People Park (37 page)

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 grid 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.

See, Pearly, said Kellogg. These people are reasonable.

Where are your permits? said the second helper —
Walters.

See, that’s the problem, he’s got them, said Kellogg. My son, I mean. They’re in his knapsack. Which he might still have! But if he’s
here
—

Dad? whined Elsie-Anne, and Kellogg told her, Shush.

This your daughter?

Gip Poole’s our
son
, Kellogg said. He’s the one we’re looking for. But you might have him as Bode. Or Boole, was it, Pearly?

Goode, said Pearl, I think.

What are you talking about, said Walters, crossing his arms.

Reed crossed his arms too.

You guys messed up the permits, said Pearl, and Kellogg leapt in: An easy mistake!

Walters closed the registry. We don’t have him. If we did, we’d know.

We’re also looking for him, said Reed. Your son.

Kellogg cocked his head. Oh?

I have to pee, said Elsie-Anne. Really bad.

You always have to pee, said Kellogg. She always has to pee, he told the Helpers.

Where do you live? said Walters.

They’re not residents, confirmed Reed.

My wife is! Kellogg nudged Pearl. Tell them.

I was born here, she said.

Walters nodded. And your husband? And your child?

We live out of town now.

We’re making arrangements, said Walters, for nonresidents to leave.

But our
son
, said Kellogg, is still
here
. We can’t leave!

Well your
wife
can stay, said Reed. But you and your daughter, without permits —

Do I
have
to stay? said Pearl.

Of course, said Walters, grinning nicotine-stained teeth. You’re a resident.

Or were, said Reed. And I’d hardly say
have
to!

Kellogg swatted his daughter’s hand away. Annie, quit tugging my sleeve, okay? We’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute. Can’t you talk to Familiar? How’s he doing?

He’s gone, said Elsie-Anne, for now. Dad, I have to
pee
.

Oh, said Kellogg. Did Familiar go back to Viperville?

Elsie-Anne’s face contorted, panicked and pained.

Sir, said Reed, we can’t help you.

Our son needs his meds, said Kellogg weakly.

What kind of meds?

The type that without them he’ll definitely have an Episode!

From Elsie-Anne: a feeble whinny. Then she froze. Wetness bloomed upon the front of her dress. Her expression was conflicted: horror, shame, relief. The stain spread, pee streamed down her legs and puddled around her shoes. No one moved — not her parents, not the Helpers — and the sound was gentle, like distant windchimes, the odour sharp and sour amid the non-smell of the airconditioned mall.

GREGORY ETERNITY
and Isabella are busy assembling an army — a lot of work! — from the roof of the Galleria. The streets below are full of people cheering and putting their weapons in the air like
they don’t care about anything, except fighting for everything they
believe in probably.

Something’s coming, bawls Gregory Eternity in a voice that echoes the fire burning inside the spirit of every man, woman, child, and cat in the whole city.

Something alien, supplements Isabella additionally. Something that thinks it’s going to take our city!

Boo, boos the crowd.

Are you with me? To stop it? inquisitively howls Gregory Eternity.

Also me, adds Isabella moreover, thrusting her gun outward in a display of it.

Yeah! enthusiastically shrieks the crowd, drunk with the taste of the attackers’ blood in their collective, gaping, and toothy mouth. And though they can only imagine how this blood might
taste, the taste is quite visceral, as though they’ve once before torn
open some invader’s throat to feast on the clots of putrid gore that froth forth like the carbonated eruptions from a thousand shaken-up bottles of cider.

It’s really obvious that the people are willing to do anything they can to stop the evil force from taking away everything they believe in. Even risk their lives. Even kill. That is just how much the city means to them.

That is. How much. It means.

Are we all in together now? questioningly bellow Gregory Eternity and Isabella in stereophonic dual tonality.

Yeah, deafeningly responds the crowd in kind.

Then to the shores, thunders Gregory Eternity, for that is where we shall meet them!

OLPERT COULD NOT
recall the last time he’d held hands with anyone, let alone a grown man, let alone a strange boy. A classmate’s maybe, buddied up on a fieldtrip as a kid. Had his grandfather ever held his hand? No, it seemed impossible — in fact up sprung a memory of trying to take the old man’s hand in the crowd flooding out of a Maroons game. He’d recoiled and growled, What are we, going steady?

Thirty-some years later, here Olpert was hand in hand with Gip and Sam wading across the Islet. The water had quickly reached halfway up the ground floor of every permanent residence and summerhome and cottage and cabin and beach house. In the deepest spots Olpert wrapped an arm around Gip’s waist and heaved him out of the water, placidly the boy allowed himself to be moved. From the ticket booth to the ferrydock arched a little bridge, now each end disappeared into lakewater, the docks were submerged. Olpert led Sam and Gip up to the walkway’s midpoint, let go of their hands, and said, We’re okay, it’s dry here, we’ll just wait for the ferry across.

We’ll wait here, said Sam. The towel frothed over his eyes, and from the breastpocket of his stolen
NFLM
shirt protruded the
TV
remote.

Olpert looked across the Cove: islandside the Ferryport was empty, no one lined up, there was no ferry in sight. Bay Junction seemed closed. Beneath the walkway flowed a river, household items floated past: a wicker trashcan, an empty pack of Redapples, some sort of manuscript, all those pages ant-trailed with type, plastic bags by the dozens — most from Bargain Zoom.