People Park (29 page)

IN THE TEMPLE’S
basement, upon their respective wheeled devices
at either end of a conference table piled with breakfast flats, trembled Favours, drool snaking down his chin, and the Mayor, whom a re-ducktaped Diamond-Wood had pushed right up to the table to conceal her lower half. To Favours’ left were the High Gregories (Griggs, Wagstaffe, Magurk, Noodles), and to his right, the L2’s (Bean, Walters, Reed). In the corner, with the guilty, squirming silence of two soot-smeared arsonists awaiting trial, on stools perched Starx and, like a child in his father’s clothes, Olpert Bailie.

The air was thick with that stale cornchip odour that men exude in basements. Into the musty silence came a thumping sound from the other side of the wall, followed by faint chirps — someone crying?

Big fella, said Magurk, beckoning to Starx. Come with me for a sec.

Starx stood, bowed, and followed the Special Professor out of the room.

The Mayor spoke: Where is the magician.

Illustrationist, corrected Wagstaffe.

We have no idea, said Griggs.

No idea? said the Mayor. Not the answer I was looking for. He’s just gone, poof, like the — like the fuggin
bridge?

To be fair, Mrs. Mayor, said Griggs, Raven never told us how things were going to work, just his basic schedule. Our job was largely site logistics.

The Mayor opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by growling from the other side of the wall — then a dull whumping sound and Magurk’s pennywhistle voice shrieking, You like that, fatty? There was a pause, an exchange of words — Olpert thought he heard Starx say, He’s all right — a slap, another whump, and Magurk was back with Starx trailing after him, looking dismayed
.

Magurk reassumed his place among the
HG
’s: Sorry about that, me and the big fella here got things under control. Isn’t that right, big fella?

Starx sucked his teeth.

So, continued the Mayor, despite shutting down the north shore to traffic, you didn’t know the bridge was
going to disappear. Nor did you have any idea that
he’d
disappear. And now — you’re as lost as me.

Yes, said Griggs.

You pretty much nailed it right there, said Wagstaffe, beaming.

But your men were watching him! They didn’t notice anything? Did they help him escape? Did the stage have trapdoors?

He doesn’t use trapdoors, muttered Starx.

Helpers don’t speak until told, said Magurk. Do we have to get the ducktape?

The Mayor eyed Magurk as if he were a slug she’d found in her salad, then spoke to Griggs: Who were the men in charge of Raven?

Him, Starx, said Griggs, pointing. And the redhead — Bailie.

Hi, said Olpert.

Raven works alone, said Starx, and we weren’t ever privy —

Both of you! screamed Magurk. Silentium!

I don’t care who talks, said the Mayor. I just want to know what’s going on.

Everyone looked around the room at everyone else, but no one said anything.

Wagstaffe chuckled. Maybe it really was magic?

You hear that? the Mayor asked Griggs. Was it magic, Babbage?

Whoa, Mrs. Mayor, said Wagstaffe, that’s the Head Scientist you’re talking to. Patronyms, please!

Well, said Magurk,
something
made the bridge disappear. And your legs —

Griggs held up a hand to silence them both.

The Mayor scrubbed her eyesockets with the heels of her hands. Then, blinking, she looked from one High Gregory to the next: Wagstaffe (grinning), Griggs (ineffable), Magurk (nostrils whistling), Favours (sleeping), and Noodles, who had yet to speak, lips pursed within a bristly white goatee shorn into a perfect square. He stared woodenly at the Mayor, perhaps waiting to glimpse whatever hid behind her.

What about you, sir? Mr. — the Mayor checked her notes — Sobolin?

Noodles nodded once, slowly.

This one doesn’t say anything? the Mayor said.

Noodles is judicious, said Reed, bowed his head, apologized for speaking.

The Mayor turned to Starx. Stars, is it? Billy? What.
Happened
.

Starx eyed Magurk.

Speak, said Griggs.

Mrs. Mayor, said Starx, we weren’t assigned to do much more than make sure Raven was comfortable and that he got around to his events. In this city there’s not much you have to worry about security-wise, which is such a testament to the
NFLM
’s fine work —

The Mayor made an on-with-it gesture.

Starx continued: Maybe we haven’t considered that this might all be part of the trick. Him disappearing, I mean. As in, there might be more to come.

Smoke and mirrors, said Wagstaffe, laughing. No one else laughed.

Tell me, Mr. Starx, said the Mayor, if we don’t find this magician, am I going to have to see a doctor about my legs?

Starx caught Olpert sneaking a peek beneath the table and elbowed him in the ribs. His partner buckled, breath escaping in a woof.

Fug if it’s fair we’re being blamed for this, said Magurk, smacking the table with a hairy paw. Best event the city’s ever seen. You ask people — he gestured vaguely at the surface — and they’ll tell you they had the time of their lives last night.

Favours brayed. Olpert looked at him, expecting more: but the old man’s head slumped to his chest, back into catatonia.

Griggs took a flat from the tray, nibbled a corner. I think, Mrs. Mayor, what we’re trying to tell you is that last night was about giving something back to the people, and we did that.
We
, Mrs. Mayor, did that.
We
made it happen —
we
funded the whole thing,
we
organized it,
we
staffed it, and
we
made sure it went off without a hitch.

Without a
what
?
The Mayor’s voice was shrill. How about the teeny-weeny hitch that I can’t walk? And, oh right, the other small hitch that the person responsible is missing? And the other as-of-yet-unrelated-but-it-doesn’t-take-a-genius-to-do-the-math hitch that our artist laureate’s memorial statue is
also
missing. And, oh! I almost forgot! That other barely-worth-mentioning hitch — anyone?
Anyone
? Allow me: Guardian Bridge is
gone
. It — the Mayor tapped the tabletop with each word — Is. Not.
There
.

She was on a roll: And I’m sorry,
event
? You make it sound like this was just a way to fill a weekend. Have you appleheads completely forgotten that the whole thing was supposed to be commemorative? Or was that
never
on your radar? It’s not called a Silver Jubilee for the pretty name. There’s, oh, a certain little park we’re meant to be celebrating. A little park that transformed the city? Twenty-five years ago? A little park that is going to be here
long after your stupid magician goes flying away in his helicopter.

The helicopter, said Noodles.

A miracle! said the Mayor. He speaks! He was listening!

Oh, the Imperial Master always listens, said Griggs.

I listen to all kinds of things, Noodles purred.

His sudden animation made Olpert uneasy. The room was already cryptlike enough, and now a corpse had leapt up off the slab to speak.

What are you thinking, Noodles? said Wagstaffe.

I think, said Noodles, that if Raven’s helicopter is still here, then he’s on the island.

Touch green, said the Mayor.

Quiet there, said Magurk. Noodles is speaking.

What else, Noodles?

The boy.

Which boy, Noodles?

The boy that was onstage. We must find that boy. He saw something.

And the Imperial Master bowed his head.

Mr. Noodles has spoken, said the Mayor. Amen and hallelujah.

The boy though, yes, said Griggs. Gip, was it? Goode?

Sorry, Griggs, just one second here, said Magurk. Can we backtrack for a moment? I resent the insinuation, Mrs. Mayor, that our organization doesn’t value civic pride.

Don’t talk to me about civic pride! I was
born
here. This is
my
city.

And I wasn’t? yelled Magurk. And, I’m sorry,
whose
city is it?

Special Professor, please, cautioned Griggs.

But the Mayor was riled. You care about this city? she screamed, almost levitating off her dessert cart, neck strained into sinuous cords. Then where is he?
Where is he
!

And then she fell.

The room went still. The Mayor, or her upper half, lay by Olpert’s
feet, eyes closed. He gazed down at the greying half-
woman discarded on the floor, struck by how drastically she resembled
a seamstress’s dummy.

I got this, said Starx, swept her into his arms and replaced her atop the dessert cart. From the table he took a roll of ducktape and adhered her torso and legs to their respective tiers. Everyone pretended not to watch, the air stiffened with feigned nonchalance, it was like a breastfeeding. Starx bowed, retreated, the Mayor coughed, smoothed the lapels of her jacket.

Into the silence from the next room came whimpering.

That fat sack of
shet
, roared Magurk, and stormed out.

Mrs. Mayor, tell me what you need, said Griggs. We’re here. We can help.

This is my city.
My
city. I will not see it spiral into chaos. There was a plan for this weekend, an agenda. You’ve got your
Spectacular
, sure, but what about families —

Island Amusements is scheduled to open as planned, said Griggs. Why wouldn’t it?

And the movie, said Wagstaffe. Don’t forget! Our movie
for
the people —

By
the people, chorused Bean and Walters and Reed. This time they were not scolded, instead Wagstaffe continued, beaming:
All in Together Now
! It’s going to be great.

Griggs smiled thinly. Mrs. Mayor, while our men look for Raven — and we
will
find him — we’ll send these two men, Starx and Bailie, to find the boy. A chance to redeem yourselves, said Griggs, and Noodles nodded, nodded, nodded some more.

Okay, said Starx, standing, hauling Olpert to his feet.

Magurk appeared in the doorway — shirtless, his chest so shaggily haired it appeared a rodent clung to his nipples.

Good luck, he said, sneering at Starx, finding anything in that fuggin fog.

III

HIS IS GOOD,
finding my knapsack, Gip said, towed along by his mother as the Pooles marched in a tight grim formation through the foggy campground, the gently falling snow. So I can get the
Grammar
?
And then I’ll be able to figure out where Raven’s gone? And maybe even how he vanished the bridge? And how he had me onstage? It was like he picked me because he
knew
. Like he knew, Mummy, are you even listening? Like he knew that I was his biggest fan so maybe do you think he wants me to put everything right? Like it was a sign? Like it’s up to me now?

That’s a lot of responsibility, honey, for a boy your age, said Pearl, blew her nose, tucked the tissue into her sleeve. Stay close, we can barely see anything.

We’ll get your knapsack, Gibbles, don’t worry, said Kellogg, with Elsie-Anne wobbling atop his shoulders.

Gip kept talking, his voice trembling and delicate. Every sentence swung up into a wavering interrogative, questions that weren’t questions, questions that only demanded being heard. The boy had come to life a bit since breakfast, Kellogg thought, eyeing him warily, but still seemed less than himself.

The Pooles came out of Lakeview Campground at the Ferryport, no boats were running. A sinew of fog linked Perint’s Cove to the Islet, where it collected in a cataractal haze. Otherwise the view south was promise-clear to the horizon.

Beyond the roundabout where Lakeside Drive met Park Throughline lights stabbed through the mist in crimson spears.

Did someone crash? Kellogg said, and slid Elsie-Anne down to a piggyback.

The fog parted: one car sheared in half in the ditch, another upturned onto its roof. Around the accident gathered emergency vehicles, sirens flashed, pink flares sparkled, yet the scene was silent.

Good thing we walked, said Kellogg.

Except now my knee’s bugging me, said Pearl, reaching down to massage it.

Is it, Kellogg said vacantly, watching two paramedics haul a stretcher out of the ditch and slide the body-shaped figure upon it into a waiting ambulance.

Limping slightly, Pearl led the family up the Throughline. Traffic was stalled bumper to bumper in the northbound lanes. To every car and van and truck corresponded a family, some huddled for warmth inside, others had unloaded lawnchairs and gathered around little bonfires on the shoulder. Farther along there looked to have been an accident, a white coupe angled into the ditch. Engines idled, but no one was going anywhere. There was no way off the island.

What’s everyone waiting for, said Gip.

To go home, said Kellogg.

To escape, said Pearl.

But there’s no bridge, said Gip, and don’t you think
I
could save all these people, Mummy? We have to get my book, what if someone found it and they don’t know that I’m the one who’s supposed to finish the illustration?

Gip, said Pearl. We’ll get your book. But this has to stop.

Kellogg set Elsie-Anne down. Dad’s a bit tired, you mind walking?

It’s okay, she said, hugging her purse. Familiar can help.

At the edge of the poplars the Throughline ducked underground and ran beneath the common all the way to Topside Drive, where it surfaced again at the gates of Island Amusements. The Pooles skirted the line of cars disappearing into the tunnel, climbed up top, and looked down into the park. Nothing below, just a milky wash of fog, the closest poplars appeared as shipmasts in a misty harbour.

Wow, said Kellogg. Think we can find anything in that?

I’ll do it, said Pearl.

How’s that, Pearly?

I’ll go get his bag. If it’s not there I’ll find someone. Event staff or whoever. You take the kids to the Museum. We can meet back up later. Go to Island Amusements maybe.

Not a bad idea, said Kellogg, and pulled the CityGuide out of his backpocket. How about it, guys, want to see some exhibits? They’ve got a model of the city there, Gibbles — and hey look at this! Kellogg tore out a coupon. Two-for-one entry for kids! One of you guys gets in free!

Why does Mummy keep leaving us? said Elsie-Anne.

Leaving
us? Ha, Annie, she’s not
leaving
us. Just knows the city, she’ll be back.

Will she? said Elsie-Anne. Familiar’s not sure.

Kellogg frowned. I’m beginning to have it up to
here
with Familiar.

Yeah, Dorkus, said Gip, Mummy’s our only hope of finding the
Grammar
.

That’s the spirit, said Kellogg, wrapping his kids under his arms. This is Mummy’s town! If anyone’s going to find your knapsack, it’s Mummy. Right, Mummy?

Let’s hope, said Pearl.

A REAL WRITER,
Isa Lanyess repeatedly told her staff, was meant to have a voice. Yet Debbie’s writer’s voice always felt distant, a vague echo toward which she’d only ever leant, squinting, like
a deaf person with an ear trumpet. The voice was faint, or a hallucination,
or there was too much clutter, too many other voices from outside and within, a cacophony of selves all clamouring for attention. All she could ever make out was its timbre: meek, timid and doubtful and meek.

The night before, down in the belly of the city, she’d gotten the closest she’d ever been to this voice, or something like it, before the power had gone out. Now Debbie sat in the window nook in a square of limpid daylight, the streets clogged with fog, trying to summon it back. But worry muddied her thoughts: where was Adine, had Debbie driven her away, would she come back? Over and over she replayed their fight, felt stupid for fleeing it, she should have stayed, said something
. . .

Maybe things could still be fixed with words, thought Debbie,
and she decided to write Adine a letter. She fetched her notebook
and
settled back into the window nook. But where to begin? What she wrote had to be genuine, from that essential part of herself she’d almost found in Whitehall, not as the cartoonish maudlin goof she’d come to play against Adine’s cold cynic. But with the pen hovering over the page as always she was a little lost. What to say? How to say it?

All she could come up with were memories of happier times. Look, she wanted to tell Adine, see when we were happy, see how happy we can be? Though what was wrong with happiness, she thought. Maybe what they needed was exactly that — a celebration and reminder. She settled on a story: their first kiss.

They’d gone to Budai Beach so Adine could show Debbie how
erosion would have swallowed her Sand City. The night was moonless
. They slipped out of their shoes and sat where the waves swished up onto the shore and withdrew fizzing into the lake. Adine’s leg brushed Debbie’s, retreated, then she reached over with her toes and playfully pinched Debbie’s calf, and Debbie yelped and Adine leaned down to press her lips to Debbie’s leg. When she came up her face was close. Neither of them said anything. Everything felt a little lost in the dark. Trembling, Debbie leaned in and — miracle! — Adine was doing the same. They kissed and Debbie thought, This is the most perfect kiss in the history of kisses. And after an instant or forever Adine pulled away and said, Fuggin
finally
, holy shet.

Debbie recalled a funny interpretation that had always batted mothlike around the fringes of this memory:
When we first kissed
, wrote Debbie,
it was like two halves of the same strawberry pressed back together
. Reading this over, her cheeks flushed. She could hear Adine’s laugh, a skewer that pricked and went sliding into her heart, pictured her puckering her lips and teasing, Don’t be shy, put my strawberry together. Don’t make fun of me! Debbie’d wail. You’re mean!

She dropped her pen. Here she was once again, performing herself in caricature. Always Debbie gushed and swooned, safely mawkish and too much, and Adine played the cruel realist, cutting her down with jokes. Though it felt good to make her laugh, and eventually Debbie would be laughing too. This dynamic preserved the illusion that they were still having fun — and it was, actually, fun. But also exhausting: fearing them corny Debbie buried her most heartfelt thoughts somewhere inaccessible even to herself. And Adine? She wondered if their theatrics had numbed Adine to her own heart entirely.

From the front door came a creaking sound.

Debbie sprung from the ledge. Adine?

It was only the apartment, its rickety walls spoke their own dialect of ticking and groans.
Adine
?
echoed through the empty rooms. Debbie did this often, called her name, sometimes for no reason — it just came out, midsentence while reading or doing the dishes: Adine? And when Adine came harrumphing into the room, hands on hips, and Debbie would have to invent some excuse as to why she needed her. What was this instinct, akin to some nightmare-stricken child pawing for a parent in the dark: Adine, Adine, Adine?

But now she didn’t come. The letter lay unfinished and abandoned somewhere between thoughts. Fog choked E Street. Adine was out there somewhere in it, thinking spitefully of Debbie. But where? To whom might she flee? At Sam’s maybe — but the phone was dead, there was no way to call. The island suddenly seemed too huge, its streets sprawling in vast and terrifying catacombs within the mist.

Debbie tore out a page from her notebook, wrote a quick purposeful note:
Not sure where you are. Worried. Heading out
to find you. Sorry about last night. See you back here if you come home first. Love, Deb.
This she taped to the
TV
, collected her jacket and keys, and with a glance over the apartment, taking everything in, realized that Adine might not be able to read it. But she’d left. She’d gone somewhere. She couldn’t have done it blind. So the note was a gesture of faith, thought Debbie, as she headed out into the city, making sure to leave the door unlocked.

CALUM HAS NO
idea how long he’s been walking. The scene keeps repeating: the bridge is identical with the same beams and girders and lampposts and the smooth roadway split with the yellow dividing line, the horizon never gets any closer, there is no way to gauge how much distance he’s travelled and no change in light to suggest the progression of hours. Also each step feels part of a steady fluid motion that his body performs outside of itself, churning along the bridge so along the bridge his body walks, toward — toward what, toward nothing.

He remembers hearing a voice, the voice hasn’t returned. From which direction did it come and should he be seeking or escaping it, Calum doesn’t know, he doesn’t know which he is doing anyway. The silence out here is cottony, a river would make some watery whispering noise but whatever’s below doesn’t, it just hovers blackly beneath the mist and everything’s dampened and the only noise sometimes is the bird: and here is the bird, the
fup-fup of its wings as it flies by and disappears, where does it go, Calum wonders. All he sees is the sky, and the bridge, so he walks.