The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  “So I suppose you heard about the trouble over in Fogwood,” he said.

  “Joel said it was pretty bad.”

  “I was on the phone to Chones half the morning.” Swope finally met Wooten’s eye. “Five arrests.”

  Wooten sucked air between his teeth.

  “All from Newton,” Swope explained. “And all black.”

  “Now there’s a surprise.”

  “Chones swears that’s just how it worked out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll tell you,” Swope said wistfully. “I can’t wait until incorporation. We can get some of our own damned cops out here.”

  “We always knew this would be a tricky time, Austin.”

  “Tell that to Chicago. I’ve been getting memos up the wazoo from Savage about all this bad press we’ve been getting.” Swope looked at Wooten, a thin smile suddenly creasing his face. “Well, most of us.”

  Wooten scowled away the remark. He spent a long moment searching for the right thing to say. Discussion of headquarters with Austin had become difficult since Savage’s call. Every time the subject came up he was tempted simply to tell him about his trip, just so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings if news happened to come out. But, once again, Wooten bit his tongue. Savage had asked him to keep quiet. And Savage was the boss.

  “Well, what does Gus recommend be done?” he asked instead.

  “Oh, he’s not too forthcoming on methodology. He just wants results.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m inclined to close the center for the summer.”

  “Will Chicago allow that?”

  “If we tell them there are structural reasons to keep it closed, yeah.”

  “Are there?”

  Swope met Wooten’s eye. He shook his head in that slow, sly manner he had, his foxy face looking like it had just stumbled into an unguarded hatch of fat chickens.

  “Ah.”

  “Look, Earl—there’s no way I want to have a repeat of last night’s fiasco.”

  “And Chicago definitely won’t let it be closed for security reasons?”

  “They think it’ll look bad. And they’re right.”

  “But won’t people see through this?”

  “Not if it’s you saying that it has to stay closed.”

  Wooten’s eyes traveled to Swope’s blotter, filled with scribbles and half words, the residue of his busy mind. Another lie. They seemed to be adding up these days.

  “Come on, Earl. Help me out here.”

  Wooten met his friend’s eye. As much as he hated to lie, there was no way he could deny him. Not with everything they’d been through together.

  “All right.”

  “Thanks, Earl, I owe you.”

  Wooten remembered Vota’s growling laugh.

  “In that case, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Fire Joe Vota.”

  Swope didn’t bat an eye.

  “Gladly. Why?”

  “He’s messing up bad. They’re already two weeks behind.”

  “Jesus. You talk to him about it?”

  Wooten nodded.

  “I think Mr. Vota has a problem accepting instruction from a boss of a certain ethnicity.”

  “Fuck him. He’s history.”

  “It might be hard, him being on a HUD contract.”

  Swope smiled.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Wooten, but are you questioning my ability to terminate Joe Vota’s employment in a manner both expeditious and absolute?”

  Wooten returned the smile.

  “No, I suppose I’m not, counselor.” He pushed himself up from his chair. “Well, I best be getting back to work. Listen, Austin …”

  Swope waited.

  “It’s summer. Be patient. Things will cool off.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Their business concluded, the men nodded an agreeable farewell to each other, just as they had nearly every day for these last five years. And then Wooten turned and made his way back across the big, sun-soaked office. By the time he reached the door he was hurrying. The day was getting old and there was still much to do.

  4

  “Something stinks in this place.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “That smell. What’s that smell?”

  John Truax had been just about to start the last droning stanza of his sales litany when the woman interrupted him. He pushed his right hand deeper into the pocket of his forest-green EarthWorks blazer, knowing immediately that it was the odor of his own putrid flesh snaking through the Ticonderoga’s usual smells, the carpet shampoo and pine disinfectant, the freon and rogue motes of dust baked by the afternoon light. It must be getting worse. Usually, the ointment, muslin wrap and single leather glove were enough to keep the rot at bay.

  “I don’t smell anything, ma’am,” he said, staring right into the woman’s eyes.

  “Really? Because I thought there was something … funky.”

  Truax nodded once, then turned back to the bedroom. For a brief moment he was tempted to simply walk away, leaving behind the stink and the shame and everything else he hated about this job. But of course he didn’t. He stood his ground and pressed ahead with the sales speech they’d taught him, saying the words he’d said a thousand times before.

  But hurrying now. Wanting to get out of here before the stench became undeniable.

  “Right, then. This is the master bedroom. You’ll notice that there’s an en suite bathroom and …”

  As Truax spoke he secretly measured the couple, trying to gauge the odds of a sale. Somewhere between poor and nonexistent, he guessed. They were younger than most of the people who came to him. Mid-twenties. No kids. Both teachers, just hired at Newton High. He was Social Studies, she was Math. He had narrow shoulders and a jackal’s smile rimmed by a short scratchy beard. Turtleneck sweater, corduroy pants and Hush Puppies. Math was tall, no tits and long frizzy hair captured in a multicolored scarf. The skinny ankles sticking out beneath her peasant skirt were covered with fine down. It was obviously her idea that they walk through the models. Social Studies made it clear that he saw the visit as an exercise in comic futility.

  They had strolled into his office just after lunch, Social Studies announcing that they were out to “test the housing market waters.” After that he lapsed into a sullen, superior silence, letting his wife run the show. As she blabbered on he surveyed the office walls, his eyes coming to rest on the picture of Truax in combat fatigues at My Song. The jackal’s smile tugged even harder at his lips. That smile remained fixed as Truax showed them through the Lexington and the Concord, the Gettysburg and the Bunker Hill, his expression suggesting that the walls and fixtures and carpeting were confirming something at once comic and vaguely sinister. By the time they reached the Ticonderoga, Truax was simply going through the motions.

  He finished his spiel.

  “The yards aren’t very big,” Math said after a moment, moving over to the window.

  “Well, no. But, in Newton, you’re never more than a quarter mile from a playground or park.”

  Social Studies snorted. Truax shot him a look. What the hell was wrong with this candyass?

  “I like this one the best, though,” Math said, still at the window. “What’s it called again?”

  “The Ticonderoga. Bought one of these myself.”

  “Are there any lots left in Mystic Hills?”

  You must be joking, Truax thought.

  “Well, no.” He took a breath. “In fact, this is the last remaining specimen.”

  “What?” she asked, pointing at the floor. “This?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s a model.”

  “Well, yes. But identical to the others.”

  Social Studies rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t want to live in a model,” Math said. “I mean, what about all the buyers walking around all day?”

  “Oh, no. The model v
illage is closing. All the houses you’ve seen today are available for immediate occupancy.”

  “Are they cheaper than the others?” Math asked.

  “Well, there’s a base price that we’re supposed to work from, but they generally give us some leeway.”

  She looked at her husband.

  “Hon?”

  Social Studies shrugged. He’d save his remarks for later.

  “Are there any questions you might have?” Truax asked, hoping the answer was no.

  “Could you explain that VOP thingamajig again?” Math asked.

  “VOC. Absolutely.” Truax recited the words it had taken him days to learn. “This is a feature exclusive to EarthWorks homes. The VOC filtration network is a household system which rids the dwelling of nearly all VOCs—that means volatile organic compounds—released from building materials as they undergo normal settling. It consists of a series of pleated filters located discreetly throughout the home which snatch mold and free radicals from the air. This, together with,” he pointed to the window, “our state-of-the-art weather stripping and insulation, makes for a caulked and sealed environment.”

  “Wow,” Math said blandly. “Sounds impressive.”

  “It is,” Truax answered.

  “I have a question,” Social Studies said.

  Truax turned slowly toward him.

  “Why are they all named for battles?” he asked, his eyes settling squarely on Truax for the first time.

  “Come again?”

  “These …” he raised the first two fingers of each hand to his hairy cheeks and wriggled them, “these homes you’ve been showing us. They’re all named for battles in which people were killed.”

  As opposed to battles in which people were not killed, Truax thought. But did not say.

  “They’re Colonials,” he guessed.

  “Gettysburg isn’t from the Colonial period. Nor is Ticonderoga.”

  Truax held the man’s gaze.

  “I can give you the names of some people in the planning department at EarthWorks,” he said eventually. “I’m sure they’d be able to field your question.”

  Social Studies snorted.

  “That I’d like to hear,” he said.

  Truax looked from the man to his wife.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Why not come on back to the office. I can give you some literature. We can kick around some numbers.”

  “Run something up the flagpole,” Social Studies said in a thin, hectoring voice. “See if anybody salutes it.”

  Truax made sure his eyes stayed off the man. He took a deep, controlling breath as he turned to lead them out of the room.

  “Wonder why they haven’t named one for Khe Sanh,” Social Studies asked his wife in a stage whisper.

  Just keep walking, Truax told himself as he made his way through the house. He focused on the things EarthWorks had installed to give the place a lived-in look. The small table with its glued-down bifocals and snifter filled with two fingers of brandy-colored plastic. Cubes of family photos culled from a Sears catalog. The rows of Reader’s Digest condensed classics. The desk laid out in a seductive state of disarray, with the bogus note he’d read almost every day for over a year now: Get J. from school at 2:30.

  Back on the cul-de-sac he put some air between himself and the couple. He walked quickly, a pleasant summer breeze ruffling his hair. It still felt strange to have hair moving across his scalp. After a lifelong brush cut he’d finally allowed his hair to grow in when one of the other salesmen had suggested it was a bit too severe for buyers. It came in thick and wavy as a child’s. Behind him the couple were whispering, plotting their escape. They were goners. Either they’d hold out for the next phase in the newer villages or grab an out-parcel in the county to build on. Either way, trying to peddle them a model had been a wasted hour. Yet another in a series.

  It had been like this for two months now, ever since the last of Fogwood’s lots had been sold. The other salesmen were long gone, leaving Truax behind to hold down the fort and peddle the models. He’d yet to move one. People’s reactions were always the same when he told them that this was all that was available. Disappointment and a vague distaste at being offered something that had been tramped through by a thousand strange feet. One woman had likened it to being offered display underwear at Montgomery Ward. This was the New City, after all. People wanted new houses. Truax had room on price but the houses were still proving impossible to move. Not that he was really in a hurry to get rid of them. Although he could certainly use the commission, once the models were gone he’d be out of a job. For the second time in three years.

  He neared the sales office at the top of the gated cul-de-sac of model homes. Strangely enough, he was going to miss it, this nonplace nobody had ever called home. When he’d first come here it had seemed otherworldly, a colony of asphalt and aluminum stuck out in the middle of scarred pasture. Cow pies dotted the land just beyond lawns that looked like they had been lovingly nurtured for generations. EarthWorks had paid attention to the details, from the children’s toys bolted to the front walks to the American flags hanging beside every door. Since his arrival Truax had spent nearly as much time in the models as he had at his own house. It had been a good place to be, a between world where he could come for eight or ten hours each day, a way station that had all the features of the society he was supposed to join but little of the aggravation. Having enlisted when he was seventeen, he had never learned civilian life. If Newton was the only place for him in America, then this cul-de-sac proved the perfect spot for him to get into the swing of Newton. Here, he could figure out how to stand in a room and talk with strangers. How to deal with people who had never been in battle or thought about honor.

  But that was all to end. The between time was over. Whatever grace the models had held for him had evaporated in May, when he learned there would be no new posting for him in one of the city’s outlying villages. His colleagues, men and women he had never really got to know, had either taken up these jobs or been offered spots with Century 21 down in Montgomery County. But not him. As soon as the models were sold he was going to have to find something else to do.

  There would be no Century 21 for John Truax.

  He led the couple into the sales office. The NOW SELLING dirigible tethered to the roof moved in the afternoon breeze like a fish in a tank. The multicolored pennants festooning the building clapped politely with each gust. Inside, Math accepted the information kit while her husband looked at his watch.

  “Ready, hon?” she asked.

  Social Studies turned to Truax, his jackal’s smile suggesting he’d conjured one final quip. But then he saw the look in Truax’s eyes. The look he’d learned twenty years ago and never unlearned. A sergeant named Mackey had taught it to him at Fort Bragg. Whatever was on the tip of Social Studies’s tongue died suddenly. He looked away, startled by his own fear, then wheeled and walked out the door. Truax watched the couple slide into their Karmann Ghia. The high-pitched hum of the VW engine was reminiscent of the man’s voice. The car made a sarcastic, squealing left onto Camelback Lane and was gone.

  Truax went into his cubicle, where his Selectric purred on the steel desk like a fat, happy cat. He turned it on in the morning and let it run all day, even though serious typing would have been impossible with his bad hand. He took the logbook from the top right drawer and entered the visit, using the green Flair for no sale. Writing with the slow, childish left-handed scrawl he’d been teaching himself. There was a lot of green on this month’s page.

  Next, he removed the metal box from his lower drawer, the one filled with ointments and unguents and antibiotics, the small vials of clove and mint aromatics, the yards of gauze. After double checking that no new customers were coming, he took off his glove and examined the bandage. Small moist islands had appeared on the flesh-colored fabric. The odor was strong, peppermint and bad meat. He slowly unwrapped the dressing. As he worked he became aware of his family staring at him from the ed
ge of his desk, their Sears photoportraits lined up like a mute jury. On the left was Irma, the foreman, with her probationary smile and eyes that expected the good life after nearly twenty years of waiting. Next to her was Darryl, his youngest, once his baby but so distant at fourteen that she didn’t even mean him when she said father. She spent nearly every night at Young Life meetings, clapping and singing hymns until midnight, getting fat on Kool-Aid and Oreos. She spent weekends at the Interfaith Center with Reverend Abernathy, a guitar-strumming draft dodger who once asked Truax if he wanted to pray for their sins in Vietnam. Their sins. Truax had merely stared the man down, earning two weeks of enmity from his daughter. Now, every time they met, Abernathy merely smiled wordlessly, having no doubt slotted Truax into the circle of hell reserved for Calley and Westmoreland. As if he knew anything. As if he knew one single thing.

  He finished unwrapping the bandage, stuffing it into the plastic bag he’d leave in a Dumpster behind Giant. He examined his hand. The infection looked bad. Having started at the initial puncture near the base of his pinkie, it had made its way up to the tips of each of his four fingers and down to his lifeline, where it now paused, like an army at a wide river. If it reached the wrist then the hand would have to go. The risk of general infection would be too great. That was the one thing everyone was in agreement about.

  He ran the fingertips of his good hand over the septic flesh, bloodless blue in some places, meaty and cracked in others. They thought it was just a bad case of pseudomonas at first, though it soon became clear that it was something much rarer. Other names were uttered. Necrotizing fasciities. Tenosynovitis. Brucella. Pastuerella multocida. Putrid Hand Syndrome. Mycobacterium of various sorts. Sporotrichosis. None of them proved adequate. Various treatments were attempted. Antibiotics. Povidone-iodine solution. Exsanguination followed by radical debridement. But nothing worked. The infection was in the flesh and then it became the flesh, feeding off his blood. His hand still moved a little when he asked it and felt dully if he whacked it. But it was not his. It was not his body and certainly not his odor. The last doctor, a wizened old dermatologist at Bethesda Naval, had offered to take it off. No bullshit. No balloon juice. Just lop the sucker off. In his opinion, it would certainly not get better and it would probably get worse, so they might as well get it over with. For a moment, Truax had been tempted. Just for a moment. But tempted still.