“Sparky?” I asked as she moved determinedly past me, a brown muskrat wig sliding off her head. She pointed to the back and headed to the other side of the large room where, to my amazement, Gordon Mingle waited at a small table. He waved at the two of us. I’m sure Gordon was as shocked to see me in such a disreputable place as I was to see him there. But neither of us showed signs of it. I turned to find Sparky.
A sparse Hendrix-like guitar swelled across the room, its waves breaking briefly for a deep-chambered voice, “spellbound,” as the bar slowly filled with desperate clientele: a man missing most of his teeth, another dragging an oxygen canister, a chinless woman with more skull than hair. I sighed. It was too early for such a gathering.
Three topless mermaids floated languorously behind the huge bar. Their breasts fell back upon their chests as they rose in rotation to the surface for a breath of air. Their scaled lower bodies and fins fluttered with a variety of marine greens.
The music drifted:
“We were swimming through a daydream
And the sea released our feet
Then the sun laughed on the water
And hid what lay beneath . . . ”
I stood alone, unnoticed, at the center of the wooden bar, mermaids flowing above me in the massive tank —two white, one Asian— drawing ravening male attention, as the nymphs beckoned and suggested, and the men nodded in acquiescence. Everyone at the bar and in the large glass aquarium above them would likely be scarred and shredded if the tank were to shatter.
“You must be Eunis,” came a sandpaper, high-pitched voice from behind.
I spun around.
“Ow,” said the woman when she fully took me in.
“Yes,” I said without offering a handshake, which would have been both out of place and hygienically a mistake. “Is there a place we can talk? Back there?”
I walked behind her, not sure what I’d just seen. When we slid into the booth, back by the restrooms, the sharp smell of bleach and the broad smell of urine forced me to abandon breathing. Not for long.
“So?” Sparky said. She was very thin; piercings almost completely masked her face. Her eyes were set deep in shadow between sharp objects that threatened to blind. She could’ve been Asian, she could’ve been Native American, she could’ve been white. And almost any age. A well-worn beret pulled low on her shaved head, the stubble insufficient to hide the filth accumulating on her scalp, and no way to ascertain if it was her hair stashed in The Tell-Tale Heart. The ridge of her nose —though impaled so savagely I had to look at her sideways not to take on pain— was the only feature that suggested flesh and blood.
“Sparky?”
She rolled up the sleeve of her work shirt and itched at her arm, which surprisingly lacked tattoos of any kind. “I don’t have all day, and I’m just doing this ‘cause your brother is a fucking saint.”
I would’ve loved to inquire regarding his sainthood, but there were more pressing matters. “Lyle said you knew a woman who knew Harold Cloonis.”
“Your husband,” she said matter-of-factly.
“You knew him?”
“You mean did I have intercourse with him?”
“No, that’s not at all—”
“I never met him, but he must have been some strange dude.”
“You found him strange?”
“Not me, lady. I told you, I never met him.”
“But?”
“But there was this —not sure what to call her— I guess, friend.” She waggled her head. “Acquaintance. Anyway, she dated him. Well, they fucked like bunnies.”
“Harold fucked like bunnies?” I’d assumed I was the first, though I’d never asked. But then he had never offered. Anger, again.
“She said. Never watched them. Nothing wrong with that.”
“When was this?”
“. . . We were spellbound
Yes spellbound. . .”
Sparky paused as one of the mermaids, a full-figured woman with long red hair flowing like kelp, waved at her. She waved back. “Three, four years ago.”
Before me. I relaxed.
Sparky returned to me.
“That her, the one in the tank with the big bosombas?” I asked.
“Sherry? Hell, no. Pammy, Pamela, was tall, thin, short hair. She should have worn her hair longer, more feminine. Whatever she could do.”
“Lyle said you thought she was weird.”
“I never said that.” Sparky’s body twitched in obvious discomfort. “She was different, that’s all.”
“Where is she now? Her last name? How do I find her?”
“Don’t know, don’t know. Good luck.” Sparky began to slide out of the booth.
“Something, anything, you remember of what she told you about her time with Harold?”
“You wouldn’t hurt her?”
“Me?! Of course not. It’s about Harold.” Unraveling Harold.
“Well, the Woodland Cabins, down by Kabekona. She mentioned he took her there.”
The same place he’d taken me. I was adrift again.
“. . .Who knew we were just creatures
Shipwrecked on a beach
With nothing but each other
And the truth just out of reach
We were spellbound
Spellbound
Yes spellbound”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Traveling south on Route 371, the old highway straightened out, the terrain flattened, and the corridor of pine and poplar trees broadened like the sumptuous entrance to a private estate or castle. There was nary a car in either direction. The Chippewa National Forest, that first time with Harold, the revelation at the beauty opening up and surrounding me, and the anticipation of us— a couple of discovery.
Leech Lake spread out on my left, and soon I turned onto County Road 38 toward Kabekona Bay. The sign was still weathered, unimposing, but my heart dropped a few notches: “Woodland Cabins” and the arrow. I remembered a sliver of that day, the owner’s recognition of Harold as we entered, ever-so-slight. I’d meant to ask him about it, maybe I did, but it had been lost.
The whining of the vacuum cleaner was enough to drive me out, but I stood my ground in the reception cabin. I let the screen door slam and the woman jerked up from her cleaning.
“Oh. Oh! I didn’t hear you come in,” she stammered. “We’re not open for the season for another three weeks.”
I’d rehearsed several entrance speeches but they all failed me. “My husband stayed here, before we were married, and I need to find the woman.”
The lady switched off the vacuum and pushed the bandana back over her broad forehead to her tangle of brown hair. “What?”
I considered removing my shaded glasses for sincerity. Rethought it. “I have a photo of my husband . . . my late husband, and it’s important for me to find the woman he was with.” I pulled the photo from my jean pocket, shuttled closer, holding it out for the woman.
“I’m not sure . . . What is it you want?” She didn’t take the photo, her resistance growing.
“I need your help. I’m sorry, I know this is unconventional, but my husband . . . he committed suicide, and so much is unclear, and I thought that this woman — she was with him before me, before my time — she might have some clues, you know, for why he did it.”
“Have I seen you before?” The woman came closer.
I wondered if the truth was best. “Well, yes. I was here with him about a year ago. He proposed to me here. We had the cabin at the end.”
“Number one, The Tamarack.”
“He liked his privacy.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but we’re not a detective agency, and my guess is that my husband might not approve.”
“If you’d just look at my husband’s photo. Please.”
“Why a woman before your time? I’ve learned to stay away from such things.”
“We were barely newlyweds and he killed himself. Can you imagine living with that?”
The woma
n wiped the sweat away with her arm. She made a low humming sound, almost a growl. “Look, I’m going over to Cabin Number Eleven to patch a wall. Should take me half an hour.”
“I really can’t wait.”
“Be quiet!” snapped the woman. “See those binders?” She pointed to two shelves of binders that strongly resembled my own “Faces” scrapbook. “We keep one photo of every visitor or every couple that spends a week here. You’re probably in there with your husband. It’s chronological, you understand?”
The idea of photos unsettled me. “I doubt my husband would let you take a picture of us, and I don’t remember —”
“It’s in our contract and people appreciate it. Marty’s an amateur photographer. They’re spontaneous; they capture an intimate moment, memories. We’ve done it since the day we opened. I’ve got work to do.” She heaved brusquely and stepped away. “You’re welcome to search for your photo. I’ll be back in a half hour.”
She pushed past me but released the screen door gradually so it didn’t slam. I was left staring at three shelves of binders. Organized: a binder every year or two. But they weren’t that organized. No names or notations under a single photo, and the scrapbooks didn’t break evenly.
When I finally found the previous May, I discovered a photo that most likely was Harold and me, at a distance, out on the small dock, both with our arms up, as if in the midst of a conflagration. The photo cut a swath of pain along my sternum. I tossed the memory.
You’re a scientist. Narrow. The handful of pages gave me thickness by year, a skill that Harold had manifested. I took that information.
Calculating back four years to January 4th, I began moving to the present, scanning the pages of photographs, four rows, five photos each. My eye checked the wall clock every few minutes.
I was looking for Harold, but given the photo of Harold and me from only a year earlier, a long shot might be hard to decipher. I was surprised to find that most of the photos were not framed long, but loving, tender, probably taken close-up with a telephoto lens. Still, to find Harold . . .
My task was made easier because the winter months were out. May to September, twice to mid-October. I removed my shades, following every frame with my finger, wanting to stop at times to take in the warmth of couples seeing each other, perhaps like they’d never seen each other before or might never see each other again. I suppressed the longing and moved methodically on.
The pages fattened behind me. I was almost within a year of reaching my May with Harold, when I flipped back a page, took a second look at a shot of a couple, apparently on the same weathered dock in front of Cabin #1 on which Harold and I had stood. And fought? It was Harold, despite the shadow across his face, because the gawky fellow wore a dark blue pinstripe suit jacket, and beneath it, a cotton candy coral shirt. At a summer resort, who else! A breeze came off the lake, a yearning that swept through the screen door and startled me. I closed my eyes then took another look.
He held the woman at arm’s length, taking her in, awe apparently in his eye, the blue green lake behind them. She was older than he, thin, almost as tall, eyes wide in complicitous thrall, her blonde hair cut too short or too long. Pammy.
His arms rested, cupping above her waist and her arms . . . she had no arms! Sprouting from each shoulder was a small nob, then a thin hand, nothing more. Thalidomide, or something like it.
I snapped the scrapbook closed, all wind knocked out of me. I started to cry, my chest ground into fine particles, and all of them slipping away. I couldn’t tell exactly why. But the clock was ticking and I had to keep moving.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Harold’s box of books had been delivered and sat open in the kitchen, Momma scavenging through. “What’s this crap?” she asked holding a cigarette perilously close to one of the old books.
“It’s my crap.” I pulled Dickens and the Staplehurst Train Crash from her and rounded up several others Momma had scattered on the table, one of which, Great Expectations, sat in a puddle of beer.
“Touchy, touchy.”
I wiped the beer off Great Expectations with my jeans and put it in the box. “Lyle!” I called out.
“He’s resting.”
“Lyle, can you come out here and help me move something?”
Momma glowered.
“Whatcha need?” Lyle walked stiffly, more gangly and disoriented than ever.
“She shouldn’t a waked you,” said Momma. “I told her you was restin’.”
“It’s okay, Momma, just layin’ down.” A small wave at me, a small smile.
“You okay?” I asked.
He motioned not to worry. “Whatcha need?”
“This box. Into the cellar.”
After a lot of shuffling and grunting, Lyle and I got the box to the cellar steps and down, but not before he had to take multiple breaks along the way. He was pretty pale.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked again.
“Hangover.”
I wasn’t convinced.
“How’d it go?” He propped himself on the box. “With Sparky? She give you good juice?”
“I guess.”
“You learn somethin’ about Harold?”
“Can’t be sure. I’ve got very little to measure it against.”
“Small sample, huh?”
“Why, yes. You understand sample size?”
“Not really, just somethin’ comin’ up. Vocabulary. I try to keep learnin’. Makes for good lyrics.”
“You’re writing again.”
He shook his head. “Not really. Maybe thinkin’ about it.”
“Well, good, that’s great.”
“You need anythin’ else?” He tapped the box of books.
“I’m good. Thanks.” I leaned to hug him.
He started, he hesitated, he pulled away, signaled goodbye. “See ya,” he said, trudging his way up the groaning stairs.
Alone, my journal and Bleak House by my bedside, I paged through Charles Dickens and the Staplehurst Train Crash. My phone, suddenly connecting me to people, rang. I settled the book into my lap and reached for the phone. Roddy, again. I was ready to disconnect, then decided I’d throw the sailor off the ship, once and for all.
“Roddy,” I said flatly.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said, “but I got some information I thought you’d want.”
“How’s that?”
“Your friend Ruthie, the Jamaican lady, her grandson-in-law is looking for you.”
“Anthony.”
“Anthony. He’s gotten calls about the comb, whatever that means, and he’s not sure what he should do.”
I was speechless.
“Eunis?”
“Yes.”
“He said to tell you he hasn’t mentioned the comb to anyone. Still, he got a call. He says another curator got a call too. What’s all this about a comb?”
“No big deal, just some friends getting dramatic.” I imagined Roddy, probably a simper on his lips.
“Over a tool of beauty?” He said with some bite.
I’d never thought of it quite that way. “Yes.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “Anthony didn’t know how to reach you. What should he do?”
“I’ll call him. For now tell him to keep doing what he’s doing and say he knows nothing. How’d he call you?”
“Lyle gave him my number.”
“Lyle? Really?” Why would Lyle do that? A not-so-small worm of irritation twisted inside. But I was glad to hear Roddy’s voice after all.
“You okay?” he said, softening. “How’s it going up there?”
I tugged on my hair. “Fine, fine. Thank you, thanks for calling.”
“How are you?” he asked again.
“I’m reading Dickens.”
“Children searching for their father.”
“What?”
“Dickens, he was always writing about that. Anyway, how are you, really?”
“I’m fine, like I said.”
&
nbsp; “Could you use some help?”
I laughed. “If I need to get bailed out, you’ll be the first I’ll call.”
“Good, I’ll count on it.”
The Dickens book beckoned. “Thanks, thanks again for calling.”
“Sure.”
“Okay, bye.” And as soon as I’d hung up I realized I hadn’t bothered to ask how he was doing.
I fiddled with Dickens and the Staplehurst Train Crash. I even considered calling Roddy back. Then came that recurring dead frame into which Harold swung, vacant eye, by his neck, then out. Come with me. “Damn it!” I picked up Dickens and the Staplehurst Train Crash. I began reading:
“On June 9, 1865, the Tidal Train which transported cross-channel passengers was making its way to London, clattering through Kent at 50 miles per hour. Between Headcorn and Staplehurst, 50 feet of track had been pulled up for repair, the tracklayers miscalculating the time of the approaching train, a train that carried Charles Dickens and his closely guarded secret, his mistress Nelly.
The train hurtled over a small bridge into a stream. Ten passengers were killed and 40 injured. Dickens, a small man, was able to squeeze through a window and help administer to some of the injured, but not before he helped a beautiful young girl off the train, desperate that the Press and his wife not know his secret.”
“Son of a bitch!” I could envision Harold reading those passages, doubt or guilt fixed upon his face, as if he, not his muse, had been discovered. Had I discovered? And every one of the few things that I thought I knew, and I thought I could control, now felt like a violation. My frustration filled the room.
“Harold, you bastard!” I grabbed the journal and threw it across the room, first striking the light bulb then the small washbasin and tearing the yellow suturing fabric off the mirror, as shadows swung back and forth over me, and the muslin marigolds folded to the floor. Through the mirror’s corroded surface, I saw my own nebulous rage, slow vapors rising, disappearing in darkness, and rising again. All so unscientific. Until I considered what Lyle said, about inhaling Carver’s chemicals and what it might have done to my brain. What it might have caused me to do.
Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) Page 31