Bury This

by Andrea Portes

  It’s a sin, dear. It goes against God. It’s an insult to all you’ve had, all you’ve been given. There’s a reason they call it the green-eyed monster.

  And so, with this sudden envy, this sudden desire to be someone, Beth didn’t hesitate when her best friend since grade school Shauna Boggs took out her Polaroid and told her to lift up her shirt.

  NINE

  Beth was glad to be back at choir practice. Here she knew the rules. In her white sweater set, under the white wood rafters: This is who she was. This here. Not like yesterday. That wasn’t her.

  She didn’t know what had happened. It had happened so fast. Why had she been so weak? Drinking a beer, fooling around. It was supposed to be play. Afternoon playtime, before work. Not what it was.

  “Dona Nobis Pacem.”

  The song they sang nearly every other week. A round. A beautiful round. The soprano part, by far more interesting. Soaring. The alto part, a dirge. She could sing both parts, if someone fell ill, she would step in, knowing both parts by heart. Yes, she was the favorite.

  What had Shauna meant by all this? Swooping around, drinking a beer, taking pictures. She’d just meant it as a joke, for God’s sake. But here it happened. Not a joke. A mean little trap, somehow, but Beth could not say how.

  Shauna had waited ’til Beth was nearly blacked out, rolling back, lazy arms and eyes. She’d closed her eyes and, as in a dream, she’d opened them and known she was not supposed to. Shauna’s mouth, her lips, her tongue, on her chest, her bare chest! It was a trap! Beware!

  Yes, it was a trap. But she hadn’t stopped her. Why hadn’t she? What was it in her that played dead, lay back, and watched this maybe-lifelong woozy dream come true? Was Shauna in love with her? Why had she done these things?

  Wasn’t it a sin to do these things? Licking, touching, kissing, that was for husbands on wedding nights, not girl people in the light of day. One of them a spider, one a fly. But Beth knew, also, she hadn’t stopped her. Not what she was doing at first and not what she did later. No, she hadn’t stopped that either. If Shauna wanted to get drunk and devour her whole, who was she to stop her? Just this once.

  But there was an uneasy thought, a devil thought, coming up from her ears, tightening her throat. For a second, she thought she’d heard the sound of something, something else. Click. Click. Click. More taking pictures. Click. Wait. Click. But how could Shauna have been taking pictures when her hands, her mouth, her eyes were all on her?

  Don’t let devil thoughts get you. Don’t let devil thoughts get you in church.

  TEN

  The second-story room at the Green Mill Inn was nothing to write home about. Paneled walls, blue carpet, a perfunctory picture of a boat on Lake Michigan, a print of an oil by a mediocre artist. There’s a lighthouse but it could be any lighthouse. Dirt blue, beech, and cream.

  Room 202.

  An even-numbered room, which annoyed Jeff. He didn’t trust even numbers. Always he would try for room 107, room 111, room 115. But 202. No good could come of it.

  “Did you give it to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Billy! Did you give him the pictures?”

  Jeff keeping her at bay. What a little piece of sausage Shauna was! Packed into her tank top and blue-jean shorts. Those pudding legs pale as Pringles. A lifetime of cornflakes and white bread and beer. Her mouse hair, wet around her temples, yes, they had been up to something. Up to no good. Again. Afternoon delight. Although the afternoons were becoming less and less delightful. She was not the one he wanted.

  From that day she had paraded him around like a pink pony in the front office, it had pulled him back like a tide. Drawn him to and fro. In and out. Crashing again and again into the impossibility of it. She was too good for him. Shauna, ha—well that was easy. But Beth. No. She would take work. And even then.

  “Listen, ya can’t tell Billy you know about the pictures, okay?”

  “I know, I know. Geez.”

  “It’s just guy stuff. That’s all.”

  That phone call he’d gotten, so sudden in the middle of the afternoon. “I’m here with Beth and we’re taking dirty pictures. Billy would die!”

  Yes. Billy. That’s what he’d made up. A stupid little trifle of a lie. To cover. “Why you asking so many questions about Beth? You in love with her or something?” And it just slipped out. “No, fuck no . . . Billy thinks she’s cute is all.”

  Since then, a weird obsession, an overzealous engagement on Shauna’s part. “Tell Billy.” Or “Yeah, Beth’s coming. Get Billy.” Or “Maybe Beth will be there . . . hmmm . . . maybe ask Billy, huh?” Such a stupid little child-girl fantasy she’d put together. The importance of it somehow magnified, he could not imagine why. So he’d played along. “Ha, oh yes” and “Oh, I will.” Wink, wink. And he’d played along, sure, he’d played along that afternoon when got that phone call.

  “Billy would die!”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Beth’s over and we’re taking Polaroids. Billy would freak out!”

  He could not say how or in what state he’d managed to fling himself over into that little situation. All he knew, hearing her words, was that he had to get involved.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Yeah, you guys should come over. Pretend it’s a surprise.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Why the fuck would he call Billy? Let’s be plain, Billy didn’t even know who Beth was. It was all made up, for Christ’s sake. But there she was, Shauna, going on and on about it.

  And now, these bad-girl pictures. What the fuck was he supposed to do but stare at them all day. Over and over. Then put ’em back. Forget about them. But then, again, bubbling up, boiling over, get them back again. Stare stare stare at that lily-white little miss perfect Beth Krause and think long and hard, strategize, how to get her.

  Shauna prodding again. “You know, I think Billy’d like Beth.”

  “What?”

  “Billy. He’d like her. Don’t you think?”

  “Listen, I wouldn’t set these guys up with a dog, let alone a girl. They’re thugs, Shauna. Half these guys are ex-cons.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Yeah, right. Unions aren’t what they used to be. It’s payola. Half of it’s greased. More than half.”

  “Yeah, but Billy’s nice. Quiet kind of.”

  “Shauna, he’s done time, get it?”

  But she’s not listening. Tricks and setups. Knowing more than the next guy. This is the sound of wheels turning.

  ELEVEN

  The ivory-sand beach of Lake Michigan, the red dusty clouds, billowing in the distance. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning. Here, now, the dusk over the picket-fence in the sand. The brush in the dunes. The slate-gray water today, almost still. Lap lap lap from across the lake, all the way from Canada, those waves!

  Lap lap lap, a lullaby lull Beth leaned into. Lingering on the sand, skimming her hands over the twisting fence, daydreaming the day down the shore, the lighthouse in the distance. One day she would have a fence of her own, not a wind-worn falling thing but a white picket fence, a dream fence and behind it a dream house. A white colonial with black wood shutters. A rose garden. Maybe in the back, a trellis. On Sundays, she’d have Mom over and they’d drink tea and talk about the garden. A lovely story-book, small but graceful life she would quietly steer through the morass, the chaos, the darkness.

  As calm and true and gracious as her mother, as strong as her father through Normandy, she would prevail.

  Behind her, emerging from the trees, a figure, not her friend. Shauna had asked her to come here but that wasn’t Shauna, was it?

  She had never looked at Jeff, really. Other than to note his height, his dark hair, dark eyes. That was all. An assessment. Seeing him now, his features coming into place, she hadn’t realized how desperate his eyes, as if he startled even himself.

  “Beth. Don’t be scared. It’s just me. Jeff. Reme
mber?”

  “Why should I be scared?”

  If she hadn’t been before, she certainly was well on her way now, having set it in her mind.

  “Shauna’s running late. She sent me to tell you.”

  “Oh . . . okay. Thanks.”

  Turning toward the shore, that was the end of it. Something about this Jeff from out west disturbed her. He was full of himself. He seemed a construction of billboards and cigarette commercials—but talking to him, taking in the stumbling blocks of his thoughts, there was nothing there. A thin veneer of interest. Yes, he looked more than attractive, dreamy even, to someone like Shauna. Someone dying to be dying of love. But get past a few subjects, you’ll see. He’s all hat and no horse.

  “Beth. Um. Beth, I was wondering if you . . . were cold. You can have my jacket.”

  Staring out onto the blue-charcoal water, she hardly heard him. Yet heard something. Turning, she saw him closer. Now. Too close.

  “It’s okay . . . Jeff.” She struggled for his name. “You don’t have to wait with me.”

  Please go away. Go away! I don’t want you here! What do you want from me?! Jesus.

  But now Jeff was closer.

  “Look, Beth. I just wanted to tell you . . . ”

  “What?”

  Searching for something to say, anything.

  “My friend, um. My friend Billy. He really thinks you’re something.”

  “Oh.”

  What a fucking grunt. Who the fuck is Billy? The wind getting cold across the lake. She’d had enough.

  “Look, will you tell Shauna to just call me, my shift starts in half an hour, I don’t have all day.”

  It wasn’t what Jeff had meant to do. Meant to say. He was making a fool of himself. Him! Jeff Cody! Goddamn this girl really drove him off. That was it.

  He grabbed her and pulled her to him. Fucking little doll face, don’t you see?

  “That’s a lie. I made it up. It’s just. Beth. I was supposed to leave two weeks ago. I was supposed to leave two weeks ago to go back home and I can’t leave, I can’t go anywhere, I can’t do anything or get anything done or walk and talk and think because of . . . um, because of you.”

  Silence.

  Lap lap lap from the shore.

  And then Beth, soft as the breeze through the reeds, “Are you making fun of me?”

  “What? No! No, are you kidding?”

  “I think I’d better go—”

  “Beth. Look at me.”

  And Beth looking down at the sand. There was a castle once. A vague memory of a sand castle with four turrets, a tower, and even a moat.

  TWELVE

  In that moment between dreaming and waking, that moment before all the myriad little nothings of life come flooding, cutting you off, killing you—there he would be, Jeff Cody, in her almost dreams, semiconscious, pulling her, pulling her toward him.

  To want, to want not to want. An endless enterprise of grasping away from him, away from him, must get away. But always the moon pulling the tide, back back lap lap lap, back to him.

  That first night, how clever! How he’d taken her to the Swingline factory, the lights in a buzzing glow, the machines sleeping, the gears at rest. A funny little secret moment between her and Jeff and the machines. No one will know. The echoes of the metal casings, clink clink clink. The clock, every clock, tick tock at the center, up up high, lording over the factory, lording over them, doling it out.

  How many times had that clock been looked at, been pleaded, oh, please, pleeeease, go faster, please get done. Life awaits! But no, the clock answered, this is your life. Face it.

  Jeff Cody walking behind her, watching her taking it in. A sigh to it.

  “I read in Newsweek in twenty years this won’t be here. None of it.” Beth staring at the ceiling, a vent three feet wide crawling down from the rafters.

  “C’mon.”

  “No, that’s what they said. No more factories. They said it’d be like a ghost town.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  A girl-shrug. Look, she’d read it. It wasn’t her fault.

  “Where’d they go? Huh? What’d Newsweek say about that?”

  “I dunno. China.”

  “Ha! See what I mean. They don’t know jack.”

  She stops now, contemplating the line of time cards. Punching in. The clock. Don’t forget. Punch in. Punch out. Don’t forget to punch out. You’ll get docked. One minute late is fifteen minutes late, don’t forget it.

  “Buncha Chinks don’t know nothin’ about making cars. Get serious.”

  The light ending at this side of the factory. Lights out. Lights on. The break room to the left. The mini-fridge, just like at the Green Mill Inn. Beth thought there would be something in that mini-fridge, something left, something gross. There always was.

  Two-month-old sour cream. Leftover hoagies. Takeout.

  Those mini-fridges always a lesson in sadness, a lesson in neglect, a lesson in who-gives-a-shit-anyway. Just leave it.

  “Kinda makes me sad.”

  “What?”

  “That article kinda made me feel like . . . I dunno . . . like we were losing, like we were gonna lose somehow.”

  “Oh, sugar.”

  And now his arms are out. His arms are out and around her, pulling her, pulling her in.

  “They don’t know shit. That’s just some dumb reporter gotta make a deadline.”

  Hope. There is hope after all. Beth’s face letting it take over, open up, open up. The clouds do part. The sun does shine. We will win!

  And now she is pulled in and he is wrapped around, a Brawny paper towel affection, somewhere deep in the morning hours before light and the coming of the dreaded Chinese. They would never win. They would always be less. We would never be shamed.

  Taking her head in his hands, little doll head, come to me. He would kiss her on that little button nose and say, “I’m gonna take you out of this one-horse town.”

  A sort of smile up. A scared sort of smile.

  “You watch.”

  And nothing more. Not a kiss. Not an advance. A statement. He takes her hand. Little hand, follow me, and walks her out of the factory, out away from metal sleeping and lights buzzing and clocks tick-ticking away. Time is running out.

  Then the next time. The second date. A mystery . . . He takes her out to the levee, now in winter. She’d never been. He closes her eyes and leads her over the snow, through the sugar maple woods, a crystal cathedral of dangling branches and, hidden away, at the end of the path, an ice rink, the water frozen two feet thick, the same water that in summer had enveloped her white bikini body now a slab of stone, a flutter of white marble, but that’s not the best part. Hold on. Hold on. Keep your eyes closed. Now! Now open.

  And Beth opens her eyes and now the ice pond is lit up. A million little white lights in the trees. Christmas lights. He’d strung ’em. Look, there, he plugged them in. Some kind of mini-generator, a box that makes light, and now the levee. . . .

  Beth looking up, the crystal ice chandelier, the twinkle branch overhang like nothing ever before, this effort, this beauty, the beauty of the effort, this man who’d do anything. This man in love. Or was it love? Maybe it was a trick. Maybe some kind of joke. She couldn’t make sense of it. The whole thing, overwhelming. Like pouring an ocean into a teacup.

  And now this man coming closer, a hesitation. A puzzle.

  “Wait. Why are you crying?”

  And it’s true, Beth standing there, not one but two tears, one for each cheek, a crystal drop, water made of quartz.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . so beautiful. . . . ”

  “Oh, darlin’. You’re so strange! How ’bout that? I build you a lit-up ice rink and you start crying. Jesus, there’s no hope!”

  “No, no, it’s just . . . I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, you better get used to it. I got lots of things to show you. You just wait.”

  And now, handing her ice skates. “See I got ’em. Hope
they fit.” He puts down a blanket, too, sets her down on the rocks. I’ll help you. One at a time, each skate. Hard to lace up in this cold, hands shaking.

  Beth quiet now, watching him knelt down before her. What did it mean? What did he mean? What did he want from her? I mean, it’s obvious. She knew. But he got that everywhere. He got that from Shauna and, for all she knew, he was still getting it.

  “Jeff …”

  “Uhm?”

  “Does Shauna know about us? I mean, does she know, you know, that …”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah, you know.”

  “What us?”

  “I dunno. That we’re here.”

  “Is there an us?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Do you want there to be? Maybe?”

  But Beth doesn’t answer.

  And now the laces are finished. Done. And now Jeff Cody stands up tiny Beth Krause on her feet and escorts her to the side of the ice. Careful. Careful. And now he sets her free.

  “Go on now. Let’s see what you can do.”

  And Beth now in the middle of the ice cathedral, the branches leaning in trying to grab her, hold her, hold that beautiful thing. The zillion-light twinkle and Beth in the middle, skating grace in her ice skates and white fluff ear muffs. My little angel, he thought. How will I get her? How will I keep her?

  Jeff Cody wanting to put a giant glass casing over them. Stay. Stay. Stay here in this glass gleaming case. Stay here in this moment forever. Don’t leave me.

  And then the third date.

  A shudder.

  The third much ado he had made. Sitting there in the White Swan Inn Bed and Breakfast. She’d told her parents she was spending the night with Shauna, a dangerous lie, she knew. But they would never check. She knew that, too. Shauna, to them, something they didn’t need to see, something they didn’t want to think about.

  The B and B a historical monument. The best bluegill in town. The restaurant below, the best on the lake, it was said. Better than Mes Amis. A jarring thing, at dinner. The waiter had poured the wine and he had made a joke. A dumb joke. But it was embarrassing, the whole setup. The purposefulness of it all. Beth felt overwhelmed.