by Gwynn White
The other curtains dropped. A tank behind each of them. The host tank was at the end, wider and taller, the solution vigorously brewing. The man inside looked more like a preserved specimen than a living being. He was nude and mostly hairless. Tendrils drifted in the solution, surrounding his body, massaging it. No respirator. No skin suit.
A blanched, pickled human being.
Henk painted the floor with his breakfast. That was the moment he knew something so completely that it would be his reality until death.
He was never going to tank.
Part III
OBJECTS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR
21
Sunny
After the Punch
The hookah café was on the Lower East Side.
The window was marred with grease pencil advertisements, today’s specials that pretended to end but never did. Inside, the patrons were lumped in a blue haze of hookah smoke.
Sunny avoided a puddle. Her feet were puckered and sore. She’d ditched her socks at Mrs. Jones’s apartment, but her shoes sloshed as she stepped into an aroma of apples and cinnamon.
Donny filled the back corner, his shirt untucked, a square name tag stitched above his right breast. He read the newsfeeds from a tablet and pulled white smoke from a tube. A mint infusion jetted from his nostrils.
There he was, just another day after a late shift, hitting the hookah before heading home. All was normal. All was good. And Grey was still missing.
She approached like a ghost, an undead victim newly awakened, a stranger in a foreign world. Several patrons looked up. Smoke leaked from Donny’s lips.
“Holy shit.”
He grabbed her before she could say anything, pressing her damp shirt that smelled of sweaty plastic. His embrace was the only thing that kept her from falling.
“Grimm,” he said, “the hell have you been?”
She was shaking. Breaking down. This mad ride finally hit a stretch of sanity, a hopeful plane of familiarity. A sense of home. Donny, her longtime peer, the closest thing to a friend, the man that watched Grey as she went for help, the man that disappeared doing it. He was there; he was all right.
Hope lifted its sleepy head. Hello.
“You all right? You look worn out… like you ain’t slept in a month. Sit down.” Donny pulled out a chair and waved at the counter. He pressed her hands between his palms like warm skillets melting a thin sheet of ice. She was cold through her bones, damp and shriveled.
“I tried to call,” he said. “I stopped by. Your voicemail isn’t working; it just keeps ringing. What the hell happened to you?”
“Where’d you go, Donny?”
“I’m right here, Grimm. I’m not going anywhere.” Someone dropped off a glass of water. Donny asked if she was hungry and ordered toast before she could answer. “You look like you been put away wet, Grimm. Rode hard, first.”
She pressed his hands against her cheeks. He smelled manlier than anyone in her life. He put his arm around her, letting her sink against him.
“Hey, hey, lady. It’s all right. You’re all right.”
She didn’t make a sound; tears wet his factory-stained shirt. He patted her shoulder and kissed her forehead. Tension fell away in pieces, unraveling around her, her springs overwound. The world was safe again; it made sense. This wasn’t a dream; she wasn’t crazy. He was here. Donny was here.
She wiped her eyes. “Where have you been?”
“Picking up your slack. I’ve been working doubles since you bailed. Denice hired your replacement yesterday. He sucks, but not in a good way.”
“I… I didn’t quit.”
“It’s been six weeks, Grimm.”
Six weeks? “It hasn’t been…”
“It’s all right. Not a big deal.”
“Donny, you came over to my place.”
“Yeah. I called, too.”
“Grey had the… the thing on his head.” She looked around and whispered, “Maze.”
His brow furrowed.
Her voice cracked. “You stayed at my apartment while I went for help.”
“Um…”
“The other day!” She waved her hands. The days melted together. It could’ve been three days or three months. Tension reclaimed her, resuming an armored suit grip. Donny leaned back. “When your… your friend… your fucking friend, Donny… told me to go… I went to the police and came back and you were… you and Grey were…”
She lost her breath. The chair was sinking into the floor. Donny reached back for the hookah.
“Take a hit, Grimm. Loosen up.”
“Donny, where’d you go?”
He looked around and chuckled. Everyone was watching, all listening. They heard the Maze thrown into the conversation. All ears were on deck. Blood rushed in her cheeks. She shook convulsively.
“Is Grey all right?” he said softly.
All the words, all the happiness, all the relief disappeared like a thick white cloud of smoke blown into the wind. Nothing was safe.
She gulped for air.
“Where have you been, Grimm?”
She shook her head, didn’t know how to answer that, couldn’t really remember where she’d been or for how long.
“You said my friend told you to go somewhere,” Donny said. “What friend?”
“The one from the Glass Jar.”
“I haven’t been there in a lifetime. Who was it?”
She ran her hand over her head, avoiding pulling her hair. “His name was…”
There was no need to finish. His expression was caring but empty. She should’ve known better. Was Donny her friend? She’d worked with him for how long? A year? Five? She couldn’t recall. She didn’t have friends, didn’t know what qualified as one.
This is a mistake.
She shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t be talking to Donny. She should be looking for Grey, pounding on the right doors, not talking to a man she thought was a friend because he was part of this tragedy, recommending his friend, pretending to stay with her son.
She was unwinding into a ball of loose threads, a mop of yarn kinked and scrambled.
“Did you come to my apartment last night?” she said.
“What?”
“When did you come to my apartment? Answer the question.”
“Relax, Grimm. Talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been—”
“Is that yours?” She nodded at the chair behind him. A black coat was thrown over it, rain still beaded on the shoulders.
“Grimm.” He looked around the room. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you need—”
“Is that your coat, Donny?”
“Please,” the man behind the counter called. “Watch your language.”
“Where is he?” Sunny grabbed Donny’s shirt. “Where’s my son?”
He threw his arms out. His doughy cheeks quivered, blotchy patches glowing beneath his eyes. Hands were suddenly on her, pulling her away. She threw them off, kicking over the chair. Donny was blubbering, begging them to be careful, she was having family problems.
Sunny wheeled on the café owners.
“You need to leave,” the man said.
“Wait.” Donny stood up and grabbed the tan coat on his chair. The black one she’d seen behind him, the one with dripping beads of rain, was gone.
She ran.
“Grimm!” Donny gave chase, his arms swinging side to side, his belly hanging out the bottom of his shirt.
“What the hell is going on?” Her voice squelched. “You came to my apartment, Donny. Grey had gone into the Maze… he used a fucking thing on his head and went into the Maze! Do you understand me? You were there and now he’s gone and you’re acting like everything is okay and it’s not, Donny. It’s not okay!”
Donny cringed. Bystanders turned toward her.
“My son is in the Maze, do you hear me? And no one cares. I don’t—”
He reached for her. Sunny pulled away, stepped off the curb, and nearly trip
ped into traffic. Blindly, she walked into the street with no idea where she was going, less certain of where she had been, what was happening.
She ran along the dashed line, traffic swerving. Cursing. The rain came down, blurring streetlights. Rubber skidded on the pavement. Sunny weaved through a sudden traffic jam. She leaped onto the sidewalk with a spike in her side and a fire in her lungs. Pedestrians jumped aside. She didn’t look back, barely looked ahead and ran until her legs vanished and her ankles burned.
Lost and running, a mouse on a wheel, tirelessly sprinting to nowhere, not looking back, not seeing ahead. The world streaked past, the city smeared in a landscape of grays, and swallowed her.
She came to rest beneath the awning of a café, her back against the window. Rain seeped from her hair, briny with perspiration, nose leaking onto her upper lip.
The jagged scar a fresh slash.
Across the street, a storefront window offered a generous view to an empty showroom. Lights softly lit products along the wall and a number on the glass door.
How the hell did I get here?
This was where she started. It all began on this avenue, in front of that vendor. And here she was again, staring at the starting line, no closer to the finish, no closer to her son. This had become a hopeless race through eternity, where nothing made sense, the rungs of the mouse wheel coming around again and again.
Sunny pushed herself up, walked across the street, and ignored the traffic that braked to avoid her. Transfixed, she climbed the steps and pulled at a locked door. She tried with both hands, braced her foot on the wall, and hammered the door. The glass rattled. She was prepared to break it.
“Come out!”
The floor was empty. The stand of cards alone.
They had something to do with this. Donny didn’t disappear one day and forget what happened. They did something, she could feel it. They were high-end tank dealers, licensed awareness leapers. They had answers and gave her silence.
She closed her eyes, slammed both fists into the glass, braced for a shatter, cringed for shrapnel. Her blood would run down the steps and stain the concrete, dissolve into the rain. The blood they deserved.
The blood they wanted.
“Answer! Goddamnit, answer!”
Cars slowed and she continued her assault. When no one came to the door, she was sure the police had been called. They would come to haul her away. There would be a restraining order, charges filed. An investigation into her claims of a son that never existed because they would erase him. They took him and erased him from existence, would convince her he never existed, that she was chasing ghosts, she needed real help.
She searched for a stone or a loose brick. A trash can she could heave through the plate-glass window, bury it on their showroom floor. She wanted attention, someone to talk. She wanted someone to know. Fists clenched, throat raw, she screamed until the words tore at the cords.
“I want my son!”
Pedestrians looked; they stared, but didn’t care. They walked around her radioactive behavior, casting their glances away until she collapsed on the steps and clawed at the glass.
“Where are you?” she muttered.
Inside, the floor was empty. So was she.
Sunny laid her head on the unforgiving steps and closed her eyes. Nowhere to go, nothing to find. This was her last stop. They could call the police, have her locked up. Someone was going to hear her. These people were going to see her desperation. Someone would help. They had to.
Please.
“They’ll come for you.”
Rain popped on a sheet of plastic.
Sunny’s eyelashes refused to unclip.
Through a crust of sleep, a yellow sun moved on her like a headlight, not warm or promising, just cold and wet. The rays transformed into the petals of a chrysanthemum tucked into the rim of a hat. An old face, like that of an aged apple, smiled behind a pair of sunglasses. An old woman was hiding beneath a sheet of clear plastic. The droplets dribbled from her gnarled knuckles.
Mrs. Jones.
“They don’t like you sleeping here.”
The edge of a concrete step bit into the small of Sunny’s back. She sat up, wondering if she’d fallen asleep. It was still daylight, but the rain had subsided to a drizzle. Mrs. Jones looked older. She was still wearing the same clothes as the last time she’d seen her, only now they were frayed and filthy.
“Why are you here?” Sunny croaked.
Mrs. Jones reached into a large bag slung over her shoulder, the fabric torn and wet. The bulk of her treasure was settled at the bottom. She produced a neatly folded square of plastic and placed it in Sunny’s hand.
“You’ll need this.” The gummy smile widened.
Sunny took the plastic, assuming it was a kind gesture to escape the rain, but the weather had already soaked through three layers of clothing. Her flesh was soggy, possessed by a cold that turned her bones brittle. What use was it now?
She looked around, the surroundings suddenly unfamiliar. “Where am I?”
“Stop running.” Droplets spotted the oversized sunglasses, a distorted reflection looking back at Sunny.
“Running? I’m looking for my—”
Horns blared. The grind of rubber on wet pavement ended with the abrupt crack of metal. Sunny cringed, eyes closed, fists clenched.
Cars worked around a center-lane fender bender. The drivers in the accident were out. The woman in the front car hurled curses from beneath a red umbrella at a man that held a black book over his head. Across the street, pedestrians threw hurried glances at the showdown. One of them stopped briefly before rushing against the flow of traffic. He hunched beneath a black umbrella.
The collar of his overcoat was pulled up.
“Hey!” Sunny threw herself off the steps. “Hey!”
She walked through puddles and traffic without looking. A slow-moving Volkswagen crawled in front of her, gently nudging her thigh. The horn wailed. She was oblivious, eyes aimed at the overcoat. The man sensed the attention, glancing over his shoulder without noticing.
He heard the footsteps and turned in time to put up his forearm just as Sunny swung on him. His briefcase spilled papers and folders, a shotgun of rain splattering the print. He cried out in surprise. She latched handfuls of his coat and threw her weight into his chest. He hit a storefront window and dropped the umbrella.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He recovered from the ambush. “Are you out of your mind!”
“Where’s my son?”
Sunny stumbled backward and dropped the square of plastic Mrs. Jones had given her. His cheeks flush with anger, he adjusted his coat and knelt down to pick up the contents of his briefcase. They flopped like rags. He balled them up and stuffed them in like trash.
“The police are coming.” He held up his phone. “I don’t give a goddamn what’s wrong with you, this is assault, the police are coming.”
She grabbed the papers closest to her. There was nothing secret about them, no discreet photos of her around town, no investigative evidence of her son or the Maze. They were legal papers that had nothing to do with her or Gray or Donny or nothing or anything.
He snatched them from her. There was a distant siren.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Sunny knocked his hand away. He pushed her against the wall and she took a swing, tripping over her own feet. He backed off but barricaded her escape, briefcase in both hands. Trapped like a loose zoo attraction, bystanders crowded around, jeering the man in the black coat for pushing her. He was attacked first, he said; he was just holding her until the police got there.
The sidewalk had scuffed her palms. She’d lost a shoe when she fell, droplets of blood oozing from her big toe. The nail broke in half.
“Here.” A woman held an umbrella over Sunny, rain popping on the fabric. “Do you want your plastic?”
She thought Sunny was homeless, the sheet of plastic her only shelter. The plastic had spread on the curb, a pile of tr
anslucent folds holding small puddles. A white card was stuck to it.
The woman with the umbrella dragged it over. Someone helped her fold it back into a square. Sunny pulled the card from one of the folds. It was soggy. She thought it had come from the briefcase, but it appeared to be stuck inside the plastic. A section was torn from the middle.
“Where’d she go?” Sunny said.
“Who?”
“The woman who gave me this.” No one knew what she was asking. They hadn’t seen Mrs. Jones wake her on the step, didn’t notice Sunny cross the street, only saw her attack the man still holding his briefcase.
Sunny described her, the bag, the plastic sheet, the sunglasses. “A hat with a… a yellow flower.”
“You mean Marie?” the woman with the umbrella said.
Sunny shook her head. She didn’t know Mrs. Jones’s first name. “How do you know her?”
“She’s always here. She’s homeless.”
The siren was getting louder. Traffic nearly gridlock.
Homeless. Sunny knew where the shelter was. She had volunteered there many times. And the card she found in Hamlet’s wallet, the one with the snake eating its tail. The sticker on the tin box in Grey’s room.
But it couldn’t be Mrs. Jones. She must be mistaken. The old woman lived across the hall. She had cats and little paper dolls and a picture of Sunny and Grey on her mirror. And she’d been wearing the same clothes ever since the day Grey strapped the punch around his head.
“Stop her!” the man with the briefcase said.
Sunny kicked off her other shoe and ran down the sidewalks, cold puddles splashing over her feet, the pavement rough and unforgiving. No one ran her down or got in her way.
She clutched the white card.
The 511 card wasn’t something new, it was the way it ripped, a bite taken from the 511 tagline—Find something to please yourself. What was left of it spoke loud and sent Sunny running.
Maybe it was a coincidence, just a random occurrence and a mistaken identity. Maybe it was just an old woman that looked like Mrs. Jones that gave her the plastic and filled her days picking up garbage, a good soul, a warm heart that reached out to Sunny and offered her protection from the rain. Maybe the card was on the steps and accidentally stuck in one of the folds when she picked it up and tore out the middle words of the tagline unintentionally. Maybe this was all a coincidence.