Oh man, I could show her a few things . . .
SIX
The fall is coming down fast, the trees smelling of wet smoke, summer folding up and then poof gone and just the circus of holidays, marching forward grandly down the road. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s. A collective upheaval. An imminent madness, finally a frenzy, a panic, and then the great shriek of New Year’s and back to square one.
A four-month ritual from light to carnival to gracious thanks, to beating each other up at the mall to a squeal and a kiss under a tinsel cone hat after FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE! And then, what is it . . . what comes next?
But Shauna couldn’t care less about that now, staring at Jeff Cody’s back, now sleeping and turned away. A colt. A buck. Her own personal Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill Cody. How lucky she was. Covered in sweat she’ll never want to wash off. Never, never! It’s his! It’s a part of him!
Trying not to think of the growing frequency between phone calls and the eyes looking around mid-sentence and the fact that he always, always slept with his back turned away.
At the foot of the bed, a window, a window she had looked up at, alone, not all the time, not every night, not like she was stalking him or anything, it’s just. Well, he hadn’t called. She’d thought he would call and then he hadn’t and she found herself, there, right outside there on the sidewalk, looking up. Is he there? Is the light on? It looks like the light’s on in the hallway maybe? Is that him? Does he see me? Wait, is that someone else? No, please God don’t be someone else. Oh, no, it’s him. It’s him! Make sure he doesn’t see. Did he see me?
Looking now from the inside, from the bed, at that window, how could she be so silly? Of course he loved her. Of course he did. Listen, he fucked her. He fucked her almost every night. And you know what else? He would get shit-faced, obliterated, and confess he was in love with her, grabbing her by the wrists, almost a plea . . . and even though his eyes were rolling back in his head, and even though he kept bumping into the furniture, and even though he was on enough pills to kill an elephant; pills to go up, pills to go down, pills to go any which way around, even so . . . it was obvious he loved her. In vino Veritas. It was at this time, these stumbling times, that he revealed himself, his true self, wrapped away and sealed in concrete at all other times. He was a man, you know.
And there’s the proof, too. What about that day? Last summer, in Greensborough, they’d gone to El Compadre, a kitschy, cantina-style place with a mariachi band, yellow pepper lights, and margarita specials first Tuesdays. But this was a Wednesday, empty, except for those two secretaries drinking zinfandel. That night, Shauna’s head swimming in strawberry blended margarita number three, or maybe four, make it a double. Seeing, and not seeing, the oxford shirt in the next booth. Looks like he keeps looking. Looks like he keeps looking at her.
Shauna Boggs who’d been fucked all day, fucked and then fucked again by Jeff Cody, not to mention then again in the Plymouth right before. Right there! Shauna for once in her life glowing, not to mention that macramé dress, a cream dress, see-through in places. Demure places. Strategic places. And yes, oh yes, the levee tan, the yarn-dress, the summer-fuck-it skin. Forget it. Shauna Boggs was the belle of El Compadre, Greensborough, Michigan.
And then the guy in the next booth, that Shirt with the ruddy face and maybe he’s here after work. Red booth, red candles, ruddy face . . . red, red, red and now Jeff Cody is gonna see red, too. Two pills in and three Cadillac margaritas. He is starting to notice. He’s starting to piece together the plot here against him and his girl at this here hacienda and there’s gonna be a show-down. No, caballeros, two pills in and drink three and he’s got a bone to pick, see.
There’s a waiter there, fawning. Why is he fawning? Talking to the Shirt about the Mark Cross leather interior of his white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville ’76. Now the waiter whistles, says that’s one cherry of a car, a real beaut.
Shauna isn’t pretending not to listen. Oh, she’s listening. Over Jeff’s shoulder now. Forget about Jeff. Jeff who? And then the Shirt is looking over. She’s thinking maybe he’s got something, something Jeff doesn’t have. And never will. She’s thinking maybe he’s got something that makes things easy. Maybe all her troubles will be over, Lord, all that rent and all the white unmarked letters coming in these days, always from someplace in Delaware, all those credit card guys calling, threatening, calling again. And what’s she supposed to do with those credit card guys ringing and ringing some more, endless ringing, shut the fuck up. She only has so many hours in a day, so many hours in a night, so many nights of the week. And one of those nights, or two or three, are nights she’s gotta spend with Jeff, to keep him, to keep him interested, right? But, lookit, those are nights she’s not making money. It’s not like she’s a prostitute, it’s nothing like that, it’s just those guys help her out, those guys help her get by a little, right, and Jeff Cody doesn’t do jack shit. Nope. Not one cent.
But this guy, this Shirt, well, he could help her out. Big time. And he knows it, too, you can tell because he’s looking right at her, right through her, and he might as well just say it out loud.
“C’mon. Lose the loser. I’ll make a decent woman out of you.”
The mariachi band is singing “Besame Mucho.” That Shirt is practically singing it to Shauna, swooning, serenading, smirking, so obvious it makes her blush. Don’t let Jeff see.
But it’s too late.
It’s too late now, Shauna.
And now that mariachi band is no longer playing “Besame Mucho.” That mariachi band is playing . . . well, they’re not playing anything . . . because they’re short one guitar and that’s because they got two mariachis standing, set back, staying out of it, and one mariachi staring at his guitar, which was just in his hands but is not in his hands anymore, where’d it go? Oh there it is, that guitar, that guitar going up down, up down, the trajectory of a battle-axe, over and over again, smash smash smash, into the head, neck, back, ears, face of Mr. Looky-loo Shirt from the booth next to Shauna. On the floor next to Shauna. On the tile next to Shauna.
Yellow tile grout now gets to be red, that button-down shirt now gets to be red, that macramé dress now gets to be red splat splat splat. And the guitar, well, you can forget about the guitar now, amigo. That guitar now in splinters and slivers and splices of blood-splotch wood. That guitar now just a stem, just the neck of the guitar, nothing more. Throw it away.
But that’s not all ’cause Jeff Cody’s got the Shirt by the collar and now he’s dragging the Shirt out, past the mariachis, past the zinfandel secretaries, past the baños, damas y caballeros, past the kitchen and the busboys in white. Everybody froze, on a dime, don’t turn on us, don’t see us, don’t look.
And now Jeff Cody drags that Shirt to that cherry of a beaut, that white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville ’76, staring straight back at him with its top down, baring its teeth. Dare you to stare down those headlights and don’t forget to notice those white-walled tires.
But now Jeff Cody’s got a plan to make that interior red, too, and he’s got that Shirt and now you can forget about that Mark Cross leather interior, you can forget about those white-walled tires ’cause everything’s getting painted red red red. And the Shirt can barely lift his head, but Jeff has him propped up now, propped up now in the driver’s seat, it’s your car, right.
Shauna’s standing there now from the doorway, helpless.
“You like this car? You like this car?! Wanna ride around in this car, huh?!”
And now Jeff Cody’s holding the Shirt, squeezing his head against the steering wheel, embedding his cheeks into the metal, white Mark Cross leather steel.
“You wanna take my girl for a ride, is that it? You gonna take my girl on a date?”
And getting quiet now, quiet down into his ears, a whisper.
“See. Nobody makes a fool of me. Nobody.”
But the Shirt’s got his eyes closed. Pleading.
And then, to Shauna.
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br /> “Get in. Get in. I wanna see you go for a ride. I wanna see you on your big date!”
And Shauna standing in the doorway, thinking and not thinking, who to call, what to do, how to play it.
But he’s marching to her now, “I told you I wanna see it. I wanna see you on your date! Let’s see the happy couple.”
He’s got her now, dragging her by the back of the neck like an alley cat, over oil stains, over puddles into that white convertible Pontiac Grand Ville ’76. He’s got her now, setting her down in the passenger seat, next to the Shirt made of blood-splat. That Shirt can’t even look up, head on the steering wheel, lolling. The two of them, a zombie couple, shivering, a Halloween funhouse ride.
“Oh, now, don’t you look pretty on your date? That is a handsome couple. Yessir.”
Shauna looking up from the passenger seat, shaking, “Please, just . . . ”
“You want out?” Act surprised, make it light.
Shauna nodding in millimeters.
“Oh, you want out?”
“Yes, please.”
“Who you wanna be with? You wanna be with him? He got what you want?!”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I wanna be with you.”
“What?”
“I wanna be with you.”
He makes her hold it. He keeps her sunk.
“Now, that’s better.”
And the door gets unhinged and Shauna gets pulled out beside him, tucked under his arm and away from that Pontiac Grand Ville ’76, driver pummeled dumb at the wheel. You can see them now, strolling soft down the sidewalk, his arm wrapped around her like a dove.
And that is love.
SEVEN
Wandering around unfocused, in the wayward hours between choir practice and her shift . . . making her way aimlessly from the Hackley Public Library, past the Port City Victorian, past the Dockers Fish House & Lounge and finally, inevitably, ending at the lighthouse.
The two red lighthouses, the Muskegon South Pier Light and the Muskegon South Breakwater Light, squaring off. Facing each other like pawns in a chess game.
What did it mean? Her head shook with the possibility. That lighthouse, bright red, in summer, picture-perfect red, white, and blue for the Fourth. The sand of the lake, a crisp white. The sky, a happy blue. The lighthouse, a shining red. A star-spangled landscape, pert as punch.
Then fall, the chill coming in. The trees, burnt burgundy and amber. The lake, a pitch-pine green. The sky, a bruised plum covered in dust.
Then, the blanket of winter wraps itself around the bluffs. All is white. A blinding, barren terrain. White the snow. White the lake. White the sky. But then even the lighthouse contributes. Red! Red amidst all that white. A happy surprise. A tip of the hat to Christmas. A Joyeux Noel. An each-winter present, as recurring and disarming as a Christmas tree.
But always facing off. These two lighthouses. What was the fight? What was the contest? The issue? The conceit? Or was it simply a nothing thing. A trifle. A shrug. Pebbles on the sidewalk. Grass through the cracks, repeating again, “Don’t look at me, I’m nothing. I’m not here.” As insignificant as sawdust.
And the thought comes to her, almost to focus . . . what it is . . . what it means after all . . . but before it can form itself into a crystal, there’s a noise from behind, and it’s gone for eternity.
Walking walking out out out toward the water, Beth thinks about all the things she will one day have. She will surround herself with little glass figurines, a fireplace. Molding and a great big imposing colonial-style house with columns and soldier-ghosts and history, history, in every plank of the floor. She will give her daughter her blue Wedgwood locket, the one her mother gave her. History.
She will have a husband with sandy brown hair, a kind-eyed working man. A professional. He will come home with his oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up, tired from the day. He will sit down on the navy-blue wing-back chair and she will coax him back to happiness with a few kind words and his favorite apple crumble. She will kiss the back of his neck and he will reach back and touch her arm, reassuring. I am here. We are here. We are in it together. We are blessed.
Turning just before the lighthouse, a hurried sound of an engine. Beth looks out at the purple dimming sky, purple dim street, hard to tell apart. Thinking for a moment she saw a dark green car, a forest-green Plymouth. But no. That’s Jeff’s car. And Jeff would be with Shauna. Of course he would.
EIGHT
“It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon. Just try it. Just this once.”
Shauna Boggs would’ve died if she thought anyone would ever see these. It was a mistake. She had put them away meticulously. First, she had put them in the dresser drawer, then under the bed, then in a shoebox in the closet. Which is where Beth found them.
Beth had been over, even though, guilty, she avoided that wooden oyster box of a house as much as was possible without arousing suspicion. Why would she want to go over there? Would you? Walking in there was nearly a seven-in-nine chance you’d stumble on her pop staring into his glass in the kitchen. Hunched over himself at that card table, use-it-for-a-kitchen-table, staring intently into a brown plastic glass of something orange with what’s left of ice melted in it. For hours.
She wondered how someone could sit for hours like that, not a word. She would die of boredom. But no, there he was—it didn’t matter what day it was, what hour. It was his job and he took it seriously. What was he looking for in that brown plastic glass, opaque, from the Buffy’s Buffet down on Henbert. Had to be he stole it. Habit, I guess, to stare into the same glass each morning, each noon, each twilight? That’s my glass. My drinking glass! Don’t touch it.
No, Beth steered away, delicately, from this little mess of a home, barely hanging on. She had nearly run out of excuses but this time she’d thought what the fuck. Choir practice had been canceled so what else was she gonna do ’til her shift. Besides, Shauna’s house was near to work. It didn’t make sense to go back home.
They’d been trying on shoes. Then, next thing you know, dresses, this necklace, that skirt, ’til the whole afternoon was burned down and in the hurry of try-on-this and hey-let’s-swap a box had tipped over, a little gray shoebox, at the back of the closet and the pictures had come flying out.
Naughty pictures. Dirty things. Sinful pictures her mother would’ve never allowed her to see, make-her-say-three-Hail-Marys-just-for-looking pictures. Polaroids. There. In the white frame, wide at the bottom, the little black pieces reveal themselves. Shauna in her swimsuit. Shauna in her bra. Shauna in nothing at all.
Shauna on her back. Shauna smiling, drunk. Shauna with a flirty look on her face, spread your legs a little wider, thata girl.
Beth couldn’t bear to look at them, but she couldn’t look away. Who was this girl? Her friend? Her best friend? In the pictures, now a star. A vixen. A killer of hearts. You would think that what was boiling up in Beth was disgust, shock, judgment, but that’s not what it was at all—to her surprise, more shocking than even the pictures, it was envy.
“Jeff took ’em.”
All that time, from cradle to hopscotch, from recess to four square, from corsages to prom to graduation to work, to endless days of drab . . . there had not been one, not one time in a single lifetime Beth had ever felt anything other than the obvious fact. She was her superior. Shauna was never as thin, or as demure, or as delicate in her features, as Beth. Beth was the prize. Shauna was the seconds.
Every time, each and every time, they’d met a boy, or a new set of boys, at school, after school, at the roller rink, Beth had stepped back . . . as she was taught, as she’d inherited. Naturally shy, it wasn’t that difficult. What would she have said anyway? What was she supposed to say? The patter, the general swamp of facts exchanged between people who knew nothing of each other confused Beth. It was a mystery. A lackluster one. She wanted nothing to do with it.
But Shauna, oh
Shauna had a lot to say. Miles! On and on she would go, asking questions, smiling, laughing, teasing, swatting, guffawing. She was a master of this vacuum-language, as eloquent at drivel-speech as a person could get. Beth sat in wonder, at times wide-eyed, at Shauna’s ability to dazzle, razzle, and retain. She had to admit, it was a gift. The gift of gab, isn’t that what they called it?
Yes, that’s what Shauna had. In spades. In hearts! In diamonds! On and on, she’d go every time, and it was only a matter of time ’til the eyes, or the two sets of eyes, in front of her, would move from the face making noises at them to the smaller, more petite, more dainty little face behind her. And this face, this frozen, cautious face would inevitably, cryingly always prove more interesting.
That part, Beth counted on.
How complicated she would seem, just for this saying-void. The less she did, the more wild they became, in their mistaken knowledge, the fury of her had-to-be-profound thoughts, inner workings, desires. Who is this sweet almost chaste but perhaps dirty, maybe dark, maybe brilliant, maybe wise little shy enthralling creature?! And all of this while Shauna prattled on.
So now this.
These pictures, these x-rated filthy things. In one, the one Beth is holding, peering down, unable to let go, Shauna is lying back on a towel, maybe on the lake? But there must’ve been no one around . . . she’s pulled her shirt up, just enough. She smiles a swoony, mischievous smile and the sun makes her dirt hair gold.
Jealous!
Beth had never been envious her whole life. Not from an abundance of confidence but from a sworn-in, do-your-duty belief that envy was, after all, one of the seven cardinal sins and it just wasn’t done. That indulgence, not meant for anyone with the last name Krause. Jealousy was a tonic for small minds, an exorbitance of the weak, the devil’s work. Both Dorothy and Lt. Colonel Charles had taught her well to stay away from such lily-minded vanities.
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