Beautiful Children Read online

  About the last thing Kenny needed right now was to have to scream through a closed window for his stupid soda. Why was getting a stupid Pepsi turning into a problem-solving quiz? If the FBImobile didn't get moving soon the steering wheel would start shaking.

  Shifting the car into park, he started scooting across vinyl upholstery. And was met by the safety belt, its searing heat penetrating the denim of his jeans, scorching the soft skin inside the back of his knee.

  From behind him came the tinnish bleats of car horns.

  “HEY?” Kenny screamed back at the raised window. Bellowing now, from the depths of his lungs: “HELLO?

  “WOULD SOMEBODY HELP ME ALREADY?”

  Chapter 2

  2.1

  They were drowsy on the four-poster bed, their first time like this in longer than Lorraine cared to remember. She nuzzled into her husband's side and felt the beat of Lincoln's breath faint in her ear, warm on her cheek. Lorraine slipped a hand between the buttons of his work shirt, laying her palm on Lincoln's chest; she felt him take a deeper breath, knew he was inhaling the fragrance of her apple shampoo. Her hair was still damp, fanned out near him in dark, soggy tendrils. Her robe was loosely tied, slack enough for the cotton to part, the edge of her nipple brushing against his side.

  So simple, what was unfolding, layered with pleasures: the joy of petting, for one thing; this rekindled aspect of their closeness, for another; and the sheer comfort of knowing that despite the difficulties, they still were drawn to each other; the affirmation which such knowledge brings. Satisfaction bloomed inside Lorraine, a serenity that was tactile, clean, a peace both private and shared. She released a giggle into the meat of Lincoln's collarbone, picked back up on her train of thought.

  “I'm just not sure it's a good idea.”

  The overworked hum of the air conditioner was audible throughout their bedroom. Lincoln kissed her shoulder and received no response. He eased his forearm from behind her head, began shaking his hand to get some circulation back, weighing and considering each prospective word.

  “I hear what you're saying.”

  A series of thumps—descending the stairwell, the boy disobeying orders once more, straying from his room. Lorraine withdrew from Lincoln and away from eye contact. He rustled behind her. When his palm skimmed the curvature of her shoulder, she flinched. He continued, pressing lightly into the muscles on each side of her neck.

  “Sometimes family means compromise, Lor.”

  “What—so this is my compromise?”

  “Someone's got to be the adult. I'm saying: we might as well enjoy it once in a while.”

  His fingers moved underneath her hair, to the base of her skull, where they began making small, circular rotations. Lorraine remained still. Refraining from encouragement or appreciation, she willfully directed her attention toward the open yard of space where the drapes were not completely closed. The first shades of twilight were cascading through, and Lorraine could see down to the backyard; water calm in the pool where no one had swum this summer; the floating chair's shadow creeping across the deep end.

  She felt his fingers tracing down her neck, arriving at its base, where they dug into the twin reservoirs of tension, attacking Lorraine's knots, kneading.

  “He asks why I don't leave you, Link.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “He asks me that too.”

  “And I don't know where he gets that type of language, but . . . He's acting worse and worse. I can't control him and—”

  “All kids that age are obnoxious, Lor. They all want to kill their parents. I sure as hell did. That doesn't mean he's whacked in the head. It sure doesn't mean we have to live like hermits.”

  Beyond the brick wall of the backyard, an endless grid of lights awaited, the violet night deepening, melding with the mountain ranges. Lincoln zeroed in on her troubled spots, rocking over them, lightly at first, then applying more pressure. An affirming murmur escaped her lips. Her thoughts momentarily fell away. Now she felt new contact, warmth and weight against her rear, his waist beginning a slight grind against her lower back. Against her better judgment Lorraine shut her eyes, allowing the soothing colors to start through her.

  “I don't like how he talks to me.”

  “I know.”

  “And I don't want you rewarding him.”

  “I hear you.”

  Now her backside pressed back into him and she leaned against him, feeling his erection on the small of her back. She mewled, going a bit high and giggly. “It's tempting. But a Saturday night? With all the loonies running around out there.”

  From beyond the house's opposite end, the neighbor's Rhodesian ridgeback started its nightly howls.

  “I just want to make sure we're on the same page,” she said.

  Truth be told, they hadn't been on the same page for a while now. But as far as Lincoln Ewing was concerned, things had really started veering south when Lorraine had stopped putting it in her mouth. Which maybe wasn't exactly the fairest assessment—Lincoln could admit as much, adding that dating back to their courtship, Lorraine had never been, oh, enthusiastic about having it in her mouth; never confident in its handling and manipulation. The difference, however, was that while her efforts traditionally had been somewhat token and tentative, they nonetheless had been efforts, undertaken in the interest of reciprocation and the spirit of fair play, as an outgrowth of her affection—both for Lincoln and for this bond they had forged. Fact is, there used to be something poignant in the way she fumbled with it, something sentimentally beautiful in the awkward kiss she'd plant on its tip, and then her mouth's enveloping warmness, Lorraine keeping it in her mouth for stretches whose protracted nature somehow heightened the effect: long enough for the act to be a thrill, but not so long that her inexperience showed, less literally turning out to be more as far as he had been concerned. And sure over the years there must have been some reduction, a gradual tapering of her oral proclivities. But Lincoln had a mortgage to pay and a child to raise and some fifty thousand square feet of convention space and meeting rooms to book every weekend, so he might be forgiven if his wife's infrequent desire to blow him had simmered on the back burner of his subconscious. The fact was, their union had flourished and their lives had continued, and if the passion had died down over the course of twelve years, well, that was normal enough wasn't it, so long as the embers still burned. Which they most certainly did, low maybe, but consistent, beneath all the kindling and paperwork and responsibilities. Sometimes Lorraine put it in her mouth and sometimes she didn't. Did. Didn't. The only thing, somewhere around the time of last tax refund's arrival, about the time where school had let out for summer, the boy had been at a friend's, and a video had led to pecking. And Lincoln and Lorraine had been on the couch, doing a little more than pecking, and he had, kind of, gently just sort of pulled on her blouse in a way that would get her heading southwards. And just as deftly, a smiling Lorraine had veered away from that region, and all of a sudden it occurred to Lincoln that he could not think of the last time she had—and he'd told his wife as much, doing so in a subdued and low-key manner, one that was not confrontational or in any way intended to cause strife. Just brought up the thought. Not the biggest deal, he said. More like, Hey, you're at the amusement park, why not go on all the rides? Lincoln sure as hell spent three-day stretches between her legs, didn't he?

  “Symbolism, Link. Gender power structures.” Lorraine explained she did not have a problem with putting it in her mouth, per se. “It's just, if I'm going to have it in my mouth, I need the act to be organic. Not to have it in my mouth because you want it there, but because the beauty of the moment dictates that my mouth is the natural and correct place for it to be.”

  Lincoln had listened. He'd nodded. He'd even refrained from cracking how having it in her mouth felt pretty damn fine in the beauty of every and any given moment.

  Right, is what he'd said. Great.

  “Except, um, is there any timetable on just when this beautiful and pe
rfect event might take place? Any ideas on when those planets are going to align? Because, sweet darling, from my side of the fence, that particular special's been dropped from the menu.” The way Lincoln saw things, the mere option, the thought that Lorraine could if she so chose put it in her mouth, this no longer entered her mind. He went so far as to wonder if there was any chance that Lorraine's gag reflex was more mental than physical? “Maybe?” he prodded. “Just maybe?”

  How clear it seemed to him now. As far as mistakes go, that particular ditty had fallen somewhere between President Announces Tax Hike and President Admits Getting Rim Jobs from Male Intern. Not just because Lorraine would not look at him, but had sat there, arms crossed so tightly that they squished what, in better moods, Lincoln still thought of as perfect breasts. More important, it had been a mistake because Lincoln had given her the perfect opening and justification to get all indignant and self-righteous the way she liked to. And simple as Simon, just because his brain had locked for five seconds and he had inserted his ass into his mouth, the subject of conversation no longer was Lorraine getting lovey on his nuts, nor was it Lincoln's urges, nor even the undiscussed but not-insubstantial problem of Lorraine only liking sex in the missionary position. The subject was not that Lincoln would have given his left testicle for something besides plain one-scoop vanilla sex and it was not the sheer volume of Lorraine's hesitancies and it sure as hell was not Lincoln's fear that all of these hesitancies pointed to deeper issues that needed to be addressed in this marriage, questions about limits and boundaries and how far she was willing to go to please. No. Because of a blunder that Lincoln, dumbass that he was (he was such a dumbass), knew better than to make, things had firmly and irrevocably moved into Bad Man Makes Girl Cry Territory. Pig Territory. Which was a howling shame. A minor tragedy. Because when he got to those pearly gates and Saint Peter opened the book on his life, Lincoln Ewing was more than a little sure the record would show he took great pains to be supportive of Lorraine, understanding of her emotions, sensitive to the slightest movements of her moon; the record would show he was a loving husband, a proud parent, a first-rate provider, one of those guys who lived on that intellectual and emotional plane where sexuality was merely a part of his larger marriage and family structure. Never bitched about stretches where he and Lorraine were not intimate (if he did, it was usually good-natured). Never moaned about junctures where the intimacy was perfunctory and did nothing for anyone's libido. Without question he respected the value of privacy in a marriage, understood an individual's need to maintain his or her sense of self, yet at the same time he did not want limitations on honesty, nor boundaries on intimacy. He made all these concessions and he aspired to all these things, and what did it get him? Not a hummer on a crisp summer night, that was for goddamn sure. What he got was trapped in another Politics of Marriage Conversation, one more evening tactfully countering Lorraine's points and defending himself, apologizing and then pleading and then groveling.

  When he got down to it, when he'd calmed down and was off somewhere nursing a good stiff drink, Lincoln was introspective enough to admit this dynamic was nothing new, but in fact went back to when he'd first noticed Lorraine. He'd been a lightweight, twenty-two, just another former athlete turned glorified salesman. Hadn't even known better than to give convention reps those souvenir pens with the dress disappearing from off the showgirl's body. He used to bring prospective clients backstage to the Lido show—corporate reps were always thrilled to get introduced to the dancers, the combo of sex and glamour and exclusivity was just the thing for greasing a deal. The chorus girls were used to it, they'd received attention and kindness from men for so long that they took a certain amount for granted. It was not all that uncommon for showgirls to use their sexual allure, hustling themselves clothes and jewelry and a run of the high life. Only, where they'd turned haughty and jaded, Lorraine appeared genuinely conflicted by the whole routine. She did her part, glad-handing and smiling big as per orders from above; however, it seemed to Lincoln that she was uncomfortable with her sexual power, at odds with the attention it drew. Backstage, he'd watch her shake hands and smile and give nothing of herself, saw that she was holding back, guarded, defensive, sometimes even hostile toward this part of the job. They'd discussed it over the years, carrying out a running debate over whether she'd been there to be a dancer or a consort; what was the harm in acting decently toward people who were in a position to keep your employer's business successful. The issue never had been completely put to bed between them, their debate never concluded. Equally unsettled were Lincoln's attempts at getting beyond her natural recalcitrance, his perpetual mission to satisfy and—why not—please her. Somewhere along the line, this had found its own life. Without either party paying attention, the dynamic had grown into one of the sustaining patterns of their marriage, its own game, replete with its own rules—Lincoln trying harder, making Lorraine more unsatisfied, which in turn made Lincoln more determined.

  Oh, the sex they used to have working their tempers off on each other! How she used to wail! Sitting upright, Lorraine wrapped around him; her body convulsing; Lorraine sobbing, weeping in release, finally giving herself to him, finally his. If there was something inside her that needed to be won or taken, then something inside of him also needed to win her or take her, and once he had, once all barriers were broken through and all games had been played, then there were no limits, no constraints; rather, there was the way he rolled her around in his mouth; the music he sent through her body; the first time she stuck her finger in his ass at just the right moment. . . .

  In the days that had followed what Lincoln came to think of as the Argument, he'd mused wistfully on the complicated dimensions of his wife's sexuality. Cute little skirts kept power walking into his office, relaying and picking up the latest departmental memos, and Lincoln had watched their twitching backsides with conflicted interest. It's not like there's ever a good time for your marriage to go through a sexual crisis, but the onset of summer in Las Vegas certainly wasn't ideal. The Consumer Electronics Show bids were also coming up, and Lincoln was the hotel's point man, responsible for coordinating myriad schedules and agendas into a coherent game plan, something that would uniformly hypnotize companies attending the show, convince them to book the Kubla Khan's hotel rooms, its convention spaces, its banquet halls. Under optimum conditions, it was a grueling burden, with deadlines on top of deadlines. There were teleconferences. Videoconferences.

  In the wee small hours, Lincoln would ease his sedan through a maze of sweetly named capillary roads and into his moderately prestigious neighborhood. Leafy and fruitless trees provided camouflage for the cul-de-sac of spacious ranch-style homes. Usually the house was dark and silent by the time Lincoln got back, with moths congregating around the near streetlights, and a private security guard parked on a side street, curled asleep in the backseat. Pulling up usually woke the neighbor's dog and set it barking, and Lincoln would turn off the fuzzy sounds of a long-distance baseball game that had kept him company for the drive. His ass dragging down to the cement, his shirttail untucked, Lincoln would trudge up the stairs and find the door to the master bedroom shut—Lorraine was a light sleeper, it was true, she was susceptible to tossing and restlessness, and had been known to shoot up out of dreams, awaken to the lightest peck on the cheek. Still, a certain promotions and marketing executive would manage, even after ten hours of mind-numbing work, to ease the bedroom door open without any creaking. He'd slip under the minority of covers that she had not appropriated. Maybe he'd be daring and kiss her shoulder. Lincoln would stretch out in his bed and look up into the darkness of the ceiling and soon enough his mind would begin to unwind and unpack. And underneath the down comforter and the one-thousand-thread-count linens, his feet, at the toe and ankle, they'd kinda, of their own accord, twitch. And if neither the neighbor's barking dog nor the creaking bedroom door nor even the peck on the shoulder had awakened Lorraine, then the twitches were sure to do it; and by the same token, i
f all the noise and activity already had roused Lorraine, well, his vibrating feet sure weren't going to help get her back to sleep. And so, one night toward the end of May, it simply had been easier for Lincoln to retire to the guest bedroom. The more considerate thing. This although the bed in the spare bedroom had been unfamiliar and unforgiving. This despite the fact that Lincoln truly enjoyed sleeping with the mother of his child, despite the fact that everyone and their sister knows separate beds are a barometer for a relationship in trouble. Lincoln headed into that spare bedroom and he inserted himself upon that crappy fold-out, and whatever sense of independence an expanse of mattress might hold when you've been keeping to your side of the bed for twelve years, whatever sense of freedom might come with being able to wrap yourself in as many sheets as you please, these were small consolations indeed.

  The next morning, water boiled.Hormone-free, ranch-raised chicken embryos scrambled over a medium flame.

  Lorraine greeted him with a mouth slightly open, eyes calm and small.

  She started to say . . .

  He interrupted and faded. . . .

  There was regret. Embarrassment. Silences and false starts. Each party tried to put his/her best face on the event, advocated certain truths of whose veracity he/she was unsure. A sacrifice on their part developed as the company line; each telling him/herself that it made the other's life easier, logistically, if Lincoln slept alone in the other room. It was temporary. Just during the rush at work. When he came home so late. Successive nights. Then successive weeks. Temperatures climbed into the nineties, and then triple digits. The turn into that spare bedroom became progressively easier for Lincoln. Without so much as an attempt to address whether either of them actually wanted to be sleeping apart, the distance and regret between them multiplied. And Lincoln understood that Lorraine's remoteness was caused by some sort of insecurity, some type of deep inner unhappiness; he felt it was his job to get through that remoteness, heal that pain. Even when Lorraine started losing her shit, unloading on him for piddling garbage—running out of coffee filters and the like—even then Lincoln weathered her storms, adjusted to her whims. He flowered her with calm, showered her with exotic baked goods; with reservations at restaurants whose kitchens had been re-vamped by celebrity chefs; with a diamond tennis bracelet; with matching earrings. Lincoln busted his ass to please Lorraine and his efforts suffered as all things do under the law of diminishing returns: polite smiles, the platonic squeezing of hands, Lorraine retreating deeper into silence, erecting more barriers, becoming more distant, more withdrawn, gradually turning rigid as calculus. It wasn't funny anymore, it wasn't a game; almost as if she were making a statement, as if it were important for Lorraine to convey that her will to not be pleased was superior to Lincoln's will to make her happy. Incrementally and in stages and all at once, the possibility hit Lincoln that his wife had hardened her heart, that inside Lorraine was a kernel of unhappiness too profound, too ingrained for him to be able to affect. Generally, Lincoln possessed an athlete's confidence, but he started questioning how he acted around his wife, second-guessing his decisions. He felt himself becoming overly sensitive to her slightest act, hypercritical to the most basic of exchanges. Like how she never thanked him for anything, but rather appreciated him doing it. Or when she said, You know what? Actually, your advice worked out real well. Well, maybe he was being a little extreme with that one. Maybe he was hearing different things from what Lorraine was saying in some individual cases. But he sure as shit wasn't imagining how she always sat at a distance from him, went cold at his simplest attempts at physical articulation. Wasn't being overly sensitive to all those excuses she made—“We'll wake the boy,” “I have to be up early,” “I just did my nails.” And then, on two occasions when the stars actually had been aligned and the moon was in its proper orbit and, at the suggestion of sex, lo and behold, Lorraine did not freeze up like a cheap computer, even then, forget about it ending up in her mouth, about the only time she'd moved was to yawn, or wipe her eyes.