People Park (16 page)

Another chirp. The viewing deck shuddered to a halt.

Look at it, she said. People Park,
a park for people
, is how I pitched it to council. And here we are, twenty-five years later. I bet the park’s older than you are.

The cripple made a noise: Mmm.

And you know, don’t you, I hope you know — though who knows what they’re teaching you kids in school these days — that the park was all my doing? Of course engineers designed the amusements, and the actual
building
was taken care of by contractors. But the concept, the layout, the landscaping — all mine. I know people just think of me as a figurehead and nothing else. Most of you have no idea what I’ve done for this place.

Mmm.

I wanted a park for everybody. Young, old, handicapped, fat, whatever. Oh, some people criticized my greying measures — but how does a greenspace stand out without a little contrast? Look at it now, how it practically glows! Or will, touch green, in the spring.

Mmm, said Diamond-Wood, nodding.

Do you know what this city was before People Park? It was nothing. It was a nothing place. It was disconnected, all these neighbourhoods flung off in all the corners of the island, and in the middle was a cancer. That’s what it was, a cancer. But think of a city as a person — what should a person have in its centre?

She swivelled atop the cart: A soul. Before it had a cancer, and then it had a soul.
I
put the soul in. And People Park is the soul, the Mayor said slowly, of
everyone
. That was its purpose and what it remains. But here we are meant to be celebrating it —
twenty-five
years of this soul, keep in mind — and instead your organization has brought in an outsider, a fraudulent, ridiculous conjurer intent on humiliating us and stealing our souls. Because that’s what he’s here to do, make no mistake. I mean, look at me.

Diamond-Wood’s eyes were on the floor.

I said
look at me.

He glanced up, quickly, then back down.

You can’t! This is your fault. It’s all your stupid organization’s fault.

The Mayor gazed out the window. I don’t think people know what they’re celebrating this weekend. They just want to be awed. They’ve forgotten. This magician — what does he have planned? Do you know? Speak, for fug’s sake!

He pointed at the ducktape.

So take it off! Oh. I bet those appleheads have some sort of regulation — well come here then, said the Mayor, and tore the gag from his mouth.

Ow, he said.

So?

Sorry, no idea.

Ah. Good thing I ungagged you then. She rubbed a hand over her face. So you have no idea what’s going to happen tonight.

Tonight?

Tonight
. With the — what’s his face. Crowboy the Illuminator.

Raven? Honestly, I’m just a Recruit, hence the ducktape, and I certainly wouldn’t —

No idea.

None. The
HG
’s haven’t even been told anything. I don’t even think
he
knows. I guess he has to explore the city to figure out what he’s going to illustrate? Honestly, we’ve been told how to arrange the stage, and we’re working with Cinecity to make sure the live feeds are running, keeping the bridge blocked. That’s it. And
I’m
here with you!

The Mayor turned away. In the park preparations for the evening’s show were beginning: a cube van had arrived, cartons and crates of various sizes and shapes were being unloaded into the common.

Mrs. Mayor?

What.

It’s going to be amazing, I think. Tonight. It’s going to be —

Oh would you please just shut up
.

The first spectators were arriving, staking claims with towels unfurled on the muddy grass. The Mayor sighed — and looked at Diamond-Wood.

Hey, she said. Come closer.

Sorry?

You enjoy magic? She beckoned with a finger. Let me show you a trick.

Diamond-Wood leaned in, wobbling on his crutches.

Closer, the Mayor whispered, closer, and once his face was near enough to kiss, she plucked the ducktape off the dessert cart, slapped it onto his mouth, smeared it flat, and announced: Ta-da.

GENTLEMEN,
said Raven from the backseat, if I could request a detour.

It’s gone eight already, said Starx, wheeling out of the Grand Saloon’s driveway and south on Orchard Parkway. We’re supposed to be at the studios at half-past —

A
brief
detour. If you could take me to the bridge. Just to see it.

We’re heading south, said Starx. Bridge is north. Road’s closed anyway.

Ah, but my understanding is that it’s your people who have blocked off, what is it? Raven flipped through the CityGuide
in his lap. The Topside Drive? And it seems that one can turn around at the bottom of this street, and really it’s not far from
here at all.

Starx’s eyes moved between the road, steady with traffic, and the rearview. Olpert, Starx’s
XXL
shirt billowing around his body, checked the mirror: the illustrationist reclined in a pose both sanguine and erotic, one knee up, hands behind his head, grinning.

Might no one, he said, have more authority to traverse these blockades than us?

At the bottom of Orchard Parkway Starx merged onto the roundabout at Cathedral Circus, but didn’t exit onto Lakeside Drive, just went looping back around. Another Citywagon slid in ahead of them, peeled off toward Bay Junction.

Mr. Starx? said Raven.

Fine, but let’s keep it brief, said Starx, and from the drinkholder scooped the walkie-talkie, told Griggs what was happening.

Olpert’s hangover had found its way into his temples, where it thudded and stabbed. With each surge came flashes of the previous evening, shameful razory nicks — nevermind the great gaping wound of how he’d ended his night. As Starx turned onto Topside Olpert cracked the window, pointed his face into the breeze like a pet.

At the Guardian Bridge exit the Helpers ushered them through the barricades. Starx nodded officiously, pulled onto the shoulder, and killed the engine. The bridge arced toward the mainland. Beneath it the Narrows swept briskly to the east, twinkling in the sunshine.

Well here we are, said Starx, turning to the backseat. What can we tell him, Bailie?

IFC
Stadium, where the Lady Y’s play — it’s just back that way.

He’s a fan, said Starx.

Olpert shrugged shyly.

Fine, fine, said Raven. Now, gentlemen? If you’ll give me a minute.

He swung out of the car, glided up onto the bridge.

Starx watched. What do you think he’s after? Wait, why’s he lying down?

Shhh, said Olpert.

You think he can hear us?

Starx, come on.

Look at him, what’s he doing? Is he
smelling
the road? Bailie? Can you tell?

I don’t know what he’s doing.

Oh shet.

From his knees, Raven was summoning them from the car. Gentlemen, he hollered. Please, I need your assistance and expertise.

Reluctantly they joined him.

Mr. Bailie! Mr. Starx! Tell me about this structure.

This
. . .
bridge? said Starx. Sure. Well it’s called Guardian Bridge —

Delightful! Why?

Um. Bailie?

I don’t know, said Olpert. That’s just its name.

That’s just its name
, enthused Raven. Fabulous, Mr. Bailie! What else?

Well, said Starx, it’s the only way on or off the island. Except by boat, or I guess plane.

Or helicopter, added Olpert.

They’ve been talking about building a second one from Whitehall for ages, but
. . .
it’s not really happening. Whitehall’s sort of a disaster anyway.

Raven shaded his eyes with both hands, looked west. A disaster?

Yeah. It’s fugged up out there. People living underground, running amok. We do what we can to keep them in line. Isn’t that right, Bailie?

But Olpert was watching the illustrationist. He lay on his belly, stroked the pavement, licked his fingertips, nodded.

Yes, said Raven. Yes, yes,
yes.

III

DINE WOKE TO
the sound she’d fallen asleep to, or in spite of, or had kept her up all night, she wasn’t sure: Pop’s snoring. Despite Debbie having closed and Adine then locking the bedroom door, his snores drifted into their bedroom from the den in a phlegmy, spectral mist. It wasn’t yet seven a.m., her pillow was hot on both sides. Had she slept? Maybe she’d just dreamed of sleep, in some inchoate, semi-conscious state of dreaming. Though if she
had
slept, Pop’s snoring had found its way into her dreams too.

Overnight, Adine had learned this snoring like a song: the in-breath a gravelly scrape, a pause, a gleek and rattle, and the exhale contained a groan, a sputter, a cough, or a jammy smacking of lips, sometimes even the pasty slop of his tongue — and had at some point he cried out, Please, yes, oh? Adine hoped with all her heart she’d been dreaming.

She lay there in her shorts and T-shirt and blackout goggles, covers long flung off in a prickly fit. Beside her Debbie slept, she could sleep through anything, her breath swished in, out, in, steady as waves. Upon Adine’s feet she could feel Jeremiah, his little body rising and falling. It felt conspiratorial, the two of them slumbering so peacefully, while Adine had lain awake half the night, or all the night.

She dug an elbow into Debbie’s back until it elicited moans.

Ow, what are you doing, what time is it.

He’s out there, said Adine.

So?

I can’t see, remember. What if I trip on him or something. When’s he leaving?

Debbie pulled the covers over her face, said something muffled. Adine yanked them away. Do something with him, Deb. I had to listen to him snoring all night and —

Hi, said Debbie. Good morning. Are you going to ask me how my night was?

Oh. Do you want me to ask?

Yes.

Oh. How was it?

Thanks for asking. It was fine. We drank too much. I feel sort of ugh.

And
. . .
your old colleague?

Teammate. Pearl.

Pearl.

Pearl is, I don’t know. The same but different. Or maybe it’s me who’s different. I mean, I know I’m different, but
. . .

What?

Pearl seemed tired.

Tired.

Like tired from her life. Not
of
her life —
from
it.

Her marriage. Her kids.

Maybe.

I don’t tire you, said Adine, do I?

Debbie smiled. No, you wake me up. Sometimes with violence.

Are you going to kick that guy out of here so I can go pee?

No, wait. That’s a good point. That’s the difference, right? Don’t you always want someone who wakes you up? Like even when things are lousy you’d rather be up, awake, than too tired to even
. . .

Adine’s eyebrows did a provocative bounce — up, out of the goggles, then back down.

No, not just that. A stimulant life, not a sedative life — isn’t that what you want?

I guess. I mean, once you guys head out I’m probably going to take a nap
. . .

Debbie shook her head, laughed, flicked the lenses of Adine’s goggles. I miss your eyes, she said. When’s this project going to be done?

Adine shrieked, Never! and with both feet pushed Debbie out of bed.

What are you doing today, said Debbie, pulling on her housecoat. You want to come down to the memorial protest, or?

Work.

Right, said Debbie.

Pop’s snoring intensified as the door opened — and faded as it closed. Adine scooped Jeremiah off her feet and hoisted him onto Debbie’s pillow, tried to find his face with her nose, felt a whisk of tail, and realized she was nuzzling the wrong end.

AT HOME MORNINGS
to Pearl were the enemy. She treated those first few daylit hours as an adversary to tackle and vanquish and
with the fierce resolve of a mad sergeant drove Gip and Elsie-Anne
with bum smacks and handclaps from bed to breakfast and out the door. She seemed to be in three rooms at once, threatening, In the van in ten minutes or you’re walking to school! and when the garage lifted and Harry tore out of the driveway Kellogg invariably was left to drink the mug of untouched coffee she’d forgotten cooling on the counter.

So on Friday morning it was odd for Kellogg to be up with the kids, crouched over the camping stove with instant oatmeal dustily awaiting hydration in plastic bowls, while Pearl slept in the tent. Come on, Dad, let’s get a move on, said Gip, kicking his father’s feet, we have to get there early to get a frontrow spot. Remember yesterday? I don’t —

Hush now, said Kellogg, Mummy’s still sleeping, and he smoothed a bedheaded tuft of his son’s hair, it sprung up again in defiance.

Elsie-Anne sat at the picnic table in her pyjamas, her purse in her lap, a spoon in one hand and a blank expression on her face. From all over Lakeview Campground the sounds of other rous
ing families sifted through the trees: car engines growled, radios
jangled, the patter of morning routines — dads, mums, kids,
everyone starting their days, the big day, thought Kellogg, and the
Pooles were part of it! Birds warbled and chirped, a gentle breeze came hissing up through the poplars from the lake, and
if you listened close, beyond it, the shush of waves splashed the beach.

Kellogg only faintly remembered Pearl zipping herself into the sleeping bag beside him at some point after midnight — had he imagined the sickly smell of booze filling the tent? What if it had, she’d been with old friends, why not have a few? And so what if she slept in, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. They were on vacation. Maybe it meant things were going right.

Dad, whispered Gip, eyes urgent. We need to
go.

Champ, hey, we’re a five-minute walk from the park. It’s barely gone eight. We’ll have some breakfast and when Mummy gets up —

Mummy? We can’t wait for
Mummy
.

No?

Do you want yesterday to happen again?

Kellogg stirred the water. Bubbles were just starting to percolate to its surface. Beneath it, the butane roared and blue flames battered the pot. No, he said. I don’t.

After breakfast and Kellogg had given Gip his meds and the
dishes were washed up and everyone brushed their teeth at the communal
tap (
Not potable
) and the kids put on clean clothes (No showers, Dad? asked Gip and Kellogg pulled a cap over his son’s jaunty hair and said, We’re on vacation!), it was almost nine and Pearl still hadn’t risen. Kellogg cocked an ear at the tent as a hiker might outside the cave of a hibernating bear. Gentle snores. He winked at his kids. Looks like Mummy tied one on last night.

Tied one what on, Dad? said Elsie-Anne.

Never you mind, Annie.

Should we untie her?

No.

Elsie-Anne, looking worried, pulled her purse over her head.

Along with Raven’s
Illustrations: A Grammar
Kellogg packed Gip’s knapsack with a blanket, snacks, juice, meds, sunscreen, mosquito repellent, a first-aid kit, a book of crossword puzzles, and waterproofs (the sky was cloudless), the guidebook got tucked in his backpocket. Then he wrote Pearl a note, wedged it under a pot lid on the picnic table, and told his kids, Okay, guys, Mummy’ll just have to meet us when she’s up. Annie, take that bag off your head, we’ve got to walk now.

His daughter emerged blinking. Familiar’s concerned about Mummy.

Dorkus, will you please
shut up
, Gip said. Mummy just got tied up. It’s not a big deal.

Shut up, Stuppa.

Mummy’s fine, said Kellogg. Though let’s not call each other names, huh?

Gip shouldered his knapsack, so stuffed the zipper puckered.

Kellogg looked at the tent. We’re doing the right thing, right, guys?

We’re doing the right thing, Dad, said Gip.

Oh, you think so, champ? Good. I think so too. I mean, ideally we’d all be together, but — she’ll meet up with us soon. Mummy, I mean. Right?

Right.

Okay! To People Park! Annie, come here, take my hand. And stop looking in your bag, you’ll fall down, you’ve got to watch where you’re going.

Here we come, Raven, said Gip, then deepened his voice: For tonight’s illustration will surely be a spectacle for the ages, one which nary a soul will soon if ever forget.

POP WAS TOO
big for the couch, he’d opted for the floor, and there he was, right in the middle of the living room, a blanket clung to him like giftwrap, from his face came that sinusitic scraping. His clothes were everywhere, jeans draped over the recliner, a sock on the kitchen counter, another inside a stray teacup, the pale dead moth of his underwear splayed on the endtable — this Debbie’s eyes raced away from, a brownish tinge to the white cotton — and, by the door where he’d flung it the night before, his poncho, while in the closet dangled empty hangers. A high whiny fart arpeggiated a minor-C triad, Pop rolled onto his side, from within the sleeping bag came the gritty scritch of fingernails raking pubic hair, and then he was snoring again.

Even more than his sounds and things, it was above all Pop’s smell that had invaded: a musty, tangy odour reminiscent of stale cardboard boxes and humid cheese. Debbie pushed open a window. From outside came the growl of traffic, a train rumbled
through Blackacres Station. Across the street, at the corner of E
Street
and Tangent 3, the owner of the laundrette was scrubbing
her windows with a soapy mop: she’d been blackedup in the night.

Pop spluttered, turned, flopped an arm over his head, buried himself in his own body, and kept sleeping: snore, whistle, snore. Debbie edged by him to the bathroom, locked the door, dropped her robe, stepped straight into the shower.

When she emerged ten minutes later in a towel, Pop was at the stove, the element glowed orange beneath a pot of water. This is an alienated stove, he said, not turning to face her. I am habituated of one which flames.

Hang on, I have to get dressed, Debbie said, and slipped past into the bedroom, where Adine was sitting up in bed in her goggles.

Is he still out there.

He’s boiling eggs.

Amazing. We’ve taken in a refugee.

Refugee
. You say it like it’s a joke, but that’s what he is. He’s homeless! What are we supposed to do, let him sleep on the street?

I mean, that’s his name, right? If he’d been born, say, Pop Apartment maybe —

Stop that. I need to lend him your housekeys. I mean, if you’re not going out today
. . .

What.

Come on, said Debbie. Just for the night. Maybe Sunday too. But on Monday we’re going to figure out what’s going on and get him home.

Great, said Adine, flatly.

You okay? said Debbie. She sat on the bed, put her hand on Adine’s leg.

But behind those goggles, it was impossible to tell what was happening.