JERRI BENSON
CONCRETE ANGEL “It’s just a small detour,” Peyton said to her husband hours before in their Jeep. After miles of sand and sage brush, seeing the green sign, “Las Vegas 32 miles,” offered Peyton an out, at least for the night. “Come on, Dad will still be dying of pancreatic cancer tomorrow,” she said, smiling, not meaning the smile, it was her coping mechanism. Peyton’s husband was patient with her, played along. Forty-five minutes later, he checked them into the tropical themed Flamingo. The hotel smelt like rancid coconut and cigarette smoke. As her husband tried to talk over the crowd noise and slot machines to the tall man behind the reception desk, Peyton wandered off without him. Peyton, a middle-aged mother from Boise, was drunk and getting drunker. She avoided her husband’s desperate calls after he noticed she wasn’t behind him. He looked for her, while she tried to blow off a little regret in Vegas. On a skywalk overlooking the Bellagio’s fountain, she stood on her tip-toes to see over the concrete barrier. Between the passing masses, Peyton watched a small group of men in dark business suits and loosened ties wolf-whistling at two leggy blondes in matching white-feathered bikinis and glittered heels posing in front of the placid water. The men’s vulgarity made her want to do something childish, like spit on them. Two hours, two days, two weeks, that’s what the 41
