All Good Children Page 8

  Outside, she sees that they have traveled far enough away from the road that the cars speeding down the highway will not necessarily be able to see what has become of them, especially as the storm clouds roll in and the sky darkens for night. It is probably for the best that no one stops to help; they would only get in the way, complicate things with their own biases and concerns, none of which, Omalis is sure, would include the tracking down and reacquisition of two of her charges.

  She wants to ask Jeremy how long she has been out, to determine how much time the two have had to run up or down the road, possibly hitching a ride, possibly finding themselves lost in the fields that stretch forever, the woods that sprout up here and there. But she knows it could not have been long, judging by the light, and Jeremy is in no condition to tell her anything.

  Taking his hand and leading him a safe distance away from the still-running vehicle, Omalis sits Jeremy down in the grass and hands him his book. He takes it tentatively, perhaps unsure of what to do with it now, but nonetheless tucks it to his stomach.

  “Jeremy.” Omalis takes his chin, wet with tears and bile, into both her hands and makes him look at her. His eyes are bloodshot and mucus has built up in the corners at his nose. “Listen to me, honey. I’m going to go find your brother and sister. I need you to stay here. Are you listening to me? Stay here, Jeremy. I’ll be right back. Please, stay here.”

  Jeremy nods his head only slightly. When she releases him she watches him long enough to see that he only rocks back and forth, his legs crossed in front of him, his stringy blond hair hanging in front of his face. She thinks she can hear him muttering to himself, but can only make out one word: “Why?” It isn’t worth trying to answer.

  Omalis takes off north at a fast clip, in the direction they’d been driving. There is a suburban neighborhood there, heralded by the looming sound barrier, which means people, which means salvation, at least for someone on the run. It is maybe two miles ahead, and Omalis wonders how fast Jason and Jordan can sprint. She remembers from Jordan’s file that she is on the track team but she can’t remember the times the girl has clocked at her meets; and Jason is strong but heavy, he might have the speed but not the stamina. Even if the two were able to make it to the wall they would have to find a way around it, which might take another mile or two of running, and then they would have to find a house with a sympathetic soul inside. This is more difficult to find than one might expect, Omalis knows. Still, she would prefer to catch them before they make it into the suburb; less of a game of hide-and-seek that way, and she is on a schedule, after all.

  Sure enough, about nine minutes and a mile and a half later Omalis sees the lumbering shadowed figure of Jason, hunched over but still moving. She calls out his name and he stops, turning around to face her as she comes upon him, his face red and breath ragged.

  “I tried to stop her.…I was trying to catch her.”

  After catching her own breath, Omalis asks, “Where did she go?”

  He points to the suburb, shakes his head. “She’s too fast.”

  “Go back to the van and wait with Jeremy,” Omalis says. “Wait with him. Running can’t help you, Jason. Jeremy needs you.”

  Jason continues shaking his head and obediently turns south. “I know. I know.”

  Omalis does not overtake Jordan at the sound barrier, as she hoped she would. The sun has completely disappeared behind a cloud, the stars not yet bright enough to lead her way. She stops at the wall and looks around; the wall continues north along the highway line and curves east for maybe a mile before it slopes down a hill and Omalis can’t see it anymore. After a few seconds more of straining against the dim light, Omalis thinks she sees movement along the wall a few hundred yards to the east, and she launches back into her run.

  When she finds Jordan, the girl is taking running jumps into the wall, apparently trying to vault herself high enough to reach its top, a good fifteen feet above her head. Omalis stops and just watches her, certain Jordan has not heard her approach over her own grunts that accompany her desperate lunges. Omalis can’t make out all of the features of the girl’s face, but she is certain she is crying, certain she is shaking, certain her heart is beating wildly, her mind racing. Where does she think she can go from here? What does she think she can do to change what has already been decided?

  Omalis steps closer, saying the girl’s name.

  Jordan is startled and whirls around. She regards Omalis only briefly before spinning around and taking off along the wall again. Omalis shouts for her to stop but it’s no use, she must give chase. It takes her significantly less than a minute to catch her and she regrets that she must pull her to the ground, kneel harshly upon her legs so she’ll stop flailing, pin her arms to her sides to protect herself from being hit.

  “Calm down, Jordan,” she says, trying to keep her own voice soft, soothing, leading, but it is hard to do over the girl’s uncontrolled pleas.

  “Get off me! Let me go! Please, please! Help! Get off me, I want to go home, I just want to go home!”

  Omalis decides the only sensible thing she can do in this situation is let the girl scream, let her wear herself out, exhaust her rage, and then Omalis can help her up and take her back to the van. She does not want to think about what she will have to do then. For now she is only grateful that she caught Jordan and her brother, and that, barring an hour-long hysterical tantrum now, she is still on schedule.

  Jordan stops screaming any intelligible words and only moans and cries, her eyes shut tight against the world, or only against Omalis, she can’t be sure. Omalis feels the girl’s legs and arms grow steadily limper but she still struggles. Omalis relaxes a bit, a good-faith gesture of which the girl does not take advantage. She turns her head to the side as she cries and Omalis can see small cuts on her ear and on her cheek near her eye, probably from when the window imploded.

  The sky darkens, overwhelmed by night, and then lightens as the clouds drift swiftly by and stars shine through. Jordan’s breaths come in gulps and Omalis can feel her heart pulsing frantically in her wrists. She wants to be able to look away, to walk away, to leave this girl alone with her pain and her grief, let her figure it out in private without some stranger prying in on it, without the enemy lording it over her.

  Eventually, Jordan speaks, an echo of her brother’s earlier mutterings. “Why?”

  “Jordan,” Omalis starts, but she does not know what to say that won’t potentially set her off again. The truth is, there are no words of comfort now, not here, not at this point.

  “Why did you choose this?” Jordan stares up into Omalis’s face, into her eyes.

  Omalis looks away, at the ground beside her head.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, trying not to sigh. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  Omalis releases Jordan’s arms and moves her own knees to the ground, so that she sits astride Jordan’s legs.

  Jordan props herself up onto her elbows. “Please just tell me.”

  Omalis allows her eyes to wander back to the girl’s, which shine so bright and wet in the star’s light, and something tugs at her chest, at her own dry eyes. She licks her lips and tries to keep her voice steady. “Because—”

  “All right!”

  A sharp beam of light punctuates the shout, a gruff greeting from an unseen man. Omalis raises her hand above her eyes to ward off the light and stands up. The man points the beam at the ground beside Jordan, exposing her left side and Omalis’s legs in its castoff light. He remains in shadow, but he calls, “I’m an officer of the law, what’s going on here?”

  Omalis bends down and grabs Jordan lightly by the elbow, lifting her to her feet. “What’s your name, Officer?”

  He is close enough now that she can see his face, dull and mustachioed, and his blue and black khaki uniform, the thumb of his right hand crooked into his utility belt, the other hand gripping the flashlight.

  “Hold on here, Miss,” he says. “I’ll ask the questions, right. I
found a busted up auto couple miles back, and a couple’a scared kids wouldn’t open their mouths to save their lives, wouldn’t even get into my cruiser. You know anything about that, Miss?”

  As he talks, the officer shines his light over Omalis’s body and face. Omalis knows he can see the cuts on Jordan’s face, the dirt and grass stains on her shirt and pants. She says, “Officer, I’ll be happy to show you my credentials.”

  She steps forward and he moves his hand from his belt to the holster of his gun so fast he could’ve sprained his thumb. She reaches into the back pocket of her slacks slowly, so he’ll see she is not trying to make any sudden moves, and hands him her ID. His flashlight scorches it and his eyes widen as he reads. He hands the ID back to her with a trembling hand and a catch in his voice.

  “Right, Miss Omalis. Terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I’m Officer Bradley. Can I offer you any assistance tonight?”

  She can tell it is hard for him to say this last, but it is part of his job and, unfortunately, it is now part of hers to drag him into this. “I’ll need your cruiser, Officer Bradley.”

  “Sure thing. I can drive you wherever you need to go.”

  “No.” She clarifies, “I will take your vehicle and you’ll stay here. You can radio for someone to pick you up. Understood?”

  He nods his head, then hands her his flashlight and keys without her having to ask. “It’s parked just up by the highway there.”

  Omalis thanks him and leads Jordan by the elbow through the tall grass, lighting their way with the pale light. When they reach the cruiser, Omalis holds open the passenger door for Jordan but she stops.

  “You weren’t lying, were you?” Jordan asks, small and sad, not looking at anything. “Nothing can stop this.”

  Again, Omalis finds herself wanting to say something comforting but the words fail her. She presses her hand lightly against the small of Jordan’s back, damp from her sweat and the moist ground, and says the thing she always says. “I’m sorry.”

  Jordan looks at her. “I believe you,” she says, and climbs into the cruiser.

  THAT NIGHT, THE CLUB IS emptier than usual, only a handful of regulars up front, drunkenly proffering their lowest bills, and a three-pack of obvious first timers hiding out in a shadowed corner booth, the whites of their eyes glittering even in the dim red light. Omalis sits at the bar in the back, not really wanting to sit or to stand, or to be here, waiting, the sweat from her untouched virgin Coke moistening her fingertips. She knows where she wants to be, and she knows this is the only way to get there. To get to her.

  An older gentleman sits down two seats over from Omalis at the otherwise empty bar. He taps the rim of his Stetson with his index finger and nods at Omalis. His neatly trimmed brown mustache twitches when he winks. “Don’t see many ladies in this place,” he says, then produces a wheezing chuckle. “I mean, you know, aside from the fine entertainment.”

  Even though she doesn’t look at him or respond he continues to talk to her, lighting up a fat cigar that smells like hot breath and stale sweat. She looks at him as he smokes, watching his yellowed teeth click together as he talks about this business trip that’s kept him on the road for over a week, driving cross-country with only a battered old CB radio for company. That, and places like this.

  “And now,” he says, dropping his head so that his eyes peer out from beneath the Stetson’s rim. “Maybe I got you, too.”

  Omalis downs her drink in one quick swallow, ice cubes kissing her lips before she drops the glass back onto the bar. The bartender, a middle-aged bodybuilder whose drinks all end up tasting the same if he has to mix more than two ingredients but whose neck is thicker than Omalis’s waist, appears in front of Omalis, taking her empty glass.

  “Get you anything else, Heaven?” he asks her.

  “Get her another,” says the cowboy before she can open her mouth. “It’s on me.”

  “Well, now,” says a voice from over Omalis’s shoulder, a voice that makes her toes curl and all the hairs on her arms stand up. She catches the scent of her before she turns to look, a cinnamon and honey medley that captures the rest of her, causing her exposed skin to breakout in anticipatory gooseflesh. Pavlov’s bell, she thinks, and if it weren’t so unbecoming, she’d allow herself to salivate. Instead, she turns.

  “I do believe I’m the only one allowed to buy my girl a drink in this bar,” Marla finishes, directly beside Omalis now. One long thin arm reaches out and rests a soft hand on her shoulder, raising Omalis’s body temperature and making her wish there was not this layer of fabric between her shoulder and Marla’s fingers. Marla is wearing a barely-there crimson bikini and six-inch platform heels, her uniform. Some nights she wears a tiny plaid half-skirt and a black bikini top. She wants to put together another outfit but hasn’t decided on anything yet, and Omalis refuses to help. Out of indifference or ambivalence, she’s unsure.

  The faux-diamond stud in Marla’s bellybutton twinkles under the red lights of the club. Omalis stares at it, at the soft yet disciplined flesh surrounding it, wanting to run her hand along the curve that flows from Marla’s abdomen down to her hips. But the Stetson man is still talking.

  “My, my,” he says, whistling through his teeth, the air causing his mustache to bristle. “But ain’t you something, a real peach.” His eyes slither up and down her body. “A real fine Georgia black peach.”

  “Mike,” Marla calls to the bartender, “get this guy out of here.”

  Before Mike can move, the cowboy’s cigar is down and his hands are in the air. He leans away from Marla and Omalis, his eyes wide and innocent, but also plotting. “Wait a minute now here,” he says, “hang on. I know what you fine ladies have going on here, I see it. Oh yes. I have money, if that’s what you’re worried about, cold hard cash, a lot more than anyone else’d wave at you for a measly little dance.”

  He reaches into the back pocket of his Levi’s and pulls out his wallet, fat with the bills he counts out onto the counter, slamming the fifty and hundred dollar bills with his palm. He looks back up, directing his arched brow to both of them, the corner of his mustache quivering. “What d’ya say?”

  Any other girl in the club might blink, might pause and take a moment to review the offer. Any other girl might think about the other mouths she has to feed, the rent that needs to be paid, the lines to be snorted, the bus ticket that could be upgraded to a seat on the next Red Eye. Any other girl might say, “Just a second, let me talk this over with my partner.” But Marla—Marla, the name burning just beneath Omalis’s skin—Marla, without pausing for so much as a breath, says, “I’m sorry, cowboy, but no amount of paper could ever give me what I need. That’s her job.”

  And she takes Omalis by the hand and leads her around the bar before the Stetson man can retort. They weave their way around the empty tables and chairs, to the side of the stage where the music is louder, some instrumental bumps and bops that are meant to be felt, not heard, through the backstage door that leads to the dressing room. All manner of skimpy clothing lies about, lacy bras and sequined panties, miniskirts and silver stilettos. Heaped in front of a row of vanity mirrors are mountains of makeup, glitter, and hairspray. Marla leads Omalis past all this to an uncluttered corner of the room, where a hard straight-backed chair awaits her. Marla sits her down and leans over and kisses her.

  “What the fuck is a Georgia black peach?” Marla asks through a quick giggle, pulling back only an inch or two, enough for Omalis to still feel her breath on her lips. She buries her fingers in Marla’s dark hair, gently looping the small curls around her knuckles, and pulls her mouth back to hers without answering.

  Again, Marla breaks away before Omalis is ready to let her go. “Stop,” Omalis pouts. “I missed you.”

  “You always miss me,” Marla says, teasing, and she sits side-saddle on Omalis’s lap. Omalis runs her fingertips along Marla’s naked thigh, an electric thrill passing between their flesh, shocking the minute hairs along Marla’s leg, making them stand.<
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  “Did everything go okay today?” Marla asks.

  Omalis drops her head back, exhausted. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  Marla emits a half-groan half-laugh that weaves a pleasant burn through Omalis’s skin. “You never want to talk about it,” Marla says.

  And then Marla doesn’t say anything for several long, straining seconds, as Omalis’s lips and tongue find her neck and that space just below her right ear that always gets her into trouble.

  But, of course, Marla is all business. She pushes Omalis gently away. Her hands ignite the sensitive skin across Omalis’s chest where the seatbelt had grabbed her. “Tell me about the drop.”

  “Please,” Omalis says, “I want you.”

  “And I know you,” Marla says. Her eyes are deep and amber, and they make Omalis blush, especially when she fights hard not to. “Something happened. Whenever you’re like this it means something went wrong. Tell me, babe.”

  “It’s fine,” Omalis says. “It all worked out. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

  Marla stands up, looking down at Omalis with those deep eyes. Omalis looks back up and into them, and she wants them not to appear so tender; she wants them to grow hard, hard and sharp and judging, but they never do.

  “Heaven,” Marla says, and Omalis sits straighter at the sound of her name, the tone of voice behind it. When Marla begins to count, “One…two…three…” for a brief, curious moment, Omalis thinks about her mother, sweeping an olive-stemmed toothpick along the salted rim of her glass, leaning over Omalis in her childhood bed, her bitter odorous breath engulfing Omalis as she bends down for a kiss, whispering, as a sort of goodnight, “I may not believe in your namesake, child, but at least I can believe in you.” When Marla reaches seven, Omalis hears the numbers ticked off with a sing-song lilt, like the nursery rhyme, and then she hears nothing at all.