The Last Kid Left

by Rosecrans Baldwin

  He manages to yell again.

  A minute later, the kid, Demeke, “Holy shit. Are you okay?”

  “My back,” Martin says, through gritted teeth. He forces his eyes open. A night wind whips through the door. He can only see the walkway. Tears leak from his eyes. A nearly unbearable rigidity clenches his spine, a deadness that’s got him locked up to his neck vertebrae, searing hot and numbing cold at the same time.

  “What happened?”

  “My back. Went out.”

  “I’ll get my dad.”

  “Just wait,” he says, gasping, crying.

  “Okay.”

  The kid calmly sits in a chair. Martin wants to laugh. Thank god for this kid—

  And when that thought crosses his consciousness, some type of interior gate falls, like a great sigh, and all of his loneliness and sadness defy gravity, come flooding up his body at the same time as the pain from his back, and it’s like there’s a cannonball in his throat that comes roaring out—

  “AHHHHHHHH!”

  “Now I’m going.”

  “No.” He says slowly, breath hissing, “I’m fine.”

  But every muscle cramps worse. Then words start to float up from his heart. Is he about to faint?

  “My kid,” he says, eyes blurring.

  “What?”

  Surprising himself: “My daughter.”

  “What’s she got to do with it?”

  Martin clutches the rug. He breathes through his mouth like a dying bear. The night is quiet. He’s about to say he doesn’t know, he can’t explain it, but his mind knows better, it operates flawlessly within the warped body, so that in clusters of three or four stuttered words, panting, struggling out, he discovers at the same time as Demeke that it is his daughter—

  “Who wants nothing—from me—

  “I was lousy—a drunk—you have—no idea—

  “She’s grown—she doesn’t want—anything to do—

  “After what—

  “Look at me—

  “I’m a loser—I’m a loser—”

  “You’re not a loser,” Demeke says.

  But he’s wrong. Even a wreck, Martin knows it. When all you want from life is the impossible: the definition of a loser. He’s lost his equilibrium. He’s bawling, from the pain. Because if you abandon your kid, pick drinking over her childhood, then get sober down the road, you realize that that time is gone. You can’t get it back. You’re a loser to even dream.

  “Then go tell her that,” Demeke says.

  “I have to—respect her space.”

  “That’s bullshit. Just send her an email.”

  “She deserves—”

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  A small chime rings: a text message. The kid’s face illuminates while he stares at his screen. Martin’s never been close enough to hear the sound of someone typing on a phone. It’s like rain hitting glass, or no sound at all. He nods at the image of Demeke and his phone, and closes his eyes.

  * * *

  On Saturday afternoon the final line item is decided among the Sisterhood Triumvirate, that any monies resulting from the various financial transactions that will constitute the business of Emily Portis Media Day should be tucked away for Emily’s higher education.

  But before they get to that, they sit and establish all budding parameters to be monetized, using Meg’s philosophical guidance and familiarity with e-commerce, Alex’s practical advice, and any tips Emily has gleaned from quickly studying the wire-bound reading packet that was distributed in Meg’s internet business class.

  Said parameters depending on applicable interest and branded content, as to be issued in a press release that is Meg’s domain, based on her working knowledge of online marketing, women’s defiance of social censure, and how this stuff in the real world actually works.

  “Just search for ‘press release,’” Meg says. “You get a ton of examples.”

  The apartment is stuffy. Emily opens the living room windows. A hot summer wind blows through the room, warm and salty, and makes the hairs on her arms stand up. Meg and Alex are busy staring at Meg’s laptop, bound together by a shared urgency, the emergency that is her. She’s been aware of this all morning, and therefore isn’t completely at home in her own body. It’s like she’s been floating above them, watching them talk.

  Her first thought had been to fly out the door, when the meeting was proposed. Stupid, helpless, scared, she could be that girl so easily. But, to her own surprise, she wasn’t, and she’s not. And neither is the young woman they’ve discussed.

  Emily takes a seat. Alex stands up a second later and starts to braid her hair, still in discussion with Meg, about auction rights. She feels Alex’s hands tugging her hair, she feels decidedly calm. Ever since that morning, when the three of them started talking about this crazy plan, she feels better and better.

  Meg lays out the criteria to be included during Media Day. Location, setting, wardrobe, potential props. What props? “Family house, family truck. It’s also important to think about format,” Meg says. Still photographs, film footage, film montage. Editorial or candid, interview or no interview. Certain subjects out-of-bounds, to be determined.

  For interviews, group, private, and private with shared activity are all available, at different price tiers, with other assets offered upon inquiry. But no access, the statement makes plain, to be granted gratis, no exceptions.

  Emily asks, “What does ‘gratis’ mean?”

  “It means they don’t have to pay anything,” Meg says. “That’s what we don’t want. Neither do they; it would mean you’re worth less. Basically you’re going to be this week’s eight-year-old who gets Botox.”

  “Are you sure this is how it’s done?”

  “Look at TMZ. It makes sense, doesn’t it? News shows pay people all the time.”

  Alex kisses her on the head. “The important thing is that you’re in charge,” she says. “It’s your story, you own it.”

  “Why should they profit off you?” says Meg. “And have you not get shit.”

  “Totally,” Alex says.

  “What are the ‘other assets’?” asks Emily, pointing to a sheet that Meg printed out. She feels a little reluctant to know too many details, but also feels she must know them, must contribute now to prepare for her participation later.

  “To be honest, I don’t know yet, I just thought it would be good to have that in there,” says Meg. “We want to leave all options open.”

  As of that morning, the world had begun to retilt to a more positive angle. It started when Alex had walked up from the road. Nick was out, she’d had the house to herself. Alex knocked on the old wooden door. She wore the yellow dress that Emily made her so many months earlier. Sunglasses in her hand, eyeliner smudged, hair uncombed and ratty. She basically repeated her text messages out loud, she was apologetic, scared, upset about everything that had happened, most especially Mike and the leaked photos, but also her tantrum in her bedroom, and all the terrible stuff she’d seen about Emily and Nick in the news.

  She felt horrible for her part, and Meg felt horrible for her part, and they’d do whatever they could to make amends.

  “I’ll try everything,” Alex had said, “I’ll do anything.”

  Emily grabbed her friend so hard she thought she’d break her. The chasm between them instantly closed.

  “If this doesn’t kill you, you’re immortal,” Alex said in her ear.

  Someone on the road had started clicking photos. Two reporters with cameras stood by the fence rail like horses. Emily yanked her best friend into the house. Inside, Alex paused near the couch. They both stared at the messy nest of cushions and blankets on the floor, clothes strewn around, dishes with food on them, books and magazines and newspapers split open.

  “You don’t have to tell me. About your dad,” Alex said cautiously. “But if you want to, I’m here.”

  “Okay,” she’d said, standing stiff, agonizing. “Thanks.”

  But soon t
he clumsiness vanished. It was like nothing had come between them. They sat out back in the sunlight, out of view, facing the old barn and the woods. Birds chirped. The grass at their feet was strewn with lamb’s-quarter weeds. It was as though the world had returned temporarily to whatever used to constitute normal, even better than normal. Alex told her funny stories from work. And during a brief spell of silence, she introduced Meg’s big idea, about Media Day, while Emily listened. Her breath started speeding, her mind dragged behind. She was scared.

  Alex took off her sneakers and kicked them away in the grass.

  “You don’t have to do it. It’s just an idea.”

  “I want to do it,” she said. “I want to.”

  But did she? She did. She did now.

  They went from there to the Sisterhood to figure out details, with a couple of the media cars trailing after them like tiny fish. And by the end of the meeting, much was agreed upon, including roles. Plans called for Meg to be Emily’s “handler,” official representative and publicity agent, to protect her best interests, also in charge of driving her to appointments. Alex would handle communications, schedule, payments, anything that required a laptop. Once the statement was done, Meg would return to the press encampment at Emily’s house and present it, and hope that any absent reporters would receive word from the others.

  “Unless you think we should do it more officially,” Meg says. “Like at the courthouse?”

  “Hey, should we talk to Nick’s lawyer about this?” Alex asks.

  “No,” Emily says suddenly. She rouses herself up and folds the quilt. “I don’t want to.”

  “Are you sure?” says Alex.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice clings to the silence. She goes into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water. A peace comes over her; she knows her mind quite clearly. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  At the start of the conversation, the first thing decided among the three of them had been that Media Day sounded like a pretty good idea. Whatever happened, at least she’d be in charge. Oddly, she’d been thinking something similar, without knowing how to put it into words. The night before, when Nick was out, she’d called the photographer, the guy in Foxborough who telephoned. She told him that she’d accept his offer, but that it would need to be scheduled in light of other requests she’d received. She held her breath. There were no other requests, it just sounded good.

  The guy sighed. He said he was disappointed. He said he wanted to back out. He said it needed to be an exclusive or nothing.

  She said she was fine with nothing, and hung up. It was one of the most thrilling things she’d ever done.

  Two minutes later, he called back, still interested. She upped the price. Four hundred dollars.

  He said that was impossible. Who did she think she was?

  Five hundred dollars, she said.

  The photographer hung up.

  She couldn’t help but laugh.

  He called back half an hour later.

  * * *

  “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “I realize that,” Martin says. “I just need a favor.”

  “You said you’re sick.”

  “My back went out. I’m stuck in my hotel.”

  “What can I do for you, Martin?”

  He’d found her phone number in his notes: “Sneakers,” aka Jennifer Cruz, the girlfriend of the Ashburn daughter.

  “It’s about the case,” he says. “You’ve seen the news.”

  “They put that asshole in jail. Your client must be happy.”

  “So I’m trying to tie up a loose end. I need your help.”

  He couldn’t go back to Nick again. But he couldn’t let it go either.

  “I still have your word,” she says. “About Moira.”

  “Solemn vow,” he says.

  For Jennifer, this had been his guarantee, that he’d promised weeks earlier, around the time that Nick’s mother went into the hospital: that he’d go to his own funeral with her secret in his chest, the relationship he’d uncovered between her and the deceased doctor.

  “Here’s my question,” he says. “And I’m sorry it’s personal. What was your attraction to him?”

  She asks darkly, “What do you mean?”

  “You’re young, you’re beautiful. What made you choose him?”

  She sighs. There’s a long pause.

  “Do you know anything about addiction?”

  “Let’s say I’m familiar.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Connect the dots for me.”

  “But we’re done after this,” she says after a pause. “If I do this. No more phone calls. No favors.”

  “Agreed. You’ll never hear from me again.”

  “I had a crash,” she says. “Five years ago. I was on a training ride, on my bike. I basically got run over by a soccer mom on her cell phone. Hit-and-run, never caught her. It was nasty. I broke my right femur. They put me on Vicodin for the pain. Anyway, I used to party a lot. Like, a lot. But that was years ago. It was behind me. Then comes Vicodin. Things got out of hand. I worked for a pediatrician at the time. She retired, she recommended me to Dr. Ashburn. A couple months go by, he catches me stealing a script, a prescription pad.

  “I was putting my little sister through school,” she says. “I couldn’t lose this job.”

  “He offered you a deal.”

  “He offered me a deal.” Her voice catches. “It lasted a month. I couldn’t take it anymore. I quit, I got straight. My sister was the one who helped me. She wanted me to report the guy. I had, like, thirty days sober. So I went to the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “You spoke to the sheriff?”

  “He talked me out of it. He said I shouldn’t ‘go down that road.’ What did I know? I’m not a lawyer. I was scared.”

  “And so now,” Martin muses, “the sheriff had leverage on the doctor. Which maybe he applied, lightly. So the doctor knew where the power lay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Forget it. Please go on.”

  “There’s not much else. I met Moira, it was a total coincidence. We matched online. We got coffee. I figured out who she was. Honestly I sort of thought it would be a revenge fuck. Then within a week, what can I say, I was in love.”

  Her voice cracks.

  “I have to tell her,” she says shakily. “Don’t I?”

  “I don’t know,” Martin says.

  A police officer lives off the unhappy—or is it just unique to him?

  “Look, you’ve been a big help,” he says.

  “We’re done then. Forever. We are, right?”

  “Forever.”

  * * *

  A “posse-up” rumor is the frothing buzz at Saturday’s midmorning press conference. The going story says the vox populi of Claymore may not only wall itself off from further inquiry, but is considering an act of retail, a public sale of its story to a single outlet, come cash, come flashbulbs. It’s as though an atmospheric interruption took place sometime in the last few nights, a clash of weather systems and electricity and air pollutants, but none of the professional observers had noticed.

  Saturday, ten a.m., the brethren of Leela Mann uniformly complain about how the LA Times article, the one that truly broke the story, had been too ground-razing to begin with, too scorching. Lips weren’t just sealed shut but burned. Worse, the girl and boy still won’t talk, even though everyone’s sure the girl is being circled by management offers, book offers, tour deals, requests for event appearances.

  Older reporters joke how, from across the country, you can hear the whumping of helicopters warming up in Beverly Hills, the sound of William Morris paratroopers zipping up their jumpsuits. Which still doesn’t preclude a greater, ever-present menace to them all: what if they get snaked by social media?

  Even the McDonald’s band of young reporters starts to break up.

  And so, aside from the regular bullshit, the press conference is just another sexless gang ba
ng. Little useful information is shared. Thanks for coming, bottled water near the restrooms. Reporters snack from bags of bagels. Cameramen struggle to establish position. One guy smashes a lens and it’s the only event of any significance to occur in twenty-four hours.

  Afterward, the scrum breaks, parts around the TV people doing setups, and Leela heads for the CVS like it’s an emergency. Because it is an emergency: to buy enough Rolaids and Gatorade to make her system stable.

  Not better, not even good, just stable.

  And on her way she passes the Angry Goat, the bar and grill where she ate lunch that day with Justin Johnson, where she ate dinner the night that she graduated high school. A guy with a light beard and an apron smokes a cigarette by the door. A Canadian flag bandanna is wrapped around his head. He stares at her darkly. He says loudly, “You’re all scum.”

  She wants to agree but it would hurt too much.

  That morning, at dawn, she’d driven straight to Madbury from Rob Miller’s house while feeling about as low as she’d ever felt. Was sick twice, pre- and postshower, therefore she’d required a second shower. Somehow she made it to the courthouse, and felt like she was the biggest imposter yet to walk the planet.

  She almost sent an email to Bryan James, telling him not to bother anymore.

  During the press conference, she’d gotten a text from Sandra: her parents needed Leela out of the house by next week, they had tenants moving in.

  Is it physiologically possible to have a panic attack on top of the worst hangover of your life?

  At the CVS she buys a liter of Diet Coke, drinks half of it. Buys a lemon-lime Gatorade, drinks half of it. Tops it off with Rolaids, then fills the rest of the Diet Coke bottle with lemon-lime Gatorade and shakes it together. The day is hot and bright. She closes her eyes in the sunlight. Her bag makes noises. It may as well be her pulsating head. She pulls out her phone. Several texts from her mother flow through in free verse: