The Crash of Hennington

by Patrick Ness

  (—And so you went away? —I went away. —Where? —Lots of places. It’s not important. —And now you’re back? —And now I’m back. —And you think you’re going to convince her that she’s been wrong for fifty years? —Forty years, and no, I’m not foolish. But in all that time I’ve never forgotten her or been able to set the matter to the side. Something must still be there. I just need to make her see that something. The results will be what they will be, but I think I’ve confessed enough today, Eugene. It’s time to go. Get yourself together. —Where are we going? —There’s someone else in this town I’ve been wanting to meet.)

  36. Max and Talon Discuss the Ramifications of the Weight of Cultural Pressures and Also Buy a Dog.

  —Thank you again, Daddy.

  —Just a little ray of sunshine for a girl who’s under the weather. What are you going to name him?

  —Theodore.

  —That was quick.

  —It seems right.

  —Yeah, I guess it does, doesn’t it?

  —Can he sleep on my bed?

  —Of course.

  —Can he eat at the table?

  —No.

  —Can he rescue me in a fire?

  —I think he might be a little short to pull you anywhere, but his barking would definitely wake us up. Plus, he won’t need to because there won’t be a fire.

  —Tiffany Hinchell’s house burnt down.

  —That was because the forest around them burnt down first. We’re in the city. We’ve got sprinklers. You and me and Theodore are going to be fine.

  —But aren’t we going to move when you’re Mayor? Theodore, down!

  —I don’t think I’m going to be Mayor, pumpkin.

  —Are you going to lose? Hee hee hee hee, stop! He’s tickling me with his tongue! Ha ha ha ha!

  —I don’t think I’m going to run for Mayor after all.

  —Really? Why not? What happened?

  —Nothing happened. It’s just not the right time, not the right decision.

  —But what are they going to do without you?

  —They’ll find somebody else. He’s got your Margo.

  —Bad, Theodore! You leave Margo alone. Can they do that?

  —Do what?

  —Find somebody else.

  —Of course they can. Remember how we talked about democracy? They can choose anyone they want.

  —I thought they wanted you.

  —Some of them wanted me, maybe. Maybe even enough of them for me to win, but that’s not important. I don’t want the job.

  —How come?

  —It’s hard to explain.

  —You said you’d never say that to me.

  —So I did. Fair enough. No, little puppy, over here. Uh-oh.

  —I’ll go get a rag. Keep talking!

  —You just have to be friendly to a lot of people you don’t want to be friendly to. You have to make a lot of promises that you don’t want to make. And I don’t think you get to stay the person you want to be. Do you understand?

  —Yeah, I guess so. Eeeew. But what about being the first Rumour? I thought that was important.

  —It is important, and someday someone will be the first Rumour Mayor. But I can’t run just for that alone. It’s a good reason, but a bunch of not so good reasons outweigh it. Sometimes people think you should be something just because you can be, without taking into account whether it’s actually a good thing for you or not. Like say you were a really good tap dancer—

  —I hate tap dancing.

  —Exactly, but what if you were really good at it and you still hated it? I wouldn’t make you do something you hated just because you were good at it. I would want you to do something you love instead. Understand?

  —Sort of. But wouldn’t I automatically love the thing I’m good at?

  —I hope so, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

  —What do you want to do instead?

  —I don’t know. I’ve had a few ideas, but sometimes that’s okay, too. I do know I don’t want to do this.

  —What about Mrs Larsson?

  —What about her?

  —Isn’t she mad at you?

  —She doesn’t know yet. Look, he’s fallen asleep.

  —You haven’t told her?

  —I’ve only just come to the final decision.

  —She’s going to be mad.

  —She’ll be disappointed but she’ll understand. That’s different from being mad.

  —Better?

  —Better but harder.

  —Why harder?

  —Because anger is usually temporary. It takes a lot of energy and then you get over it.

  —That’s true, isn’t it? Did you hear that? He burped in his sleep!

  —Speaking of sleep, maybe you should join him.

  —Okay, Daddy.

  —That was easy. Are you that tired?

  —Yes. I’m ready.

  —Well, then, get under the covers. I’ll tuck you in.

  —Good night, Daddy.

  —'Night, sweetheart.

  —Daddy?

  —Yes.

  —I don’t mind if you’re not Mayor …

  —Yeah, baby?

  —But what happens now?

  37. What Happened Between Luther and Archie.

  —Good God, Luther, you look stricken. Are you all right, Son?

  —Archie, we need to talk.

  —No good conversation has ever started that way.

  —I want you to know this is very difficult for me.

  —It gets even better.

  —In fact, I don’t even really know how to tell you.

  —Just do, my boy. It’s Archie you’re talking to, not just anyone.

  —I know that. That’s what makes it harder. I don’t know where to begin …

  —Is this about that boy you’ve been seeing?

  —Excuse me? How in the world—

  —How could I not know, Luther? I have a network over the whole city. I find out stuff I don’t even want to know. Like this. Your private business.

  —Thomas?

  —No, surprisingly enough.

  —Then who?

  —Jules.

  —Jules? How the fuck—

  —He used the boy’s … ‘services’ once and got him talking. You know how Jules is. In another life, he would have been a great spy. This boy—

  —His name’s Peter.

  —Okay, then, this Peter let slip that he’d fallen for you, I guess. He had no idea of the connection between Jules and you, and Jules didn’t tell him. It was complete coincidence.

  —How long?

  —A couple of months. You know Thomas. He forces those people to work constantly. It isn’t pretty, but it’s his way.

  —And you didn’t mention it to me?

  —You didn’t mention it to me, confirming my feeling that it was your private business. You’re allowed to have your own life, Luther. I’m not an ogre.

  —I know you’re not an ogre.

  —So what’s this all about? Does this Peter person have you in some kind of blackmail situation? Because I can take care of that.

  —No, no, that’s not it. It’s nothing like that at all.

  —Is it Thomas? Because I can fix that, too. He’s a difficult one, but money usually settles things with him.

  —No, it’s not Thomas.

  —Well, was it just telling me that this had gone on? Because I don’t really care about that either. I can’t say that it wouldn’t be a bit awkward if the new Chairman was in love with a hooker, but worse things have happened. The Board would get over it. Is that it? Are you in love with him and afraid to tell me? Because that’s nothing, Luther. I don’t care. I just want you to be happy. It sure as hell won’t prevent you from following me into the Chairmanship if that’s what you’re worried about. I own the goddamn company. They’ll do what I tell them.

  —No, that’s not it. Well, part of it, I guess. I do love him. That’s where it starts.

&nbs
p; —Then what is it? You’re giving me fucking heart failure here, Luther.

  —I can’t accept the Chairmanship, Archie.

  —What? Why not?

  —There’s more. I have to leave Banyon Enterprises.

  —I don’t understand.

  —I quit. I can’t take the Chairmanship at the next Board meeting. I can’t stay in my current position. I can’t accept the future as it’s laid out now. I have to get out. I’m sorry, Archie. I’m very, very sorry.

  — … God, you had me scared there for a moment, boy! Whew! Not a nice thing to do to an old man, let me tell you.

  —I’m being serious.

  —Of course you’re not. It’s nerves, Luther! Nerves, pure and simple. Everyone gets cold feet now and then.

  —Archie—

  —No, no, no, no, no, you’re just a little intimidated now that the moment of truth is here. That’s all. Nothing to worry about. Do you think I didn’t have my doubts when I was moving up? I did. Big ones.

  —Archie, I’m telling you the truth.

  —Son, I know you think you are. You’re under a lot of pressure, and you’ve been handling it all so well. It’s admirable that it’s taken this long for you to crack a little. Nothing to worry about at all. Happens to the best of us.

  —This isn’t cold feet.

  —Of course it is.

  —Archie—

  —I don’t want to hear anything more, Son. Just take whatever time you need to adjust to things, and that’ll be fine.

  —Please don’t make this harder than it is.

  —I don’t want to hear this, Luther. What you’re thinking, well, you’re mistaken. I know it seems right to you now, but you’re facing a big decision and you’re just blanching a little. Don’t make it more than it is.

  —I’m not making it more than it is. I wish I were.

  —So what exactly is it that you’re telling me here? Be sure about it, Luther. We’re in unknown territory, and I don’t like it.

  —I know. Trust me, I don’t like it either. I detest the fact that this conversation is necessary, but I have no choice.

  —There are always choices.

  —This is life or death for me, Archie.

  —It’s a job, Luther. It’s not life or death.

  —It’s not who I am. It’s not what I want to be. It’s not what I want my life to be like.

  —You’re almost forty. Isn’t it a little late to be deciding what you want to be when you grow up?

  —Yes, but hopefully not too late.

  —So you’re saying to me you want to opt out completely? You just want to chuck it all based on some vague feeling of personal unfulfillment?

  —It’s more than that.

  —Then quit beating around the fucking bush and tell me what you mean!

  —There’s nothing I can say that can properly express my gratitude to you. Nothing. You literally took me out of a desperate situation and became my father.

  —You never took my name.

  —I know, because I didn’t want to forget who I was. And that’s the problem.

  —That you’re going to forget the first ten years of your life?

  —Twelve years, but yes.

  —So what about the last twenty-odd? Have those meant nothing?

  —Of course not. I couldn’t repay you if you lived another eighty years.

  —That’s not going to happen. And you can repay me by doing what you’ve wanted to do all along. It’s a simple thing, Luther. Don’t let some misgivings fuck up your whole future. And mine. Let’s not forget that I’m involved in this, too.

  —I know. That’s what makes it so difficult.

  —You really want to quit the whole thing? You really want to just toss a lifetime of my care and love for you right out the window. For what? Some whore? Some entertainment who gives you the business?

  —No. Peter is the catalyst. He’s not the reason.

  —What does that even mean?

  —It means that falling in love with him finally let me let go of this rushing inevitability I’ve been trapped in.

  —You haven’t been trapped in it, Luther. You could have talked to me any time, but goddamnit, what’s the meaning of coming to me now? Now, five days before I retire, when nothing can be undone, when the die’s already been cast.

  —I can’t be you.

  —I don’t want you to be me.

  —That’s not true, and we both know it. I’m the son that Thomas never was. I’ve tried to be, Archie, and frankly, I’ve succeeded. But I can’t take over Banyon Enterprises for good. I can’t. There’s no going back from that. If I do, then I will have completely sacrificed any chance I had to ever make a life for myself, to ever fulfill what might have been when I lived in Tishimongo Fair.

  —You don’t think this is better than what you would have gotten growing up in a pisswater bordertown?

  —It doesn’t matter if it’s better. It’s not mine.

  —What do you want then?

  —I don’t know. I just know that I don’t want this.

  —I don’t understand you. Every boy in that town would have killed to get the chances you’ve had.

  —But I didn’t kill, and I didn’t choose. It was chosen for me. When my parents died, I somehow just gave up my will to you, to circumstance, to the opportunities in front of me. I decided that I had to accept whatever happened. I was afloat on chance and whatever came my way was supposed to be my future.

  —And you’re saying that you’ve realized, just now, just this week when the most important event in the history of Banyon Enterprises is going to take place, you’ve realized just now when hundreds of people and billions of dollars are riding on you, you decide now that this has all happened to you rather than you having your own part in it? Because I just want to be clear here, Luther. You’re fucking me because bless your little heart you would rather have been a humble blacksmith instead of the most powerful man in the city. Do I have that correct?

  —Archie, it’s not like that—

  —You selfish whiny little prick. I’ll say it again, I don’t understand you. I don’t know where this is coming from, except that all of a sudden you seem to have given up a lifetime of levelheadedness to start thinking with your dick. You come in here and tell me that I can’t retire, that all my great plans for you have to be canceled because you haven’t been able to grasp some destiny that you can’t even articulate?

  —Archie—

  —No, not another word. You’ve hurt me, Luther, where no one else ever has. I’m blindsided and dumbfounded. Everything is ruined now. Do you realize that? Do you realize the extent of this?

  —Yes, I—

  —No, no. I can’t listen to you any more. Go. Get out. I have to think. I have to … get out, Luther. I can’t believe you’ve done this to me. I just don’t believe it.

  —All right, I’ll go …

  —Luther?

  —Yes?

  —One question.

  —Yes?

  —Are you sure? Because there’s no going back. If I say you don’t want it, you’ll never have credibility in this business ever again. If you say no now, it’s no forever.

  —I’m sure, Archie. I’m sorry, but I am.

  —Then never set foot in this office again.

  38. Maggerty on the Move.

  Step. Step. Step. Step.

  The sun draped its heat over Maggerty so that it felt like he was walking under a great heavy blanket. He’d had nothing to eat all day and had vomited up the muddy water he had taken at the pond in the Arboretum. Something was wrong. His head was a miasma of fever and hot visions that buzzed with terrible colors. His wound throbbed, making him feel all the sicker. And this heat …

  He was having trouble keeping up with the herd, sometimes losing sight of them as the last animal disappeared around street corners and behind buildings. He had been sick before, many times in his life, colds, flus, injuries from falls, a bout of Battery Pox which had nearly kille
d him until an angel in a white room had stabbed him gently in the back several times with the thinnest of knives. After a brief, cool, honey-like time of white cloth and bright sunlight, he awoke again, healed, surrounded by the herd in the fields just south of Hennington. Yet, save for that one occasion, he had never completely lost them. A part of him knew that he wouldn’t now, but the fear that this could be, would be the first time he lost them for good drove him forward step by step by reluctant step.

  In those rare moments when he could piece together a coherent thought, Maggerty suspected his current illness had to do with yesterday’s walk along the Bracken River, northeast of Hennington. The Bracken was befouled, a perennially murky strip of water over loose, salty clay that had worked its way into the surrounding soil, killing all local foliage except for a few gnarled elms that grew out of the red landscape like angry plumes of smoke. From where the Bracken emerged at the edge of the Brown Desert to the small, violent delta where it met the sea, the surrounding land was essentially dead, a breeding ground only for the viciously biting desert gnat, otherwise devoid of both humans and animals alike except for members of either group who came near the Bracken only while in the process of heading for the other side.

  But The Crash had not crossed the Bracken, and Maggerty was at a loss as to why they had even gone. The lead animal had walked them out of the city’s northeast corner, through a suburban neighborhood of brightly colored houses and whitewashed fences. Maggerty sensed something unusual when they walked past the area’s only park – a small, sandy place, but with some grass nonetheless – and headed on towards the river. He felt some uneasiness among the animals as well, though he had imagined such things before to no result. But when the herd reached the red, crumbly bank of the Bracken, he definitely heard some low moans among some of the animals waiting near the back of the group where he stood. The ground was not easy to walk on even for Maggerty, much less for the animals, some of whom approached four tons. It gave in odd spots, was alternately soft and hard, and filled with jagged agate stones that could cut through even the thick-soled feet of members of the herd. The air swarmed with inflamed desert flies, irritated that their underground nests were being trampled upon. Maggerty’s hands worked in a flurry trying to keep them from biting his exposed skin. Why had she brought them here?