by Proehl, Bob
Carrie imagines that kindly old Officer Kowalski will dispatch an investigative team to scour the apartment. Every day she sits in Miquel’s studio, jumping at the buzzer to find one of Miquel’s clients. She questions each, but none of them knows anything. They offer condolences, leave numbers to call when Miquel shows up. They assure her he will.
When she tells Waylon, he goes into paranoid mode. He hasn’t talked with Bryce in three days, and he’d taken that as a sign they were breaking up. Carrie wishes Waylon had had a girlfriend before he came out or that he’d dated one boy before Bryce. All his newly outed anxieties collided with his first real relationship anxieties until he was convinced every argument was the end of the world. But Miquel and Bryce both dropping off the map holds deeper significance, and Waylon promises to put his people on it. He’s not the fumbler he was at Bishop. He’s becoming someone new, possibly dangerous. He’s also told Jonathan that Carrie drinks for free, which she appreciates as much as any other help he might give. The fourth day Miquel’s gone, Carrie’s in Vibration, taking advantage of her open tab.
“Dead in here,” she says to Jonathan as Friday evening turns into Friday night and a weekend-size crowd fails to arrive.
“Hayden’s got their big show at the Biograph,” he says, pushing a second whiskey across the bar. The light from his chest glints and plays in the ice cubes. Carrie and Miquel had tickets to see Hayden. Carrie couldn’t bring herself to go alone. She hasn’t talked to Hayden, hasn’t told them Miquel’s missing. “I don’t know why they don’t play shows here.”
“They’d wreck the joint,” Carrie says.
“Might as well. It’s their joint,” Jonathan says.
Down the bar, a woman in her sixties reads a news magazine. A glass of white wine hovers at her shoulder like an advisory angel. In the corner, a couple the age of Carrie’s parents are on a first date. His eyes glow pale blue, and her fingers snake like vines around his wrist and forearm. Carrie sips her drink as their downstairs neighbor, who Miquel refers to as Thought Bubble, enters and comes up to the bar. The word beer flashes over his head like a pink neon sign, the letters in clumsy cursive. Thought Bubble is a beatific presence on the block, a holy idiot. Shackled with an ability that renders his thoughts legible, he’s taught himself to be simple and honest at all times. He looks down the bar at Carrie. Above his head it reads you look sad but also I want to have sex with you. Carrie smiles sadly and shakes her head. Thought Bubble shrugs and returns his attention to his drink. Once again, the word beer strobes over his head.
On the television behind the bar, a reporter stands in front of a wall made of couches and planks and all manner of cast-off items. It looks like they’ve been fused together. There are no captions, but the chyron reads RESONANT STANDOFF IN REVERE, MASS. Carrie tries to pick something up from the reporter’s body language but gets nothing. She returns her attention to her drink.
By nine, she’s more drunk than she wanted to be. She resolves to go back to the California Avenue station house tomorrow. She won’t let herself be charmed by Officer Kowalski’s Polish accent, its echo of Chicagos gone. She will be the angry young girl the situation demands. She will cuff herself to a railing and will not be moved until questions are answered. Tomorrow she will be a better detective, a better girlfriend.
Leaning heavily on the bar, her hands supporting her head, Carrie goes into the Hive. She knows Miquel isn’t there. She’s checked every day. She stands in the shimmering space of the Hive. People flit by her like ghosts. Black roses wreathe her feet. Carrie screams as loudly as she can, I’m coming for you. Ghosts stop and regard her before moving along. When she comes back to the bar, all the patrons look at her, sad-eyed, understanding. How much did she communicate? What did she send? She thinks about her scream packed with metadata, carrying an encoded story of the last few days.
A man walks into the bar. It takes Carrie a moment to recognize him. She met him only once, years ago in the hallway at Bishop. But his name’s been at the front of her brain the last few days. It was the last name written in Miquel’s appointment book before he disappeared. Avi Hirsch. No contact number. As he steps to the bar, Jonathan stands up straight, setting his shoulders back to look larger.
“I’m sorry, man,” he says. “We’re a Resonants-only establishment. I know that sounds harsh, but some of our customers—”
“I need to be here,” Avi says. There’s a nervous energy coming off him. He looks around the room like he’s being chased.
“It’s okay, Jon,” Carrie says. “I know him.”
“That’s great, Care Bear,” says Jonathan. He has annoying nicknames for everyone in their circle: All the Waylon. Miquel Mouse. Roll in the Hayden. “But I mean, is he your guest?”
“Sure,” she says. Jonathan relents. Carrie moves to the stool next to Avi. As she does, she sees the word floating over Thought Bubble’s head in crimson: Damp.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Avi says. “You have to leave.”
“That’s a funny thing for you to say,” says Carrie. Avi stops, sits up straight, and looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.
“You went to school with my daughter, Emmeline,” he says. “I didn’t recognize you. You’re all grown up.”
“You met with my boyfriend the other day,” Carrie says. “Miquel Gray. You went to him for—”
“I want to talk to you about it,” Avi says. “But it’s a bad time right now. How about I stop by and see you tomorrow? We could meet for coffee.”
Carrie stares into his eyes. They’re rimmed with red, his pupils huge. “Are you high right now?”
“No.”
“You’re on Rez,” she says.
“It’s for work,” says Avi. “We can talk about it some other time.”
“How about we talk about it now?” Carrie says.
“You don’t understand,” Avi says. “It’s important that you not be here right now.”
A wineglass shatters. The woman reading her magazine looks dumbly at the shards on the ground. Thought Bubble turns toward the sound, and above his head the word crash flashes for a second and fizzles out. Carrie hears a low rumble build into a buzz. It feels like an electric toothbrush scrubbing the inside of her skull. Jonathan gives a pained gasp. He clutches his chest like he’s having a heart attack. The light there goes dark.
The next sound is a boot against the heavy wooden back door, the splintering rip as it tears off its hinges.
* * *
—
In the back of the van, under the green lights, Carrie holds Jonathan’s head in her lap. His breathing is labored, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Carrie tries not to look at his chest. His shirt dips into the spot where the light had been, a sinkhole. The couple on the date hug each other. He blubbers, and she tries to comfort him. Carrie wonders what will happen to them after this, whether this is the kind of experience that brings a new couple together or destroys them. Avi is calmer than he was in the bar. He’s taking everything in, observing.
“You knew,” she says.
“I need to see where they take you,” Avi says, not looking at her. “I can’t confirm anything until I see it.”
“Are you a fucking idiot?” Carrie says. “You need to tell them you’re a baseliner so they’ll let you out and you can get us help.”
“I will,” Avi says. “I just need to see it.”
After a twenty-minute drive, they’re loaded out at a warehouse off the 290. Carrie sees the lights of the United Center off to the east, which puts them halfway to Cicero. There are more men dressed like the ones who took them: dark blue suits, carrying devices that look like leaf blowers but emit that horrible buzz that apparently shuts down their abilities. The van was equipped with devices in each corner that did the same thing. They looked like the lighting rigs on the Vibration dance floor. On the sidewalk, there are times Carrie
can’t hear the buzzing. The leaf blowers must send the sound in a stream. Sometimes she’s on the edge of it. She tries to slip down into invisibility, but it doesn’t work. It’s like picking up a fork with numb fingers. Jonathan is nodding off.
“Help me with him,” she whispers to Thought Bubble. He wraps his arm around Jonathan as they’re herded into a warehouse under a flood of green lights.
“What the fuck, Maxwell?” says one of the blue suits, standing by a heavy metal door. “I thought this was supposed to be a fucking bumper crop.”
“Big grab’s the raid on the Biograph, Smithson,” says Maxwell, the one who threw Carrie onto the floor of the bar and clipped plastic restraints around her wrists. “That tranny singer’s got a show.”
“That’s gonna burn us for big raids,” Smithson says. “Back to snatch and grabs. We should throw a net over the whole block and drag it.”
“We should plow through with ordnance, then go out for beers,” says Maxwell. He shoves the couple on the date in front of Smithson like he’s a justice of the peace at a shotgun wedding. Smithson looks through them, blank and mechanical.
“When you step through this door,” he says, “your abilities will temporarily return. Someone will be standing behind you. If you attempt to use your abilities in any way, he will shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”
“Oh, God,” wails the man.
“Say you understand,” Smithson shouts.
The woman pulls him closer. Her wrists are zip-tied in front of her. She holds him in the sealed circle of her arms. “We understand,” she says. Smithson opens the door and pushes them in, closing it behind them. He turns his attention to Carrie and Avi. “When you step through this door, your abilities will temporarily return,” he says. “Someone will be standing behind you. If you attempt to use your abilities in any way, he will shoot you in the head. Do you understand?”
“We understand,” Carrie says. Smithson opens the door, and they step through into a small, dark hallway. There are no green lights here, and she can feel her ability, her Resonance, return like a sleeping limb waking. Doug Shaw, Downer Doug, who worked in the office at Bishop, who’s been one of Miquel’s clients for months, sits on a stool at the end of the hall. His face is bruised, his right eye black. He looks at Carrie as if he’s trying to apologize. There’s a man standing behind her, gun drawn. Doug pulls her down into the Hive. His Hivebody looks worse than his actual one, skin and bones, black roses climbing his calves like kudzu, rooting him to the ground. He says, “He’s inside. He’s okay. I’m sorry,” before letting her back into the dark hall. He turns his eyes to Avi, then closes them. They shoot open in panic.
“He’s not one!” Doug shrieks. “He’s not one!”
The armed man is on Avi in a second. He sweeps Avi’s cane out with his foot and knocks him to his knees. Avi yelps in pain as he smacks the floor. Green lights click on, flooding the room. The door behind them opens, and Smithson shoves Carrie against the wall, holding her by the base of her neck. Maxwell and two more enter, guns drawn and pointed at Avi’s head.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Maxwell says. “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Avi Hirsch,” he says. “I’m a reporter. Call Louis Hoffman; he knows me.”
“Did I not fucking tell you not to tell Hoffman?” Maxwell yells at Smithson.
“Fucking shoot him,” says another in what is unmistakably a Chicago PD uniform.
“Call Louis,” Avi says.
“Get him the fuck out of here,” Maxwell says. “Drop him in the United Center parking lot with bus fare.”
“We’re letting him go?”
“I got into this to save human lives,” Maxwell says. “I’m not going to shoot him in the head. Blindfold him, drive him out, and drop him somewhere. He doesn’t know shit. Get him out.”
“I’m sorry,” Avi says to Carrie. “I’ll get you out. I’ll get you help.”
“Like fuck you will,” Smithson says as he drags Avi back out the front door, leaving his cane in the hallway. Maxwell opens the door behind Downer Doug and leads Carrie inside. Here’s the limit of allies, she thinks. This is where helpful people get you.
She wanders the large open space. The people all look sickly, bathed in green light. Prisoners, thinks Carrie. Not people. She starts to see people she knows. The black kid who sells mix CDs for five bucks on North and Oakley. Janet, who did a pop-up gallery show in the old barbershop on North and Artesian. Benny the See-Through Drunk, who’s a regular and translucent customer at Vibration. Miquel tried to tell Carrie about the value of a neighborhood. Child of the suburbs that she was, Carrie never felt it. Until now, with this network of connections lifted out of context and placed onto a stark backdrop. Next time anyone asks where I’m from, I’ll say North Avenue, she thinks. She wonders if she’ll get a chance.
She finds Miquel sitting next to a cot in a makeshift triage area. He looks haggard, with an irregular splay of dark stubble spotting his cheeks and blue bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing in this ugly, horrible place, and she can see he’s cracking under the weight of it. She runs to him, grabs him, thinking she needs to support him and then that she needs him to hold her together. Arms around each other, she waits to feel some kind of strength return, but it doesn’t come. There’s only a fear that isn’t lessened by being shared.
After a few minutes of holding him and being held, Carrie sees who he’s sitting vigil by. Bryce lies in the bed. His bark is drying out, curling and peeling away. Carrie thinks about Jonathan clutching his chest cavity under the lights.
“I said we need a doctor, and they told me they’d send a lumberjack,” says Miquel. “I think he’s dying, but I don’t know how to tell.”
Carrie puts her hand on Bryce’s chest, comforted that it rises and falls. When she pulls it away, a papery piece of bark clings to her palm like a Post-it note. “Have you slept?” she asks Miquel.
He shakes his head. “They keep the lights on. The buzzing makes it hard to sleep. It’s strange not to know what people are feeling. Everyone is a mystery.”
Miquel leans close to her. He examines her face in the green light, trying to suss out what she’s thinking. It’s like watching someone listen to a language he doesn’t understand. “How are you?”
On the car stereo, Leonard Cohen croons like molasses poured over broken glass. In the back seat, Bishop’s breathing rattles, a moth battering its wings in a cigar box. Kimani’s off with Patrick, chasing ghosts, so they’re traveling the long way. The normal way. Fahima leans against the passenger side and watches Alyssa drive, sunglasses on, unfazed by the Technicolor vividness of spring in Massachusetts. Alyssa grew up normal. She knows how to do shit like this. People don’t get how amazing normal is if you grow up without it. Driving lessons and proms and failed attempts at heterosexuality. Fast food and family car trips and Sunday school. Trappings of the dream of white suburban America, the kind of shit you see on television.
Even if Fahima’s life hadn’t jumped the tracks, she would have grown up other. She’d watch from the intersection of Immigrant and Muslim while blond girls rode by on bikes with streamers that bloomed from the handles, hair billowy in their wakes while Fahima’s curls stayed secret under wraps. After years in Lakeview, she skipped the normal world for Bishop, exchanging one asylum for another. She hadn’t emerged until she was fully formed. The carapace crust of a twenty-year-old. Striding into her first class at MIT ready to swing at the first person who asked to touch her hijab. Normality was a thing to combat, take down. When Fahima saw Alyssa at a party, picture of an all-American girl, she saw a target. Fahima drew a bead on her, hiding in the corner like a sniper, sipping lukewarm soda out of a plastic cup while Alyssa floated around the room.
Fahima felt powerless in the face of this normality. She felt second place to it, a shadow of the thing itself. In the end, swag
ger went only so far. Alyssa had to make the first move. Always the driver.
“He should be in a hospital,” Alyssa says for the seventeenth time. Her eyes stray off the road to check Bishop in the rearview, and Fahima tenses up.
“How can you look at anything other than where we’re going and not drive us right off a cliff?” she says. What she thinks is, My girl’s got superpowers.
“That is the sound of one lung breathing,” Alyssa says. There’s a note of pedantry and annoyance in her voice that’s been more and more present in their conversations about Bishop. Fahima notices but doesn’t have time to fix it. Too busy fixing everything else. “His insides are more cancer than organs. Not the ideal situation for a road trip.”
“I’ll wake him up, and you can talk him out of this,” says Fahima. Alyssa goes on about metastatic spread and renal function, but Fahima thinks about Patrick that night outside Bishop’s house in Maine. Her realization that he might be a mass of undifferentiated cells, the possibility that all of them resonated. What if instead of using his ability to fight the cancer, a losing battle, Bishop allied himself with it? It’s impossible. But what about them isn’t? Could he force the cancer to resonate? And if he could, would it save him?
“Are you even listening?” Alyssa asks.
“Dyspnea. Dysphagia,” Fahima says. “Catastrophic hemorrhage.” She plucks words she’s caught in Alyssa’s monologue or read in the literature. Alyssa knows but doesn’t bother to call Fahima on it. They hit a pothole, and the glass vials resting in her lap tinkle musically in their steel case. Alyssa glances down at it.
“What is that stuff you’re giving him?” she asks. “And please remember, I am a doctor and you are a sexy machine genius who is not a doctor.”
“They’re sexy genius machines,” Fahima says. “Tiny, tiny ones.”
“What are your tiny sexy genius machines doing to him?”