Expedition- Summerlands

by Nathaniel Webb

  ***

  As the funeral broke up, I stood aside, watching schoolmates who had teased Noah for years line up to give him their condolences. Cass was already waiting at the bus stop, so Keats and I were alone together when he rolled up beside me. We looked on in silence as Noah hugged a sobbing girl, patting her back awkwardly, and I remembered how she used to call him “Big-Nose Benatar” before he’d become friends with Jason.

  “My parents wouldn’t come,” I said as the girl moved on, wiping at her tears. “They said they didn’t really know Jason. They said I should have brought him over instead of spending all my time at his place.”

  “Every time you went home you looked like you were leaving for a business trip,” Keats said. His voice sounded like it had in the hallway that night, stuffed up thanks to the padding in his broken nose. “Emma’s packing up to go to the hotel, I’d always think.”

  “I guess that’s how it felt,” I said. I couldn’t look at him, so I pulled on my fingers, making my knuckles pop gently one by one. “Uh… did you get the money?”

  “It helped us pay for all this,” Keats said, waving his splinted hand vaguely at the cemetery. “I guess cremation is cheaper. You take up less space afterward… but then I thought of when Jason was three and he burned his hand on the stove and I—I just couldn’t.”

  “Thanks for that,” I said.

  “Thanks for helping.”

  “I always thought you and Jason would’ve made a nice couple,” Keats said. “He idolized you, you know. I used to think—I used to think, if they get married, Emma will be part of the family officially.”

  “There’s always hope for Cass and Noah,” I said. He laughed, but it quickly turned into a cough, and then a hiss of pain.

  “How is it?” I asked.

  “It hurts,” Keats said. “A lot. All the time. But the pain meds are expensive, so…” He shrugged.

  “How long are you in the wheelchair?”

  Keats shook his head, looked up at the blue sky. “Forever, probably.”

  “What?” I could feel tears starting from my eyes. “Forever? Does Cass know? There has to be something—”

  “Emma, I can’t even pay the emergency room bill. I can’t afford an elective surgery.” He snorted. “And what would I gain? Even if I could walk, I’ll never work again, thanks to Bullard.”

  “Do you… do you have any money saved?” I knew how stupid the question was even as I heard it leave my mouth.

  “A little,” Keats said. “A month, maybe.” He left the rest unsaid: after that month was up, he and Cass would be homeless. My parents certainly wouldn’t take them in and the shelters were all perpetually overflowing; he and Cass would likely be split up anyway. And even if they had somewhere to live, there was the question of Keats’s medical bills, which would continue to pile up even if he didn’t have any more checkups or surgeries.

  In the space of a few days, everything had collapsed. Even under the blue sky, the world was gray and barren. My hands were shaking as I knelt to put them on Keats’s arm.

  “Take my money. My savings.” He tried to say something, but I rolled over him. “Please. I’m serious. Ten thousand can get you out of debt, right? More or less? And as far as the future, we’ll figure something out. Cass and I are still working and Noah had that job interview last month…”

  “Can you hurry up, please? The bus’ll be here any minute.” Cass stood over us with her arms crossed.

  “Patience, kid,” said Keats. “I just need to tell Emma no thanks and we’ll be on our way.”

  “No thanks to what?” asked Cass.

  “Cass, I know you don’t want to talk to me—” I started.

  “No thanks to what?” she repeated.

  “I was just telling your dad he should take my money. All of it. For the bills, and… and stuff.”

  A dozen expressions flew over Cass’s face like a fighter jet formation passing overhead. One or two of them looked like the friend I remembered. And then, to my amazement, she began to laugh. She laughed up at the blue sky and as she fell to her knees and laid her head on her father’s arm, she was still laughing, but she was crying, too.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she said at last. “Of course you should. Of course you should. And mine. And Jason’s, too.”

  “Mine, too,” said Noah as he came upon our scene. He had a tentative smile on his face, as though he were just waiting for permission to be happy again. “Even though it’s less than everyone else’s.”

  “And so what if we don’t get to go to the Summerlands?” I said. “We’ll always have the feeds.”

  “Better,” said Cass. “We’ll always have each other.”

  ***

  We spent the afternoon getting our various accounts transferred over to Keats. We all shared a bank so the fees were minimal and, as I watched my savings tick over from ten thousand to zero, I felt as though I’d just dropped a hundred-pound sandbag off my shoulders. No price could be put on Jason’s life, no amount could bring him back, but giving away my dreams at least felt like a penance of the appropriate kind.

  We had dinner together for the first time since the attack. Keats paid and for once I didn’t argue. We talked about everything except the Summerlands, but mostly we talked about Jason, telling stories and sharing memories. And if we all compulsively looked at the door every time there was a noise in the hall, nobody admitted it.

  Keats’s constant pain showed most clearly in the way he held his body when he laughed, tense and angled as though it would fall apart if he shook too hard. I don’t think I expected him to be cured immediately upon receipt of our money in his bank account, but it was disheartening to see him clenching his jaw each time he shifted in his wheelchair. Aside from all the cuts and bruises, he’d had his nose and four fingers broken and a few teeth knocked out. But the worst damage was to his spine, where a bullet from Porter’s rifle had lodged between two vertebrae. A long series of expensive surgeries promised to win back his mobility, but until and unless they happened, Keats would stay half-hunched in the chair.

  After dinner, Cass asked me to stay over in her room. I climbed the ladder to the top bunk and nestled into Jason’s sheets, which were still unmade from the last morning he’d gotten out of them. His scent hovered around the bed like a protective spell. As his warmth settled over me, I let myself hope that this might be the first night I didn’t spend chasing my anxieties in a circle.

  “Emma,” said Cass from below me. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have to start again.”

  “Saving money?”

  “Yeah,” said Cass. “Jason would have been pissed if we just gave up. Hey, by the time we get the money together, maybe ticket prices will have dropped again.”

  “That would be nice,” I agreed. “But, Cass…” The words I wanted to say caught in my throat. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Cass, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “It’s okay to be scared,” she said. I rolled onto my side and propped myself up with an elbow. Cass’s face was poking up from the lower bunk and our eyes locked.

  “I’m not scared,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” she insisted. “Summerlands is a dangerous game. And it’s hard to train as a spellcaster without ever seeing the results of your practice. Noah doesn’t care, but I know you have doubts.”

  “That’s not it,” I said. “I mean, it is, but it isn’t. I’ve watched so many feeds over the years… I’ve seen people get killed. We all have. But it’s not the same up close. It’s not the same when it’s someone you… care about. I couldn’t lose you or Noah too, not after this. I just can’t do it. I don’t want to be responsible for your lives.”

  “Responsible?” Cass shoved her sheets away and sat up. “You’re not my mom. You’re not my dad. You’re not my teacher or my tutor or my boss, Emma, you’re my friend. I’m not asking you to carry me. I just want you to watch my back.”

 
; “Cass—” I choked as tears welled up without warning. “Jason would still be alive if not for me. That big cop that killed him, he saw us at the police station the morning after Jamie mugged me. Your dad would be fine. He would still have his job. You have no idea how good it felt to give him all that money. All of this is my fault.”

  “Ha!” Cass reached up and shoved the bunk springs above her head, bouncing me. “You wanna play the blame game? Get in line, sister! Did you forget who was so hell-bent on helping Dad that she locked the window? Jason came after me when he should have been running.” She snorted. “I haven’t slept in weeks. I locked the window. This is why I need you with me, Emma. You’re the only one with any common sense.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, and I meant it. I rolled onto my back and looked up at the ceiling only a few inches away.

  “Practice starts again tomorrow,” said Cass as she climbed back into bed.

  “Go to sleep.”

  ***

  “So yeah,” I concluded, “I guess we won’t be going to the Summerlands after all.”

  Coming home had been a mistake, that much was obvious. My dad hadn’t moved from the couch, where he now grunted something that might have been the word “sucks” as he fiddled with a plastic bottle of painkillers. At least he’d bothered to mute the TV on the wall, where Pixie was chattering into the camera as she strolled down one of the main streets of Wellpoint, ducking into all her favorite clothing stores.

  Mom at least had stood up to talk to me. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I never liked you playing those dangerous games anyway. Now you can focus on your promotion.” In her hand, her phone showed St George kneeling down with his sword like an ancient Crusader. He was praying and the soft murmur of his words floated under our conversation.

  “I haven’t gotten the promotion yet, Mom,” I said.

  “You better,” said Dad from the couch. “You’re twenty now. Can’t be mooching off us and the Keatses forever.”

  “This might be a good opportunity to live a more quiet life,” Mom added. “It can’t be good to be running around in the sun so much. Oh, you can get a good job, start a family…”

  I felt a nasty reply boiling up and choked it back. We’d had this argument a hundred times before, many of them in the fragile last few weeks. It wasn’t worth going another few rounds with them now. I’d lost everything else; I couldn’t bear to lose this fight, too.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going to work. Just wanted to tell you the good news.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” said Mom. She looked at her phone, where St George had stood up from his prayers and was now saying something to the camera. “Oh, Hector, didn’t somebody call for Emma last night? Aren’t you answering your phone, Emma?”

  “Yeah,” said Dad. “Your boss from the restaurant. Wanted to invite you to some party tonight.”

  ***

  “Some party” was right. Mr Fessy filled me in on the details at work and even let me leave a little early (after clocking out, of course) so I’d have time to shower and change.

  I spent my last few dollars on bus fare and as I approached the wide white house of Regional Manager Roger Sorolla and family, I was glad I hadn’t walked. The paint was clean and fresh, the windows unbroken. The front door was a cheerful red and stood open. In a small yard of healthy green grass to the left of the house, a handful of men stood around a grill.

  From that grill came the most mouth-watering scent I’d ever smelled. As I came up a walkway of neat paving stones, I tried to categorize it. At its base, it reminded me more of reconstituted beef than the extruder chicken we usually bought for dinner, but it wasn’t too much like either. Laid over that was something that made me think of the char-broil flavor in some of the grilled chicken meals at Cluck-a-Duck’s, but it had a depth and complexity that made the char-broil chemicals of memory seem sickly and green.

  I ignored the open front door and headed straight for the grill. The men all looked up as I approached and I felt my stomach go fluttery as I glanced from face to face. They were all at least as old as Keats, dressed in clean, sharp button-downs and khakis. Gold gleamed from the watches on their wrists and the rings on their fingers.

  I blew out a relieved breath as I recognized Mr Fessy smiling at me. It had taken me a second: his bright white, well-fitted shirt was like a party hat on a dog. The thought was funny enough to propel me forward a few more steps, until the tallest of the men shifted a long, pronged skewer to his left hand and stuck out his right for a handshake.

  “You must be Emma,” he said. His smile gleamed white and made lines in his tanned face; his flat blue eyes bored into mine. His hand was big and dry as I shook it. “I’m Roger Sorolla, Regional Manager. Fessy says you’re a little genius, isn’t that right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—” He was still holding my hand; I had the feeling he wouldn’t let it go until I’d agreed with him. “I try to work hard.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mr Sorolla. He gestured behind him. I saw an open sliding door, and beyond it, a group of women holding tall, slender glasses in a tidy living room with floors that looked like real wood. “Like the house?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.

  “The entire ground floor is ours. We’re supposed to share the yard with the upstairs, but you know how it is. Takes me two hours every other Saturday to mow it. Two hours! The wife complains, but I’ll go to Hell before I let this lawn get out of hand. Want some cow?”

  “Some what?” I said. He gestured to the grill with his skewer. Sizzling above a low gas fire was the source of the smell that had drawn me over: six gleaming meat patties, dripping fat, with black char lines where they met the grill. Mr Sorolla stuck the tongs into one and tore it partially open to reveal a wavy pink pattern that reminded me of pictures of the human brain I’d seen in school.

  “Cow. Cow. Beef? Real beef? Not that extruder shit.” The surrounding men all laughed at this. “You ever eat real beef, Emma?”

  “No, sir,” I said. My stomach sent a message that I roughly translated as I sure hope we’re about to.

  “He’s so bad!” A woman was coming through the sliding doors, glass in hand. She was skinnier than I was and for a moment I thought she was taller, until I realized she was wearing high heels. Her skin was white and her hair was blonde and held back by a purple headband that complemented her close-fitting lavender dress. “I said, Roger, there’s no need to splurge. Who are you trying to impress? But of course he went ahead and got the good stuff anyway. That’s my Roger.”

  “Emma, this is Mrs Sorolla.” Mr Sorolla pointed at each of us with his skewer. I couldn’t help but notice that this brought the implement farther away from getting me a piece of cow. “Kate, Emma.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” said Mrs. Sorolla. “Goodness, look at those muscles!”

  “Emma is a big Summerlands fan,” interjected Mr Fessy, his bald head popping up between the Sorollas.

  “Who isn’t?” asked Mr Sorolla, and the men all laughed again.

  “Oh, the boys love it!” chirped Mrs Sorolla. “I couldn’t tell you what we spend on T-shirts, action figures, exclusive feeds, even with Roger’s discount. Oh, it’s criminal. But we must have the best for the boys. They’ve got their own bedrooms, would you believe it?” She took in the house behind her with a gesture that slopped a bit of fizzy, tan drink from her glass. “But it’s only what any parent would do.”

  “Well said, darling,” agreed Mr Sorolla. He put an arm around her. “Parenting is hard. Kate was so upset by that business with the police chief. Little bleeding heart, this one.”

  My appetite disappeared as my hungry stomach filled with butterflies. Maybe they’re talking about something else. Please.

  “Well, just imagine!” Mrs Sorolla made another messy gesture with her glass as she pleaded her case to the men around the grill. “Poor Chief Bullard. Jamie will never get into college now, not with t
hat on his record. And forget about a job!”

  Shut up, shut up, shut up. My hands were in fists, clenching and unclenching reflexively. My body had put itself into a fighting stance without being asked: feet spread, back straight, knees slightly bent.

  “The cop who brought in Jamie,” said Mrs Sorolla in a hoarse mock whisper, “I heard his son was killed. Got mixed up with a bad crowd.”

  Relax. Relax. Start with one hand… let’s let go of that fist. There you go. Now the other one…

  “I mean, what kind of terrible father lets his son get killed?”

  “Shut up!” I slapped the glass out of her hand, feeling it shatter under my palm. Bloody shards sprayed across the grass. And as I looked up at the cold, white faces of the men around me, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake.

  Green and Gold

  Everyone was shouting, their faces red with anger or white with shock. Their voices roiled around each other like orange clouds, words and phrases breaking through like scorching sunbeams.

  “Public decency violation—”

  “How dare she!”

  “Assault—assault with a deadly weapon—”

  “Ungrateful little—”

  Mr Sorolla was the only one keeping quiet. The Regional Manager looked at me with naked disgust on his face, then took his wife in his arms as she sobbed noisily over her hand, which had a few scratches from which red was beginning to show.

  “Fessy,” he said. His voice tolled like a church bell and the men around him fell silent. Even Mrs Sorolla’s crying became more subdued.

  “Yes, sir?” said Mr Fessy.

  “This was your recommendation to replace Schneider?”

  “Sir, I had no idea—such breeding—I thought—” As he spluttered, Mr Fessy swept at his mustache again and again in a compulsive, robotic motion. Finally an entire thought surfaced. “Obviously not now!”

  “This shows quite a lack of judgment, Fessy.” Mr Sorolla’s voice was cold.

  “You’re fired!” shouted Mr Fessy suddenly. “Emma—Miss Burke—your services are—don’t come in tomorrow!”