Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1)

by P. G. Lengsfelder

  The skyline was marinated in light. “It’s spectacular. The building is magnificent.” A downdraft. “A lot of pain here.”

  “Knock, knock.” A man’s voice. Two United Parcel guys stood in the doorway. The younger one craned his neck searching for someone else in the apartment. “Wasn’t she talking to someone?”

  The older guy smacked his shoulder. “United Parcel, lady. You had a pick up?”

  “You’re early.”

  “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’re done.”

  I showed them the box. Unconcerned by its size, they lifted it as if it were a box of balloons. “Have a good day, lady,” said the older guy.

  “Did you see her face?” whispered the younger one as they disappeared out of the apartment.

  “Schmuck!” I heard the older guy say.

  The elevator pinged and all traces of them disappeared.

  “Sam,” I said to the empty studio. “I don’t know if your soul sailed to heaven in that cedar box like Malcolm said. Maybe you’re with him. Or maybe your soul’s still here and you’re enjoying the view with the inmates. Not many rats get this view.”

  One last time I inhaled the skyline. And according to the funeral ritual? The wife of the deceased man lays on the funeral pyre, alongside her husband.

  Yes, but before the fire is lit, she is asked to rise from his side and rejoin the living.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Hey.” Roddy stepped into the penthouse. Then “Wow,” as he took in the view.

  “Did you know,” I said surfacing from my People magazine, “that Donald Trump owns the Miss USA pageant?”

  “Trump’s not surprising.”

  “According to this he also owns Miss Universe and a bunch of other beauty contests.” I let the magazine drop to my lap, like it was diseased, diseased like the past three months. “Fantasy, what we all hope for.”

  “Hmm. A proposed ideal, proposed by someone or something outside of our own imagination.” Roddy crouched until he joined me, cross-legged, on the floor by the large window.

  “But it’s our imagination,” I countered. “It’s still fantasy. It’s what we hope for.”

  He thought about it. I jumped in before he could speak. “Fantasy and imagination are both unreal.”

  “But are they the same? I don’t think so. Take, for instance, your beauty coordinates.”

  “Here we go.”

  “No, no, hear me out. Trump’s enterprises, your magazines, advertising, porn . . .” He picked up the People and let it tip disdainfully from his fingers and fall back to the floor. “Aren’t they all fantasies planted from outside us?”

  “And they require outside forces to be fulfilled.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So how is imagination different?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s inside here.” I tapped my head.

  “What happens in there?”

  “Hard to say, most of the time.”

  “No, really.” He waited as I considered. “Is it cramped in there?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “But when you’re imagining, not fantasizing?”

  “It’s spacious. It’s mine alone.”

  “You’re being creative. And probably sympathetic.”

  “I’m a scientist.”

  “Being creative.”

  “I need to stay within parameters.”

  “You imagined beauty in Harold. And what I imagine to be beautiful is different from another man’s conception. It may be unreal but it’s also worthy. It’s my creation.”

  He was insinuating. I skirted it. “So you’re saying that objective beauty, what society agrees upon, is just marketed and massed produced. I don’t believe that.”

  “Nor do I. But it does seem to arise by imitation, sometimes spread over a long period of time, creating a social agreement, or by a social icon, someone so stunning that society wants to emulate them.”

  Atara! But I said, “Scarlett Johansen, Halle Berry, George Clooney.”

  “Take your pick. Maybe even a group like The Beatles. They certainly changed a generation’s hair and clothing style in a matter of months.”

  What a mind! “You’ve certainly thought a lot about it.”

  “More since I met you.”

  He was hard not to like, especially when he kept dipping my heart in possibilities. And I wanted to but . . .

  He looked earnestly at me. “Maybe you should stay here and interview him.”

  “Him?”

  “Trump. I’ll bet he has many ways to turn fantasized beauty into gold.”

  “No, I’ve got to go. Momma needs me.” But the idea wasn’t so crazy. Trump probably knew all the measures of beauty, especially the ones most admired by the American public.

  “I’ll bet you could find a way to him.”

  “I’m not sure why,” I said changing the subject, “but I wanted to explain a few things to you before I go.” I braced myself.

  “If you say so.”

  “You’ve been kind to me.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  “I guess. I don’t have a lot of history with friends. I don’t have much history with anything beyond my life in Bemidji, really, except these past five months here.”

  “Please stay.”

  “There’s nothing to stay for.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Ten more hours in this place, then it’s gone. Most people will never see this magnificent skyline; most people in the world. But I did. Now it’s gone. Luckily, thanks to you, I can leave the lab – at least for now.”

  “It’s not much.”

  “It’ll get me to Minnesota.”

  “But your work?”

  “I’m not sure it’s in a lab.”

  “Can’t your brother take care of your mother?”

  “No, he really can’t. I wouldn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust himself. My sister wouldn’t even consider it. No, it’s got to be me. But there’s something else.”

  Roddy reached for my hand.

  “No.” I withdrew. The rebuke was like a slap across his face and he rubbed it. “I’m not like other people.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Let me finish.” I held up my hand and brushed the hair off my face. “There’s something not right about me.” He started to speak but I closed him down. “It’s Harold. He’s with me all the time.”

  “That’s natural.”

  “Maybe, but I have lapses of memory; things I can’t remember.” Disturbing things.

  “We all—”

  “Roddy, there’s truth back there that I have to face. It’s not just my extreme sensitivity to small spaces and the things I may or may not feel . . . or hear.”

  “You hear things too?”

  “Something happened to my husband, something that I was unable to see coming with all my supposed prophetic gifts or to prevent or . . .” A corrosive drip was underway in my stomach, vertigo traveled up my chest to my temples.

  “Or what?”

  “I don’t know. I seem to cause heartache for the people I know. Maybe I’m not as nice a person as you think I am.”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  It was going to happen to Elizabeth, it was going to happen to him too. My neck stiffened. “You and I are never going to be together.”

  “What makes you think—?”

  “Stop.” I fought to stay cold to those warm eyes of his. My face tightened. Tell him so he’ll go away. “I may be just as twisted inside as out. Possibly clinically disturbed. I may have already caused one man’s death.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  “I may be dangerous —to myself and others. I don’t know. It’s always been that way. I don’t understand so much that most women my age already understand.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He tried to regain some ground. “And stop blaming yourself. Man or woman, I doubt there are many p
eople who truly understand everything that’s going on around us. Maybe the Dali Lama or Jesus or some guy in Henderson, North Carolina. But we all gotta be careful of believing what we think.”

  “No, I’m a freak. I attract freaks.”

  “I resemble that remark.” He flashed a little smile.

  I wanted him to hold me; I wanted him to push me away.

  “It’s a fabrication, that you’re not okay.”

  I shook my head.

  “Here’s what I know,” he said, “though I heard it and read it so many times before I finally got it. The greatest trap is living a life based on what other people think. It’s one of the instructive myths.”

  “It’s not what other people think, it’s what I’ve experienced.” Just agree with me and leave. But my mouth wouldn’t stop talking. “What does that mean, instructive myth?”

  “We all live by the stories we’ve been told, legend and myth, some of it —much of it— foolhardy, some of it sound instruction.”

  I huffed.

  He rocked forward. “Look, consider there are two types of myths. One like the politicians throw at us, the one that uses the word myth to mean ‘lie.’ They use it to bludgeon an idea. Like it was a myth, a lie, that the healthcare system in this country wasn’t broken. When we all knew it was terribly broken. Using myth that way is a bastardization of our language, a manipulation, a fabrication. And of course those types of myths get repeated over and over again. Just like false family myths.”

  I didn’t want to encourage him, but I loved watching his mind in motion. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me about the other kind of myth.”

  “The original, ancient meaning of myth is that it’s a truth that’s been passed down through the ages by men and women because of their experience. There’s a collective truth to it. It’s instructive. We should hold that myth with reverence, even if we don’t believe all of it.”

  “But how can you trust any of it? How do you know which are the original myths, the handed-down histories, versus the manipulative or biased lies?”

  “Well, knowing the source is important.”

  “It’s in my head!”

  “Okay, if it’s spacious in there and you let your imagination play out . . . I’ll bet you’ll look for a compassionate result. You’ve got the good luck charm. And feeling the myth, letting it settle in before raging for or against it, that’s what works for me too.” He patted his heart. “It goes beyond language.”

  “Seems like a risky business.” I checked my cell phone for the time. Maybe he’d get the hint. One of us had to break out of the eddy.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, whatever. I’m a freak.” I slipped the phone into my pocket. “I need to find out what that means and I have to accept it.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  I sighed. He was anything but a freak. “Well,” I rose off the floor and dusted myself off, “time to say good-bye.” I said it as if I was saying good-bye to the apartment and, avoiding Roddy, I bid farewell to every corner.

  He got to his feet. “Well,” he said awkwardly extending his hand to shake mine, “then I guess it’s off to the great north woods.”

  “Yes.” I turned to face him, kept my arms folded in front of me. But then something caved in so deep in my chest that I walked over and gave him a hug, a small one. Our bodies made a low harmonic sound. “I think you’re a good man.” I pulled away, tearing several nerve endings.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Call me, tell me how it’s going up there, okay?”

  A small fragment of glass on the floor caught my eye and I stayed glued to it. “If there’s time, sure.”

  “Must be busy-busy up there this time of year, huh?”

  “I told you, if there’s time.”

  “Okay, then.” He patted his thighs. “Good luck with your past, it was never meant to last.” He walked out of the apartment leaving a few small heel clicks in the air, until the door squeaked, swung closed, and latched.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Three things consumed me that last week in New York: swimming at the Natatorium, trying to recover whatever elements of beauty I imagined in Harold, and connecting to Donald Trump. Buried in one of my now discarded celebrity magazines was a reference to Gordon Mingle, in some way related to the Miss USA pageant, to Trump and Trump’s experienced view of capitalism and its correlation to beauty. I emailed Gordon at his office and was shocked to get a quick reply.

  “Feel free to call me.”

  And so I did. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

  “Oh, I do. I do. You’d be surprised. But I’m not sure I can be of much help. I’m quite downstream from Mr. Trump. Besides, he’s in Beverly Hills now, according to the press.”

  “But you’re a celebrity, he’d respond to you.”

  “My celebrity is an illusion. You dabble in that sort of thing too, don’t you?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about and it made me uncomfortable. But if I couldn’t get to Trump, I had an alternate plan. “I read you’ll be hosting the Minnesota Miss USA trials.”

  “Going back the end of this week.”

  “Me too. Any chance we could meet?”

  He laughed as if he liked the idea. “Try my cell when you get to Bemidji, or if you’re on the Lake Shore Limited next Monday.”

  I’d make that happen.

  ***

  As the Amtrak pulled out of Penn Station for Chicago, the station’s dark subterranean passages grinded by and my own distorted reflection sat constant, like a patient jailer. I shut my eyes and rested my head against the window. I fell asleep to the rhythm of the rails, thinking of what my stepfather, Papa Karl, called the dog spikes that secured, with luck, each length of track; an uneven clacking that rushed me back to Momma’s farmhouse and the uneasy questions surrounding Harold’s death.

  I slept all the way to Rochester where boarding passengers quickly jockeyed for empty seats. Lyle was spread across our space, eyes closed clutching his guitar. I maneuvered over him and set out to find Gordon Mingle.

  Three cars up, there he was.

  “Gordon.” I stood over him.

  He needed a moment to place me. “Eunis Kindsvatter! You took me up on my invitation.” He stood and shook my hand. An unusually pleasing reception.

  “I did.” I nodded at the empty seat next to him. “May I?”

  “For a moment, there’s a woman already sitting here.”

  I maneuvered in next to him and smiled. He sported a small diamond stud in his right ear and still retained a hint of the plank stiffness that helped define him in high school. “So, family in Bemidji?”

  “Actually, they’re all dead.”

  My head bobbed in condolence.

  “S’okay,” he said. “The preliminary trials in Bemidji will keep me busy. Miss USA. Hard to believe someone thinks I’m a celebrity, like I’ll draw some attention. Anyway it’s a free trip home and my class is having a reunion so . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “Exactly, why not? Free is a beautiful word in America.” His head tilted, appraising me. “You know,” he said under his breath, “I’m glad you contacted me. I’m glad we could talk here. Who knows if I’ll have time in Bemidji.”

  “Really?”

  “I know something about you that nobody else does. It’s pretty dark.” His smile evaporated with sinister coolness.

  My spine arched. Shit. Not a clue in his face; nothing more than self-satisfied anticipation. I flashed on Harold swinging from the beam.

  “Really?” I was supposed to be the tactician. Nonchalant was the best way to handle it. The false prom date? He was two grades above me. The Valentine flowers planted in shit?

  “Why the train?” Maybe he’d drop whatever he was oozing to tell. “Don’t they pay weathermen enough to fly?” If he knew something about Times Square, he could finger me. Maybe he’d heard about Vic King, the attempted rape. Or he was aware of my exploits with Atara an
d Levi.

  “I’ll share my secret if you promise not to pass it along to anyone in Bemidji,” he said cool and businesslike. “I’m a hero there now.”

  “Will you make the same promise to me?” I floated it lightly, hoping to gauge the danger.

  “I’m not so sure.” His face was blank and serious. “What I know about you could get you in trouble. Like I said, dark.”

  Twisting the knife. He wanted money. This was a mistake.

  His chestnut beard rose up like a curtain starting a new act, a broad smile. “Okay, deal.” He held out his hand.

  “Deal,” I shook it, holding on to his uncommitted grip. I’d wash my hands later.

  “Hey, that’s my seat!” A freckled-faced black woman in her late fifties motioned me to get out.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, standing, the aggravation still tacked to her face.

  “We’ll catch up later,” Gordon said to me, “catch up on old times.” His face expressionless.

  “Yes, definitely.” I felt like I’d set my own trap.

  ***

  On the way back to my seat I weighed the dangers of involving Gordon in my research and decided that I had to stick with my plan. To distract myself I bought the latest Life & Style Weekly, a photo of a young Daryl Hanna and the current Daryl splashed across the cover. The headline:

  Ex-mermaid Daryl Hannah says she left Hollywood because her autism made her 'Terrified' of fame

  Which reminded me of Matthew Deere. Which reminded me of the fearful trail I’d left behind me, everywhere I’d gone.

  When Lyle finally stirred from his extended siesta, he made no attempt to engage me. He unfolded a Guitar Player magazine and began reading.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. He barely looked up.

  “Going back to Bemidji like this, aren’t you kind of giving up your music career? That’s always been your dream.”

  He paused and put a hand on the magazine. “Yeah, well, we can’t all go to college.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”