Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne

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СКАЧАТЬ is—how much he looks like the Marlboro man in those vintage cigarette ads. At forty, he’s like one of those male models with chiseled lines and just enough stubble you see wearing suits in magazines. The ones who look like they’ll tear their suits off once they’re alone, round up some cattle and then ride off into the sunset. That’s how handsome Beau is: A rugged, beautiful, lonely cowboy.

      At present though, he’s anything but rugged. As I approach, I can see that his eyes are wet from unshed tears and his muscular frame tanned from years of hard labor under hot suns is crouched in on itself, as if he’s afraid of me, and what’s to come. With Beau like this, I don’t have to be scared anymore of him: He’s almost like a baby at this point, and he’s more liable to cry than beat anyone up.

      I finish my slice of Nutella toast and walk over to the couch, looking silently down at him.

      He leans back, and the expression on his face is a mixture of desperation and sadness.

      “Why you gotta be with him?” he asks me plaintively. And I know what he’s saying. Ain’t I enough for you, girl?

      “I like Tommy,” I reply. “He’s my best friend.”

      I sit down next to my stepdad.

      “Don’t you like me?” Beau asks as I sink into the fabric. “Ain’t I a good friend to ya?”

      He’s looking straight at me, and I can’t get over how good-looking he is. Sometimes when I look at Beau, I can’t believe someone that handsome is talking to me.

      “Of course I like you, Beau,” I say, reaching out to give him a hug. He pulls me in tight and rests his head on my chest.

      And then he’s crying.

      “Cuz you know how much I love you, Lily,” he says incoherently, his words half swallowed in sobs. “I’m so sorry, Lil. So sorry, baby.”

      “Shhh…” I’m stroking his thick hair, rocking him gently.

      We stay in that position as he cries more, and my blouse is soaked all the way through.

      “Damn, I got your nice shirt all ruined now,” he says, sniffing. “Cain’t do nuthin’ right, huh? Beau the fuck up. Big ol’ royal fuck up.”

      “Shhh….” I say again. The wet warmth of his tears and the scratchy feel of his stubble isn’t an unpleasant combination.

      “Where’s your mama?” he asks suddenly, pulling a little away and wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

      “Dunno. Haven’t seen her since I got back today. Shouldn’t you know better than me?”

      “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s no note of reprobation in his voice, and he just sounds lonely.

      I shrug.

      “It’s just us two, huh?” he asks softly, a little sadly.

      “Yeah,” I reply, and he leans back, shifting into a different position on the couch and spreading his legs a little.

      “Come here, honey,” he murmurs.

      He pulls me down on the couch with him. I wriggle up against him, and Beau draws me into his arms, pushing his face into my hair and inhaling deeply. I hold him tight as he shudders against my thin body. Beau’s long, callused fingers reach up and gently stroke my cheeks, and then he pulls away and cups my cheeks. We’re just looking at each other, because there’s nothing else worth looking at.

      3

      I thought I was in love with Beau was when I was thirteen. That must sound disgusting to some folks, but it doesn’t make it go away. Beau taught me how to ride a bike, he played with me, and he took care of me. Mama was hardly ever around, or when she was, she’d be passed out stone cold from whatever she’d smoked, or the booze. I’d throw a blanket on her while she slept it off, and before Beau came back home, I would cook dinner with whatever we had in the house. He always said ‘thank you’ so nice and polite even when the food was burnt and gross, and after dinner, he would try to help me with my homework as best he could.

      It was a ploy, really. I didn’t need help with homework, and certainly not from Beau with his eighth grade education, but I liked how I felt when he leaned over me to squint at my books, and how he smelled of clean sweat and honest work and…man.

      So many nights, I would lie awake and listen to them having sex, my mother’s loud moans and screams reverberating in our trailer. At first, I tried to cover my ears, but I couldn’t block out the sounds even when I buried my head under a pillow. It was hard looking them in the eye every day knowing what they were doing, and how much they enjoyed it. I couldn’t help wanting to feel the same way.

      One day, Mama was out doing an all-night gig at one of the clubs, and I made Beau dinner as usual. That night it was pork chops—an unusual treat. We sat across from each other at the small dining table and I tried to memorize his face; the etched traces of lines on his forehead that made him look so grave and soulful, his jowls moving up and down as he chewed disconsolately on the meat. We didn’t say much while eating, and after dinner, he came into my bedroom. I had my homework spread out on the bed and was lying on my stomach on the covers.

      “Ready to get started, Lil?” he got on the bed next to me. I nodded and sat up, pulling my history book in close.

      “What we gotta do this time, honey?” he asked.

      He was so close, and I could smell the whisky he always had after dinner on his breath. He’d had a few more than his usual that night, and his voice was a little unsteady as he looked at me.

      “History?” I suggested.

      “Right, history,” he said. He reached over me to grab a book and saw that I was staring at him.

      “Hmmm?” he said, freezing. “Something wrong, hon?”

      “Nothing,” I replied, swallowing hard.

      His eyes were darker than I had ever seen, and there was a look in there I hadn’t seen before my boobs grew out.

      “When’d you get all pretty?” he asked suddenly, tracing my jaw with a long finger. He was so close, looking at me almost the same way he looked at my mother.

      I blushed and looked away, but his finger didn’t go away.

      “You’re gonna be prettier than your mama,” he said solemnly to me.

      “No one’s prettier than mama,” I protested. It was true. My mother might’ve been a whore, a drug addict and possibly the worst mother in world, but she was also undoubtedly beautiful.

      “Nah, you’re wrong, I swear to God,” he insisted. He pushed back a curl of my hair, and I stared wordlessly at him, not sure what was going to happen and praying whatever it was, that it would happen immediately, and that my mother wouldn’t hate me more than she already did.

      “You know I love you so much, honey,” he said, his voice thick. “You’ll always be my girl.”

      An uncomfortable, nagging, yet incredible heat built up in my stomach from the look СКАЧАТЬ