Bonnie Nadzam: Lamb

He sat up, opened the phone, and dialed the girl.

“Linnie. It’s me. Yeah yeah, I know. I know.” He was whispering. “I’m sorry, baby. What? Listen. I can’t talk long. Cathy’s downstairs.” His eyes watered and the darkening hotel room smeared. “Oh, stop it. That’s not true. Linnie. I swear, okay? God’s honest truth.” He spoke very quietly. A man and woman passed outside his hotel room door. “Listen,” he said, “I’m lying here naked on the bed.” He gathered himself in his hand and asked her if she’d talk to him. Five or six minutes. And he promised her they’d have another weekend soon. Yes, Cathy would be going out of town, he’d get them a room somewhere, and he turned his head sideways to rest the phone against his shoulder and he took himself in both hands.

After he hung up he turned on the TV, then off, and sat up with his towel in his lap. It was dark outside the windows now and he watched his naked reflection in the glass as he dressed. He went alone into the mauve and beige bar downstairs, for a drink. He had three. He couldn’t get the kid out of his head. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her. He hadn’t exactly been thinking clearly. But he hadn’t meant to hurt her. He was not that kind of man.

In the middle of the workday at the small firm where he’d worked with Wilson for the last nineteen years, Lamb took his father’s ball cap from the empty chair by his office door and left. He drove through the city, through the warm and thickening haze, returning to the same dim parking lot where he had seen the girl twenty-four hours before. He set himself at the bus stop and was not surprised when he saw her coming down the gummy sidewalk minutes later, in long sleeves and pants despite the heat. Somehow—how?—he’d known she would come. He always knew everything. Nothing in the world ever surprised him anymore, ever. Imagine that. Feeling that.

“Did you come back for cigarettes?” he asked. “Because I’ve quit since yesterday. I’m on a new plan.”

No response. Arms crossed, mouth a thin puckered line.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“I left.”

“Was that a good idea?”

“None of them even called me,” she said. “To see if you’d killed me or what.” Her words made the air tight around them.

Lamb frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am.”

She sat down on the bench, half an arm’s length away from him. “And after first period? Sid said hey, I heard about what you did with that guy yesterday. She said everybody was talking about it.” The girl looked over at him. “She meant you.”

“How do you know she meant me? Did she describe me?”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“No,” he said. “I mean it. Did she get a really good look at me? Because in case you didn’t notice”—he turned his head this way, then that, so the girl could see his profile on each side—“I’m really old.”

She almost smiled.

“Listen,” he said. He scanned her up and down. “I’m glad to see you’ve covered yourself up.”

She stared at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Tommie.”

“Tommie?”

“You want to make fun of my name too?”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Sure it is.”

She shrugged and hugged herself.

“Listen, Tommie. I’m sorry if your friends are being nasty. It feels like I’m to blame, doesn’t it?”

Nothing.

“But look. Here we both are, right?”

Nod.

“Why did you come back here?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought about you yesterday,” he said. “I was worried I’d hurt you.”

She stared at the curb.

“Can I tell you something?”

“What.”

“I’ve never seen freckles like yours before. I apologize for staring.”

“They’re fugly.” She glanced up at him.

“Well. I don’t know what that means but I don’t like the sound of it. And I myself happen to think they’re striking. Stunning. And you know what else?”

“What.”

“I’m an expert on freckles.”

She smiled. “Sounds like the kind of dumb thing my mom would say.”

“Look at me. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar, okay?”

“Okay.”

“There’s precious little truth in this world, and I am one of its most enthusiastic spokespeople. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He closed his eyes and tipped back his head. “I think,” he said, “there’s still some life running beneath these streets.” The girl said nothing. He looked at her. “Your friends are just scared, you know. Scared and stupid.”

She shrugged. “Not really my friends anymore.”

“Were they good friends?”

“I guess.”

“You’ve known them since you were kids? Little kids? You’ve lived here your whole life in this neighborhood?”

The girl nodded.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He turned to her. “Look at that face,” he said. “Your face needs a line of broken-toothed mountains behind it. A girl like you needs a swimming hole. A river. Trees and clear skies. Ever go fishing? Or camping or hunting?”

“With who?”

“With anybody.”

“No.”

“Your mom buys you meat from the grocery store?”

“Yeah.”

“On little white Styrofoam trays?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say yeah, say yes.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never wrestled an animal to the ground and cut out his heart and eaten him in the dark, by a fire?”

The girl half smiled.

“Did you ever go camping?”

“Like sleeping outside?”

“Like sleeping outside.”

“No.”

“What about Dad?”

“Good question.”

“Uncles?”

“Nope.”

“I’m thinking of taking a sort of camping trip.”

“Oh.”

“Did you tell your mother about yesterday?”

“No way.”

“You think she’d freak out.”

“I don’t know what she’d do.”

“You didn’t say anything because you were embarrassed. Is that it?”

The girl shrugged. A bus sped up to the curb, brakes hissing and screeching. She leaned back from it. The tall paneled doors folded open. No one stepped on or off. The doors shut and the bus drove away. “What’s your name anyway?”

He looked at her. “Gary.”

“I’m glad it’s not Tom.”

“That would be too weird.”

“We couldn’t be friends.”

He checked his watch. “Listen. I need to make an appearance at work again. You want some lunch and I’ll take you home?”

“Yesterday you said I shouldn’t go up to strangers.”

“But you just did.”

“Oh.”

“You’re a little stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yes.”

“You know something, you’re practically the only living person I know.”

She scrunched up her nose. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on,” he said “I won’t drag you this time. Your own free will. Let me get you lunch. It’s my way of apologizing if I scared you.”

“You didn’t scare me.”

“Yes I did.”

“It was pretty stupid.”

“You or me?”

“Both.”

“Smart girl.”

“You’re not going to take me back to school?”

“Not if you don’t want to go.”

“Just lunch and home?”

“Lunch and home. We’ll do a drive-through. Your choice.”

“Really?”

“Come on.” The girl stood. “We’re sort of getting to know each other, aren’t we?”

At the drive-through he felt worse. It was the cheapness of the food, the unwholesomeness of it. He wondered how long the meat in her sandwich had been dead, or if someone behind the counter had spit in it, or not washed their hands before assembling it, and where the chicken had been raised and killed and by whom and for what recompense. The kid couldn’t know what she was missing, the depths to which she was being duped by a world she had no hand in making. She needed something else to steer by. Something other than this. A person who—as it turned out—had both the inclination and resources to do so. It wasn’t anything noble, or grand. He just wanted to do the little things for her, promise her a decent a meal someday soon. “With a glass of milk,” he said. “And grilled cheese and a fresh sliced pear,” he said. “How about that?”