Bury This

by Andrea Portes

  It was strange, though, how he’d insisted on the Super-Deluxe Peaceful for Eternity package, treatment, tombstones, service and weekly-flower-arrangement option. It ain’t cheap. Rich people had scoffed at the price, even. And for a cop . . . it did seem extravagant.

  Even his wife thought it extensive.

  “What does it matter, honey. We certainly won’t notice.”

  But, in this as in all things, he’d dug his heels in. No explanation. The Super-Deluxe it was. And would always be, for eternity.

  That plot, those two plots, for future, for he and Nancy were not far, only thirty feet about, from this plot, this past plot, marked Elizabeth Lynn Krause, rest in peace.

  And peace, well. Not here with the dig-dig Caterpillar, bright orange against the white sheet grade. On the side CATERPILLAR in big black capitals, the only black other than the leafless trees, all watching. What’s this? What’s all this, this morning?

  “Well, boss, there they are.”

  And, turning to look, there they were, indeed. Outside the redbrick awning and wrought Mayview gates, lined up on Mayview Drive, the inevitable, complacent, stodgy pale vans with UFO antennas on top, circling around for a signal.

  “Goddamn news. Buncha vultures.”

  Detective Barnett had thought this pre-morning, just-dawn excursion might throw them off, but even as he turned, there they were, scurrying toward him through the snow. One in an emerald suit dress and heels. Heels! In this snow. One in cargo pants holding the camera, clamoring over the gravestones toward him, barely audible, just within earshot and getting louder, inescapable.

  “Detective! Detective!! What do you hope to find this morning? What do you hope to uncover? Have there been any new developments? Is it possible you missed something, Detective, back then, when you were a rookie?”

  That last one an ice-pick stab through the eyes.

  And behind him, the Caterpillar roaring, stop go stop go start dig, the giant orange claw eating into the snow, devouring the dirt.

  Detective Barnett blindsided in the snowdrift. Oh Lord, please don’t let me lose my job. Please let me be right. Please don’t let me lose my job for this. And then: Well, if I do lose it, at least I got the Super-Deluxe Peace for Eternity package. Bought and paid for.

  TWELVE

  A midnight light of metal and blue, reflecting tables and cabinets, mirrored surfaces. A nighttime fun-house off limits to the public. A secret retreat from the crowds. The room made green from an overhead fluorescent light, industrial light, light to perform surgery. Death-surgery, after-surgery, death-light on a body decomposed.

  You would have to cover your mouth and nose here. There was no way around it. No time to be brave. Cover up.

  The coroner in lab coat and glasses, a diminutive, balding man who’d chosen a life of cutting open skin, cutting lines and looking in, a shut-in. A shut-in, excited now, having called the detective at a too-late time. An after-hours revelation, can’t hold it in.

  “Detective. Detective Barnett?”

  Back at the house, the flannel sheets can’t cover up the noise.

  “Hold on. Hold up a second.”

  Tiptoeing out of bed, into the hallway. Don’t wake the wife.

  “Detective Barnett. I think you better come down here.”

  “You know what time it is?”

  “I know. I know, but I just—I thought you’d want to see this.”

  Detective Barnett closing his eyes. Christ. This would be the last year. Maybe. Twelve after midnight and now you call.

  The autopsy room housed in the basement. A floor of sea-foam tiles, walls of ivory. Every table a silver slab, the light buzz a drone. Come in. Come in through the glass doors. Come in. Look here.

  On the table, under the fish-gill light, a white sheet laid over, thank God. Cover your mouth, cover your nose, cover your eyes.

  The bald head leading him to the microscopes. A presentation. Slides of glass with labels, DNA, hair, saliva, specimens, put them under the lens. Look. Look here.

  “This, Detective, this is what I wanted you to see.”

  PART IV

  ONE

  Shauna didn’t mind coming back to the Green Mill Inn, she’d gotten fired but who gives a fuck. Beth was here and that’s all that mattered. She’d gotten her the job, why shouldn’t she be here? Anyway the boss only came round on Fridays.

  What did she care if little miss nitwit worked here now? She could just imagine her daydreaming her shift away. That was all Beth did . . . daydream. Wander around, lollygag by the railroad tracks. Dreaming. Singing. Doodling. Tethered ever so softly to this world, always seeming one heel here and one tiptoe into the next. Teetering soft between streetlights and thunderheads.

  An apparition.

  A lily-face.

  A never-was-here-after-all.

  She would do whatever Shauna wanted, whatever she asked. When they were together, Shauna had the power. Simply by degrees, by sheer fact, of being of this earth. Here. Feet firmly on the ground.

  Where Beth could be found floating halfway to space . . . Shauna would reach up and grab her down. Come back. Come here. Let me teach you this earth language, these rules of engagement.

  And you would think Beth would be grateful but she exhibited no signs of it. Anymore than an ant would be grateful not to be killed. No, she had no idea. Didn’t care. Didn’t seem interested, really.

  The world outside her head, her eyes, was a mystery. A confusion. But nothing to be marveled at. Any more than you would marvel at a pit of mud. Yes . . . it held secrets . . . but no allure.

  In this way, it was easy to hold down the fort in this brown wooden office for eight hours straight. Quite simply, she wasn’t there.

  Yes, the phone would ring but at that moment she’d be in Africa. She’d answer the phone but even that was a play of its own. Now the phone is in Dubai! Now I must answer before three rings, or the sultan will die!

  Yes, a customer would come in, but at that moment, she’d be in Nepal. Of course she’d answer all the questions, give change for the soda machine, but really she was giving directions up the mountain, charge for the Sherpa, knowing full well they’d never make it down Everest.

  In this way, all the world was at play for Beth Krause, revealing itself in shatter clouds and dialogue overheard—a face there, a name there—but never anything too detailed. Never anything bolted to the ground. She had always lived in the sky. And if she was inside, the sky was one wall away, just a ceiling—easily removed, a tin box around her—lift it up.

  She never really saw Shauna, or her boss, or anyone.

  She had a habit of giving everything away. It mystified her mother until she saw the good in it. It never ceased to amaze Beth, the delight in someone’s face over a knickknack, a throw-away, a trinket. None of these things meant anything to her but they meant so much to someone else, how could she not give them away?

  Leaning in over the metal mint reception desk, Shauna took a conspiratorial tone.

  “I got a secret.”

  “Here we go . . . ” Beth breathing out.

  “No, I do . . . I got a secret and you’re gonna die.”

  Shauna had been saying something but what? It didn’t matter. It was an endless series of dramas with her. A moment’s theater. A fight. A rage. An indulgence. And then nothing. A constant scratch at the top of the coffin, buried deep underground. A hopeless, aimless desperation. A fury.

  “Don’t you want to know his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “My guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  Shauna was wearing a purple top with orange, pink, blue, red stripes. No shoulders. A drawstring around the neck, keeping it up. Just. If she had a mother she would not be wearing that top.

  Also, no bra. Just straight-down breasts, not too large but certainly not insignificant. Not enough to be without a bra. Beth wouldn’t be caught dead with her breasts swooping around like that.

&
nbsp; Provocative.

  But wasn’t that Shauna’s defining characteristic? Hadn’t she built her reputation, her following, her standout under that sheer unapologetic ability to push the buttons of anyone and everyone around her? I am here! I will not be ignored!

  Beth’s parents did not like Shauna Boggs. Although they were kind enough to hide it. Besides, she was someone to be looked after. A girl her age with no mother and a reprobate father. They couldn’t exactly despise her. Certainly not more than she despised herself.

  And the pushing.

  “Okay, I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Shauna, seriously?”

  It was nearing the end of her shift and Beth was really just wishing she could get back to her crossword puzzle. She would finish it before she clocked out. She was like that. Everything in its place. The thing was nearly complete except the left top corner—she hadn’t cracked it. 20 Down. Affliction. Six letters.

  “Guess!”

  “Urn . . . ”

  Beth was wearing a light-blue Gunne Sax, one she had begged her mother, Dorothy, to buy for months. It was half the reason she got this job. She didn’t want to have to beg like that ever again. Not for a Gunne Sax.

  “Let’s see. How about . . . Christopher?”

  “Christopher?!”

  “Christopher’s a nice name. What’s wrong with Christopher?”

  “It’s a twerp name. I’d never go out with a guy named Christopher, let alone call him my boyfriend.”

  “Okay, well, I give up.”

  Not exasperated, just bored. Beth wasn’t in the mood for this anyway. Why did she even bother? Sometimes she wondered what the point was in having friends anyway. Six letters. Affliction. Third letter L.

  “Jeff!”

  “Mm.”

  “Jeff Cody.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Beth tried to sound interested. Ancient dweller. Italy. Ends in N. Why was Shauna even talking now? Wasn’t it obvious she didn’t care? The whole thing stretched out before her like an endless white sheet. Nothing dulled the senses like the facts. Beth found herself looking for an excuse to get rid of Shauna and this mind-numbingly drab conversation. Get back to the corner. Six letters. 20 Down.

  “Look. I kinda got to get started on these receipts.”

  “What receipts?”

  “Oh, uh . . . they got me doing some bookkeeping so—”

  “Bookkeeping? They never asked me to do any bookkeeping.”

  Always on defense.

  Always on alert.

  “Oh? Well, it’s probably just they got sick of it . . . ”

  “Yeah, well, have at it. Besides. I have a date . . . with Jeff.”

  Squinting at the paper, tapping the pen, Beth didn’t see him come in. But he saw her.

  Standing there, beside Shauna, now beaming with pride, at over six feet, in black Judas Priest iron-on and oil-stained blue jeans . . . this must be Jeff.

  Funny how she doesn’t notice him. Still. Head in the desk.

  Shauna can’t stand it. She clears her throat. Look at me! Look at my man!

  Beth looks up at the great Jeff with the dark brown hair and thick eyebrows and thinks, a fleeting thought, my poor best friend, this guy will break your heart into pieces.

  TWO

  Christmas 1976. Bicentennial Christmas.

  Couldn’t help but fall for the Christmas village, Christmas town set up down Main Street. The lights strung up over the snow-filled street, a Christmas tree at the end, little wooden stands set up like back home, back in Germany, gluhwein, glogg, mulled wine, spiced wine with brandy, cloves, orange peel, cinnamon, gulp it down and keep warm. Drink the gluhwein, walk around under the little sparkling lights, white, blue, red, green, twinkling magic lights at 4:30, just got dark and already night.

  Beth Krause rushing out of the Macy’s, the black suede that’ll-be-the-day boots wrapped up, wrapped up in red for Shauna, her best friend, least she could do for Christmas. A big burgundy bow on the box, oh she couldn’t wait to see.

  But how could she not get them for Shauna, her best friend since grade school, after seeing her face light up at the boots, turn them over and fall blank, unanswered, at the price. Sure they were expensive, of course they were . . . but it was Christmas. Muskegon, Michigan, sparkling lights down Main Street and a Santa set up in Macy’s. You couldn’t help but get carried away.

  She’d bought her mom a framed Maxfield Parrish print from that antiques store down on Halpern. For Dad, it was harder, but she’d finally decided on an autographed framed Bart Starr black-and-white, she’d managed to get off one of her old classmates at Hope. She couldn’t wait ‘til he opened it. Maybe next year she’d find a way to finagle tickets to Lambeau. She knew it was hard, impossible almost but, you know, where there’s a will, there’s a way and it’d be worth it just to see his face. Oh my good Lord, he would flip! She made a note to try it, might have to start looking right away, come to think of it.

  Making her way down Main Street, through the park and over to Shauna’s. It was a long walk, sure, but it wasn’t too cold yet and the snow hadn’t started to come down. If she hurried, she could make it. Drop the present off and be home by six. Wasn’t supposed to start coming down ‘til seven, maybe eight.

  Walking away, the Christmas village behind, she had a feeling of falling off somehow, coming off the roller coaster ride, retreating. The Christmas carols and the ring ring ring of the Salvation Army Santa getting softer and softer, that gold bell chime, receding into the distance, the last refrains of “Silent Night” getting caught in the tree branches, falling down to the ground, into the snow and now nothing but crunch crunch crunch under her feet. Beige winter snow boots, jeans and a parka, light blue sweater, scarf, mittens, and a wool ski hat. You had to know how to dress for winter. You’d underestimate it, always, each fall, forgetting in summer what cold meant, what cold was. But you’d make that mistake only once.

  The sidewalk in little pebbles and chalk slab, packed-down snow, tiny bits of trees, pinecones, little tiny red things, some kind of miniature berry on a branch, embedded in the snow. Now the Main Street silent, a never-was fantasyland back far away behind the pines.

  Through the spindly black bare elms and maples, the crunch crunch sidewalk leading Beth down the path to that oyster-colored house falling into itself. That joke of a house, poor Shauna. You had to admit, she got a raw deal. That non-home and that no-show mom and that slumping dad. In a way, it was a miracle Shauna was what she was. Strong, confident, sassing-off half the time, making everyone nervous, bending the world to her will, caving the conversation in. That girl was a survivor.

  The suede boots would make it better. Not all better, to be sure. But, at least, something. Something to say “I see you. I see you, Shauna Boggs. We’re in it together.”

  A single light in a square from the kitchen, orange. The pitch-black pines holding up the house. Christ, that meant he was home. Not good. Maybe if she just left the present on the stoop. But she couldn’t, right? No way. One-hundred-dollar black suede boots in a gift box with a burgundy bow on a front stoop, no one’s looking. Well, you might as well write a note, “Come and get it, fuckers.”

  She had no choice. She’d have to knock and he’d have to answer, a perfunctory front-step fog of a conversation. Alright. No big whoop. She’d just leave off the present and that would be that. It’s not like she’d have to hug the guy.

  Crunching up the creak creak stairs, raising her knuckle-mittens to the door, she had a thought, a fleeting thought of the wall falling in and there being nothing behind it. A sound-stage. A Hollywood set, nothing more. But before she could finish the thought, before her knuckles reached the door, the door opened and there he was. Troy Trash Boggs.

  She hadn’t knocked, how could she? Or did she? Forgetting herself, her mind still on the soundstage, Beth found herself standing there frazzled, shaking there in the snow. She didn’t remember shaking, didn’t remember being cold. But now, suddenly, she was shive
ring. Shuddering there on the porch, holding her big bright burgundy-bow gift.

  “Hello, Mr. Boggs. Um. I brought this for Shauna. It’s a surprise. I was . . . I guess I thought it’d be funny to put it under the tree and keep her guessing.”

  Troy Boggs standing there, moving back. Moving into his house gesturing in. A hitch, there in his walk. A mini-stumble back.

  “Oh, yeah. Come on in.”

  Stepping inside, looking around for the Christmas tree, make it quick, Beth realizes there is no tree. Of course. No Christmas tree in this house.

  “It’s just. We. Well, we haven’t gotten around to it. Just haven’t had the time.”

  Haven’t had the time! Yeah, right. All you have is fucking time, Troy Boggs, everybody knows that. What, you have an appointment at two with a Mr. Jack Daniel’s, is that it? Johnny Walker at three? Jim Beam promptly at four? A full fucking schedule you have, Mr. Boggs. Don’t be late.

  “Oh, oh, well, yeah, the holidays are kind of hectic. We just put ours up, actually.”

  That’s a lie. That tree in the Krause household goes up every November, day after Thanksgiving, at ten. You could practically set the atomic clock by the Krause Christmas tree. Dotsy’s up at dawn with the tinsel, icicles, lights, stockings, matching Mr. and Mrs. Claus salt and pepper shakers, mistletoe, three wise men, poinsettias, nativity, pinecones, all of it coming out of the red plastic storage boxes, marked on the side with masking tape and a Sharpie, X-MAS DECORATIONS.

  Oh, yes, the Krauses sure had time for Christmas. A tree in the living room, a green Douglas fir, and one in the den, silver, for variety. Silver with blue lights, crystal bobbles. A cool-palate frosted tree with icicles and glass ornaments. Maybe we should give them one of our trees? A fleeting thought, but not a bad thought. Beth was pondering. I mean, it is Christmas, after all. What’s more in the Christmas spirit than giving away a tree?