Beautiful Children Page 7

  It was no small order. The county had deregulated pawn licenses, and hock shops were popping up in just about every residential neighborhood, tripling inside the city limits alone. This was in addition to the bank and credit card machines that could be found inside any casino. And a burgeoning industry where, in exchange for a cash advance, workers could sign over paychecks they hadn't yet earned. “It changes who comes in,” Kenny's aunt would explain, on their long bus rides home. Venting, bitter with exhaustion, she'd repeat what the Jew's Daughter had told her. “We got less people coming downtown, first of all. And two, less people using pawn shops. It adds up, you know?”

  Kenny could not help but feel the weight of the past as he eased the FBI-mobile out of Main's final bend. Presently, flimsy motels advertised hourly rates and bail bonds shacks touted round-the-clock service. Adult bookstores—their windows black with shoe polish—came and went, followed by liquor places with iron bars over their doors.

  As the thoroughfare opened, flat fields of dormant automobiles fanned out, a new cluster of towers breaking into the horizon. A multimillion-dollar dome now hovered over them, covering Fremont Street in the latest attempt to draw crowds. Like everything else, though, this gimmick wasn't working. Downtown mostly attracted nickel-and-dimers these days: busloads of Asian tourists in from California for weekend binges, bargain hunters who finagled cut-rate packages from floundering Internet travel agencies.

  Kenny took a long sip, the flat soda swishing warmly through his mouth, the cardboard cup saturated, flimsy in his free hand.

  Behind a clothing store that sold dealer slacks to casino workers, a crusty old man had a special agreement with him: if Kenny parked the Reliant there for more than ten minutes, the old man agreed to begin charging. Climbing out of the FBImobile, Kenny walked past the small booth where the guy sat, listening to the radio. The guy ignored him. Kenny returned the favor.

  Dusk was eking across the horizon in pale purple swaths. Music had just started from Fremont Street, signifying the commencement of the animated movie along the dome. For an instant Kenny remembered the deep, throaty voice: “Howdy, partner. Welcome to downtown Las Vegas.” It had been gone for years now, but he resented its absence. He couldn't exactly say why.

  He started down the street. From a block away, painted red letters were visible on the side of a white brick building: 6 % interest. lowest in town.

  Sometimes when the afternoon was dead, they closed early. If the grating was already down in front of the shop, Kenny knew to duck between the beef jerky store and the place where they sold Nazi memorabilia. Inevitably, inside the liquor mart's front entrance, his aunt would be on a small stool, sagging like a sack of potatoes; she'd be feeding nickels into her lucky slot machine, her arm heavy and listless, her eyes bleary, red at the corners. And Kenny was more than fine with this. If he had to pick up the old bag, he'd rather pick her up in the liquor mart.

  A pair of teenagers argued loudly on a far corner—the boy tearing his hand from his girlfriend, screaming: “ ‘Fuck that’ is my answer for everything.” Kenny looked down at the cement. His pace quickened, even as he began steeling himself.

  Was today the day for the streetwalker whose baby needed asthma medicine? Had today marked the return of the fey cowboy who habitually called the police, claiming THIS OLD BITCH had switched the charm bracelet he'd pawned with a PIECE A CRAP? Was it another day for homeless men to intimidate a pair of aging women, refusing to leave until they'd received enough money for a night of binge drinking? Had a different bunch of vagabonds come by, claiming that for a fee they'd protect the store from those bums? Maybe the sheriff put an end to all the shakedowns, even as he checked on whether any rifles were worth “confiscating.” Always another story, the latest hard-luck account, the newest and angriest plea—people without checking accounts or savings accounts or IRAs who had arrived specifically at this place because there was nowhere else to go, and 6 percent less interest a month just might end up the difference between getting back their engagement band and getting a divorce.

  But today, today Kenny was the one with a story to tell. He was the one with news.

  His aunt had just finished stacking the jewelry trays of a showcase, and was gingerly carrying them, limping toward the huge walk-in safe. Figuring it was best to wait for her to return, Kenny nodded toward the Jew's Daughter, who was behind the front counter, trying to enter the day's totals into the computer, receiving in return a series of beeps and bloops that didn't sound promising.

  Hair now faded, eyes sunk deeply into her skull, the Jew's Daughter was visibly tired, worn down by the day, by years of days like this. She muttered something—Kenny did not know if it was in response to him, or at the computer, but he left well enough alone and, as if by habit, headed toward the showcase.

  Televisions, guitars, golf bags, and stereo equipment were scattered along the store's back shelves like the remains of a bad garage sale, but today they did not seem as overwhelming as usual, and as Kenny waited for his aunt to return, he perused the half-empty displays. Normally the jewelry appeared dingy and lusterless to him, the wedding rings seeming to be stories of love abandoned, the rows of unattended charms, talismans of squandered affection. Often Kenny would stare at them and it was as if all of their romantic memories and inscribed tales of personal significance had been stripped, peeled away by desire and weakness and the hard cold eyes of penny weight and cash value. Today, though, he saw something different. Maybe it was simply the way light reflected off the watches and rings. Maybe it was something else. But for some reason Kenny looked at the bands and charms and was aware of the opportunity that waited inside of them all—the new romances, the memories that had not yet happened, the untold people out there, ready to walk in at any moment and give meaning to those rings.

  “So.”

  He projected his voice toward his aunt, who was out of the safe now. “I—me and my friend . . . went to this artist guy today. He's an illustrator for this comic book. No big deal, not really. But I . . . I showed him some of my drawings.”

  From the computer, eyes darted, large and ferocious in their helplessness. Immediately his aunt defused things. “One second, Kenny. Just give us a sec, okay?”

  Clicking sounds picked back up from the keyboard. His aunt hobbled toward him now, her arthritic legs groaning beneath what now were years of extra weight. Stopping briefly at a small, messy table, she reached into her purse, and came up with a handful of pink frosted cookies.

  When she was within arm's length, she whispered. “You got to hear this one. Woman comes in. Her husband borrowed two dollars from her purse. Says he's going to get toilet paper. Disappears. A week later he comes back. Stinks to high heaven. Booze. Perfume. The whole nine. This ain't enough, she discovers he's got a ten-dollar poker chip shoved up his ass.”

  His aunt paused, shoveling two cookies into her mouth. She chewed and began speaking at the same time. “I tell the woman, don't put up with those shenanigans. Guess what she goes?”

  From the front counter there were more beeps. Harder clicking.

  “Who's complaining? He's a winner, isn't he?”

  His aunt started laughing, her guffaws sending cookie bits all over her blouse. A hard bang interrupted—from the counter:

  “This fucking thing!”

  The Jew's Daughter pushed the keyboard away. “I never wanted to do this. I never wanted to be here.”

  Kenny's aunt looked at him as she chewed. “What were you saying about your friend?”

  He stared back, rooted to the ground, something seizing inside of him.

  2.4

  During those first, frantic days after Newell disappeared, Lincoln and Lorraine survived because of each other, the problems and troubles of their marriage giving way to its core strengths, chief of which was tenderness. Born of history, reaching beyond language, these bonds provided some small measure of shelter, and allowed the couple to weather so much niggling and unreality: friends and relations descending u
pon the house like a well-intentioned swarm; officers tramping clumsily through each room, unfailingly leaving the toilet seat up. Neither Lincoln nor Lorraine could bring themselves to eat more than a muffin here or there. Sleep was sporadic, coming when it could not be kept at bay any longer. Yet they had that tenderness, those small private moments: the afternoon they'd successfully gotten Lorraine's parents onto their flight back home, for example. And the morning Lincoln's dad had packed up his camper and hugged his daughter-in-law. After he was gone, they'd been able to sit at the kitchen table and pick over a tray of banana bread that someone had dropped off, just sit there and wait for the next pot of coffee to brew, exhaling as much as possible. Being with each other. Being there for each other.

  Still, she was not ready to have him back in what she privately thought of as her bed. She was sorry for this, but it didn't feel right to her, not just yet. Lincoln's disappointment was as wordless as it was obvious; nonetheless he respected her feelings and bided his time; he slept in the guest bedroom and shaved in the guest bathroom; he dressed and went downstairs each morning, kissed his wife on the cheek, gave her a hug of support, and went over whatever details needed to be discussed. And then Lincoln went off to work, leaving her alone in the silence, alone inside her own head. The relentless August sun was giving way to September days that were as unremarkable as sunlight, days that were as beautiful as any that this planet had seen. Their beauty tortured Lorraine. And no matter how much she promised herself she would stop, she found herself watching videotapes of Newell.

  She couldn't help it. She had to see her son.

  He is not yet two: they are naked and soapy in a tub filled with bubbles. On her lap, he giggles. She holds him by his armpits. Newell is still all rolls and softness, his face bright and wet. He has her flecked green eyes and they sparkle with unabated joy. He has his father's snub nose and happy, fat cheeks. Lorraine watches a younger, almost perfect version of herself lift her son and raise him up and down and call ELEVATOR. She hears her own voice make gurgling noises, ridiculous sounds. Her son's head is one large grin. Now he notices something. Looking directly into the video recorder, the focus of the device upon him, the boy seems intrigued, mildly perplexed. He paws for the camera. His face breaks into a wide smile and he claps, giggles, and starts splashing, furiously, satisfyingly, water all over Mommy, who squeals, not unhappily, water toward Daddy, who can be heard laughing from behind the viewfinder, Well, all right, little shooter. Baths ARE exciting, aren't they?

  Twenty-five minutes of this. Lorraine could watch until the end of time.

  She could get just as lost inside the eight minutes of Newell working to stand up on his own, walking unsteadily, teetering with each ridiculously adorable step, almost losing his balance and going faster, reaching and then hugging the base of a tree in their front yard. An unbearably cute little boy, this pudgy person in miniature: hair the orange of carrots curls in loopy directions; his face is plump as pie, soft and white as powder. He is bundled up in a puffy blue jacket whose obscene price Lorraine, each time she watches, recalls. She remembers the joy of shopping for each piece of that little outfit.

  With time she and Lincoln had become sloppy; one taped memory would move beyond the crux of the moment they'd intended to capture; then the static would be jarring, the image would change, red numbers in the bottom right-hand corner documenting different times and dates. (Lincoln had spent an afternoon wrapped in the unfolded pages of the manual, learning the camera's functions, and he never failed to make sure the date was on there, as if to prove he had mastered the machine.)

  September 19; 3:54 P.M.; eight years old; an adult T-shirt that fits him like a dress, hanging down over his elbows and to the middle of his legs. He is wearing shorts with all sorts of pockets. Black pads swell his elbows and knees, and his head is protected by a shining fiberglass helmet designed in the style of a comic book hero. He stands out in front of the driveway, where Lincoln's beloved old truck is parked, during a phase when her husband refused to get a new one. Newell shouts, MOM, and starts rolling on his skateboard, gathering speed for a trick. ARE YOU LOOKING?

  March 4; 7:52; the camera peers through an open sliver into his bedroom, a clandestine segment, Lorraine joining Lincoln as silent voyeurs, watching the child—he is stretched out on the carpet, on his stomach, his school books ignored next to him in a pile while he maneuvers different action figures through a complicated sequence of events. Lorraine watched a presentation Newell made for third-grade science class that involved sugar and the prolonged effects of light. She watched her son push his back straight against the pantry wall, discover the new pencil mark on the pantry showed him to be exactly the same height as the last time they'd checked, and have a minor tantrum. Lorraine watched a homemade rap video of him mugging and jumping around and ecstatically shouting rhymes. She watched her extended family, all seated around the antique table in the off room that was saved for special events. Everyone was dressed in their Thanksgiving best and anxious to eat, trying to survive to the end of Grandma's rambling thank-you to the Lord. Newell's eyes open. He scans the table. Noticing that his father is filming, the boy sticks his tongue out of his mouth. Lorraine watched this video and she watched one more and after that one she went to the kitchen cabinet and, just this last time, took the last cassette out of its white sleeve.

  Inevitably, she would find herself in Newell's bedroom, on any pretext. Just walking in there was almost more than she could take, for the space was lifeless and barren in a way that a child's room never should be; it was a shrine, a mausoleum, a kingdom awaiting the return of its rightful monarch: the small single bed frame running lengthwise beneath a drawn picture window; the posters Scotch-taped on pale yellow walls; the marks and scuffs from where Newell had kicked and thrown objects. Lorraine would stretch out on her son's mattress and try to summon the remnants of his energy. She would open files on his hard drive. A half-finished school science project sat gathering dust in the room's far corner. A laundry bin was packed with state-of-the-art toys of interstellar destruction, none of which the boy had touched in months. Lorraine went through his dresser. She refolded undersize versions of designer jockey shorts, each of which cost as much as sweatshop workers made in a month. She coordinated and scoured through the contents of his closet—the housekeeper couldn't be trusted; who knew what she might steal or screw up. Lorraine searched his bookshelf and his school primers. She left the rows of comics untouched in their plastic wrappers, but every so often picked up one of the painted die-cast metal figurines that swarmed the middle shelf (positioned in a titanic last stand: eight or so druids, sorcerers, and knights defended themselves against a miasma of Hot Wheels miniatures, stretchable wrestling icons, and hand-painted revolutionary war soldiers). Lorraine would examine the honest, if clumsy, attempt her son had made at painting the druid's beard, the colored blop that substituted for a coat of arms on a warrior's shield.

  It was not uncommon for her to find a stray sock and go to pieces. What was uncommon, though, was the afternoon she noticed a number of dimes and nickels loosely pooled on his dresser. She started to tremble, her body unable to handle the shock. Then she realized they were Lincoln's coins, and she was not the only one making pilgrimages.

  Pulling out the drawer of Newell's desk, she found, amid the scattered suits of a loose and incomplete deck of playing cards, a manila envelope, large enough to contain a ring. Lorraine tried to come up with reasons for it to be there, places it might have come from. She jabbed a finger inside, and turned it over, and then saw the pencil sketch: a giant skull with a complicated set of braces across its bony teeth. Speeding down those braces was a miniature locomotive; rows of tiny arms waving in terror from its windows. The train's smokestack trail was shaped like billowy skulls, and leaning out of the front of the engine was this tiny wolf—he wore a conductor's hat, his eyes popping in cartoon terror.

  “It has to be a clue,” she insisted.

  “Yes, ma'am,” the case officer sai
d.

  “Don't you think? So many tiny hands, just waving like that?”

  She followed up on her call, and kept calling—every afternoon, as many as three times on one particular day when her mind refused to let go of this supposed breakthrough, and she ranted into the speaker end of the phone, annotating each nuanced aspect of the drawing for the case officer, speculating on the possible significance of eyes popping in cartoon terror, the many interpretations of a train chugging toward the end of the world. She digressed into memories of the boy at five, as if this whole nightmare would be wrapped up once the case officer understood that Newell had a reddish birthmark on his right calf. The case officer's end of the phone always was filled with background clutter and police business, yet no matter how busy he seemed or how many times he'd heard a piece of information, he always seemed to listen, and thanked Lorraine for the call, saying he hoped this would help, and if there was any news, she would be the first to know. The case officer was a father himself, girls, six and eight. He was decent and understanding and Lorraine stopped calling.