A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

months later, I left for school. We kept in touch; Bea came to visit
me. After graduation, I came back, got a job, bought a house.
When Bea moved in with me, she didn’t want to piss the neighbors
off with her music. It’s the reason we had the garage converted,
making it soundproof. She figured the neighbors would already be
pissed off enough with two gay women living on the street. The idea
of a house in suburbia made Bea’s skin crawl; she wasn’t that type.
But she did it for me. The house was close and convenient to my
work. Bea could work anywhere.
The house is a yellow 1904 Italianate in our town’s historic district.
It sits just a stone’s throw away from a college campus, in an area
more liberal than conservative. It’s romantic, with brick walkways and
hundred-year-old trees. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t the
occasional hatred and bigotry. Because no matter where you go, you
can’t get away from that.
Bea no longer performs in bars. These days, the only time I hear
her sing is in the shower. For someone who loves to perform for a
crowd, she’s strictly against private performances.
When Bea is writing music, she disconnects from the rest of the
world. She tunes it completely out. It’s when she’s gone the longest
that I know she’s lost herself in her music and I’m happy for her
because of it. Bea is a born musician. She taught voice and guitar
lessons for years, performed in bars and nightclubs. But that didn’t
satisfy her. It wasn’t what she saw herself doing for the rest of her
life. Now she’s working on an album.
That said, Bea isn’t some freeloader. She carries her weight
financially. She’s sold some of the songs that she’s written and has a
nice inheritance from a dead grandma who was apparently rich. I
never met her. She was dead before I met Bea. Not only did Bea get
her money from her; she also got her name, Beatrice, which is one
of those vintage names someone else might hate, but not Bea. She
adored her grandmother. A picture of them together sits on Bea’s
nightstand.
When my back is turned, Bea steps inside. She closes the door
and comes to me, wrapping her arms around me from behind. I turn
to her, let her envelop me. Bea is in her pajamas still, the cotton
shorts and Kurt Cobain shirt she wore to sleep. Her dark hair hangs