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.
Oh.
He flipped his hood up and moved past Debbie, toward the door. Grab a flashlight, we should go, he said.
And Debbie went after him, trying to feel trusted, trying to feel good.
AT FIRST WHEN THE pickup and trailer pulled into Street’s Milk & Things, Pop assumed he’d only have to disappoint hopeful patrons of Mr. Ademus. In the doorway he held up his arms in a gesture meant to convey: Sold out, apologizations! But out stepped two men in the khaki uniforms of the NFLM , one carrying a briefcase, the other with a Citypass lanyard around his neck, both with terrific moustaches. At last the birds fly home to roast, said Pop.
He locked eyes with each of the men in turn, closed the door, turned the sign around so NOT OPEN faced out. The men looked at the NOT OPEN sign, at the proprietor posed defiantly behind it, one of them knocked, the other gestured at the pickup. Pop didn’t move. From the briefcase papers were produced and pressed to the glass. At last Pop addressed them as per their nametags: Bygone with yous, Misters Walters and Reed!
The Helpers exchanged words. Walters tore off a crinkly carbon copy, rolled it into a tube, and wedged it in the doorhandle. Then they got back in the pickup and pulled around behind the store. Pop’s breathing shallowed, a vein throbbed in his throat. Finally he threw the door open and in socked feet went waddling after the two men.
With Walters waving him along, Reed was reversing into the clearing. The trailer slid underneath the houseboat with a clang.
That’s my home!, screamed Pop. What is your strategization?
It’s condemned, said Walters. We’re just picking it up. You’ve got a problem, go through the proper
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.
Oh.
He flipped his hood up and moved past Debbie, toward the door. Grab a flashlight, we should go, he said.
And Debbie went after him, trying to feel trusted, trying to feel good.
AT FIRST WHEN THE pickup and trailer pulled into Street’s Milk & Things, Pop assumed he’d only have to disappoint hopeful patrons of Mr. Ademus. In the doorway he held up his arms in a gesture meant to convey: Sold out, apologizations! But out stepped two men in the khaki uniforms of the NFLM , one carrying a briefcase, the other with a Citypass lanyard around his neck, both with terrific moustaches. At last the birds fly home to roast, said Pop.
He locked eyes with each of the men in turn, closed the door, turned the sign around so NOT OPEN faced out. The men looked at the NOT OPEN sign, at the proprietor posed defiantly behind it, one of them knocked, the other gestured at the pickup. Pop didn’t move. From the briefcase papers were produced and pressed to the glass. At last Pop addressed them as per their nametags: Bygone with yous, Misters Walters and Reed!
The Helpers exchanged words. Walters tore off a crinkly carbon copy, rolled it into a tube, and wedged it in the doorhandle. Then they got back in the pickup and pulled around behind the store. Pop’s breathing shallowed, a vein throbbed in his throat. Finally he threw the door open and in socked feet went waddling after the two men.
With Walters waving him along, Reed was reversing into the clearing. The trailer slid underneath the houseboat with a clang.
That’s my home!, screamed Pop. What is your strategization?
It’s condemned, said Walters. We’re just picking it up. You’ve got a problem, go through the proper
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