Beautiful Children

by Charles Bock

  “You okay?” asked the girl with the shaved head.

  Glassy eyes focused. The pregnant girl was impassive, suspicious. But she nodded, somewhat. She wiped her bare wrist over the bottle's lip, nudged the container forward. “Vicks?”

  “Ummm . . .”

  A flicker of a grin. “It's mentholated.”

  “Should you be doing that?”

  “It's way better than drinking from any of those assholes’ stash.” A pointed glance. “They say they don't backwash—yeahright!”

  “Whatever you say, Danger-Prone Daphney!”

  The pregnant girl whirled toward the remark, “Eat me when I'm bloody, Lestat!”

  “Whatever you say, Double-Penetration Daphney.”

  Somewhere in the elevated distance a digital scoreboard flashed information about a twenty-four-hour buffet. Somewhere else a man-made volcano erupted. The girl with the shaved head self-consciously applied a circle of pressure to the soft area behind the mongrel's ear.

  “He's gorgeous,” she said.

  Then, once Daphney's attention had returned, “You sure about swigging?”

  The broken smile hardened, Daphney's pie eyes going narrow.

  “No disrespect or nothing,” said the girl. “I just meant, with—in . . . you know, your condition and all—”

  “You one of them Angels of the Streets? Damn. I sure liked you guys better when all you did was stop by with condoms and tampons. This planned pregnancy bullshit, it's getting to be a drag.” Daphney took a swig, recoiled at the taste. “The last one said she wouldn't turn me in to social services. Yeah, right . . . cunt.”

  Her chin raised defiantly. “Don't front on me. I been streeting so long I got my own milk carton.”

  The girl with the shaved head caught herself staring at Daphney's stomach, then blushed. Through the soles of her twelve-holes, it felt as if she were standing on lit matches. As she struggled to lower herself onto the sidewalk, her limbs seemed heavy and used and listless, and she noticed the corner of a denim knapsack from behind the breadth of Daphney's back. The girl's gaze was unsteady, and a bit blurred, but she was aware of the assorted leers, and she primly tucked her legs underneath her tush. She emptied her pockets, donating her remaining eight dollars into the community change pool. She scratched the bridge of the dog's nose, began to ask its name, and then, midway, stopped.

  “Can I see your carton?”

  Daphney spent a moment soaking in the request. Another examining the newcomer who had made it. “I used to have like nine,” she answered, her voice suddenly unguarded and girlish. “It was gonna be cool as fuck, ’cause I'd be giving my baby milk from the cartons with my own face. Get it? How cool is that? Cool as fuck, right?”

  Swollen and grime-laden hands bloomed, each steel-covered finger turning alive, adding interpretive pantomimes to the performance, becoming as agitated as Daphney's voice: “What happened was, we didn't have no place to put the milk and it went bad and so they made me throw it out. But then I kept some of the cartons, you know, stored pens and lighters and birthie stuff in some. The others I just folded up. But then, I was supposed to go base with these fuckwads right? . . . That's a total different story. Anyways, my shit got jacked.”

  Disco ball refractions formed a kaleidoscope across Daphney's profile, imbuing her face with a pattern of small, almost translucent snowflakes. To the girl with the shaved head she appeared beautiful and full of pain and beautiful for all her pain. The girl wanted to cover her and protect her. For an instant, she thought of taking her back home.

  “I went to the stores,” Daphney said, “but the cartons had all different kids.”

  Her voice then became quiet, cracking as she whispered, “I couldn't find me no more.”

  A lopsided plastic fun cup emerged from her lap. Shaking away the memory, Daphney reached for passing tourists. “Please spare some change for some low-grade ketamine.”

  “Punk's way over,” came as one reply.

  Then: “You cannot self-destruct without being complicit.”

  And, “Get a fucking job.”

  Daphney had been waiting for another girl for so long, and now here one was so, Come on, let's go, yeah, no, no time for exposition, just help me up. And Lestat saw this and went Oooh. And a bunch of other dickwads saw and went Aaaawww. And Lestat yelled Ooh again, and then the dickwads did the same thing, Ahh. Faster and faster they kept at it, Ooh ah ooh ah, and despite their grunts, feeling the slightest bit emboldened, flickering with power and pride, bidding adieu with a good and proper Italian salute, Daphney and the girl with the shaved head stumbled and leaned on each other and helped each other upright, which the mongrel dog noticed. Shedding its lackadaisical façade, the dog turned eager, bouncing alongside them, grin wide, tongue lapping. And while the dickwads called out Where ya going ladies? and Munch that carpet and Can I watch? Come on, let me watch, the makeshift trio turned a short corner, with Daphney's waddle strained, ginger, her every movement hampered by the backpack she insisted on lugging—a tattered and overstuffed sack, far too large and heavy for Daphney, especially in her condition. They started down the alleyway and Daphney leaned into the girl with the shaved head, using the girl's body as a crutch, and insisted, with perturbed affection, I'm fine, I got it, just slow up, please.

  The girl wondered what was she getting herself into. She had an instinct to confide in Daphney about not having her period for the past four months. Daphney should know about that, it seemed to the girl. She intuited there were questions she should have been asking, things she should have been saying out loud. Like about the baby's due date? And the dad? And would Daphney stay on the street when the baby was born? One by one the interrogatives trickled, a Chinese water torture through the girl's brain. She wanted to ask Daphney what sex felt like, wanted to know if it hurt. Did the baby have anything to do with the Danger-Prone Daphney nickname? Did Daphney have any idea of how they abused the cows to get the milk for those cartons? How was the girl going to get back to Ponyboy? If only she could feel her tongue.

  Lordy loo, she was soooo drunk.

  Doubling as the sides of the two casinos, the alley walls ran high and long, and were covered by shadows of varying heights and densities. All sorts of bizarre lights and colors split the shadows and bisected one another, and to the girl with the shaved head it felt a little bit like traveling down some sort of psychedelic tunnel, like she was traveling deeper into the unknown, this bizarre adventure she was on, to where, who only knew. She almost buckled under Daphney's weight, tripped over Daphney's inside leg, then was steadied by her new friend, and the pair continued, giggling and stumbling along. The girl's arm ran around Daphney's lower back and she held Daphney by the side of her stomach, and it was kind of creeping the girl out, what was in there. At the same time, it was kind of lovely, too. Only this was not the time for loveliness, no, loveliness was being preempted, canceled by deep and alarmed barking—the mongrel going berserk, chasing some unseen rat or roach. Daphney cursed the dog and yanked on the knotted jump rope she used for its leash, and now the mutt picked up some other scent, tracked some other marginal fiend.

  Good shit if you get there at the right time, Daphney said, nodding toward a series of dumpsters the girl would not have otherwise noticed. By now, though, they've been scavenged like eight zillion times. The real place to go for leftovers was behind the groceries and restaurants, said Daphney, long as you didn't mind fighting with the bums. She leaned further onto the girl with the shaved head, relied on her more and more with every step, pawing, clawing, her backpack swinging down and banging the girl's knee. Daphney was oblivious to this, however, staggering atop a wave of cough syrup and who knew what, drifting toward then teetering on the brink of consciousness. Too clean, she called the girl with the shaved head, a pavement virgin, looks like to me. The girl was doing Daphney a big one here so Daphney was gonna help her out, let her know the way it was, out on the street, on the cold concrete, I got your back, you got mine.

  Tit
for tit, Daphney wasn't going to lie. Any chiquita getting involved with this shit had to think long and hard. It wasn't easy. Like, not only were you flying under the radar with the cops, but you're kind of alone and unprotected, too. You know, it's a man's place, the streets, and guys are always hounding. You're kinda this blank sheet to them, right? It's like they project all their shit on you, telling you their secrets. One minute you're their mother, the next you're their girlfriend, and really all they want to do is get in your pants or turn you out, you know, you're just a fucking big target. So always you have to watch your ass.

  Night began to open, spreading beyond the center of the alleyway, a series of small circular lights coming into view, distant flashing red and blue shapes, streetlights and traffic signals, signs advertising construction rig rentals and pool decking. Soreness spread through the girl's shoulders and upper back, and alcohol and dope oozed from her every pore, and she was momentarily unable to carry Daphney's weight, she had to regroup, adjusting her body and grip. The girl almost tripped, then regained her balance, and continued onward, with Daphney leaning on her a little more, confiding in the girl with the shaved head as if she were a big sister explaining the ways of the world to her dearest younger. Really, it wasn't so bad, Daphney said. At night, all kinds of stuff was going down, what with the parties and the gigs out in the desert and all that, so really you just had to worry about getting out of the sun in the day. Like, you could cop change from inside the casino wading pools, spare a few bucks from people on the street. And the public library system had really great air-conditioning, although on Flamingo this one librarian was always looking to call juvie. And oh, there was this faggot at Underground Records who let you sleep in the storage room, long as you didn't filch the inventory. And if things got slow, needle jockeys let you hang at that twenty-four-hour piercing and tatt place.

  It was a tour de force, a mixture of guerilla theater and performance art, with sprinklings of pheromonal territorialism thrown in for good measure, Daphney's every gesture simultaneously kind, combative, self-important, and self-congratulatory, her every word delivered as if she were some telemarketer needing to fill an employment quota on the last day of the month.

  She told the girl she did not want word to get out, did not want it becoming trendy and what have you, but she was sort of surprised that more streeters did not end up here. “Really,” she said, “when you look at it, Vegas is a good place to run to.”

  A frost of solitary white light came weakly from behind a grille-covered pay window. Daphney made sure they stayed out of it, away from any potential sightings, and the small group moved in a wide arc around the side of the service station. The mongrel dog stopped every five yards to mark its territory. Wasn't cute anymore. How much piss could a dog hold, anyway?

  Behind the garage, the door to a bathroom hung from thick steel hinges. A row of locks had been installed down the side, but some of the bolts had been pried from their stations. The remaining chambers were jammed with gum and clumps of once-wet toilet paper, now dried into a cementlike surface. Daphney easily pushed the door open and a bang resonated from where it hit the inside wall. Daphney took the backpack and staggered resolutely inside, disappearing into a blackness not quite the size of a prison cell, her steps audible on tile.

  “Leave the door open, okay,” Daphney said. “Fuck, where's that switch? I can't see shit.”

  The girl squinted but could not make out much, either, maybe part of a toilet; still, it was something—the night air beginning to spread, puncturing the vacuum with lesser shades of darkness.

  Now the mongrel dog let out a curious whine. Concerned about its master's disappearence, it shifted its weight from one front leg to the other. It waited a few counts and then gave in, lowering its head and, with tentative, dutiful steps, following Daphney inside. The girl with the shaved head understood exactly how the dog felt. She wasn't eager to go in there, either. At the same time, the girl understood that she was a part of this, whatever this might be, and despite her better instincts, she edged forward, inside the darkness. She felt around on the wall for a few moments, the plaster warm to the touch. Then a box of sorts. A panel. Flicking the switch sent light from overhead in thick streams to reveal an empty bathroom, walls of industrial white, glowing layers of paint that, in places, still did not hide all of the graffiti beneath.

  But while the girl's side of the room was well lit, the far side of the bathroom was another story—the long overhead bulb flickering for one count, then going dim for three. Amid the gloom, Daphney had reached the toilet, and was undertaking the lengthy procedure of lowering herself onto its rim. “Fuck me,” she called out, laughing. “There's no seat.” She gave another laugh, as if entertained by the predicament. “We'll just have to manage.”

  She had been waiting for this a long time, Daphney said. You don't even know.

  Daphney had her knapsack between her legs and started foraging through it. The girl took a tentative step toward her, and had the tart aroma of cleaning chemicals irritate her nostrils. Reflexively, she fingered the fringe of her summer vest.

  “My stepmonster had been a total bitch to me since way back in the day,” Daphney continued, “even before I got thrown out.”

  From inside the backpack, Daphney pulled a can opener, then what might have been a deformed Happy Meal box, which she spent a moment examining, then put aside, reaching back inside, emerging with some sort of half-rolled tube, possibly toothpaste, who the hell knew.

  “It's why they tossed me, really—I mean, things were bad enough already with my step, from when I borrowed her Mercedes and went to a rave. Anyways, with the whole pregnancy and whatnot, there was big-time tension, you know? Dad was totally flipping and pissed and bitch-cakes, he didn't want no grandkid, especially no half spook—Wait, here we go, that's right. . . . Come to mama—”

  A flicking sound, a small cocoon of illumination. Inside the dimness of the far end of the room, the lighter's flame cast light upon Daphney's curled torso, as well as the knapsack balanced between her legs. A pink nightgown dangled from the sack's opening, its neckline of embroidered roses lying in a thin puddle from the last time the floor had been mopped.

  “My stepmonster had scheduled the abortion with her private doctor, and everyone was trying to pretend things were normal, one big happy family and all that. We had these sit-down dinners every night, completely lame, you know, where you're supposed to be all Beaver Cleaver?”

  Yellow light spun off the cover of a paperback guide to single parenting, which Daphney examined for a moment, before jamming it back inside some compartment. A dog-grooming comb bounced politely onto the tile. With some effort, and then a relieved “Aaaah-haaaah,” Daphney dislodged a smallish heart-shaped candy box.

  “So I'd just gotten pierced, like a day before, right? And I wasn't really all that into wearing panties just then, right? Well, everyone's finished with the salad, but the pot roast isn't quite finished yet, you know how it goes, right? Blah blah, chit chat. And right when no one has no more to say, that's when I felt this little ball, you know? It sort of like clinked off my leg and like then, you know, rolled.”

  Daphney worked to undo the valentine bow. “You could hear it ping on the kitchen tile and like, bounce?” She opened the box and, without pause, continued her search. “Don'cha know my stepmonster had to go and pick it up.

  “I tried to tell her it was the ball clasp for my earring—but she saw I wasn't wearing none.”

  The girl with the shaved head made a sound bordering on intelligible. She felt dizzy, needed a wall to lean against.

  “That was the first one,” Daphney added, proudly waving a blackened diner spoon. “Base of my clit. Right where the nub splits.”

  “No—”

  “I gots more now.”

  “you—”

  “All labs. Majoras and minoris.”

  “—don't.”

  “They do it for you at the Tatt Rack. When nobody's around and there's nothing e
lse goin’ on.”

  How to respond? What can you possibly say: You must have a really strong vulva?

  “Did it hurt?” the girl came up with.

  “Can you, like, ask more obvious questions?”

  “Did it?”

  For the first time since they'd entered the bathroom, Daphney's attention moved away from her search, up toward the girl. She thought for a moment, and when she spoke this time, her voice turned serious. “When I first hit here, I used to have to always defend myself about my background. Like, because my parents have dough, I don't have problems? Now I been out for like six months and all their money aint doin’ jack for me, and whether I want it or not, it looks like I'm a have my baby on the street. Even Lestat and the others are like, ‘Oh, Daphney, that's so hardcore, how can you?’ ”

  She paused and sat forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. “Every day I sit on the street and feel my baby grow inside of me and I ask for change from people who pass by and pretend not to see me and, you know, sometimes, it makes me feel like I'm not there. Like, I kinda forget I'm alive?”