Subdivision, p.6
Subdivision, page 6
“Help you?” the barista said.
I stepped up to the counter and smiled. “I’d like a small coffee, please,” I said. I thought it would be appropriate for me to order something first, instead of just demanding work. “And one of those croissants,” I added, pointing to an irregular pile of pastries inside a glass case.
“Chocolate, regular, or almond?”
“Almond, please.”
The woman bagged up the croissant and poured the coffee into a cup to go, though she hadn’t asked if that’s how I wanted them. Other people around the bakery drank from china mugs, and ate their food from plates. She handed me both items and turned away, as though back to important work she needed to accomplish. This struck me as a hopeful sign: she could probably use some help.
“By the way,” I said. “I was told that you often have job openings. I’m looking for work.”
“Who told you that?” the woman said. She was heavyset and exuded a sweaty glow, like a risen dinner roll that hasn’t yet been baked.
“Clara and the Judge,” I said. “From the guesthouse.”
“Who?”
“Two elderly ladies, one short, one tall?” I gestured with my hand, to indicate the Judge’s considerable height.
“Sorry,” the woman said, shaking her head. She wiped the already-clean counter with a nearby rag, then flung it across her shoulder. “Anything else?”
“No. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Her only response was a shrug.
I’d wanted to sit down and enjoy my snack, job or no job, but the barista’s rudeness had discouraged me. Maybe I’d seek out one of the other parks in the Subdivision, one that I hadn’t yet visited. I turned to go, but before I could move toward the door, something caught my eye: the picture the little boy was coloring.
I leaned over the boy’s table, careful not to intrude too much upon his privacy. The coloring book depicted what looked like some kind of domestic disagreement: a man, his handsome face elongated and hardened by anger, was pointing accusingly at a woman—a pretty woman with a wide nose and bangs, her head hung in shame. Behind them, the details of a bedroom were sketched in: an unmade bed, a dresser, a vanity table with a mirror. Some of the vanity items—cosmetics, mostly—were lying on their sides, as though the table had been bumped or struck. A few lay on the floor. The boy had meticulously colored these in. His accuracy was admirable, given the size of the items and the bluntness of the crayons. A caption was printed at the bottom of the page: a line of dialogue, presumably the man’s. It read, “Your emotions prevent me from doing my work!”
I could tell that the boy had noticed me noticing. He had tilted his head just slightly, so that he could monitor me while he colored, and every few seconds he stole a glimpse out of the corner of his eye. He had also subtly moved the coloring book a bit closer to me, to make sure I could see it.
“What’s that you’re working on?” I said.
“I’m coloring,” he replied, not without some annoyance. It should be obvious what he was working on, his tone implied.
“You’re very good at it,” I told him. “I’m impressed with your precision.”
He didn’t respond, but his body language told me that the compliment had landed.
“I also applaud your choice of colors,” I went on. “You can really tell the man is angry—his face has just the right amount of red.”
“The lady’s shirt is pink,” he said, “because that’s a color ladies like.”
“Well, not all ladies like pink,” I couldn’t resist correcting. “But I do.”
The boy continued to color in silence. It was clear, though, that he was waiting for my next conversational gambit. He was justifiably proud of his coloring; perhaps he didn’t get a lot of compliments on it, or his family had grown accustomed to his skill and was no longer impressed. Either way, he seemed to want to continue our talk.
I said, “I bet you’ve done a bunch of pictures. Can I take a look at them?”
His hand stopped moving, and he gazed up at me, eyes narrowed. His face betrayed a mixture of pleasure and suspicion. He couldn’t have been more than five. A moment passed, then he seemed to come to a decision. He bent over the coloring book, peeling back the bottom corner of each page and peering underneath, until he found a suitable picture to show me.
The boy had chosen another domestic scene, this one set in a kitchen. The same man and woman were talking, but this time the man was sad, and the woman comforted him with a hand on his shoulder. The man was seated at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. In front of him lay piles of papers, some of them crumpled into balls, and a coffee mug. In the background, various appliances stood on a counter: a coffee maker, a blender, a mixer. The boy had colored them with his now-familiar attention to detail, even making sure to honor the little chevrons of white the artist had intended to represent reflections on the objects’ shiny surfaces. Among the appliances stood a liquor bottle that seemed a portent of trouble to come. The boy had given the liquid inside a dark amber color.
The caption read, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll support you while you look for another job.”
I said, “Look at all those details! You’ve really made the kitchen come to life.”
“I’ll show you one more, and then I have to get back to work,” the boy said.
“Of course.”
He thumbed the pages again. I could make out something that looked like a wedding, and a bedroom scene that my mind deceived me into thinking showed a man and a woman naked, having sex. I caught only the first half of the caption, but it read, “It hurts me when you …”
The one the boy elected to show me, however, was from early in the coloring book. I was surprised by this choice at first, as his draftsmanship was less accurate. Clearly, he’d just begun exploring his artistic skills when he completed it. But then I realized why he wanted me to see it—the colors! The picture showed a little girl, obviously the same character as the woman in the later pages, swinging on a swing in a park. Her dress was peach-colored and patterned in red and purple flowers, and all around her the park was fully in bloom, verdant and dotted with little pastel splashes. Two adult women stood in the background, beneath a blue sky, one holding an infant. The young mother was speaking, and the caption read: “I don’t like to leave her alone with James.”
“That’s very nice!” I said. “You’ve made her dress very pretty.”
The boy scowled. “It was already pretty,” he said.
“Of course it was,” I hastened to say.
I noticed a bit of movement to my left, and looked up to find the barista standing there, twisting her cleaning rag in her hands, staring at me. She was annoyed, it was clear, though it seemed to me that she was less irritated with my particular presence than with the general problem of maintaining order at work. I again wondered why she couldn’t use an employee, but never mind. She said, “Can I help you with something?”
“I was just admiring your son’s coloring,” I said. “He’s a talented little boy!”
“That kid?” the woman said. “I thought he was yours.”
I was taken aback. “He was here when I came in. I’ve never even been here before.”
The barista seemed surprised, and a little embarrassed. “Oh,” she said. “Sorry. I figured you just dumped him here and went on some errands or something. I’m not your babysitter, you know.”
“Like I said, he isn’t mine.”
“Hmm” was her reply. “Well, have a nice day, then, I guess.”
“You too,” I said, resisting the temptation to echo her “I guess.”
I turned back to the table to say goodbye to my new friend, but he’d disappeared—perhaps frightened off by the hostile barista—with his box of crayons and coloring book. All that was left behind was a single crayon, a deep purple with the unlikely name of BRUISE.
I pocketed it, then left the bakery with my coffee and croissant.
Eight
Out on the sidewalk, I awkwardly unzipped my bag, spilling a bit of coffee on it and exposing Cylvia inside. She’d gone a little gray, perhaps, but still seemed more than adequately charged. I said, “Cylvia, could you give me directions to the nearest park?”
“Of course,” she replied. “From Open Your Eyes Bakery, turn right and walk three blocks.”
I did as she commanded. It was another beautiful day in the Subdivision, the sky blue, the air crystalline, the road clear. Someone pedaled a bicycle past me. I waved, but she just gazed at me with a pitying look. She was wearing some kind of uniform: dark blue loose-fitting pants and a light blue collared shirt with white piping—a medical technician, perhaps, on her way to or from work. I was mildly alarmed to see that the shirt was spattered with brown stains—blood, no doubt.
“At the next intersection,” Cylvia instructed, “turn left.”
And a few minutes later: “The destination is on your right: the Shard.”
I didn’t understand at first what Cylvia had meant by “the Shard.” But just as I was about to ask her to repeat herself, I saw the sign.
THE SHARD
MUNICIPAL PARK
PLACE TRASH IN PROPER RECEPTACLES
PARK CLOSES AT 10 P.M.
Beyond it lay a neat area of grass, trees, and benches. A few picnic tables were haphazardly arranged on a green, and though there was no playground, a sandbox had been provided for children to enjoy. The park took the form of an acute triangle; thus, I supposed, the name.
I sat at a picnic table, set Cylvia out to charge, and enjoyed my croissant and coffee. While I did, I took in the surrounding area. Houses stood along two sides of the park; the third side was home to a row of businesses. Most had unappealing names, or at least ones unlikely to kindle the interest of passersby: USED PARTS, one of them was called; another, FINANCIAL ENDEAVORS. A third sign simply read SERVICES. The only inviting establishment on the block was a florist, and while I sipped the last of my coffee, I realized that it would be nice to have some flowers in my room at the guesthouse. If I was going to be living there for the time being, I ought to make it homey and cheerful. Cut flowers would be lovely—I could even place them beside Cylvia, for her to enjoy too.
I crumpled my bag and cup and dropped them into a nearby trash can. Then, after tucking Cylvia back into my bag, I set out for the florist.
But I never got there. Something happened to divert me: Mr. Lorre, exiting the florist shop, clutching a large bouquet of red roses!
I wouldn’t have thought Mr. Lorre to be the romantic type. If anything, I assumed he had a wife in another town, and had come to the Subdivision to visit a relative, or on some truck-related business. Indeed, I would have been much less surprised to see him emerging from Used Parts, carrying a carburetor or fuel pump. But perhaps he was single—a divorcé, widower, or lifelong bachelor—and was here to visit a special friend.
In combination with the vulnerability he had displayed during the night, this sighting made me much more sympathetic to the grouchy driver. His flinty exterior clearly concealed some wellspring of emotion. And it was true that he appeared quite happy right now, and that happiness had transformed his mien; the intimidating sour-puss of the night before was gone.
Curious to see the object of his affection, I decided to shadow him. He was easy to follow; I just stayed on the opposite side of the street and a dozen steps behind him. Intent on the task at hand, he was oblivious to the world around him.
Mr. Lorre’s stride was quick and confident, in keeping with his upbeat mood. A few blocks along, he turned left, and then a block later, right: he seemed to know just where he was going. But then, at the next intersection, he appeared confused. He looked up, as though searching for a street sign, then abruptly turned around. I stepped back, into the shadow of a tree, but there was no need; he obviously just wanted to get his bearings, and took no notice of me.
He continued walking, but his pace had slowed; his confidence had flagged. He stopped again, glancing nervously about, and even asked a passing woman for directions. She listened, but in the end, shrugged and continued on her way while Mr. Lorre’s shoulders slumped.
I followed Mr. Lorre to the far northwest area of the Subdivision, all the way to the end of a wide, quiet street. The pavement ended at a pile of gravel and a couple of traffic cones. Weeds had grown in and around the gravel, and one of the cones had a long tuft of grass coming up through its spout. I thought for sure that, at this point, Mr. Lorre would turn around and try another route. But, to my surprise, he trudged onward, right past the gravel and cones, and into the stubblefield that lay beyond.
At this point, I wasn’t sure what I should do. On the one hand, I’d been engaging in a minor violation of the poor man’s privacy, and I should probably leave him alone. But on the other, I’d watched his mood collapse, and his gait along with it; now he was bent over, as though in pain, and the spray of roses drooped in his hand. Indeed, as I watched, one of them broke free of the bouquet and fell to the brown and rocky ground. Mr. Lorre now appeared exhausted and demoralized, at best, and physically ill at worst; he resembled some kind of lost ape, chased into unfamiliar territory by leopards or poachers. He might very well need my help.
I stepped over the weedy verge and pursued him across the field.
Almost immediately, I felt as though I’d made a mistake. The ground wasn’t just rocky; it was muddy, despite the hot, sunny weather, and bristling with the remains of the crop that had once been grown there: corn, I presumed. The farther Mr. Lorre walked, the more uneven the ground became, the more vexing the obstructions, the wetter and stickier the mud. At one point, I lost a shoe and had to pause to extract it from the muck.
From inside my bag came Cylvia’s voice. “It is not recommended that you leave the mappable area.”
“I’m not going far,” I said.
“It is not recommended.”
Up ahead lay the treeline. The woods, largely deciduous, were dense, and if anything they appeared more mysterious and forbidding the closer we drew to them. The field between us and the trees was well-nigh impassable, the ground wildly furrowed and heaved, with various kinds of industrial trash strewn about: fragments of heavy glass, greasy gears and chains, snarls of hose, and metal scraps sheared and bent by some kind of violence. And now, adding to the forces aligned against Mr. Lorre, a strange and increasingly urgent noise began to assert itself in the still air: a hum, as from a piece of poorly calibrated machinery or electrical transformer.
I could feel Cylvia’s warning vibrations at my side. In addition, she emitted a sound I’d never heard from her before, a high-pitched whooping alarm. “Do not leave the mappable area,” she repeated.
I looked over my shoulder. The Subdivision was there, of course, barely twenty yards away. I was in no particular peril. I said, “I’ll be fine! Please stop making that noise!”
Cylvia turned off the whooping but continued to vibrate, and before long, her vibration joined, was indistinguishable from, the ambient hum of the field. I zipped up my bag and struggled forward. Though the sound was loud, it was possible to sense, like the body of an iceberg below the waterline, an unfathomable hugeness just beyond the range of hearing. These inaudible frequencies were an assault on the body, prickling my skin and shaking my bowels.
I could go no farther. “Mr. Lorre!” I shouted.
The hum tore the words from my mouth and tossed them aside. It was as though I hadn’t spoken at all.
“Mr. Lorre! Wait!”
This time, my plea must have gotten through, because Mr. Lorre turned and looked over his shoulder. If he was surprised to see me standing there, in the middle of the field he had plodded into apparently at random, he made no sign. Instead, his face communicated utter despair.
“Come back! You’re lost!” I screamed.
Confused, he glanced about, his face straining against the terrible hum. I could feel it through my feet now, as though, just below, the strings of some terrible instrument were sounding a chord of war.
Mr. Lorre’s arms were flung out in a gesture of supplication. His lips moved, but I could hear nothing. I gestured for him to come back. Another rose fell from his bouquet and landed in a puddle.
“Come to me! This is a bad place!”
I took a step, and another. It was as though the air itself were clay. I reached out to him.
Mr. Lorre lurched sideways a bit, steadied, and at last turned toward me. He climbed over a tire, supporting himself by gripping a blackened length of metal pipe, and took my outstretched hand in his.
I drew him close and heaved his arm over my shoulders. He leaned against me, causing me to stagger under his weight, but we righted ourselves and continued to toil back across the ruined ground. Mr. Lorre dropped his roses, and I twisted my ankle, but as the hum decreased, the going got easier. Before long, we’d made it to the street. Mr. Lorre half-collapsed against the pile of gravel, panting, while I tried to wipe the mud from my shoes with a fallen maple leaf. It was hopeless, though—the shoes were ruined. And to think I’d begun my day hoping to find a job!
“Mr. Lorre,” I said, “are you all right?”
Though we had just spent a dramatic few minutes together, he seemed startled by the sound of my voice.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood and saw you in the field,” I lied. “Where were you trying to go?”
He blinked, righted himself, and looked down at his hand, the one that had been holding the flowers. He squinted over his shoulder. There they were, out in the field, bright dots against the drab ground.
“Going home,” he said.
“But where do you live, Mr. Lorre?”
He seemed to consider the question for a moment, then trained upon me a look of pure despair. “Who are you?” he whispered.
