The Last Kid Left

by Rosecrans Baldwin

And no matter what happened those pictures you took were basically pro level

  GOD GIRL I admire you and love you so much YASSSSSSS I want to put you on the front of my car like a Mercedes emblem. So fuck them fuck them ALL and I’m so sorry I was part of Them for a while. I can’t take back what happened but believe me I would especially after what that shit prick dickface has done

  What I’ve done is not how a good friend should treat you. Or any friend. You are a warrior goddess, you deserve to be happy and I want to be part of your happy even though I don’t deserve to be but I’m on your side no matter what. Really I love you so much and think you’re incredibly brave so does Meg and if you’ll have me back I will love you no judgy and will do anything to help you get through all this crap

  Woman, I love you, and I am really really sorry and I really want to be your best friend again because you are my one true love

  * * *

  Less than an hour’s drive north of Boston, a New Hampshire fishing village that was settled in 1671 has lately found itself, for all intents and purposes, rocked 21st-century-style by the same forces of bloodshed, blackmail, and incest that once spellbound the audiences of Euripides.

  And in this tragedy, the following facts are not up for dispute. That there are two persons dead, Dr. Nathan Ashburn, 69, and his wife, Violet Ashburn, 64, hailing from Claymore, NH, the village in question. The Ashburns, both native to town, were married for thirty-nine years. They loved New Hampshire. They loved golf. They leave behind a daughter who grieves. “Get out of my face,” she told a reporter recently, from behind her front door.

  Another fact: The deaths of the Ashburns were not accidents. Another: The Ashburn home, surrounded by old trees in a modern cul-de-sac, is now a macabre crime scene. And from the scene extends a ghost trail south of rash, Anthropocene madness, which leads us to more facts, like the one that a wild, freewheeling escape from the state was made this past June by a young man driving a 1997 black Ford Explorer down I-95, fueled by Jose Cuervo; and during that drive the Ashburns’ bodies were transported via said Explorer across multiple state lines, over the course of 48-plus hours on cheap agave fumes; and what happens in said time, two-plus days, is something that no one can detail to any satisfaction, regarding why a young man would get drunk and gallivant around the byways of New England with two corpses in his trunk.

  Further fact: The young man in question crashed his SUV into a 12-foot-tall metal boot worn by a 107-foot cowgirl statue, a neon landmark on the New Jersey shore in the ocean-facing town of Eagle Mount—which is kind of tangential, admittedly, but also sufficiently Jersey-weird enough to include here.

  But as to why the Ashburns’ bodies washed up in New Jersey, six hours south of Claymore, no one is entirely sure, and this is no less messed-up for additionally being true …

  And after twelve thousand more words of Justin Johnson’s uncontrolled rococo prose, in which he repeatedly refers to Nick and Emily as “the Claymore Kids,” where even his egotism blushes purple, where any jargon box to do with “going viral” is checked in sentences that are illogically arranged yet nonetheless stocked with moralisms, psychologisms, and unveiled Scarlet Letter references, all the while exuding what a girlfriend of Leela’s back at The Village Voice once characterized in a post as “the cologne-ad shitposting of the modern bro reporter”—and that’s not to mention the article’s inclusion of several photos of Emily Portis, as good as naked, that span the browser window, fuzzed and black-barred just enough to be safe for work but still plenty relatable and unambiguous—from there Leela switches over to Facebook, and voilà, it’s Justin, available, green-lit to chat.

  hey i just read it

  wow fast yeah went up 30 mins ago, so what’d you think?

  I think you nailed every buzzword first of all

  lmao

  who decided to include the photos????

  lol why

  wait WHAT

  why do you think

  they weren’t public

  uh-huh

  not to the world they weren’t

  DROP isn’t the world despite what you hear

  don’t bullshit you know exactly what i mean

  hold on brb

  this will ruin her life

  sorry, phoner, gotta go in a sec. so what now?

  JUSTIN

  yo! chill. melodramatic much? it’s not like we slut-shamed her or whatever.

  omg fUCK off

  1. news, 2. business, 3. grow up

  not like this

  it’s not like we shot the photos, you get that right? did you not pick up on any of the themes? i.e. tech-age irony of a girl who upskirts herself? of a victim of child abuse sending sexts?… thus illo is somewhat necessary, yeah?

  no it’s not. and give me a break please. “themes”

  “Not exactly sext so much as anti-sext, or super-sext. Considered, cooled, even ironically inventive, ergo postmodern—an incredibly specific comment on these reductive times. Perhaps the girl’s photos point a way forward, can gaslight the American public’s sex shame to change the culture. So, if not the new phone sex, perhaps such photos will be a balm to revenge porn, even become the new lover’s note.”

  u really just quoted yourself

  it’s not like you were all that subtle

  well maybe b/c the story’s not about child pornography it’s about the fact that sexting’s not going away and no one really wants it to, it’s about the fact that it’s **the children who are the new pornographers** now tell me that’s not a killer hook

  what about legal

  what about legal?

  all vetted, no identifiers, first amendment, news value, et al

  but you don’t own them

  read the fine print

  but still

  look pls chill im out of nicorette

  just saying

  WHAT exactly

  you want me to spell it out??

  y pls

  well inasmuch as you refrain from saying this openly in the piece but anyone who knows what the word “infer” means will read between the lines the pretty obvious fact that you think the girl took those photos herself and shared them at the same time that her father was getting arrested and for her this is some kind of Machiavellian weirdo backwoods baller feminist power move out of revenge for being locked away with her rapist dad for all those years AND OTHER RELATED RIDICULOUS SHIT

  so you did read the article;)

  dude DID you get her permission or not

  look call me later when you’ve processed

  you mean after my period

  lol

  whatever i can’t. bye forever.

  do yourself a favor, get over yourself

  leela did you at least like the story? i thought the “Katniss Prynne” thing was pretty sweet.

  allo leela?

  hey what’s up?

  hey so did you like the piece?

  * * *

  One photo shows Emily smiling coyly, seated on a wooden floor, with up-tugged skirt and bare ass, while she playfully holds up her voluminous hair.

  One finds her in dark stockings, squeezing her tits together, with the tip of her little pink tongue resting against her upper lip.

  One picture has Emily pressing her pale breasts together again, between her arms, but this time with face and mouth alluring, eyelashes dark with mascara, knees spread, butt thrust backward.

  One has her right arm held up, right hand tucked behind her head, other hand covering the right nipple, which has been lifted aloft by the raised arm, and her face is indifferent, but not closed, legs encased again in stockings but this time with her vagina and pubic hair shown, full familiar.

  There’s one that Justin singled out in his story, where Emily’s smiling again, this time wearing a large headdress, with a loose feather seeming put to good use between her legs.

  And still there are more of them, a succession, of different poses and looks, and all of them, Leela thinks, are on the whole pretty
vanilla, even tasteful, softly erotic, and not much of a shock these days. They’re definitely not pornography. But her own cheeks flush just looking at them, all trembling with an intimacy for precisely and only one other person—an excitement and tenderness it would be unfair to say that a sixteen-year-old can’t feel, she thinks.

  Clearly none of them are meant to be seen by her or anyone else.

  But Justin didn’t pick up on any of that.

  Her face flushes again. Not just from the photos. Her heart sags, full of genuine sadness, fiery indignation. The start of big outrage. She can barely stand to have her own picture taken—how would she feel if similar images of her were in the public eye?

  The amount of information that Justin had held back from her at lunch is beyond infuriating. If only because it makes her ignorance seem that much more noxious.

  Leela shuts her laptop loudly in the Dunkin’ Donuts. She’s nervous. She’s mad. She gathers her jacket and things and doesn’t care if Rob Miller notices her rushing out with hurried steps, going to the parking lot without a word of goodbye, exiting into the sun-blown noon.

  There’s so much she hasn’t done. So much she needs to do.

  Her first thought is of the girl.

  * * *

  Hey dad. Got your message. First off thank you for the generous offer but Roger and I are going to pass at this stage. Not because it is too late or anything and not because the production can’t use the money. In fact it definitely can but I’m still going to say no. The fact is that it looks like Roger and I are going to go our separate ways. He is just not dependable in ways I need and I am probably too dependent on him. Same old story, I get jealous and clingy, I already see me doing it. Know thyself, and I really don’t like that about myself. And guess what, surprise, he drinks. But anyway I’m grateful that you reached out. Because it forced some important thinking on my part about what is true and what is false and I have reached a decision that I should have reached a long time ago but I really need you to hear it now. I want you to please stop sending me any further checks or financial support. I know that sounds weird and honestly it’s been a huge help all these years and I’m grateful but I would like to move on. In a new direction. Also please do not call and do not respond to this text regarding this or anything else for the moment. I know that you care about me in your way, I really do, but please try to understand where I am coming from. I’m finally getting to a good place. It was bad for a while in ways you and mom don’t know about and don’t want to know about trust me but I don’t want to go in any direction but forward from here on out. And to do that I need space around me. Empty space. For a long time that’s what I absolutely didn’t want. The truth is your absence when I was growing up is hardwired into my brain when I think about myself because yes you provided for us financially but you did not provide what I needed most. So I need you to stop providing for me now. I hope that makes sense. I am seeing a new therapist and she’s really helping me make progress, she helps me understand a lot of my issues in a whole new light. She says I can’t always expect to make my environment reflect what I need. I can’t make people into what I need them to be. For example she pointed out that you did love me in a way but you had a disease, you have a disease, and it is the disease that got in the way of your love. I mean some Al-Anon groups I’ve been in there were kids who were beaten, abandoned, they got kicked out, their parents died, they lost everything. So in a weird way I know I’m lucky. All you did was fall down on your face once in a while. But that’s only when you were there for me to see you fall down. You weren’t there. And I thought that was my fault, I thought you hated me, I wasn’t good enough to deserve attention. Basically I learned that the truth was that I was unlovable, that I was in the way of you and mom ever being happy again. I know now it wasn’t my fault. But that’s what I thought for a long time. Now all of that’s in the past. It must seem completely alien to you that I am putting all of this into a text message but believe me it’s not a generational thing I really just don’t have the strength to say any of this out loud, so please respect that and don’t answer this message or call me. I don’t know why I’ve been quiet for so long probably self-blame low self-esteem etc. but now I’m talking, it just needs to be via text. Dad, I release you from being active in my life. We have built a relationship in the past couple years that is thanks to your efforts, I recognize that and respect that, and you deserve credit. But I don’t want pleasant I don’t want polite. Most of all I want to be in control, I want to stop letting other people dictate the terms. Not that you do that completely but just trust me it’s all part of the same problem. I’m not saying never and I’m not saying forever but I know in my heart it’s right for now. I love you and thank you. But goodbye.

  * * *

  Claymore meets August’s record temperatures with a wide, gap-toothed smile. The month will be the hottest on record in New England since 1880, as media crews arrive with their luggage and production cases from New York and Los Angeles, from London and Berlin, and find themselves cooked on the Logan tarmac.

  They’re also swiftly aggravated when the county’s hotels reach capacity. Rooms were long ago booked by motorcycle tourists, in town for a rally, and reporters find themselves pushed to rooms in towns like York and Shalks, as far away as North Berwick. Which doesn’t stop the producers from bullying Claymore’s front-desk clerks.

  Radio journalists, normally genteel, lose their tempers. Some journalists, of a certain era, after years of rumbling across the battlefields of political primaries with expense accounts, turn especially crabby from being shoveled so far away from the story, sixty to ninety minutes in some cases, depending on traffic, depending on the bikers, and they end up demanding replacements.

  All told, within a week of Justin Johnson’s DROP article, the media number almost forty. News trucks, reporters, producers, silver-fox photographers, radio rookies with headphones around their necks. All looking for a story that their bosses heard about and want a piece of for themselves, whatever nibs may be found around the woods, the beaches, the suburban developments. Really anything new to do with “the Claymore Kids,” those believed-to-be star-crossed teens, eyes aflame with young love, or what some are calling a mockery of love, a travesty of penitence, considering the dead bodies lying at their feet. And ultimately it won’t cost their bosses much; the story will be hot for a week or two and they need something to fill the slots. The most important thing is, get the girl.

  Starting August tenth, the press gathers each morning for impromptu briefings in a parking lot next to the county courthouse. They assemble under a white tent repurposed from the previous year’s Coastline Artisans Fine Arts and Crafts Show, as the banner reads. Of the mass, a dozen are local TV. Twenty are from national networks, in four crews total. Then there are batteries from BBC and Deutsche Welle, who look like the odd fish out, cameramen in blue windbreakers with unfamiliar logos, female newscasters with reddish hair, in sleeveless sheaths.

  And as the media and their entourage start to clog up the downtown with trucks and cars, they do one thing consistently: they apologize, especially when it appears like it’ll get them something. Because they’ve done this before, and they’ve got budgets to spare, and they’re humble if it suits you, Mr. or Ms. Claymore—because you are what matters. You count, finally, for once in your pitiable little life, and they are ready to pay attention to your opinion in its entirety, and not just listen, but listen ravenously, perchance to broadcast, publish, stream, and make historical fact.

  All together, the media behave in the manner of a friend who plans to ask you for a loan tomorrow, but is prepared for the moment, all gentleness and encouragement, to say almost anything to gain your sympathy.

  If you wear a Patriots hat, guess who does now, too?

  And between the KISS-like roaring of motorcycle tourists and all the frothing of rumor, Claymore gains a heady atmosphere. The press mentality is siege warfare. The courthouse, the Portis farmhouse, the old Toussai
nt home downtown, all are fair play to be observed, researched, crawled around. High school teachers go on record, regret it later. Several loudmouths, afforded their fifteen seconds, find out that they can’t help but stammer in the spotlight. Foolishness and spite get confused.

  Of course, many outlets run stories without interviewing anyone, no boots on the ground. Paraphrasing, repurposing, republishing. And many of the journalists who are present do their best to impersonate other journalists they’ve known; and even the most ethical among them dream of articles that become movie deals. But there is still realness, guts, a slack tide of cub reporters in black-rimmed glasses. Four of whom, of Leela’s generation, who don’t mind car camping, who feel the stubborn calling, who have an inheritance to earn. Who pursue their crafts and speak earnestly, who take to calling the Claymore McDonald’s their “HQ,” what with the free Wi-Fi, the clean restrooms, the surfeit of electrical outlets.

  In essence, the story that Leela Mann thought she’d have to herself quickly becomes communal property, just as Justin predicted. And her chance to make a name, get a job, afford something to eat other than ramen is rapidly diminishing.

  * * *

  He is alone in jail, on the other side of the bars, and for the initial days Granville Portis discovers that he prefers it this way, with so little to bother him.

  He is abstemious, refusing food. Alone with his relief and dull anger. But he is wise enough to expect no miracles.

  He is visited, and the visitors presume to know his mind. Their questions and threats are laughable. He refuses any further visits.

  By day two of his entrapment, all of the old sadnesses and jealousies and hurts rise in his heart, all of the injustice he’s put up with. He reads the Bible, the way his father used to. And he makes a list of names who acted against him.

  While asleep, he is awake, hungry, restless in his pain, rooted in his intestines. His bunions crave attention. He receives back his body, diarrhea, cramping. He’s light-headed most of the time.

  What his heart craves is nourishment.

  He receives additional visitors, but says nothing to nobody. He studies the sweaty nacre of their faces, two-dimensional and flat.