Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

Except the FBImobile's driver-side window would not roll down.

And the driver's door would not open.

Kenny didn't know how he would be able to answer the clown head, if it ever asked him hello, may I take your order please, which didn't seem to be happening anytime soon, anyhow. His hand tapped against the steering wheel. His temples pulsed and pounded. Here he was, a promising artist — hadn't he just been told he was promising? And he was trapped in place, stuck in this stupid box of trash. Promise wasn't enough. Promise wasn't a way out.

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?”

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?