The Show House

by Dan Lopez

  Tentatively she places an arm across her stepmother’s shoulders. “I’ll find him, okay? I promise. In the meantime, just please don’t do anything crazy like call the police, okay? That’s the last thing we need.” She can see the headlines now: “Son of Fashion Mogul Goes Missing.”

  “I don’t know...” But the endless stream of selfies seems to have alleviated at least some of Esther’s fears. She consents.

  “Te prometo, okay?” Laila says. “I’ll bring him home.”

  Tears in her eyes, Esther nods, pulling Laila into a hug. “¡Ay, mi’ja, gracias!” She stiffens and recoils. “Ay, pero what about that serial killer?”

  Laila resists the impulse to tell Esther for the thousandth time that there is no killer. Instead, she relies on Instagram. “You saw for yourself that he’s fine.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call that fine. Some of those friends of his look like weirdos.” But there’s laughter in her voice, and that’s progress.

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK?” HE LEANS IN CLOSE to be heard over the escalating EDM beat.

  You feel the radiating warmth of his cheek and you hear the pop of his halting syllables, but you can’t see anything beyond the pulsing strobe above the front bar.

  “Bourbon,” you shout, fishing some money from your pocket, but he refuses.

  “Keep it.” He rolls up the sleeves of his plaid shirt, revealing thin biceps awash in the intermittent fraise and teal hues of the spinning disco lights. “This one’s on me, papi.”

  He squeezes your shoulder, then threads his way through the crowd up to the bar. He looks good in his new clothes: the slim-cut black jeans, the shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons undone along his breastbone, and the sneakers that you had to go to three stores to find. You’re proud to be seen with him.

  Your phone vibrates in your pocket for the tenth time since this afternoon, but you continue to ignore it. Last night was a disaster and you have no desire to revisit any of it until the last possible moment. Tonight is about Alex, and you haven’t felt this free in years. Even the constant throb in your hands has quieted into a dull ruffle. If any sliver of reconciliation bridges the gap between what you do at night and the ambivalence of a normal life, you’re certain Alex is it. Maybe this is what normal people call a midlife crisis.

  He lingers at the bar. While waiting you pull a cigarette from your pocket and step away to smoke.

  A thin, good-looking guy in a red polo turns to his friend. “He could be here.”

  “I wouldn’t make too much of it,” the friend replies. “A few tweakers overdosed. That’s all.”

  You interrupt to ask for a light and the friend wordlessly hands you his lighter. As you inhale a tingle works its way down your pinkie.

  “Thanks. I didn’t catch your name.”

  He rolls his eyes. The thin one introduces himself as Jacob and tells you that his friend is named Michael.

  “Michael,” you say. “What a coincidence. That’s my name, too.”

  “Not really,” Michael says, drawing on his cigarette. “It’s a common name.”

  Alex returns with the drinks, and you decide now is not the time. You return the lighter and tell them that you’ll see them around. Michael raises his eyebrow in a withering moue.

  When you’ve moved off a bit, Alex says, “Keep it in your pants, papi. Tonight I’m picking and neither of those icy bitches are my type.”

  “Not old enough, I suppose.”

  He leads you by the hand to a table outside, and for a while neither one of you speaks. You sip your drinks and share the cigarette. In the mix of moonlight and halogen he looks thicker, more mature and self-possessed than elsewhere. While other boys perch on the edges of their seats, scanning the crowd for an invitation, he sits back in his chair completely at ease. As people filter by he winks or blows a kiss to passing acquaintances, but he never once leaves your side to greet a favorite. He’s very conscientious about his role when he’s with you, and at times you think he takes you for a social invalid, or some kind of john, and maybe you are.

  “Why don’t you go see who’s out tonight?”

  “There’s no rush. We can go in later. Let’s just enjoy the air for a bit. It’s a nice night.”

  “You can enjoy the air when you’re my age.” You light another cigarette with the butt of the last. You’ve officially begun chain-smoking, a habit that’s slithered its way back into your life. “Until then you should be in there getting the most out of your fake ID.”

  He gives you one of his wry grins. “Well, maybe just one lap.”

  “Take your time. I’ll be here.”

  Before he leaves, he leans over the table and gives you a long kiss, and you can feel every eye at the bar boring into you. When he’s gone you raise your drink to the older men looking on with a mix of envy and disdain and then drain it in one slug.

  A small stage sits off the patio with access to the main room via a padded door. Sometimes a drag queen performs there, but tonight it functions as a cocktail lounge. You pass through scouting. You bite at the ragged tips of your fingers. If you’re clever there’s a way to squeeze in a bit of work while Alex makes his rounds.

  Scanning the room, your eyes settle on a willowy boy with uneven skin who speaks to your sense of powerlessness. Though a sizable group surrounds him, your instincts tell you that he’s the odd man out. How would you go about it? First, you’d approach and offer to buy him a drink or, tapping your nose, “maybe something else?” The idea is to get them to look away from their phones. They usually say yes. Next, you’d suggest a quieter location. Five minutes from here a small lake abuts the commuter airport. The area is deserted at this time. “What’s your name anyway?” Let’s say his name is David. You grin, feign surprise. “What a coincidence. That’s my name, too. So, David, I think you’re pretty cute.” Suggest a drive. “What about my friends?” he’d protest. “I know a place nearby. They’ll never miss you.”

  Just a quickie. You could be back before Alex notices your absence. But just as you’re about to carry out your plan you’re stopped by the nagging possibility that willowy David—even with his uneven skin and iridescent blouse—may be the only boy in the entire club who catches Alex’s fancy tonight. What then? It’s unlikely that of the hundreds of men here tonight that this one awkward teen would be the only object of desire, but are you willing to take the chance?

  David’s group breaks up, and as you predicted he’s left alone, but you can’t bring yourself to approach him. Eventually, he drifts away and you head back to the patio to join the coterie of men loitering by the tiki bar. You smoke another cigarette while you wait for Alex.

  You wait a long time. Your posture suffers. When at last he returns he has someone with him, whom he introduces as Eddie. He’s not what you would’ve expected Alex to pick. He’s jockish, strong but with more mass than muscle. He’ll age poorly, and you take some consolation in that. He’s taller than you’d expect, too, easily over six feet. Curly brown hair frames his square face, and he’s dressed in a striped shirt and light jacket that’s too warm for the weather. He looks like he could’ve arrived from a golf club not fifteen minutes ago. You instantly despise him.

  You could’ve taken David.

  “What a coincidence,” you say, extending a hand. “My middle name is Edward.”

  “Right on,” he says. “It’s a pretty awesome name.” He stumbles, and Alex helps him to a seat. Though relatively early, he’s already drunk.

  “Do you smoke, Eddie?”

  “Sure,” he says.

  You reach into your pack and extract a cigarette. “I’m afraid you’re on your own for a light.”

  “No worries.” He places the cigarette behind his ear. “I’ll save it for later.”

  He and Alex fall into easy conversation about the weather.

  “So, like, what’s the deal with you guys?” Eddie asks, a smile blossoming. “No offense, but you’re, like, a lot older.”

  “Shh, baby. Th
e adults have some things to discuss,” Alex says. He pivots in his chair, turning his back on Eddie. “What do you think, papi?”

  “Whatever you want. It’s your night.” You’d prefer someone else, but the sensation in your hands has escalated into a bona fide ache and you want to leave the club before your resistance gives out and you do something regrettable.

  Eddie adjusts his ball cap. “What’re y’all discussing?”

  Alex turns to face Eddie. He drapes an arm over his broad shoulders. “Tonight’s your lucky night. We’re taking you home. Congratulations.”

  He grins. “Don’t I get a say?”

  “No,” you say.

  “Relax, baby.” Alex licks his ear. “It’s gonna be great.”

  IT SHOULD BE AS EASY AS FOLLOWING THE GREEN interstate signs. Except Thaddeus exited the I-4 too soon and now he can’t find his way back. With the map open on his lap, they meander through winding residential roads that dead-end or spill out like logs on a flume ride onto causeways with weedy shoulders. Signs announce SPRING LAKE, DOCTOR PHILLIPS, and BIG SAND, but the names mean nothing to him, nor can he track them on the map for all the yawning circumferences of lakes distorting any semblance of a logical grid.

  Every sign seems to indicate that the highway and then Disney World is just around the corner.

  “If it’s so magical,” he grumbles, “how come they need so many damn signs? Can you tell Grandpa that, beautiful?” His breath comes in heavy sighs and he’s keenly aware of the static weight of his body pressing down into the driver’s seat.

  Gertie fixates on the seat belt, biting at it, tugging at it where it grazes her face, which is splotchy from the continual irritation. She’s an angel. They’ve been on the road for hours and she hasn’t complained once. Finding himself in the turning lane, he steers into an older subdivision. The houses here with their low-pitched roofs covered in asphalt shingles and shabby lawns resemble his own in Apopka, and he catches himself looking for familiar landmarks—the neighbors’ basketball hoop, the speedboat sitting in the side yard of the two-story house on the corner. The uncanny familiarity of it strips him of his confidence.

  Focus, he thinks. This is Orlando. All roads lead to Disney World. They have to. Just pick one. Just pick any one of these and drive, and eventually...

  But isn’t that exactly what he thought half an hour ago? And the hour before that? And before that, too? Of course, but he didn’t care then. He was in his own happy, magic place. But the buzz, as it must, wore off and now... hopeless comes to mind.

  “What a pickle. Huh, beautiful? Your grandpa has really gotten us into a mess here. What do you think of that?”

  She smiles and claps, happy for the attention. He spots an on-ramp but misses the sign indicating where it goes, but it doesn’t matter. It has to be right because Gertie is smiling and Providence won’t steer him wrong.

  “Just keep on smiling, okay? Can you do that for Grandpa?” He shifts in his seat to better look at her. Traffic zooms. It flies by, magnet-drawn to the interstate. Lights blink from green to red. The asphalt stretches, heating up while shadows arc across it in the nimble cascade of orderly progression.

  Thaddeus steers onto the highway. “We’ll make a deal. How do you feel about that? You keep smiling and believing in Grandpa, and he’ll find his way to the Magic Kingdom. How does that sound? Great! It sounds great.”

  He recovers a bit of his vigor. The manifest possibility of his plan buoys him in his seat.

  Gertie yawns and drops her head to her shoulder. The seat belt rubs across her collarbone and she winces.

  “We just have to go a little further along this way. It’s all starting to look familiar to your old grandpa. Ha! How about that? We don’t need Grandma, do we, beautiful? Not today, we don’t. Today, Grandpa is going to find it himself. After all, I found you and you’re tiny compared to Disney World!”

  He hums—maybe Cabaret, maybe something less familiar from Phantom—just something casual for background. This is the blinker. That was a lane change. Gas can be purchased over there. And every few yards palm trees crop up in clusters along the median. More often than not, they denote a sparkling new development flanking the highway, invariably given some Spanish name that he practices until he feels confident in his pronunciation.

  “Mar y Lago,” he says with a heavy tongue that imparts a syrup-slow lasciviousness to the words. If Cheryl were here he would seduce her with this name. “Mar y Lago. The Villas at Coral Gardens.” He drifts off into the fantasy. He’ll tell them about their journey tonight, and he’ll make sure to remember this neighborhood. Mar y Largo, he’ll say. Just past that. We went just past there. He’ll tell them tonight when they return, and Stevie will be impressed with his memory and his good taste and will forgive everything again. Gertie had a wonderful time. Couldn’t have been happier. Ha! “Isn’t that right, beautiful?”

  Gertie gurgles something unintelligible, then slips out from under the shoulder belt and presses her face against the car door. She kicks at the center gearshift, grunts, and squirms.

  “Hey,” he says. “What’s this all of a sudden?”

  She frowns.

  “Why the long face, huh? Don’t you like spending time with Grandpa? Come on, let your old grandpa see that million-dollar smile.”

  The attention buys him a little time.

  He’s afraid to let the conversation drop because then he would have to admit that they are lost and that her safety rests entirely with him. The fear starts as a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach that morphs into a piercing heat between his shoulder blades. He pulls a hand across his mouth, the skin loose and thin and covered in stubble. He clears his throat, which is suddenly hot and dry. “You know,” he says, “in the old days this was all dirt roads and farms. Of course, there wasn’t a Disney World then. Can you picture that, Gertie? Can you picture a time before Disney World?”

  She stares at him blankly. Impossible to know if she even hears him, let alone understands what he’s saying. But she cocks her head and affects the faintest of frowns, which gives him hope.

  “Well, it was pretty long ago. And your grandpa was a young man back then when dinosaurs roamed the earth!” His voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “Can you keep a secret, beautiful? I liked the dinosaurs. They were good friends of mine. But there was one that was my absolute favorite. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He was a flying dinosaur that went by the name of Tokeadactyl. He got the highest. Ha! Just a joke for you. Ask your dad to explain it when you’re older.”

  She cries. At first only a little, but then the momentum builds like a tidal surge until the tears stream. Before long a full-blown tantrum transforms the cabin of the Cutlass Supreme into a thundering seizure. She pounds on the door, hot with rage. A semitruck blares, causing the car to shudder. Whoosh. Gertie throws herself against the seat, bringing out a creak that Thaddeus knows will remain with the car forever. She squirms out from under the lap belt. Free to move around unimpeded, she turns on the first thing she sees—the glove box—raining on it a torrent of blows.

  “Holy cow,” he says. “Calm down.”

  But he barely gets the first word out before she stands up on the seat and starts punching him. Guarding his face with one hand, he steers with the other. With his vision partially obstructed, he swerves to avoid merging traffic, placing his trust in whatever merciful spirit has guided him this long. She wobbles on the lopsided cushion, in danger of losing her balance, but he can’t stop the car because now they’re in the left lane with nowhere to go but straight. She withdraws, availing her tiny fists against anything they can find, her energy waning.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” He desperately looks for anyplace to get off the road, but traffic presses on relentlessly, and he misses every single sign, leaving him with no idea where they’re heading. “Please. Whatever it is. You can tell me, beautiful.”

  She wails. She hisses. Her screams pierce the cabin, a high-decibel cavalry charging on his ear
drums. Tears give way to snot and her face glows crimson. She grumbles and finally collapses in a fit of choking spurts that sound like an asthma attack.

  They come to a wide shoulder, so he swerves onto it and hits the brakes amid a cacophony of horn bleats. Throwing the transmission into park, he dashes around the car, flings the door open, and clutches her to his chest. She pounds on him feebly. In another time, his instinct would’ve been different. He doesn’t think about it now, but he senses something has shifted inside of him. He could have shoved her, smacked her—anything to shut her up, to calm her down so that he could think.

  Pressed against him, her breathing heaves. The tantrum seems to have passed, and her little body shakes with exhaustion and he knows that he would never do anything to hurt her and that this is the shift that he felt inside. She moans into his chest and now she feels fragile in his arms, like a canary. He wipes the snot from her nose with the hem of his shirt.

  “Whatever it is,” he coos. “Whatever it was. It’s okay now.”

  For a long while they stand like that on the side of the road while traffic stretches by in the burnished haze of twilight. The city is a reckless flat expanse of white volumes and billboards; a hot wind rustles her hair. The median smells of freshly mowed grass. He rocks her to soothe the moans.

  “It’s okay. Grandpa’s here.”

  She shudders in his arms. Her belly growls and he feels it vibrate against his round gut. She begins to cry again, but lower this time, more resigned.

  “Ha! I know what’s wrong. You’re hungry! Why didn’t you just say so? No big deal.”

  Her face relaxes into an expression of hope.

  “Can you keep another secret?” He waits for her to nod before continuing. “Grandpa has the munchies, too.” He stretches his face, fakes a faint. She giggles. “I don’t know about you, but Grandpa’s so hungry he could eat a horse.”