Bonnie Nadzam: Lamb

Perhaps it was in this moment that Lamb made up his mind, when he came right up against the emptiness. And who’s to blame him if he then turned completely—shoulders, face, hands, pelvis—to the girl? She pulled him back into himself and into a concrete world that, frankly, David Lamb wasn’t quite ready to surrender. He wasn’t ready to surrender the story he thought he was in. Not in the way this parking lot and this pasty thin-haired man had just somehow rendered not only possible but necessary.

Lamb wanted the greasy cars and the soft white bed at the hotel; he wanted to stuff ice cream and roast turkey down the girl’s tiny gullet until she puked laughing; he wanted the pain of seeing Cathy on the arm of some other man, some gentle-hearted egghead in a fleece jacket and with a beautiful red dog because she deserved those things; he wanted cold fingers and hot coffee and fried eggs and he wanted Linnie’s wine and he wanted Linnie again, her body pressed into his and the envy of men’s faces when he entered a room with her; he wanted snow disappearing into the cold pewter spill of Lake Michigan in December and he wanted headaches and sleepless nights and waking up knowing he had a heart because it was spinning in a mechanical whir behind his ribs. And he wanted all of these things twice: he wanted them, and he wanted knowing he was getting them.

He rolled up the window against the security guard and took a left-hand turn out of the lot, sped down the street and onto 90 and into the city. He called Linnie from outside her narrow brick town house, and in less than a minute she was standing inside the gold-lit doorway in a sweater and her wonderful blue jeans, her dark hair all around her.

“I can’t stay long.”

“I know.”

“I’m heading out of town for a bit, Lin.”

“To the cabin?”

“Tomorrow. For a few weeks.”

“Am I invited?” She took his coat. “Come sit. Wine?”

“Please, Lin. You’re invited everywhere. Can we fly you out? Over the weekend? Will you come?”

“Of course.” She set two glasses on her tiny kitchen table.

“I knew you would,” he said, and leaned back, and looked up at her.

“Of course you did.”

Ninety minutes later at the Residence Inn, Lamb unmade his bed, packed his belongings, ordered room service, and called Draper, who he knew was loaded down for the month, and invited him to dinner.

“Can’t do it, Davy. Next week?”

“Good. Next week. Call me when you’re freed up?”

And he called Draper’s wife. Left her a message. Invited her out to the cabin too. He ate half the salad and half the halibut and set the tray on the floor by the door. Then he loaded up the truck and left the hotel.

At a deserted Kmart halfway back to the white hotel he packed up for the road. Warm clothes for the girl, bottled water, bubblegum, potato chips, soda, paper cups, apple juice, crackers, Slim Jims, Oreos, a bag of apples. He put a quarter in a junk machine and turned the metal key and pocketed a small plastic ring in a big plastic bubble.

When he stood at last before the door to their room, he took a single long breath, ran his hand through his hair, and checked his fly. He knocked before walking in.

There she was, the white down blanket pulled over her head like a cape. Like she was a little old lady, a thousand years old, propped up on a mound of six or seven giant pillows. She gave him a silly grin. “This bed is awesome.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just sitting here.”

“No TV?” He carried the plastic bag of clothes to the foot of her bed.

“Just imagining things.”

“What things?”

“You know. How you imagine you’re different than in real life. Like you have longer hair. Or you’re smarter. Something like that.”

“And you’re still here,” he said.

“Ta-da.”

“Are you the best girl in the world, or what?”

She scrunched up her face.

“I bought you a sweater,” he said, “and some blue jeans.”

“You did?”

“I’m going to make you a deal. Every time the temperature drops ten degrees, I’ll buy you a new sweater.”

“Will it be cold?”

“At night and early morning.” He opened the bag and took her things out. “I’m sorry they’re from Kmart. We’ll get you nice things when we have more time.”

“Are we in a rush?”

“We just want to make good time, right?”

She nodded and took the sweater from him and put it against her cheek. “It’s soft.”

“It’s a good color for you.”

“My mom says it’s not.”

“Well, moms don’t know everything.” He took out the jeans and removed all the plastic tags and set it all up for her at the desk. “For the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“You hungry?”

“Nope.”

“You ready to hit the sack?”

“Sure.”

“You want a bedtime story?”

“I’m not six.”

“I know how old you are. Who doesn’t like a bedtime story?”

“I’m too old.”

“Well, I’m going to help you get over that. You’re lucky you found me. I’m going to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Sounds boring.”

“That’s what everybody thinks. Now come on. Did you wash your face?”

“Yes.”

“With soap?”

They both looked at the bathroom counter where the hotel soap was stacked in a pile of three shiny paper squares. The girl groaned and stood up. “What are you, my dad or something?”

“That’s a good way to think of it. That’s exactly how I want you to think about it.”

They would have been on the east-west tollway, bright white farm-field daylight, when Lamb sped past the last county sign for Rock Island, Illinois. The girl sat beside him in her new yellow sweater, watching the road as if the reels of flat highway needling fast and straight ahead were the opening credits of some film she was either bound to watch or in which she had just willingly agreed to perform.

They’d left the hotel in the dark, didn’t stop for breakfast until a rest stop past Aurora. And because she was his lookout, his sidekick in the passenger seat, he bought her a syrupy hot chocolate from a machine and made a little wide-eyed show of adding extra packets of sugar. The lookout, he said, stirring the cocoa, has to keep her wits about her, has to be alert, must be the eyes and ears.

“Unless,” he said, starting the truck, “you want to turn around and go back home now?”

“Nope.”

“You’ll tell me when?”

“Okay, but I won’t want to.”

“I’m serious. You tell me when.”

“I will.”

Down the road they tapped their cups together at the hour when school would have started, and she wanted to toast again when she figured Sid and Jenny were being questioned for the first time.

“Were they so very awful?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“What was the worst thing they did.”

She turned and stared out the window. “What they said.”

“What did they say?”

“The worst?”

“The worst.”

“They pretended like no one else was in the room and had this really loud talk while we waited for the teacher. Sid said it was no surprise that I hooked up with you. And Jenny said I must be used to it since my stepdad makes little visits to my room every night. And, you know, everybody was looking at me.”

“Did you leave the room?”

“He’s not even my stepdad. They’re not even married.”

“You stayed. Did you cry?”

“No.”

He glanced at her. “Is it true about Jessie?”

“No. He takes me swimming in the morning and they make this big thing out of it.”

“I see.”

“I guess it doesn’t sound as bad as it really was.”