Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  “Enough.”

  I nod, needing no further explanation. After years of alcoholism and prescription-drug abuse, it sounds like Nora’s finally found balance—at least outwardly.

  We finish depositing the last bulb. Jenessa walks me back through the house to the front door.

  “You want to grab a late lunch at Patriot Brewery?” I ask. “Their sandwiches are supposed to be stacked. Extra fries.”

  She brushes hair from her forehead—“Sure”—and says she’ll meet me there. Although she advised against pursuing the note any further, I can’t see the harm in checking out another brewery while I’m in the area. I lean into her shoulder and get a lungful of her fruity shampoo scent. She pulls away, holding me at arm’s length. Her grip on my shoulders is firm.

  “Don’t want to get lipstick on you,” she says.

  “No.” The tension between us has always been there. But she’s family. I recognize myself in the quick way she strikes out, then recoils—burrows—back inside herself to safety. Seeing her now, I have to wonder what drove me to remain so aloof for so long from the only people who could possibly love and understand me.

  As I turn to leave, I pass a bowl of bananas, apples, and nectarines within reach on an end table, but I tuck my elbows in and refrain from pocketing any.

  Six

  THEN

  Mama Rosemary pats Sweet Lily’s head again. Stroking her hair like she would a little doll in her lap. Just like always. Never mind that I’ve been practicing my alphabet all morning while Mama Rosemary said she needed time to think. I taught a new song to Sweet Lily, too, but all Mama Rosemary cared about was whether Twin had memorized the speech she gave her for articulation practice. I huff in my corner, now that it’s finally free of Twin and I’m able to sit. She left a Mars Bar wrapper on the ground, saved from her birthday back in April. Caramel sticks to the baseboards like yucky snot.

  Sweet Lily starts to hum the theme song from SpongeBob. She twists her little neck side to side on each word. Sponge-Bob-Square-Pants!

  “Sweet Lil, do you want to come sit with me? We can play patty-cake.” I move over to make room, but not much is needed for the littlest of us. “Lil?” I pat the ground.

  She raises blue eyes as big as marbles to me. I think she’s going to say yes when her favorite toy—a fire truck—erupts in a long siren.

  “Wanna play with me, Sweet Lily?” Twin stands up and makes the truck vroom vroom around the room all giggly. Sweet Lily’s face breaks into a smile and she slides off Mama Rosemary’s lap.

  “Girls, will you please? Your sister is not a plaything. You can share her attention. Lily, you don’t have to play with either of them if you don’t want.” Mama Rosemary sighs.

  Sweet Lily hesitates between me and Twin, then points to the fire truck in Twin’s hand. “Truck.” She joins Twin in the bed room that someone dug out way way back and the mattress creaks as they jump on the bed.

  Mama Rosemary places her hand on my shoulder. Her hair almost touches the ceiling and the paper we looped together to form a chain dangles from the pipes and hits her head. “Sweetheart, why don’t you help me choose what we should bring with us?”

  A tear falls from my eye and piddles on the frayed rug. Like Courage the Cowardly Dog piddles on the rug in his house. Sadness pokes up beneath my T-shirt and I start to hiccup a cry. Mama Rosemary rubs my back until I get it all out. I sniffle then rub my nose with my sleeve.

  “All better?” she asks.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She takes me over behind the cupboard where she pulls out a plastic bag. She dumps it on the rug. I recognize one shirt for each of us, one pants for each of us, our toothbrushes and the last box of crackers that Mama Rosemary made us stop eating.

  “Can we have more now?” I point to the crackers. Round buttery and crispy circles. I suck on them until they dissolve in my mouth. Yum.

  Mama Rosemary shakes her head. “Not yet, honey. We’re going to need these, depending on how this evening goes. Come help me make more rug.” She points to the small table that fits only three of us at a time and rips off a strip from an old sheet. Stains cover one side left over from when Sweet Lily was born and which Mama Rosemary always hated. Said it reminded her of bad times, and Mama Bethel leaving for heaven. I never understood that because Sweet Lily being born was a good time but I wasn’t allowed nearby. I was only four.

  She wraps a knot around the middle of a strip then sets it aside. “What do you think? Can you help your mama that way?”

  I try one out myself and beam at her when I line ours up side by side. Mine is almost the same as hers but the knot is more lumpy.

  “That’s okay,” she says, putting her hand over mine. “They don’t have to be perfect.” She pauses and leans over the wrinkly sheet on the table. “You don’t have to be perfect, either. You’re pretty great as is.”

  Sisters squeal and laugh about something from the other room. “But they won’t play with me.”

  Mama Rosemary smiles. “They will, honey. One day, all they’ll want to do is spend time with you. Trust me.”

  I slip my hand into hers and her skin is warm. “Can I get in your lap?”

  “Oh, baby, you’re a big girl. I’m not sure—”

  But I already climb onto her knees and curl up under her chin. She wraps her arms around me and starts humming a song about rowing boats down streams.

  “Why are you humming that song, Mama?”

  She kisses my head and I feel all safe and squishy. “To remind us to keep going, baby. Even when it’s upstream.”

  Seven

  Jenessa waits out front of the brewery, her face twisted up in exasperation. “How did I beat you when you left before me?”

  Opaque walls beside her reveal nothing of the interior. The reviews online suggest it’s a great place to grab a pint and brush up on American history. Maybe American leaders? I withdraw my camera from its case and frame a shot of the door to include PATRIOT BREWERY in Gothic cursive above.

  “I’m still not great at navigating these one-way streets,” I reply, lowering the lens. “Sorry.”

  She huffs, then pulls the brass door handle open for me. I slide inside first, wondering whether I should have invited her. Jenessa under normal circumstances can be terse, while Jenessa hangry—hungry and angry—is something to be avoided.

  Most summers growing up, we spent two weeks together when she came down to Arch, to—as Nora put it—give her mom a G-D break. One visit, Jenessa went four hours without eating when we went to a movie marathon at the local theater, then threw a fit in the parking lot as we were leaving. I was shocked, but Rosemary later told me I was guilty of the exact same moodiness; she often kept a bag of almonds with her in case hunger struck.

  Jenessa and I settle into a high-top at the bar with a view of the advertised thirty-plus beers on tap—not the twenty that the note suggested would be at the next location. Maybe only twenty beers relate to leaders.

  “Have you been here before?” I ask, still waiting for my sister’s icy layer to crack.

  “First time.”

  The bartender comes by and takes our order. He returns with a Diet Coke for Jenessa and an Aaron’s O’Duel for me, the only nonalcoholic beer available; I have another stop after this and want to be alert.

  He drops off a basket of unshelled peanuts. Jenessa grabs a handful and tears into them. She chews and swallows the first two, then breaks into a smile. (H)anger abated.

  I scan the names on the tap handles behind the bar: Jefferson Ale. Adams Apple Cider. Hamilton Hops Summer Wheat. “So how is working at the doughnut shop? You’ve been there—what—six months?”

  Jenessa pauses between bites. “A year.”

  “That’s right.” I shake my head. “I remember.”

  None of the beers on tap stands out to me. None of them seems related to either Four Alarm Brewery or the murder—or myself, for that matter. Without knowing anything else about the note’s author, I can’t guess what their fa
vorite might be or where another dead body may be, waiting to be discovered.

  A barback arrives and sets our plates on the table. The scent of french fry grease instantly makes my mouth water.

  “Are you okay?” Jenessa pauses in wolfing down her toasted tuna sandwich. “You look flushed, and I know your beer isn’t to blame.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I lean back in my seat. She resumes telling me about a guy she’s seeing, whom she met on a dating app. Apparently, he starts singing immediately after sex, and she’s not into it. I take a bite of my BLT, but I’m too distracted to enjoy it.

  A giant American flag covers the wall behind Jenessa. The bartenders hit an imitation Liberty Bell each time someone orders a Betsy Ross Saison—the thirty-fifth beer on the menu. The ambience is festive and seemingly without any connection to the note.

  Jenessa advised me to ignore it. But what if I could stop another death by pursuing this message? Aren’t I obligated to try?

  The thought in and of itself rings hollow, the fresh influx of money in my wallet from Pauline countering my supposed altruism. I do have an ulterior motive in this, if Pauline keeps paying for pictures. What if I arrive at the next crime scene first—before it’s an official crime scene—and take photos of the space? Will there be another paycheck in it for me?

  Just the idea turns my stomach. I’m not an opportunist. I want to help prevent another murder, someone else losing their life, for God’s sake.

  Then again, if I really think the note is a threat or a clue, why haven’t I told the police yet?

  Years ago, I went on a date with a cop. We hit it off and saw each other a few more times. I really liked him. When I hinted at my difficult background and childhood, he looked happy about it—no, elated. He said he was into researching the gory details of Oregon crimes that make national news and was aiming to become a detective one day. When I understood he was more excited by my parentage than by me, I cut him off—but that didn’t stop him. He abused his connections in the police department to access archived files on me, to get the real story, as he later put it when he asked me to confirm some of what I’d said in police interviews when I was seven.

  I don’t trust the police. I don’t trust anyone.

  All around us, glasses clink together. People savor their meals, mumbling through conversations. Afternoon patrons, jammed in at each of the available tables, swell the noise level in the room and make the shallow ceiling feel even lower.

  Two women at the counter discuss the Four Alarm murder. Seems I’m not the only one ravenously consuming its details.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Jenessa asks. She eyes me over our split check. “You’ve taken almost your entire sandwich to go.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I ate a late breakfast. Thanks again for hanging out.”

  “Sure thing. Next time, I’ll bring you a voodoo doll doughnut if you promise to finish your lunch,” she says with a motherly finger wag. The shop she works at is famous for its oddball doughnut shapes and designs—a reason I suspect my normally atypical sister enjoys working at a place with health insurance; we’ve only ever felt comfortable occupying the fringes of society.

  “Yeah, I’d love that. Thanks.”

  “Hey, do you remember when we were kids—before”—and I know Jenessa is referring to when we were belowground—“and you ate my entire birthday cake slice? You had yours and then mine, on my birthday. You’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

  She laughs, but I return an embarrassed stare. “No way. I don’t remember that.”

  “Seriously? I was so pissed, I cried in the bedroom for an hour. Rosemary made me another ‘cake’ out of toast and mayonnaise.” Another laugh. “You really don’t remember?”

  “Absolutely not.” I smile, shaking my head. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised. We were always at each other like that. Didn’t you eat an entire container of gummy vitamins once, just to spite me? Rosemary was worried you had overdosed.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Water under the bridge. I was just . . . reminiscing. It’s funny in hindsight. I mean, we were all hungry.”

  We stand awkwardly, remembering.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” she says. “I think I snapped at you back at my house.”

  “No, it’s okay. I didn’t set us up for success—first, bailing on our coffee date yesterday, then surprising you at home today with the weird note I received. It hasn’t always been like that between us.” I offer up a smile that Jenessa doesn’t return.

  “Hasn’t it, though?”

  I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, Mar—I mean, Claire. Case in point, the birthday cake memory. Even back in Chet’s basement, we were at odds.”

  “We were four people shoved together in two ten-by-ten rooms. Everyone was.”

  Jenessa stares at me, like she’s unsure whether I believe what I’m saying. “Well, there was a lot going on then. If we were at each other, I don’t think anyone would judge us for it.”

  Outside the brewery, we hug each other goodbye. Jenessa gets in her car to return home, while I head down the next boulevard.

  Five blocks east toward the river and the site of yesterday’s parade, I arrive at the third brewery I found online that bears some connection to beers named after leaders, Bridge City Brewpub. Inside is less packed with people than Patriot Brewery, probably because food isn’t served here. Take-out bags like my own cover most tables. At others, plastic baggies of snacks crowd the pints of beer and sampler glasses.

  A chalkboard menu above the aluminum tap handles lists the twenty-two beers available—twenty-two for the number of bridges and pedestrian walkways in Portland, according to a plaque on the wall. None of the first few beer names stands out to me—Walsh, Ergo, Smythe, Berren, Nguyen.

  “Excuse me.” I wave at the bartender as she wipes down a glass with a dish towel. “Who are all these beers named after? Owners of the brewery?”

  She laughs and tucks a blonde curl into her loose fishbone braid. “That would be a lot of owners. They’d all kill each other if there were that many. No, beers are named after local people who helped build Portland. You’ve probably seen them as streets.”

  Walsh, Ergo, Smythe, Berren, Nguyen. I look through the front window, past the patio table and chairs, and duck down to view this corner’s intersecting street signs. Nguyen Street and Ninth Avenue.

  My heart beats in my throat, fearing and anticipating being so close to my goal. “Okay. So what did these people do?”

  Twenty beers. All named for leaders. Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

  “They were politicians. Tedrick Berren pushed through the first law outlawing prostitution, but I forget what the rest of them did.” She taps her finger on the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A Walsh Wheat. Thanks.” While she pours, I whip out my phone and do an internet search on each of the names on the chalkboard. Every man or woman was involved in local government or grassroots efforts to regulate Portland vice—not the people I assume a killer would admire.

  I take a sip of my beer, stumped. The liquid is cool, light but full bodied against my tongue, and slows my pulse. It leaves me with a slight buzz and nothing more substantial that might confirm this location hides a dead body.

  After I pay for my beer, I slide into a chair beside the glass wall and take out my camera. Positioning the viewfinder so that the street signs of Ninth Avenue and Nguyen Street are both captured, I wait until a couple vacates the crosswalk, then click.

  Vanilla air freshener stings my nose upon entering the apartment housing office, and I’m reminded why I never come here and always wait for Derry Landry to track me down. Crisp white napkins are folded into cranes beside a plate of chocolate chip cookies. A tall fake plant in the corner enhances the showroom atmosphere—clean, uncluttered, secure: the exact opposite of how I lived growing up with Rosemary.

  “Claire, good to see you.” Derry winks at me from
behind a white oak table. A stack of lease agreements sits aligned with the table’s edge. “What can I do for you?”

  “Here’s the rest of what I owe.” I hand over the remaining hundred dollars, earned from this morning’s photo sessions. Air-conditioning chugs through the ventilation duct above and adds to the sick feeling in my stomach.

  “Excellent. What are you doing later?” he asks in a low tone as he writes out a receipt.

  I face him, annoyed that we can’t interact without him flirting. His gaze travels down my tank top; then he looks at me from beneath dark eyelashes. “I get off at five if you feel like a beer. You like beer, right?”

  My skin prickles at the question—the subject of my thoughts the last day and a half. “Why do you say that?”

  I wonder if the Walsh Wheat is noticeable on my breath from this far away.

  Derry shrugs. “You carry out a lot more beer in your recycling than wine bottles.”

  He points a thumb over his shoulder to the window behind him. With the shades open, his desk has a perfect view of the path from my apartment to the complex’s dumpster. He’s been watching me.

  “Thanks for the receipt.” Before he can say anything else unnerving, I leave, pocketing a cookie as I pass the front table.

  Safely behind the dead bolt of my apartment door, I sink into the cushions of my love seat.

  My phone rings. Pauline’s phone number flashes across the screen, and my stomach knots, fearing she’s calling to tell me about another murder. “Hello?”

  “Claire, hi. I have a proposition for you. How would you feel about becoming our resident photographer?”

  I sit up and move to the edge of the couch. “That would be amazing. What for? I mean, what department at the Post needs coverage?”

  Papers rustle in the background, and a woman shouts something. “I know you’ve never done this before, but you seem to handle each assignment I give you easily. Tatum is going to be out for another six weeks, because the idiot went for a late snowboarding trip and broke his damn leg, and—”