Bury This (13 page)

Also, no bra. Just straight-down breasts, not too large but certainly not insignificant. Not enough to be without a bra. Beth wouldn't be caught dead with her breasts swooping around like that.

Provocative.

But wasn't that Shauna's defining characteristic? Hadn't she built her reputation, her following, her standout under that sheer
unapologetic ability to push the buttons of anyone and everyone around her? I am here! I will not be ignored!

Beth's parents did not like Shauna Boggs. Although they were kind enough to hide it. Besides, she was someone to be looked after. A girl her age with no mother and a reprobate father. They couldn't exactly despise her. Certainly not more than she despised herself.

And the pushing.

“Okay, I'll give you one guess.”

“Shauna, seriously?”

It was nearing the end of her shift and Beth was really just wishing she could get back to her crossword puzzle. She would finish it before she clocked out. She was like that. Everything in its place. The thing was nearly complete except the left top corner—she hadn't cracked it. 20 Down. Affliction. Six letters.

“Guess!”

“Urn . . . ”

Beth was wearing a light-blue Gunne Sax, one she had begged her mother, Dorothy, to buy for months. It was half the reason she got this job. She didn't want to have to beg like that ever again. Not for a Gunne Sax.

“Let's see. How about . . . Christopher?”

“Christopher?!”

“Christopher's a nice name. What's wrong with Christopher?”

“It's a twerp name. I'd never go out with a guy named Christopher, let alone call him my boyfriend.”

“Okay, well, I give up.”

Not exasperated, just bored. Beth wasn't in the mood for this
anyway. Why did she even bother? Sometimes she wondered what the point was in having friends anyway. Six letters. Affliction. Third letter L.

“Jeff!”

“Mm.”

“Jeff Cody.”

“Mm-hm.”

Beth tried to sound interested. Ancient dweller. Italy. Ends in N. Why was Shauna even talking now? Wasn't it obvious she didn't care? The whole thing stretched out before her like an endless white sheet. Nothing dulled the senses like the facts. Beth found herself looking for an excuse to get rid of Shauna and this mind-numbingly drab conversation. Get back to the corner. Six letters. 20 Down.

“Look. I kinda got to get started on these receipts.”

“What receipts?”

“Oh, uh . . . they got me doing some bookkeeping so—”

“Bookkeeping? They never asked me to do any bookkeeping.”

Always on defense.

Always on alert.

“Oh? Well, it's probably just they got sick of it . . . ”

“Yeah, well, have at it. Besides. I have a date . . . with Jeff.”

Squinting at the paper, tapping the pen, Beth didn't see him come in. But he saw her.

Standing there, beside Shauna, now beaming with pride, at over six feet, in black Judas Priest iron-on and oil-stained blue jeans . . . this must be Jeff.

Funny how she doesn't notice him. Still. Head in the desk.

Shauna can't stand it. She clears her throat. Look at me! Look at my man!

Beth looks up at the great Jeff with the dark brown hair and thick eyebrows and thinks, a fleeting thought, my poor best friend, this guy will break your heart into pieces.

TWO

C
hristmas 1976. Bicentennial Christmas.

Couldn't help but fall for the Christmas village, Christmas town set up down Main Street. The lights strung up over the snow-filled street, a Christmas tree at the end, little wooden stands set up like back home, back in Germany,
gluhwein
, glogg, mulled wine, spiced wine with brandy, cloves, orange peel, cinnamon, gulp it down and keep warm. Drink the
gluhwein
, walk around under the little sparkling lights, white, blue, red, green, twinkling magic lights at 4:30, just got dark and already night.

Beth Krause rushing out of the Macy's, the black suede that'll-be-the-day boots wrapped up, wrapped up in red for Shauna, her best friend, least she could do for Christmas. A big burgundy bow on the box, oh she couldn't wait to see.

But how could she not get them for Shauna, her best friend since grade school, after seeing her face light up at the boots, turn them over and fall blank, unanswered, at the price. Sure they were expensive, of course they were . . . but it was Christmas. Muskegon, Michigan, sparkling lights down Main Street and a Santa set up in Macy's. You couldn't help but get carried away.

She'd bought her mom a framed Maxfield Parrish print from
that antiques store down on Halpern. For Dad, it was harder, but she'd finally decided on an autographed framed Bart Starr black-and-white, she'd managed to get off one of her old classmates at Hope. She couldn't wait ‘til he opened it. Maybe next year she'd find a way to finagle tickets to Lambeau. She knew it was hard, impossible almost but, you know, where there's a will, there's a way and it'd be worth it just to see his face. Oh my good Lord, he would flip! She made a note to try it, might have to start looking right away, come to think of it.

Making her way down Main Street, through the park and over to Shauna's. It was a long walk, sure, but it wasn't too cold yet and the snow hadn't started to come down. If she hurried, she could make it. Drop the present off and be home by six. Wasn't supposed to start coming down ‘til seven, maybe eight.

Walking away, the Christmas village behind, she had a feeling of falling off somehow, coming off the roller coaster ride, retreating. The Christmas carols and the
ring ring ring
of the Salvation Army Santa getting softer and softer, that gold bell chime, receding into the distance, the last refrains of “Silent Night” getting caught in the tree branches, falling down to the ground, into the snow and now nothing but
crunch crunch crunch
under her feet. Beige winter snow boots, jeans and a parka, light blue sweater, scarf, mittens, and a wool ski hat. You had to know how to dress for winter. You'd underestimate it, always, each fall, forgetting in summer what cold meant, what cold was. But you'd make that mistake only once.

The sidewalk in little pebbles and chalk slab, packed-down snow, tiny bits of trees, pinecones, little tiny red things, some kind
of miniature berry on a branch, embedded in the snow. Now the Main Street silent, a never-was fantasyland back far away behind the pines.

Through the spindly black bare elms and maples, the
crunch crunch
sidewalk leading Beth down the path to that oyster-colored house falling into itself. That joke of a house, poor Shauna. You had to admit, she got a raw deal. That non-home and that no-show mom and that slumping dad. In a way, it was a miracle Shauna was what she was. Strong, confident, sassing-off half the time, making everyone nervous, bending the world to her will, caving the conversation in. That girl was a survivor.

The suede boots would make it better. Not all better, to be sure. But, at least, something. Something to say “I see you. I see you, Shauna Boggs. We're in it together.”

A single light in a square from the kitchen, orange. The pitch-black pines holding up the house. Christ, that meant he was home. Not good. Maybe if she just left the present on the stoop. But she couldn't, right? No way. One-hundred-dollar black suede boots in a gift box with a burgundy bow on a front stoop, no one's looking. Well, you might as well write a note, “Come and get it, fuckers.”

She had no choice. She'd have to knock and he'd have to answer, a perfunctory front-step fog of a conversation. Alright. No big whoop. She'd just leave off the present and that would be that. It's not like she'd have to hug the guy.

Crunching up the
creak creak
stairs, raising her knuckle-mittens to the door, she had a thought, a fleeting thought of the wall falling in and there being nothing behind it. A sound-stage. A Hollywood set, nothing more. But before she could finish the
thought, before her knuckles reached the door, the door opened and there he was. Troy Trash Boggs.

She hadn't knocked, how could she? Or did she? Forgetting herself, her mind still on the soundstage, Beth found herself standing there frazzled, shaking there in the snow. She didn't remember shaking, didn't remember being cold. But now, suddenly, she was shivering. Shuddering there on the porch, holding her big bright burgundy-bow gift.

“Hello, Mr. Boggs. Um. I brought this for Shauna. It's a surprise. I was . . . I guess I thought it'd be funny to put it under the tree and keep her guessing.”

Troy Boggs standing there, moving back. Moving into his house gesturing in. A hitch, there in his walk. A mini-stumble back.

“Oh, yeah. Come on in.”

Stepping inside, looking around for the Christmas tree, make it quick, Beth realizes there is no tree. Of course. No Christmas tree in this house.

“It's just. We. Well, we haven't gotten around to it. Just haven't had the time.”

Haven't had the time! Yeah, right. All you have is fucking time, Troy Boggs, everybody knows that. What, you have an appointment at two with a Mr. Jack Daniel's, is that it? Johnny Walker at three? Jim Beam promptly at four? A full fucking schedule you have, Mr. Boggs. Don't be late.

“Oh, oh, well, yeah, the holidays are kind of hectic. We just put ours up, actually.”

That's a lie. That tree in the Krause household goes up every November, day after Thanksgiving, at ten. You could practically
set the atomic clock by the Krause Christmas tree. Dotsy's up at dawn with the tinsel, icicles, lights, stockings, matching Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers, mistletoe, three wise men, poinsettias, nativity, pinecones, all of it coming out of the red plastic storage boxes, marked on the side with masking tape and a Sharpie,
X-MAS DECORATIONS
.

Oh, yes, the Krauses sure had time for Christmas. A tree in the living room, a green Douglas fir, and one in the den, silver, for variety. Silver with blue lights, crystal bobbles. A cool-palate frosted tree with icicles and glass ornaments. Maybe we should give them one of our trees? A fleeting thought, but not a bad thought. Beth was pondering. I mean, it is Christmas, after all. What's more in the Christmas spirit than giving away a tree?

Beth was imagining it, how would she do it? How would she ask for it? Would Dotsy be mad? Maybe she'd be proud of her . . . ? She resolved, yes, we will give them a tree. To go with the boots. It's the right thing to do.

“You want something to drink? We got eggnog, left over. Shauna got it.”

Still giving the tree to the Boggs house. Not hearing.

“Oh. Oh, no, I couldn't. I should be going. It's gonna snow soon, so . . . ”

“Aw, c'mon! Just one drink! For Christmas.”

Not wanting to seem rude. Not wanting to come off as better than.

“Okay, maybe some eggnog. Just one, of course. You know . . . snow's coming up.”

“No, I know. Here . . . ”

Scurrying around to the kitchen, cupboards clacking,
clack, clack, clack
. Troy Boggs coming up with two mismatched mugs. One from Walter's Tackle & Bait. One from Klucky's, down on Third. Presenting each mug on the brown-top card table with a flourish.

“Here you go. One for you. And one for me. Cheers. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Clinking mugs with Mr. Boggs, smiling up. Well, why not Merry Christmas. Why not? He was a human being, after all, flesh and blood, fellow mankind and all that stuff you were supposed to care about. This was supposed to be the season for breaking bread and clinking glasses and smiling jolly.

And now Troy Boggs is in a good mood. The good mood pouring down his throat in warm brown brandy mixed with eggnog. Not so much eggnog, but she didn't need to know that.

She was quite a looker, you have to admit. This saucer-eyed friend of his daughter with her white-blond mop of hair and ice-crystal eyes. Christ, you could just look at her for days, couldn't you?

Sitting down in his chair, sipping fast on his good mood, maintaining his good mood for Christmas. Christmas spirit. Christmas spirits. Brandy, rum, bourbon. The spirit of the season.

“You know . . . ” Shaking his head, smiling, magnanimous. “You just, you just keep getting better and better-looking every year, you know that?

And something in Beth shifting. Something crossing her legs in front of her.

“I mean. What's your secret? I know! It's Oil of Olay. Oil of Olay! HA-HA!”

Clapping his hands together, hard. Snap! Oh, this is gonna be good. His good mood getting bigger and redder and warmer, his good mood clapping his hands hard and slapping Beth on the shoulder, big-hearted.

“THAT must be your secret! Is that it, HUNH?”

Not a funny joke, but meant to be a funny joke. Laugh now, Beth, laugh now at the unfunny joke. Smile at least.

“May I use your bathroom, Mr. Boggs?”

“Call me Troy!”