People Park (15 page)

THE NEXT DAY
Sam began his mission to become nothing. He sat by himself on the frontseat of the bus and spoke to no one and kept his eyes closed and tried not to let his brain register the darkness he saw there or the jostling of the bus or the whoosh of cars passing by or the wind or the other kids shrieking. Sometimes the kids would come to him in pairs or in threes and call him Welfare or demand what he had for lunch, because instead of flats and apples he usually had crackers and a candy bar, and the kids would want his candy bar. Sometime he fought for it and sometimes he was too tired so he just gave it away. But today he was nothing so if they came they would come to no one. But they didn’t come. Somehow they knew.

At school all the kids spilled out of the bus and Sam slipped silently after them into the school and down the hallway to his classroom where he slid behind his desk. The desk made a noise when he opened it so he stopped and went slower, in increments, and stopped every time the hinges squawked and bit by bit opened it. He took his things out and laid them as softly as possible on his desk, his binder and pencils and workbook, and lowered the lid.

Sam did not put his hand up when the teacher called for answers even if he knew the answers. He did not laugh when a kid said something funny and the whole class laughed. He did his work in silence.

When the bell rang for recess Sam filed into the back of the line and glided out after everyone and then walked across the playground alone while the rest of the kids shrieked and hollered and chased one another around. From the ballfields came a mad scramble of voices cheering on other voices or disputing calls or championing themselves. Usually Sam hung around the ballfields, just in case someone asked him to play, but today he did not. He stationed himself by the parking lot and waited for the bell to ring, trying to clear his brain of everything.

Lining up to go back inside, sometimes the other kids would talk to him or about him but today he was nothing so they didn’t. Sam stared ahead and said nothing. Then everyone filed inside and back into the classroom and it was math and then lunch and at lunch Sam sat alone and ate slowly and on the playground once again retreated to his quiet corner and stood with his eyes closed and waited for the bell and back in school waited for the final bell and then he walked home, alone, through the crunch of autumn leaves he tried not to feel or hear and the vinegary smell of apples rotting on lawns he tried not to smell. And even though he’d been nothing all day he couldn’t believe that no one had asked him about Adine, not even one of the teachers, though by their quiet careful way he knew they knew. Everyone knew, yet no one said anything.

At home there was a bicycle against the steps. In the living room Sam found his mama, Connie, on the couch with her shirt hoisted to her neck and Bruno on his knees slurping at her breasts. Connie’s eyes were closed, her head tilted back. Bruno looked at Sam standing there in the doorway, then went back to sucking and licking and kneading. Connie moaned. Sam ran down the hall to the armoire and shutting himself inside closed his eyes and vowed to Adine, fiercely, that he would never open them again.

SAM OPENED
his eyes. Out the basement windows the sunrise blushed the lawn. But he didn’t get up. He lay in bed and thought about the illustrationist — about those eyes, the emptiness in them. Sam tried to understand them but could not. He put on his watches, lined up on the bedside table, the final one still ticked. And yet, from time’s machine, silence. Though upstairs too there were clocks.

After listening to ensure that none of his housemates were awake and about, Sam headed up to the kitchen. The microwave said 7:09. He waited. It ticked ahead one minute. Good. He placed a nuclear breakfast in the microwave, and while it nuked his food Sam watched the bulbs gleam and the digits tick down, and lost himself in the light.

Time disappeared then. Where did his mind go? In a panic Sam caught the microwave only four seconds before 0:00 — very close. He opened the door, took out the meal, ate thinking about the towerclock and Raven and the work, took an apple from the fridge for later, went to the bathroom, and in there was a miracle.

It was the uniform worn by the men in charge. The full uniform
— pants, shirt, jacket, everything a brownish yellowish non-colour, the colour of the sleep crust he knuckled from his eyes. Sam touched it: in places the material had gone crispy, and an orange stain yawned down the front of the shirt. But still: this was a gift, and a sign, it had been left for him. His face tingled with nervous joy, was he dreaming, he fingered the scab on his jaw and felt the real-world sting.

Back in his basement room Sam laid the uniform on his bed, the pants where his legs would go, the shirt and jacket overtop. For now though he dressed for the work: the black suit with the black shirt underneath, the perfect clothes for being unseen. And then, with all the other residents still asleep, he slipped out of the roominghouse, walked to the ferrydocks. Boarding the first island-bound boat of the day Sam thought he heard thunder, off in the distance, despite the clear skies and across Perint’s Cove the island trembling like a mirage in the bright morning sun of Good Friday.

II

ROM THE TOP
of the Podesta
Tower the Mayor surveyed the city — around and around the
viewing deck had spun her, all night. She’d eventually killed the
lights and spent the past six hours sleepless atop the dessert cart, perched there plantlike, the kindling of her legs piled on the cart’s lower deck, watching the island reveal itself beneath a steadily paling sky. When at last the sun rose it lit everything purple, then pink, then gold. In the blooming daylight a spattering of traffic grew into steady cords up and down the city’s main thoroughfares, the trains crawled out of the Whitehall Barns and
began to whip around the city, and as the deck rotated east and the
park came into view, coppery in the morning light, the Mayor, touch green, allowed her spirits to warm a bit.

The view swung south, to the Islet off the island’s southeastern corner, the first ferry chugging across Perint’s Cove to Bay Junction, then the Mayor was looking west along Budai Beach to Kidd’s Harbour and the mansions of the Mews lording over
LOT
, north to Mount Mustela and Upper Olde Towne, to Blackacres, to Whitehall again in the northwest, an industrial ghost town, its unused Piers, where no ships had docked in a decade.

Even from this distance she could sense the neglect, all those weeds sprouting through cracked cement, a riot of green wavering shoots. In a city, the Mayor believed, nature needed to be tamed, or it choked you. And this corner that escaped human control was irksome, the view seemed to linger, she waited impatiently to see something else. The tower obeyed, rotating for sightlines over the Narrows. With the city at capacity, the
NFLM
had closed the bridge to traffic. Until Monday, no one was allowed in or out.

And here again was the relief of People Park, its ordered borders of forest, the southside grid of poplars matching the orchard
to the east, the ellipse of Crocker Pond (rowers lit out from the boathouse
and skimmed across its surface) a watery yolk amid the greater ellipse of the common, the discipline of the gardens — or, best, the rigour of hedgerows: the nonsense of bushes carved into walls, made geometrical and sane. And on the park’s southern edge was Friendly Farm Automatic Zoo, a perfect square, and Lakeview Campground, the beach, the surf upon the beach, the lake.

But something dark and resentful slithered alongside her pride. Twenty-five Easters before, a collective exuberance had consumed the city, they’d come out by the thousands to be part of a new beginning. The Silver Jubilee was already less a celebration of People Park — or even the citizens, the people — than a forum for the whims of the dastard illustrationist. It felt symptomatic of a larger problem: her citizens were complacent, too comfortable, bored, and like dumb moths charmed by every flickering light.

SINCE STARTING ON
nightshifts Olpert Bailie’s sleep schedule required a seven a.m. bedtime and rising in the early afternoon. Friday morning, at the hour he’d normally be tucking himself in, his walkie-talkie buzzed. The voice integrated into his dreams: here was Starx, chasing him through the clouds, Olpert breaststroking along with the city miles below
. . .

Bailie! Get the fug up! B-Squad’s gotta put in work!

Olpert rolled over, hit
TALK
: Hi, yes, I’m awake, okay.

I’m just leaving the Temple. Meet me in forty-five at Bay Junction.

Okay.

In the bathroom Olpert supported himself on the sink, head sludgy from the night before, throat raw, inspecting his face in the mirror: red-rimmed eyes, hair a brambled disaster. But looking past his reflection he felt his stomach drop. He was sure before bed he’d scrubbed and hung his
NFLM
uniform in the shower to dry — yet it was gone.

The bathroom hamper held only mildewed towels. Back in his room there was no sign of it either. What punitive humiliation might
How We Do
decree for misplaced khakis? Dropping four wriggling worms into Jessica’s terrarium, Olpert only hoped it would be quiet and private, something behind closed doors, nothing televised or broadcast or even, with any luck, seen.

His radio buzzed: Bailie, you on the move?

Starx, hi, I’ve got a little problem.

Didn’t have time to wash your duds? No problem. Your partner’s got you covered.

Olpert let the misunderstanding ride, thanked him.

That’s how we do, said Starx. Now hurry the fug up, you sack of nuts.

Sometimes Jessica would nose up from the soil to see what was going on. Today though there wasn’t time to coax her out, and Olpert left the house forgetting a thing people did called breakfast, and on the ferry ride across Perint’s Cove the dregs of the previous night’s wings and cider rose up acidly in his throat. When the boat docked he came reeling ashore — greeted by Starx, spotlit in a sunbeam, a bottle of some fluorescent orange liquid in one hand, a spare
NFLM
uniform draped over his arm.

Drink this, he told Olpert. Then put this on.

The drink was disgusting, carbonated in a tart, fermented sort of way, with a tinny, bloody aftertaste. Ugh, what is that?

Secret recipe. My wife’s hangover cure.

Wife?

Ex-wife. Long story. He reconsidered: Well, short story. A story for another time.

Olpert sipped, winced. And this will make me feel better?

Should, said Starx. There’s nothing orange in it. Just goes that colour, for some reason.

Olpert drank, handed the empty back to Starx.

Bailie, nice work last night! No way those dames’ll forget you anytime soon.

Kill me, said Olpert.

Kill you? No way! That, my friend? That’s what some of us call
living
.

Oh.

Though I’m feeling pretty rotten myself, thanks for asking.

Oh. Sorry.

Not much of a people person, are you?

I beg your pardon?

I mean, we’ve hung out two days now and I know everything about you, from your job to your living situation to your fuggin moles. What do you know about me?

Um. You were married?

People, Bailie — see, normally the way this goes is that I’d ask you something, you ask me something, and in such a fashion of reciprocated dialogue, we’d get to know each other, ta-da. Like fuggin magic.

Oh.

Starx’s expression was hard to read: not quite hurt — disappointed
maybe.

Olpert said, What sort of work do you do?

Work? Thanks for asking. I’m in construction, Bailie.

Construction.

Right. Buildings. Or not exactly buildings. More roads. I have
the same boss as you, Bailie — the city. We’re civil servants, servants
of civics. Civilized.

What do you do?

You know how the road sort of sparkles? Well you think that happens on its own? When they’re tarring roads I’m the guy walking around with a little pouch of powdered glass who sprinkles it over the road. They call me the sparkle fairy.

You’re making fun of me.

Swear! I used to do more hands-on work but I got hurt on the job, they tried to put me in an office, no way. This way I still get to be outside. Sparkle fairy.

Olpert struggled to picture that giant body lumbering around with a pouch of pixie dust.

Starx smacked him on the back, handed him the clean uniform and their Citypass lanyard. Hop along little buddy, you can put your duds on in the car. First stop after we pick up Raven is We-
TV
Studios. Hey, maybe Wags’ll let us on
Salami Talk
?

Maybe, said Olpert carefully, and followed Starx, the asphalt glittering beneath their feet, to the first available Citywagon in the lot.

THE ELEVATOR DROPPED
to the ground floor, fetched whoever was coming up the Tower, arrived with a thud at the viewing deck. Pushing away from the window, the Mayor smoothed her blazer and snapped the lapels straight, ready to face whoever it was.

Out stepped three Helpers in khaki: two luxuriantly moustachioed characters flanked a skittish-looking kid on crutches. Strapped over the boy’s shoulder was a callbox, its cord drooped in ringlets at his hip. A fat strip of ducktape covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were afraid.

To what do I owe, etcetera, said the Mayor.

We represent the
NFLM
, said the man to the cripple’s left, fingering his lanyard.

He’s Reed, said the other, and I’m Walters.

The cripple said nothing.

Mrs. Mayor, we realize you’ve been put in a compromising position, said Reed, so we’ve brought this Recruit here, Diamond-Wood, to be of assistance to you until
. . .

Until the Jubilee is over, finished Walters.

The
HG
’s really appreciate what a sport you’re being about this.

Sport? said the Mayor.

There’s talk, said Walters, of erecting a statue of you. We’re already talking to Loopy about it. How do you feel about
solid gold
?

Though you do have to admit, said Reed, it
was
spectacular —
that illustration, I mean.

Three sets of eyes crawled over her body to the lower tier of the dessert cart.

Anyway, said Reed, Diamond-Wood here’s at your service. Anything you need.

A personal aide, if you will.

Not that you’d normally require such a thing. Just —

— in your —

— current —

—
situation
—

— we’re happy to provide logistical assistance.

And he comes with a portable phone, with a direct line to the Temple should you require anything else.

From the
HG
’s. They want you to know that you can —

— call anytime.

It’s a fax machine too.

Well touch green and colour me golden, said the Mayor.

Yeah! No problem!

We’ll leave you then, said Walters.

Lots to prepare for tonight! Sure you’ve got work of your own
. . .

And of course, Mrs. Mayor, as always, you’ll be the guest of honour.

VIP
!

Obsequious goodbyes followed (two-faced fuggers, thought the Mayor), instructions were whispered to the cripple, and the
elevator
took the Helpers back down to ground level. Out the window,
the view was of the park.

This is their idea of a joke, isn’t it? said the Mayor, and, turning away, missed the boy’s attempt, heaped over his crutches, at a vigorous and earnest shake of his head.

Make yourself useful. By the door is a keypad, see it? Enter this passcode: forty-five, ten, twenty-two, forty-four hundred, but before you go thinking you can come up here and mess around anytime you like, it changes every day.

From behind her: the tap of crutches, a pause, a digital, affirmative
-sounding chirp.

Now hit
STOP
, she said. Solar-powered, you know that? Another of my initiatives.