People Park

by Pasha Malla

  The elevator whirred to life, zipped down to the lobby, collected someone, brought them back up. The Mayor tensed. The doors opened. Standing there was Diamond-Wood, heaped over his crutches. He grinned sheepishly. Draped over his shoulders was her mayoral sash. You’re okay, he said. Good.

  IN SINGLE FILE Gip and Olpert followed Pop from Mustela Boulevard through the gates of the Necropolis, Olpert had shed his chaps, they’d gone sodden and heavy, he traipsed along shyly in his skivvies and the shaggy coat. Pop lectured as to why, historiographically speaking, the squabs were flying home to roast.

  Speaking of aviants, you are savvy to the birds that used to impersonate these here tombs? An urbane legend, prehaps, though valid.

  I don’t, said Olpert.

  Not you. It was the boy upon whom I requisitioned.

  Gip blinked.

  Young man, said Pop. Bend me your ear! And you too, evil one, whom might learn a thing or two things.

  But Olpert’s thoughts were elsewhere: his grandfather’s grave was nearby — where? He looked around, felt disoriented, it’d been so long since he’d last visited . . .

  Well these birds, said Pop, they had gotten lost on their way enmigrating somewhere else, or had been someone’s pet, or came over on a ship, a stow-in. But on any rate, it was very colourful, a parrot of some sort, to actualize there were in fact two: a male and a female. Now the male only had one wing, on the right side, and the female only one wing, on the left, and where the missing wings should have been, you see, the male had a bit of bone in the shape of a key. And the female, do you see whence I’m getting toward, young man? The female of course had the enmatching lock.

  Gip’s eyes filled with light. Wow.

  Shall I continue, said Pop.

  Yes!

  Well, said Pop, how do you think they flew?

  They locked together, said Gip.

  And then?

  And then the one with the right wing —

  The man.

  He did the flying for them on the right side.

  And the woman?

  She did the flying on the left.

  And thus way they flew. Betrothal’d.

  Gip nodded.

  Should we go? said Olpert, with a glance at the darkening sky. Night’s coming, he said.

  Pop glared at him. I say when we sully firth — he paused — and hence? It is now.

  But wait, said Gip, what happened if one of the birds died?

  Well, said Pop, that’s exactly what transposed. One of them died, and so the other couldn’t fly, and so he was, I believe the anecdote finalizes, forewhence the ban on such animals in our fair city, plucked from his nest and eaten by a dog.

  ARMS AND LEGS thrashing, Kellogg scanned the water for Elsie-Anne. All around him people scaled fences and lampposts, others grasped at anything floating by — planks, water jugs, other people. Across the street, a woman atop a schoolbus stared with astonishment at the jagged bone poking through a hole in her forearm. Beside her five people in a huddle formation were either scheming or praying.

  The names of missing loved ones rang out, Kellogg joined the chorus: Elsie-Anne! Annie! But there were too many people, he couldn’t see anything, the water roiled, the world reeled, the reek of the flood so thick in his mouth it seemed a dead and festering thing had been laid on his tongue to rot.

  Though maybe she’d never jumped. At tracklevel two cars remained railbound, from which the other four hung. Up top people gazed dazedly across the chasm that separated the severed section and where the tracks resumed on the far side of UOT Station, there was no way to Whitehall except by water. Helpers began pulling them away, steering an exodus back downtown. Might Elsie-Anne be among them somehow?

  An aristocratic-looking couple breaststroked past as if out for a leisurely dip at the beach. In Kellogg’s periphery someone floundered in the water, a gargly voice choked, Help me, help me, was sucked under, came up sputtering —

  Kellogg swept his arms over his head and dove, saw nothing but murk, veered in another direction. The water had the odour and consistency of that foul brown juice that collects in the bottom of trashbins. It tingled on his skin, stung his eyes. It was too much. He surfaced, gasping, Annie, Annie!

  An eerie hush closed around his voice. All around people slopped and splashed through the water, calls for help, yelps and shrieks and sobs, but nothing lingered, the air seemed incapable of sustaining sound.

  Annie! he cried again, but the word was vacuumed up and lost.

  Then: Dad.

  There she was, on the balcony of a Laing Towers apartment. Kellogg swam toward her, climbed up, took his daughter’s face in his hands, and kissed her, long and hard.

  Annie, I’m sorry, he blubbered, hugging her. I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry.

  Familiar saved me, she said. He carried me on his back.

  You’re such a good swimmer. I forgot. I’m sorry I forgot, Annie.

  Kellogg let her go — she was bone-dry. The sweatshirt was slightly askew, her left nipple winked at him, he adjusted it for modesty. But otherwise Elsie-Anne appeared unscathed, in fact she seemed to have never entered the water at all.

  Her eyes were distant, those of a war orphan in some televised campaign. Who was this girl, this ghost of a child who drifted through the life her parents laid out for her? A stranger. She gazed through him, past him. Kellogg shivered.

  People were climbing up from the flood to join them on the balcony and those of the adjacent apartments, a Helper — Dack, his beard wilty and dripping — among them. Dack knocked, then shouldered the apartment door open and ushered everyone inside.

  Let’θ go, Dack lisped. Water’θ riθing. Get to the roof. We’ll radio a pickup.

  While people squeezed past, Elsie-Anne stared dreamily into the floodwaters.

  Annie, said Kellogg, come on, it’s flooding, we’ve got to go.

  Not flooding, Dad, she said with a canny smile. It’s sinking. The city’s sinking.

  Θome kid you got there, fella, Dack told Kellogg, and disappeared into the building.

  SAM WAS AMONG the poplars, branches scrabbled the underside of his door-raft. The light was deepening. Soon it would be night, soon he’d enter the south side of Lakeview Homes, and as he paddled he thought of Adine, waiting for him in the living room, there’d be no one home but the two of them and whatever was on TV. Okay Adine, he said aloud, I’m coming, the work’s almost over and we’ll be together soon okay.

  IGNORING THE WATER seeping now up to its edges, still more people headed down into the park. From the top of the Slipway Debbie surveyed the thousands gathered before the gazebo, assem­bling as they had for Raven’s arrival and illustration. A tepid Ra-ven chant rose and died listlessly. Gone was the anticipation, a muted dread hung heavy in the air, when they called his name it was only in vain and despairing attempts to summon him.

  Up the Slipway a couple was dragging a paddleboat purloined from the boathouse, two kids in tow. They reached Parkside West, pushed it into the water, the kids got inside, while the man and woman rolled their pants to their knees. They looked like people Debbie might know, friends of friends, maybe they’d met at a potluck or some such thing. Her mind riffled through a catalogue of names and faces: nothing, they were no one she knew. Right now, it seemed she’d never known anyone.

  Look at them, said the woman to her husband. Don’t they know he’s not coming?

  He’s not coming! he hollered.

  Another family turned and regarded this man bitterly, then kept heading down.

  Fuggin appleheads, said the husband. As if this is magic, as if some clown in a sweatsuit can fix it with a wave of his whip. No one’s going to save you! This is real.

  Hey, we can make room, said his wife, if you want to come across with us.

  Debbie realized she was being spoken to. I’m sorry,
she said. Across?

  To the mainland.

  The strangers’ faces were tired but kind.

  You can’t stay here, said the husband. You’ve got to get out while you can.

  This — while you can — was chilling: it inferred a time when Debbie, or anyone else, wouldn’t be able to . . .

  Thanks, she said, but I need to find someone first.

  Godspeed, said the wife, and her family joined the brigade crossing the Narrows.

  Though dusk was descending the streetlamps remained blankfaced — no power, no power anywhere in the city. The NFLM no longer seemed to be checking ID, in fact no Helpers were visible down in the park at all. Meanwhile the flood had discovered fissures in the Slipway and descended in thin dark gunnels, fed Crocker Pond, Debbie watched it bloat and threaten its banks . . .

  A hand settled on her shoulder, her heart skipped: such timing, it had to be Adine. But this woman looked haggard and shabby, grey wilted hair like the fronds of a dying plant. Debbie, said this person.

  It was Pearl. Or some phantom of her, wild-eyed and waving a book. I have to get down there, I figured it out, it’s called trunking. Situation Ten: Abduction, Deb. That’s where Gip is. He trunked. That’s why he’s gone and —

  Pearly? Sorry, I’m not following you. What’s going on?

  I need to get down there, she said, gesturing anxiously at the gazebo.

  Hey, I don’t know, it might make sense to try to leave —

  No, not without Gip. I have to find him. She tapped the book’s cover. It’s all in here, Deb. It’s called trunking, I know how to do it now, I can find him . . . Her voice faded. My daughter’s gone, my husband’s gone, said Pearl. Gip’s all I’ve got left. I need to find him. What about you, Deb? Who are you looking for?

  Debbie looked around wildly. All those nameless faces spilled grimly past. Wait, she said, focusing again on Pearl. What do you mean, gone?

  Gone, gone, gone. She stepped into the water streaming heartily down the Slipway. Bye, Deb.

  Dragging her bum leg along like a dead branch, Pearl disappeared into the swarm tumbling into the common from all sides, some with boxes and bags of belongings, most empty-handed, each face pasted with dazed grief that had yet to sink soulward. High above People Park circled a dozen newscopters shooting footage. Did their viewers wonder who all these people were? Debbie doubted it: this was likely only thrilling, a good show on TV.

  IX

  ROM MIDWAY up the rope ladder Wagstaffe pointed his camera down at Griggs, who lingered stubbornly in the Thundercloud, flouting his harness sheared in half, walkie-talkie in hand. High above, Noodles was pulled aboard, then Magurk.

  Wagstaffe hollered something lost in the helicopter’s roaring.

  Griggs shook his head dolefully. Far below the Institute’s swimteam, in matching bathing caps and trunks, converged upon Reed’s skiff. Walters yanked the ripcord, the motor coughed but wouldn’t start, Reed took up the chainsaw with which he’d freed the HG’s and wielded it at the students closing in.

  Wagstaffe gestured frantically: Come on! Come on!

  Again Griggs shook his head.

  The chopper dipped, the ladder swung, Wagstaffe scrambled, caught himself but dropped the camera. It tumbled past Griggs, three hundred feet down, knocked the chainsaw from Reed’s hands, plopped into the water and sank. Reed cast an incredulous look at the sky, Griggs followed it: Wagstaffe and the ladder were pulled aboard, the hatch closed, and the helicopter lifted and wheeled away over the lake.

  Back down below, the swimteam, emboldened, were once again on the offensive. Just as they seized upon the skiff its motor whined to life and the two men absconded into the Narrows. The swimmers treaded water in a sharky shoal. And their attention shifted to the top of the Wheel, at the lone figure sitting up there, safe and dry.

  Griggs spoke into his radio: How are things going, Dack?

  Lotθ of people up top of Laing Towerθ. Θomeone’θ coming? We heard the ferry θank —

  Sit tight, Dack, have faith. Someone will come. Remember: Silentium. Logica. Securitatem. Prudentia. Griggs switched frequencies. Pea?

  Pea here. Still waiting on the roof, water’s coming up . . . What’s this about the ferry?

  Griggs repeated his advice, changed channels, checked in with Bean — no signal. The common was an inky muck seething with people, from all sides the water chugged steadily in. He changed channels, repeating the four pillars to himself, while the angry swimmers collected at the Thunder Wheel’s base.

  Diamond-Wood answered: Yes?

  And where are you?

  With the Mayor.

  And how’s she?

  Diamond-Wood tapped the Mayor’s shoulder. How are you?

  Fine, fine, she said, absently stroking her sash. Just watching everything go under.

  It might be time to get out of there, said Griggs.

  Yeah, said Diamond-Wood. What about you?

  I’m the Head Scientist! I can’t leave . . . Griggs sighed. Besides, where would I go?

  Diamond-Wood waited.

  You’re young, Recruit. Save yourself.

  And the Mayor?

  Does she want to be saved?

  Diamond-Wood looked at the Mayor, the sagging shape of her silhouetted in the light of the viewing deck, the sash an empty bandolier, the sunset streaming through her midsection as a bulb through a lampshade. Maybe not, he said.

  I can understand that, said Griggs.

  Want me to ask her?

  No. No, that’s okay. And D-W? Tell her one thing, will you? Tell her we’re sorry.

  AS THE SUN SET the air cooled, Olpert was glad for his jacket, though his bare legs were goosefleshed. He and Gip followed Pop Street out the gates of the Necropolis and down into the boggy dump. The smell here was sour and yellow, the water oily, silky mats of gas floated atop its surface. Gulls watched and squawked mockingly as the threesome waded down a channel between mounds of trash.

  Pop shrieked, Lark! and gestured grandly before him: his houseboat was lodged between the rusted-out shell of an old Municipal Works snowplow and the dump’s back fence. Thar she goes, he declared, wading toward it. My home!

  Overhead a helicopter peeled off toward People Park, where Olpert watched it join dozens of choppers tracing interweaving loops in the dusky sky.

  Hey, mister, said Gip, it’s okay, that chopper’s not Raven’s.

  Raven?

  The illustrationist! He’s gone, I think.

  Oh.

  I thought maybe? Since I was the chosen one? I could do something? But —

  Hurry! Pop called, heaving himself up the ladder. Restribution awaits!

  Gip was pulled aboard and ushered inside the cabin. Olpert went to follow him — but Pop stepped to the gunwales with an oar and blocked his way.

  Not you, evil one, he said. You’re one of them. An esquivalient.

  What?

  Not with us, said Pop. Not here. Not this time.

  Olpert stared.

  Ah, and now at last he sips the cruel cider of justification! Pop seemed to address an imaginary audience that might not have included Olpert. No, we shan’t save those whom propetuate the substantiation of a people’s past. You don’t care about history? Well now, Pop snarled, you’re the one whom is history.

  He beat the water with his oar. For a moment, delight twinkled in his eyes, then a stony facade slid overtop. Expunge yourself, he growled.

  Please, said Olpert, come on, I’m not the enemy here, I’m not with those people —

  Expunge!

  But I helped you. I helped the boy, and I freed you. I’m not one of them.

  Pop raised the oar above his head, menacing a deathblow. Bygone, be bygone!

  Olpert sank back into the water. The highest dry land was a mountain of junked appliances — rust-sc
abbed fridges and stoves and washer-dryers missing doors and dials. He climbed atop a dishwasher, his own wake slurped at the pile, and sat there, quietly.

  A fine place for you, evil one, said Pop, amid the city’s refutations. Then he joined Gip inside the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  Olpert’s heart skipped beats. Though, wait — something actually twitched and jumped around inside his jacket. Jessica! But in the pocket was not a mole, but a bird. He set it down, it toggled from one foot to the other, shuddered with a sort of mute sneeze, and took to the air: an m-shaped silhouette, then a speck, then vanished. Another newscopter passed above, from it a spotlight searched for — what? Bodies, survivors, stories.

  Pop came out of the cabin, went to push off, and discovered that, despite the rising water, the houseboat was stuck fast on a reef of trash. He dug his oar into a pile of softened cardboard, tried to dislodge the boat. Grunts, groans, splashing . . . failure. He knelt, catching his breath. Olpert watched. And Pop met his eyes. Help me, he gasped.

  Olpert didn’t move.

  Evil one! I am immobilized without another helmsman, it seems. Hence you may come onboard, yet don’t envisage yourself anything but enemary. For you are only such.

  Sure, said Olpert.

  As Olpert climbed the ladder Gip’s face appeared in the cabin’s porthole: he observed the action on deck with the aloof interest of a gossipy neighbour.

  All right, evil one, said Pop, handing him an oar. If you’re with us be at least aidful.

  From either side of the houseboat they heaved at the sludge, the boat creaked in protest, or encouragement. At last with a scraping sound they dislodged, coasted out into the floodwaters, and Pop swung them round toward Topside Drive.

  Where to? said Olpert. Should we try to find the boy’s parents first or —

  Neigh! Initially — Pop adopted a preacher’s cadence — one last trip home. For though the day enduskens, still the blazing sun of restribution beckons beaconlike my soul.

  THE WATER POOLING in the Museum of Prosperity lent it the look of a marble-pillared bathhouse. Debbie sloshed through the rotunda, climbed the stairs out of the water to the second floor. Footsteps echoing with the promise of a secret knock, she passed through Loopy’s retrospective — busts of the island’s rich and famous, dozens of self-portraits, the Faces of Us: had been transplanted here too — to the room that housed the IAD’s modest collection of Mr. Ademus’s work: four rusty sculptures on plinths.