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

  “It was okay for Carly and she’s gone.”

  “She’s made something for herself. You’re mixin’ around with stuff that’s useless.”

  I knew I should just shut up and leave. “Because of the way I look.”

  “You need to take account a that, sure.”

  “You ever had dreams?”

  “I need you here.” She muffled a sob, her back still to me. “I would miss you so much. You’re my big girl.”

  “I need to be someplace else.” Anywhere else. Away from Momma, away from Lyle the reckless man-child. And into Desire, a fantasy I’d only begun to examine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Smooth with a refined purr, the motor coach to Minneapolis rode like a queen’s carriage. I was nervous but glad to be away from Harold, even for a day. I scolded myself for such thoughts. He’d been good to me. I liked soothing him. I liked watching his eyes relax and close. My brain was too busy for its own good.

  Over my dark glasses rows of harvested barley fields slipped by, glazed in morning frost, an assurance of harder things to come. Yet I was cozy. Except for tending to my hood and maintaining a divide from the woman seated next to me, I marveled at the ease of escaping Bemidji, the excitement and luxury of it. And streaming past at incredible speed was what remained of the immense glacial Lake Agassiz, as chronicled in the encyclopedia. It wasn’t the first time I’d imagined it, but there it was. I fantasized again swimming across the legendary lake, it holding more water than is contained now in all the lakes in all the world.

  Careful not to draw attention, I stroked the plush-blue, deep-set seat. I nestled into it and considered the questions to ask Matthew Deere. The young actor was bringing his book-signing tour to the large Barnes & Noble in the Twin Cities, and his autobiography Deere in the Headlights about his insecurities in public and in front of a camera, compelled me to take the risk that Harold had advocated.

  “You need to be out and about,” he’d said, and so here I was, surprising Harold with my courage. He’d be thrilled when he returned from visiting a client.

  And now I had the chance to ask Matthew Deere, a man sensitive to personality traits, what he’d experienced working with various actors. Did personality reflect attractiveness on a face? Perhaps there would be some actors he’d rather not discuss, but even that would be telling and something I could correlate to my other research, though I was certain I wouldn’t be able to stand in line with people milling around, under rows of fluorescent lights, to ask him the questions. I had so many; he’d starred with countless famous faces.

  The sight of him surprised me. He was smaller in person than on screen, not only shorter, but also less muscular. I stuck with my plan. At least fifty women —mostly women— had listened along with me to his sweet story of shyness and his ascension to film idol. I pulled his book and my journal closer. Some of the women gathered round him, asking for additional signatures, pawing at him, asking questions. And the questions, from what I could hear, were so petty. About clothing, about his alleged affair with Zooey Deschanel, about nothing.

  My moment was coming. I could see he was bored and tired; this was, after all, the tenth stop on a sixteen-city tour. I’d done the research. I’d spent over an hour scoping out the bookstore’s floor plan, like any smart investigator would do. Did he glance out to me, beyond the gaggle of foolish women?

  A butch orange-haired woman running interference for him, perhaps his agent, finally interceded into the circle surrounding him and cleared an opening to a side door through which he vanished, inelegantly dropping his pen. The crowd set upon it.

  I stepped outside, down the parking lot steps, and back up a smaller set to a doorway. Effortlessly. And then there he was, Matthew Deere, all to myself.

  I was speechless, my hands clammy. I tugged at my hood. He gawked at me, aghast, and then tried to regain his calm. “I’m sorry. No more signatures.” He waved me off and moved toward the parking lot.

  “But wait.” I tried to open my journal and run and read the first question. “Wait.”

  He did not.

  “Physical beauty,” I called, sprinting after him, “may be a component of personality. I thought . . . you’re a beauty. Your insights could provide help to others.” I took two steps at a time, fluidly. He was clumsy. I was on him before I even knew it, crashing into him as he stopped and turned, knocking him to the ground where he skinned his hands and face.

  “I am so sorry—”

  “Merilee!” he yelled. “Merilee!”

  “I just need some answers. It’s research.” I tried to calm him. I read from my journal. “You’ve worked with Nicole Kidman twice. Is she—?”

  “Get away from me.” He screamed stumbling to his feet and rubbing his palms.

  “But is she agreeable, conscientious—?”

  “Get the fuck away.”

  “I’m a scientist—”

  “Get her the fuck away from me!” he yelled again over my shoulder.

  What I learned: I still scared people.

  ***

  Harold arrived shortly after 10 PM, not making eye contact with me. A bit guilty, it seemed. I should talk.

  “Shall we watch the news?” he said.

  The news? He usually wanted to run his hands over me the minute he walked through the door, or at least talk or read his Dickens. We rarely turned on the TV. “I guess. How was your day?”

  “Fine,” he said eyes darting away from me. “Fine.” He dumped himself unceremoniously on the couch and faced the TV. He picked up the remote. “And you?” He surfed the listings.

  A deep breath. “I took your advice.”

  “What advice is that?” He was preoccupied with the screen.

  I sat and leaned on him. “Out and about.”

  “What?” He finally faced me. Then quickly away.

  “Hi.” I kissed him. How could I not want him?

  “Hi.” Unfocused. Nervous.

  I put my hand on his. He didn’t respond, like he wasn’t even there. Confusing. “I went to Minneapolis today.”

  “What!”

  “You would have been proud of me.” I did feel stronger. At least I’d tried.

  “Okay.” His eyes uncertain.

  “You know who Matthew Deere is?”

  He nodded. “The actor.”

  “The very attractive actor. He has a new book out. I went to his book signing.”

  “That’s terrific.” His smile, broad for Harold, felt forced.

  “Well, almost.” I needed a place to put my hands. My lap. “It didn’t go well.” Breathe.

  “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for a rich actor who makes foolish movies and gets paid obscenely for them.”

  “I wanted to interview him, you know, on the subject of beauty. Get real first-hand information for my research.”

  He drummed the remote fretfully, like I’d been caught stealing. “What have you done?”

  “Shouldn’t I do whatever I can to achieve my vision?”

  “Don’t drag me into it.”

  Heat ran up my back. “It was your idea.”

  “To hassle some . . . pretty boy?”

  “It’s my work.”

  “Eunis, really.”

  It sounded condescending. Suddenly I didn’t like him so much.

  “What would you expect?” he continued. “This beauty thing. It’s subjective. Did you make a fool of yourself?”

  Shame flooded over me, again. “I frightened him, knocked him down.” I wanted Harold to corral me, tell me it was okay, that I had taken an important step, even if the results weren’t there.

  “Oh god, no, we don’t need to show up in one of your brainless celebrity magazines.”

  It took me a minute to find air. “Your privacy is safe.”

  Pressure built on my jaw and my teeth hurt. He was no friend. He was like the others. He was going to be in the way. I wanted to lash out at him. But I punched the couch, stood up, and disappeared into the bedroom. When he finally came t
o bed I kept my back to him. He did the same to me. But the next morning he kissed the back of my neck and said, “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t so sure.

  ***

  “Harold Cloonis?!” Momma pushed aside her Star magazine, stubbed out the Lucky Strike, and twisted her mouth in distaste. “He’s a loner, a creep. You’re not gonna marry the creep! I thought you’d outgrow this.” She’d dressed in pineapple yellow Capri pants, a cherry red tunic, and her signature carrot orange dyed hair.

  “Momma the fruit cocktail.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  Momma reached for the cigarette pack, but it was done. “Carton,” she commanded, directing me to the hall closet with a stiff wave.

  “Momma, no.” My resistance was pathetically sheepish, scarcely audible.

  “Carton.” She repeated with exasperation and a sandy cough that echoed off the tired hospital-green kitchen cabinets. I moved dutifully to the hall closet, the lightless sanctuary where I’d first felt atoms at play.

  “No friends,” Momma called out. “He ain’t got a friend. At forty? What’s that about?”

  I searched my memory for friends. Hidden away, there had been few . . .

  “Do you hear me?”

  . . . There was Nemo, the mutt, of course. Maybe he wasn’t the best-looking, but he could make me laugh. He was a friend. I felt love in my chest, at least I thought it was love, like I thought it was love with Harold.

  “You and your weird hunches,” continued Momma from the kitchen. “Can you trust them? I don’t think so; it’s not reality. It’s just weather in your head. This is another one of your experiments, like the time you put henna in your hair. Remember that?”

  I remembered Momma’s cosmetic experiment. I remembered appearing closer to death.

  There was silence, then her tone softened. “It was a nice try, Eunis Marie, but this is much more serious. You are what you are.”

  I brought her the carton. Momma picked it up and slammed it down on the kitchen table, careful to make noise but not damage the cigarettes. “He wants your body.”

  “So?”

  “You think that’s funny?”

  I must have smirked; Harold had already been a man and an animal and an uncontrollable electric storm. All new. Cleansing. Our milky smell lingered and moistened my memory.

  “This is an ungodly union.” Her unequivocal statement of fact. “You’ll wanta kill him before he kills you, you’ll see.” Momma reminiscing her past. “And what about me? Who’s gonna take care a me?” She squinted, eyes seeping.

  To my own surprise I stared straight back. “He loves me,” I said, still unsure why.

  A grin spread in stages across my mother’s large, lined face and mouth, the first time in a long time. Her gray jowls bobbed a few times and a coarse private laugh cracked out. She stripped open the carton and the next pack, then pointed the Lucky Strike at me. “You don’t fuckin’ know how good you got it here.”

  That night after my swim I met Harold at the apartment. When he opened the door his face opened to mine, that all-encompassing smile of his, twisted and ingenuous and completely at my disposal. He breathed me in. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said, cupping his hands strategically to the right and left of my breasts.

  We’d been less than a day apart and he chased my uncertainty as if it was just a bad dream.

  “I accept,” I said touching his face.

  Eighteen days later, after the clerk pronounced, “You are now Mr. and Mrs. . . .” —pausing to read and confirm the certificate— “. . . Cloonis,” and the dappled light in the Cloquet honeymoon cabin made me believe that I was the luckiest woman in the world, Missy Bassert, the cleaning lady with the palsied left hand and the soiled calico apron, found Harold in his office, above his oak desk, hanging from a 12x12 beam.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The darkness was comforting, even with the freezing wind whipping at me, and I approached the floodlit stone building with caution. I still hadn’t completely settled in. At the threshold of its centerpiece, a domed rotunda faced in split layers of blue-gray rock, I hesitated. I’d rather have watched my breath rise in the frigid air curling up the structure's grand Victorian lines than enter. Numb felt good, the cold reminding me of my flesh. But I really had to sleep, if I could.

  Even well past midnight, light burned brightly from the lobby. Peeking through the glass into the entrance hall he was there, in the corner, headphones on, rather lumpy and overweight, waxing the floor. I pulled back. I’d learned by now. I waited and watched from the shadows.

  Then remembering, I dug into my coat pocket and smoothing out the clipping as best I could in the wind, I held it to the light and re-read it:

  England’s Daily Mail

  “Superhumans could become a reality in 30 years

  thanks to advances in gene science

  A generation of genetically modified 'X-Men' superhumans could be among us by 2045, a Ministry of Defence think tank has said.

  Advancements in gene technology could help humans gain mutant powers such as the likes of Wolverine, Cyclops and Storm in the popular comic book and movie series, it has been reported.

  The MoD's Development Concepts and Doctrine Centre warn however that 'genetic inequality' could result from advancements in biology being unequally shared across society.”

  Marginally fortified, I slipped the clipping back into my pocket. The concierge retreated to a back room.

  I stole across the grand lobby and scurried the last few yards into the elevator. All sound was sealed away as I rose through space to the thirteenth floor, as if ascending from the ocean bottom. The smoked-glass panels flickered by. “I’m still gathering,” I muttered. The empty elevator continued upward, reflecting fragments of me, circling me. I dropped my head but I reminded myself, despite my fatigue, that I was doing just fine. Quite well, really, considering Harold and his parents and the questioning.

  ***

  I went around the back of the gray cinderblock building. I wanted to see Harold’s face one last time. Maybe it would put an end to the questions, mine as well as the others. A young man, probably no older than fifteen and wearing a raggedy brown Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt and a dust mask, sorted through some ashes in a small rectangular tub. He waved a large magnet over them and tossing whatever came up in a small pile on the table top, next to chunks of white coals, similar to what you’d find after a barbeque. I watched him for a few minutes, sensing the ungodly dryness of his sifting, before he noticed me and startled, then pulled off his mask and composed himself.

  “Can I help you?” He wore latex gloves and dusted them off. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “There was no one up front.”

  “Come back when my uncle’s in the office.”

  “I was hoping to see my husband before he’s cremated.”

  “That’s not my responsibility.”

  “Do you know when it will be?”

  “You can come with the rest of the family. Talk to my uncle.”

  “His name was Harold, Harold Cloonis.”

  His face took on the color of the powder.

  “I know I’m not supposed to ask, but you see, my father-in-law won’t let me . . . Well, anyway, do you know when it will be?”

  He examined the pile of ash and picked up one of the white coals. Now I saw that it wasn’t coal; it was a piece of bone.

  And then later that week, the cop. “Please tell me again where you were that afternoon?” He was middle-aged, part Asian, abnormally laconic. Not as aggressive as the last time. With a name like Sullivan and a largemouth bass mounted on his wall.

  Truth was, I couldn’t remember. I knew it was damning, not knowing where I was when my new husband coiled a rope around his neck and broke it . . . “I think I was at the apartment studying, but I just don’t know.”

  “Between two and six, six-thirty?” The detective was emotionless. Not like Columbo or Sonya Cross; more like someone pulled his spa
rk plugs and he was waiting for his pension.

  I shrugged.

  “No enemies?”

  “I told you, I don’t know any of his friends. Ask his folks.”

  He pursed his thin lips. It could have been worse; he could have considered me a suspect.

  “It’s odd.” The way he said it and turned his focus to an open file in his hands, especially with his show-nothing face, felt accusatory for the first time.

  “Isn’t suicide that way?” Odd. I was being brave. Like Freyja.

  “No, I meant his fractured vertebrae. His neck. It’s unusual except when the body drops. But you must know that because of your studies. It’s the collapsed carotid artery blocking blood to the brain that usually kills people.” A rush of nausea swept over me. He looked up. “You ever fight? You were newlyweds.”

  “Yes. Ever fight, of course.”

  “Physical?”

  “No.”

  “You’d think he’d be happy.”

  “He was never a dance-in-the street kind of guy.”

  “Well, I suppose you’ll need to find a silver lining. I understand this opens some opportunities for you. I’m glad to see you’ve adjusted, Mrs. Cloonis.”

  “I don’t think I’ve adjusted, Detective.”

  ***

  I watched the elevator numbers climb. Please let tonight settle more easily than the last. I was missing something. Harold. I closed my eyes. “You . . . How could you? You who was so sure about me, and then . . .”

  I saw him swinging by the neck, watching me. My eyes bolted open. I hung onto the elevator’s brass railing.

  “It seemed right at the time. Do whatever it takes. You said so.”

  I’d been so sure that genetics were the answer, that I could help being in a lab while I learned and prepared for the next stage of my research, that the New York lab was the place. The next grand experiment. The pursuit of ideal beauty was exciting and exhausting.

  The elevator whirred upward.

  I could be loved. Logically, Harold had ended that debate, hadn’t he? Once would be enough, on to more important things. Things I promised Nemo, things I promised myself.