Heaven Is Small (25 page)

“But . . . ?”

“As long as there have been people, there have been entrepreneurs. Wherever a profit can be made, why not make it? Heaven and your co-workers are one and the same.
They’re
happy here, Gordon, even if you haven’t been.”

Lillian gently put out her hand and touched his sleeve. “You have a choice, Gordon,” she said.

24

For the first time ever, Gordon had been promoted. A position had been created especially for him. He would have his own office. He would have his own window. He would have his own horizontal blinds. He did not yet know whether he would look out over an embankment, a concrete cul-de-sac, or a shimmering night sea of skyscraper windows. All he knew was what he had been told.
GORDON SMALL
had been stencilled on the door of a room in Heaven’s head office, and it was there he would spend eight hours a day, five days a week rewriting
Darling Deception
to fit different characters into different settings. He would toil under the names Allison Sharpe, Laurie Little, and Andi Moore-Smith, along with any others that Heaven saw fit to assign him. Essentially he would rewrite the story of his relationship with Chloe Gold to suit the desires of the masses. One day Chloe would be blond, the next, brunette. One day Gordon would be Graham, the next day, Grant. First he would kill himself by hanging, then throw himself before a subway car. One day she would have another lover, and the next day ten — women, men, the specifics were changeable. He would be envisioning a dozen Chloes each month for eternity.

Gordon very much wished to find himself beneath a subway car at this moment.

“Initial here, here, here.” An uncapped pink pen accompanied the swift appearance of Gordon’s new contract. Lillian pointed at self-evident intervals down the page. “A representative from Head Office will be coming immediately to collect you to complete the transfer. It would be best to have this signed for his arrival.”

Gordon squinted at the words.

“You understand that the company is hiring you to create stories that are identical in tone to
Darling Deception
, that follow the same plot formula but utilize new and exciting characters, each with their own particular foibles. Each story should be different from its predecessor, yet the reader should leave each book with the exact same feeling. You understand that you shall write such content for no other company besides Heaven Books. You understand that this is a salaried position and hence your royalty rate is reduced, and that you are not entitled to any additional monies from foreign sales. You understand that at present you are under contract for one hundred such titles, and that you are obligated to produce them to the deadlines Heaven sets.”

Gordon’s hand quivered and the pen fell.

Lillian reached out and took his fingers in hers. She grasped them and squeezed. Her skin felt warmer than he remembered from the handshake after their first interview, and he realized it was the first time they had touched without a static shock. “Have you said goodbye to Georgianne Bitz yet?”

Gordon nodded.

“Heaven’s career counsellors are top-notch. She’s really doing better, isn’t she?”

Gordon nodded.

“And Dave David?”

A third time he nodded.

Lillian picked up the pen and handed it to him.

His signature looked strange as it peered up at him, swimming. “I feel sick to my stomach,” Gordon croaked.

“It’s only a feeling. You’ll get over it.” Lillian stood and whisked the papers out of his sight. “William — Bill, is it?” she bandied cheerily over Gordon’s shoulder. He saw that the door had opened. A pot-bellied bald man in a silver suit and too-pointy shoes filled its frame.

“Sure is.” The man came at them with his hand out. They seized it in succession, first Lillian, then Gord, and pumped. Gordon had the distinct impression that this Bill and Lillian Payne had never met, hence the crackling grins of overcompensation. “Lillian,” Bill said as salutation, and Lillian was suddenly luminous. Gordon watched her hover around the room.

“Gordie. Mind if I call you that?” Bill directed the question at him in a way that left no room for quibbling. A backslap came out of the handshake.

“Are you my boss?” Gordon wondered aloud, warily.

Bill exploded. “Me?! Oh no, I’m just a representative of the company.”

“We have the paperwork all ready, Bill, and Mr. Small’s desk is being packed up as we speak, so unless I can get you a coffee, I think we’re all set.” The three of them stood nodding as if their heads had metal cranks that had been wound by unseen hands. “Well then, I’ll escort you down.”

On Floor Twelve the three of them collected Gordon’s things. Bentley was waiting when the elevator doors opened. He held out an oversized cardboard box that contained Gordon’s sole literary publication aside from
Darling Deception
, a snow globe that had haunted his cubicle since his arrival but did not actually belong to him, his Georgianne Bitz–graced Sunlight mug, a half-box of tea bags, a Visine bottle, and one reprimand from Chandler Goods. As the box left his hands and fell into Gordon’s, Bentley snarl-smiled as if he had never taken Gordon into his confidence.

“Well, that’ll do ya,” Bill yodelled, clapping the box on the side.

Lillian rode down to the basement with them. She remained in the elevator as Gordon and Bill exited. Gordon turned and took in her commanding figure one last time, framed in the pristine light of the elevator. Her eyes creased at the corners as she shot him a chilling smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, but he noticed her hand slip around to her spine to massage it just before the elevator doors closed out the light.

Bill had come by company car, and he explained to Gordon that he would be given one too. It had probably been delivered already and was likely sitting in the garage at Heaven Central that moment. “But for now you’d better ride with me, son. Head Office can be a little hard to find,” Bill said out of the side of his mouth as they walked briskly across the parking complex to the visitors’ section.

“Everyone is looking forward to meeting you,” Bill went on. His hand nestled between Gordon’s neck and shoulder, clapping and nudging constantly. Bill’s fingers felt like talons. The big man pressed on. “Can’t wait to see what you got for us. Heard your cynicism is number one. Where’d you get your ideas anyway? They say it’s best to write from your life experience. You write from your life experience? If so, you’re going to be writing your life like
Track One: Repeat
, cuz we want you with us for a
long
, long time. You’re going to make such a name for yourself.” Bill hooted. “Well, three, actually — Allison, Laurie, and Andi.”

“There it is —” Bill gestured toward a lustrous distant Infiniti, extending his arm with the remote control to unlock the vehicle and automatically start it.

As soon as his hand left Gordon’s shoulder, Gordon choked, “I quit,” and bolted. The box fell and the miscellany scattered, snow globe and coffee cup shattering across Bill’s polished shoes, ceramic and tiny plastic flecks. Gordon darted across the parking garage. It was a split-second decision. They couldn’t cast out the occupants of Heaven, 12205 Millcreek Industry Park, if the one and only problem had removed itself. Gordon didn’t know if this was another suicide attempt or if this time it was an actual sacrifice on his part. He only knew he couldn’t go, couldn’t let those dreadful books be born from him into the world. Already he could see them before his eyes: twins, triplets, sextuplets, multiples of one another.

Bill sputtered, “Gordon! Get back here! This is not part of my job. You don’t know me when I’m PO’ed.” The flat bottoms of dress shoes scraped cement, followed by the pounding of sneakers, and without looking back, Gordon knew that Security had joined the Head Office rep in the chase.

There was no way they could catch him, he reasoned; he could run forever. If their physicality really meant nothing, three grown men could chase one another at equal distances without gain, without ceasing. With no clear plan, Gordon headed automatically for the Z section of the garage, the alphabet signage flying past him from where it hung on the pillars. Like a kid he stuck out a finger, trailed it along the hoods of cars in Section F as he passed, leaving his imprint in their dust. As he sprinted, the image that sprang into his mind was not of Chloe Gold, although her kind eyes and bountiful lips were easy enough to recall — he passed by G, H, I, J — but of himself outside the bookstore, as if seen from above: a small man on the sidewalk, lingering, face mashed with jealousy that he no longer understood. The signs for K and L leapt past him. His legs blurred at such a clip that the muscles they were made of seemed to mesh with the lost spaces through which they passed. M, N, O, P plummeted away and Gordon came so swiftly to S it surprised him, made something in his stomach kick with sweet-sick determination. His shoes did not even seem to fight for traction. What happened after Heaven? He barely had time to ask. On he ran, and on, farther than he believed the parking garage could go.

He was long past Z when he felt his body dispersing like the letters.
This is how it must feel when a star shoots and burns out.
A split-second later he realized that he was more like something re-entering Earth’s atmosphere — he was hanging on that line between the dead and the living, and since he wasn’t large enough or fast enough, the force of it would cause his disintegration.
Every fibre of my being,
he thought wildly, hilariously. Then the thought turned to air.

It became darker and darker, and as it did, Gordon felt himself fade, felt himself and his name fuse once and for all — happily — with obscurity.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to my publisher and editor, Lynn Henry, for shaping and making my strange little fantasy into this book. Thanks to Sarah MacLachlan, Julie Wilson, Ingrid Paulson, and everyone at House of Anansi. Thanks to Don Sedgwick and Shaun Bradley of the TransAtlantic Literary Agency. For continued faith and friendship, thanks to Michael Holmes. Thanks especially to my family and the Davis family for support, and to Brian, who inspires and incites.

An early passage from this novel appeared in
Taddle Creek
magazine. I am also grateful to the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and my grant recommenders for financial assistance.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily schultz is widely recognized as one of Canada’s best young writers. She is the author of the acclaimed novel
Joyland
and the story collection
Black Coffee Night
, which was shortlisted for the ReLit Award and the Danuta Gleed Literary Award. She has also published a book of poetry,
Songs for the Dancing Chicken
, which was a finalist for the Trillium Book Award. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications, including the
Globe and Mail
,
The Walrus
,
Black Warrior Review
, and
Geist
, and in several anthologies. She lives in Toronto, where she teaches creative writing and edits Joyland.ca, which the cbc called “the go-to spot for readers seeking the best voices in short fiction.”

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”