Bury This

by Andrea Portes

  He could not lose her. That was simple. Stay with me. Stay with me ’til the moon flies outward and the earth spins fast and the sun grows into a million billion trillion suns and devours the earth and the moon as one. ’Til the end of the green-grass trees, the ocean tides, the days into nights and nights into days. Stay with me ’til the end of the light, the last blast, the last dying days of oblivion. Stay with me as the earth and the moon are enveloped, devoured, scorched by the sun, and you and I shall cease to be as one. I will carry you.

  In the morning light off the ice-lake painting, a terror thought, a kill-you thought. What if she left me?

  EIGHTEEN

  Making his way over to Sanborn’s on Henry, his dark green Plymouth flying over the slosh pebble streets, Jeff Cody might as well have been levitating.

  This is the day. This is the day he’d do it. Saving up, he’d started not knowing what he was saving up for. Maybe a cruise, maybe a trip out west, maybe even a trip somewhere unheard of, someplace like Bali, Tahiti, Fiji, with bright umbrella drinks, giggling native girls, and inedible insect platters.

  Someplace he’d be gone and gone for good, lost forever to this too-planned, over-gridded nation, turning quickly into something he’d not quite understood, turning briskly away from that free-spirit ’60s and now, shimmying up to the ’80s, what would come?

  But now, this winter, this town, this most romantic, exquisite, exotic place on the globe. Muskegon, Michigan, a paradise of delights.

  And now, having saved and saved for those stupid, child-boy fantasies, he knew, knew now, that there was only one point, one arrow, one vector for this savings. Beth.

  Beth Krause, he would marry her, here, right here in Muskegon at St. John’s, maybe even the chapel choir would sing. Maybe even she would sing, sing at her own wedding. Oh, wouldn’t that be something? Now, that would be something to write home about. If there were any home to write to.

  If there were any parents to take her to. “Ma, this is my girl, Beth and me, we’re getting hitched!” And then later, “Dad, the wife and I are comin’ down for Thanksgiving, we got news!” And then soon after that, maybe even a baby, a baby boy, a towhead, maybe name him Wyatt.

  None of that. No, never. But he didn’t need that. Why should he? When he had Beth, both the sickness and the cure. Beth, both the little girl lost and the lusty woman he could bury himself into, each night, every night, for the rest of his boundless days.

  She would die when she saw this ring. He had one picked out of the paper. A green-and-white diamond emerald jobby, with the green in the middle, crystal on the sides. An oval-shaped stone, a trio, in silver setting or platinum, couldn’t decide.

  He would take her hand in his, get down on one knee, maybe at that French place, Mes Amis, down on Main. He’d wait until dessert. Or could he wait? Christ, he’d be so jittery. He couldn’t hide it, no, he knew. Better tell her up front, over champagne. A champagne toast! Then, he’d spring it on her.

  What if she said no. Impossible. But . . . what if she did? Oh no, he couldn’t think about that now. It couldn’t be. No, no . . . not after last night falling asleep in her arms, collapsing into her. Not after staring deep into those blue-ice eyes, owl eyes, eyes too big for her face, falling into her. You, you. What have you done to me? What has happened here? The same story, an ancient story, repeated here, again, for the trillionth millionth time. A man falls in love with a woman. Time stops. Never anything before and never anything after. A suspension of season, tide, the thousand natural shocks of past and future disintegrated, dissolved into a dew. Nothing bad. Nothing bad ever again.

  The outside of Sanborn’s a mirage of twinkling necklaces on dismembered bloodless necks, headless beauties, all in a line. Dress me. Drape me. Destroy me before I destroy you. The brisk stab air nowhere to be felt by this young man, this husky action, moving forward, forward into the store, a ring, a future. As certain as stone.

  Inside, an older woman. A Russian. On the phone. A quick look at Jeff and a size-up. Not a sale.

  Jeff, seeing himself in the mirror magic sparkle glass. Not a bad-looking guy. Handsome even. Handsome, yes, everyone told him so. All the girls, all the myriad girls. And Shauna. Not quite Beth. Not quite yet. But she would. She was just being shy, you know.

  Work boots, a navy parka, light blue jeans ripped at the knees but only a little. What’s wrong with him? There’s nothing wrong, right? It’s just a parka. It’s an ice-cold day and he’s wearing a parka and hiking boots. What gives?

  “Can I help you?”

  Russian lady buries the phone in the crook of her neck. Vague bleary words coming out of the receiver. Maybe her husband. Does he own the store? Is this the owner? Is this the owner’s wife? Why is she looking at me like that? God, is it that bad? Am I that bad?

  “Yeah, I was looking for this ring.”

  There, take it out. A newspaper clipping, folded, why did it look so pathetic all of a sudden? Yellow, framing red, the emerald ring in the middle over the print. While supplies last! Final sale!

  That was just this morning so of course they’d have it. How could they not? And anyway, they just say that, say that to get you into the store. Scam you. It’s all a scam, see.

  “Sorry, sir. That one’s out.”

  “What? No, you see, it says right here—”

  “—Out. We don’t have it. Very popular.”

  Was it his face? Was there something about his face? His hair! Maybe his hair’s messed up. Not thinking, his hand up to his tawny hair, combing it down, making it look like a casual gesture, a thinking gesture. Add a sentence.

  “You see, it’s for my fiancée. Or my future fiancée. I want to ask her. Want to ask her tonight.”

  “No more left.”

  “Listen to me!”

  And now, the phone gets grasped. The phone gets lowered slowly.

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “No, listen. Listen, what the fuck? I’m just asking for a goddamn ring! I’m just asking to come in here and BUY a motherfucking RING like you advertised here in the NEWSPAPER!”

  “Sir—”

  “I mean, what the fuck? Why PUT a fucking ad if you’re gonna treat people like this?! I am a CUSTOMER. A CUSTOMER in your store!”

  And now she’s speaking Russian, speaking thick-goop words into the phone, words welded together with Vs and Ws. Gobbledygook bad-guy words made of lead. Cold war words. Spy words. Into the phone, getting faster. Hurry.

  “What the fuck are you saying? What the fuck are you saying, you fucking old bag? Go back to Moscow, you fucking fat sow. Why don’t you fuck Stalin, you fucking borscht-face pig?! Fuck you!”

  And her face stays still, stoic-still, Stalin-still. But her hand goes forward and a button is pushed. A button is pushed in Sanborn’s on Henry and now an alarm goes ping ping ping through Jeff Cody’s skin, heart, veins. Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck out.

  And the green Plymouth can start fast and the snow can crunch under the tires and the borscht-mouth can swear in Vs and Ws through the dismembered row of necks. But somehow the ring cannot be bought.

  NINETEEN

  A rowdy night at Dreamers, full moon and all. A Friday night and something in the air. What will happen? What will happen next?

  Sky-blue jeans and a deep-red halter make Shauna the guy-fuck fantasy of the night. And Beth, beside her, boatneck and denim skirt . . . wishing to go home. He isn’t here.

  While Shauna does shots, plays pool, wracks ’em up, orders another drink. Still . . . he isn’t here.

  Growing impatient, staring at the clock, trying not to notice the slobbery, herky-jerky souses on every side. Pickled. The black-and-white checkered floor, the red painted walls, the drunken snapshots behind the bar. Piggy faces, Polaroid hollers, obscenities frozen in time. An endless parade of pickle faces teetering cheerfully into obscurity, the past, oblivion.

  Beth is not amused. Shauna and her dumb plans.

  But there was also the gui
lt. Shauna had confided in her that Jeff had left her for “another woman.” Shauna had cried, wondering who it could possibly be.

  Beth couldn’t bring herself to tell her.

  What was she supposed to say? “Well, Shauna, now that you mention it . . . the other woman is me.”

  Shauna crying to her for hours, asking repeatedly, “Who could it be? Who is it?!”

  And Beth silent.

  But tonight Shauna wanted to “forget it all, let it all hang out.”

  She had to come, she insisted.

  “C’mon. It’ll be ladies’ night! . . . It’s ladies’ night and the feeling’s right . . . ”

  And Beth relenting, guilty.

  Wanting to say no . . . wanting to be only with Jeff, wanting to lie in Jeff’s arms, curled up, slow fucking. Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. The pit of her stomach, a constant longing. A constant lack. Nothing makes sense, all is prologue, an endless smattering of pre-show music, the orchestra in the pit warming up, violins, reeds, strings, oboe. Until Jeff, swinging in, the symphony. The aria. The requiem.

  And he’s not here.

  Watching Shauna at the pool table, bending consciously provocatively, to shoot the orange ball into the corner pocket. Lotta green in between. And the licking of lips. The endless need of hers to be noticed, be the center. Look at me. Men. Look at me! I am here. I exist.

  (I exist because you see me.)

  Beth slips out into the ladies’ room, never meant for a lady. Plum-painted cement with black Sharpie marker, lipstick, pen graffiti. “Amy sucks donkey-dick.” “Berry’s a fag.” “Todd and Mira True Love Always.” “For a good time call Carla: 1-800-SLUT-CITY.”

  There’s a stall in the back and toilet paper in wads and ribbons on the ground. Beth waits by the mirror, pausing to catch herself. No, I’m not a rare beauty but I’m not that bad. I can’t be. Jeff loves me. I am loved. I am beautiful now.

  And here comes Shauna barging into the tiny cleaning-product vomit-girl room of Dreamers. All voice. Leaning in, best friends for sure, teetering sideways, speaking a little too loud.

  “Lookit. I gotta talk to you.”

  The toilet flushing from behind the stall. Out of the stall, skittering, a middle-age frazzled blonde ducks behind them and out the door.

  “Beth, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  In the background, Led Zeppelin screaming the speakers off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Jeff. I’m talking about Jeff. I know it’s you, okay? I know about you and Jeff.”

  “Shauna—”

  “I just . . . I think you should know something.”

  “Look, I don’t—”

  “I’m still fucking him.”

  Suddenly the screaming music, far away, slowing down.

  “I’m still fucking him, Beth. And I’m not the only one. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Such a stupid kind of concern. A hate concern. A Sunday Baptist picnic concern. A gossip-over-deviled-eggs concern.

  “But, hey, you know, what do you expect from a thug, right?”

  Beth pushes past, out of this puke Windex plum box.

  “You’re drunk, Shauna.”

  “Beth.”

  And now, a sensitive smile, a look of concern . . . laying her hands on her shoulders gently.

  “Beth. He gave me your locket. See. I have proof. He stole it from you and he gave it to me.”

  And, magically, it appears now, that blue-and-white Wedgwood cameo locket, out of Shauna’s hand. Evidence.

  “Look. I’m real sorry, Beth. I couldn’t believe it myself. I know how much this means to you. I just. Well, I really care about you and I thought you should know. And I wanted to give it back to you. ’Cause we’re friends.”

  The plum box getting smaller, crushing in, the walls of the trash-compactor toy death star. Closing in. Closer. Closer. Closer.

  The walls closing in and Beth gulping up for air, seeing herself in the mirror, weak, defeated. Styrofoam trash in the trash compactor toy. Garbage.

  Hands, hands, reaching up and over and out onto the lip of the sink. Throwing water on her face. Awake! Alert! Not a victim. Not a patsy. I’m no one’s fool. I’m not a fool. Tearing off her sweater, letting down her hair. Now she’s a girl with tousled hair in a flimsy white tank. Pinching her cheeks, she turns to her too-tall friend.

  I need a drink.

  Forgetting made easy, by the glass. Bottle up and explode, shatter your heart like a sunburst. You can’t hurt me now, nothing can hurt me now. I am invincible. Led Zeppelin means I’m invincible. That steel crescendo, crushing time. Building up to me hurting you, I will get you back. See how I get you back. In gestures. Watch me now. I’d like to take this opportunity to show you how it’s done. I am trying to break your heart. I’ll show you. I’m gonna show you tonight.

  Some go softly. I go loud. Hit me again. I’m gonna burn this night to the ground.

  Billy’s here. He’s the one that has it for me. I know what I will do with Billy. I know what I will do. Start slow. Start with laughing. Start with laughing and play swats. Turn this bar inside out. Play swats and giggling. Girl-style revenge, made easy by the glass. I can play pool, too. I can make that corner pocket shot and turn all eyes on me when I set it up, too. Look at me. All of you. Play swat and giggle. I will eat you alive. I will turn you against each other. Who gets me? Who gets me tonight? Wouldn’t you like to know, fuckers, fight it out.

  Shauna’s taking pictures and I don’t give a fuck. Look at me now. You don’t stand a chance. You made a monster. The room starting to spin now, keep spinning spinning spinning. Let’s spin this wonder wheel. Let’s see what happens with Led Zeppelin in the background and me on laps, his lap and then his lap and then his. I can do what I want. Watch me now, fast and loose. Revenge made easy, by the glass. Here’s how I hurt you back.

  How quickly you can tear the night to pieces, stumbling forward into the back room. Dark, sweat-smelly, sticky-floor room with a passed-out drunk on a red puff booth, lining the walls. Beer swill and cigarette smoke drift drift drift with “Sympathy for the Devil” building up from the jukebox. Billy with his ash hair, tumbling down into the booth, yes, now it is coming.

  I know how to make revenge in cool blows to the heart at dive bars. Watch this, Billy. Before you know it I am sitting on your lap. Little girl jokes. “Tell me what you want for Christmas, little girl.” Ain’t it a gas! What a hoot! I can pull your hand between my legs, under my skirt. Here, in a public place. In a back room with whiskey air and see-through smoke. Here. With that dead man snoring in the corner, belly up, I will show you how bad a good girl gets. Now, you never think I will do this but you never knew me anyway, yeah, that’s right, we’re in the back room of Dreamers, being bad bad bad but you are in love with this moment and we will kiss and lick and suck but you are not Jeff but we will kiss lick suck this heart to pieces, kick them to the floor and shatter the ground.

  All you have to do is not think of Jeff. Not-Jeff. Not-Jeff. Jeff. Not you is who makes me go. Not-Jeff. Not-Jeff. Jeff is what makes me. Jeff doing this. Not-Jeff is the one between my legs now. Not-Jeff trying to burrow into me. Not-Jeff trying to lift my skirt. Not-Jeff thinking it’s all a joke. Not-Jeff trying to get me.

  Not you! Not you, fuckface!

  Get the fuck away from me. Don’t touch me. Get off me. No I don’t care if you “get off,” go fuck yourself. Kicking you off me and leaving you cold, stumbling out the back door, through the parking lot, stumbling home.

  Yeah, I left you high and dry, so what? That’s how you get to see who I am. Yeah, I’m gone now before you knew what the fuck happened. Now you see me. Now you don’t.

  The blind light from the road swooshing by. I know, I know, I shouldn’t be walking. Teetering home in the dead night, I can make it, it’s not that far. Fuck Shauna. Fuck Shauna and her oh-so-earnest “I don’t want you to get hurt.” Oh, yeah? Isn’t that exactly what you want? Stupid cow. Pudding face.

  Snow an
d ice-slush on the ground. I got this one. I got a home and a bed I can get to. I got a car pulling up now. A middle-age fat-bag with an unsteady smile.

  “Need a lift? It’s awful cold . . . ”

  Tumbling back a step, taking him in. What would it be to get in a car with an ox of a stranger? Who would I be then? What would that make me?

  It doesn’t matter now. He’s got me. He’s got me, heave-ho, and lifting me to the passenger seat.

  “We gotta get you someplace warm. Geesh. Your lips are blue.”

  Who gives a fuck about my lips and someplace warm. There is nothing warm anymore. The front seat, a spinning cage, spinning dash, spinning rooftop, spinning window. Outside the street-lamps looming by like sentinels.

  TWENTY

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Giddy with satisfaction. Giddy with revenge. Giddy with watching it unfold. It’s working. I think it’s working.

  Shauna sits tight. Rifling through, rifling through, watching Jeff from the corner of the room. Dark blue carpet and a wood cork wall. A picture of a lighthouse in a pale beech frame. A seascape.

  Soon they would be shipping out to Scranton. All of them. Soon he would be gone. No more Jeff. No more dark hair and swagger and heart-killing nights at Dreamers.

  She could make him love her. She could. It was easy. All she had to do was show him these pictures, tell him the story, get a few witnesses—if he needed. No, he wouldn’t want anyone to know how deeply it struck.

  Leveled.

  Jeff, sitting on the far corner of the bed, muffled sheets of teal and peach, staring down at the tiny white squares.

  There she is. Pictures in the middle of the white squares. Look at her. Boy, she is really the life of the party, this one. Let them paw you. Let them ogle you. Let them do what they like. My Beth. My little Beth. Elizabeth.

  Not mine.

  Not mine anymore.

  Now she belongs to anyone. Now she opens her legs to anyone. Now she hikes up her skirt for anyone. What else does she do?