Sufferance

by Thomas King

  And to sing “Happy Birthday” to the memory of Conkling and Davis.

  I’M STILL ON MY BACK, watching the clouds, humming “Happy Birthday,” when Oliver Flood arrives.

  He stands over me and blocks out the light. So much for the trees and the clouds and the sky. So much for the peaceable panorama.

  “When you’re done playing dead,” says Flood, “we’d like a word.”

  Flood has employed the royal we to denote a superior, such as a king or a pope or a god of some stripe, speaking to an inferior, such as me, as well as the rest of the world. William de Longchamp is generally credited with the introduction of the concept in the late-twelfth century.

  I’d share this historical footnote with Flood if I thought he would care.

  “Shall we help you up?”

  I could also mention that Margaret Thatcher, when she was prime minister, used the royal plural to announce that she had become a grandmother, and that the affectation had not gone over well with the press.

  But no one likes a pedant.

  I get to my feet, brush myself off. I’m stiffer than I would have supposed, and I have to take several moments to get all the parts working correctly and in unison.

  “Do you enjoy walking?” says Flood. “I know I do. There’s a large park with a lake near where I live. Forty minutes at a brisk pace before breakfast. Does wonders for energy and cognition.”

  The crows are in the sky. They fly low, strafe the river, cawing as they go.

  “Let’s walk to the falls,” says Flood. “I’ve heard so much about them. According to Tripadvisor and Expedia, it’s the number one thing to see in this part of the world.”

  Flood walks along the river path bent forward at the waist, his hands clasped behind his back, as though he’s practising for a scene in Downton Abbey. I walk along beside him, because I have nothing better to do.

  Flood talks as he walks. “In the coming weeks, the press will break a series of stories suggesting that the deaths of our billionaires were not natural or accidental, but rather the work of a terrorist organization to be named later. We’re still trying to come up with a catchy designation, something alliterative perhaps.

  “There will be confusion and indignation, calls for a joint task force or a blue-ribbon panel of some sort, and we shall have to endure the drove of talking donkeys on Fox and CNN, and the cackle of conspiracy hyenas on the internet. Amazing how easy it is to create a stampede.”

  The crows swing around and come storming into the trees. They know entertainment when they see it.

  “In three months, it will be old news, forgotten completely in nine. I plan to take some time off. Valencia is lovely this time of year. Or Prague. Perhaps even Vancouver.”

  Flood didn’t come to the graveyard to fill me in on his vacation plans.

  “Ms. Locken is of the opinion that the existence of billionaires is the sure sign of a failed social/economic system, and she believes that taking out the expensive trash could make a difference, that we are redeemable. I don’t share this view, but I respect her passion and conviction, and I do what I can to help. Still, you can see our dilemma. We can’t have anything that links her to the dispatching of rich folks, because then it would be difficult for her to continue on with the dispatching.”

  We come to the bend in the trail, and now I can feel the first faint tremors of the falls under my feet.

  “From what I’ve seen, we don’t win these wars.” Flood glances up into the trees. “The war on drugs? Lost. The war on poverty? Lost. The war on guns? Lost. The war on racism? Also lost.

  “And now Ms. Locken is waging a war on power and privilege, and what I need to know is whether you will help, hinder, or stand to the side and watch.”

  I wonder if Flood can feel the sensations as well.

  “I’ve been instructed not to kill you,” he says, “so there’s no need for you to hedge your answer.”

  We walk the rest of the way in silence, Flood leading the way. When we get to the viewpoint, Flood goes to the railing and leans out into the spray.

  “Broken Bough Falls.” Flood’s voice softens. “Did you know that the version of ‘Rock-a-bye Baby,’ the version every mother knows, first appeared in a mid-eighteenth-century publication.”

  The wind shifts, and the spray dances away from Flood.

  “So, this is the famous Cradle River,” he says. “Where the water falls into a pool and disappears.”

  The crows have followed us. They sit in the trees, waiting to see if anyone is going to jump.

  “Do you think rivers are metaphors for life?”

  I should have gone with Roman and Lala for ice cream. Or to the hospital with the women.

  “We’ve kept your room at the Plaza,” says Flood. “So at least you have somewhere to hide.”

  The crows are restless. If there’s no murder and mayhem in the immediate future, then they have better things to do.

  “So what about it, Forecaster?” Flood spreads his arms and leans out over the railing. “Do you think we’re redeemable?”

  I wait to see if Flood will take to the air and fly away.

  “The world’s going to hell, and you think you can sit in a graveyard with a hammer and a chisel? The dead don’t give a shit.”

  Or if he’ll lose his balance and be washed over the falls.

  “Fact is, we all have to make choices.” Flood steps back from the railing. “Whether we want to or not.”

  40

  Flood doesn’t kill me.

  He doesn’t fly away, and he doesn’t go over the falls.

  The crows stick around until it’s clear that the possibility for slaughter has passed. I can hear the disappointment in their voices as they explode into the air.

  Flood and I walk back together. Two old friends out for a stroll. When we get to the bend, Flood stops. From here, you can turn away from the river and head into town. Or you can stay the path until you get to the graveyard and the school.

  “I’m sure you have already concluded that you weren’t the only forecaster we engaged.” Flood stops, turns to me. “Lorna Collins in London. José Sandolo in Mexico City. Jia Yang in Beijing. Ernst Becker in Berlin. None of them was able to see what you saw.”

  Billionaires killing billionaires.

  “How did you know?” says Flood. “How did you figure it out? What gave it away?”

  I could tell Flood that it was the only explanation that made sense. Who else would kill them? Who else knew them well enough to get inside their defences? Who else had the resources and the will to stage such an elaborate and global slaughter?

  Who else would know the extent of the damage such people inflict on society, on the planet?

  Who else possessed the ego and the conceit to believe that they were called to such a task?

  Who else had the list?

  A gardener in a garden. Indeed.

  “Ms. Locken likes you.” Flood turns towards the town. “Damned if I know why.”

  ROMAN AND LALA are on the front porch. Lala has the remains of an ice cream cone that she is sharing with Pancakes.

  “Pancakes likes ice cream,” she explains. “Just like me.”

  “Nutty’s not too good,” says Roman.

  “Grummy is sick,” says Lala. “She has a cold.”

  “They’re going to keep her in the hospital. Pneumonia.”

  Pancakes the cat stops licking and begins chewing on the cone. Roman takes out a handkerchief and wipes his daughter’s face.

  “Can we watch the baseball game?” Lala drops the remains of the cone on the ground for the cat. “Nooko told me to watch the game, so I could tell her what happened.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Did so.”

  “How about I teach you to play the horn, sweet pea?”

  “I’m not sweet pea.”

  “Okay, honey bun.”

  “I’m not honey bun.” Lala leans in against her father. “If we don’t watch the game, Nooko will be sa
d.”

  THE WALK TO THE HOSPITAL doesn’t take as long as I expected. The place is just as cold and frightening, the smells sharp and disturbing. I remember the floor and the room, but when I get there, someone else is in the bed.

  My mistake.

  There’s no reason that they would have put Nutty in the same room, the same bed. Hospitals aren’t hotels, where you can request a room with a view. You go where they stick you.

  I check each floor, glance in the rooms that are open. No Nutty. I could ask, but I don’t. There’s the chance that she has died. She’s old. She’s sick. As I look, I try to imagine what she would say if I were to offer her immortality. And youth.

  Rise up and go forth.

  Would she say no? Would I say no? Unimaginable wealth and power? Would we say no to that as well?

  So, Locken had used my list as a blueprint for gardening. Snip here, snap there. But societies are not trees. And there’s no way to predict what will happen, what will change. If anything. What new patterns might emerge.

  And yet she had stepped forward and cut away. As though she knew what she was doing.

  I don’t find Nutty. I don’t find Ada or Emma either, for that matter. I wander the corridors, drift among the sick and the dying, until I find my way out into the night and back to my room at the Plaza.

  41

  I stay in my hotel room for the rest of the week. Most of the time, I lie on the bed, under the covers. I know the world has run on ahead without me. The school and the graveyard. Florence and the Piggy. Swannie and her brownies. Lala and Emma.

  Nutty.

  I don’t care where it’s going. Just so long as it’s not coming here.

  Morning, afternoon, evening. Morning, afternoon, evening. The fox on the bank. The duck in the river.

  And then morning comes around again, and I hear the drum.

  I get out of bed, go to the window. From my vantage point, I can see part of the plaza, and the part that I can see is awash in people. The festival. After all this, a festival? If I had any nascent ideas of leaving the room, they are now gone.

  “Pop-Up!”

  I stay by the window and pretend to be deaf as well as dumb.

  “Pop-Up. It’s me.”

  Which isn’t exactly true.

  When I open the door, I find Ada and Emma and Nutty and Florence standing in the hallway as well. Along with Wapi. His hands are still bandaged. Takahashi’s binoculars hang around his neck. Lala rushes past me and into the suite.

  “How many houses do you own, Pop-Up?”

  Suddenly, my sanctuary is filled with people.

  “Pretty fancy,” says Ada. “So this is how the rich live.”

  “You have to come to the park with us.” Lala bounces from the sofa to the chair and back again. “I’m getting my face painted.”

  “Closed the café,” says Florence. “Too much of a success.”

  Wapi holds the binoculars to his eyes and sweeps the room.

  “Nooko gave your binoculars to Wapi,” Lala tells me.

  “You weren’t using them,” says Ada.

  “Wapi can see all sorts of things that no one else can see.” Lala stands in front of the binoculars and makes a face. “He can see everything in the world.”

  “World,” says Wapi.

  “I’ve got legal work now,” says Emma, “so I’ve had to stop working at the Piggy.”

  “Restaurant’s no place for a lawyer anyway,” says Ada.

  “Which is why we came by,” says Emma.

  Ada orders room service for everyone. Coffee, fruit, eggs, bacon, toast. Locken won’t mind, and I don’t care.

  “Do they have pancakes?” says Lala. “Grummy likes pancakes.”

  “Maybe one or two,” says Nutty.

  “What do you know about the Ankh Foundation?” asks Emma.

  “Your girlfriend runs it,” says Ada, “so don’t be playing dumb.”

  “Nothing wrong with having a girlfriend,” says Nutty.

  “Sit down, you old fool,” says Ada. “You just got out of the hospital.”

  It takes a while, but I get everybody sorted out on chairs and sofas. I wind up perched on the edge of a coffee table.

  “Couple of lawyers met with the band council,” says Emma. “They want to fund a demonstration project on sustainable communities.”

  “They want to build a new council office,” says Ada, “and replace all the trailers with modular homes.”

  “Out of the blue,” says Emma. “Has to make you wonder.”

  And then the women sit back and wait to see what I have to say. They’re still waiting when the food arrives.

  Flood has been busy. In addition to the new council office and the modular homes, the Ankh Foundation has offered to dig a well and set up a solar-power system for the reserve. Replace the septic system.

  “As well as a satellite system and a wireless hub,” says Ada.

  “So I can use my cellphone,” says Lala.

  “These eggs are pretty good,” says Nutty. “Not as good as Emma’s, but pretty good.”

  Florence holds up the menu. “Have you seen these prices?”

  “The foundation is sort of a dream come true,” says Emma. “We still can’t figure out what happened.”

  “Too good to be true,” says Ada.

  “Okay,” says Florence as she helps herself to a whack of bacon, “news, blues, and comfortable shoes.”

  I lean back against the wall and pretend to be invisible.

  “On the international scene, a terrorist group calling itself the Gardeners is taking credit for the deaths of several billionaires whose deaths were thought to be accidental. Intelligence services in several countries have formed a task force to deal with what they are calling a threat to the world economy.”

  “The Gardeners?” Ada slides a couple pancakes onto her plate. “There’s a name that’s sure to strike fear in the hearts of rich people.”

  “Good gardening is important,” says Nutty.

  “While in the land just south of us,” says Florence, “Texas has admitted to losing over four thousand children who were removed from their families by immigration officials.”

  “That’s more than careless,” says Emma.

  “A spokeswoman for ICE says that the children are not really missing, that they have just been misplaced.”

  Lala is on her feet and runs from one end of the suite to the other. “Can I have some coffee?”

  “And in local news,” says Florence, “the Spring Festival is on today in the plaza, featuring the Clay Pigeons on the big drum.”

  “Ada and me are going to dance,” says Nutty.

  “No, we’re not,” says Ada.

  “Shawl,” says Nutty. “It’s spring. I feel like dancing.”

  “Can I dance?” says Lala. “I’m a good dancer.”

  I sneak some grapes, a piece of cheese, and a slice of toast. My hope is that once the food runs out, they’ll forget about me and leave.

  “And,” says Florence, holding up a hand, “in more local news, the mayor’s office has come under investigation over the improper letting of contracts.”

  “As in kickbacks,” says Emma. “Appears the mayor was less than transparent in how the bids for the new community centre were handled.”

  “Bob’s the one,” says Ada.

  I try one of the pastries. It looks as if it’s lemon. But it’s not.

  “Can we go to the festival now?” Lala hops to the door on one foot. “You guys are boring.”

  EVERYTHING IN THE PLAZA is in motion. Musicians occupy the bandstand. Vendors ring the perimeter of the park. Earrings made out of spoons. Handcrafted cutting boards. Painted birdhouses. Wine cork key-chains. Two women have set a slackline between the bandstand and a lamp standard and are rope walking to “I Will Survive.”

  The Three Bears are here as well. Louis has his hand drums on display, along with Enola’s beadwork.

  The Clay Pigeons have set up the big drum in the middle
of the park, next to the firepit. The fire is going, and the Pigeons are relaxing. The musicians in the bandstand are finishing up a piece that sounds like car alarms wrapped in tinfoil.

  “Jerry.”

  All these people, and nowhere to hide.

  “Just the man I want to see.”

  Mayor Bob is dressed in a bright blue golf shirt and a pair of tan walking shorts.

  “What’s all this bullshit about the reserve?” The mayor shakes his head. “New council office? New houses?”

  I turn towards the drum. Roman sees me and waves me over.

  Loomis grabs my arm. “Lipstick on a pig. You need to get everyone on board. Cradle River Estates is going to happen. It’s a reality. It’s the future.”

  I shrug him off, begin drifting away, as though the wind has picked me up and is carrying me along. The mayor follows.

  “I didn’t build a fucking model for nothing.”

  Loomis slows down as we get close to the drum.

  “Didn’t get brochures printed up for my own amusement,” he calls out after me.

  THE FIRE IN THE PIT is going pretty well. There’s a stack of firewood off to one side, and it’s only when I get close that I realize what Roman and the boys are burning.

  Crosses.

  The crosses that Roman rescued from Wegman. The crosses that he hid in Nutty’s trailer.

  “Cuz.” Roman stands up and brings me to the drum. “You know the boys?”

  I know Jake and Gordon and Benjamin. The other guys are strangers.

  “Curve Lake drum,” says Roman. “This is Narcisse and Leroy, Martin and Smiley.”

  I shake hands with each man in turn.

  “This is Jeremiah Camp,” says Roman. “He’s a little weird.”

  “Weird,” says Wapi, and he looks at each man through the binoculars.

  “But he’s family?” says Narcisse. “Right?”

  “Yeah,” says Roman, and he hits the drum with his drumstick. “That’s the rumour.”

  I sit in the circle, keep my mouth shut, hold the beat. In between songs, Roman throws another cross on the fire.