Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne
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the door, Lily,” he says. His voice is surprisingly calm and soft, his drawl like steaming hot soup before it burns your tongue.
I don’t move from sitting cross-legged on the bed. Beau’s completely unpredictable, and the destruction will depend on how drunk he is. I don’t want to enrage him any further, but letting him in when he is this angry is a bad idea.
“Go away,” I say instead, knowing he won’t listen. He rattles the door again, and begins pounding on the door. I’m afraid that he’ll put his shoulder to the door and break it, but he doesn’t.
I look around and see that I left my backpack with all my stuff in here from the night before, which means I have my music in here with me. As Beau keeps on pounding on the door, I put in my ear buds and scroll through the playlist on my phone. After a minute, I finally find a couple of OK songs. I turn up the sound and tune out Beau’s ranting, and because I have nothing else to do, I start to do my homework.
+++
Hours must have passed; the sun is setting on my first day of the long weekend, and I have to turn on the light in the bedroom. It’s been quiet for a while now, and the only sounds are of pages being turned and the TV in the living room. Beau, tired of trying to get me out, has settled down and is now watching a football game.
I hear a scratching sound on my window. It’s Skelly, standing outside smoking a cigarette. I unlatch the window and poke my head out.
“What’s up, Skelly?” I ask, keeping my voice low, just in case.
“You alright, girl?” he asks gruffly. He hands me the cigarette and I take a puff before handing it back. The smoke tastes like charred biscuits in the back of my throat.
“Yeah, I’m OK.”
“Tommy said to check up on ya since Beau’s on a rampage.”
“I’m OK. I had to lock him out, but I think he’s calmed down some.” As I pronounce those words, I look involuntarily back at the door.
“He’s no good when he’s drunk,” Skelly says disapprovingly. “I never saw what your mama saw in him.” He scratches his chin and pokes at a scab with his index finger. “What a fucking good fer nuthin’.” There’s an angry glint in his eyes.
I shrug. “We’re none of us good people when we’re drunk, Skelly.”
Skelly grunts, I think, in agreement.
“Did Tommy go to work?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“Yeah, he’s headed out now but he wanted to make sure you were OK before he left. He’s gonna try and come back early so you kids can hang out.”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
“Well, juz giv’a holla if you need me.”
“Thanks, Skelly.”
I watch him limp away, tragically heroic, then I shut the window before going back to my homework.
+++
I finally put my pen down, done with my homework. I’m hoping that Beau has calmed down now because I am starving and craving Nutella. I take out my ear buds and poke my head out tentatively. It’s eerily calm, with only the remnants of a broken side table and a jumble of broken dirty dishes pushed aside into a pile. Beau is lying on the couch—the same one that Tommy and I were on a few hours ago—and he is passed out, with one arm flung over his face and his mouth half-open as he snores contentedly. I inch closer, careful to tread lightly, hoping I can get to the kitchen and back into the bedroom without waking him up. As I walk past the couch, however, his eyes fly open and I freeze.
“You slut,” he growls out. I’m rigid and ready to bolt, but he doesn’t move from the couch. When he doesn’t say anything else, I carefully continue my trek into the kitchen.
“Whore,” he bites out after a pause, and I can see he’s getting angry again. “Is this what that fancy school is teaching ya? Spread your legs for a useless piece of shit?”
“I’m sorry, Beau,” I say, putting on my best remorseful voice to calm him down.
“What’s so good about Skelly’s kid, anyway?”
“Tommy’s my friend.”
“He’s a damned loser, just like his cripple daddy and his pig brother.”
I don’t answer and concentrate on spreading the Nutella on the slices of bread with clean, even strokes.
“So what’s so great about him?”
All of a sudden, the fight has gone out of his voice, and he sounds defeated, sad and almost about to cry. He sighs heavily, his eyes fixated on the coffee table, and I feel sorry for him. He shifts his position on the couch, and his cowboy hat falls off the side onto the floor. He doesn’t pick it up.
I start chewing on my Nutella bread, and he looks up at me with liquid gold eyes, and I’m amazed all over again by how handsome Beau 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,”