George Saunders - Pastoralia

“Like you live in a mansion,” says Jade.

“I do not claim to live in no mansion,” says Freddie. “But then again I do not live in no slum. The other thing I also do not do is strip naked.”

“Thank God for small favors,” says Min.

“Anyways he’s never actually naked,” says Jade.

Which is true. I always have on at least a T-back.

“No wonder we never take these kids out to a nice lunch,” says Freddie.

“I do not even consider this a nice lunch,” says Min.

…

For dinner jade microwaves some Stars-n-Flags. They’re addictive. They put sugar in the sauce and sugar in the meat nuggets. I think also caffeine. Someone told me the brown streaks in the Flags are caffeine. We have like five bowls each.

After dinner the babies get fussy and Min puts a mush of ice cream and Hershey’s syrup in their bottles and we watch The Worst That Could Happen , a half-hour of computer simulations of tragedies that have never actually occurred but theoretically could. A kid gets hit by a train and flies into a zoo, where he’s eaten by wolves. A man cuts his hand off chopping wood and while wandering around screaming for help is picked up by a tornado and dropped on a preschool during recess and lands on a pregnant teacher.

“I miss Bernie so bad,” says Min.

“Me too,” Jade says sadly.

The babies start howling for more ice cream.

“That is so cute,” says Jade. “They’re like, Give it the fuck up!”

“We’ll give it the fuck up, sweeties, don’t worry,” says Min. “We didn’t forget about you.”

Then the phone rings. It’s Father Brian. He sounds weird. He says he’s sorry to bother us so late. But something strange has happened. Something bad. Something sort of, you know, unspeakable. Am I sitting? I’m not but I say I am.

Apparently someone has defaced Bernie’s grave.

My first thought is there’s no stone. It’s just grass. How do you deface grass? What did they do, pee on the grass on the grave? But Father’s nearly in tears.

So I call Ma and Freddie and tell them to meet us, and we get the babies up and load them into the K-car.

“Deface,” says Jade on the way over. “What does that mean, deface?”

“It means like fucked it up,” says Min.

“But how?” says Jade. “I mean, like what did they do?”

“We don’t know, dumbass,” says Min. “That’s why we’re going there.”

“And why?” says Jade. “Why would someone do that?”

“Check out Miss Shreelock Holmes,” says Min. “Someone done that because someone is a asshole.”

“Someone is a big-time asshole,” says Jade.

Father Brian meets us at the gate with a flashlight and a golf cart.

“When I saw this,” he says. “I literally sat down in astonishment. Nothing like this has ever happened here. I am so sorry. You seem like nice people.”

We’re too heavy and the wheels spin as we climb the hill, so I get out and jog alongside.

“Okay, folks, brace yourselves,” Father says, and shuts off the engine.

Where the grave used to be is just a hole. Inside the hole is the Amber Mist, with the top missing. Inside the Amber Mist is nothing. No Aunt Bernie.

“What the hell,” says Jade. “Where’s Bernie?”

“Somebody stole Bernie?” says Min.

“At least you folks have retained your feet,” says Father Brian. “I’m telling you I literally sat right down. I sat right down on that pile of dirt. I dropped as if shot. See that mark? That’s where I sat.”

On the pile of grave dirt is a butt-shaped mark.

The cops show up and one climbs down in the hole with a tape measure and a camera. After three or four flashes he climbs out and hands Ma a pair of blue pumps.

“Her little shoes,” says Ma. “Oh my God.”

“Are those them?” says Jade.

“Those are them,” says Min.

“I am freaking out,” says Jade.

“I am totally freaking out,” says Min.

“I’m gonna sit,” says Ma, and drops into the golf cart.

“What I don’t get is who’d want her?” says Min.

“She was just this lady,” says Jade.

“Typically it’s teens?” one cop says. “Typically we find the loved one nearby? Once we found the loved one nearby with, you know, a cigarette between its lips, wearing a sombrero? These kids today got a lot more nerve than we ever did. I never would’ve dreamed of digging up a dead corpse when I was a teen. You might tip over a stone, sure, you might spray-paint something on a crypt, you might, you know, give a wino a hotfoot.”

“But this, jeez,” says Freddie. “This is a entirely different ballgame.”

“Boy howdy,” says the cop, and we all look down at the shoes in Ma’s hands.

…

Next day I go back to work. I don’t feel like it but we need the money. The grass is wet and it’s hard getting across the ravine in my dress shoes. The soles are slick. Plus they’re too tight. Several times I fall forward on my briefcase. Inside the briefcase are my T-backs and a thing of mousse.

Right off the bat I get a tableful of MediBen women seated under a banner saying BEST OF LUCK, BEATRICE, NO HARD FEELINGS. I take off my shirt and serve their salads. I take off my flight pants and serve their soups. One drops a dollar on the floor and tells me feel free to pick it up.

I pick it up.

“Not like that, not like that,” she says. “Face the other way, so when you bend we can see your crack.”

I’ve done this about a million times, but somehow I can’t do it now.

I look at her. She looks at me.

“What?” she says. “I’m not allowed to say that? I thought that was the whole point.”

“That is the whole point, Phyllis,” says another lady. “You stand your ground.”

“Look,” Phyllis says. “Either bend how I say or give back the dollar. I think that’s fair.”

“You go, girl,” says her friend.

I give back the dollar. I return to the Locker Area and sit awhile. For the first time ever, I’m voted Stinker. There are thirteen women at the MediBen table and they all vote me Stinker. Do the MediBen women know my situation? Would they vote me Stinker if they did? But what am I supposed to do, go out and say, Please ladies, my aunt just died, plus her body’s missing?

Mr. Frendt pulls me aside.

“Perhaps you need to go home,” he says. “I’m sorry for your loss. But I’d like to encourage you not to behave like one of those Comanche ladies who bite off their index fingers when a loved one dies. Grief is good, grief is fine, but too much grief, as we all know, is excessive. If your aunt’s death has filled your mouth with too many bitten-off fingers, for crying out loud, take a week off, only don’t take it out on our Guests, they didn’t kill your dang aunt.”

But I can’t afford to take a week off. I can’t even afford to take a few days off.

“We really need the money,” I say.

“Is that my problem?” he says. “Am I supposed to let you dance without vigor just because you need the money? Why don’t I put an ad in the paper for all sad people who need money? All the town’s sad could come here and strip. Good-bye. Come back when you feel halfway normal.”

From the pay phone I call home to see if they need anything from the FoodSoQuik.

“Just come home,” Min says stiffly. “Just come straight home.”

“What is it?” I say.

“Come home,” she says.

Maybe someone’s found the body. I imagine Bernie naked, Bernie chopped in two, Bernie posed on a bus bench. I hope and pray that something only mildly bad’s been done to her, something we can live with.

At home the door’s wide open. Min and Jade are sitting very still on the couch, babies in their laps, staring at the rocking chair, and in the rocking chair is Bernie. Bernie’s body.