers goo and the husbands watch the game and never care.
D
reamers, during the day more of a nightmare. Coming in from the bright light glare off the snow and the sky, and into Dreamers, a cave with a black-and-white check floor. Plum walls, red walls, walls covered in beer signs, Polaroids, bottles over mirrored glass, gleaming from behind the bar like gems. Bottle diamonds. Kill-you jewels.
At the end of the bar, two old swill-faces, one in a ski vest, one in a flannel. Scotch and soda for each. Shaky age-spot hands reach for the scotch glass, bring it up, bring it up shaking, barely, to the grand release from memory, snuggling up to oblivion. A forget-me sip. A forget-me life. I am done here.
How many stories, Detective Barnett wondered, end up here, end up told here. Stories about the one that got away, stories about the chances, missed opportunities, could-have-beens? How many dreams died down here at Dreamers? Where the elixir embrace replaces the arms, hands, lips, of Jenny from back home, Julie from high school, all the things I did to fuck it up with Jean.
A woman barfly, a rarer species. Seldom seen. Where were they? At home, drinking alone, watching TV, sneaking bottles?
But surely there were as many male ones as well, doing the same? Was it dead even? Or were there simply more of the lost male flies on bar stools? This losing species? This non-function, never to replace itself, never to replicate? Dying out, this breed, maybe. Single, splat-faced, alone, listening to talk radio, complaining about the media, the government, the way this country's headed, you ought to be scared. Why not more lady barflies? Was there something in a woman, some survival mechanism, latched on to production, reproduction, replication, what is solid, what is here, what is before them? A house? A child? A man? A place to live? Food to eat? Bread on the table? Like Nancy. His wife. Pragmatic. Choosing to be happy. Choosing not to dwell.
This place was full of dwellers. They should change the name to Dwellers.
Dreamers!
Ha.
Now that is a good one.
Behind the bar, a mid-twenties belly-scratch in black scruffy hair and stubble. A bear of a kid but you could see how he'd pull.
“Anything I can do for you, Officer?”
“Detective. Detective Barnett. I'll have a coffee, if you got it.”
“Sure thing.”
The blotch-faces at the end of the bar turning, slight, away, from the cop. Don't look at me. Don't look at me, I am not here. I don't exist. Don't make me.
Behind the bar, a smattering of pictures, from floor to ceiling, Polaroids, digital pics printed out thin, hundreds, maybe thousands of let-your-hair-down nights, wild girl times, guys in
packs, girls red-faced, even lifting up their shirts. Look at me. Look how crazy. Look what I'll do! Love me.
Could be '70s, '80s, '90s, now, an eternity of waste-face nights, passed out next to the toilet, dancing on the bar, Super Bowl Sunday, Red Wings tailgate, Oktoberfest, St. Patrick's Day everybody in green hats, green beer, K
ISS
M
E
I'
M
I
RISH
pins and T-shirts.
And then, this one.
“Can I see that?”
“Which one, over here?”