by Pasha Malla
Sam scratched at a scab on his jaw with his ducktaped mitt.
We have to get you to the hospital. Your eyes —
Shhh, said Sam, an ear cocked at the floor. He might be down there okay.
You need to go to hospital. It’s not my business but if you want me to take you I will. If not I’d like to go to sleep. Okay? I’m very tired. Are you all right?
The fridge came on with a hum.
Sam said, Help me, and extended his arms.
Help you, help you what.
Go to my room. Downstairs.
You’re in the basement? That’s your unit?
Olpert pulled Sam to his feet, his face came close, it smelled of broiled meat. Olpert said, You can’t see anything, can you?
I can see it’s light okay, Sam said.
You need to go to the hospital.
But Sam shook his head. No, my room, he said. The work’s not done. Help me.
OLPERT STEPPED OUT the front door with Sam on his arm. The sky was opening up into a clear and pretty morning, yet the lawn was sodden. Olpert’s first thought was that the septic tank had ruptured again. But this was surface water: at the southern edge of the property little waves rippled up from the lake.
The Islet had flooded once before, when Olpert was nine. He and his grandfather and the other residents had been rescued by ferry. The flood itself hadn’t been frightening. Coming ashore the real terror had begun: a fleet of ambulances screaming out of the city, a storm of flashbulbs and jabbing microphones, a gawking crowd from Lakeview Homes as the Islet’s evacuees were lined up like hostages and tallied.
Why are we standing here, said Sam. What’s happening?
Nothing, said Olpert, and looped his arm around Sam’s neck and helped him around back where steps descended to the basement unit.
Opening the door released a damp and earthy aroma, inside this soured into a yoghurty bouquet of mildew and infrequently washed man. Olpert set Sam down on the couch, a plastic approximation of leather, flaking and lumpy, greasy and stained.
You okay?
Sam said nothing. The compress seeped through in twin damp ovals.
Olpert had never been in one of the other residents’ units. He took a moment to appraise it: bags of garbage positioned into hedgerows, a bed neatly, almost institutionally made, junk strewn everywhere — broken toys, kitchen appliances missing key parts (a bladeless blender, a toaster oven without a door), stripped car stereos, a heap of sawdust, lumber, a toolkit, a saw — and a huge armoire against the far wall, the doors boarded up and chained in what resembled braces against invasion.
From inside this armoire, someone knocked.
Hello? called a faint voice — a child’s. Hello?
Sam tensed.
Let me out, whined the voice.
Who’s in there, said Olpert. You’ve got a kid in there.
Sam said nothing, jaw clenched, teeth gritted.
The child knocked again and called for help, its voice as detached as waking-world sounds to the sleeper slipping into dreams.
I don’t know who you’ve got in there, but I’m going to let them out, said Olpert. Okay?
Sam seemed to be listening to something else. Olpert heard it too: a glubbing sound. Water bumped against the basement’s groundlevel windows. From the bottom of the windowframe a lightning-shaped chute jagged down the wallpaper.
First, the kid in the cupboard.
Do you have the combination to this lock?
There’s a way but I don’t know it okay. The work was not letting him out.
Well we’re letting him out now.
Sam pawed the crust on his jaw.
Olpert stepped to the armoire, spoke to it: Don’t worry, I’m here to help.
Who are you? replied the child’s voice.
He didn’t know what to say to this. In the toolkit he found a hammer and pried the boards off, knocked the bolts from the hinges, the door folded open. A fattish boy drifted out from the shadows. He wore a red cap and matching knapsack and he moved with the sludgy gait of a sleepwalker.
The boy sat on the couch. Where is this? he asked Sam. Did I trunk here?
Did you change into a boy, said Sam, or did you take Raven’s place?
Yes, I’m taking Raven’s place! My name is Gip Poole, said the boy. Don’t forget it!
Gip . . . Poole? said Olpert. You were onstage? Not Bode?
Poole, said Gip firmly. Gosh, why does everyone — he looked hard at Sam. Hey, I know you. You’re the one with the lock. Why do you have that thing on your eyes? Are you sick?
People are looking for you, said Olpert.
I trunked! said Gip happily. Didn’t I?
Sam shrugged. If you say so okay.
Olpert peeked into the armoire: yellowing newsprint, a splotchy pillow. What make of kidnapping was this? The boy hadn’t rushed to freedom, Sam seemed only perplexed. There was nothing nefarious or sinister between abductor and abductee, side by side on the couch. They looked like strangers waiting for the same latenight train, bewildered that anyone else might be taking it too.
From upstairs came footsteps — the other residents collecting in the kitchen. The floorboards creaked, voices muttered, water trickled in through the window.
Sam, said Olpert, do you know the other people who live here?
What time is it, he said.
Time? I don’t know what time it is. Morning! Time to leave! Your eyes — and you, Gip, what about your parents?
My parents are Kellogg and Pearl. And I have a sister Elsie-Anne but I call her Dorkus and she calls me Stuppa because she couldn’t say Stupid when she was little and it stuck.
From between the couch cushions Sam dug the TV remote. The set burst into static.
I think it’s broken, said Gip.
Overhead the footsteps moved across the floor to the front door, and through the basement window Olpert watched two men and a woman go highstepping across the flooded lawn. The leak was thickening — tributaries into a forked river, all the way to the carpet — while Sam flicked through fizzing, broken channels.
We need to get out of here, Olpert said.
We do, said Gip. We have to go because I’m the one that’s supposed to finish the illustration. Because he chose me. I’m the chosen one. Raven —
Raven? said Sam. He turned off the set. In the TV’s empty face, bowed and grotesque, hovered his and Gip’s reflections. What do you know about Raven?
What do I know? Only everything! Nobody’s a bigger fan than me, mister, got it? Maybe you didn’t see me trunk here? Now can we go, please? I’ve got work to do!
Work? said Sam.
Quiet, both of you, said Olpert.
The water had submerged the basement window. And now Sam’s front door was leaking too. On the other side Olpert imagined a little tiered waterfall cascading down the steps, pooling at the bottom, seeping greedily under the door.
The water’s coming in, it’s flooding, said Olpert. I’ll take you both. We have to go.
AFTER AN ENDLESS tumble through the darkness, the cart stopped with a judder. The Mayor pitched forward, clutched the sides, somehow didn’t fall. The air was black, it seemed both sprawling and to compress around her. Tilted on an incline, she realized someone or something was holding the cart: a foot against the wheels, a hand upon the edge, inches from her own hands. And even before he spoke, she knew who it was.
Greetings, my queen, said the voice — that creamy, sleepy voice.
The Mayor sighed.
Can you see me?
It’s too dark.
Look at me. Try.
I don’t go in for this sort of craziness. I can’t be party to it.
Nor I, Mrs. Mayor, nor I. But please. Focus your eyes. Allow them to acclimate.
She closed her eyes, opened them: and saw less t
han when they had been closed.
And now? said Raven.
Is this where you’ve been hiding? A hole in the ground?
Is that where we are? A hole? It seems to me more complicated than that. But what do I know, this is your town —
City. This is a city. My city.
Pardon me, of course. Your city, your splendid metropolis, your great megalopolis. I trust you’re aware what comes next.
Feeling herself easing downward again she grabbed the sides of the cart. The movement halted. Raven rocked her softly, back and forth, like a babe in its cradle.
What are you doing, she said. What have you done.
Done?
Done!
Ah. To tell you the truth, I thought this would be amusing. I didn’t know that it would be — that it would be, well . . .
Well what. A disaster?
You think it’s that? May I ask, Mrs. Mayor, what you think existed here before us?
Where does it go, this tunnel.
Oh, don’t worry. For certain, we are totally alone.
Yes, but where are we. Where is here.
Such a question. Have you considered that perhaps this place does not exist even now. Perhaps it never has? Perhaps we never have.
I exist! Aren’t you talking to me?
Yes! Such sagacity, such simple truth. You exist in your words, and I in mine.
The rocking stopped. The stillness and darkness were absolute. Everything pitched outward into oblivion. When Raven spoke next it was in a whisper: We do indeed exist, all alone down here, wherever we are. We’re unique in that, Mrs. Mayor — so dreadfully unique, you and I.
DEBBIE WOKE to cricked pain through her body, a stiff neck, her left leg numb from foot to buttock. All night she’d bounced from dreams into waking panic. She unfolded herself from the beanbag chair and on creaking limbs hobbled to the Room’s rear window and parted the curtains.
Dawn was breaking over the lake. But something was wrong. It took a moment: the breakwater was submerged, waves swept all the way to shore. The water, level with the piers’ edges, was starting to trickle over. From below came a pocking, suctiony sound — surf slopped up against the building’s underside.
She found the Hand sleeping on the floor of her office.
Hey, said Debbie from the doorway, we’ve got to get out of here. There’s flooding.
The girl stretched, yawned, blinked, so innocent and girlish that Debbie looked away with a flash of guilt — it was too cute, nothing she was meant to see, this gentle kittenlike awakening before that hard mask came growling down.
The door slammed: Debbie was left staring at a poster about how to build community. She moved to the main room, where the twins slept head to toe on the couch. Their eyes fluttered open and regarded Debbie, hovering over them, with suspicion.
We have to go, she said. The lake’s flooding.
The office door opened, the Hand padded to the bathroom. A swishing sound — puddles splashed into the Room. She followed behind, kicking water in front of her.
See? It’s flooding, Debbie repeated. We should leave. I want to help you.
With a snort the Hand turned to her friends. You hear that? She’s going to help us. How? Teach us to glue macaroni to a paper plate?
Debbie glanced at the gallery wall, at all that macaroni glued to all those plates.
No, said the Hand. We don’t need help. Let’s go.
She led the twins to the door. But she couldn’t figure out how to unlock it, so Debbie stepped in, the Hand stood by stiffly as she flipped the catch. None of the three youngsters acknowledged Debbie on their way out — but on the sidewalk they stopped short: a Citywagon idled in front of Crupper’s store. A Helper got out, leaned on the roof of the car, called, These kids with you?
Me? said Debbie.
Yeah, they yours? We were getting ready to grab them.
What do you mean, grab them?
We’re doing sweeps. There’ve been . . . incidents. So we’re scooping anyone suspicious — nonresidents, whoever, just taking people to the Galleria to ask them some questions.
What sort of incidents? Debbie stepped boldly in front of the Hand and the twins, hands on hips. You don’t have anything better to do?
The guy’s tone remained lethargic: If they’re with you, don’t worry about it. Just doing what we’re told. Then his expression changed. What about you, you local?
Me? said Debbie. She shrank a little, then gestured to the Room: I work here.
Sure. But are you from here.
Of course I’m fuggin from here, said Debbie.
Oh. Well make sure you have your papers ready, we’ll be doing sweeps all day. And we’re still working on the power out, but the trains’ll be up again soon. Good lookin out! He saluted, got in the car, and drove off.
Debbie turned to the Hand. Well, she said, maybe we can help each other after all?
The Hand stared back. Her eyes were savage. From the back of her throat came a gravelly sound, rising up — and she spat. A fat wet glob smacked Debbie in the chest and clung there like a mollusc. Debbie’s arms floated down to her sides, a faint whimper sounded between her lips. One of the twins laughed. The Hand shook her head, gestured to her two friends, and they moved off up F Street at a jog, down an alley, and Debbie was left listening to the swish and plop of waves slapping underneath the Room.
II
FTER PASSING through the phalanx of Helpers that ringed the Galleria, Kellogg, Pearl, and Elsie-Anne found the end of the surnames N–S queue at the south entrance. Noticing the other legal guardians — some alone, some in anxious-looking pairs — eyeing Elsie-Anne covetously, perhaps even in a predatory, kidnappy sort of way, Kellogg sandwiched their daughter tightly between him and Pearl. Watch out now, he whispered.
From their eyes drooped purple sacks, the skins of spoilt plums. As had many of these parents, the Pooles had spent all night dealing with Residents’ Control before being directed downtown just before dawn. For reasons unexplained, a number of young people and nonresidents had been rounded up and detained in the Galleria’s upper floors. There was a chance, the Pooles were told, they’d find their son among them.
I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne.
Soon as we’ve found your brother, Annie, said Kellogg. He’s got to be here.
Real bad, Dad.
This is no one’s fault, okay? Sometimes stuff just happens.
Pearl blew her nose, tucked the tissue into her sleeve. The line edged forward, the Pooles took a half step into the mall.
Day was breaking over the city. Honey-coloured blades of light sliced between the skyscrapers, the streets flushed pink, the pigeons were up and clucking. More people joined the line. The Pooles moved into the Galleria, the doors closed, and everything outside was gone.
Here we go, said Kellogg. Closer and closer. Gip’s going to be so happy to see us!
The mall smelled of nothing. The air was stagnant, the lighting jaundiced. The N–S queue snaked in a slow trudge by Citysports and Bargain Zoom and Horizon Systems and other shops of various merchandise and services, Kellogg whistling tunelessly and Pearl groggy and distant while Elsie-Anne cupped her crotch.
From each quadrant of the mall four such queues (A–G on the north side, H–M to the east, T–Z west) converged in the Galleria’s foodcourt, where a glass ceiling admitted a crosshatched quadrilateral of daylight. Here at four desks sat Helpers, each with a Residents’ Control registry open before him. By the time the Pooles were a dozen spots from the N–S desk, the morning sun gleamed merrily down into the mall and Elsie-Anne had buckled into a pelvic-focused hunch, knees locked, purse dangling off one shoulder, head bobbing to some inaudible, mictural rhythm.
From the middle of the foodcourt, escalators cycled in opposing ellipses, hypnotic to watch. Pearl watched. The foodcourt was a gri
d of empty tables and chairs. The unattended restaurants wore slatted masks. Security cameras shot the scene from domed bulbs in the ceiling. No one was eating. No one was shopping. The Galleria, normally packed on Super Saver Sundays, had been repurposed into what some agitated parents had started calling the Kiddie Fuggin Jail.
With each set of legal guardians or worried spouses moving to the front of the line to ask after their child or partner the Pooles inched closer. After rummaging through his ledger the N–S clerk might say, Yes, we’ve got him/her, at which point two Helpers took off up the escalator and returned minutes later with an exhausted-looking detainee (sometimes two, even three), who were reunited with their family and ushered from the mall — where? Somewhere, with purpose.
Occasionally the reply was: No, sorry, maybe try again later. At this the searchers would either slink away defeated, or stand unmoving with a look of incredulity, or fly into a rage that prompted NFLM interventions: the upset party was escorted down the hall to a special office from which they’d emerge ten minutes later looking not unlike reprimanded children themselves.
Dad, said Elsie-Anne, tugging on Kellogg’s sleeve, I really have to pee.
Upstairs, said Kellogg, that’s where Gip’ll be. See, Pearly?
From the second-floor mezzanine a pair of Helpers observed the proceedings below.
Check it out, guys, we’re moving again. Only one family before us!
A fax machine propped beside the desk came to life, a sheet of paper curled out, lifted, and flapped down upon a pile of ignored memos. A flustered pair of men stormed past, one muttered, Well where the fug else do you think she’d be then? and the clerk called, Next, and the Pooles were up.
Hiya, said Kellogg, and in his friendliest voice explained who they were looking for.
The Helper leafing through the registry paused, inspected Kellogg, scrubbed at his moustache with a knuckle. Come again? You mean the kid who was onstage?
That’s our boy! As you can probably imagine we can’t wait to see him. Quite a star, must have been flummoxed by all the attention . . .
The clerk — Reed, said his nametag — eyed Kellogg, forehead scrunched into a show of deliberation. Hang on, he said, and chair-rolled over to a man in an identical moustache kicking unread faxes into a pile. He whispered in this person’s ear, pointed at Kellogg, and the second man waved the Pooles around the desk.