Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

CHERI

Right. I got that part.

NUN

Then what, child, is confusing you?

CHERI

Okay, if he died because we have desires, if he died for our wants and actions, isn't it kind of our duty to make sure his death is, you know, worth it?

Other schoolgirls gasp and ooh. The nun cracks her pointer on the chalkboard.

CHERI (CONT'D)

I mean, the way I see it, if Christ died for our sins, doesn't that make sin our duty? Don't we have an obligation to sin?

3.8

Automatic doors opened with a swoosh, and Kenny was outside, stepping into a dense warmth, with sugary yellow electricity radiating down on him from the underside of the huge cement canopy. Kenny slowed out of his sprint, checked in both directions. To be safe, he moved in the opposite direction of the large and muscular greeter — it wasn't hard, the guy was occupied with keeping foot traffic moving while simultaneously issuing salutations.

Attempting to blend in with the rest of the crowd, Kenny hugged the curb, beneath a cove of palm trees, blending in with the men in pricey outfits and women in sheer evening gowns. Slender hoses had been discreetly wrapped around the trees, their nozzles producing cascading mists, and Kenny momentarily noticed how the mists acted upon the crowd, in the manner of a soft eraser on a series of hard lines, softening their smallest defined motions (a hand to the small of a lover's back turning erotic; a playbill fanning an overheated face becoming mysterious).

The driveway was the length and width of a football field, and seemed alive, its own complex organism, a teeming digestive tract. One long line of cars was pulling up, another waiting to leave, with valets running to and fro, sweating through their color-coordinated shirts and shorts. Just to be safe, Kenny started away from them all, away from any possible suspicions, acting nonchalant, his breath coming easier now, even as he looked back and over his shoulder….

Newell hadn't been that far behind him, he was sure, and was proven correct, for here was the boy now, popping from around the side of a man who wore his golf visor backward and upside down. Newell was huffing and puffing; when he saw Kenny, his face went exaggerated.

“Dude. We were fine until you spazzed.”

Heat burned Kenny's cheeks. He didn't know if Newell was being serious, ironic, or sarcastic. “Me? You were the one who took off.”

“Damn right. If I'da been like you and just sat there, we'd be caught right now.” Newell snorted a laugh through his nose. He elbowed Kenny once more, and nodded toward the upside-down visor guy, who was passing them now, his finger knuckle deep inside his schnozz. “Pick a winner, buddy.”

“Newell.”

“He don't care. He's digging for gold.”

“Give it a break.”

“What, you telling me that wouldn't be a nice little sketch. Oh — that would be classic. Maybe we can get him to pose. You have your pencil on you, right?”

Newell's next elbow landed deep in the soft part of Kenny's side and pain exploded in a bolt down through his legs and into his knees. He winced and found himself cursing; and more than that, he found himself stunned, betrayed, needing distance. Separating from the boy, he took off. Moving past the taxi stand and its thick bunch of yellow cars, Newell's squawks from behind— Hey, come on, just joking, geez —propelled him, and Kenny stared at the taxis with a feverish intensity, willfully concentrating on the fact that most of their hoods were popped, that the cabbies kept the hoods loose not only while the cars idled, but also when they pulled away from the curb.

It took a second for Kenny to figure out the air was supposed to calm the overheated motors, and for another few seconds he thought about trying the cab hood trick on his Plymouth, but decided that his hood would probably smack up into the windshield. With Kenny's luck, he'd be on the freeway and cause one of those giant pileups that back up traffic and get covered by the eye-in-the-sky news copters. It occurred to him he had never actually put his car in valet parking. He'd never been in a helicopter. Not even a plane.

“Wait up,” Newell said. “Hey, what's wrong with you?”

Out from underneath the canopy of steel and cement and lights, Kenny headed onto a walkway the width of a city street, and moved alongside a row of shallow pools. Life-size marble elephants were spurting tight streams of water through their trunks and into the air. Chiseled stone acrobats were balanced precariously over wishing pools. Kenny merged amid the procession of bodies, tourists moseying at different speeds: a bacon-tan lady with dark roots jabbering agreeably with a brunette who legally should not have been allowed out in public in a sports bra and biking shorts; a retiree with a panama hat checking the time on his chunky gold watch; anorexic women toting around important-lookings hopping bags, dull large men in paraphernalia that reflected a passion for auto racing; blossoming mall flirts in lovely yellow sundresses and snazzy black numbers. Different voices were talking on cellular phones, narrating each step to loved ones back home, reporting what they saw in the casino they'd just emerged from, which casino they were heading to next.

Kenny felt himself disappearing in their mass, being carried along by their collective pace. He watched a gang of Asian teenagers, all of them trapped inside shiny basketball jerseys, moving along the sidewalk as a collective group, slow and slouched, their hands in the pockets of their oversize shorts. Two of them were busy, pinching at their friends’ ears, then pretending to have done nothing.

Kenny's sneaker landed on someone's toe. He was shoved in return, told Watch it, faggot.

From not that far behind, a voice was familiar, reaching, almost angry:

“Heads up…. Outta my way…. I SAID GANGWAY. ”

3.9

Lorraine's hostess refilled her glass, and told her to finish her margarita. “Drinking alone makes me self-conscious.”

Gail Deevers laughed. Her eyes darted. She was a generation or so older than Lorraine, of that age where her body, though well tanned and fit, had gone noticeably soft. Her perfect dye job was pulled back in a tight bun; her pin of red, white, and blue gleamed from its position over the heart of her polo shirt.

They sat on the patio in her backyard. In the distance behind them, motorized carts puttered across long, manicured greens.

Gail took a sip and started telling Lorraine about the last letter from Jimmy.

As if embarrassed by her thoughts, she leaned in and admitted that sometimes she wondered if it really was a war for oil. She conceded that she'd never wanted Jimmy to go into the reserves. He didn't need the money for college. He did it to satisfy family honor and legacy, whatever that was worth. The fourth generation of Deevers men to serve in the armed forces.

At this, Gail's laugh might have been rooted in pride, but it just as easily could have been contempt.

The mechanical squid brought ripples and bubbles from the pool's depths.

Gail was so pleased Lorraine had agreed to come over. It was good to talk to someone who understood.

This time it was Lorraine who smiled tightly.

They were casual acquaintances, people who were polite to each other whenever their loose web of common associates tightened, joining together for an afternoon of tennis. Lorraine's impression of Gail had always been as something of a battleship, and she remained unsure why she'd agreed to come here for lunch. But by the time their salads were ready, she understood that Gail's intentions were noble. Woman to woman, mother to mother, she sensed that Gail was truly open to what Lorraine was going through, eager to listen to anything she might have to say.