Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

7.4

The void was no longer foreign, no longer a fresh sensation, but constant, second nature to the point of becoming unnoticed in their lives, the axis for all their comings and goings. Lincoln still returned home each night — it was a matter of personal pride — but he often stumbled in around or past midnight, with one or two drinks under his belt. For her part, Lorraine was gone with the dawn, out at yoga, or at the local coffee nook, poring over her notebooks and papers, throwing herself into her project of raising money for the Child Search. Their daily lives were almost wholly separate now; and even when they found themselves under the same roof, the house had more than enough space and freedom for each. And though the air between them was stale, without the slightest charge or energy, the signs of effort and consideration were still there, numerous, if you wanted to see them. Lincoln made sure to pick up towels and keep things neat in his bathroom. He clipped articles he thought would interest Lorraine, leaving them on the kitchen table, or e-mailing her the links. Lorraine returned the considerations, taking care of his dry cleaning, making sure the fridge was stocked with his favorite comfort foods.

They ran into each other, obviously, they had to — on the stairs, or when the television was on and each happened to be nearby. Thankfully, their exchanges featured little drama or strain. Lorraine might ask, with the utmost sympathy, about the extra pounds that the cut of Lincoln's suit could not hide. Lincoln might walk behind her, put his hands on her shoulders, and try to massage away some of her tension. They'd talk about small things — payment schedules for the pool cleaners, or someone wanted to pass on a greeting. Now and then Lincoln and Lorraine even managed the courage to look into each other's eyes. Sustaining their gazes, they'd transcend their fragile truce, moving beyond the polite balance of all the responsibilities expected of each of them, beyond the toil necessary to fulfill those responsibilities and the exhaustion they felt through their bones. Holding the marriage together took so much time and energy. Keeping things from not getting any worse took every bit of emotional strength either one of them had, and more than that. But Lincoln and Lorraine would look into each other's eyes and all of the pain and the wear and the fear would be there, all the stuff there were no words for, the stuff they just felt, which made them keep looking, afraid to blink, even as they knew someone had to, something had to happen.

7.5

The ice cream truck stopped rocking with an abruptness that suggested its plug had been pulled from a socket. The back doors creaked open and a figure stumbled into the opening — a shadow of broad shoulders against the dark night air; a chest bare and gleaming with sweat. One arm, thick and raised, showed a musculature as pronounced as the cords on dock rope. Facial studs glistened then disappeared.

Ponyboy rubbed his eyes and ran his hand back over his forehead, up through thorns of matted hair. His opposite hand remained on a flimsy set of cutoff sweatpants, making sure they didn't fall below his waist. From a middle distance, instruments were being played without syncopation. A stench reached him: like being downwind from the worst fart in the world. From the same direction came the uneven sound of footsteps, someone favoring a bad leg.

“Pony?” the newcomer's voice showed surprise. “Yo man, I don't want to disturb nothing. I didn't know you was in there.”

Ponyboy calmly closed the door behind him and hopped down from the rim of the ice cream truck, landing with a soft thud.

“Ain't got time for your shit right now, El.”

Lestat's hands rose as if to show he was not armed. “Bro, I'm just looking for that cell? From earlier tonight?”

Ponyboy scanned the immediate distance — over the little vampire's right shoulder, toward the direction of the show. “Phone's not in there, El.”

“Right. Just thought, maybe I saw it in there on the way over, was all.”

Ponyboy's head tilted to the side, he started tying the drawstring of his sweats. “What, you gonna cry to your folks some more.”

“Yo, Pony, I said I don't want any trouble.”

“I ain't got time for you right now, El. Go check with your old lady if you need something to do. Last I saw, she had it.”

“Daphney?”

“Borrowed it when we got here.”

“Daphney has the phone?”

“Word as bond, man. I guess she wasn't feeling so good. She needed to make a call. Go spec her out.”

Lestat tried to measure if anything Ponyboy was saying was straight. His experience was that the guy was so full of shit that it usually came straight out of his throat. At the same time, Ponyboy was vibrating with menace, bearing down on Lestat, not warning him, but trying to convince him through sheer force of will. Whatever was happening in that truck, Lestat understood it was heavy enough that Ponyboy would do anything to keep him out of there. Even maybe tell the truth about Daphney.

Lestat nodded and kept his eyes trained on Ponyboy and back-pedaled, taking two careful steps. When he started back down into the desert, a hand grabbed his neck. “Good luck with that,” Ponyboy said, shoving him. “Make sure you let me know how everything turns out.”

Ponyboy kept his eyes on Lestat all the way to the outskirts of the quad. And when that little bastard was basically out of the picture, and Ponyboy was satisfied that all was copacetic, then it was time for him to start hauling ass: sinking ankle deep into the sand and kicking up explosions of dirt, beginning a sprint down the length of parked cars. The pungency of sex still lingered in Ponyboy's nostrils and tasted acidic on his tongue, and although Lestat's appearance had been a little too close for comfort, and their conversation had sapped some lead from Pony-boy's pencil, he was still hard enough, his dick slapping between the fabric of his cutoffs and his thigh, the physical activity of running providing his body with a release that was satisfying, but not what he needed.

Sand burned beneath his feet like he fucking cared how it felt, and Ponyboy veered near an abandoned old couch, where he bulled through a bunch of nimrods, spilling their paper cups. Without saying thing fucking one, he continued, scoping shit out Terminator-style, eight directions at once. A grim clarity had Ponyboy now. Each second the ice cream truck remained unattended was a second his new plan could fall apart. Countdown was at T minus hurry the fuck up. All kinds of reasons for him to give up the fucking ghost on this one, just head back to the ice cream truck, cover his tracks as best he could, and get the hell out of Dodge.

All sorts of warning signs. Any rational idiot would stop here.

Motherfuckers yap about the moment of truth, but what happens when there's all kinds of truths in the moment? Door number one, door number two, door number three — and every door has its own merits, right? But at the same time, the merits of each door affect the bearings of the next.

At the tryout, Ponyboy and Jabba had been in this little alcove by the bathroom, trying to get everything back under control: Jabba was talking to Cheri, explaining the way the porn business works. And at first glance Cheri looked like she was following every word; but really, Pony-boy could tell she was somewhere else. In fact, ever so slowly, Cheri was, like, inching down the wall, her skin making this sick sound against the wallpaper. Finally she sank onto her ass and sat in a messy heap on the industrial carpet. Her legs were spread and her hands were on the floor between her knees and she was looking out at nothing, her eyes all glassy and distant. And then, like she was talking to herself, she whispered something, one word. Again and again Cheri said it, each time more softly. No.