People Park (4 page)

Debbie tipped back her cider. He can’t be making much, she said. The guy’s the closest thing this town’s got to an ascetic.

Is he? Whatever he is, he’s just like, off. Even when me and Sam were kids our mum didn’t let us go to his store alone. The Human Polyp, we called him. That’s what he’s holding on to? He needs to let go of Lakeview Homes, everyone else has.

But, started Debbie — and stopped herself.

What does he even
want
?

Restribution, Debbie said automatically, and Adine rolled her eyes, wrangled Jeremiah into her lap, and buried her nose in his fur.

Now, on the train, Debbie leafed through her notebook, and felt she was closer to a real reason — and the person himself, the two were linked. In her notebook were dozens of Pop’s attempts at aphorisms:
If you’ve an advantage, do it
, e.g., and
People come in a multitudany of kinds, but we’ve all got the same heart
.

In a way Pop had thrown Debbie’s life into relief. To live as he did, a living protest, one had to forgo everything else — social mores, relationships, basic hygiene. His dedication made Debbie feel flaky and capricious. So she’d begun attending his rallies, not as a journalist but as a participant, committed to the Movement, even fancied herself his second-in-command. Though there always lurked
the danger of being banished, often for random, arbitrary, and baffling reasons. Most recently Pop had expelled three of Debbie’s friends for
Insufficient restritubutive doctrination
. Requests for clarification had been ignored.

So around him Debbie took notes, listened, deferred, and always, always agreed. But what really kept her on his good side was the prospect of being written about: Impart this in your book, he would say, and then enunciate, syllable by syllable, so Debbie didn’t miss a word. Being around someone so firm in his vision of the world, and of his purpose upon it, was comforting. And by writing about him Debbie was getting closer to clarity about her own life as well. Because her own life, thought Debbie, as the train slowed into Mustela Station, felt so vague and shifting, a precarious trudge through churning sand: no matter how firmly she stepped, it always felt to be swirling off course, or backward. She wasn’t even lost: how could you be lost when you didn’t know where you were heading? And so she reeled people in, she surrounded herself with people, she felt all she could do was try to be good, to try in her floundering way to be useful, to help.

A SATELLITE INITIATIVE
of the Isa Lanyess Centre for Westend Betterment, the Room occupied an old crabshack at F Street and Tangent 15, right on the water, a building on stilts scummed with algae and around which rippled the lake. But because Upper Olde Towne Station was under renovation and had been for months, Debbie preempted her ride at Knock Street and took the escalator to streetlevel while the train slipped north into the Zone.

On foot she passed Lower Olde Towne’s B&B’s and Islandwear outlets and expensive artisanal concerns, horse-drawn buggies clopped by depositing great steaming dung knolls upon the cobblestones. At the top end of Knock was the Dredge Niteclub, a block-long, three-storey partyhouse that had once been a functioning dredge meant to scour Lowell Canal. Past it was the canal, a gutter of sludge the colour of dead
TV
screens. Crossing the footbridge Debbie held her breath, the canal’s off-gases shimmered like noxious aurorae, its lustreless surface reflected nothing.

Released into Upper Olde Towne, Debbie gulped cleanish air and headed up F Street. The east–west Tangents ascended, the neighbourhood bustled: greengrocers hawked produce, two girls in throwback Y’s jerseys lobbed a ball back and forth in a concrete parkette, a young couple on a bench smoked Redapples and took turns ashing into a cup. In shadows under the Yellowline’s tracks, the westside of the street was edged with razorwire that fenced in disused lots and docks. Debbie stayed on the sunlit eastside, where rejuvenated properties alternated with boarded-up vacants, the latter supervising the neighbourhood with the staid melancholy of blind widowers.

At the corner of F and 10 was the Golden Barrel Taverne. Already
drunks milled about on the sidewalk, taciturn and twitchy, jingling pockets of coins. Debbie smiled, was ignored, kept going north. This had once comprised her jogging route, abandoned when concerned locals kept flagging her down to ask if she was being chased. The Zone wasn’t pretty or quaint but it boasted a certain authenticity, Debbie thought, and though way out on the island’s western fringe it struck her as the city’s heart, vibrant and essential — or maybe its guts.

At Tangent 15 Debbie waved to Crupper, sweeping the front step of the newsstand opposite the Room. He gestured across the street. Seems they got you last night, he said.

Debbie looked: the Room’s front windows had been painted black.

Are you serious? she said.

Crupper shook his head sadly. Animals, he said.

Debbie went up to the window, scratched. The paint came off in a jammy curl under her fingernail, tarlike and still wet.

As always the Room smelled of the faint salmony tang of children and their half-eaten lunches. Debbie hung her coat in the office, checked the messages — none — filled a bucket with soap and water in the bathroom. But before she washed off the
blackup she had to attend to the business of her daily We-
TV
address,
which she loathed.

Debbie turned on the camera, readied her spiel: two minutes of tape to satisfy the Island Arts Division trustees and the schoolboard people, who claimed these updates were meaningful to the parents, but what parents would watch it? There were better things on
TV
than their kids building papier mâché piñatas and Debbie breaking up fights over pastels.

Adine had tuned in to her bit exactly once and that night she’d mimicked, in a perfectly fake-bright voice: Hi, Debbie here! This is the Room’s um, channel! Today’s Tuesday and we’re making time capsules! Debbie had shut herself in the bathroom and moaned, Why’d you watch it, you know I hate doing it, why have you forsaken me? while Adine cackled on the other side of the door.

Eyes shifting around the room, never quite settling on the lens, Debbie covered the date, the day’s crafts (gluesticks, shoeboxes, glitter), and explained the Room would be closed for the long weekend — though, with a three-day tape-to-broadcast delay, she was unsure why this information mattered. When all this was done Debbie shut the camera off and, as its recording light dimmed, felt oddly lonely, unnerved less by the prospect of being watched than by the thought that people, given the choice, might opt not to.

IV

ITHIN THE ORCHARD on People Park’s eastern fringe, teenagers, some with cameras, watched the last few stragglers filtering back into the city. While Edie videoed, Calum clutched her from behind at the hips, nuzzled her ear, the whisk and swish of her hair against his cheek, his cock throbbed dully in his jeans. But when he winnowed a thumb into the waist
band of her skirt Edie squirmed, lowered the camera, and said, We
should go to school, and Calum grinded into her and said, Sure? and Edie said, What’s wrong with you, and pulled away, and Calum was left with what might be wrong with him, a bit.

IN THE FINAL DAYS
of winter he’d gone to a party at Edie’s, her parents were away somewhere tropical on their yacht. From his family’s apartment in Laing Towers Calum walked south, over the Canal, down Knock Street, and up the cobblestone hill to the Mews, the gated harbourside community that lofted over Lower Olde Towne, where, after a call to Edie, the security guard buzzed him through.

Calum passed mansions festooned with pillars and arches and ornately trellised decks, to the Lanyesses’ landscaped yard. On the front porch, smoking, was a girl with her hair shorn into a hand shape, the nape and sides shaved right to the skin. The Hand. Calum ducked behind a bush. Why was she here, how did she get past security? With her were two kids, hoods up, a pair of goblins. Calum shifted, snow tumbled from the top of the bush in a little avalanche. Laughter, cruel and shrill — they’d seen him.

Hey, the Hand called, why you hiding, party’s in here.

So Calum, caught out, made the long dreadful walk up the driveway.

The threesome barely shifted to let him past, he had to squeeze between them, for a moment he was face to face with the Hand, she blasted smoke in his face. Don’t lock the door, she said. We’ll be right in.

In the living room Edie and a half-dozen of their friends sat in a stiff quiet circle, six ciders on the coffee table, six labels peeled to shreds, a boardgame unpacked and so far unplayed, everyone’s pieces loitered on
START
. Did you see who showed up, Edie whispered. Calum nodded, didn’t go over to kiss her.

And the door opened and in gusted the winter and here they were with their shoes on.

Great party, said the Hand, laughed, as sharp as a slap, the laugh hung fizzing in the air. Nobody moved, nobody said anything. Then there was a cry of, You’re on
TV
, and one of the goblins plucked a camera off a tripod in the corner and did a slow pan over everyone’s dazed faces, then said, Don’t worry, I’m not taping, and gave the camera to Edie, who held it to her chest like an infant.

Towing her sidekicks the Hand withdrew to the foyer. Footsteps headed downstairs.

Go see what she’s doing down there, whispered Edie.

Calum stared.

You know her better than any of us. Go!

The goblins sat at the top of the basement stairs, their whispers followed him down. The recroom’s open screendoor admitted an icy draft, the deck was dark, but the pool lights were on. Kneeling on the diving board was the Hand.

If you’re supposed to be checking up on me, she said, you’d better come out here.

He thought of Edie, of this house, of her parents. When he was over they talked to Edie as Calum’s interpreter or warden: And how does your friend do at school, etc., while a mute housekeeper served soup in bowls of bevelled glass. This was what he was now supposed to defend.

The Hand reclined on the diving board. Calum stood in the doorway: what might she do? Snow dusted the flagstones. The pool steamed. Deeper into the backyard was the tennis court, and beyond that, down the hill, Kidd’s Harbour, a fleet of pleasurecraft nudged about by waves.

Here’s a game, said the Hand. Find a star. Find one.

The sky was the broad back of something huge, turned away.

You can’t, can you? Because of all the lights. There’s too many lights here so there’s no stars. What’s the point of being up here if you can’t even see the night?

The Hand sat up and spat into the pool: a little raft of phlegm floated atop the water. This is your girlfriend’s house, right? The poor little rich girl? She sucks.

Careful, said Calum.

She snorted, moved to the edge of the board. Careful, she said. Careful’s nothing.

In a single, swift gesture she pulled her shirt over her head. Her shoes came off next, kicked onto the deck. And finally she stepped out of her jeans. The pool’s ghostly light shimmered over her body: parts were dark and then lit, parts were always light, parts were always dark. Calum looked over his shoulder, into the house. And back at the Hand.

Her mouth twitched at the corners. See? she said simply, and flopped into the pool with a splash. She surfaced, just a head, the water mangled the rest of her body into jagged indistinguishable shapes. This was tantalizing, if the waves settled it would all turn clear. Calum imagined diving in, swimming up, touching the smooth wet skin. He tensed, leaned forward on the balls of his feet, toward her —

Well, said the Hand, see you round.

Her legs kicked up and she dove. Calum waited, waited, the ripples stilled — and she didn’t come up. He moved poolside: the pool was empty. Giggling came from the house. The goblins rushed out cackling, scooped the Hand’s clothes off the deck, and tumbled in wild somersaults into the water. When the bubbles cleared they were gone too.

Later, when Edie and Calum went to bed they realized the brass doorknobs to the master bedroom were missing. I can’t believe you let that happen, she said, and rolled away. Overhead glowed the star-stickered ceiling of Edie’s room. He thought about the Hand’s body in the water, the slick shimmering gibberish of it, and tried to assemble the pieces into a naked whole.

Edie, he said, edging across the mattress, pressing against her. The replica galaxy shone down, dull and green. Hey, Calum murmured — nudging, grinding, stroking. Edie, hey. Edie? But she was either asleep or pretending.

LOOK, SAID CALUM
,
his voice coaxing, squeezing Edie’s hips. Look at these two appleheads, he said, and Edie sighed and looked: a
couple, thirtyish, pushing a fancy stroller up the hill toward Orchard
Parkway. Calum waited for Edie to ask what was so wrong with them. When she didn’t he said, I bet they don’t even do it. Edie let his words hang. He crossed his arms around her waist and pressed himself into her backside and said, Hey?

She wriggled away and left Calum holding air. Voices called from within the trees, their friends emerged, watches were tapped, they should go to school. School? said Calum. Come on, Edie. We could go back to my place, my ma’s at work all day. But Edie shook her head firmly. No way, Calum. You might not care about your future but I do. I want to graduate, thanks.

Their friends were moving up the path, behind the stroller couple, in pairs. Calum gazed across the common, at the stage where the famous magician had wowed everyone that morning, and he wondered how it felt to have so many people, together and all at once, say your name.

THE MONDAY
after Edie’s party Calum awoke to his mother, Cora, leaning her head into his bedroom, eyes ringed with dark, voice a reedy crackle: Okay Cal, up you get, go to school. But he just lay there thinking. After a time his little brother Rupe appeared in the doorway. Ma said you have to take me to school. Take your fuggin self, said Calum, and went back to sleep.

That afternoon he walked up F Street, slushy and unplowed, through the Zone, past Blackacres Station, past the Room, into Whitehall, the factory district, and the
ICTS
Barns, where the trains went to sleep every night, unlaced sneakers flopping and soaked
through to his socks. Past the Barns he entered the industrial district:
abandoned warehouses, factories, plants, various Concerns no longer concerned with much, their gerundial purposes (Shipping, Receiving, etc.) painted onto pale splintering wood. At last he came to the massive concrete panpipes of the Favours Brothers silos, long decommissioned, where Calum ducked through a peeled-back section of chainlink. The loading dock was open. Inside was dark as a throat.

He peered into this blackness. There was no sign of the Hand or any of her people. But this was their way: invisible unless and until they wanted to be seen. Yet the gloom seemed to dance with firefly sparkles — dozens of eyes, catlike and glittering, watching him
. . .

Calum ran. Back through the fence, out of the docklands to the Piers. Here he hopped out along the blunt-headed stumps of a drowned jetty to the breakwater, the most western point in the city, and sat, heart hammering and dangling shoes refracted in the lake. The air smelled of wet wool and sewage. To the north was the mainland: tan-coloured fields, chalky cliffs, a gravel beach prodded and coaxed with waves — close enough to swim to, but Calum had never been.

HE REACHED FOR EDIE,
to hold her, to hold on to anything. But
her back was to him. He tapped her shoulder. A half-swivel of her
neck: an acknowledgment of what he’d done, but not him.

What?

Nothing, said Calum.

Well are you coming? There was exasperation in Edie’s voice. You can’t skip, you’ve already been suspended. Calum?

The only people left in the park were the
NFLM
, hollering, taking down barricades, rolling up the welcome rug, collecting garbage on spiked sticks, their voices resonated as the woofs and hoots of animals.

One of the men splintered off from the group. He was coming over, crossing the common in a delicate mincing way. Calum said, Look at this guy, but Edie was moving up the hill to join the rest of their friends, waiting to go to school.

LOOK AT THOSE KIDS,
said the one named Starx. Hey, partner — look.

Olpert Bailie stopped struggling with the guardrail. Teenagers loitered in the hillside orchard on the eastern edge of the common.

Go tell them to get the fug out of here.

Olpert blinked. Me?

Yeah you. You’re the security guard, right? Effortlessly Starx, a man-shaped monster, lifted a barricade into the back of the cube van, hopped up, hauled it alongside the others, and stuck his head out again into the daylight. Get going, he told Olpert. And quit being such a foreskin.

So Olpert went trembling across the swampy common, mud spattered his slacks. It was impossible to tell how many teenagers were gathered among the trees, they shifted in and out of the shadows, they made Olpert’s stomach jump and twist. The trains were always full of kids this age, they jostled him, they said things about him, it took such effort not to listen to what they were saying, if you met their eyes they had you.

Surely Starx would have been better at this sort of thing, the man was a giant, a menace, a coil of rage. Also he had on boots. Olpert wore loafers and anger was a language he’d never learned. In fight-or-flight moments he preferred to just stand, to stand and wait. To Olpert life was a negotiation of terror — at the world, but also at himself, as a part of it.

He’d only met Starx the week before, his first visit to the
NFLM
Temple in two decades. Prior to that he’d sat through the unveiling of his grandfather’s portrait alongside the other departed Original Gregories, afterward been granted conciliatory Full Status: Helper Level 1 (Probationary), funnelled the ceremonial pint of schnapps,
sat while his legs were shaved by a hunting knife, sprinkled the
clippings
into the Hair Jar, thanked everyone profusely for the
opportunity, and never returned.

Twenty annual newsletters arrived over twenty Decembers, each one junked. In that time Olpert took a job as overnight security at the city’s Department of Municipal Works, ten p.m. to six a.m. shifts paging of magazines in the building’s marble-pillared foyer. At dawn he was relieved by a woman named Betty and took the ferry from Bay Junction to the Islet, then walked home to a roominghouse where the four other lodgers existed only as crusty dishes piled in the shared kitchen sink and occasional thumps or groans from behind their bedroom walls. Also one of them was stealing Olpert’s apples.