The Last Kid Left

by Rosecrans Baldwin

  Laid up in bed for those months, he was constantly wide awake, always in some kind of discomfort. And was angry, bitter, and gradually tired of streaming crap on his laptop. His eyes hurt, so he switched to books. They also made more sense in a way, at least to him. Because the guys in Kerouac books, they struck Nick as like him. Sort of introverted. Guys with reserve. But look at the stuff they did anyway.

  He read every Kerouac Suzanne could find. Then one of the librarians in town sent her home with The Monkey Wrench Gang, and he loved that, then Brave New World, and some Chuck Palahniuk and The Hunger Games—none of those really clicked. But then came Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And he met the end-all, be-all of his new existence.

  Who the hell was this guy?

  Hunter Thompson intercepted his life from a trajectory of total bullshit and ignorance, basically. One night, with Fear and Loathing, he actually felt his brain enlarge. It used a muscle that had never been activated before. Like he’d seen through something that previously had been opaque. He lay back stunned by the realization. He stared at the blue shaded lamp, the dusty window blinds. It was like his mind had gotten smarter by a full leap.

  And that was just the beginning. He also got into some Buddhist stuff his mom had on the shelf, thanks to Thompson, but the real draw was that Hunter was himself a Kerouac character, but in real life. Like Nick himself could become one day, became the idea. Because he might not be much, he was nine-tenths sure about that, but at least he wasn’t completely stupid.

  The books confirmed it for him, that he liked books. Or, he liked books like these books, serious books that didn’t take themselves too seriously. How come they never gave you this kind of shit in school? Which was exactly how he began to think about himself: an outsider, but with some kind of brain. And he decided he liked his mind, doing things with his mind. He’d never felt that way before. Maybe even took a small amount of pleasure in feeling smarter than all the jerks around town. Claymore surely had more idiots per acre than most places.

  But the point, Hunter Thompson seemed to say, in all the stuff that Nick read—and Kerouac was after pretty much the same thing, and Nick totally agreed with this idea, so he was ready when it hit him, but still stunned, scrunched up in bed, when he saw the lines written out, things he felt like he already knew at some level, but had never seen put into simple sentences—was that in life there is no point. It’s all bullshit. Everything. A person lives, dies, it doesn’t matter. The president of the United States doesn’t matter. To help, to hurt, to get screwed over, to screw someone over, do good, do bad, yell, tell people how to live their lives—none of it mattered. It just wasn’t real, it was shit people did to kill time, to conform, to avoid feeling afraid, to make themselves more comfortable with impending death.

  But so many people freaked out along the way and made themselves victims of something. Or lied about their lives. So F that shit. He hated liars. His dad used to lie about stuff all the time. It was Shithead Survival School lesson number one. Hunter Thompson kind of said this made sense, that to expect otherwise is silly. Because the whole thing is a lie and made liars of folks. But if you could face up to the truth in that, then you’d tell the truth all the time. Most people simply can’t. And therefore society is a joke. It’s the Matrix. The Matrix wasn’t Keanu Reeves and D batteries, it’s young people who thought they should go to college, join the country club, mow the lawn. It’s the shit people post online. Everyone who stared at their phones while they walked around.

  Obviously most religions were scams. The steeple clock was basically the only thing his dad’s church was good for.

  Nick didn’t know yet about a lot, but he could smell bullshit. And Hunter Thompson seemed to say, at least between the lines, that in such a world, the best a guy or girl can hope for is to try to live honestly. To be the one who doesn’t cave. Be a freak. Have fun. Laugh, read books, and get laid. Do dumb shit but learn from it, and get less dumb. And get stoned once in a while, perhaps, and maybe get rich, though money only seemed to make things worse.

  But then there was love. Not just sex. Love. Kerouac and Thompson both ceded a unique significance to love that they didn’t assign to anything else. As though nothing else mattered as much.

  * * *

  In early April, with his plans focused on the summer, Nick went to one of Emily’s track meets. Snow had melted. It dropped off the roof. He took a seat inside the gray gymnasium. He was adjusting his knee when he noticed the sheriff nearby, watching from the stands. With a hand pinning a dark cowboy hat to his knee.

  Emily ran the sixteen hundred. It said CLAYMORE in crimson across her racing top. Nick ducked down and watched her legs blur. She placed third and beamed, and he wanted to stand up and clap, but remembered her father. He snuck a peek. The sheriff had disappeared. He looked everywhere and found him by the scorers’ table, greeting someone. At the same time, the sheriff watched Emily as she came out of the team huddle, pulled on her sweatshirt. But she was looking for Nick, and she found him. At which moment the sheriff followed her line of sight.

  Nick texted her from the car. Half an hour later, Emily jogged out, hair wet from a shower, face flushed. She jumped into the car and kissed him sloppily, grinned, then pulled away.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, it’s something.”

  He let out a deep breath. “I was thinking you should come over to dinner tonight.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “Sure.”

  “But won’t your mom be there?”

  “That’s the point.”

  “Have you even told her about us?”

  “You know I have,” he said.

  “Wow.” She took a deep breath. “So what do I call her? Mrs. Toussaint?”

  She looked at him, excited eyes, and hugged him swiftly above the shifter. So maybe it wasn’t a completely crazy idea.

  At dusk, they arrived with two pizzas. He unlocked and opened the old front door slowly. Now that they were at the house, he started to freak, scratch compulsively at his scars. His precise worry, based on the one time he’d brought a girlfriend home before, was that his mother would find Emily stupid, or boring, or unappealing in some way that would provoke an outburst. And/or that she’d be drunk.

  “Mom? I brought pizza.”

  “Good god, I’m starving,” his mother announced, from somewhere in the back.

  He reminded himself: summer, California, escape.

  “Emily’s here,” he said offhandedly.

  Suzanne appeared in the kitchen door. Hair wound up, several strands falling out.

  “Emily,” she said slowly. “Remind me of your last name.”

  “Portis.”

  “That’s right.” She stepped back into the kitchen and called out a second later, “Nicky, if you’re having a beer, get Emily something.”

  “She’s pretty,” she said loudly a moment later.

  Emily nudged him through the door.

  Suzanne appeared again. She looked Emily up and down.

  “Do you know who Courtney Love is?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Kim Gordon?”

  “No?”

  “I like your dress.”

  “I made it last week.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed. Nicky, set the table.”

  “Mrs. Toussaint,” Emily said, “can I do anything to help?”

  Suzanne smiled, took her hand, and led her back into the kitchen with a slight wobble. Of course she’d been drinking, he thought morosely. And who the hell was Kim Gordon? He had set down the pizza boxes and started to set out plates when his mom strutted in and told him in a heavy whisper to put them away. Then he heard her escort Emily to the butler’s pantry behind the kitchen, the wooden shelves behind dusty old glass panes.

  They returned with a water-stained leather chest.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nicky, how often do we have company?”

 
A breeze lifted the curtain in the window. His mom was practically giddy, taking out the old china and silver, laying it out in rows. She reminded him of herself at an earlier age, a memory he couldn’t place. When she was happy. She angled herself toward Emily, away from Nick, and got into the story, which he’d heard three thousand times—the night his grandmother tossed the case overboard after his grandfather insisted on taking her out in a rowboat for dinner, and brought along the silver for propriety’s sake, only he also forgot an anchor, so they’d attached a line—

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  “I like it,” Emily said. “I think it’s funny.”

  His mother smirked and grabbed her cigarettes from the sill.

  “Nicky’s embarrassed. Look, he’s blushing.”

  They sat down to dinner. In ten minutes he’d eaten an entire pizza by himself. He couldn’t say he was surprised that his mother barely touched her food. Emily scarfed down three slices.

  “Mom, try eating.”

  “Emily, how old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” she said. “Seventeen in September.”

  “We’ll have to pick up some sparklers.”

  “What?”

  “For her birthday. Nicky, don’t be a jerk.”

  He cringed to demonstrate that he was wounded. In fact, he’d merely suffered a conventional pleasure, watching the two of them bond, but didn’t want to show it, or have something turn up to reshape his feelings. Time passed quickly and he felt good. It felt good. When he met Emily, he felt like he’d met the first person who really understood him. Maybe Suzanne would find some way to see that, to not be jealous about that.

  The front-door knocker clanged. His mother barely lifted her eyes. Just like her to forget she’d booked a lesson. He got up to answer.

  The sheriff stood off the deck, hat in hand.

  “Is my daughter here?”

  Eyes cold, inquiring.

  “I’m sorry?” Nick said nervously.

  “If you could please send my daughter out. Her name is Emily.”

  His mother and Emily appeared behind him.

  “Why, Sheriff,” Suzanne said. “What’s the trouble?” Her tone was as matter-of-fact as a turn signal.

  “Mrs. Toussaint.”

  “Mr. Portis.”

  “If I may—”

  “We’re having pizza. Do you want some?”

  “Emily, get in the car.”

  His mom crossed her arms, stepping forward slightly, and obstructed the door.

  “You know, I was so pleased that Emily stopped by. She is going to make a great student.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Suzanne gestured to a sign in the window, yellowed from years in the sunlight. Suzanne Toussaint, Piano Instruction.

  “She stopped by to ask about lessons,” she said. “My son Nicky and I were just eating. My schedule is pretty booked right now, but with Emily’s interest, well, you don’t see a lot of kids who really want to study.”

  Emily descended the porch stairs.

  Nick’s whole body clenched.

  The sheriff said to her, “This is true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You signed up for piano lessons.”

  “So what? I’ll pay for it myself.”

  Suzanne laughed. “One minute they hate tomatoes, the next day it’s all they eat. You know what I mean.” She took Nick’s arm. “Emily, I’ll see you Sunday at three. Good night, Sheriff.”

  * * *

  Your mom is amazing.

  She’s ok r u in trouble

  I’m fine. I miss you. I love you forever and ever.

  I love you too

  Say it, forever and ever.

  4EAE

  What?

  4=for e=ever a=and

  Oh well I didn’t know that.

  Lol sorry

  4EAE

  4EAE

  * * *

  In jail, Nick’s anticipation of the scheduled phone call gets him so keyed up that he does 120 push-ups in bursts of eight and ten. He pauses between sets, standing atop a steep couloir of dread, and beats his legs with his fists. He reminds himself to stay hopeful. He resumes his push-ups.

  And even the guard remembers the proper time of the call, and brings Nick to the pay phone with its flexible metal cable, the coiled garden snake.

  Emily picks up halfway through the second ring.

  “Nick?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh god,” she says.

  “We only have a little time.”

  “I can’t believe it. I miss you so much!”

  “I miss you, too. I’ve got a lot I need to say.” He pauses to catch his breath, to say exactly what he practiced. His heart jumps in his chest. “I’ve thought it all through, so please just hear me out.”

  Loud buzz and ratchet. The door in the next room opens from the stairs.

  “Hold on a second.”

  “What is it?”

  He sees through the window the sheriff’s hat.

  “Nick?”

  “Shit. Shit!”

  “What is it?”

  “Your dad’s here.”

  “What? What is he doing?”

  The door between the two rooms is half glass, chicken-wired. He watches the sheriff quickly turn the handle. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

  “Listen—”

  “Nick, don’t—”

  “I have to go.”

  “Wait!”

  “I love you,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

  The door opens. The sheriff takes a seat at the table. He tenderly removes his hat. He says quietly, “It’s none of my business who that was, Mr. Toussaint.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can look it up later, if I want. The number you called.”

  “It was my mom.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Screw you.”

  “What I mean is,” the sheriff says, “it’s nice to see a child take a parent into consideration. She must be at her wit’s end. Mr. Toussaint, let’s face facts.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  His hands are bone-dry, but his mind is a fireball, his emotions are all hate.

  “Everybody knows how this is going to play out. It’s about the truth. That’s all. You do a little time and get out on good behavior. So, naturally, we’re all counting on you to reassure your mother that she’s got nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I’m always available to pass along a message,” he adds. “You do know that.”

  * * *

  Hey there friends, check out the video

  I just posted. I was at Denny’s the other

  night and in walks who else but the

  GF to our Claymore Kid®. Dear heck!

  Now, as someone interested in citizen

  media, I do think you may enjoy seeing

  what she’s really all about, at least in

  this humble recording. Basically I asked

  her about her meal and taped the whole

  thing. Caveat: There is a little editing

  toward the end because GF gets kind of

  salty, but feel free to share. It seems

  pretty clear the girl’s hiding something,

  or am I nuts? Anyone care to guess

  regarding what? (I am nuts, of course,

  but anyway…)

  * * *

  Martin leans on his elbows on the table, getting to the end of his report for Brenner. Unsaid is how imagination failed him, experience failed him. Out loud, final point, there’s the daughter, Moira, the juice maker, the depressive. With essentially no motive besides animosity, and no priors whatsoever.

  “But also no real alibi, I thought you said,” says Brenner. “Except the girlfriend.”

  “Right.”

  “Who works at New Balance. We’ll call her Sneakers.”

  “Except Sneakers. And the TV queue.”

  “For what it�
�s worth, we do know Sneakers has been in trouble before.”

  Five years ago, a possession charge, a small bag of cocaine, party size. Then again, not larceny, not assault, not murder.

  Brenner cups her hands around her mug.

  “So let’s say the daughter finds out somehow that Sneakers used to bang her dad.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “And that’s confirmed?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “Tell me why not.”

  “From the reaction on Sneakers’ part.”

  He elaborates, when she gives him a queer glance. Basically that a telephone call the previous afternoon with Sneakers had not gone well, but was telling. In which he’d laid out what he suspected, hints of it. Enough that she got what he was going for and played instant defense, angrily. Suggesting, to Martin’s ear, that the guy at the golf club was right about things, or close enough. Further cemented when she became resistant and sufficiently contentious, in her self-protection, after he started asking about her relationship with Dr. Ashburn, that she threatened to call a lawyer. Which probably meant very little on the face of things. And then meant a little more when she hung up on him.

  He’d driven to the store. She was helping a customer choose a pair of running tights. Petite, professional, big smile. She stared away for a moment, past the window display, and caught him watching. Recognition. Anger. Fear.

  Though, in fact, the fear was in her eyes first. The look of someone with something to hide.

  Brenner said impatiently, “So you’re saying you didn’t actually ask the daughter, Moira Ashburn, if she knew.”

  “About what?” Martin asked.

  “About what? About her girlfriend, aka Sneakers, aka slag, who fucked Daddy dearest prior to commencement of fucking her.”

  “Why would I do that? You’d honestly want me to?”

  Brenner gripped her head with two hands and stared at the table. “New Jersey, let me play this back to you. The daughter of our murder victims doesn’t know that Sneakers and her father used to have a thing, we believe. Yet we haven’t confirmed that. When, in fact, maybe she does know, so how about that, could that lead to something? How are you not seeing this? How about maybe she found it all out recently. Couple weeks ago, I don’t know, something tipped her off. She confronts Sneakers. ‘You fucked my dad, then came for my ass?’ And maybe Sneakers says she’d do anything to stay together. A plan hatches. Revenge. After all those years of homo-bashing.”