The gorge was a deep cut in the earth, running from Niagara Falls to Lake Ontario. Seven miles of declining ridge, starting at about almost 200 feet. Steep walls of rock and shale, the waters roared and swirled at the bottom, rolling over rocks, churning in whirlpools. He imagined it would be interesting to paint. Natural energy always commanded attention. Nature stood as the companies’ last obstacle.
The end of the river made two corners of land. One side had a village, the other an old fort. Not the kind with high walls and towers and parapets that a grade three investment technician would have taken over. Fort Niagara laid low in the ground, with chunky stone walls built into thick mounds of earth. To McCallum they looked like giant, fat, lazy basset hounds asleep for so long moss had grown over their backs. The front of the fort, as approached by land, formed a long, foreboding point. If you were attacking on foot, with a gun that held one little ball of lead, he could see how the place might be defensible. You’d have to run up hill across open fields as the resident enemy fired at you from the shed-like buildings dotting the ramparts.
Inside the walls, behind the lumps of green, was what they called the parade grounds. The army paraded around? With no one watching? McCallum didn’t fully understand the term, but he could figure out the purpose. Stone buildings lined the field. Those were the warm, safe places. Where the higher-ups lived. Generals and colonels and the people they liked best. The foot soldiers, cannoniers, blacksmiths and cooks, they lived out in the open, in tents, in winters white and withering.
The photos he saw of the fort were decades old. He knew no one had bothered with the places since the Buy-Ups. Many modern military properties went to the weeds. 300-year-old stone and mud ruts designed to fend off muskets? They became the perfect place to hide.
McCallum almost called up the most recent satellite image of the Fort. His finger circled the command button on his cuff like a hawk. His inquiring would leave an electronic trail, electron breadcrumbs leading them to him.
Them, he chuckled. He was them. Under other circumstances, at least. He stood up from his recliner and stepped back. The drawing of the fort filled his wall, blue lines on cream. Rough, but full. All the right and necessary details. Artists given such assignments never seemed to get any credit, even when their work is done so well it survives centuries, from paper to graphic file, from pen stroke to streams of ones and zeros.
He turned and looked at the easel in the middle of his living room. Charcoal arcs across canvas, of a young woman face down in the street. He had sketched the bar into the background. Frosty windows. He’d make them glow warm and friendly when he painted. People drinking, touching, unwinding, rewinding— oblivious to the horror outside? Ignorant?
They don’t care to see, McCallum said to himself.
No one wants to know what’s living in Fort Niagara. All the psychotic, delusional, disturbed minds that proved too much for the company. Too much time, too much money, too much care. Care didn’t figure too heavily into anything. Except his painting.
The dead girl lay prostrate, right arm off the curb, in the gutter. Bubbly orange jacket hacked to raged strands, flaps of her skin pulled up through the rubbery material. It looked as if she might bounce back up at any moment. Just joking. A bad horror movie. Her young flesh and hip coat so resilient death ricocheted like a tennis ball.
McCallum reached for his case of oil paints. He’d make the outerwear and wounds appear wet, a billiard ball effect. The death would shine. This would be his best painting in years. He could see it all now, as if the canvas painted itself and now all his hand merely had to catch up.
And Aga Graber would love it. And it would anchor his first solo show. And posters would rave about his haunted captivating vision and toss photos of his work around the globe, as offers came in for this piece, and others, and commissions from low grades who wanted a McCallum over their baby grand pianos, to point at with Champagne flutes and smile because they were now so fucking cool to own an original. All thanks to that pretty dead girl on the street.
McCallum smashed the canvas on the top of the easel, where the three legs met in a point. The thin wooded spires tore through the cloth and charcoal like a knife through a back.
* * *
Sylvia sat behind her bamboo desk, up on the edge of her seat, legs slightly spread, per the baby’s dictates. How to sit, where to sit, duration and why all came from the baby. Her other new boss. Which infuriated her. Life is a ladder of bosses. Life’s purpose is escape. Climb as many runs as you can, trying to get to the place where you stand all wobbly with nothing but the wind and weather to worry you. It’s everyone’s raison d’être: break the shackles. Parents, educators, supervisors. Freedom is not your potential or goal, it is your duty.
Now here she sat with not one, but two insidious, illogical supervisors telling her where, how and when to sit, like she was a well-dressed malamute.
And her jeans didn’t fit and her boots strangled her calves. She wore a white T-shirt, because the office had the temperature of an orchid house. It smelled like soil. Not a scent that bothered her, on its own, but here it reminded her that her office also served as a potting shed. Mortimer Clive put her desk in a room also used to repot plants, mix fertilizer and store chemicals, tools and pieces of crap no one had the guts to toss.
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” Sylvia said into the monitor. The sheet of glass sat propped by an easel on the desk. Marshall St. Claire’s face filled half the screen.
“I’m doing everything I can, dear,” Marshall said, fist against his cheek, already tired two minutes into their call. “What’s Gavin doing? He can’t be happy.”
“Who knows what jollies him up. Besides, Samjahnee’s doing the rough edits as we speak, so Gavin feels the movie’s progressing. Even though I should be there, making the decisions, making sure he’s not fucking things up beyond belief. I’m sure he’s trashing gold right now. I know it. He’s got the narrative sense of a cabbage.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“As a camera man. He gets shots. But stringing the shots together?”
“Only the great Sylvia Cho can do that.”
“On the nose,” Sylvia said. “On the fucking nose. This little detour is draining my soul.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I had to wash the tractor.”
“Ha,” Marshall belched. He shot upright and laughed through his astonishment.
“Mortimer figures the low grade who plopped me here just wants my name on the project. The fact that I don’t pick out a single begonia or blade of grass matters not. As long as I worked here, this was a Sylvia Cho production.”
“Amy Beauregard,” Marshall said. “The low grade who’s responsible for the building.”
“That’s my fan who hates me, huh?”
“It is a strange sort of love.”
“Have you pinged her?”
“Not directly,” Marshall said. “I’m still putting together a dossier.”
“What else do you need to know?” Sylvia huffed. “I’m here. She did it. Can we get her to do something else now.”
“Exactly. Can we? I’d lose my small fortune betting on the motivations of the fairer sex. I’m not convinced I understand Ms. Beauregard. I’m quite convinced the benefactors behind your film project already tried to pry you loose. So something else is at work.”
“The world is not that dramatic.” Sylvia slumped back in her chair. “That’s why it needs people like me. To give it shape and dynamic. The boring, petty little plays people live through. She saw my name on her list one day and plucked me like the juiciest grape on the vine.”
“Perhaps,” Marshall said. “Or pruned you. Did she place you here or take you away from someplace else?”
That concept made Sylvia stop.
“Either way,” Mortimer’s voice came through the speakers. “She works for me.”
Sylvia iced up. She shook, frightened. The fright turned to anger. She’d let someone li
ke Mortimer frighten her? Embarrassing. Now. How much had he heard? Did it matter? Did he listen in on all of her calls, read her mail and messages?
Marshall said, “That is about the rudest thing I’ve ever—”
“Then try this,” Mortimer said. Marshall’s image on Sylvia’s screen went black. “I’d like the soil sample report by 11 a.m.”
Sylvia’s screen returned to a chart showing acidity rates.
Chapter Nineteen
Emory had nearly finished his pudding when a man in his early twenties walked up to his table. Campbell stopped talking. Which was a kind of special moment all in itself.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” Emory went back to his pudding.
“Go with Frank,” sounded in Emory’s ear. He spit out his pudding.
“You OK?” Campbell asked.
Emory wiped a paper napkin across his mouth and nodded. “I guess I’m going with Frank.”
The young man led him out of the common room, down the hall, into the elevator. They went to the first floor. Instead of heading for the garage, they turned left and walked into a part of the barracks Emory hadn’t ever considered. A dim, yellowing shadow of a hall. Long, quiet, ending in a steel door that looked like it could take about 40,000 pounds of pressure per square foot before giving way. It shushed open as they approached. The young man stepped aside and Emory continued in.
Familiarity set in as the door closed behind him. This office suite looked like 40 or 50 others he’d visited in his life. Beige felt sectioned off with strips of aluminum. Glass and plastic placed without care, without purpose. This entrance area had enough room for two opposing couches, dull and inviting as crates. An older woman entered and beckoned him forward. Emory walked down another shorter hall and into an office.
The man behind the bamboo desk was the offspring of a swine and a bear. Pale skin, red cheeks, next to no hair. Emory figured late forties. His faded striped shirt fit like a hot dog casing, ready to burst. He considered Emory as he entered and with an elaborate, deliberately showy gesture, put a finger to his bracelet. He suspended the cuff’s functions, as one might at the theatre, or if they were having an affair. The act would have made the old Emory nervous. This current one shrugged it off.
“I’m Chief Supervisor Valient,” the man said. “Sorry we haven’t met but I don’t like to mix with you people.”
“Understandable,” Emory said. He stood, hands folded in front of him.
“I’m not going to ask how things are going. I know. This detail is punishing. I make it that way.” Valient interlaced his hands and leaned his large head back into them. “I can make it not so punishing, too. Would you have any interest in that, Mr. Leveski?”
“Please, call me Emory.”
“I can make your time here a little easier, Emory. Especially the night time.”
Emory’s stomach twanged. A guitar string, out of tune, running from his glottis to his anus, vibrated. Why’d he suspend his cuff?
“Would you like that, Emory?”
“I imagine so,” he mumbled.
“Barter is technically against company policy, but helping each other out, that’s OK, don’t you think? I help you, you help me?”
“What did you have in mind, sir?”
“I want you to kill Jeffery Campbell. Make it look like a cave-in or some such thing. Can you do that for me?”
* * *
“Meet me at the service door,” Mortimer said via voice call, directly into Sylvia’s ears. She couldn’t tell much from his tone, as his default state seemed to be sour. He certainly enjoyed giving orders, bare of any niceties, fake or phony.
Seeing Mortimer just inside the service door didn’t give her any more clues. As usual, his face said he’d just bitten into a fresh Meyer lemon. He wore khaki cargo pants that appeared to actually have cargo in the various side pockets. Tools or meters or something, she couldn’t tell. His shirt was like a waist-length kimono, rough black silk, with a plunge deeper than she’d wear to the office. It tied on the side with a thin bow.
“That’s a wrap,” she said as she approached.
“What?”
“Your blouse. It’s a wrap.”
“It’s a Laotian war shirt.”
“That wrap. I love it.”
“Thank you. It provides great freedom of movement.”
“Ironic,” Sylvia said.
Mortimer pondered her for a moment, forehead like a freshly plowed field. “On you,” he replied. “Greater freedom of movement would be ironic on you.”
“Suit yourself,” Sylvia grinned. “But I don’t think you’ve got much more freedom than I do. I know you didn’t hire me for this job.”
“On that we are in full agreement.” Mortimer pushed open the dented, steel service door and motioned for Sylvia to exit.
Seven photographers greeted her with whirls and clicks.
“Miss Cho!” “Miss Cho!” several voices from several different directions. A gaggle of posters. She hadn’t seen one since the opening of her last film, more than a year ago now.
“What are you working on, Miss Cho?”
“Is it secret? Can you tell us anything?”
“Are you shooting inside? Is Jamie Grant in there with you?”
Jamie who? That actor that looks like a boy and girl simultaneously? Ah, Sylvia sighed in her head, the rumorous wind of the posters.
She glanced at Mortimer. He smiled broadly, like this was a beautiful morning for touring the back forty. She’d never seen anything like that kind of expression on his face. He almost looked good with a smile. Fully human, anyway.
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” He pointed towards the berm and the run-off gully that would be the most challenging aspect of the grounds re-design. It meant she’d be walking up an incline. Huff. They’d get some good shots of her.
Cameras buzzed. Men and woman, dressed for adventure, moved about, careful not to get within twenty feet or her or her boss.
“If you’ll excuse us?” Mortimer said to the press as they strolled.
The posters continued to shout questions, shuffle, side-step and trail the two. They crossed the driveway and started up the small hill.
“I’m thinking of covering this with artificial grass,” Mortimer said.
“You’ll lose some of the binding action of the real turf,” Sylvia replied.
“What if we add in poplars? Across the top.”
Sylvia looked up and down the length of the berm. The idea wasn’t bad. The short berm could stand with a little height. Poplars sent big roots everywhere. The trees would block wind, create shade, put oxygen in the air.
“Not bad,” she said. “Are they in your budget?”
“I’ve been growing them from cuttings for the last five years, on another property.”
“Huh.”
They reached the top. The posters stayed at the bottom, snapping photos of Sylvia against the hazy azure sky. She put her hands on her hips and straightened her back. She flipped her hair back, catching the breeze. If they were fast, they’d get a picture of it streaming behind her like a pennant.
“Over there,” Mortimer pointed to the front of the building. “I’m going to pull out the main walkway and put in a spiral. I want to fill it with lemon grass, mint, some other local herbs.”
“Really?”
“The main entrance is low traffic. Most people enter through the sides, close to the parking lot. A more circuitous path won’t injure productivity or cause much complaint. Especially after people realize they can clip some fresh Thai basil on their way home from work.”
“Wonderful,” Sylvia said without moving her mouth much.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not, I just…”
“This project has been in the back of my head for several years.”
“I see,” Sylvia said.
“Do you?”
“I’m not going to interfere.”
“No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re not going to help, either, are you.” He jutted his chin down at the posters, adjusting their cameras and tapping into their wristbands.
“That’s not my fault,” Sylvia said.
“Sure it is. They’re here taking pictures and writing posts about Sylvia Cho, the movie director. Not Sylvia Cho, the landscape architect. No one cares much about that art form. Not even you.”
Sylvia turned and put a hand on Mortimer’s shoulder, as she would with an old friend or child. “You don’t know me and shouldn’t presume to. Yes, the company arranged a marriage between me and landscaping, but I came to love it.”
“Until something more glamorous came along.”
“Nothing ever came along. I went and got it. You of all people should understand that. Things don’t come along. You need to dig, haul and water. You need to plan, prepare and create. Oh and then get lucky. It’s all the same, you know. Movies, books, painting, creating a natural space around some completely unnatural office complex. All art is the same. It’s a struggle between acceptance and understanding, leading to moments of supreme reward— those rushes you get when it’s right and you know it. Four or five other people whose opinions really matter know it too. That’s all you can ask for. It’s all the same.”
Sylvia put her hand over her eyes to shield the sun. She peered at the lawn in front of the building.
“The herb garden idea is inspired,” she said. “But have you thought of maybe an onion design instead of a spiral? It would give people the option of walking directly to the front doors, or taking a little detour.”
“An onion?” Mortimer asked.
“You know, a bulb shape, with parallel lines. Walkways in this case.”
“Interesting.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylvia said. “I shouldn’t have presumed to know you either. I thought you were simply an asshole. Being an asshole for your art, that is highly different and wholly acceptable.”
The Milkman: A Freeworld Novel Page 15