Pasha Malla - People Park

It’s so nice you do that, Cal, with those kids. You’re so talented — and generous too! Cora gave him a proud look. The sauce sputtered. Calum hid inside his hood.

Isa Lanyess was back: At number two, holding strong from last week, Lady Y’s Lingerie Pillowfight Extravaganza . It’s the quarterfinals —

Well we don’t need to see that , said Cora with a nervous laugh, snapped the set off, and announced, Dinnertime!

Onto the table she slid Calum’s and Rupe’s dinners, a splat of corn over an XL flat apportioned half to each of her sons. None remained for herself. She put in some toast.

You boys eat, she said. You’re young, you’ve got appetites. I’m just an old biddy thing, what do I need all that food for. Then she rocketed to her feet moaning, Cheese, and rushed to the fridge. She returned with a plastic tub. There you are, sorry.

He shook some on, ate a forkful. Chewing was agony. Good, he said.

Is it, oh I’m glad! You’ve always liked my flats, Cal, since you were a little boy.

Rupe said, It’s really good, Ma, thanks.

The rest of the meal passed in silence save the chime and scrape of cutlery. Calum longed even for the TV’s inane chatter. Despite the pain, he shovelled food mechanically, rapidly, into his mouth. Meanwhile Cora sheared corners from her toast and chewed each one pensively, watching her boys eat until they were done.

Thanks, said Calum, and rose with his plate.

Don’t clear up, his mum shrieked, standing. I’ll do it, you go, you’ve got places to be, and then seeing his face she startled. Cal, honey, what happened to your eye?

He shook off her hand, slid his plate into the sink, pushed past. As he put on his shoes at the door Rupe appeared. Cora wants to know when you’re coming home.

Late. Tell her, late.

Then he was bounding down the stairwell past blocks of black painted on the walls, the tang of urine, to the street. He leapt over the final, broken stair, landing upon the flagstones of Laing Towers’ courtyard, the impact split his lip, he tasted pennies, a sour ache radiated through his face. Calum tightened his hood and headed up F Street, where the streetlights were just coming on, one then the next, in gradual consensus admitting the night.

KELLOGG JIGGLED THE POLES, buckled down the final clasp. The tent flapped a bit in the wind up from the lake but seemed secure.

What say you, fair wife of mine? A shipshape castle for the lady in her manor?

Pearl took two ciders from the cooler, knocked the tops off on the picnic table, handed one to Kellogg. Ahoy, she said, and drank, and giggled, and said, Ahoy-hoy.

You think Gip needs another round of meds? said Kellogg.

Across the campground their son sat reading Illustrations: A Grammar in Harry’s backseat. At sixish Kellogg had pulled into the site to find Pearl sitting on the picnic table with a warming sixpack, two empties at her side. She’d sprung up and climbed into the van before anyone had a chance to get out.

I missed you guys, she said, lavishing boozy kisses upon each of the Pooles in turn.

Gosh, Pearly, said Kellogg. We missed you too. But we’re all together now, right?

Gip had ignored his parents’ requests for help setting up camp and refused to get out of the van. The day’s already ruined, what’s the point, he’d sulked, arms folded over his chest. Now, with dusk settling, he still hadn’t moved, nose buried in his book.

Let me see how’s he doing, said Pearl.

Kellogg was left at the picnic table with Elsie-Anne, whispering into her purse. An errant braid hung in front of her face, Kellogg tucked it behind her ear. She permitted this stiffly, as she might an inoculation.

Annie, hey, who you chatting to?

Familiar. He’s telling me about Viperville.

What’s that then?

She cocked an ear, leaned down, nodded, smiled.

Oh, is that your friend from this morning? The snake?

Eel, she said. In Viperville Familiar says babies don’t come from mums and dads. They come from themselves.

Do they now.

Shhh, she said, and bent to listen.

Kellogg tipped back his cider.

The van door opened. Pearl swung her legs out, sat there rubbing her face.

Everything okay in there? said Kellogg.

Gip’s hungry, she said. I am too. All this cider on an empty stomach —

I’m starving , Dad! screamed Gip.

Well sheesh, champ, then why don’t we get a move on and find something to eat?

WELL, SAID DEBBIE, that’s it for today, I’m Debbie, thanks for checking in, we’re off for the Jubilee Weekend but we’ll be back Monday, hope to see you then.

She turned the camera off. Calum, sprawled on a workbench, was shaking his hooded head.

What?

Nothing.

I don’t like doing it! Come on, Cal. You know this isn’t my thing.

Right.

Just let me finish up here and we can go, okay?

Sure.

Debbie tacked a drawing on the gallery wall — a spring theme, a lot of green and great lurid bushels of flowers, with clear skies topping the pages in blue stripes or rain dashing down from grey washes of cloud. The newest addition was a picture of the Zone: the twin rectangles of Laing Towers anchoring one end, the ramparts of F Street rowhouses, above everything the traintracks ran like a headline. No people. A cat sniffed a fire hydrant and over a fat pale spider of a sun flapped two m-shaped birds. Most striking was an alley in the picture’s centre, markered so black the page puckered. In the bottom right corner, the artist had signed his work: — P.

Pierre’s latest masterpiece, said Debbie. See how he’s using what you taught him about perspective? And that alley! Look how dark he’s done it. Very mysterious.

Yeah.

Hey. Debbie sat down beside him. Everything all right?

He pulled his hood away.

Your face!

One eye was swollen shut, the skin puffed and glossy, black crust scabbed his lips.

What happened?

Calum moved to the back of the Room. By the bay window stood an easel draped in a sheet. Past it the lake was purple in the dusk. Twenty yards out waves met the breakwater, a ridge of cement that resembled the petrified spine of some beached aquatic beast.

Debbie said, You going to work on your painting?

Calum shook his head.

If you want to talk about it, I’m here. Right? Calum?

Yeah.

Was it an initiation or something?

The Room’s timbers groaned, waves glipped and swished against its stilts. Calum watched the lake.

Well should we get going? said Debbie. When does this thing start?

Dark. When it’s dark.

And what is it exactly? I know you explained sort of but. .

I saw you got blackedup. There’s still paint on the front windows.

Yeah. I mean, a little frustrating because we have kids here and, I don’t know. .

You don’t think you deserve it.

I don’t know. Do you think I deserve it?

Calum pulled his hood up again. It’s getting dark, he said.

Sure, let’s go then, said Debbie. Put the benches up for me?

In the bathroom she washed sparkles and marker from her hands, locked her office. When she came back Calum was still standing at the window, staring at the lake.

You’re not going to write about this for TV, right?

Calum, no. I told you. You don’t trust me?

This is just to see. You want to know what’s going on out there, what we’re doing, well you can come see. But it’s not for anyone else, right?

Sure. Wait, what do you mean?

You can come but it’s not. . He trailed off. It’s just, it’s for us.