Overland

by Graham Rawle

  Everything had been carefully packed into boxes and crates and there were rugs, lampshades and the like lying on top of them. She was sure someone had decided to chuck all her stuff out and, naturally, she was feeling quite indignant about this. She checked through her possessions, but was unable to find anything to confirm whether or not these were actually her things. Then she saw her red armchair in the corner and that really got her mad because she loved that chair. She had almost forgotten she had it because she’d been forced to leave it at her parents’ house when she moved out.

  She had bought the chair with her own money, three dollars, from a man in the neighborhood who sold house-clearance furniture. It was small and low with big semicircular arms. The upholstery was dusty and threadbare, but she adored its shape. Once she’d got it home she set about recovering it with some rich red curtain fabric with a tree motif on it that her mother had stashed away. Not knowing quite how to go about it, she had cut a pattern from newspaper and stitched the fabric together on her mother’s old Singer, securing it to the chair frame with carpet tacks. There wasn’t enough fabric to do the whole chair so she used some other material to cover the seat and back in a similar red, but with a different pattern. The two fabrics contrasted well, and to highlight this she had made a small cushion, no bigger than a phone book, from remnants of the first fabric. The chair looked perfect and she was pleased with what she had achieved; she had never done anything like it before—or since. On nights when she stayed home, she would relax in her room, snuggled into the chair reading magazines or listening to the radio.

  But when Queenie looked again, she saw that the chair on the landing was not hers; it was merely similar in design and color. Its shape was not as pleasing, but the condition was good. If someone was throwing it out, she could, perhaps, take it and make a (nearly) matching pair. That would look nice. She was wondering if she needed to check with someone first, when she noticed the small cushion with the unmistakeable tree motif and was sure that this, at least, belonged to her. She picked it up and held it close to her body. Someone—a woman she did not know—came out of one of the apartments and tried to take the cushion from her, telling her that it was not hers. Queenie was convinced that it was. She held on resolutely, unwilling to surrender what was rightfully hers, but the woman finally managed to wrench it from her grasp.

  “Sit up. Sit up.”

  Queenie was dizzy and confused, still entangled in the dream. She struggled to orient herself.

  She was suddenly racked with pain and instinctively doubled up, wincing as the stomach cramps gripped her. She felt sick and instantly vomited. Ma, who must have anticipated this, caught the contents of her stomach in a mixing bowl and set it on the table.

  “You’ll have to get going. Can you stand?”

  Queenie shook her head.

  “There’s a wad of dressing inside you. Leave it there for a few hours.”

  On the table was a sanitary belt and a Household Assortment box of Kotex Modess napkins. She noticed the drugstore price sticker: forty-three cents. Ma offered the box like they might be saltine crackers. “Here. Take a couple for later.”

  Queenie ignored the offer. She swung her legs over the edge of the table. “I don’t feel so good. It hurts real bad.”

  “Barney will take you back. He’s waiting in the car.”

  “Who’s Barney?”

  “Dr Young.”

  “Should it be hurting this much?”

  “Come on. Up.”

  She slid herself off the desk and stood cautiously clinging to the table. A wave of pain hit her—a jabbing blow to the solar plexus from a heavyweight. Her body folded to try and absorb it.

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “You can. Come on.” Ma gave the sanitary napkin she was holding a little shake as one might use a toy to attract the attention of a baby.

  Out in the kitchen, a nervous-looking girl of about seventeen sat on a straight-backed chair. Queenie entered, fully dressed now, her pallid face shiny with perspiration. She took feeble little steps, holding onto furniture whenever she could to aid her progress. Ma offered no assistance, merely goaded her towards the door. Queenie sucked air between her teeth and winced, barely able to focus on the young girl in the chair. Nevertheless, their eyes met for a second and Queenie realized she’d seen her somewhere before. The audition line at Warner Bros. She was the girl she had seen carrying the fat-legged baby. And now, presumably, with another on the way—for the time being, at least.

  Though the girl didn’t recognize her, she shifted uncomfortably at the sight of her condition. Ma caught it.

  “Pay no mind to her. She’s got a migraine, haven’t you dear? Nothing to do with the procedure. Come on. Quit making a fuss.”

  Outside, Dr Young waited impatiently with the engine running and his windshield wipers swishing back and forth, for it had started to rain. Queenie managed to sit and swing her legs into the car. Ma was quick to slam the door after her.

  Dr Young studied her in the mirror.

  “Blindfold. And don’t puke in my car.”

  She took the blue bandana that lay beside her on the seat, but it was all too much for her. “I can’t. I don’t feel well at all.” She slumped down, resting her head on the seat and closing her eyes.

  “Fine. Stay like that.”

  Dr Young backed out onto the street and set off.

  MEANWHILE The first rain in more than sixteen weeks bounced off the untreated timber roofs on George Street. Water beaded on cables and dripped from the speakers. Flags hung sodden from their poles. Dry clothes that had been hung out on washing lines “to dry” had become wringing wet. Water pooled in the footwells of open-top vehicles as well as, for the first time, in the town square’s ornamental pond. At Overland Lake the rain skimmed the drooping blue surface in shallow waves as it gathered and headed for the drainage hole at its center. Though some plastic varieties got a much-needed rinse, flowers generally did not benefit from the downpour: paper and card disintegrated, their once bright pigments ran and merged together into rivulets of dirty brown.

  During the weeks the sun had been shining, no one in Overland seemed to have anticipated that the weather might turn.

  “You said it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Am I going to be all right?”

  “Don’t call unless it’s an emergency. And if you go to your doctor, don’t say nothing about where you’ve been. Got it? You could go to prison for what you’ve done.”

  “So could you.”

  Dr Young snapped back sharply. “Don’t get fancy with me. I don’t like being threatened.”

  Queenie had no fight in her. “I wasn’t. I can’t afford a doctor anyway.”

  She felt around in her purse for the aspirin, spilled four out into the palm of her hand and popped them into her mouth, crunching them between her teeth and trying to swallow down the bitter crumbs.

  Dr Young watched her in his mirror. “I’ll drop you at the Landmark.”

  “How am I going to get home?”

  “How do I know? Get a cab.”

  “No money.”

  “Can’t you get your boyfriend to pick you up?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Dr Young snorted derisively. “What a heel. Well, I can’t help you.”

  The car swung in to the curbside outside the Landmark. Queenie was still slumped across the back seat. Looking out, Dr Young caught sight of a policeman sheltering from the rain in the doorway of Jay’s Jewelry. Though the cop was minding his own business and hadn’t yet noticed the car, the doctor felt uneasy. He knew that dumping Queenie on the street now was bound to draw the cop’s unwanted attention. He couldn’t risk it.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Burbank. Nine thirteen Lakewood Drive.”

  “OK. I’ll drop you a couple of blocks from there. You’ll have to walk the rest.”

  In Fort Benning, the staff sergeant was on his way thro
ugh the mess hall when he noticed a puddle of water on the floor under a pair of steps. Looking up he saw that the skylight had been left open and it was raining in. He climbed the steps to close the hatch, squinting against the rain falling on his face. As he grabbed the handle to swing the hatch shut he took a quick look out and saw one of the new recruits standing on the roof in the rain. It was Jimmy—stock-still, staring straight ahead. His uniform was soaked through. Rain dripped from the peak of his cap.

  “Shepherd! … Shepherd!”

  Jimmy turned, disoriented.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing sir.”

  “Nothing? It’s pissing rain—in case you hadn’t noticed. What are you doing up there?”

  “I have to move the sheep.”

  “Move the sheep?”

  “It’s my job. Shepherd. Same as my name.”

  “What the blazes are you talking about? What job? Why are you on the roof?”

  Jimmy looked around him as though he was only now becoming aware of his surroundings. It was a good question. Why was he on the roof? And how did he get there? He had no idea. There were no sheep here.

  “Oh, no. Sorry, sir. That’s someplace else. Not here.”

  “Shepherd? You’re not going loco on me are you? I won’t have any crazies in my platoon.”

  “No sir. I just came up here to get some fresh air.”

  “Fresh air? You’re a damned idiot.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You left the skylight open, you moron. The floor’s soaked. Get down here and get it cleaned up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Queenie was in the bathroom at Mrs Ishi’s house, sitting on the toilet. There was blood on the floor, blood on her skirt, blood on her hands—even blood smeared across the tiled wall where she had tried to steady herself. She doubled over in gut-wrenching pain, trying not to cry out.

  As night fell, she lay hunched up on her bed, the Aspro bottle empty on her nightstand. The house felt lifeless and still. Mrs Ishi had left already—halfway to Chicago by now, she imagined. With Kay gone too, it no longer felt like home.

  At around 3 a.m., she dragged herself to her feet and drew back the curtain to look outside. It felt as though there wasn’t another soul in the world. Everything looked damp and heavy from the recent rain. A car rolled slowly by, but there didn’t appear to be anyone driving it.

  Queenie made it downstairs and was standing in the dark hallway wearing her bloodstained skirt—the color turned rusty brown now like old varnish. She picked up the phone, but the line was dead.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE TUNNEL LED out into a parking lot full of automobiles. At the exit a man in a little wooden hut was counting dollar bills. He glanced up. George greeted him genially.

  “Morning. Another beautiful day.”

  The attendant nodded apathetically, resumed his counting.

  George added a little pep. “What have we done to deserve it, huh?”

  The attendant shrugged. He didn’t know and he didn’t care.

  George moved on.

  He found himself on the streets of a suburban shopping area. In many ways it was similar to Overland, yet this place had a seedy edge. There were overspilling trashcans on the sidewalk and across the street the offices and storefronts were dominated by a flashy money-to-loan joint and the frowzy frontage of the Kozy Klub Girlesk Revue. Such places did not feature in the Overland townscape. The other difference was that traffic here was busier and more erratic. Cars weaved in and out, passing each other in lurching stop-start bursts and making left and right turns at will, as if there were no regulated system at all.

  His attention was caught by the greasy but intoxicating smell of hot meat and fried onions. Just around the corner in a side alley was an old home-made hot-dog stand manned by a guy in a flat cap and a grubby apron. He was selling “red-hot frankfurters” in a milk roll for a nickel. The set-up looked none too hygienic, but George could not resist; he was ravenous. He stepped up and bought two, then stood there on the street devouring them. He made a mental note to introduce similar (though more sanitary) food stands in Overland and wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  Once he’d finished eating, he stood outside Gam’s Stationery wiping his greasy fingers on his handkerchief. Stuck to the inside of the store’s window, a poster encouraged customers to Reach Out to Someone Special with a Gibson Greetings Card. The woman in the picture had been represented in such a way that her reaching hand was life-size—as if she were placing her palm flat against the surface of the window. George raised his own hand and rested it on the glass, spreading his fingers to mirror the shape. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a young schoolgirl watching him. He quickly removed his hand and put it in his pocket.

  A little farther on, he paused on the street corner looking up and down, trying to figure out how he might get to Camp Pomona. A middle-aged woman in a smart beige twinset and a single row of pearls stopped to offer assistance.

  “You look a little lost.”

  “Where is this?”

  “This is Fourteenth Street. Fourteenth and Kenwood Parkway.”

  “No. The town.”

  “This is Newtown.”

  “Newtown? That sounds like a made-up name.”

  “Yes, I guess it does.”

  “Where is Newtown?”

  She was unsure how to answer. “Well it’s … here.”

  “I’ve never heard of it before.” He figured it must be some shopping area in Burbank.

  “Can I help you find someplace?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to get to the county fairground at Pomona.”

  “Oh yes. Now, where is that? Heading east, I think. Do you have a car?”

  “I do, but the darned thing won’t start.” He was going to explain why, that it was in fact a fake car with no pedals and a steering wheel that wouldn’t turn, but thought better of it.

  “Well, you could always take the bus. The depot’s just a couple of blocks north.”

  As George headed towards it his path was blocked by a man who, seemingly oblivious to the warm weather, was dressed in a dark overcoat and had a thick woollen scarf tied round his head. He was holding a hand-painted banner, which hung at shoulder height from a pole, proclaiming The End of the World is Nigh. Despite the limited time available, he had made the extra effort to decorate the bottom of his sign with red satin curtain fringe. The man tried to hand George a printed flyer, presumably giving further details, but George sidestepped him and continued along the sidewalk.

  On his way home from dropping off Queenie, Dr Young had gotten caught up in traffic, his path blocked by the commotion going on ahead of him outside the bus depot. A soldier waved his hand up and down a few times. Dr Young nodded, though the message was unclear. The soldier came to explain, speaking to Dr Young through his open window.

  “It’ll be a few minutes sir, just sit tight. We’ve just gotta get this lot loaded up. You could try backing up.”

  Dr Young turned and saw that he was blocked in by the cars behind him.

  “It’s OK. I’ll wait.”

  He turned off his engine and just sat. The rain had stopped and now the air was muggy. Exhaling heavily, he loosened his tie. He took the bandana from the passenger seat and wiped his face with it before stuffing it into his coat pocket. He lit a cigarette and vacantly watched the scene taking place up ahead.

  A sprawling crowd of Japanese men, women and children were being corralled onto the sidewalk to make way for an approaching truck. It rolled up with its rear doors already open and folded back. On the side of the van: Lyon Removal & Storage Co. Let Lyon Guard your Goods. A couple of guys jumped down. They began slinging suitcases in the back from a mountain of assorted luggage stacked in the road. Each piece had been tagged with a tie-on label. Japanese people, similarly tagged, stood and watched, timid and confused.

  Across the street, lines of Japanese were being boarded onto a series of Greyhound buses, th
eir destination window marked “special.” A combination of military police and government officials were supervising the operation. Soldiers lined the street at intervals, ready to round up any strays, stragglers or absconders, or perhaps to protect the Japanese from the taunts and abuse from a crowd of white American bystanders who had stopped by especially to wish them good riddance.

  Some of the Japanese were carrying packages and smaller suitcases as hand luggage. They looked apprehensive as they edged forward towards the front of the bus.

  A smartly dressed woman carrying a small suitcase and a vivid green conure parakeet in a cage attempted to board. A soldier stopped her, grabbing the cage and setting it down on the ground behind him. The woman was ushered onto the bus without it. Next was a boy of about twelve cradling a black cat. The soldier wagged his finger indicating that pets were not allowed. The boy protectively pulled the cat closer to him. Asserting his authority, the soldier made a grab for it and in the scuffle the cat wriggled free and leapt from the boy’s arms. Panicked and confused, the cat crouched low to the ground and darted this way and that, looking for refuge. A woman in the line stooped to grab it, another “helpfully” blocked its path, but the animal was only spooked by such actions and frantically ran out into the road where it was quickly caught under an oncoming automobile. The car pulled up sharply, but the cat lay motionless between the front and rear wheels. The boy broke from the line to rush to his pet’s aid, but the soldier used his rifle to hold him back, pushing him toward the door of the bus.

  The soldier, keen to absolve himself of any blame, kept his back to the scene.

  Dr Young watched from his car. The cat was on its side, staring expressionless into the ground. There was blood coming from its nose and mouth, which opened intermittently to emit a pathetic spluttering sound as the cat snorted out its last bloody breaths onto the asphalt. The car responsible had stopped, but without getting out, the driver was unable to see what was going on. He eased gingerly forward, unwittingly running over the dying animal’s tail with his back tires. There was a slight involuntary movement of its body, but otherwise little reaction to the added assault.