Beautiful Children

by Charles Bock

  Cheri blinked, pulled on her closed lid, and rolled her eyeball—a childhood trick to get out sand. Rubbing her tearing eyes, she used the break to catch her breath a bit. Nearby some obnoxious idiot kept screaming for the band to play “Free Bird,” and enough people were laughing to egg him on, and Cheri stumbled away from that area as best she could, her vision returning now, enough to where she could get back to her search, her attention shifting toward any flash that might have been promising—the parent grabbing his daughter by the ear and screaming that if she ever took the Escalade again, he was calling the police, understand; the shiny surface of plastic backpacks gleaming; a pair of girls dragging a third out of their clique, and into a private consultation. Now someone zagged, sprinting as best he could. But his gait was all wrong, Cheri decided. He was too slow. Too scrawny.

  She paged Ponyboy and got jack shit in response. Cheri checked her phone's digital log for the umpteenth time, then dialed the number that, earlier in the night, Ponyboy had called from. A voice mail started; Cheri had grown familiar with the message by now—it was really funny, a boy, probably nine years old.

  It seemed fantastic to Cheri that she'd believed she'd find Ponyboy out here. Just deciding where to look next was almost too much.

  Ever since that nightmare of a tryout, Cheri had been committed to watering her plants. She'd entertained unfocused thoughts about getting a kitten and returning to school. Certain emotional complications had been too tangled for her to take on, she just hadn't had the inner strength to face them. Nonetheless, personal growth had been a definitive and predominant aspect of Cheri's thinking. And even more resonant was a single carved truth: she would never be put through anything like that again. If Cheri had to be as ruthless as the people in Jabba's office had been to her, so be it. If she had to treat anyone in her path as the slice of meat she herself had been treated as, this was the way of the world.

  Was that why she'd given the comic book guy's idea to the one person whose schemes routinely bested themselves as the worst things that ever happened to her?

  Was that a good enough excuse?

  Her ears, still ringing from the strip club's sound system, were full of drone and fuzz, and the earth was consistently presenting itself at lower plateaus than Cheri's feet were ready for. Cheri didn't pause for a second, but kept stumbling down that small dune, moving as best she could in her flip-flops. Because whether she told herself she would be ruthless or not, the truth was, Cheri couldn't ignore the other side of ruthlessness, the people who were put upon, the price of suffering. It wasn't something she could just turn off. She'd tried to do so tonight, but her conscience wouldn't let her. And now, heading down into the desert, Cheri kept seeing how young all these partiers were. Even the ones who were her age looked infinitely younger than Cheri felt. All too well Cheri understood the way these anarchist chicks would titter and coo when Pony-boy showed them the slightest bit of attention—how their gangly bodies would wave in place, their eyes going bright and dreamy.

  Cheri wasn't equipped to know if three-dimensional tattoos could be taken out of the realm of the hypothetical, but with a chilling clarity, she remembered the electric buzz of that needle as it shot ink into the skin on her pubis. Remembered the sudden pinch that turned into fire.

  Through the jutting heads and limbs, the stage looked pretty far away, like some sort of demented puppet theater. The crowd at the front was surging toward the bass player—he had wandered to the edge of the stage, and was sprinkling water from a plastic bottle down onto the overheated moshers. On that far side, Cheri also saw heads as they turned in one direction, people looking toward some sort of disruption, this dervish, cutting through people and heading away from the stage, arms churning, his legs fluid.

  Cheri called his name and there was no response.

  Stumbling on the sand, she hooked between a pair of goateed kids tossing a Frisbee. The Frisbee almost hit her and she flinched and ignored the apologies, heading around a small group of squatters and buskers who were sitting around in a semicircle, one of them strumming a battered six-string.

  Cheri cupped her hands and shouted. Ponyboy did not completely break stride. But he slowed, seeming a bit confused, looking in her direction.

  His hair was slick with sweat, she saw, his chest aglow.

  “Hey,” she said, finally catching up, grabbing the moist skin along his upper arm.

  Ponyboy's eyes blazed, and he took her in as if he did not recognize her.

  “So,” she continued, “I'm here.”

  The breadth of his massive chest rose and fell, and she could see he was struggling to control himself, to stand in front of her. He tensed now and, without betraying the slightest emotion, said, “Great.” His eyes began drifting toward something in the direction Cheri had come from, his right arm started behind his back.

  She'd always teased that he was like some sort of indestructible mutant cockroach, that terrorists could set off dirty bombs and it wouldn't matter, Ponyboy would be the only thing left on the face of the earth, he'd be going through the pockets of the corpses or whatever. But the ultimate survivor was in front of her now, half-naked, sweaty, Cheri could smell the sex all over him. She looked at him trying to hide the camcorder in his hand, trapped, obviously struggling to figure out his next move. Tattoos and her plan were the last thing on his mind, she saw.

  He was making one of those tapes.

  Trying like hell to control her repulsion, Cheri planted her feet and forced herself to stay in front of him, to look right back at him.

  The way Ponyboy was staring at her made it apparent to Cheri for the first time that she'd been wrong about the cockroach thing, too.

  He would try anything to survive, she could taste that. But even more certain was that he was going to destroy himself. Whatever had happened between Ponyboy and his parents, whatever he had suffered through on the streets, the accumulated damage was simply too much to overcome. Cheri saw that now. She saw his destruction would happen despite his better instincts and nature. It would happen against his own wishes. But all the mistakes and miscues and hardships were going to inspire more schemes, each more desperate and ugly and convoluted and far-reaching than its predecessors. Ponyboy was headed for a crash. And whether it was her or some poor little girl, anyone unlucky enough to be within his reach, they were going down with him.

  In the final scene before the screenplay of the movie of Cheri's life was put away, the nun stood at the front of the schoolroom and announced that God's obligation was his presence within us.

  The nun said this presence was nothing so much as a person questioning how they might be more than they are.

  In the screenplay of Cheri's life it said that for God to have mercy on our souls, we must have mercy upon one another.

  It said Cheri had to do better than this.

  A delicate and loving sadness filled her as she reached out now, her fingertips lightly rubbing the width of Ponyboy's shoulder.

  He flinched, as if tensing for a fight, but Cheri continued, pressing her palm down onto him.

  “Don't you want to see the band?” she asked. “Come on, honey. Let's check out the band.”

  A sideways glance confirmed Newell's profile would be perfect for one of those portrait sketches, the kind where you use fancy pencils with fine points. Kenny envisioned a scant amount of light down the middle of Newell's face. He wanted the effect of a boy in the dark with a candle. Soft, wispish lines would recapture the angle of Newell's head, raised just a bit, his snubbed nose slightly turned upward, as if the boy were posing, pretending he did not smell something foul. A scribbled brow, thickish and clouded. Then Newell's eyelid, heavy and long, but also done in soft strokes—maybe this would make the boy's gaze properly haggard. The visible half of his pupil would be solid but flat, his iris gray and dull. The white of the paper would also be the white of Newell's eye, and this would tap into his intensity, and still show the boy looking outward, without betraying the slightest sense of emo
tion on his face. It seemed to Kenny that Newell's expression had solidified into armor, and the boy Kenny knew was hiding behind that armor, and Kenny wanted to capture this. He wanted to hint at freckles, maybe by going darker inside the shades along his cheeks. He wanted baby fat whose suppleness would accentuate just how weary Newell looked. Newell's mouth parted just a bit now, and this seemed to be important—the way the nearest side of his upper lip turned upward, forming what looked like a smirk. As if Newell could not care less what was out there. Bravado was the wrong word for what Kenny was seeing. But what about disdain?

  7.7

  Spring was a gift: deep shades of green and vibrant blooms. Neighborhoods had an idyllic feel that almost seemed too good to be true. Despite a few scorchers, the mercury still hadn't broken ninety when May arrived. People were especially encouraged. Could be, summer would be mild this year.

  On Lorraine's birthday the phone rang during the noon hour. Nobody was home to answer it, and no message was left, but Caller ID registered the source: out of area. Newell remained outside the realm of the law—never getting arrested, never turning up in a juvenile center, hospital, or morgue. Every so often the case officer or a hired detective checked in, bringing details of a discovered body, a boy with some preliminary similarities to Newell. Lincoln and Lorraine would be electrified, each of them on edge through the next days, praying for their child to be alive, while at the same time desiring some sort of positive, conclusive identification, hating themselves for this, but wanting to know, finally, one way or another, what had happened to their son.

  The failure to discover a body, for so long a source of hope that Newell was still alive, had started turning on itself. It was natural: how could you help but stop putting so much of your soul into each update? It was understandable: how could you keep jumping up in response when logic told you it was another dead end?

  Neither Lincoln nor Lorraine could admit, even to their private selves, that after so many months, the odds of Newell being alive were almost nil. Nor could they accept the growing likelihood that they would never know why he had left, what kind of life he had found, what kind of end he had come to.

  Still, there was that phone call. The hopeful weather. Lorraine's discovery of the converted DVDs, stacked and waiting for her in the kitchen pantry, also had an effect, further spurring something like a rebirth for the couple. That first night they sat on the couch together and watched memories of him until they both fell asleep. Two nights later, Lorraine found herself trusting Lincoln enough to show what she had of her fundraising proposal. He read carefully, went to lengths to praise what he saw, and pointed out potential sticking points. They stayed up late once again, this time brainstorming possible solutions. The next day they text messaged each other with the frequency of teen lovers, met at home at a prearranged time, and coordinated the proposal to varying degrees of mutual satisfaction. The result: a fourteen-page PowerPoint document, which quickly made its way to key personnel within the upper echelon of the Kubla Khan's community outreach and marketing departments.

  “Score one for the good guys,” Lincoln said, calling from outside his office. Not only was the banquet on, but thanks to the Khan's largesse, every red cent that was raised would go directly toward the construction of a support center for homeless, runaway, and at-risk teenagers. Lorraine, for the first time in who knew how long, heard a hint of enthusiasm in her husband's voice. As if saying the details out loud confirmed them, as if sharing made each victory even more true, he went over the laundry list of what was being comped: the two-hundred-and-fifty-seat Oasis Banquet Hall, the four different types of appetizers for the reception, soup or salad at dinner, as well as a choice of three entrées, dessert, and coffee, all from the Khan's seventy-five-dollar-a-plate banquet menu, which wasn't the highest-end menu, Lincoln explained, but wasn't cheap, and certainly was more than they had any right to expect. “Catering staff. Even floral!”

  The only problems were minor. Mainly, it was impossible to have the event on the one-year anniversary of the night Newell had not come home. That date was booked.

  He said this knowing that when the proposal had been notecards and Post-it notes, Lorraine's primary organizing principle had been having the banquet on the one-year anniversary. He talked plainly, in that troubleshooting, preemptive way of his, moving smoothly into the list of perfectly agreeable days the Khan had offered. Lorraine said nothing. He moved to the next sticking point.

  She listened, then repeated the next problem—“Cash bar?” —with a disbelief that suggested they might as well cancel the event. “Jesus Christ, Link, for five hundred dollars, people expect an open bar. You go help and get sloshed. That's the whole idea.”

  His silence was every bit as loud as her rejoinder, and just like that, in the course of discussing the basic date and price of this fund-raiser, it was obvious that their relationship was not about to be repaired, but was at a much deeper impasse. In the following days, the price of the tickets became a wedge issue and a symbol and a Ping-Pong ball, volleyed and smashed back and forth, Lincoln arguing they should knock down the price a hundred or even two, maybe have the guests pay for their own booze. He had no problem asking clients to buy tickets, getting them to go to bat for the cause with their superiors, or even purchase corporate tables, he was just a little reluctant to look like he was putting the screws to anyone, especially anyone who had placed their trust in him. See, unlike in this house, at work there were actually people who cared what he said. To which Lorraine answered Mmm-hmm. With an exaggerated slowness, as if the person she was addressing were mildly retarded, she'd explained that the elite nature of their fund-raiser mattered at least as much as the goodness of the cause being championed. “Part of the way you make something elite is to charge a lot of money for it,” she said. “You get celebrities to endorse a good cause and then set a ridiculous price to get in. Anybody who's anyone in this town will want to be there, and anyone who thinks of themselves as on their way to being somebodies will be right behind, clamoring for a better view.”

  It was one thing to be civil when you were polishing an outline. Quite another when you had a whole evening to put together. All of a sudden, Lincoln and Lorraine actually had tickets to sell, an entire banquet to plan, and all the problems this entailed. If Lorraine wasn't coming up with options for dealing with the cash bar, she was drawing up new schemes to maximize revenue, getting competitive estimates on invitations, playing phone tag with the Khan's banquet planner, going back and forth about just what the hotel florist was or was not capable of doing. After untold requests, she received a bunch of faxes with the floor plans of the Oasis Hall, as well as the dimensions of the different sizes of the various shapes of banquet tables. Calculating how many round tables could fit in the room, as compared to square or rectangular tables, Lorraine did more math than she'd imagined her brain could handle, and came up with a plan that would squeeze in twelve more tables of eight into the room, which would allow them to cut down on the ticket price and end up with the same take, or maybe keep tickets at their present cost and add fifty grand to the night's gross. The banquet planner left a perky answer on the machine, in which she explained that Lorraine also had to calculate chairs and bodies into the equation. Usually this added a ring of eighteen inches or so around each table. “But it was a super idea,” said the planner, her voice so insincere it was nauseating.

  Time was a whip, lashing down, and meanwhile the tasks did not end. A connection in the Khan's community outreach department forwarded Lincoln the corporate mailing list for fund-raising/charitable activities. Soon, Lorraine had volunteers from the Nevada Child Search making calls and stuffing scented envelopes of heavy cardstock. A booking agency returned her call about a possible celebrity spokesman, informing Lorraine that the star of a highly rated prime-time family drama was a dream to work with, so long as he had an unlimited amount of methadone and hookers. Lorraine rolled with the punches and took her lumps. Every day stretched with dead space whe
n nobody was calling her back and she was on hold with someone's secretary, and she filled the time by clicking back and forth between files and windows, making notes on stalled projects, revising lists with days of unreturned phone calls, and organizing priorities for things that, dammit, had to move forward. She could recite any of these lists by memory, explaining how things were progressing with ticket sales, which people she was still waiting on, and the history of negotiations with each of them. She clicked back and forth chronically, habitually. Getting things right meant more to her than to anyone else, so why should she delegate? Nobody else could do anything, least of all Lincoln. So what if he'd transferred a bunch of tapes onto discs? She had been the one who had been against Newell going out. From the beginning, she had known something was wrong with that Kenny. Newell had told her Kenny was a mutant sewer dweller, he'd told her that Kenny was a total perv. Cheeseburgers and then anal sodomy had been the plan for that night, and Lorraine had warned her husband that Newell would end up buried in the desert with Hoffa and then, against her gut instincts, she'd caved, agreed to let her son go out with his friend. And for what? So she could have an expensive dinner. So she could lie still while her husband fucked her. Lincoln was the one who had let her son go away and he could claim this was revisionist history until the sun jumped over the moon for all Lorraine cared. She had listened to him on that fateful Saturday night but she would not be so foolish again. Thus, she made sure the caterer understood there would be no ham on the menu. (“Ham at a fund-raiser? Haven't you ever heard of Jews?” ) She engaged the banquet planner in deep, meaningful discussions as to whether white orchid centerpieces took up too much table space. Lorraine redrew the seating chart and put all the volunteers from Nevada Child Search near the doors to the kitchen; she knew she was being a ruthless bitch, but the fact remained, they would be getting their tickets for free; meanwhile some corporation shelling out five grand for a table couldn't be sitting in the back.