People Park

by Pasha Malla

  Around the dining hall, the packages were unfolded — the Mayor’s collapsed — and murmurs rippled around the room. At the neighbouring table, Wagstaffe displayed his creation: seared into the fabric was the Silver Personality’s self portrait. And so it was with everyone, hundreds of effigies of the attendees’ own faces, rendered in striking realism. The Mayor’s own napkin bore only a brown smear — hideous, possibly fecal.

  See? the illustrationist laughed. Now you see. Just a simple illustration.

  The Mayor launched to her feet, clapping. Wonderful, wonderful. On behalf of us all, thanks a bundle for the trick. But now let’s eat, you’re our guest, not our entertainer. And we’re here to celebrate the park, after all, twenty-five years of People Park, let’s not forget. It’s the Silver Jubilee — she sensed hysteria mounting in her voice, paused, breathed. Please, sir, relax, enjoy the IFC’s fine cuisine. A round of applause for our guest!

  Hands tapped.

  The main course arrived: squab with toasted almonds atop the requisite IFC flat, steamed sparrowgrass on the side. Raven slouched in his chair, draped his napkin over his face, appeared to nap. Though the Mayor’s meal tasted weirdly bilious, she ate every bite, sawing the sour grey meat into little cubes that she chewed to oblivion and swallowed, until all that remained were bones, a rubbery dimpled flap of skin.

  The dessert carts began to circle the room. Raven peeked out, snatched the napkin from his face, leapt to his feet, snapped three times, and screamed, Who wants to see, before we retire, one final illustration?

  Hooting. Feet stamped, laps were drummed. An apple flat was held aloft in salute.

  Raven slid behind the Mayor, took her napkin, and placed his hands, as heavy and hot as fire-baked stones, on her shoulders. She squirmed, he squeezed. From his fingers heat entered and spread through her body, along her arms into her fingertips, through her torso down to her feet. Her face tingled, relaxed. Raven released her, turned to a passing dessert cart, said, May I? to the young woman wheeling it, swept all the flats into the white cloth, shook the bundle, and opened it: empty.

  Wild applause.

  Please, Mrs. Mayor. Please, if you could just lie upon this cart.

  The crowd cheered: Mayor, Mayor, Mayor!

  Summoned with a curling brown finger, as a patient called to a surgeon’s table the Mayor lay down on the dessert cart, her legs hung off at the knee. She felt nothing beyond distant, dreamy worry, almost a memory of the emotion even as it occurred. The illustrationist draped the sheet over her midsection. In his hand materialized a whip with a grip of two knotted snakes.

  Cutting a woman in half, intoned the illustrationist, is delicate business. It is most important to ensure that she remains — Raven fingered the whip — alive at both ends.

  He tossed her napkin up and snapped the whip: the fabric fluttered in two halves to the floor. The brown stain had vanished. Wagstaffe yelled, Huzzah!

  All this seemed vague, the room shimmered, the Mayor felt herself not quite falling asleep — but fading. She was only hazily aware of the illustrationist looming over her, grinning, eyes like two black slots.

  I hope you can forgive me, he whispered, for what I am about to do.

  The crowd waited.

  The illustrationist stroked her midsection with the whip, lazy and serpentine. He closed his eyes. Once, twice, three times he stroked the Mayor’s body with the whip. Then, with drama, he cocked it behind his head. It has been said by one of my predecessors, said Raven, that one receives just desserts in accordance with one’s beliefs. His eyes opened — in them the Mayor saw herself, reflected — and he screamed, So be it! and the whip swooshed through the air.

  There was a moment of silence and stillness, as if everyone in the dining hall had inhaled at once. This was broken by a clumsy, clumping noise, like a piece of furniture knocked over. A gasp resounded around the room.

  And then silence.

  The Mayor felt a surge of satisfaction: the trick had failed!

  But they were applauding now, a few scant claps that swelled quickly into a standing ovation. People roared and shrieked. Someone smashed a glass. Favours cackled. Noodles nodded. Magurk whispered, Holy fug, look at that. Wagstaffe fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. Even Griggs’ waxen face seemed to have come alive with delight.

  You see? laughed Raven, nudging the cart forward.

  The Mayor looked down.

  By its wheels, her legs lay in a heap on the floor.

  VII

  ROM WITHIN THE HOOD of his sweatshirt Calum watched his mother’s back, or the bones of it beneath her dress, the coathanger of her shoulderblades over which the dress draped, through its thin fabric her ribs and spine. Eyes on the little TV propped on the kitchen counter, Cora stirred the pot of corn-in-a-can with a mix of tenderness and fatigue, slowly, round and round.

  Calum turned his attention to the empty plate before him, pressed down on the tines of his fork and angled the handle upward. Across the table, in a matching sweatshirt, his little brother Rupe began to do the same thing.

  Calum snatched Rupe’s fork, a flare of pain shot down his cheek. He touched the tender, puffy skin around his left eye, wondered if something was broken, if you could break your face.

  Rupe watched him carefully.

  Be nice to each other, said their mother. It’s so rare we’re together, be nice, please.

  Yeah, Calum, said Rupe.

  In a careful voice Cora said, How’s Edie?

  Calum folded the fork around his wrist, admired his new jewellery.

  Cal? I said: How’s Edie?

  No idea.

  His mother stirred the sauce. On the TV, Isa Lanyess, so classically, equinely handsome, with her cheekbony grin and thick batting lashes, counted down the week’s most popular Faces. At number three, she said, what do you know? It’s me, Isa Lanyess, In the Know. And then she threw to a clip of herself that morning, hair whipping around her face as Raven’s helicopter descended into the common.

  She’s up two spots from last week, said Cora.

  Calum imagined a punch landed between his mother’s kidneys, the wet paper crumple of that pitiful body around his fist.

  So, Cal, are you going to the Room after dinner?

  Her voice was the faint whimper of mice in the wall.

  Cal?

  Yeah, he said. But talking hurt, his eyes watered, he blinked away the tears.

  It’s so nice you do that, Cal, with those kids. You’re so talented — and generous too! Cora gave him a proud look. The sauce sputtered. Calum hid inside his hood.

  Isa Lanyess was back: At number two, holding strong from last week, Lady Y’s Lingerie Pillowfight Extravaganza. It’s the quarterfinals —

  Well we don’t need to see that, said Cora with a nervous laugh, snapped the set off, and announced, Dinnertime!

  Onto the table she slid Calum’s and Rupe’s dinners, a splat of corn over an XL flat apportioned half to each of her sons. None remained for herself. She put in some toast.

  You boys eat, she said. You’re young, you’ve got appetites. I’m just an old biddy thing, what do I need all that food for. Then she rocketed to her feet moaning, Cheese, and rushed to the fridge. She returned with a plastic tub. There you are, sorry.

  He shook some on, ate a forkful. Chewing was agony. Good, he said.

  Is it, oh I’m glad! You’ve always liked my flats, Cal, since you were a little boy.

  Rupe said, It’s really good, Ma, thanks.

  The rest of the meal passed in silence save the chime and scrape of cutlery. Calum longed even for the TV’s inane chatter. Despite the pain, he shovelled food mechanically, rapidly, into his mouth. Meanwhile Cora sheared corners from her toast and chewed each one pensively, watching her boys eat until they were done.

  Thanks, said Calum, and rose with his plate.

  Don�
��t clear up, his mum shrieked, standing. I’ll do it, you go, you’ve got places to be, and then seeing his face she startled. Cal, honey, what happened to your eye?

  He shook off her hand, slid his plate into the sink, pushed past. As he put on his shoes at the door Rupe appeared. Cora wants to know when you’re coming home.

  Late. Tell her, late.

  Then he was bounding down the stairwell past blocks of black painted on the walls, the tang of urine, to the street. He leapt over the final, broken stair, landing upon the flagstones of Laing Towers’ courtyard, the impact split his lip, he tasted pennies, a sour ache radiated through his face. Calum tightened his hood and headed up F Street, where the streetlights were just coming on, one then the next, in gradual consensus admitting the night.

  KELLOGG JIGGLED THE POLES, buckled down the final clasp. The tent flapped a bit in the wind up from the lake but seemed secure.

  What say you, fair wife of mine? A shipshape castle for the lady in her manor?

  Pearl took two ciders from the cooler, knocked the tops off on the picnic table, handed one to Kellogg. Ahoy, she said, and drank, and giggled, and said, Ahoy-hoy.

  You think Gip needs another round of meds? said Kellogg.

  Across the campground their son sat reading Illustrations: A Grammar in Harry’s backseat. At sixish Kellogg had pulled into the site to find Pearl sitting on the picnic table with a warming sixpack, two empties at her side. She’d sprung up and climbed into the van before anyone had a chance to get out.

  I missed you guys, she said, lavishing boozy kisses upon each of the Pooles in turn.

  Gosh, Pearly, said Kellogg. We missed you too. But we’re all together now, right?

  Gip had ignored his parents’ requests for help setting up camp and refused to get out of the van. The day’s already ruined, what’s the point, he’d sulked, arms folded over his chest. Now, with dusk settling, he still hadn’t moved, nose buried in his book.

  Let me see how’s he doing, said Pearl.

  Kellogg was left at the picnic table with Elsie-Anne, whispering into her purse. An errant braid hung in front of her face, Kellogg tucked it behind her ear. She permitted this stiffly, as she might an inoculation.

  Annie, hey, who you chatting to?

  Familiar. He’s telling me about Viperville.

  What’s that then?

  She cocked an ear, leaned down, nodded, smiled.

  Oh, is that your friend from this morning? The snake?

  Eel, she said. In Viperville Familiar says babies don’t come from mums and dads. They come from themselves.

  Do they now.

  Shhh, she said, and bent to listen.

  Kellogg tipped back his cider.

  The van door opened. Pearl swung her legs out, sat there rubbing her face.

  Everything okay in there? said Kellogg.

  Gip’s hungry, she said. I am too. All this cider on an empty stomach —

  I’m starving, Dad! screamed Gip.

  Well sheesh, champ, then why don’t we get a move on and find something to eat?

  WELL, SAID DEBBIE, that’s it for today, I’m Debbie, thanks for checking in, we’re off for the Jubilee Weekend but we’ll be back Monday, hope to see you then.

  She turned the camera off. Calum, sprawled on a workbench, was shaking his hooded head.

  What?

  Nothing.

  I don’t like doing it! Come on, Cal. You know this isn’t my thing.

  Right.

  Just let me finish up here and we can go, okay?

  Sure.

  Debbie tacked a drawing on the gallery wall — a spring theme, a lot of green and great lurid bushels of flowers, with clear skies topping the pages in blue stripes or rain dashing down from grey washes of cloud. The newest addition was a picture of the Zone: the twin rectangles of Laing Towers anchoring one end, the ramparts of F Street rowhouses, above everything the traintracks ran like a headline. No people. A cat sniffed a fire hydrant and over a fat pale spider of a sun flapped two m-shaped birds. Most striking was an alley in the picture’s centre, markered so black the page puckered. In the bottom right corner, the artist had signed his work: -P.

  Pierre’s latest masterpiece, said Debbie. See how he’s using what you taught him about perspective? And that alley! Look how dark he’s done it. Very mysterious.

  Yeah.

  Hey. Debbie sat down beside him. Everything all right?

  He pulled his hood away.

  Your face!

  One eye was swollen shut, the skin puffed and glossy, black crust scabbed his lips.

  What happened?

  Calum moved to the back of the Room. By the bay window stood an easel draped in a sheet. Past it the lake was purple in the dusk. Twenty yards out waves met the breakwater, a ridge of cement that resembled the petrified spine of some beached aquatic beast.

  Debbie said, You going to work on your painting?

  Calum shook his head.

  If you want to talk about it, I’m here. Right? Calum?

  Yeah.

  Was it an initiation or something?

  The Room’s timbers groaned, waves glipped and swished against its stilts. Calum watched the lake.

  Well should we get going? said Debbie. When does this thing start?

  Dark. When it’s dark.

  And what is it exactly? I know you explained sort of but . . .

  I saw you got blackedup. There’s still paint on the front windows.

  Yeah. I mean, a little frustrating because we have kids here and, I don’t know . . .

  You don’t think you deserve it.

  I don’t know. Do you think I deserve it?

  Calum pulled his hood up again. It’s getting dark, he said.

  Sure, let’s go then, said Debbie. Put the benches up for me?

  In the bathroom she washed sparkles and marker from her hands, locked her office. When she came back Calum was still standing at the window, staring at the lake.

  You’re not going to write about this for TV, right?

  Calum, no. I told you. You don’t trust me?

  This is just to see. You want to know what’s going on out there, what we’re doing, well you can come see. But it’s not for anyone else, right?

  Sure. Wait, what do you mean?

  You can come but it’s not . . . He trailed off. It’s just, it’s for us.

  Oh.

  He flipped his hood up and moved past Debbie, toward the door. Grab a flashlight, we should go, he said.

  And Debbie went after him, trying to feel trusted, trying to feel good.

  AT FIRST WHEN THE pickup and trailer pulled into Street’s Milk & Things, Pop assumed he’d only have to disappoint hopeful patrons of Mr. Ademus. In the doorway he held up his arms in a gesture meant to convey: Sold out, apologizations! But out stepped two men in the khaki uniforms of the NFLM, one carrying a briefcase, the other with a Citypass lanyard around his neck, both with terrific moustaches. At last the birds fly home to roast, said Pop.

  He locked eyes with each of the men in turn, closed the door, turned the sign around so NOT OPEN faced out. The men looked at the NOT OPEN sign, at the proprietor posed defiantly behind it, one of them knocked, the other gestured at the pickup. Pop didn’t move. From the briefcase papers were produced and pressed to the glass. At last Pop addressed them as per their nametags: Bygone with yous, Misters Walters and Reed!

  The Helpers exchanged words. Walters tore off a crinkly carbon copy, rolled it into a tube, and wedged it in the doorhandle. Then they got back in the pickup and pulled around behind the store. Pop’s breathing shallowed, a vein throbbed in his throat. Finally he threw the door open and in socked feet went waddling after the two men.

  With Walters waving him along, Reed was reversing into the clearing. The trailer slid underneath the houseb
oat with a clang.

  That’s my home!, screamed Pop. What is your strategization?

  It’s condemned, said Walters. We’re just picking it up. You’ve got a problem, go through the proper channels. We gave you the paperwork.

  Just doing our job, called Reed from the cab.

  Pop wailed, Injust, degenerational, vandalistic, totalitary! Unsuppositionant, predominary, predilicted, no, reprehensitory, no, unfoundational, no, declensionive, no, anti-popularly, no, not fair, not fair, not fuggin fug fuggin fair.

  Meanwhile Walters secured his houseboat on the trailer, strapped it down, locked everything into place. Listen, he said, smoothing his moustache with thumb and forefinger, just check the paperwork. There are processes for this sort of thing.

  Processes? roared Pop. I’ll tell you a processional thing or two. If it didn’t mean defiliating the hollowed ground of my establishment I’d process my foot through your cranial lobe right now, both of yous, evil ones!

  Walters nodded at Pop’s stockinged feet. Would you now?

  This is my home, Pop said. He fell to his knees. My home. A quartered century hencefrom. Whereupon am I supposed to sleep?

  Reed honked the horn.

  Read the paperwork, said Walters, and hopped into the cab.

  Pop knelt in the gravel, watched the pickup pull onto Topside Drive, houseboat swinging behind atop the trailer, slid into traffic — and just like that his house was gone.

  AS REED PILOTED them west toward the dump, Walters opened his briefcase and took out a packet of Redapples. He offered one to his partner. No, sir, said Reed, quit those things years ago.

  Smart, said Walters, unrolled his window, lit the cigarette, took a long, deep drag, and blew smoke into the oncoming traffic. On the shoulder, someone had painted over the Guardian Bridge turnoff sign with a solid black rectangle.

  Look at that, said Walters. Those fuggers are getting bold, coming this far east.

  Try blacking out the Temple though, said Reed, and they’ll see what’s coming.

  Or, you know, they won’t.

  Won’t?