The bus station’s dusty and so is the old man sitting in it. He actually has dust on him. Newsom tries not to stare, looking instead for a place to set his bag.
There’s an inexplicable piano on one wall; it, too, is dusty, but the key cover’s open. After ten minutes of wall-watching, Newsom gives in and plonks a key.
It’s out of tune–he knows that immediately. He draws back, but an old crow-voice says “Play somethin’.”
“I don’t know–”
“It does.”
Newsom hesitantly tries a chord, which is when he realizes it is in tune. With itself.
Wednesday, February 4, 2004
“Here,” he says. And “chokepoint.” “Hold off” and “ammo,” and “try to wait.” “Hope,” too, and “not much.”
“Children,” he says, “safety.”
The sun’s just starting to split on the steeple over the wreck of White Oak. Kiran lets her eyes wander from small, desperate Hugo and thinks about sunset on Lac Court d’Oreilles. She told Nanda she’d quit smoking there. She never did.
“Can’t ask–” says Gus.
“Sure,” says Kiran.
She hitches up the bag, checks the Colt’s slide action, rattles her pack of Saratogas and peers in. Eight cigarettes left. That ought to be enough for one lifetime.
Thursday, February 5, 2004
Shaun heaves a fainted Regan out of the madding crowd. People are radios, and right now the static’s insane. Carnival turned ugly when the Bad Mask Guys showed up and made things boom; he doesn’t want anyone trampled.
Safe momentarily in an alcove, he scans the streaming riot desperately for Lissa. He can’t see her, but people are radios–Shaun closes his eyes and tunes his body’s antenna to her electric hum.
She’s there, impossibly clear. The crowd should muddy it, unless–
He looks up to see a girl in white twist gracefully, slamming a huge man face-first through a wall.
Heather heaves out of the thick sludge, already screaming. She’s in the dingy bathtub of a hotel they visited when she was eight, the buzz-snap of its half-functional fluorescent as terrifying as ever. She’s covered in something and she hates it. She swipes at her face but it squishes into the corners of her eyes, her ears, into her hair. She tears with filthy nails and it’s sinking into her skin. Spongy. Can’t breathe. She digs in, pulls away chunks of face like soft rubber, keeps pulling, feeling warm water well out of the holes. Off, off, she wants it off–
A few days later, Emory sits down with two piles. One is of photographs.
He takes his time with each one, running the X-acto around each curve of her arm, each coat wrinkle. He lays the pieces down and traces them, leaving some overhang. Then he brushes the edges of the Kodak paper with watered glue.
Emory replaces Gloria with color and texture: he outlines slick blue wrapping paper, wrinkles and smooths aluminum foil, cuts out a piece of Goodwill tartan skirt that smells of moths. He frames that one, but leaves the glass off. The fabric warms to his touch.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
“Vertical scalability!” they said, enthusiastically. They’re always very enthusiastic.
Borland understands their desire to save floorspace, but he’s pretty sure stacking cubes like interlocking Lego isn’t the way. He doesn’t envy Stoneberg, who now needs a stepladder to reach his desk. But he also wishes Stoneberg’s crotch weren’t right at eye level.
That crotch is being adjusted vigorously right now; Borland looks away quickly, then jerks back as Stoneberg’s chair rolls over a crucial report. January’s shredded.
Borland grips the pieces tightly, resisting the urge to wad them down Stoneberg’s throat. Soon, he thinks, calming himself. Soon, Accounts Receivable will pay.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Horn’s father is yelling again; they both knew it would happen, part of the pattern they help each other reinforce. This time’s different, though. Horn’s not afraid, not angry, not even bored. There has been a shift, and somehow he’s in charge.
No one watching would see it, but they both feel it there. His father’s drive has changed: it’s become a concentration on form rather than content. Horn feels like an auditioning director–that’s appropriate, anyway. His father’s theatre diction. Horn still plays the teenager, slumped and inscrutable, while consonants boom and crack like ice floes in his father’s mouth.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Where she’s looking, the tabletop’s a patter of yellow fingerprints. Mahfood must have the room mornings, Bertha decides. He doesn’t believe in erasers.
She remembers discovering colored chalk, hanging around Dad’s classroom after hours. The colors were soft and pure; she expected them to smell like blueberry, lemon and pine. They didn’t, though. They smelled like chalk.
Julian drops a sheaf of papers before her. “Sorry they’re late.”
“Julian,” she begins, “I have to discuss–”
“I know,” he replies. “She told me herself.”
Bertha looks down at the table; he leaves. Pain, always waiting, leans in to touch her shoulder.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Maxwell spots two people mock-boxing in the warming sun outside a café. He grins in surprise, swings his head around on a neck suddenly less tense, and takes in a long sweep of bus window. It’s so clear: stones in the old post office wall, man in a blue jacket dusting strong hands, painted glass hung where someone’s flipping Open to Closed. In his headphones, the cellist draws out one long note.
Maxwell momentarily feels the focus of a skipping camera, moving mind to mind like a stream of consciousness commercial. But whose camera? He wonders. And where’s it going next?
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Hoog squints at the four crossed lines, considering, then places the fifth rock in a corner square. There’s a complete diagonal line now, but he’s unsure on some of the particulars.
“What rocks was O?” he mumbles, not looking up.
Grung scratches thoughtfully, triggering a massive flea evacuation. “Me not sure,” he admits. “Me not know how to read too.”
Hoog considers the board again. Then he picks up the rock he’s just set down, hefts it in one hand, and bashes in Grung’s sloped forehead.
Later, he tries to get confirmation from the dictionary, but that’s not much help either.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004