by Jung Yun
“Well, yeah.” Dani reaches for her drink, which is almost empty. “Some of the houses on my route have them like that in their windows.”
They talked about her job on Thursday night, she’s certain of it. But the pounding music and purple strobe lights are making it hard to think. Elinor envisions swimming pools and fires, something involving a hose.
“I service septic tanks,” Dani reminds her.
“I’ve seen a couple like that too,” Aaron cuts in.
Elinor didn’t realize he’d been listening, but the redhead whom he and Fat Mike were ogling is on the dance floor now, sandwiched between two other men.
“So what does it mean?”
“People who hang their flags that way, they think they’re under siege.” Aaron takes the phone from Dani and looks closely at the photo. “Yup.” He nods, handing the phone back. “My cousin’s got his like that.”
“No shit?” Dani says. “Nick’s into this now?”
The “this” is what Elinor needs to understand, what she can’t afford to get wrong. She’s not out to ruin anyone’s life or reputation, after all. She understands the importance of being careful. It’s hard, if not impossible, to counter accusations like racism or sexism or anti-Semitism in the negative. How does one go about proving that they’re not something? How do they account for what they haven’t said or done or thought? Rarely do records like that exist.
“Who exactly does your cousin think he’s under siege by?” she asks.
Aaron shrugs. He takes off his baseball cap and runs his fingers through his hair before putting the cap back on. “Nick’s not a bad guy. He just liked Avery the way it was before all these people started coming. You know, when we had the town to ourselves.”
She pauses at his use of the word “we.” Suddenly, even a simple pronoun feels like a jagged piece of metal—harmless when it’s resting in an open hand but also a potential weapon, depending on how it’s being held, who it’s being held by. “Which kinds of people, Aaron?”
He looks at Dani and Fat Mike and then back at her again. The fact that none of them will answer, not even Dani, is a type of answer. “I don’t think he’d feel that way about you,” he says carefully, perhaps realizing that he’s waded chest deep into something he shouldn’t have put a toe into. “You, I bet he’d like.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Well, that. And you’re good-looking,” he adds.
This isn’t the compliment he thinks it is. Elinor doesn’t want to be easier to accept or tolerate compared to other people of color because she’s female, or half Asian, or part white. All this does is buy into the idea that some people have the right to do the accepting and tolerating and comparing, while others are simply there to be judged.
“Let me make sure I’m hearing you correctly. People who hang their flags upside down around here, people like your cousin—they think Avery’s under siege by certain types of people of color who they don’t want in their community? Did I get that right?”
Aaron glances at Elinor’s hands, which are empty. No pad, no pencil. “You’re not gonna say it was me who—”
“No, no. This is on background. I just need to be a hundred percent certain about this. It’s important.”
Behind them, there’s a roar of laughter and shouting. The guys in white polo shirts all down shots of something in unison and then cheer. It appears that the tequila or whiskey they’ve been drinking since she arrived is having its intended effect. Elinor sees several untucked shirts now, along with bachelorettes playfully perched on laps. Some of them have even transferred their BRIDE TRIBE sashes or feather boas and tiaras to the men they’re sitting on.
Aaron finishes off the last of his drink, glancing at his watch as he sets the glass down. “Yeah, you’ve got that right.”
Fat Mike, who’s not much of a talker, must be a friend of Aaron’s cousin because he finally speaks up after sitting most of the conversation out. “Nick’s harmless, just so you know. It’s not like he’s wearing a white sheet and rounding up Black guys with a shotgun so he can run them out of town.”
No one says anything for a while. They’re probably as chilled as Elinor is by the mention of a white sheet, which there’s no mistaking the symbolism of. She thinks through how she wants to respond, aware that she needs these people badly, but they don’t need her. And they’re not likely to appreciate her pointing out that racism can sometimes be ugly and overt like this, but more often than not, it’s the drop of poison in the well that people don’t notice because they’ve been drinking the same water for too long.
Dani tips her head back and sighs dramatically. “Oh my godddd,” she shouts at the ceiling. “I had such a good buzz going before this. Can we please talk about something else?”
“Just one more question,” Elinor says. “Shane Foster—the guy who was married to that missing runner—is there any chance you knew him or knew whether he flew an upside-down flag when he lived here?”
All three of them quickly shake their heads. Elinor studies their expressions, not certain if the swiftness of their response is the result of just wanting to move on or actually not knowing. She’s grateful for the arrival of the waitress, who appears with the drinks she ordered nearly half an hour ago. If not for the fresh round, she suspects that Aaron would have made a move to leave. The drinks were supposed to be doubles, but they look even more generous than that, which was probably Michelle’s doing. She raises her glass to them, trying to restore some of the good energy she killed with her inconvenient questions. It’s not an apology for what she’s done so much as what she’s about to do next.
“Okay, last question,” she says, and they all groan loudly and drink. “I promise, this is really it. And then I’ll grab another round for us, okay? I’ll even go to the bar this time so it won’t take as long.” She scans their faces for a response. Dani still appears in be in reasonably good humor about her presence. Her brother, less so. And Aaron, not at all. Despite this, she gets nothing in the way of pushback on her offer, either because they wouldn’t mind another round or they’re relieved at the thought of being rid of her for a while.
“I heard a rumor that Leanne Lowell left town on her own, that she wasn’t kidnapped at all…” She trails off, hoping one of them might jump in, but they just sit there with confused expressions, waiting for her to continue. “That’s why I was asking about how people hang their flags around here. I started wondering—what if her husband got fed up with how Avery was changing and decided to make a statement? What if he was that kind of person?” she adds delicately, avoiding eye contact with Aaron. “Other people in his family were. But maybe Leanne didn’t want any part of that, so she just took off instead?”
As Elinor spins this alternate version of events, filled with more what-ifs and maybes than any responsible story should ever include, she remembers asking for Shane’s contact information, which Mrs. Mueller refused to provide. She’s not sure if Mrs. Mueller said “He’ll never talk to you,” meaning “you as a writer,” or “He’ll never talk to someone like you,” which could have meant something else.
“It’s humiliating to be a man whose wife leaves him,” she continues, thinking of her father, who never remarried, never dated, never got over his sense of betrayal and loss. “So maybe he just went along with the idea that his wife went missing instead of acknowledging what really happened. Is that … is that something you’ve ever heard people talking about, or maybe thought about on your own?”
The three of them look at her like she’s drunk and they have to take her back to the hotel again. After a while, Dani just shrugs.
“It’s a nice thought,” she says, frowning almost. “But you know that’s not how these stories usually end, right?”
44
The crowd on the dance floor is like a wall now. Elinor slowly pushes through the bodies and makes her way to the side of the bar that Michelle is working on. She even manages to get two seats like she did before, offered up by a pair of
guys who try to make conversation before giving up and moving on. Dani squeezes in beside her, having insisted on coming with, probably to re-create the conditions that worked so well for her on Thursday night. Elinor decides to take a break from asking about Shane and Leanne while they wait to order their drinks. She’s aware that she’s been testing the limits of everyone’s patience since she arrived, so it’s a surprise when Dani returns to the subject unprompted.
“I wasn’t trying to be a jerk when I said it was a nice idea,” she says. “You know, about that lady not being dead.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“Well … yeah. Don’t you?”
She isn’t sure what to think or hope. But the casualness with which they’re discussing a human life gives her pause. How worn out they are by the same old story, told and retold so many times.
Michelle glances at her from behind the bar. She’s grim faced; her expression says she’d quit right now if she could. She’s holding a bottle of Cuervo upside down, moving it quickly over at least two dozen shot glasses arranged in tight rows. She doesn’t measure. She barely even looks. She just pours, swapping one bottle for another when the first runs dry. A barback appears from a side room hefting a steaming tray filled with nothing but freshly washed shot glasses. Elinor imagines the number of customers shooting hard liquor tonight has everything to do with Michelle’s bad mood.
“I mean, what are the chances?” Dani continues. “Someone goes missing like that, she has to be dead, right?”
No, Elinor thinks. Not necessarily. Not always. Sometimes, women really do just leave. A few years earlier, she found her mother on Facebook, of all places. By then, Nami had changed her first name to Naomi, something Elinor discovered simply by searching for “Nami Hanson” and scrolling so far down the list of results that alternate spellings began to appear. The second she saw the thumbprint-sized picture, she recognized the face staring back at her as if it was her own.
Nami’s profile page was just a shell, the kind started by someone who hadn’t been fully committed to the task. There was no mention of where she lived, or whether she’d remarried or had more children. Her list of friends was private. She hadn’t included any information about her jobs, past or current, much less taken the time to share her favorite hobbies or books. The only content was an album with six uncaptioned photos, all taken at national parks in the western US—Glacier Lake, Bryce Canyon, Moab, Joshua Tree, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon. The photos were always of Nami alone, but she didn’t appear lonely. Far from it, in fact. Irrational as it was, the longer Elinor looked at them, the more she began to think of the smiling images as private messages from her mother, a sign that she was alive and well and in the world.
Maren wasn’t even curious or interested when Elinor brought up the account, as if she’d already discovered it on her own. She seemed more upset that Elinor was thinking about trying to reconnect. Given her reaction, Elinor didn’t mention how she’d scoured the rest of the Internet for evidence of Nami, looking for a phone number or address as she’d done countless times before. Having her correct name didn’t help as much as she thought it would. There were simply too many Naomi Hansons, none of whom appeared to be their mother. For months, Elinor considered just sending her a message on Facebook, but she talked herself out of it every time, convinced that Nami had given her a small glimpse of her life, and it was happy and free.
Dani drums her fingers against the bar, either impatient with the wait for drinks or Elinor’s slowness to respond. “I think that whole conversation about Aaron’s cousin just put me in a weird mood. I mean, Nicky’s not my favorite person, but we pretty much grew up together, so it sucks to hear where his head is at now.… Anyway, I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I had to be such a dick about some lady not being murdered.”
It seems like Dani is apologizing for things she’s not really guilty of. But for the moment, Elinor has a more immediate concern.
“Hey,” she shouts over the music at the guy standing behind her. “Could you stop pressing up on me like that?” She’s relieved to see how spooked he is by her request, how quickly he takes a step back from her stool. The club is so crowded now, she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t leaning against her on purpose. She turns to Dani again. “You don’t have to apologize. It sounds crazy when I say all of this out loud, I realize. I’ve probably just been thinking about it too much.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Because it’s interesting, right?”
Dani blinks sleepily. Despite insisting that she lost her buzz, she still seems a little drunk. “How’s that again?”
“It’s nice to imagine that she got a chance to start over.” As soon as Elinor hears herself saying this out loud, she knows why it’s interesting to her.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” someone shouts, tapping her roughly on the shoulder.
She rolls her eyes, not turning to face him while Dani tries to suppress a grin. Elinor isn’t sure what bothers her more, the uninvited touching or “Don’t I know you,” which had always been her least favorite line when she was modeling. She wasn’t famous or successful enough to actually be recognized by anyone. It was such an obvious lie, designed to play into some perception of shallowness or vanity that men assumed she had, that she actually did have for a while.
“I’m sssserious,” he continues to shout. “I’ve seen you before.”
The man sounds completely wasted. He taps her shoulder again. She assumes he’s going to keep doing this unless she tells him to go. Elinor swivels her stool around to see a white polo shirt just inches from her face, the armpits damp with sweat. She’s eye level with the breast pocket, which has a black circle on it and a letter H drawn inside. Haines, she thinks. Haines Hydraulics. She looks up, landing on a bright red face that flickers with recognition at the same time hers does.
“Seeeee?” he slurs, his breath thick with Jack and Cokes like it was on the plane. “I knew it was you.”
Elinor stands up, pressing her back against the brass rail of the bar as she reaches out and grabs Dani’s forearm. Even when she’s no longer seated, the man towers over her by several inches, so close that she can smell his aftershave and sweat. She looks around, pinned in on all sides by the crowd. She squeezes Dani harder.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, trying to loosen Elinor’s grip. “Hey—hey, that kinda hurts.”
“Are you just going to stand there and ignore me like you did on the plane?” The man sways from side to side as he speaks. “You remember that? You remember how I was trying to make conversation and you were such a cunt to me?”
“Watch it,” Dani warns.
The man glances down at her, and suddenly his expression darkens. “Was I talking to you?” He sways toward Elinor this time, trying to lean on her stool for balance but he misjudges the distance and brushes the side of her arm. She jerks back so violently that her elbow knocks over a melting glass of ice on the bar. As water drips down her back and onto the floor, his mood takes another wild swing and he starts to laugh.
“Oops! Youuuu’re cut off! Bartender! No more for this one over here!”
She can feel him breathing on her again. Again, she thinks. Again. Despite her best efforts to convince herself otherwise, she knows this sensation, knows it was real. Panic wraps around her throat and tightens like a fist. She turns and stares wide-eyed at Dani, digging her nails deep into her skin.
“What?” Dani shouts.
“Is there a problem over here?” Michelle asks.
Elinor looks at her with the same paralyzed expression. Please, she thinks. Please. But what she’s pleading for, she’s not even sure.
The man shakes his head at the three of them and points at Elinor, tracing the air around her face with his finger. “Ssstuck-up, that’s what you are. Don’t talk to me, she says. No talking. Sstuck-up.” Something about this exchange is giving him such pleasure. He smiles at her—big, smug, righteous—and then begins to walk
back to his coworkers in the corner. The crowd, probably sensing that he’s about to be sick, lets him shove and stumble past without complaint.
“What happened?” Michelle asks. Then she looks at Dani, whose arm Elinor is still clutching. “What the hell just happened?”
Dani slides off her stool and slowly pries Elinor’s grip loose, finger by finger. When her arm is free, she reaches out and tips Elinor’s face toward hers. “That guy do something to you on the plane?” It’s a question, but she doesn’t ask it like a question. Elinor wouldn’t be able to answer anyway. Her entire body is shaking, overwhelmed by a surge of rage and terror that’s about to arrest her heart.
“Maybe you should take—” Michelle starts.
“Yeah. Okay, come on,” Dani says, leading her away. “It’s too crowded over here.”
As they return to their table, Fat Mike and Aaron glance at their empty, drinkless hands. At first, they look disappointed, but then they do a double take at Elinor. Both of them quickly stand up, searching her face for an explanation before moving on to Dani’s. Suddenly the three of them are huddled together, and then Michelle appears with two bouncers in tow and all six of them are huddled together. They talk and glance over their shoulders at Elinor, then talk and glance some more. Before she understands what’s happening, the four men elbow their way into the corner and soon the pushing and shoving and yelling begin.
“What did I do?” someone shouts.
The polo shirts aren’t roughnecks. They’re not tough, even when they’re drunk. Most of them scatter at the first sign of trouble, abandoning their bachelorettes and each other. A few of the younger ones try to step in for a while, patting the air with their hands and urging everyone to stay calm. But none of them are willing to throw down in the end, not even when the bouncers, Aaron, and Fat Mike pick up their coworker, each of them holding him up by a limb.
“What the fuck did I do?” the man from the plane keeps shouting.
The four of them walk toward the exit, carrying him off like a pig they’re about to slaughter. The man tries to kick his way free, all the while cursing and demanding to be put down. Fat Mike stops as they pass Elinor, forcing the others to stop alongside him, as if they’re awaiting further instruction. She knows she could put an end to this if she wanted to. She just has to tell them to let him go. But one look at him brings all the rage she’s been carrying up to the surface, memory after memory of being touched, leered at, diminished, demeaned, assaulted, humiliated, ridiculed, and shamed. She hasn’t known what to do with this anger except reflect it back at the world that gave it to her.