Everything Here Is Beautiful

by Mira T. Lee

  They didn’t know much about the man either. He’d shown up one day, purchased a large parcel of land abutting Muir Lake, spent two years building a post-and-beam on top of the hill. They admired his house, its tall, arched windows visible only in wintertime, when the trees were bare, from the narrow path along the opposite side of the lake. Edie Blythe, ever the promptest widow, had brought the man hot dish after hot dish when he first arrived. He was a bit coarse, she thought, though he seemed well built, polite enough, if a touch morose. She forgave his lack of interest—it was not uncommon for outsiders.

  The people of Meyer had their own ways of interpreting things.

  Donny Dawes, college freshman dropout, on a double shift at the Cub Foods, said he remembered seeing her that night. She had unusually dark eyes—odd, because somehow they were also very bright. To his teenage mind, she could not be beautiful, she was beyond beautiful’s age, but it registered as a prick of mortification, this older woman initiating arousal in his groin. She bought two sticks of butter. He remembered it, the two lonely sticks of butter, because he wasn’t even working the express aisle, and it was way too crowded for that time of day, everyone stockpiling for the storm. He said it was her. She didn’t look quite right. Sometimes people aren’t quite right and you can see it in their eyes.

  It was grief, some said. Clearly, the girl loved the man. She’d stayed on at the house to pack up his things, even after his two grown children had departed to bring their father’s body back to Israel.

  Grief drives people to recklessness, despair.

  Twelve-year-old Beth Grimstad wrote in her diary: I bet it was a broken heart.

  They remembered when it happened to Natty Brown, whose wife of thirty-one years was struck by a logging truck while she was out for her morning walk with their corgis. Five months later they’d found Natty, naked from the waist down, handcuffed to a hickory tree. The coroner’s report said he’d shed his clothes before he died, as freezing victims often do—this bizarre paroxysm occurring as the body’s temperature drops below eighty-five degrees. A suicide note was found, fastened to the back of Natty’s neck with a safety pin.

  That was gruesome, unforgettable. Madness.

  It was a shame. On this they could all agree. She was young, no more than thirty-five, no, forty, maybe forty-five? The police said they’d found nothing suspicious at the house, no evidence of foul play—a mixing bowl on the kitchen counter, along with flour, sugar, eggs, the two sticks of butter. Cookies? But it could have been muffins or waffles or pound cake or scones. It could’ve been many different things.

  She was all alone, in that big house.

  But anyone can get disoriented. Lost in the woods. Caught in a bad place in a storm. The temperatures down to minus seven degrees Fahrenheit, forty below zero with the windchill factor, gusts up to seventy miles per hour. Nine local fatalities had already been directly attributed to the storm. Five elderly residents died when the ventilating units in their homes gave out. A father and his ten-year-old son died from carbon monoxide poisoning—fallen asleep in their car, overcome by fumes. A thirty-two-year-old man was found frozen on the hood of a truck. Ms. Katie Delaney, beloved twenty-four-year-old schoolteacher, was killed in a single-vehicle accident, smashed into the concrete guardrail down by the reservoir, body catapulted to the road. A tow truck fished her car from the ice, its front end crushed like an accordion.

  It had happened to many of them, too. Out in the woods, caught in a storm while hiking or camping or skiing or biking or fishing or backcountry lovemaking. They were young once, too, headstrong and invincible.

  It was a light snow at first. They’d commented aloud on how pretty it was, and it wasn’t so cold, not at first, though forecasters had warned temperatures would drop precipitously.

  Who would go out in a blizzard dressed like that?

  It was Sadie Dunkel, nine years old, who called out to her grandfather, “Hey, there’s someone stuck in the tree!” The three Irish wolfhounds, cooped for two days, thrashed into the woods. Ward Dunkel, treading slowly, gritted his teeth each split second before the icy surface snapped under the weight of his snowshoe. It was the morning after the storm. The sun shone bright. The sky glowed a deep winter blue. He realized it now, that glint of pink he’d caught sight of earlier had been a rain boot poking out of a drift. He saw the two sugar maples loom ahead to his left. He knew the pair, their broad trunks joined together at the base to form a perfect V. Now the snow was piled high, there was room enough for a body to rest between them, and the back of the head touched one trunk while the naked foot touched the other. In between, the body lay, curled like a shrimp, knees to chest, head to knees, so all he could see was the purple polyester jacket with its fake fur–lined hood. But he did not need to see the blue-gray face with its shock-stilled eyes and blue-gray lips to know who she was: Lucia. Lucia Bok.

  The tree trunks arched, tall and majestic like a grand sleigh bed, the bare branches a moody canopy. She looked peaceful there, curled in that spot, as if she’d squeezed herself into a place of safety. Only the unnatural position of her left arm, dangling stiffly, indicated she was not taking a nap. How long had it been since she’d invited the neighbors to the house for that awkward little party, served cake and tea and asked after his granddaughter? “Don’t look,” he said. “Sadie, sweetheart, don’t look. Run and catch up with the dogs.”

  He touched the cheek with his palm and it was not like skin or flesh or anything housing life. It was solid. Stuck. Like a block of ice, a leg of lamb in the freezer.

  Careless. People are careless. People are careless and they die.

  But it was impossible to know the truth of another’s interior life.

  Wasn’t it?

  They shook their heads, puffed a cigarette or adjusted their hearing aids or clutched the edges of their leather armchairs with their fingers, watched televisions blare the news.

  Stefan was frying onions in the kitchen when Miranda set down the phone. He watched her face lock up, drain into blankness.

  “What is it, Schätzli?” he said.

  He dropped his spatula in the sink, switched off the stove. Her eyes, so dark, he could not see her pupils.

  Manny.

  “That was him?”

  He hated when Manny called. It could only mean crisis, never anything good. “Miranda? Who was that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Was that Manny, just now?”

  “No,” she whispered. “It was the hospital.”

  “Oh, Christ. Not again.” Fuck. Not again. It had been less than a month since she’d returned from that trip to Minnesota. Quiet, withdrawn. No fights, at least, was what she said, and he believed her—this was a purer sorrow. He’d mostly left her alone.

  “Not again, Stefan.”

  “What?”

  “She’s dead. Lucia is dead.”

  There was a storm. Her body was found frozen in the snow.

  What came first was not the fact of the body, or the snow, or the speculations of how the body came to be in the snow, or how the body was found in the snow; that would come later. It was also not the sadness, or numbness, or grief, or release; that would come later, too. When she slumped into his arms, face in his chest, already deep in a state of shock and dissociation, what came first was this: Manny. What will I tell Manny? And then: I should’ve gone to her after Yonah died. She was in that big house, all alone. And: The pills. She must have stopped taking her pills. These thoughts would bob to the surface for years to come, the what-ifs, the whys, fueling her bleakest nightmares, unleashing the guilt and anger for all she had done or not done or tried or not tried or plain never understood—it would take its toll, test their marriage, the inexplicable eruptions, retreats, assignations of blame, minings of pasts and souls in one relentless search for meaning.

  Forgiveness. That would come much later.

  Bu
t what came next was this: She was brisk, efficient. She sat in her wicker rocker on the back porch, pried open her laptop, booked tickets, sent e-mails, called funeral homes.

  Stefan accompanied her to Minnesota. She squeezed shut her eyes for the entirety of their flights. He drove their rental car straight to the morgue. When the reporters descended, she shied away. He turned his back to the cameras, tried to shield her from their insistent probes.

  The body was cremated. The remains presented to them in a cheap wooden box. “Approved for air travel,” said the funeral director, with a tight-lipped smile.

  It’s ugly. Oh my God, it’s so ugly.

  The funeral director broadened his smile.

  They placed the box in the middle of the backseat. Stefan drove, and she glanced at it frequently. Miranda, which way now? This way, that, curt, distracted, until at last they reached the rough gravel road. The barrenness of the woods. Maples and oaks. He could see the clearing now, the lake below, that vast stillness blanketed in snow.

  She did not want to enter the house. He had to go first, twist the icy doorknob. It clicked, giving way to the darkness inside. It was stuffy. Sober. He could see boxes and bins, Yonah’s possessions arranged in neat piles. When he flicked on a light, she let out a small cry. Muffled it quickly, her lips drawing into a tight, thin line.

  On the kitchen counter, a metal mixing bowl. Beside it, flour, sugar, butter, eggs. The police had not touched anything when they inspected the house. She rummaged through the cabinets, found a garbage bag, quickly disposed of it all.

  Ward Dunkel, the neighbor, came by to offer his condolences. He brought a loaf of currant bread. “I saw the lights on,” he said. “I live over there.” Through the tall, arched windows, across the lake, they could see a plume of smoke, rising, that distant tendril of warmth.

  She made a pot of tea. They sat in the kitchen. Ward Dunkel explained about the dogs, about his granddaughter. The tree. The snow.

  Stefan watched Miranda’s face grow hard, like the pain had frozen up inside her and all that was left was a layer of skin. And then she did not want to listen anymore and she stood, thanked the neighbor, said they really must get going. It was not their place, this house—this was Yonah’s house. They were staying at a nearby motel. They’d come to gather Lucia’s things, that was all, though perhaps Mr. Dunkel could help them lock up, look in on the place every so often. Shakily, she headed up the stairs.

  She disappeared for a while. When she returned, she carried her sister’s clothes in two large plastic bags. “Mr. Dunkel?” she said. “Is there a Salvation Army around here?” She wanted to make a donation.

  Stefan buttoned his long, wool overcoat, stepped out to the porch, a sharp bite in the midafternoon air. A squirrel scurried across the roof. Icicles hung from the gutters. The snow lay undisturbed. He popped the trunk of the rental car, set the clothing inside. Paced up and down the driveway, hands in his pockets, striving for warmth, avoiding chitchat with Ward Dunkel, who had wandered around to the side of the building to puff on a cigarette, the both of them waiting, waiting.

  She emerged from the house carrying only a few additional items: a canvas travel pouch, a small duffel bag, two medium-size paintings—a globby brown duck and a yellow goose. Childish renderings, not hers, in primary colors. Stefan had not seen them before.

  She placed the canvases on the backseat of the car, propped them up so they flanked either side of the lonely wooden box. She stared, biting her lip.

  “Mr. Dunkel?” she called out. “Was it far from here?”

  “Far?” said Ward Dunkel.

  But her eyes stayed fixed on the wooden box, and Ward Dunkel understood.

  “No, not far. About half a mile up the lake.”

  “Please, would you take me there?”

  • • •

  The snow was deep. The reflection bright. She raised one hand to shade her eyes, focused on lifting her feet. One step, then the next, through the forested white. Soon the house had disappeared, no discernible trail remained—only the dark maze of trees, branches, the thick wintry bareness. And three sets of footprints, marking the direction from which they had come.

  Ward Dunkel chattered. Up this way. Right through here. Not much farther now.

  It was not a long walk, twenty minutes, at most. But in a storm. Yes, one could get lost in these woods. They climbed down a hill, rounded a bend, approached a clearing where thin, purplish shadows crisscrossed their path. The sun, already low.

  “There,” said Ward Dunkel. He pointed ahead to the tall pair of sugar maples. Looming, stalwart, apart from the rest.

  Stefan could see her breath, quick and shallow. It condensed in the cold. Her comportment, stiff, unyielding. But he did not reach for her hand or place an arm around her shoulders or attempt words of comfort. He let her go alone.

  She walked up close, close enough to touch. She lingered there, examining those sugar maples, the immenseness of their trunks, each wider than her body, the way they joined to form a perfect V. She spread her arms like wings, arched her neck, tilted her chin to the sun.

  A gust of wind. A bird shuttled to air.

  “The finches, they stick around some winters,” Ward Dunkel said.

  She did not seem to hear.

  She turned in place, shuffling her boots. Rotated her body, surveyed from low to high. To low, again. And she continued to turn, turn, her gaze cast wide, until she had captured every detail of this scene in her mind: this chill, this hush, this illumined sky, this panorama, all three hundred and sixty degrees.

  And a softening came to her eyes.

  She would tell Manny of that day when she met him three weeks later in Ecuador, to deliver Lucia’s ashes—bequeathing them to him in the middle of a noisy airport café.

  They would speak at first of other things: Esperanza; the weather; the abject ugliness of that cheap wooden box. At least it’s travel safe, she said. This was her bungling attempt at lightness, which he readily forgave. Like her giant plaid suitcase from Orchard Street, he said.

  She would retrieve from her purse the small orange vial, set it down on his side of the table. It rattled as he shook it in the light. Was she taking them? Can you tell? They engaged in conjecture, each trying clumsily to absolve the other of sins, the ones they were certain they themselves had committed. She did not tell him her composure was a gross facade—that she’d vomited on the flight, once during takeoff, again as the airplane had pulled into the gate. He did not tell her of his shame—that for years he’d been unfaithful, that he’d rushed to find Luna after receiving the news. In the end they agreed: There should be no blame, yet each would remain tortured in the years to come, unable to fend off their guilt.

  He invited her to the campo. She politely declined. She could not bear to face the scrutiny of a family of strangers. He did not press. He understood.

  This was a brief encounter, tender, yet strained. They would part knowing what they’d always known: that they had each loved Lucia. And this was enough, for now, neither was ready for more. In grief, the future seems impossible.

  In the end, she would describe to him the best she could, that moment in Minnesota when everything else fell away. He listened closely. She watched his face as it crumpled. His body, too, sagging as though the bones had collapsed inside. And with shocking force, he would emit a long, bestial howl, shudder and sob and gasp unabashedly for air. Raw pain squeezed into fat, dripping tears.

  And Miranda’s would follow.

  • • •

  It was beautiful, Manny. It was beautiful there.

  Part Four

  Epilogue

  Miranda

  She said she would come to our apartment at noon, and at noon I was out on the balcony, watering my zinnias, as I had been every few minutes for the past half hour, peering anxiously at the street down below. She’d arrived in the city two da
ys before, insisted on making her own way to the NYU dorms. “She’s stubborn,” Manny had warned. Independent. Like her mother.

  She was prompt.

  “Come on up,” I called through the intercom. “Fourth floor.” I buzzed her in.

  I listened to the click-clack of her heels as she climbed the marble staircase. She was wearing heels, so I figured she must be concerned with making a favorable impression, and I found this somewhat reassuring.

  “Tía Miranda,” she said, slightly out of breath as she approached the wide-open door. “It’s me, Esperanza, your niece.”

  “Esperanza, come in. Welcome, darling,” I said. I kissed her cheek as we embraced. This was not a word in my day-to-day lexicon, darling, but with her bright blue raincoat and patent leather Mary Janes, she seemed just that. Darling. Lucia’s daughter.

  “Did you find your way? How was your trip? Are you tired? How is your dorm?” I asked, all at once. My niece and I had exchanged a few e-mails, spoken over video chat while she was submitting her college applications, but this was the extent of our communications.

  “It’s fine, Tía,” she said, laughing, “except I didn’t like the airplane. It made me feel sick. I didn’t like it at all.”

  We had that in common, at least.

  She was very beautiful, exotic, difficult to categorize, just as she had been as a baby. A healthy light brown color, luminous skin, eerily dark teardrop eyes, and one would not be able to say with certainty whether she was of Chinese descent, or a Latina, or a Filipina, or even some kind of indigenous South American Indian. She glanced around the living room, commenting on how pretty everything was: the white linen curtains, my prolific jade plants, the view over Central Park. I asked her to please sit, and she did not choose the leather recliner or the plush red couch with matching red and white throw pillows, but chose instead the piano bench, which she pulled out a few inches until it was within arm’s reach of the cheese and crackers I’d set on the coffee table.