O Beautiful

by Jung Yun

  “Someone’s here,” she says. “I have to go.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

  Maren sighs into the phone—a long, slow exhale, as if a valve just broke open and she’s releasing all her fight. “Jesus Christ, El. I don’t know why we even try anymore.”

  33

  The tow truck driver isn’t moved by her explanations. He simply stares at her, his head tilted and arms crossed, looking like someone who’s heard it all before, probably from people worse off than she is.

  “It’s too bad you lost your room at the Thrifty, miss. But if you’re not staying at the hotel, you can’t keep sitting in their lot all night.” He points at something just past her shoulder. “It says so right there on the sign.”

  Elinor is exhausted. She has been for a while. Every argument with Maren, no matter how familiar or repetitive, always leaves her feeling abraded, all tender skin and raw, exposed nerves. Afterward, it’s hard to believe how close they were as little girls, falling asleep in the same bed and holding hands when they walked to and from school. Elinor doesn’t recognize who those children are anymore. Her memories of them almost feel false, planted by someone who wants to look back and believe they were closer than they actually were.

  On the spectrum of major and minor fights, the one they just had hovers somewhere in the middle. Recoverable, with time. In a month or two, Maren will probably call her up or send a text about something innocuous, and Elinor will eventually answer. Neither of them will mention their conversation today. To do so would risk wading into the quicksand of another argument. They’ll add the unkind or insensitive things the other person said to their ongoing list of resentments, preserving them for later use. Elinor will probably never hear another word about Gary unless she asks, which she won’t. How desperate she was to think that she could stay with Maren for the rest of this trip. In her panic about losing her housing, she ignored the fact that distance had always been the key to maintaining any semblance of peace between them.

  “Hey.” The tow truck driver waves at her. “You listening?”

  “Yes, I heard you. Will you give me a minute?”

  “I think I’ve given you plenty. Now, rules are rules, miss. It’s time for you to go.”

  The way he keeps calling her “miss,” combined with his invocation of rules, needles deep under her skin. Rules seem so arbitrary here. Just small demonstrations of power by people who have very little, used against people who have even less. She glances at Hannah through the window of the hotel and feels the same spike of anger all over again.

  “Where the hell do you expect me to go then?”

  The sharpness of her voice surprises her. It seems to surprise him too. She’s been doing this more and more lately, letting her feelings toward one person spill over into her interactions with others. It wasn’t the cleaning woman’s fault for having a job to do. It’s not his fault, either.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, briefly covering her face with both hands. “I’m just frustrated because I can’t find a place to stay tonight.”

  The driver takes off his baseball cap and scratches his pink scalp, most of which is visible through thin gray wisps of hair. He looks off into the distance, but it’s not clear whether he’s thinking about possible suggestions or trying to keep his cool. She waits for him to say something until the silence stretches on for too long.

  “So … do you have any ideas?”

  He looks at her, exasperated, either with the premise of the question or her impatience for an answer. Normally, a reaction like this would prompt her to apologize and back away. Something about being a woman, a nonwhite woman, has made her sensitive to inconveniencing others, swift to assume that her presence isn’t wanted. But the Bakken doesn’t reward this kind of behavior. She thinks about the Mexican kid that Harry Bergum told her about, the one he never referred to by name. Nineteen years old, arrived in Avery without a plan or even a winter coat, Harry said. Somehow, he figured out how to survive here, probably because he had no other choice. Elinor has to be as dogged and determined as he was, as all these roughnecks are, coming to a place that beckons with opportunity but quickly spits out the unresourceful. If she can’t summon the strength to do this, then maybe Hannah was right. She should just go home.

  “The Motel 6, the Days Inn, the Sunnyside Lodge…” She begins reciting the list of places that she’s already called, counting them off on the fingers of her left hand before moving on to the right.

  “But those are all motels,” the driver interrupts. “You’re not going to find a room at a motel anywhere near here.”

  “That’s why I’m trying to figure out if there are places I’m not thinking of. Word-of-mouth places like boardinghouses or—I don’t know—campgrounds?” She calculates how many days she has left until her flight back to New York. Only five, which can’t be right, but it actually is. It feels like she wasted the first half of her trip, doing all the things that Richard wanted her to do. His bidding, which was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid from the start. “Where would you tell a new roughneck to go if he didn’t have any housing lined up?”

  He scratches his head again. “I heard the Lutheran church lets guys stay overnight if they’re really desperate. They say it’s part of their Christian mission,” he adds sourly. “It’s the big brick church near the high school—the Good Shepherd.”

  “The Good Shepherd,” she repeats, wondering why he’s looking in the back of her car now, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare. “And you think—you think they’d rent me a room there?”

  “Wait. It’s just you?” he asks, pointing at the lone bag in her back seat.

  “Just me what?”

  “Just you in town. You’re not here with someone? Like a boyfriend or a husband or something?”

  She hesitates, not certain why he’s asking. “No? I’m here alone.”

  “Oh. Then you probably wouldn’t want to go to the church.”

  He seems to think this comment requires no further explanation, but Elinor doesn’t follow. “I’m sorry. Why’s that?”

  “Because it’s not a hotel, with actual rooms or doors that lock or anything. It’s a bunch of guys on cots and sleeping bags in the basement, with everybody out in the open. It’s like a…” He raises his eyes toward the dusky sky, which is a color somewhere between violet and blue. Pretty, if not for the cloud of gnats buzzing overhead.

  The driver waves his hand in the air to scatter them. He frowns, still struggling with the word he can’t remember. “What do you call those things they set up for people after a hurricane or a tornado?”

  “You mean an emergency shelter?”

  He snaps his fingers at her. “That’s it. That’s how they set up the church at night, like an emergency shelter. You wouldn’t have any privacy at all.”

  She understands that he’s telling her this because she’s a woman, because despite an occupation that demands a certain amount of indifference to people’s hardships, he’s not entirely without a heart. He doesn’t want to be responsible for sending her to a place where something bad could happen. The thought of this, however well intentioned, almost makes her want to laugh. I’m here, she thinks. I’m already goddamn here.

  “But I’ve been calling around for hours and can’t find a room anywhere, so it sounds like the church might be my best bet?”

  He looks at her with a slow shake of his head, as if she doesn’t understand what she’s getting herself into. “I’m not sure the pastor would let a single woman bunk with all those men. Don’t you got a friend or somebody you can stay with?”

  She tries not to appear stung by the question. Elinor is terrible at friendship, not for a lack of desire but a lack of practice. In her twenties, everyone she knew was transient. The girls she lived or hung out with passed through each other’s lives quickly, either because they quit modeling or moved up in the world to more expensive apartments a
nd wealthier crowds. Later, in her thirties, Elinor often felt like she’d regressed, sitting in college classrooms, being stared at by kids who were as intimidated by her looks as she was by their intellects. This is probably why she continues to circle back to Maren despite all the grief their relationship causes. The list of people in her life is short and keeps getting shorter.

  “I don’t have anyone I can stay with,” she says. “That’s why I’ve been sitting here, trying to figure something out.”

  He takes a swig from an oversize travel mug. “Actually, now that I think about it, if you don’t mind the drive, you’d probably be better off going to Emerald’s—that big truck stop on your way out to the reservation? Not the first set of truck stops, the one that’s like twenty miles past them, the brand-new one. They don’t got a towing contract yet so people have been parking there overnight.”

  She drove by Emerald’s earlier that day, registering little more than its bright green signage before speeding past. “They really let people sleep in their cars?” she asks, skeptical given all the bans on overnight parking in the area.

  “For now. But people are pissed off about it because the whole place pretty much turns into a junkyard for RVs at night. It won’t be long before someone steps in and breaks it up, whether it’s the company or the county or whoever.” He takes another swig from his mug, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to find a space this late, but if you do, that’ll be a whole lot safer than the church. At least you can stay in your car.”

  The irony that she’d be safer in a parking lot than a church seems lost on him. Elinor lets it pass and simply thanks him.

  “Good luck to you, miss. And, hey…” Something in his voice changes, as if he’s trying to choose his words carefully but sound casual when he says them. “When you get there, don’t forget to lock your doors before you go to sleep, okay? Make sure you do that.”

  The corners of his mouth lift, but the effect is awkward, as if he’s not used to smiling. Even so, the attempt changes his expression for the better, allowing Elinor to see the type of man he probably is when he’s not on the job. A father with adult children of his own. Maybe even a grandfather. Someone who understands what it means to worry about another person but doesn’t have any control over what happens to them in the world. She could have asked what he was afraid of, why he seemed so intent on steering her away from the church, or why he felt the need to remind her about locking the doors, but she already knows. It’s the same reason she got so upset when she thought Maren had left her passed out with a man named Danny. All during the drive to Emerald’s, she thinks about how strange this is—two people with seemingly little in common, possessed by the same unspoken fears and conclusions about what might happen to a woman like her, alone in the Bakken, alone anywhere really. That shouldn’t be. The things they’re afraid of should be impossible to imagine, not the first thing they assume.

  34

  It’s a quarter past eight when she arrives at Emerald’s. The parking lot is huge and well lit, with signs directing semis to one side and passenger cars to the other. It’s both exactly what she hoped and nothing like she expected. The tow truck driver said it turned into a junkyard for RVs at night, which she assumed was an exaggeration. But as she drives up and down the long rows, searching for an empty space, she sees campers and pop-up trailers and mini RVs—all old and deteriorating. Not a newer model in sight. Men sit outside their vehicles on folding chairs, drinking beer or cooking on miniature grills. Several have gone out of their way to make themselves comfortable, to create some semblance of home. Coolers double as ottomans, iPads do the work of televisions, T-shirts as large as flags hang out to dry on makeshift clotheslines strung from awnings or antennae. She drives past a couple with an elaborate setup in front of their otherwise ramshackle trailer. They have an area rug—to keep the dirt at bay, she assumes—and a half moon of mismatched lawn chairs positioned around a small folding table. Tiki torches burning bright with citronella separate their space from the people parked on either side, who have similar setups. It’s clear they’ve all been living here for a while. She imagines Gary trolling the aisles of Walmart in search of things to make his RV more inhabitable and finding her sister instead. She shakes her head, trying to rid herself of the thought of Maren visiting him in a place like this.

  At the far end of the lot, Elinor loosens her grip on the steering wheel, relieved to find some empty spaces in the back row. Surrounding her are a couple of trucks; a minivan; a battered Ford Escort, its front end resting on cinder blocks instead of tires—all with out-of-town plates and hints of people sitting inside. A tinny sound of a radio, a glow of a phone screen. Some of the cars have aluminum foil sunshades, made for keeping parked cars cool. Instead, they’re being used as curtains to block out the cars’ interiors to passersby. Others have flattened pieces of cardboard or old bedsheets covering all the windows, hiding the occupants and their belongings. It’s strange, knowing she’s surrounded by so many people she can’t see, but it doesn’t feel as dangerous as she thought it would. She spots several women sitting around with their husbands or boyfriends, drinking beer and listening to music at a quiet, surprisingly respectful volume. A man walks past with a yapping Pomeranian, delicately holding a leash in one hand and a bag of dog shit in the other. He keeps pleading with it to hush and shush, as if he’s aware that they’re walking through the equivalent of strangers’ bedrooms. The dog continues making more noise than its little body should be capable of, its short orange legs a blur of constant movement.

  Having nothing but her bag and the clothes on her back, it doesn’t take long for Elinor to settle in. As soon as she does, she dials Richard’s cell, aware that she just has to do it, whether she’s ready for the conversation or not. She’ll never sleep again if she keeps avoiding it. The line doesn’t ring before the outgoing message states that the mailbox is full—barraged, no doubt, by people like her, people who want and need to know things. She hangs up and tries the landline at his apartment, expecting a similar announcement until a woman answers breathlessly.

  “Richard?”

  Elinor hesitates. “No. I’m calling for Richard. Is he there?”

  “Who’s this?” the woman asks.

  “Elinor. Elinor Hanson.” She struggles with how best to describe herself—as a former student, a former girlfriend—so she doesn’t describe herself at all. “Who’s this?”

  She hears the distinct metal strike of a lighter. Once, twice, before the flint finally catches and the woman exhales.

  “It’s Lydia.”

  “Oh. I didn’t expect…”

  At first, Elinor doesn’t understand why Lydia is picking up Richard’s phone, assuming that he’s the one calling. Why would he call his own number? But then she realizes that they probably live together now. Lydia thought he was calling home.

  “He’s out, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  There’s no point asking if she’s aware of the things that Richard has been accused of. Although Elinor can’t see her face this time, she hears the difference in her voice. It’s morose and charmless, punctuated by the steady inhale and exhale of her cigarette, probably one of those thin brown 100s that only rich older women smoke. Lydia is fully aware.

  “Are you alright?” Elinor asks.

  “You’ve obviously heard.”

  “I have.”

  “News travels fast,” she huffs. “It hasn’t made the papers yet, but everyone seems to know already.”

  Something in the background squeaks. Elinor recognizes it as the door to Richard’s balcony. The hinges always dried out no matter how frequently they were oiled. Suddenly she can hear the ambient noise of the city. Traffic and barking dogs, a lone siren in the distance. She has a guilty pang of nostalgia for Richard’s apartment. She used to love the view from where Lydia is standing now, looking at Gramercy Park below in all its manicured glory. It us
ed to seem strange to her, the thought of a city park that only certain residents had the keys to enter. It’s a world away from where she is now.

  “How’s he doing these days?”

  “Is that why you called?”

  Lydia’s tone suggests that Richard’s mental and emotional state should be the least of her concerns. But Elinor can’t help herself. She revered him for a year and dated him for another. When she writes now, it’s often his voice that she hears in the back of her head, urging her to comb through something again, to go back to the drawing board and do it better. She almost never regrets listening to him, however harsh or critical she imagines his advice. “He’s not handling this well, is he?”

  “What do you think?”

  Richard had always been a difficult person to accuse of bad behavior. She considered this quality the flip side of his charm. If Elinor mentioned that she saw him looking at another woman for too long, he’d defer and deflect until she began to question what she really saw. It made her feel crazy, like she couldn’t trust her own eyes, combined with the added insult of having to apologize for starting a fight “over nothing.” Sometimes, she wondered if his resistance to accepting responsibility was a function of his intellect. Richard was accustomed to always being right, or being able to lean on his rhetorical gifts to convince people that he was right. The more someone deserved an apology, the harder he fought not to give one, like it was some kind of sport that only he knew he was playing.

  “How did you even find out about this anyway?” Lydia asks. “Aren’t you still in North Dakota?”

  “I am, but one of the women … she tracked me down out here and asked if I could help. I can’t, obviously.” She emphasizes the word “can’t”—for her sake or Lydia’s, she’s not sure.

  “Aggressive, aren’t they? The witches won’t be satisfied until they’ve ensured Macbeth’s demise.” She pauses for a moment. “Of course, that’s what he deserves.”