Because She Is Beautiful

by Cameron Dougan

  "He hasn't done that in quite a while," her mother said, smoothing her dress and straightening the buckle of a pink leather belt. "He's been so good."

  Her slip was crooked and showed on one side, creamy silk that made her legs look pale.

  Kim covered her ears and looked out the window at the fluttering leaves—alive, then perfectly still. Her mother glared and moved to block her view. But the glare lacked menace, and Kim could face her and not be afraid.

  Her mother bustled about the kitchen. Pipes thumped. Water slapped the sink. A few minutes later, she came back and stood by the window, staring out over the patch of lawn and the street. A car drove past.

  "It's supposed to rain tomorrow," she said.

  She brushed Kim's hair from her eyes.

  "Your hair's getting darker. Pretty soon you'll be my color. You have your grandmother's eyes, you know. Raw almonds, she always said. Do you remember seeing her? You were too young. That was . . . We'll visit her sometime, soon as your grandpa's feeling better. Would you like that? When we do, say raw almonds. She'll be proud. Yours are more pine-colored, though."

  She stroked Kim's forehead.

  "Don't take it out on me," she said, but Kim refused to speak.

  Grandpa was always too sick to visit.

  That night the table was set with plastic cups. Her father took her mother by the hair and dragged her from the kitchen. She struggled to keep up with his hand.

  "We don't drink from plastic!" he said.

  Kim remained at the table. She heard a crash and a slap but didn't move, because she'd learned that lesson. If he came for her, she didn't want him to have to search. She waited until her father left, then wandered to her parents' bedroom and pushed the door open. Knotted strands of hair fell into her mother's eyes. Her hand seemed frozen to her cheek, as though she'd forgotten it was there, and a thin line of blood ran from her nose to the crest of her upper lip. There were jagged cracks in the wall, radiating out from a grapefruit-sized hole. Powdered plaster coated her father's neatly made bed and the Bible that lay on the nightstand. Kim went to the bathroom for a washcloth and came back.

  "He breaks all the glasses," her mother said.

  In the morning Kim left for school but never got on the bus. As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she headed for the woods at the edge of the base. The road ended and turned to dirt. She followed bulldozer tracks past vacant lots, squares of poured concrete that would become houses like hers. Would there be a fence on the other side of the trees? Would she not be able to get out? She picked her way through gray thorny bushes, thick dead vines like cobwebs waiting to catch her. She stopped to listen, then started to run. Her coat sleeve snagged, and she wrenched her arm free. There was a tiny tear in the elbow where the stuffing showed through. Still she ran. The contents of her lunch box rattled. She saw light ahead. Maple saplings snapped at her knees and waist. She reached the open and found herself staring out over an airfield, only there were no planes.

  She walked along the forgotten runway, grass sprouting between pancakes of cement. Some cracks had been repaired over the years, tarred many times, and finally left. She couldn't see an end, the runway was so long, and she walked and walked. Then she heard a motor, faint at first. She saw a jeep approaching. There was nowhere to hide. She walked quickly and didn't look back. Soon the jeep was beside her, moving at the same speed. From the corner of her eye she could see that the man driving was watching her, steering with his forearms leaned against the wheel. She stopped. He stopped. She started again and he touched the gas. When she stopped again, he shut off the engine. He had sergeant's stripes.

  "Goin' for a walk?" he said, smiling. "You're out a long ways. I reckon you've come pretty far. You must be tired."

  She shook her head.

  "No?"

  He took a cigarette pack from his chest pocket and patted it with his palm. He bent a wide face to the pack and plucked one out with a set of teeth that were big like a beaver's. He looked at her as he flicked on his lighter, got the cigarette burning, and blew smoke and waved it.

  "Hey, aren't you supposed to be in school?"

  She nodded.

  "But you don't like school, do you?"

  She didn't move. He smiled again.

  "I guess your mom doesn't know you're skipping school." He dragged on his cigarette and tapped ash and looked out across the airfield.

  "I'm not skipping," she said.

  "It's okay. Hell, I used to hate school. I used to cut out any chance I could."

  "I'm not skipping."

  "No?"

  He eyed her.

  "I'm running away," she said.

  "Oh."

  His cigarette glowed red. The smoke disappeared into the clouded sky.

  "From what?" he said.

  "Everything."

  "Everything? Are you running away from me?"

  "No."

  "Then you're not running away from everything. Who are you running away from, your parents?"

  She stared at the trees on the outskirts of the airfield.

  "Not much out there," he said. "Just more woods. Runway looks funny with no planes, don't it? They built a whole new airfield about seven miles from here. You should see it sometime." He patted the seat next to him. "Why don't you come up and sit a bit?"

  She walked around the jeep, and he put out a hand to help her climb in. He hoisted her up and laid a hand on her shoulder. She sat very still. The hand was like her father's, fingers on the verge of tense, as though ready to direct her, ready to prevent her from moving. She was afraid that if she tried to leave he would chase after her.

  "So what's a pretty girl like you running away from your parents for?"

  His breath smelled of ash.

  "What's your name?" he said.

  "Kim."

  "I bet your mom's gonna be awful sad when she finds out."

  "I don't care."

  "Not a little bit?"

  She shook her head.

  He blew smoke and flicked the butt to the pavement. He put his hands behind his head and leaned back, stretching. His helmet tipped back enough to show that he had no hair. He straightened the helmet, then put his hand back on her shoulder.

  "You're a tough kid. How old are you?"

  "Ten."

  "Whew, ten? I bet you're strong, too. I bet you get that from your dad. Hey, let's see how strong you are."

  He shifted and bent so that his elbow was resting on the seat. He nodded for her to grab his hand.

  "I'll let you use both. Bet you can't beat me."

  She looked at him.

  "C'mon," he said. "What, are you afraid?"

  She dropped her lunch box and clutched his hand in both of hers and began to pull. His arm hardly budged so she tried to use her body for leverage. She could see the surprise in his face when his arm started to move. She was puffing air through gritted teeth. His eyes grew wider. His knuckles were almost touching the seat. She held her breath and heaved. His arm suddenly gave.

  "I'll be damned," he said, rubbing his hand as though she'd bruised it. "You're stronger than I expected."

  She grinned.

  "I'll bet your dad's a marine," he said. "Ten, huh? I know grown-ups who ain't half as strong as you."

  He looked at his watch.

  "Aw, hell. I better be getting back. I guess you'd better be on your way too. Kim, it was a pleasure wrestling with you. Maybe if we ever meet again, you'll allow me a rematch."

  She wasn't sure if he was telling her she should get out of the jeep. She picked her lunch box off the floor and held it in her lap.

  "I'd stay out here all day," he said, "but you know there're people expecting me."

  She didn't move.

  "Listen, if you're heading back to the base, I'll give you a lift, but . . . That's the direction I'm going. Otherwise I'd be happy to drop you somewhere else."

  He turned the key. The motor sputtered on.

  "You wanna lift back to your house?"


  She nodded.

  "You have to tell me how to get there. What street do you live on?"

  "Lincoln."

  "He was a great president. Must be nice living on a president's street."

  He turned the jeep around and started back. A dirt road led through the woods. They passed open lots, houses that were just framed, and nearly finished houses, aluminum siding stacked at the curb, waiting to be hung. He didn't say a word until he'd turned onto Lincoln, and then he told her to tell him which house.

  "There," she said.

  He pulled into the driveway. The front door opened. Her mom hurried out, waving a tissue. The bruise on the side of her nose had spread onto her cheek like the beginning cracks in a mirror.

  "Oh, God, oh, God!" she was saying. Her eyes were red.

  She clasped Kim's face in both hands and shook it side to side.

  "What were you thinking? I've been so worried, so worried. I thought something terrible—don't ever do that again!"

  She held Kim's head to her bosom. The man got out of the jeep.

  "Bill, thank you so much," her mom said, turning to face him, her hands on Kim's shoulders.

  "Not at all, Mrs. Reilly. I found her out by the airfield."

  "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

  He tipped his helmet. He was staring at her bruise.

  "Hey, Kim," he said, "no hard feelings. Remember about that second chance. I'll be gunning for you."

  Kim looked down. He'd been bluffing.

  "Where are your manners?" her mother said, letting go of Kim. "Thank Sergeant Jones for bringing you back."

  "No need," she heard him say.

  She sensed then that her mother was no longer at her side. She'd slipped away to stand by Sergeant Jones.

  "Bill, you won't tell anybody, will you?"

  He mock-zippered his mouth. Her mother seemed small next to him, delicate in a way that was unusual, and then Kim realized it was because of Bill, who was much taller than her father. A full head taller—he could drape a protective arm over her mother's shoulders and tuck her close to his side. The curve of her chin seemed to mirror the gentle bend of her eyebrows. Her eyes glistened, giving back light, but didn't they always? Trembling lashes, lips perfectly painted and fresh; even with the bruise, she looked as though she'd stepped out of a movie.

  Bill started back toward the jeep. Her mom led Kim up the walk and pulled her into the house.

  "When the school called, I nearly had a heart attack. Promise you won't ever try that again. Mary, Jesus, I thought some—what if your father had found out? How could you do that to me?"

  She hugged Kim again and kissed her forehead and pinched her cheeks.

  "He won't know," she said. "Darling, I promise. What did you do to your coat?" She examined the hole. "We have to mend that."

  Secrets, Kim thought.

  The next day an envelope lay on Kim's dresser. In it she found a note, a hundred-dollar bill, and a medal. He'd won it for bravery.

  For my most beautiful one, the note read.

  She stashed the medal in her sock drawer but kept the money in her hand. Either he'd had a good night at the track or his football team had won. Once he'd given her two hundred dollars.

  He brought home flowers that night, lamb chops from the butcher, and a bottle of wine.

  "Ummm, French!" her mother exclaimed, looking at the label.

  She put on a yellow cotton dress and new stockings, makeup to cover the bruise. He spoke contritely over dinner. He brought up John Consella, pondering the details of his death once again.

  After dinner he danced with her mom.

  Each kiss was divine, and with each glass of wine,

  I thought I could win you most any old time.

  They were the same height, and she could lean her forehead against his and gaze into his eyes. He dipped her slowly, his supporting arm showing no sign of exertion. Her hair brushed the floor. He was lifting her on his fingertips.

  Kim snuck off to her room and grabbed the medal her father had given her. She crept back past the kitchen and went to her parents' bedroom and crawled into the closet. She could smell her dad's shoe polish. The greasy tin was wrapped in a plastic bag with an old blackened rag, ridged and wrinkled, crusted like elephants' skin. She stood and pressed her face to his hanging uniform, breathing in the vanilla scent of his aftershave. She looked down at the medal in her hand, ran a finger across its dark ridged face. The back of her throat began to ache. She stuffed the medal in her dad's uniform pocket. She didn't want it.

  She swore that when she was older she would live in a house with doubly thick walls that kept out the sounds of babies crying and glass breaking and the neighbor's dog barking. There would be no fences, only sprawling land, and horses maybe, and a grand stone house with great big odd-shaped rooms and winding endless halls. Her husband would be rich. He would build fires in a giant fireplace and wrap her in blankets and read her stories. He would take orders from no one, and his gifts wouldn't make her feel bad.

  She heard approaching footsteps and froze. In a rush, she dug through the uniform pocket, jangling the jacket on its hanger, found the medal, and sprang from the closet just as her mother and father entered the room. Her father's brow twisted.

  "What are you doing in here? You're not supposed—"

  She dashed to his side and hugged his leg, pressing her cheek to the firm muscle of his thigh. She clutched the medal in her tight fist.

  "I love you, Daddy."

  "I—" He faltered.

  Her mom stood back and smiled.

  "We're so lucky," she said.

  Her father got down on one knee and mussed Kim's hair. "Did you get my gift?"

  "What gift?" chirped her mom.

  "Yes, Dad. Thank you."

  "Good. Off to bed, then. Your mom will tuck you in."

  She left the room, her mother's voice trailing. "What did you give her?"

  "Nothing," her father said.

  "You're so spoiling."

  Good moods lit up the night like lightning. Occasionally, they might last days, even weeks, and she could do no wrong. She would wake to the sound of whistling long before dawn. She could follow the chirpy notes to the kitchen, Mom cracking eggs into a pan, Dad shining a belt buckle at the table. Sometimes he'd be in the bathroom shaving, a towel wrapped about his sweaty skin.

  "Morning, Sunshine," he said, when she walked in. "Don't let the steam out."

  She'd close the toilet seat and sit and he'd tell her about famous battles, scraping foam from the sharp edges of his jaw and rinsing the razor under the tap. He told her about the Greeks and Romans, quizzing her.

  "Thermopylae," he said.

  "Monopoly."

  He laughed. "Once more."

  "The Battle of Monopoly," she said.

  His shoulders jumped when he laughed. He wiped his face on a washcloth and took a green bottle from the medicine cabinet. He tipped the bottle to a cupped palm and slapped his cheek.

  "Stings," he said, slapping his other cheek and leaning close to the mirror to examine himself. " 'Let me have war, say I, it exceeds peace.' " He was proud that he could quote Shakespeare. "You'll study him when you're older. You know why I'm teaching you these things? Because you're going to be the first Reilly to go to college. Your mom says there ain't a day that goes by that she isn't putting books back in the bookcase. That's my girl. Keep reading. And not just any college. I'm gonna send you to the best—Harvard or Yale."

  He turned and looked at her.

  "What happened to your hair?"

  Her mother had given her a haircut.

  "It dries faster now," she said.

  Her father lifted her from the toilet seat and set her down.

  "Now why'd you go and do that?" he said. "Girls' hair should be long, like your mother's. Don't ever make yourself look less pretty."

  That night, long after she'd been tucked in, there was something she wanted to ask her mother. She went to her parents' bedroom and p
ushed the door open slowly, expecting them to be in bed, but the beds were empty, the covers pulled back and messed. The house was dark. Was she alone? She thought she smelled roses, the strong sweet scent of her mother's perfume. Then she noticed light from the bathroom and heard the medicine cabinet clank shut. The door was half open and she peered in, the rose scent powerful now like a cluster of blooms. Her mother stood at the sink in a nightgown, white with light, dark where it touched her skin, blurring the softness of her. She was putting on lipstick, first outlining the edges with a pencil, hand steady, eyes fixed as though the world had disappeared, then the filling in, deep dark red, such a sharp contrast to the sleepy haze. Kim rubbed her eyes and watched. How careful she was, such purpose. Suddenly her father came into view. He'd been behind her mother the whole time. He was wearing his blue pajama bottoms with no top. The skin on his arms was tight. He put his hands on her mother's shoulders and slid them down her arms. He shut his eyes and pressed his mouth to the slope of her neck. Her mother rolled her lips together and kissed the air. Her lips were perfect. Kim found herself dashing back to her room. She scampered under the covers and pulled them up. She heard the light in the bathroom click off. She'd forgotten what she'd wanted to ask her mom.

  Butch Sullivan was bigger than the other boys in class, thicker in the head and chest. He liked to pull the wings off butterflies and shoot BBs at dogs. He'd shot a bird once with a friend. Kim had found the two boys laughing, the bird flopping at their feet, broken and bleeding. There was nothing she could do, and burying it only felt worse. She tried to forget. A few months later, after school, she saw him take Jason Cooney's bicycle. Butch started riding it in circles, laughing as Jason screamed for him to give it back. Jason was something of a bully himself, with freckles and a gap in his front teeth. Every time he got close, Butch would accelerate, keeping a foot ahead of Jason's outstretched hand. A crowd of children was gathering, kids from her class and some older kids. They laughed at Jason, his clumsy attempts, his wet cheeks.

  "Jay-Jay wants his bike back," Butch called.

  Kim found a stone no bigger than a walnut. She waited until Butch circled around and stopped; then she threw it. It hit him on the side of the head and he went over like a carnival duck. The jeering stopped. Jason grabbed his bike off the ground. He swung his leg over the bar and pedaled off, hiding his face.