Helen Phillips - The Beautiful Bureaucrat

Standing up felt like an act of tremendous will. She walked around to the front of the tomb.

BOOMHAVEN

Boom, haven!

Her haven — tomb; another deathly coincidence, just like the ones she had been so keen to find in the Database.

She wished her last name were Boomhaven. A name for someone who could ferociously defend herself and her loved ones. Josephine Boomhaven, superhero, examined the list detailing the contents of the tomb.

MATTHEW JAMES BOOMHAVEN B. OCTOBER 3, 1872. D. AUGUST 17, 1918.

HARRIET ROSE BOOMHAVEN B. JANUARY 11, 1876. D. JUNE 27, 1942.

EDITH ROSE BOOMHAVEN B. MAY 18, 1899. D. MAY 18, 1899.

She reached out to touch MAY 18, 1899 and MAY 18, 1899. The engraved lines chilled her fingertips.

BDBDBD.

DBDBDB.

She refused to think about the child, its brief brush with life, the forty-three bereaved years that must have followed, the number of decades it had been since anyone had taken note of the fugitive existence of EDITH ROSE BOOMHAVEN.

Dearth rose boo have.

Instead, she unzipped her bag and looked inside for something to write on. The only paper she could find was a receipt from the Four-Star Diner. Carefully, she copied down the full names, the “B” dates, the “D” dates.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was a plan.

Once she had finished writing it all out, she folded the receipt, placed it in her wallet, stood up, strode down the hill. Wintergreen Path, Yew Path, Hill Path, Mahonia Path, Prim Path.

Then, a double headstone: J NEWBURY, twice.

She resisted, but the magnetic letters won, pulling her off Vernal Path.

Upon closer inspection, it proved to be JANE LOUISE NEWBURY and JONATHAN PHILIP NEWBURY. They shared a burial date: NOVEMBER 4, 1870.

A couple together burning in bed, a couple together pocked with plague. The indifferent sun. Sunburn blossomed on her hot cheeks. A headache blotted her vision red. She staggered lost among the graves until she reached the black wrought-iron fence. On the other side of the fence, people strolled and children licked cones. The miraculous ice cream truck. She walked alongside the fence, clinging to its bars, hoping for a gate.

The smells of the world assailed her — grass rotting, dogs peeing — yet even so a monstrous hunger rose within her. She needed ice cream, cottage cheese, chocolate, rice, milk, licorice.

She knew he wouldn’t be in the cellar when she returned. She knew the rooms would be sunk in shadows, the bathtub haunted, and she would sit in the dark the whole night, starving alone. Her joints ached, or maybe it was her brain. She limped up the block toward the sublet.

He was there. The lamps were on. Something steamed on the stove. She stood in the doorway in disbelief.

He came over to her. He smiled the smile of someone who didn’t spend his days typing death dates into a database. He relieved her of her bag.

“You look like you need a hug,” he said.

She felt like an alien. As though she had never before been exposed to the way things are done on Earth: that you can return home to someone who cares for you, that a few overused words can hurt your heart with their appropriateness, that your muscles can soften into the muscles of another human being.

“I got you something,” he said. She wanted to cry out when he pulled away from her.

He went to the fridge and returned with a Coca-Cola in a bottle. Coca-Cola in a bottle was one of her favorite things. He twisted the cap off with the bottom of his T-shirt and handed it to her. He was good as gold, good as ever. She drank hard, the carbonation burning her throat.

That you could have a need; that someone could bring you something to fulfill this need.

He reminded her of a funny story from their past involving an old friend, someone mistaking vodka for water, connected to a later story in which Joseph disguised Guinness in a Coca-Cola bottle; you had to be there. She was shocked by her laughter. She stroked the cool perfect lines of the Coca-Cola bottle.

Oca ola otto.

“I hate my job,” she allowed herself to say, as though she meant it in the way people usually mean it. “You hate yours too, right?” Misery loves company.

“It’s boring,” he said. “But it’s great, in a way.”

She was not in the mood for him to elaborate.

* * *

Later,they sat on the couch, eating carrots. She leaned her head against his skull while he chewed. She listened to his jaw moving. She liked to hear the sounds of his skeleton.

Alone in the ungenerous light of the elevator on Tuesday morning, Josephine pressed the DOOR OPEN button again and again. The elevator had stopped on the second floor, as per her request, but now refused to release her. Instead, it began to rise at its stately, maddening pace. It stopped inexplicably on the eighth floor, the tenth floor. The doors remained sealed. The elevator then descended, stopping on the seventh floor, where the doors opened into the desolation of an empty hall. On the way down to the basement and on the way back up to the tenth floor, Josephine attempted to exit on floor two.

The even floors, she realized, were all locked. The File Storage floors. The floors with the dusty bathrooms that Trishiffany had maligned within minutes of meeting her. Like the floor she had tried and failed to access in her search for the vending machine.

Tucked into her bra, damp with her anxious sweat, the Four-Star Diner receipt bearing the names and dates of the Boomhavens.

She was operating under the uncertain assumption that the second floor should contain file storage for the earliest letters in the alphabet. But the second floor continued to elude her. She rode the elevator up and down, up and down, up and down. She had arrived before business hours, but now business hours had begun. Occasionally other bureaucrats joined her on her upward journey; all exited on odd floors.

She knew the gray files were mounting in her office, beginning to bury her desk.

A bureaucrat with papery skin and flat eyes boarded the elevator, pressed the 2, and swiped a card across a keypad that Josephine had neglected to notice. The elevator doors, now cordial, opened onto the second floor. The zombie bureaucrat headed down the fluorescent hallway, unaware of her.

A surge of joy, a surge of panic; Josephine rushed out of the elevator. This could have been the ninth floor or any floor — the same concrete, the same metal doors. But these doors, unlike most, bore labels: small typewritten signs taped just above the handles.

She felt so victorious, so shrewd, when she saw that the first door read AA — AE: correct, finally.

AAAE.

AEEI.

EIEIO!

She wanted to jog down the hall, but she made herself walk the bureaucrat’s walk, the weighted scurry.

Easier than she could have dreamed: Here it was, the door labeled BL — BR. First she tested the handle — not locked. She braced herself, shoved her body against the door, tumbled into the room when it slid smoothly open.

Blushing, she closed the door behind her and turned to confront File Storage BL — BR. The room was unlit, murky. She’d gone three steps when a light clicked on. She froze; then realized the light was controlled by an automatic sensor. Now a single pale bulb in a wire cage illuminated a tiny fraction of the room. It seemed impossible that such a cavernous space could lie behind a door identical to the one that led into her office. Aisles of metal shelves loaded with boxes of gray files stretched upward toward an unseen ceiling.