The Last Kid Left

by Rosecrans Baldwin

  That morning, she’d gone back and lain down next to Nick in the motel bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She was annoyed by him sleeping so easily, lightly snoring, ignorant of all she’d told the journalist. An orange sun had started to rise outside the window. She slipped out of the room. The village was drowsy. The small streets were empty, they’d been rinsed by rain overnight, everything was quiet and cool. A green cottage on a corner had its lights on. A sign in a window had a glowing aura around it, BAKERY. She realized how hungry she was. A bearded man inside cheerfully said good morning. He sold her a warm croissant off a tray. She sat on the curb outside and ate the whole thing, her eyes cast down dreamily. Then a young woman went by jogging, with a big brown dog, and she also wished her good morning, as if Emily were just another adult in the world. As if some disaster had happened, and Emily and the woman and the baker were among the few still alive, and each could decide what to do next with their lives, they could do anything.

  And when Alex tells her, the moment that Emily and Nick return home, after dropping off Leela, that all the media had decamped once the Sisterhood convinced them that the Mount Washington expedition was the only time that Emily Portis would go on record ever again—and they’d all missed out—she thinks little of it, almost nothing. She smiles, gets down from the truck, doesn’t say much more than “That’s great, thank you.”

  And though she can tell that Alex and Meg, their welcoming committee, are disappointed not to get bigger thanks, bigger congratulations, she’s just not up for it at that moment. She feels weak at the deepest levels. She goes inside. Five minutes later, Alex and Meg leave with a promise to Nick to check in the next day, and she can tell by Alex’s look up at the window, at the last second, that she’s concerned. Perhaps she’s right to be concerned. She watches Nick walk down to check the mailbox, she watches him remove the handmade signs and feels a dull anger in her heart. She should telephone her mom at the clinic—but that’s also not what she wants to do. Even though she’s not at all sure what she wants to do.

  So she goes out and sits on the porch, in the sun, in one of the old rocking chairs, and stares across the valley, and thinks.

  And feels really old and really young at the same time.

  An hour later, frogs chirp in the trees. Nick comes out of the house with two sandwiches. She looks up at him, from the vantage point of her sensitive mood. He’s about to say something, to announce a plan, when his phone beeps three times, three texts. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says a second later. The muscles in his face tighten angrily. She listens to his fingers tap furiously on the screen. Then more messages arrive, it’s like an alarm bell going off. But she doesn’t ask what’s the matter. She takes a deep breath and feels some of her strength return. Whereas normally she’s overstuffed with impulses—combustible, contradictory—suddenly there’s only a single feeling in her body at that moment, one thought in her mind, and it makes her smile.

  * * *

  Hey dude sorry for radio silence just got back into town let’s hang

  Hey u there?

  U in town?

  WTF????

  Dude I know completely so sorry my bad. Cindy’s brother got sick really sick we had to go Boston for observation 2 weeks. Dude I’m so sorry. I heard ur out let’s hang

  FUCK U!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I’m sorry I suck so hard

  I’m a terrible friend obviously

  I’m really really sorry let’s hang

  Dude look I was freaked out and honestly I wanted to see u then Cindy needed me for this thing and then I don’t know it was all too big to get my head around

  I figured you’d reach out if u needed something

  Dude come on

  FUCK OFF

  Hey I’m sorry I really am I know I talk all kinds of shit then what do I

  This is so fucked please I’M SORRY.

  I didn’t know what to do and then days went by. So yeah I was scared it was a total whiteout my part I TOTALLY get why ur angry

  I’m the shittiest shtty friend I hate me too let me make it up to u. I want to make things right

  Hey I just tried calling u still there?

  Honestly dude I’m so sorry I’ll say it to your face

  I’m trying to do right if u want to get a beer it’s my trembling

  Fucking autocorrect It’s “my trembling”

  FUCK

  MY TREAT obviously

  Please Nick I’m sorry

  * * *

  “Our view, Mr. Portis, is the same as when we all sat here last week. And that view will not change. We need you to understand, that should we be required to apply for court orders, we will apply for those orders. We are not asking you for authorization, for you to choose. We really want to be clear about that fact. We’ve got everything we need right here, it’s all taken care of already.

  “Sir, as you’re aware, by this point you have lost fourteen pounds of body weight. Now, with hindsight, you might think no one is paying attention. We are paying attention. We have done this before. There is going to be a metallic taste in your mouth, that’s what hunger tastes like. That’s starvation.

  “Don’t think we aren’t doing everything we can to understand—anticipate, in fact—the choices that you’re making.

  “So if we apply for the order, to start NST, nutrition-support therapy, and we demonstrate meeting the requirements to apply for the obtainment of that order, then we’re going to get it. That means we come back, this time we’ll have six or seven personnel. And do everything by the book. Believe me, we’ve read the book.

  “To start, we’re going to push a tube up your nose. The tube’s plastic, but it is not as soft as it should be. It’s rough. It’s going to get pushed up there, then all the way right down into your stomach. You’ll feel an intense burning sensation. Also, a feeling like you’re drowning, that’s how it’s described, as something pretty near unadulterated misery. You’ll vomit several times, we’ll need to get past that point, because that’s only the gag reflex. That’s just the start. Each time we drip something down, that same reflex is going to activate, and it’s going to happen again and again and again.

  “Sir, do you understand what I’m saying?

  “Nod if you understand what I’m saying to you, Mr. Portis.

  “You can guess that I don’t know how to operate a sheriff’s department. No way. All that complexity, in this day and so on. But this procedure, this I know how to do. Take what’s needed to manage consent decree. This isn’t Gitmo. This isn’t even California. The rules are clear. So what you need to understand is the role that you’re in here, okay, as opposed to your previous role, and then you also need to appreciate the role that we’re in. Sir, understand that our role is being that of caregivers. We are not here to hurt you. We’re here to help you, according to your wishes. As to how you prefer to be helped. Nod once if you understand me.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Sheriff. Your case is too serious. We respect your decision, and we are treating it with respect. That’s what this is, respecting your life.

  “Then here we go. Rule of thumb, we’re able to obtain the order to commence once the prisoner loses fifteen percent of current body weight. From this morning’s weigh-in, that’s an additional eleven and a half pounds in your case. According to our estimations, based on your size and weight loss thus far, at the going rate you’re going to lose that amount in about one week. One week. So, we have to begin motions to request the court order now. This afternoon. Again, we very much do not want to do this, you have to understand that. We really need you to hear us on that point. I mean, it would bring us tears of relief, okay, to see this escalation averted. Because the law requires us to be in compliance, as your guardian and monitors, do you understand? To keep you alive. That’s our responsibility. It’s the law. Imagine you were diabetic and you quit taking your insulin. We’d administer that insulin no matter what. Because it’s our duty to make sure our actions reflect your body
’s wishes, which are the wishes of your health, you understand?

  “Mr. Portis, I’m getting through to you, I can tell. I’m glad to see that. Because there’s something in your face right now, tells me we’ve come to a place of understanding. If that’s right, just say yes or no.

  “Just say yes or no.

  “We’re all trying here, it’s pretty clear, our best to cooperate. But it’s extremely important that you tell us anything you think we should know. Right now.

  “Mr. Portis, please.

  “Hey, personally I respect your right to remain silent. I get it. And it is your right. I’d hate to think that we’re being insensitive about that situation. But your physical body is state property at this point. You see where I’m coming from? Now there are arguments about public safety I’m willing to indulge, and compliance, and so forth. I’ll fudge and say, our understanding of alienation, the notice you’ve been given, may be different from what you believe you see, okay. But there is oversight going on. And we will see this through.

  “I can see how we might seem to you, sir. But I’m encouraging you, right now, to please consider the consequences. We’re talking lost teeth. Damage to the liver, gall bladder, other organs. We’ve been over this now, what, three times in the last week? It will go forward. As of today. And your silence will qualify as an informed decision, that’s why I’m here right now, informing you. Because you will not be allowed to starve yourself any further.

  “It really is an unfortunate case. Just so we’re crystal clear, as of today, you, sir, Granville Portis, are granting the state of New Hampshire, the New Hampshire Department of Corrections, the team I’ve assembled here behind me, the chance to intubate you whenever we feel like it. Meaning we will stick a tube down your esophagus at any moment we see fit, to keep you alive. And it’s going to hurt like nothing you’ve ever experienced. Like hell poured down your throat.

  “There’s still time. To stop this. One word, none of this has to take place.

  “Sir, forget everything. Have you heard a single word I said in the last ten minutes?

  “You find this funny.

  “You’re honestly laughing at me right now. Sir, you find this funny?”

  * * *

  Suzanne doesn’t know where to find her missing husband, Nicky’s father, Nick Sr., only that she must find him and won’t rest until he’s found—because he’s somewhere nearby, back in Claymore, she believes, and must be hunted down, so she goes in and out of old haunts, the back-alley entrances, but no one else has seen him, he’s a ghost, he’s long gone, not for years, and that’s only when they recognize the name as the older one, the père, not the kid in the news.

  Second shitty bar, the Harbor, she orders a drink, sips carefully, to avoid attention in the sawdust-tinged dark. But what difference will that make, really. She’s got the nose splint, she needs to wear it the rest of the week—Hannibal Lecter’s sister, there she is, in split mirrors, the bars’ entrance to absolution: woman deformed, and still consumed with impatience—and among all the men in the room, none are Nick. They don’t see her anyway, they wouldn’t if she did naked splits on the bar. Some asshole plays “Fly Like an Eagle” on the jukebox—it’s enough to launch her off her stool, to another bar, Dave’s Dockside—and again no Nick, just another glass.

  She checks her father’s watch and winds it. She’s missing students—well, let them knock, for once let them not get what they want. She tries a fourth bar, good old Goat, no sign of her husband there, either. And when someone’s got the taste to play Etta James, she takes it as a sign, she’s earned a pick-me-up, she asks too loudly, “Who put on Etta James?” The bartender says, “Who put on what?” Who cares what time it is? She puts in her order, she grins too tightly, she empties the glass when it arrives and asks for one more—the bartender’s looking at her as if she’s got straw in her hair—the hell is he looking at? A jumbo fisherman’s sweater over leggings, she should be boiling but can’t sweat a drop. He toddles away. How hard is it to make vodka rocks? While she’s swinging, weakly, from one emotional chandelier to the next, with premeditation, motherfucker.

  And fuck that fucking cop, she has a job to do.

  Oh, but she’s low on cash, she drops a five-dollar bill on a twenty-dollar tab, she takes off out a side door—but where’s her bag? She runs back for her bag, and may they all rot in peace.

  That morning, during a lesson, she’d pulled back a curtain and spotted a car parked on the street, a rusty green sedan. Another stalker? More media? A photographer to chronicle her busted face? A man was inside, she couldn’t see more. Hands on the wheel. Engine running. Then old Mrs. Hodges, squawking neighbor, came jotting down the sidewalk with her pushcart, and after she peered into the windshield of the strange car, she waved.

  The man waved back.

  But it wasn’t until the car pulled away a moment later, peeling out, that Suzanne leapt up and staggered to the door.

  How was it possible? How was she not prepared?

  The one thing Nick did consistently, all the years she knew him, was peel out—on Main Street, at the mall, in the driveway they shared.

  She’d imagined the moment so many times. Promised herself she’d let him have it, put him in a coma, be so hot the second he arrived he’d realize his flabbergasting error, never mind what he’d done to their son, to them. But wasn’t it so like Nick to find a way around her.

  She pilots her car around the corner and parks in front of her husband’s old church, kisses the handicap signpost with her bumper. The same church her parents attended, her grandparents—they probably built the damn thing. Her husband loved to go to church, to unburden himself. She remembers he used to pick at his elbow whenever he felt insecure. Do men possess such a capacity to notice? See something in a woman, and never not see it again? She climbs out. A statue of the Virgin stands next to the front stairs. Suzanne crosses the cream-colored annex. All pews empty, flowerpots empty. Hanging over the altar is a large wooden cross—but no resurrected husband, no husband who won’t stay buried. An old woman in an apron cuts flowers. A large chalice, beaded silver, lies next to her hands on a bed of rags. Suzanne works her way to a middle pew, sits and rests her weary feet.

  “Excuse me,” she says impulsively. The woman doesn’t look up. “Excuse me?” The woman sticks a finger in her ear to adjust something, a white earbud; she’s listening to headphones while doing flowers for Christ. Suzanne laughs and sinks deeper into her sweater, feels drunk, feels good, and thinks of her marriage with at least a little pride, because did she not survive? Did she not suffer? Hadn’t she met her man’s needs?

  Had not the act of losing herself been enough loss for one marriage?

  At the same moment the old words begin to bubble up in her mind, unbidden, and become words on her lips—Take, eat, this is my body, do this in remembrance of me—her brain is basically only a shoe box anyway, full of old feelings, quotations. Nick used to say that what the two of them had in common was that they were promise deferred. She hates him. Will she ever be free? Will she be happy? The questions are absurd—so much is wrong. She stares at the candle smoke and thinks, what got burned out of me is the capacity to forgive men of their bullshit.

  And that makes her give thanks instead, for Nicky, her one good thing—who is much more than man, he’s her son—whom she’d tried to nourish for so long despite her failings, despite her many horrible traits. She’d say to him Take, eat, this is my body, which is given for you. And then she’d take the wine and give it to him, saying Drink, do this in remembrance of me, for the remission of sins, the resurrection of the body. And together they would say, We will beseech the father to be gone from us forever, no longer will we desire him, for he is bullshit, and for our sacrifices we will give each other thanks and praise.

  Her eyes swim. Her broken nose hurts. At the altar, the old woman turns around, sees her, startles, disappears with clopped steps through a concealed wood door.

  Alone, Suzanne lowers hers
elf down into the pew. She lifts her long insect legs and rests her aging body, her aching body. In a life where love struggled to reach her, she is merely temporary. How many lives has she led by this point anyway? But she’s not forever-lasting—it’s her son who is forever. She screws her eyes shut against scalding tears. She won’t be another screaming female. And whoever that man was on the street, he’s gone, dead and buried. And now she is alone again to make mistakes.

  What a terrible mother she’s been. What a terrible drunk she’s been.

  What a terrible mother she is, what a terrible drunk she is.

  Then an appalling sense of shame hits her with a jolt, and Suzanne Toussaint sits upright.

  She’s been dreaming.

  * * *

  The airport may as well belong to an island nation in the seventies. There’s not even a passageway to connect the airplane to the terminal. Is there a terminal? The plane de-boards on the runway. Martin receives the pilot’s goodbye, presses one hand to his lower back, covers his eyes with the other against the blinding sun.

  Burbank, California. The air’s hot enough to singe his eyebrows. Even the tips of his ears feel hot. Beyond the asphalt, in the distance, brown mountains wall off what appears to be endless flat land. The mountains are hard to make out in the wavy air.

  There is a terminal, it turns out, just not much of one. It’s not much cooler inside. He uses the bathroom, takes a stall, diligently finagles his way out of the back brace. Nine hours on airplanes may not have been the best idea.

  In the concourse everybody’s smiling, the carpets are frayed. The airport feels like a nondescript sports bar. There’s a massive caricature of Bob Hope, taller than he is. When did Bob Hope die? It pleases Martin to think that he’s probably among fewer than a hundred people in the airport who know who Bob Hope was.

  And somewhere nearby lives his daughter. Inside his briefcase are directions to a shopping plaza, a sushi restaurant. They’d communicated several times when he was still back east. At first she didn’t answer. He’d regretted taking Demeke’s advice. Yet he kept taking it, he explained that he had listened, he understood her wishes, but he’d undergone a crisis of sorts. He went on to explain nearly everything that had happened in New Jersey, in New Hampshire, message after message, eventually voicemail, email. It took him three hours to get it all out, to expose everything, stuff he already felt was on full display to the world, so why not his daughter?