Beautiful to the Bone (The Enuis Trilogy #1) Read online

  “I’m pretty good with numbers.” I rubbed his shoulders. “At least I can add and subtract. How about I take on some of those columns, cut down your load. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  “But your studies.”

  “They can wait for a few hours. Let me be useful.”

  And after a couple of hours of calculating the two of us found the error. He breathed easier. “You’re a life saver.” He sat back and let his head dangle.

  I ran my fingers down his back. “And I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  I’d only seen the inside of a handful of buildings in my thirty-six years: the farmhouse, Carver’s workshop, my classrooms, the school library, the locker rooms, the basketball court and the hockey rink. Oh, and that church. But it was time for both of us to explore. I pushed. He gave in. I was terrified.

  He took me to another dark, out-of-the-way place, Valhalla’s or something. It sounded familiar. I’d never seen anything quite like it —candles the color of water marigold, medallions of sage, large goblets of pewter lining the rough-hewn shelves, shelves the color of a broad-winged hawk encircling the room.

  Throughout dinner he held a shy, little boy demeanor, as shy as I felt with other people sitting around us. We held hands. That helped.

  Once back home I found the citation: Valhalla is the mythological ‘hall of the slain’ for half of those who die in combat and go with the god, Odin. The other half, chosen first by Freyja, goes to her ‘meadow of death.’ All prepare to be reborn for the next war.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Harold’s introversion didn’t discourage me. It challenged me. And I had so much to learn from him. Like any good scientist I explored his patterns.

  He lingered as he turned pages, running his fingers back and forth along the paper, sometimes testing the edges. His hands trailed lightly along walls as we walked. He repeatedly smoothed his napkin. Measuring his experience with his fingers, at least that’s what I thought. I could understand that, like the prophetic feelings in my chest. ‘Psychometry’ is what they’d called it in my encyclopedia, the ability to obtain information about a person or an event by touching an object. But it was an old encyclopedia. There might be more recent scientific explanations.

  “Do you like to swim?” The research paper slipped off my lap. I’d lost my place. I left it.

  “Not really.” He was in Martin Chuzzlewit, distracted and not looking at me.

  I imagined myself sneaking out of the farmhouse at thirteen, stripping off my clothes and slipping naked past the tall reeds into a small pond, the cold April water stoking my flesh to life. For the first- but not the last time. Would he respond to nature like I did, would he open up?

  “Do you?” he asked. He closed the book, index finger keeping his spot.

  “Hmm, I do. Very much.” I couldn’t tell him that the waters —swimming completely exposed in those lakes and ponds— were imagined lovers, the only ones safe enough to imagine. Or that once I entered them, I investigated each with abandon; that they never disappointed me with their touch. That I remember the name of every one —Kingdom, Balm, White Fish, Medicine and others— and of most of the birds and animals that watched my nakedness.

  “Well, maybe I’ll take you swimming someday,” he said.

  “Yes, that would be nice.” I could see he wanted to return to his Dickens. I wanted to know why, why that was more important than exploring us and exposing us to new things.

  “Where are you now?” I asked.

  His lips barely moved. “I’m here. I’m gathering, gathering information.” A hint of delight.

  He took my hand. In a moment he pulled me fully to him, untucked my blouse and drew his hands along my naked neck and back. I didn’t resist.

  He’s teaching me, in his own way. I breathed heavy, but it was different than in the hockey rink, without fear. It was like gliding through the insatiable water. I couldn’t explain it, but the exploration was always new, always exquisite. He unhooked and removed my bra.

  ***

  On May 17, a few weeks after the Native People harvested their sugar maple, on an unusually warm, hypnotizing day along the shores of Kabekona Bay in the Paul Bunyan Forest where we courted and first consummated our relationship, Harold Cloonis proposed to me. I wasn’t completely surprised. But the greens were greener, the sky bluer than I’d ever seen it, and the sun seemed to catch me and massage me at just the right times as we passed through the variegated light. It was his acceptance of me, of course, and it was my assurance that I’d been right about nature and how it might open us both up, though we still had work to do together.

  To the Ojibwe and other Native People it was New Years Day, a new beginning, and it should have been for me too. But I thought about a big city, where I could be involved firsthand in research, and where healthy, attractive people congregated and new ideas germinated daily. Would he fit in? Would he slow me down? How would I be, surrounded by concrete rather than Bemidji’s comforting trees and waterways? And realistically, where would I get the money to live in such a place, even if I could find a research job there?

  Furthermore, I’d need to tell him that there would be no children. Neither of us had good symmetrical genes, but it was moot anyway. “I need time to think about it.” I made steady eye contact with him.

  “Really?” As if his world had been swept away, the dark blue rings around his eyes grew darker still.

  “I’m not saying no.”

  “Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “You want me to be happy?”

  “Of course, that’s why—”

  “Ssh.” I placed my fingers to his lips with one hand and placed his hand over my left breast with the other. We were both diverted by the physical. “It will all work out.”

  ***

  When I could get away from Momma and her prying questions, our evenings were quiet, and always alone, he with his Poe and Dickens and Dickinson, me with my studies in medical technology. A generous time with little said. Lights kept low. Still, he was pressing me for a decision and I was still studying him for answers.

  Occasionally he breathed irregularly, with difficulty. I felt it moments before it started. I raised my head, concerned.

  “Listen to this,” he said and read a passage:

  "There is nothing . . . no nothing innocent and good, that dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to that faith or none . . . There is not an angel added to the Host of Heaven but does its blessed work in those that loved it here."

  “A bit depressing.”

  “Really? Well, it is Dickens. Do you think it’s true? Aren’t we all connected?”

  “I suppose.”

  He flashed a small admiring smile. “I know you do. You care about people. You’re one of those who understands instinctively; you feel without being touched. Dickinson would say you’re not waiting for Eternity, you’re close to it.”

  I wasn’t convinced. “Hmmm.”

  Despite that his eyes brightened, as if he was releasing a bucket of safe light on me. “And soon we’ll formalize our connection.”

  I mustered a half-smile, hoping he was right, but worried how it might end if he wasn’t.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You think you’re systematic, all scientist. Always carrying a measuring stick.” He pointed to the book in my lap, Davis’s Comprehensive Handbook of Laboratory and Diagnostic Tests with Nursing Implications.

  “Dickens wrote something in American Notes. It’s here somewhere.” He rose, plucked the book from the shelf and seated himself in one uncharacteristically smooth move. His fingers searched for a certain thickness of pages, then opened the book accordingly. “Here. This is systematic.”

  Again, he quoted Dickens:

  “A woman was locked up alone. She was bent, they told me, on committing suicide. If anything could have strengthened her in her resolution, it would certainly have been the insupportable monotony of such an existence.”
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br />   He closed the book. A contorted grin seized his face. My pulse quickened; we’re biologically evolved to detect deception in facial imbalance. And wasn’t Harold ‘locked up’ in some ways? Wasn’t I?

  His grimace swiftly vanished. “A report on how Americans deal with the unconventional. Systematic. Not much has changed since Dickens visited in the 1800s and wrote his journal. You don’t want to be systematic. It’s not for you. It’s a kind of confinement. You can’t do your good work hidden behind a curtain. You need to be out and about.”

  “Confinement? Really?” I affected solemnity, surprised at this apparent turnaround in his philosophy but perhaps, like Momma, he’d be okay if I was out and about without visual connection to him. I blustered, then quickly swallowed my laughter. But I knew he was right and I appreciated his support. I just didn’t know how to get there. Or how I could afford it.

  “Just saying,” he whispered. “You have a gift.”

  “You mean,” I said, waving my hands above my head and flaring my eyes in mock wonder, “the stuff of myths and legends, like a vardøger, some magic spirit?”

  Hurt pinned back his eyes and mouth. That was unfair of me. I didn’t know where that came from; he was merely trying to be kind and supportive. I changed the subject. “What about you? You’re always gathering information.”

  “I’m not systematic.” He said it like a little boy begging to be understood.

  “You don’t go out. You’re happy to read your Dickens.” A piece of me was prodding him to change.

  “He’s taught me all I need to know about out there. Taught me so much.”

  “About?”

  He thought for a moment. “About not looking away, not at the precious things.” He bowed to me. I knew then that he would never hurt me. As if again he’d read my mind, he continued. “Forgive me now for all the foolish things I will do in our relationship.”

  I inhaled his love, completely. “You’re forgiven.” Could I really be so indulgent?

  He bent ever so slightly to me, then glanced at the clock and said no more. He returned to his page. His hands didn’t caress the words the way they usually did; they were restless on the page. I went back to my textbook. A cool current passed between us. He wanted my advice, or something more, but didn’t ask. Would that come in time? Would it depend on my answer?

  ***

  I devised a test for myself and for Harold. Could he live in a city? Could I give up my work for him? And if I did, would he join me in nature?

  “I want you to come with me.” I rubbed his shoulders. I really wanted this to work.

  “Where?”

  “The afternoon in Itasca State Park.”

  “Ah, no.” He was anchored to the chair with a book in his lap.

  “It’s beautiful down there.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. What’s this all about?”

  “A geneticist at Stanford replaced myth with science —using fish skin!” Even thinking about it excited me.

  “Huh?”

  “He and his colleagues proved being blonde was a controllable genetic variation.”

  “Could be the end of blonde jokes.”

  “Could be. The same gene in the fish controls pigmentation in humans.”

  “I guess that gives you hope.”

  “More than hope. I’m on the right track. Don’t you see?” I coaxed him to let go of the book. “If I can isolate the ideal facial traits, controls for those DNA traits will be available within a few years.”

  “Creating a master race.”

  I scowled. “No, just a healthy start; a master face. Variations will naturally follow. Anyhow, can we talk about it down there?

  “No.”

  “If not Itasca, someplace outside? How about Little Bass Stump? That’s closer.”

  “Why so mysterious? What does this have to do with me?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Then please put that darn book down and come with me.”

  ***

  In the car I laid my scrapbook of celebrity faces in his lap, and I drove. Might as well be efficient. A captive audience.

  “What’s this?” His exasperation not well hidden.

  “Clippings from Momma’s magazines. Remember when I mentioned attraction to healthy genes? The research that posits that people are attractive because they look healthy to others, like they’d create healthy offspring?”

  “Don’t remember, you’ve got so much of this stuff.”

  “Look at them.” Decades of beauty: Redford, Newman, Cruise, Diggs, Clooney, Deere, Pitt, Bardot, Derek, Locklear, Lawrence, Berry, and more. “Look closely. Are they all healthy looking and therefore beautiful?”

  “I guess so.” He closed the scrapbook.

  “No, please look. Which ones are and which ones are not? And why? Like if you wanted to have healthy babies with them.”

  “I want to have a healthy baby with you.”

  I hadn’t told him yet. “Okay, but if you liked men.”

  “This is absurd. Damn it!” He slammed his hand on the binder, disproportionately irritated. “They’re all good looking. Whatever you want.”

  I pursed my lips. I could wait him out.

  He saw I wouldn’t be dissuaded. He opened the binder. “Well, I don’t think Cruise is so good looking. Or Pitt.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t want to have a baby with them.”

  A joke; he actually made a joke. I laughed. His face loosened. “How about the women?” I tapped the photos.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Jennifer Lawrence.”

  “She’s good looking.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s cuddly.”

  “Cuddly. She looks healthy, so she’s attractive to you?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “And the others? Who looks healthy?”

  “I’m not crazy about her.” He pointed to Kathleen Turner.

  “Why?”

  “She’s kind of hard looking. We’d end up with kids that looked like Mickey Roarke.”

  “So,” I continued, “black, white, blonde, brunette, hair long or short? None of that factors in?”

  “Not for me.”

  I pulled onto the dirt turnoff and parked the car. “Little Bass Stump.”

  He looked at the surroundings. “It’s pretty. Thanks for getting me out.”

  When he wanted to he could make everything right. I took his hand. We wandered down a narrow path that appeared to dead-end at a dense orange thicket of wild milkweed. I pulled him through and found a secluded sandbar.

  “Take off your clothes. Come swim with me.” I dropped my jeans and peeled off my top.

  “What do you think you’re doing?!”

  “Come on.” I spread my arms.

  He looked around. “Someone will see us. Put your clothes back on.”

  “There’s no one for a half mile or more.”

  A pained look fixed on his face. “Why’d you bring me here?”

  “Swim.”

  “No.” He backed away from the water. “I don’t swim.” His eyes stuttered with panic.

  “Okay, okay,” I said reassuring him, still standing completely naked and trying to control my reaction. “Could you live in New York City?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I want to do that?”

  Suddenly I felt emotionally naked. “To further my research.”

  “Look, I’ve already got a small nest egg. If you get a job in town we’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want to be fine. I want to be useful.”

  “You’ll be useful to me. Come here.”

  “Harold, I’m serious.” All the pleasure of my discoveries and my surroundings were ebbing away.

  “I’m serious. We’ve got everything we need here.”

  ***

  On the way home, we said very little. The greenery and the rolling hills had taken on an empty feeling.
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  Just before I dropped him off at his apartment, he said, “Eunis?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I suggest something?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think you should stop talking to yourself in public. When you start quantifying people especially, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Ah, okay.” I balled my fist in my lap. This was going to be more difficult than I’d imagined. I guess I’d grown used to my privacy.

  “And, I understand.”

  “What?”

  “That you want to stick with your research. I’ll help make that happen.” He took my hand. I wanted to believe him.

  ***

  When I recognized what I was doing — usually because he reminded me — I realized it didn’t sound or look reasonable to talk to myself out loud, although his incessant preaching pissed me off. “What do you suggest?”

  “Journaling, like Dickens.” Apparently unaware of my irritation, he bought me a diary with a burgundy cloth cover and a simple red cedar box to keep it in. He kissed me on the forehead and stroked my hair. Okay, I’d talk to myself on paper.

  Eunis Cloonis —it figures, I wrote in my diary less than four months later when he talked me into moving in with him, an experiment. Even my name will draw unwanted attention if I agree to marry him.

  “As for the living room,” he added, rewarding himself with a scan of his library and the small desk, “I’ll ask that you not alter this room in any way except by your presence.” But then he added, “Your magnificent presence.” And he wrapped his arms around me and whispered in my ear. “I love you.”

  The moving-in thing was kind of cool. As I said, an experiment. Like a badge they’d give to exploring Girl Scouts. After putting it off for days I told Momma, “I’m moving out.”

  “Out where? Don’t be ridiculous.” She stopped wiping the counter for a moment, shook her head and turned back to stare out the window at the caboose going nowhere on its single length of track.

  “It’s time. I’ll still come see you. I won’t be far.”

  “I knew this college thing was a mistake. You’re full of yourself.”