Solomon's Ring

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  My face burns. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” I pop ­several bags of sweet potatoes and dandelion greens into my basket. My video watch buzzes. It’s Jasmine.

  “Hey, you,” I say, bringing her up on the screen. Vivienne and Lily crowd around me to wave. “How’s City Hall this morning?”

  Jasmine grimaces. Her long, dark hair is curled to frame her face, and her eyes are darkly lined with ­makeup. “It’s fine.”

  I laugh, knowing how much she hates being all done up. “Doesn’t sound fine. Are you wearing a cocktail dress?”

  “No,” she says through gritted teeth, panning out to show us her outfit of a tight black tank top, skinny jeans, and black combat boots.

  “I think you look great,” Lily says from over my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “A photo shoot for posters about the new train and vehicle stop-and-search bylaw and the ­importance of full compliance. Yet another way to try to keep ­immigrants out of Toronto. And then we’re doing some sort of promotion for drought-resistant green garden roofs on residential buildings to increase the local food ­supply. Fun and games.” She rolls her eyes.

  No matter how tired we are being out at this time in the morning, at least we’re involved in ­something good that directly helps people. Jasmine had to be at Mayor Smith’s office at seven to start the photo shoot on the green roof at City Hall. The shoot is pure ­propaganda, ­according to Jazz, a first step to having every Torontonian ­question any and every ­unfamiliar face they see. Mayor Smith is starting checkpoints where any motor vehicle or train coming into the city limits will be stopped and ­thoroughly searched. And she’s ­setting up an ­anonymous site where people can report ­suspicious activities or ­neighbours who seem to be ­acting strangely … ­including anyone speaking out about the government.

  “Listen, Sandra … Mayor Smith … she just told me to let you know that there’s pretty significant delays ­expected on the subway today. Engineering work last night didn’t get fully completed or something like that. She said you need to bus it to the condos.”

  “Great,” I reply. “That should only add about half an hour and a ten-minute walk to our day.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, kids. I wanted to let you know because she was pretty adamant that I tell all the committee members. Mom and Mr. Khan know that there is no other option.” She glances over her ­shoulder at something behind her. “Gotta go. I wouldn’t want to waste any of their precious time.” She winks before ­ending the call.

  I turn to Vivienne and Lily. “Ugh. I totally have to pee if we’re going to be in transit that long. Can you cash out, and I’ll meet you outside?”

  “Sure,” Vivienne says, taking my hemp bags from me. Her biceps bulge as she takes on the extra weight. All of us have become so lean and strong.

  The washrooms are at the back of the store. My ­bladder is pressing uncomfortably, so I break into a light jog. It’s like a ghost town in here at this hour anyhow, so there’s no one around to give me stink eye for running to the ­bathroom.

  I’m thinking about the stop-and-search laws, and the fact that anyone who doesn’t comply, or worse, who is found to be harbouring or transporting ­climate-change refugees or immigrants of any kind, will face prison time … when this guy suddenly steps out in front of me, his arms piled high with bags of sweet potatoes and cornmeal.

  My legs don’t get the frantic message my brain sends them until it’s two seconds too late.

  I crash into him, and for a moment his grocery bags seem to hang in the air like hot-air balloons before ­crashing to the floor. One of the bags splits open, sending a tidal wave of tiny yellow fragments all over the floor.

  “Well, I guess it’s too late to tell you to watch where you’re going,” a soft voice says.

  I look up, face burning. To my surprise, the guy is about my age. His hair is shocking orange, and his eyes are deep blue. He’s got this strange, almost pinched look to his face. He flashes me a lopsided smile.

  “Shit … I’m so sorry,” I reply. I crouch down and ­attempt to scoop up some of the cornmeal, placing it back into the bag, which is split cleanly down the ­middle.

  The boy crouches down beside me and starts ­laughing. It’s a warm laugh that for some unknown ­reason seems familiar. He puts his hand over mine. Heat radiates from his flesh.

  “Thank you for the effort, but I really don’t think it’s going to work.” He pauses and shoots me a lopsided grin. “By the way, my name is Seth.”

  There’s no way I’d usually be okay with some random guy touching me, let alone putting his hand on me, but I am actually liking this.

  “I’m Jade.” I stop my futile attempt to salvage the spilled cornmeal. “God, I really am sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

  Seth shakes his head and runs a hand through his spiky orange hair. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. He pauses and raises an eyebrow at me. “However, there is a way you could pay me back….” A pink bloom spreads across his alabaster cheeks.

  I wait. I’ve got this strange, irresistible urge to touch him more, to reach out and kiss him. What the hell is going on? Have I been away so long that all of my ­puberty hormones have come rushing to the surface all at once?

  “Would you meet up with me one late afternoon this week? Before curfew? Maybe for chicory or tea? We could maybe take our drinks and sit near the lake?”

  My eyes widen with surprise. “Yeah,” I say, without even taking a second to think about it. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

  We arrive at the condo buildings about forty ­minutes later than we expected to. Even with the windows open, the bus was suffocatingly hot and smelled ­strongly of ­unwashed feet and body odour, an ­unfortunate ­consequence of the humid weather and people taking Mayor Smith’s calls for everyone to do their part ­cutting back on water ­consumption ­seriously. Definitely, fewer showers and baths seem to be happening in Toronto these days. Even though I’m doing my part and cutting back, I still make good use of a facecloth and soap on the days we’re ­supposed to be skipping full-on cleaning. I’d like to know if our precious mayor ever sacrifices her daily cleanse. Somehow I doubt it.

  “God, I feel sick,” Vivienne says, holding her hand over her nose as we get off. She stops to readjust the ­knapsack full of food on her back. “That was vile.”

  “Look at this,” Lily says, pointing at the cement light post we’re standing in front of. It’s covered with posters showing lost pets. “At least seven posters of missing dogs and cats have been posted in just the last week and a half. So sad.”

  I stare at the posters. Photos of happy, well-loved pets stare back out at me. Some of the images are in colour, some in black and white. Rewards are offered for most of them. For some reason they make me remember how desperately I wanted a kitten when I was young. The demon who abducted me from our front lawn had somehow known how badly I wanted a cat. That’s how it tricked me into going with it. By the time I realized what was ­happening and began to scream, there was no one around to hear me. No one but the lost souls in the Place-in-Between.

  “Probably some sick bastard who gets his jollies from torturing animals is responsible for the disappearances. Or maybe someone’s eating them,” Vivienne says as we cross the street and walk toward the condos where the deliveries are to be made. “I’m sure a few actual lost pets are in the mix as well.”

  We reach the condos and rest for a few moments on a bench under the canvas awning at the front of the first building, listening to the grasshoppers sing as they ­jump up and down in the long, dry grass all around us. Like everything else, the grass is dehydrated and pokes ­ ­uncomfortably into my legs and back each time I move even the slightest little bit. I find myself staring at the cloudless sky, thinking about Seth.

  “What’s with the Cheshire grin?” Lily asks.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re sitting ther
e smiling away like we’re about to dive into an icy pool, rather than climb a zillion stairs in this heat.” Lily gives me a playful punch on the arm.

  For a half a second, I think about telling Vivienne and Lily about Seth. But for some reason, I kind of want to keep him a secret — for now, anyway. My life story was splashed all over the media last year, so it feels kind of good to have a secret all to myself.

  “Naw, it’s nothing. Want to split the buildings or just divide up the different floors in each?” I ask, getting up. I want to get this over with. Sweat is already staining the neckline of my cotton T-shirt and rolling down my back. With heat this insane, there’s bound to be a severe storm and power cuts by midafternoon.

  “Let’s take a building each and meet back out here under this awning when we’re done. Make it a bit of a race,” Vivienne says, getting up and twisting a colourful cotton scarf around her dark, curly hair.

  Lily frowns. “Sometimes they want to talk for a bit, the residents … and I feel bad just dropping the food and running off. A lot of these people are really lonely. We’re often their only visitors all week.”

  “Suit yourself,” Vivienne says, shifting from side to side to stretch her long, lean legs. “I’ll see you back here when you get done. Wake me up if I’m asleep.” She grins widely and sprints across the empty parking lot between the building we’re in front of and the one next to it.

  “Do it whatever way you want,” I say to Lily as soon as Vivienne’s out of earshot. “And I agree with you about not just dropping stuff off and dashing. Sometimes I think our visiting the residents makes them happier than getting the food. Why don’t you take this ­building? I’ll take the far one.”

  “Thanks,” she says, relief spreading across her face. She gives me a quick hug. “I just feel really bad for so many of them. See you soon.”

  I reach my building and discover that the ­elevators aren’t running, which is no big surprise. I’ve got ­deliveries to do from the seventeenth floor down, so I decide to start at the top, since it will be easier.

  Apartment 1705, where Mrs. Li lives, is my first ­delivery. She opens the door about half a second after I knock. It’s clear she’s been waiting for me.

  “Jade!” she says, her wide smile creating ripples in her papery, sun-spotted cheeks. She’s dressed in a faded floral sundress, her dark hair pulled back off her ­sagging face. Tufts of thin hair peek out from under the red ­fabric headband framing her face. “How are you, love?”

  “Good,” I say, letting the knapsack fall from my back to the well-loved, Moroccan-inspired carpet with a thud. It’s such a relief to have it off, I feel like I could float away like a helium balloon. “I managed to get a bit of dry cat food for Pudding. It’s made out of a ­variety of ­rodents and things, I think.” Pudding is Mrs. Li’s ­elderly grey tabby. Not only has it been hard for vulnerable people to get food and other necessities for ­themselves, it’s been nearly impossible to keep their pets alive. And Pudding, last time I was here, was ­definitely walking a thin ­tightrope between life and death, her ribs jutting out of her body like skeletal ­fingers.

  “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Li says, putting her hand on my forearm. “Pudding will be glad to see you. I put out some traps the other night and managed to get three mice for her.”

  Staring at her painfully thin shoulders as she shows me into the kitchen, I wonder if she actually needed that mouse meat for herself.

  “Do you want me to put the groceries away before I go?” I ask. “I can’t stay long, unfortunately … subway delays and stuff … I had to take two buses to get here.”

  Mrs. Li’s face falls with disappointment, and I think about how right Lily was about the importance of our visits for easing loneliness. I make a mental note to talk to Jasmine about the possibility of establishing a wing of the Youth Committee to do more outreach in terms of company for the vulnerable and ensuring their companion pets are as healthy as possible. Maybe we could even offer dog-walking or try to get vets to make the occasional visit with us.

  “Any tasty spuds in there?” she asks, her eyes flashing with hunger.

  I nod as I begin to unpack my knapsack. “I managed to get you a bag of sweet potatoes. And some really nice dandelion greens that will need to be eaten soon.”

  “You can leave a couple of the potatoes out with those greens, love. I’m going to have the last of my honey on them for lunch.” She opens a cupboard and takes out a baking tray, her mottled hands shaking ever so ­slightly as she carries the tray to the counter. “Only a few years ago, I’d have thought nothing of boiling them up. But now … I know it’ll take triple the time, but at least baking won’t waste water, and if I cut the veg up ­really small, it’ll cook faster and I’ll save more energy that way.” Sadness fills her eyes. “My years on this Earth are numbered,” she says, “but I worry about what the future holds for all of you young ones.”

  I smile at her. “Let me rinse and cut those before I go,” I say. “And don’t worry. Things will get better. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it will get better, but at least we have a leader that’s looking out for us. Didn’t you hear that Mayor Smith is going to be giving all residents of Toronto drinking water? Delivered right to our front doors like this for people like me who can’t get to the grocery shops any longer.”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know that, which is strange because usually my sister keeps me pretty ­updated on everything going down at City Hall. Do you have a ­peeler?” I ask, picking up one of the potatoes and ­absently scraping some dirt off of its orange skin with my index finger.

  Mrs. Li nods, shuffles over, and opens one of the kitchen drawers. She retrieves a stainless steel potato peeler that looks like it’s seen much better days.

  “Did they say anything about the water supply for people outside Toronto? It seems like things are a lot more grim for people trying to live off well systems. Or in smaller communities. The groundwater’s all dried up.”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Li answers, her eyes lighting up from within the folds of crepey skin framing them. “I ­believe they’re part of the water delivery scheme as well. And Smith is making sure they get tablets that will protect them from radioactive waste and also ­apparently help prevent dehydration. Maybe they’ve had some sort of intelligence about a threat. What do you think?”

  It’s hard for me to feel the same enthusiasm for Smith, though I wonder why Jasmine hasn’t mentioned the drinking water stuff to me. The plan, at least from what Ms. Li is saying, sounds pretty good to me. Maybe Jasmine isn’t being as open-minded as she could be. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  JASMINE

  The first bomb went off at 9:00 a.m. sharp. It detonated on a subway train that was snaking its way ­westward, leaving the platform of Bloor Station, bound for the ­underbelly of Bay Street. The subway wasn’t packed ­because it was a Saturday morning, not ­the ­weekday rush hour. Still, there were at least a dozen ­passengers aboard that ­particular car, many coming back from night shifts as cleaners or security guards in office buildings. Others were just starting out on their journey to work long hours in retail shops and ­fast-food restaurants.

  The second bomb exploded five minutes later, this time on a southbound train as it pulled ­alongside the ­platform at Queen Station. People waiting to ­disembark were blown out the sliding doors, ­resulting in bits of flesh and dismembered body parts being strewn all over the tiled floor of the station in a ­fifteen-foot radius.

  One of Mayor Smith’s assistants, a slim guy with ­ginger hair and a perpetually red face, came ­running across the roof in the middle of our shoot. I was ­standing in the ­centre of one of the vegetable gardens planted on the roof of City Hall, holding up a bunch of ­freshly picked chard and spinach with two little kids, the son and daughter of some city councillor, at my side. Neither of them could’ve been over the age of seven, and ­despite the gia
nt straw sun hats perched on top of their heads, they were both sweating like lit candlesticks. The­ ­photographer kept snapping photos, but I stopped ­paying attention to the camera and instead focused my attention on Smith’s face. It was pretty clear whatever was happening was serious. Mayor Smith’s head was bowed over the assistant’s tablet, her brow ­furrowed with ­concern.

  “Jasmine!” Smith said, waving me over. I dropped the vegetables as her assistant approached.

  “We’re going to have to do this another time,” he said. The tension in his voice was like a coiled spring.

  “Okay,” I replied with a shrug. If there is one thing I’ve learned since discovering that I’m a Seer, it’s to try to keep my emotions as neutral as possible. So I wasn’t going to worry or panic, no matter what was going on.

  “The mayor needs you. Now,” he snapped, his face turning nearly purple. “You two come with me,” he said, holding his hands out to the two children.

  It’s hard to believe all of that happened just over twenty minutes ago. The shock of the news is wearing off, and now I’m sitting in a secure conference room in the depths of City Hall with a smattering of ­councillors, the police chief, Mr. Jawad, and Mayor Smith. It’s the first time I’ve actually been in the same room as Mr. Jawad. He’s wearing a navy linen suit, and his eye patch is silver today. When we were introduced, he wouldn’t shake my hand.

  “Superbugs. I don’t take chances,” he said with a smile, quickly moving his hand out of reach.

  Weird, but I guess it takes all kinds. Besides, we’ve got a lot more important things to deal with, ­considering what’s going on. I’ve managed to reach Mom and Jade, but Mr. Khan’s phone is going straight to messaging. I hope he got my text earlier today about ­avoiding the subway.