Pasha Malla - People Park

A Helper strode to the end of the catwalk with a video camera. Its recording light came alive, and onto the screens, hazy in the daylight, appeared an image of the growing crowds. One family stationed front row, dead centre, jumped up together and began waving, pointing at their projected selves upon the bigscreen. While other families jostled for attention this one was especially boisterous: the son, in a red cap, leapt up and down, his father hooted, coaxed the mother into a funny jig, while the small girl in the shot’s periphery stood numbly with her face pointed into her purse.

The Helper zoomed in on the happy threesome. Even the wife seemed into it now, flashing little gunshot flourishes, blowing imaginary smoke from her fingertips, while the dad glared in triumph at the other, ignored families. Over his head the boy hoisted a book — Raven’s Grammar — and even without sound anyone could guess whose name he was chanting.

Sam observed this wobbling down the path behind Street’s Milk & Things, lumber stacked in his arms, a bag of supplies in each hand. Quickly gravity took over: his strides lengthened and gained a momentum of their own, the wood clattered, the bags swung, and as he reached the common Sam broke unwillingly into a full-on run.

Past the boathouse at Crocker Pond he sprinted, another ten yards and his feet could no longer keep up. He pitched forward: everything slid from his arms, one of the bags burst and its contents — tools and brackets and little packs of screws — splashed forth, and the other bag fell from his hand and spilled everywhere too.

Lying in the mud, surrounded by stuff, Sam raised his chin and saw before him a pair of pink leotarded legs. A little girl in a dress, holding a handbag, regarded him blankly — and then a screaming woman was upon them.

Elsie-Anne, are you okay? she cried, and shot Sam a scolding look, which shifted into confusion. Her eyes darted back to the girl, where they sharpened again. You could have been killed, said the woman — the one who’d been hotdogging on the big TV. My daughter can be a little out of it, sorry, she said, and took the girl by the hand and led her away.

Sam’s supplies were everywhere. One of the bags was split and useless, he’d have fill his pockets. But when he stooped for a handful of screws, pain spiked his lower back and his neck felt stiff and wooden.

Now appeared a fatfaced child in a red cap — the son of that woman, the one who’d been chanting, still clutching his book. My dad told me to help you, he said. So here.

The boy held out a single lugnut, which Sam accepted and dropped in his pocket.

Are you building something, said the boy. What are you building?

It’s for the work okay.

What’s that on your face? He picked the combination lock out of a puddle. It had closed. Sam’s stomach went hollow. The boy said, Oh, let me show you a trick, and held the lock to his ear, twisted the dial listening intently. Then, with a grin, the boy yanked the shackle — it didn’t open.

That’s okay, said Sam, and began stacking two-by-fours.

Let me try again, said the boy. It’s hard to hear with all this noise here in the park, why do people need to make so much noise, gosh. He narrowed his eyes, the pink tip of his tongue appeared between his lips, and he set to twisting the dial again. He pulled and it didn’t open. He pulled again. Nothing.

Sam put out his hand.

Hey wait, said the boy, opening the Grammar . I did something wrong, you’re supposed to listen for clicks, I thought. He leafed to the back of the book, then from back to front.

Does Raven’s book tell you how to break locks?

Ha, not break. Solve . You don’t want to break them, silly. Haven’t you seen Raven escape that time he went in space in zero gravity with almost no oxygen and eight or maybe twelve locks? But he got free. He always gets free. What’s on your face? Is it a scar or leprosy or something? It looks like mushrooms. I had an abscess once, in my mouth.

He always gets free, said Sam.

We’re on vacation here from faraway. We missed Raven’s arrival but we got frontrow centre seats today so there’s no way we’ll miss tonight’s show. Mummy’s from here though. Originally. She was tied up but now she’s back. She’s sick though. Allergies.

Sam nodded.

Now hush, I can’t hear the clicks with all this talking!

A man came up, smiling and rubbing his hands. Gibbles, hiya. Everything okay?

I was helping. I was —

The man turned his smile upon Sam. Sorry if my wife was short with you. She tied one on last night is all.

My bag broke okay, said Sam. He poked his hand through the jagged hole, waved at himself. That’s good communication, he said.

The man’s smile faltered — and returned, blazing. He looked around the park, at the families and the trees and past everything, to the sky. Heck of a nice day, he said, isn’t it?

Yes, said Sam. It’s a nice day isn’t it.

Gip leapt to his feet. I did it!

The lock hung open.

Wait, said Sam. How? What did you do?

The boy closed his eyes and in a low, sonorous voice said, I have removed the fog of obscurity to reveal the truth. I have only illustrated what you have always known to be true.

HE PHONE RANG and rang. Sometimes this happened, Adine knew, the connections on the Islet were dicey, when lines went down hours would often pass before workers and the proper equipment could be shipped out, plus whatever time it took for repairs. But there’d been no storm, it was late afternoon now, and Adine had been trying Sam since lunch.

The door opened.

Adine hung up.

Debbie came over, kissed Adine’s forehead. You left all the bedding out?

Can’t see, said Adine, tapping her goggles.

Right. Can’t put the bedding away, can’t clean the mousetraps —

Adine sniffed. It smells in here. Your friend left his scent.

Debbie moved into the kitchen. Cupboards were opened, pots and pans clanged and rattled. Adine turned on the TV.

Where’s that big casserole dish? called Debbie.

You’re making a casserole? Is that my dinner?

More banging around.

What are you doing in there?

Adine felt her way to the kitchen. It smells even weirder in here. Are you cooking?

Nope.

Then?

It’s probably the bird.

The. . bird?

Yeah.

What, you bought a bird? To what — roast?

No, I found one. It’s hurt.

Oh man. First that snoring monster, now this. It better not sing all night, because I can’t take something tweeting and twittering —

No. I told you, it’s hurt. I’m making it a bed.

And then?

And then we’ll nurse it better.

Nurse it. At your bosom? Should I be jealous?

No reply. Adine felt they were on a raft with a slow leak. She stepped forward, groped, found Debbie’s elbow.

I was just trying to be funny.

Were you?

Wasn’t I?

The air shifted: she sensed Debbie facing her now, imagined those wide eyes all wounded and withering. She rubbed Debbie’s arm, up and down, mechanically.

The arm slid out from under Adine’s fingers.

I’m putting the bird here by the window. So watch out for it.

Adine said, Okay, and went back into the den. On the NFLM station was pingpong: the knock of the ball struck back and forth, a third man commentating — she pictured him clutching the table, watching almost greedily. Check out these dooshes, said Adine. Hey, Deb — help me out here. Does the third guy look like, greedy?

Debbie sat down beside her, the cushions split, Adine slipped into the gap, had to dig herself out.