“Where’s this going,” William asks hiding his voice with a handful of potato chips.
Frank just points back to the Story Man and smiles wider. “Last night, after school let out, I took buckets of the stuff to the tree,” Mike says. “Big buckets. Five gallon things, filled with it.” He stretches his arms wide to exaggerate their size. “Got a good swing going with my arms and just let loose. Covered the
tree. Up as high as I could reach all the way down to the ground. Just like a snowstorm the way it packed into the bark and coated the leaves.”
Every stranger sits entranced. They have all stopped drinking, stopped yawning.
“Tomorrow,” Mike says snapping open a fresh can, “I teach them about love. I teach them the difference between feelings and necessity. I teach those kids that if they ever get lost, they should hug a tree.”
Laughter erupts immediately. Suddenly, he can feel the pulse in his wrists throb. Mrs. Rose teaches tact and focus yet these people act with neither. They take their mission and distort it down to only a prank. This is the evolving dichotomy of progress. This is the underbelly Mrs. Rose doesn’t know about. This is the community that tries only because it has to, the community that plays a game it can claim as something greater. They are a superstructure to an ideology. It surprises even William, but he laughs. He laughs only as hard as everyone else because he doesn’t want to be known as Poly forever. He wonders how many of these strangers once sat, reflecting fire, learning to be like all the others.
Frank stands, showing a firm smile to the group. “Come with me,” he says and grabs William by the arm. They make a swift exit as the laughing dies to a man’s voice asking “who’s next?”
He takes William into the kitchen where he pulls out a cigarette. “The rest of them don’t like breathing it,” he says and offers one to William.
He takes it fast, almost breaking it. “What do you think?” he says.
William shrugs and pulls a lighter from his pocket.
“It’s actually pretty good,” Frank says accepting the lighter after William. “He’ll tell the kids that Mrs. Rose said to hug the tree. If they don’t, they’re gone. If they do, they’ll have the burns to prove how devoted they can be. How promising they can be.”
William breathes Frank’s exhaled smoke. “I thought we were just supposed to watch them,” he says.
“We are.” Frank takes a long drag from his cigarette and touches its hot end to his tongue, extinguishing the red with a small sizzle. He puts the half-smoked leftovers into his breast pocket and pulls out a stick of gum, offering a piece to William who accepts and places the stick into his pocket. “It was actually Mrs. Rose’s idea. A few of us got to complaining about just sitting around and waiting for something to happen so she let us do this stuff. We get the failing kids out of the way a lot faster and everyone seems a bit happier being more engaged.” Frank tries a small bubble with the gum, but the candy falls limp to the ground. “Keep an animal locked up with nothing to do and eventually it will realize it is imprisoned.”
“Failing kids?” William says, but Frank is already speaking a new thought.
“Some of us believe in all this stuff Mrs. Rose teaches,” he says kicking the gum away from his feet. “Some of us only pretend. And some of us,” he pulls the cigarette from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers, spit still fresh and reflecting the weak fluorescent light, “some of us have our own ideas.”
“Like who?” William asks.
“A few of us, but Clifford over there, mainly,” and he points out the window to the quiet man with pupils still large enough to fall into, “he has this theory that all of us—you, me, Mrs. Rose, our children—for all of us everything started perfect. Everything existed at its pinnacle. This is before even birth. But then, two faulty people decide to have kids. They decide to let ego get the best of them, thinking they needed something to share the wealth of the world with, so they have a child. They pull it right from heaven and give birth to it here on earth. Heaven, like a garden of perfect souls, a buffet from which every pregnancy steals.” He still rolls the cigarette tight and so wet the paper dissolves into his fingers. “Think of Adam and Eve like entrepreneurs, kidnapping as new way to spread market influence. They steal a child from paradise and suddenly everyone thinks they need one too. But the worst part,” he says dropping the cigarette back into his pocket, “is that they never knew what they did. They set into motion a trend that lasts until this day, and will last forever even though Clifford has it all figured out. Everyone is perfect until born. Then, after birth, we count on people like Mrs. Rose to return us to promise.”
William drops spit to his cigarette. “That’s fucking crazy?” The sizzle fills the silence until Frank answers.
“It’s not a bad idea, really? But it means the human mind is innately imperfect.”
“How so?” William asks.
“Do you remember pre-birth?” Frank says. William ponders the question for a moment.
“Me neither ” Frank says. “The human mind cannot comprehend pre-birth. Hence, the human mind cannot comprehend perfection. For those years until we generate memories we are experiencing simple denial.”
William waits. Crickets bivouac in the tall grass, tricked by the silence into believing they are alone, that they are free to sing the degrees of the evening. Frank moves slowly for a rock and throws toward the sound, silencing the night. He opens a satisfied smile. “Unless you’re Dali,” Frank says. “Fucker said he had memories of intrauterine life. Remembered it all.”
William smiles, familiar with the artist, fond of his work. “So The Persistence of Memory
is heaven?”
“And this,” Frank moves his hand to the window, his knuckles the scope of a long barrel, the strangers standing and organizing themselves to the dying glow of the fire, “this is all the ‘horrible traumatism of birth’ he would say.”
William flicks the wet butt of his cigarette to the grass. “Scares the shit out of me, anyway.”
“It should.” Frank stands, brushing ash from his pants into the wind falling through the kitchen window. “Who are we to teach those kids anything?”
William grabs Frank before he steps away, pulling himself up by the sleeve. “Why are we teaching them anything? Mrs. Rose doesn’t believe in perfection. She says that there is no such thing—”
“—as finality,” Frank interrupts. “I know what she says. But imagine how much easier perfection is to attain if not everyone believed—if
we
didn’t believe. The fewer the competitors, the easier the contest.”
William suffers a long moment robbed of breath.
“Some of us agree with what Mrs. Rose says.” Frank continues. “Some of us want to believe, and some of us are just plain in love with what we can do here. We’ve got anonymity and we’ve got resources. The only two things a person needs to be truly happy.”
“But what about Clifford? He doesn’t believe in this.”
“None of us are innocent, Will. Not even those of us who pretend otherwise.”
Outside, Mike still laughs, yelling about mosquitoes and the dying fire. Clifford watches the flames slowly dwindle, sipping at a can, and joining in laugher when prompted by a storyteller ’s expectant stare. Other strangers sing or dance or yell over the idle chatter like they have something worth saying. And perhaps they do, William thinks, but even then, the words will die away, and what is left in their place?
“Frank,” William calls again as he walks toward the open kitchen door. “Do you have a project?”
“Nothing I plan on using,” he says, “and no matter where you stand it might be a good idea to come up with something in case someone asks.”
“What will happen if I can’t?”
“The projects started as just a way to pass some time. Before long, we were seeing it as a means to really ground the grand scheme of everything, to get everything straight. Mrs. Rose had this great idea about homeless people sitting outside a school playground, an idea she talked about with contagious passion. She knew where to find us, knew we would be up for it, and before we knew it, there were four of us, then eight, now about twenty-four if I can think right. All of us have something going on. And all of us will swear to be faithful to their execution no matter what we may truly believe.” Frank steps one foot out into the backyard. “And considering the deaths that brought each of us here we really aren’t in any position to negotiate otherwise.”
“And the rest of the town doesn’t think a bunch of homeless strangers is weird?”
“Mrs. Rose built this town. Her ancestors, anyway. She owns it. The entire town is one giant blackboard. She is the system, Will.”
From outside the hard clank of metal on metal breaks the conversation. Both strangers share a guilty smile.
“Finally got the game started,” Frank says and he turns towards the door.
“The pigeons,” William says just before Frank is too far away to hear. “You said you’d tell me about them.”
“She gives them to all the parents—” he says, but stops to correct himself considering present company. “—Most of the parents. Uses them to organize adoptions.” He takes a full drag and holds it tight in his chest.
“Why?”
“Says it’s safer than phone calls and easier to defend in court should anything ever happen. Messenger pigeons are actually pretty common in this part of the state.”
“Why hide an adoption?” William says, already sure of the answer.
Frank pulls the cigarette from his mouth and holds it tight between his thumb and index finger. “Because there is no adoption.” He says this like he’s only reminding him, like William has known all along but forgot. “They are dead before they are even born.”
The metal hits again outside and Mike yells, “ringer ” with a drawn out enthusiasm. His mouth is wide, his mind filled with nothing but the moment. Gone are the fits of remorse William has forced himself to swallow. Gone is any associating Mrs. Rose’s students with something outside the professional realm. Mike the Story Man is at a basal state. He is only a drunk man playing horseshoes with friends after a hard day of duping children out of their childhood.
William follows Frank, wondering what he believes in, wondering if he still believes in anything.
“Poly,” Mike yells with his hands raised above his head in tight fists. “What about you? You got anything going yet?”
Eugene and I played catch today
. “No. Nothing,” he says, and clears a patch of grass, someplace he can sit, but never too comfortably.
Chapter Eighteen
A group of children join hands near the phenol-dusted oak tree. Flakes fall; breezes mask their landing sizzle into the ground’s delicate layer of mid-morning snow.
As the impending unfolds, William digs through his duffle bag; the loose gauze of his blackened hand lost among his collected legs and bones and dried leather faces. He simply shifts the load, searching not for a single item, but for a way to pull his attention from the coming scene. A breeze tickles the tree leaves, car brakes squeal blocks away, birds above squawk; all sounds foreshadow. William keeps his head away but stays invested by the corner of his eye.
These children form a half-circle around the base of Mike’s storied tree. Their heads turn to one another. Their mouths move. Although distance prevents William from hearing what they say, he guesses every word forms a defeated attempt to question Mrs. Rose. He assumes that group collaboration is rallying for an excuse not to step against this tree.
Other children stop playing and turn toward the circle. Some begin walking.
This half-circle breathes. From the bench William can see the subtle rises and falls beneath t-shirts fronted by cracked cartoon character silk screens and brand labels for products long since recalled. The children look homeless themselves. He sees foreheads glowing with sweat and hands gripping one another so tight the fingers give like stuffed bears.
More children stop kicking balls, stop laughing, start moving toward the tree. A wave flows throughout, heads turning and interest rising. And William finds Eugene tailing everyone. As the crowd moves, the boy follows.
“Eugene,” William yells from the bench. Not one head other than his turns. He waves to William and comes running.
“What are they doing?” Eugene is out of breath but smiling. William shrugs, his brow creased like he didn’t notice the migration.
The children move one step into the tree and squeeze. They pull together tight enough for tensed immature muscles to stretch their decorated sleeves. They grit teeth as the tree burns though layers of cloth to kiss skin. A slow wind finds its way to the children and shakes a snow of phenol from the leaves to their heads. The surrounding children stop to listen. Eugene turns away.
“What did you learn today?” William asks, bringing him back.
“We did some math,” he says. “I hate math.”
The children choke on their own attempted screams, tears near boiling in the phenol’s heat.
“Math is good for you,” William says.
“That’s what Mrs. Rose says. She says it’s good because it helps you figure things out.”
More children approach the circle.
“She’s right,” William says quickly to keep Eugene at his side. He can taste the filth on the words as they fall from his tongue.
“We learned the map, too.”
The other children start grabbing arms and legs. They pull, prying fingers from the bark as the burning children refuse to let go. They are grabbing shoulders and feet and ripping them from the tree and still the children deny help. William wonders how much the scars are worth in the classroom. He tries to accept the final product, the devotion to a goal, the full participation in effort for the end result. He entertains the possibility of learned teamwork and hates himself for it.
“What did you learn on the map?” William tries to focus on Eugene, but the wind changes and brings with it the smell of hot flesh.
“Where states are,” Eugene says. “There are a lot of them.”
The smell strengthens as the children continue to flock. When the circle finally breaks free, William sees smiles from both sides. Relief and pride. The massive crowd escorts the scorched kids into the school building. Aside from a few rebels, the playground now belongs to only William and Eugene.