Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1)

by P. G. Lengsfelder

  “Well come on out, we need to talk. An fer god’s sake, be careful.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming out.”

  And when I did, he said, “What are you doin’? You’ve got more at stake ‘an I do. Come on.” He led me over to the old caboose where we sat against the sleeper timbers on the sunny south side, sitting side by side, looking away from the house, away from its cluster of black ash and box elder trees, and out the driveway, up the rutted road. We didn’t speak for several minutes. The last remaining scent of creosote wafted in and out.

  “You know why Momma never got rid of this caboose?” he finally asked.

  “She was lazy?”

  “Nope. I don’t think that was it.”

  “She thought it was art?”

  He turned to me with a surprised soft smile. “In a way, you’re right.”

  I gave him a curious tilt of the head.

  “If art comes from dreams,” he said, his shrug signifying seems right to me. Then his eyes traveled up the road. “It was Papa Karl’s hack, his caboose, ya know. He salvaged it from the Burlington. He loved it, with its cupola. It was considered a helluva caboose in its day with its coal stove. It was art. It was his dream, and it became hers too. Saw a picture of it once. It was red, I mean really red, alive, before nature and all the seasons got to it, before we ever saw it. Momma once told me that Papa Karl was gonna trick it out and they were gonna hitch it with his connections and ride it all the way to New Orleans when they’d saved enough money. They’d go on some high adventure.”

  He breathed deeply. “Course they never made it, what with Papa’s accident and all. She blamed it on Papa Karl for not believing in the dark spirits, the tussers, the mylings. Or the Christian ones.”

  Lyle scuffled the dirt in front of him with his boot. “It was their boat down the Mississippi. They never made it. That’s somethin’ the three of us have in common —me an Papa Karl and Momma. Not like you and Carly.”

  It sounded too much like a farewell, and I didn’t want him to go. “You’ve got time. Every day they’re finding cures.”

  “Naw.” He shook his head. “I’ve run out of time, it’s okay. Had my chances. Danced up a storm, just never danced with any direction.”

  I put my hand on his arm. It was atrophied and, I suspected, brittle.

  “I wanted to thank you, Sis.”

  I shook my head, resisted the clouds rising in my eyes.

  “No really.” He focused on the dirt, his eyes also beginning to brim with dampness. “Tomorrow night, that means a lot to me.”

  “We can talk about this later, after —”

  “No, listen. That guy, that Roddy, he’s a real man. You were in New York, what’s the Jew word? Mesh?”

  “Mensch.” My dimple may have shown for an instant.

  “He’s that, and you should be nicer to him.” Lyle scratched at the dirt. “I needed someone . . .” His voice caught. He stopped for a moment, wiped his nose with his sleeve, regained his composure “. . . but I thought I don’t need no one. All that shit Momma told us, all that scary shit . . . those folktales, those myths. But you taught me better. Sis, you taught me better.”

  I rubbed his shoulders.

  “So I got a lot to thank you for, and we ain’t even sung our song yet. But you listen to your brother Lyle, okay? This ole caboose,” he waved weakly at the lacerated hulk behind him, “it only has thirty-nine feet of track now, but it was a beauty and it could travel anywhere and people would notice — Papa had those plans — but now the only thing it has left is worn edges, which is all most of us will have at the end. You’re strong, you got curves — I see the way men look at you — and you got brains and heart and somethin’ else, somethin’ not quite the same as everybody else. Somethin’ special. Don’t sit up on blocks yet, okay?” He started to cough.

  “Okay,” I murmured as his coughing escalated. “You okay?” His body quaked more and more violently with each cough.

  “Lyle!”

  They came faster, louder, deeper. He signaled: Get me back to the house.

  ***

  Once I had Lyle lying down in bed, his face regained color. But not much. I covered him in the stained white comforter and waited till he drifted asleep. I moved the hair off his face and tucked it behind his ears before quietly closing the door behind me.

  There were voices in the kitchen. I turned away, routinely, the way I’d done at Little Bass Stump that day. Then, this time, I changed direction.

  “It was, it was!” said Momma. Carly and Momma sat at the table, each with a beer: a Keystone for Momma, a Modelo for Carly, and no knives drawn.

  “He was cute, wasn’t he?” continued Momma. “Always that great voice.”

  “Yes, Momma, always that great voice.” Carly saw me in the doorway. “Well, come on in, for chrissakes. Have a beer. Mom’s are pisswater —”

  “Carly Renay!”

  “So I suggest you have one of mine.”

  “I’m good.” I contemplated the empty chair.

  Carly jumped up, snatched a bottle from the fridge and set it down with a clunk in front of me. “Sit.” She placed both hands on my shoulders and pushed me down in the chair.

  I threw her hands off. “Don’t.”

  Carly raised both arms and backed away before settling into her own chair again. I sat eyeing both Momma and Carly. I wanted to talk about Lyle but I was afraid he’d hear and I didn’t really know how to start the discussion or what the point was. We all sat there, suddenly quiet, each eyeing the other.

  There wasn’t even a spring wind to rattle the screens. “What you been up to?” said Carly sipping her beer, breaking the silence.

  “Up to? Me? Like starting when?” Like starting when you had no interest in me? Like forever?

  “Recently.”

  “Oh,” interjected Momma, “you can see what Eunis did with the outside of the house.” She smiled at both of us. Unreal.

  “I was assisting genetics research in New York.”

  “Yes,” said Carly. “That’s what Roddy said.”

  Then why did you even bother to ask? But instead I said, “Where is Roddy?”

  “Went to the lodge,” said Momma. “A gentleman; said Carly should get the couch.”

  I turned it over in my head.

  “You can stop worrying, Eunis,” said Carly. “I’m not gonna hit on the guy. But I do like the lodge,” she said with a leer.

  My eyes definitely bugged out.

  “Just kiddin’, he’s not my type at all.”

  “What is your type?” I lowered my head, ready for battle.

  “All kinds, but they gotta be good looking.”

  “You bitch!” I accidently knocked over the beer then quickly righted it and blotted at the spill with a napkin.

  “No, no, that wasn’t meant as a swipe, really. If he’s studly to you, that’s all that’s important.”

  I fixed her with contempt.

  “Really,” offered Carly, rightly apologetic.

  “He’s handsome,” I said, turning to Momma. “Don’t you think?”

  “Well,” said Momma, “I think he’s very nice. Seems very nice.”

  “But good looking, I mean.”

  She let out a rheumy cough. “I’ve seen handsomer, if you want the truth.” Momma glanced at Carly and managed a swig from her Keystone.

  I focused again on Carly. “You really don’t think he’s handsome?”

  “Like I said, whatever blows your skirt. It’s not like I think he’s bad looking.”

  “What would make him better looking — in your opinion?”

  “Geez, Eunis, what does it matter? Do you love the guy or not?”

  “Love! Who said anything about love? The man is my lawyer.”

  “You have a lawyer?” said Momma, impressed.

  All I could think of was how blind I’d been to his features.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The next morning after checking the fishing regulations on the Min
nesota Natural Resources website, I entered the kitchen, surprised to find Lyle already up and sipping his coffee at the table. “Well, the early bird,” I said pouring myself a cup. “You beat everyone.”

  “Yeah.” He wrapped his boney hands around his Johnny Cash mug, the one giving the finger. “This is gonna be a good day.”

  I smiled and secretly prayed that I wouldn’t screw up his song, although I’ve never held much belief in prayer except when I prayed with Papa Karl because he believed in it. “Can I do anything for you before I meet Roddy at The Drink to set up?”

  “I’m good. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I got one more practice after breakfast then I’m gonna take a hike.”

  “A hike?”

  “Nothin’ special. Thought I’d drive out to Carver’s then walk to Kingdom Lake.” He saw my reaction. “Sorry, that has bad memories for you.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. But I’d camouflaged my work at Carver’s pretty good, and he never was one to poke around scary places. “Driving, walking? You strong enough?”

  “It’s a short walk, I’ll be fine. Beautiful there, peaceful. That week I worked for old man Carver I’d take my breaks at the lake, just to get away from all the dead parts.” Again he winced. “Sorry.”

  We did have some things in common. “You want to wait till I get back?” Out the window to the northwest, dark clouds gathered over Thief River. Another quick temperature drop could bring rain or another tornado. “I could go with you.”

  He lingered on his reflection in the coffee. “I’ll be fine.” He wanted to be alone, and if anything happened to him it’d be better out there in the open, amongst the comfort of the trees and next to the water, than in the house. But I wanted him to know that I’d gladly walk with him. “You’re sure?”

  “Sis, I’ll be fine.”

  And even as he smiled and zigzagged laboriously to his room, I knew I was going to miss him, that another hole was going to be left in my heart.

  ***

  Before leaving the farmhouse I paused in the vestibule, feeling for the incoming weather. Nothing struck me as imminent though I smelled the potential for rain. I hoped against it. I wanted no excuses; I wanted that small room packed for Lyle’s performance.

  On the drive down to Bemidji I cast an occasional eye toward the Thief River clouds, which thankfully seemed painted in one place and lacking intention. I hoped that would be true of the police as well. If they jailed me before Lyle’s event I would be letting him down, like I’d done to so many others.

  When I arrived at Bemidji Funeral Home & Cremation Service, there wasn’t a car in the lot. But the door opened and I went to the front desk. “Hello,” I called out. No response. A little bell sat on the counter, the kind you’d find in a dry cleaning establishment or the post office. So I tapped it.

  “Be right there,” came the voice from out back. And in a moment I stood face-to-face, and alone, with Victor King.

  “This is your place? You’re the uncle?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “What do you need, Eunis?” He was all business.

  “I came to sign for the body. For Atara’s body.”

  “You! Mr. O’Brien spoke to us, but I had no idea.” I saw the wheels turning. He sniffed. “This is highly irregular.”

  “Melissa doing well, I hope? She seems like a lovely woman. Not just beautiful, but a nice person.”

  “She’s great, yeah. What did you say to her?”

  “I said nothing.” Beauty was most vulnerable to other beauty, especially beauty perceived to be equal or greater.

  “And the police?” He lifted an errant pen off the counter and dropped it into an open drawer.

  “Not much to say. I just found her.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t been arraigned.” He slammed the drawer shut.

  I didn’t flinch. “Yes, I’d heard rumors, don’t know where they started, but I don’t run, I swim.” A slightly befuddled expression crossed his face. “Do you like to fish?”

  “No, I don’t have the time.” His mouth tightened, fed up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well, Detective Sullivan does; likes to fish. You ever see the largemouth bass mounted on his wall?”

  “What?”

  “It does seem like someone wanted me to look guilty. Maybe someone knew how regular I am in my patterns. I am rather systematic. But the thing is, I checked. Little Bass Stump is closed to fishing till May 23. Has been since April 1st. Seems they spawn now, the bass, I mean. What were those fishermen fishing for if they couldn’t legally catch fish?”

  “Fish. Not everyone abides by the rules.”

  “With their radio blasting? I think someone sent them there. Maybe just told them to take a day off at Little Bass. Gave them permission.”

  He shook his head. “You make this stuff up as you go along.”

  “I think someone knew that I’d move on to Kingdom Lake if I couldn’t swim naked at Little Bass.”

  Victor remained stony-faced.

  “Anyway, I was never attractive enough for you.”

  “What does that mean?!”

  “Anyone with an eye for beauty, like you, like your wife, would know that you wouldn’t waste time with me. Certainly not a whole evening, till late. And then night after night.”

  His face lost some of its color.

  I pressed on. “What I thought was providential was how much you and Atara had in common.”

  Impassively, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Mermaid tattoos. I guess it’s a universal fascination.”

  He instinctively reached for his groin. “How do you—?”

  I smiled. And then it must have resonated, because his mouth hung open, his eyes fled mine.

  “I don’t have time for this.” But he didn’t move. At the very least he knew he really was vulnerable. As was his wife, Melissa.

  “Jealousy can get so ugly.”

  He swallowed. “I’m going back to my work.”

  “I’m sure you and Melissa will be very happy for many more years. Children need the mother’s touch, don’t you think?” The irony didn’t escape me. “Anything you can do as Mayor to explicate me from Detective Sullivan’s consideration, well . . . it’s a shame Atara went into that water. Colder than she was used to, no doubt.”

  He’d turned pale grey, like the charred powder that came out of his furnaces.

  “Please have it delivered on Monday, without fanfare. Here,” I said handing him the directions. I walked out, my legs strong, my body upright, my gait nimbler.

  ***

  Roddy was already at the Drink ‘n’ Dive when I arrived, setting up, his back to me. The gloomy windowless room and the bleached barroom smell overpowered my ability to focus, but I was finally drawn to a tabletop screaming with yellow and gold tulips, a large basket with a note rooting Lyle on: “Be the boss, hugs from Ruthie, Brytney, Vinnette, Anthony, Simone and Anthony Jr.” A natural oasis and reassuring fragrance. I could see their faces.

  With Roddy’s back still to me, I tried to reconstruct his face and calibrate the disconnect between what I saw and what Carly and Momma saw. The empirical criteria had seemed to fit. Yet the divide was too great. I thought I was immune to such things. Perhaps I’d ask Mae when she came in, but by then the invited would already be streaming in leaving me no time to attend to research. And Mae was in her eighties. How would that twist the results? Focus.

  I stood watching Roddy. He pulled inverted chairs from tables and arranged them. Why had I thought he was handsome? I suppose I shared that view with Elizabeth. Already I sensed myself recalculating his attractiveness. Another study gone awry.

  And what about imperfections? Could they be what set off a face as beautiful? That little mole on an otherwise unblemished cheek? Or the straying eye on an otherwise perfect canvas? The scar? The tilted nose? The errant eyebrow? The cleft chin? The crooked smile? Perhaps that was the factor that
turned a face beautiful, made it more appealing. He had none of those.

  I didn’t make a sound — barely breathed really — yet he must’ve sensed me because he turned and, seeing me, smiled. “Hey,” he said.

  I refused to be fooled again, a researcher examining and evaluating her subject, nothing more. “Hi.” I smiled. “You didn’t need to get here so early.”

  His eyes: cerulean, reasonably symmetrical, although his right eye was perhaps a fraction lower than the left, with a hint of puffiness that suggested poor sleep. His skin quality: a bit wrinkled, yes, with some sun/age spots, but the color of his skin was a perfect blend of brown and white.

  What would others say? The ratios, from eyes to nose to mouth, weren’t squished together, like Harold, or too distant from the forehead, like Gordon. His nose was a bit large, but not outside the “average” for the population, its skew only marginally to the right.

  “I’m happy to help.” He reconfigured the space between two chairs. “You okay? You’ve been under a lot of strain.”

  Smell, a definite factor in attractiveness according to the research, often correlated back to the facial proportions. The more balanced the face, the more enjoyable the body odor. At this, I inhaled the scent memory of him and decided I’d found my researcher bias. I could no longer be objective, his odor clearly an aphrodisiac — if I was honest with myself — that couldn’t be resolved in my study.

  “I’m fine.” I walked as slowly as I could toward him to extend my calibrations a few more seconds. His face was masculine, though the research was splintered on the effect. Women may marry neutral-faced men but want to have sex with the masculine-faced male for his genes, aware that such men are more aggressive and less faithful. Then there’s the suggestion that, when the woman is in a weakened position, say pregnant or nursing, that she prefers the smell of a man that replicates those of her closest relatives. Lyle, Carly, Momma!

  “This place smells awful, doesn’t it?” he said, his nose lifted. “Maybe we can do something about it before tonight. It’s like sitting in a urinal.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said, charmed that he somehow read my mind. “I feel like I’m being pickled.” Mr. Carver would have said preserved.