Pasha Malla - People Park

Of course, since Adine saw nothing, this table was just one detail in a world she imagined for this stranger every noonhour, the rest of the kitchen sparse and dimly lit, more scullery than culinary suite, just a sink, bare countertops, with this pale and drawn woman hunched at a plastic table with her arms outstretched, thin arms, reaching toward the camera and toward anyone who might be watching. Or not watching: listening.

THAT NIGHT, back in February, when Debbie came home to Adine painting the goggles black she joked, Is this so you don’t have to clean out the mousetraps? Later, in a more delicate tone, she asked, Is this about your accident when you were a kid? Adine pulled the goggles over her eyes and stared into the emptiness concocting some acid response.

Finally she said, No. It’s about trying to be alone.

The air went taut.

Adine sensed Debbie hovering, wounded. Then the bedroom door closed and from behind it came whimpering. Adine turned on the television: two Helpers were elucidating the merits of a backhand serve. After a few minutes she called Sam. Tell me what’s happening, she said. And happily he did.

Watching TV without seeing: this became her work. Not investigating blindness as phenomenology , not a (sub)liminal exploration of nonvisual space , not an inquiry or critique of any sort. Not lost in words. She just wore the goggles day and night, flipping channels, seeing nothing beyond the pictures her imagination painted inside her mind. Maybe one day her hands would paint them. Maybe not.

At 1:00 and 5:00 and 9:00 Sam would call and narrate the action in two-hour chunks. Her brother felt so faraway out there on the Islet, it was good to connect again. Before We- TV’s closed-circuit democratized the airwaves, they’d grown up together with television: cartoons and gameshows and the overwrought daytime dramas in which soft focus signified both memories and dreams.

Meanwhile Debbie was out saving the world with her endless friends and colleagues and contacts and networks and indomitable faith in the city and its citizens. Adine found it all exhausting: pleasing so many people fractured Debbie into many different people herself. From the moment they’d met she’d struck Adine this way, trying to please her even as Adine ranted and raved and shoved her against a wall.

This had been at an IAD gala, a semi-formal banquet celebrating the new arts-dedicated floors at the Museum of Prosperity. The exhibits included a retrospective of Loopy’s work, four sculptures by the mysterious Mr. Ademus, and, thanks to Isa Lanyess’s on-air lament, Adine’s Sand City, which technicians had unearthed from Budai Beach and shellacked and preserved under glass. Though she’d been invited, Adine played event-crasher, ninety-five pounds of rage storming past security, her hair a brushfire, right up to the host of In the Know.

I’m just the show’s Face, explained Isa Lanyess. She pointed across the room at Debbie skulking by the punchbowl. She’s the one whose idea it was, she’s the one who wrote the script, she’s who’s responsible for your sculpture getting saved. Talk to her.

You ? Adine railed, driving a finger into Debbie’s chest. You’re responsible for this? You want to save Sand City? Do you understand anything ? Who even are you?

I just thought it was a waste to have such beautiful work washed away, Debbie whispered, steering Adine into the coatroom. She begged her to go for a coffee or a cider or a meal or something, please, she’d only loved the exhibit and —

Exhibit? You and your fuggin exhibit . Adine produced a notebook from her pocket and in a voice of mockery recited:. . that infinitesimally detailed replica of the city, heartbreakingly rendered, building by building, in sand-sculpted miniature. What a travesty to have such a magical creation just erode into the lake. You doosh, she sighed, destroying it was the fuggin point! But her rage seemed to be waning.

They should talk more, this wasn’t the best time or place, Debbie told her, she just wanted to support what was good. Please, she said, I’m sorry.

Fine, ciders. But you have to come to my neighbourhood.

Ciders became dinner (wings) and more ciders, a soft and nervous goodbye, another round of ciders the following week, a midnight walk down to Budai Beach, a kiss on the sand, and a few nights later, back at Adine’s apartment, the two of them collapsing sweat-slicked on either side of the mattress. Debbie whispered, Let me hold you, and Adine cracked up, a snort that exploded into goosy hoots while Debbie disappeared under the duvet. I was just trying to be nice, came her voice, muffled by the covers. Adine cackled: Let me hold you — what a precious swan you are, it’s adorable.

JUST AS FAYE ROWAN-MORGANSON was signing off — Well if there’s anyone even watching thanks for listening, hope it wasn’t too depressing — the phone rang.

It was Debbie: You sound out of breath, she said.

No, said Adine, just working.

Oh? Oh good. Me too. Except guess what? I got blackedup. Can you believe that?

Sam’s going to be calling soon.

It’s just you’d think they’d respect, I don’t know, that this is a place for kids. No?

At one. What time is it?

Nearly Lunchtime Arts. But listen, that old friend of mine? Pearl? She’s in town tonight. And I’d told her I was planning this big reunion —

Pearl. . Your former colleague.

Teammate.

Teammate, whatever.

Ha, well she was a million times the player I ever was. I mean, she went pro, for one thing. But I haven’t heard back from anyone from the old team. Do you think you could join us? So it’s not just me and her?

Ew, Jeremiah’s doing that bum-licking thing. I can hear it. Ew, ew. He’s really going for it. Get in there, buddy!

Adine, hey, it’d be nice if you came. I mean, you don’t have to decide now or anything. If it’s last minute, that’s fine. Just, you know, keep it mind. She’d love to see you.

She would? Or you feel bad you couldn’t raise a crowd?

Please?

Are you coming home first?

Didn’t I tell you about this thing out in Whitehall? With one of the older kids? Calum?

He’s — ew. Should we put one of those cones on him? Listen, I’ll hold the phone up.

Adine?

Did you hear that? It’s like, slurping . Do you think he has worms?

Anyway I might write it up for In the Know , this thing, it’s some sort of concert or something. And before you say anything, I know, slaving myself to Lanyess again, but we need the money. Or I do anyway. And then meeting Pearl, so. See you after? If not before?

What about dinner? Picture me, alone at the kitchen table eating corn from the can.

Meet us! We’re just going to the Barrel for wing night, it’s two minutes from the apartment. And if not to eat you could at least come by to say hi?

Silence on Adine’s end of the line.

The door jangled and slammed: the first kids arriving for Lunchtime Arts, three of them smacking one another with their knapsacks. Debbie held a finger to her lips, the kids hushed. Adine, she said, you there? I have to go.

Love me.

I do. I do!

Of course you do. You love everyone.

AT THE STROKE OF ONE, Sam called his sister.

It’s one o’clock Adine, he said. Time to do the work. Time’s a machine right Adine?

It sure is, Sammy. Thanks for calling. What’s on?

Salami Talk Adine, said Sam, and switched the phone to his other ear, clamped it against his shoulder. On 12 a tearful Knock Street florist was raving to Lucal Wagstaffe about being blackedup. When she finished, he leaned in with half-lidded eyes and murmured, How terrible, madam — but what are your feelings on spicy meat?