Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

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 upon 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?