Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) Read Free Page B

more heartbreaking expressions in the world than that of a child who has given up hope on you.
    “Your dad tells me you’re a good student,” I said.
    She shrugged, her gaze fell to the carpet and she mumbled, “Pretty good.”
    “What’s your favorite subject?”
    “Art.”
    “His name is Art, honey. Isn’t that nice?”
    “I know,” Lauren answered, with a slow glance at her mother and just a hint of impatience.
    “You like that,” I asked, “the drawing and painting?”
    “It’s all on computer. I made a picture.”
    “Show him,” said Caryn.
    Lauren stepped over to her dresser and took a piece of paper off the top. It was kind of a montage, like kids used to make with construction paper and clips from magazines. There was an image of desert sand dunes at night, blue in the light of a full moon, one of those mood shots used to advertise perfume, or maybe a utility vehicle. I guess she’d scanned it in first. Then there were small smiling faces within the dunes—models and movie stars. At the bottom was a candle in a shiny gold candleholder, and the flame seemed to be reaching up into the desert and lighting the faces looking out of the sand.
    “That’s really something,” I said. I didn’t have to fake my admiration at all—I was truly befuddled that a ten-year-old could make such a sophisticated piece of work on a computer. I held the piece out and studied it. I told her I had a computer at home, but it was always giving me problems and flashing up options I didn’t call for and didn’t know what to do with.
    She looked at me with her calm, subdued eyes. “Click help.”
    “Help?”
    “On the toolbar. Help. Then do what it says.”
    “Well, thanks. I’ll remember that.”
    She took back the sheet and set it on top of the dresser. Then she hiked herself onto the bed and looked at me, then at her mother. “I’ve got the stomachache,” she said.
    “Ah, honey, I’ll get you something for it. Don’tcha worry about a thing. Come on, Art, let’s go make up something good for Lauren’s tummy. See you in a while, sweetie. Say good-bye to Art for now.”
    “ ’Bye, Art.”
    “Good-bye, Lauren.”
    In the kitchen, Caryn mixed up Lauren’s medicine: a big mug of whole milk, with a shot of chocolate liqueur, a shot of cheap bourbon and some cinnamon sprinkled on top. She put it in the microwave to warm it up.
    “Settles her stomach,” said Caryn. “She … really likes it.”
    Not even Caryn could look at me as she said this. I watched her quick little smile come and go, and she opened the microwave and handed me the cup. “Take it to her, and don’t touch.”
    I knocked on her door and waited for her to say something. I heard the book shut, then the rustling of fabric on fabric. She opened the door and looked up at me. I held out the mug to her and tried again, with my eyes, to tell her I was not who she thought I was. She took the cup in both hands and sipped some, her eyes focused down at the liquid like a kid will do. Then she looked up at me again and smiled just a little. A smile of invitation. She cocked her head and closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again about halfway in a sleepy, bedroom look—a gesture so startling I wanted, again, to just grab her and make a run for it. Daylight. Freedom.
    “Hang in there,” I said.
    “Why?”
    “Because I’m asking you to.”
    I had to wonder what my team, picking up every word that was said in here, made of this statement.
    “You have to talk to Mom.”
    “I will. Believe me.”
    “I do what she says. And Dad says.”
    “It’s going to be all right.”
    She looked at me with her dark dead eyes and shut the door.

    An hour later the men were drunk and eating hamburgers and store-bought potato salad. I drank right along with them, but I can hold a lot of booze and not show it. The evening had turned cool so everyone had on light coats or sweaters. The sun was still a half an hour from setting and I pictured Johnny and