by Rachel Heng
There was a bottle in his hand. He raised it to his mouth and took a small sip, winced a bit.
“What’s that? What are you drinking?” Lea said before she could stop herself. The question sprang from her lips like an accusation.
Ambrose frowned. “Surely you know.”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Yes. Of course.”
He lowered the bottle to the ground and stood up, walking out of the camera frame and over to Lea.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said to her in a quiet voice.
Are you sure you want to do this? Lea thought, the panic rising in her chest.
“We can always get someone else,” he said. “Postpone it. Another day. Do it—do it another day.”
The disappointment in his voice was palpable. She thought of her father and his pain. No, Ambrose was not hers to save.
Lea pressed the Record button. “I’m sure,” she said. “Shall we get started?”
His gaze flickered over her face for a long moment. Finally he nodded and went back to his seat.
He gave a short speech, similar to those she had seen in prior videos. They all said the same things. She wondered how much of it had been scripted, who told them what to say. She wondered if they had been pushed into this final, melodramatic act. Ambrose was impressionable, she knew. He seemed calmer now, happier, but who was to really know? Who was to know what Mrs. Jackman or Manuel had said to him? If they had made him feel that he had no choice, that what he was doing was noble in some warped way?
When Ambrose lit the match, Lea wasn’t thinking of her father, the reason she was here in the first place. She found herself thinking instead of Uju. She thought of the way her mother had lived her life: life-loving, compliant, never complaining. Strong, striving, always striving. Unlike her father, who had run away once, and wanted to run away again.
She thought of the way her mother had died, at the end of her natural predicted lifespan, in a peaceful end-of-life home. The mechanical parts of her body switched off one at a time, one after another, all within the span of twenty-four hours. Perfectly calibrated. Lea thought of the way her mother had held her hand toward the end. The way she’d stared at Lea without blinking, one long, last stare, drinking in her features, before she’d closed her eyes for the last time. As if she wanted to make sure that Lea was the last thing she saw.
Surely it was an insult, what Ambrose was doing? What the Club, Anja, Mrs. Jackman, Manuel, what they were all doing. But as she watched Ambrose lift the match to his glistening tongue, she felt no horror, no revulsion, no fear. The flame was growing now. Ambrose kept his eyes on the camera. He kept his eyes on her.
Lea realized that the window was open. Or rather, it no longer had any glass in it, the building being slated for demolition. Through the window came sounds from the outside world, a world that seemed, suddenly, to be unbearably loud. She felt the violent thrum of every passing car in her bones, the shrill squeal of a baby piercing her nerves. Somewhere outside, a dog began to bark, a low, terrible, hungry sound.
Lea watched as the fire engulfed Ambrose. She watched with a kind of fascination, hands gripping the camera so hard that her knuckles turned white. It was horrifying, yes, watching a man burn to death, but it also raised something primal within her, something she didn’t understand, something that kept her eyes open and fixated on the scene before her.
She was reminded of Dwight.
Suddenly the feeling rushed back into her hands. Lea ducked around the camera and threw herself to Ambrose’s side. She tried to beat the flames with her bare hands, not feeling the heat, not feeling the pain. The smell hit her all of a sudden. It was a terrible, acrid, bitter smell. She tried not to breathe.
It wasn’t working—the fire was still going strong. Ambrose was unconscious now, his eyes rolling up in his head. Lea grabbed the empty bottle he’d drunk from, running out into the hallway, heading for the bathroom. She placed its mouth under the faucet and turned the handle, praying that the water was still running. It was, but only at a trickle. Lea’s hands were shaking and the bottle mouth was narrow. It seemed to take forever to fill it just halfway.
When it was full she ran back to the room, spilling water over her legs and feet. But when she got back, the flames had already gone out. DiamondSkinTM, she thought, thank goodness. It wouldn’t burn. It didn’t work.
Ambrose lay curled on his side, the legs of his pants burnt to ash. She crouched over him and shook his shoulder.
“Ambrose,” she said softly. He didn’t move. Lea pulled on his shoulder, turning him face up.
When she saw his face, her hands stopped shaking. She placed the bottle of water on the floor carefully, as if all that mattered in the world was that it should not spill.
THIRTY
Anja was in the kitchen when the officers showed up. The dishwasher had broken down yet again, and she had been landed with sink duty. Sweat dripped down her forehead into her eyes as she scrubbed oily plates, her fingers swollen and wrinkled with soapy water. The pile of dirty plates only seemed to get higher, no matter how quickly she scrubbed, so she didn’t hear the commotion until Rosalie called her over to the entryway with a low hiss.
She knew immediately that something was wrong. Rosalie never left the fryers during lunchtime, not even to go to the bathroom. Even more ominous was the quiet outside that she only noticed now, several times lower in volume than the usual peak-hour chaos.
Anja turned the tap off and wiped her hands on her jeans. She heard voices coming from outside, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Walking over to where Rosalie was peeking out of the kitchen, she stuck her head into the entryway as well.
There were three of them, two male and one female, all neatly turned out in a mass of shiny buckles and navy blue. Police badges were emblazoned across their hats and sleeves.
They stood around Halimah, the daughter of the diner’s owner. She twirled a tight curl of black hair around her index finger, nodding as she spoke.
“No, nothing like that at all,” she was saying. “He never behaved like anything you’re describing.”
“How about the people he knew?” one of the male officers asked. He had a mean, squarish face, with the small shallow-set eyes of a hammerhead shark. None of the officers held tablets. They stood with their hands in their pockets or on their hips, as if having a casual chat while picking up some coffee. Still, the diner was quiet, and all eyes were on them.
Halimah tipped her head to the side. “I didn’t know who he knew. Do you see the state of this place? We’re so overworked, I can hardly keep track of my own acquaintances, let alone all of my staff’s.”
“Any suspicious characters ever show up to work?” the shark-faced policeman went on.
“Suspicious characters? Depends on what you mean. This is an Outer Boroughs diner, officer, not some fancy Borough Two veggie bar.” A note of impatience crept into Halimah’s voice. She raised the toes of her left foot, balancing on her heel, a sign that Anja knew all too well meant her temper was rising.
The policeman blinked. “Do you realize how serious this is? We could have you shut down, just like that”—he snapped his fingers—“if you don’t feel the need to cooperate. Just the association with someone like him.”
Halimah eyed him carefully.
“I am cooperating. Of course I am,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “It’s just—well, this isn’t very good for business, you know.” She gestured around at the half-empty diner. The remaining customers barely touched their food and were all watching wide-eyed.
“I understand,” the officer said, not sounding as if he understood at all. He pulled out what appeared to be a postcard. “Have you ever seen this man?”
Halimah studied the photo, her eyebrows and lips pinching together. Finally she shook her head.
“No, never seen him. Who is he?”
The officers looked at each other. They seemed to be able to communicate without speaking. The other ma
le officer, who had an altogether kinder face and voice, said: “Drug dealer. The worst kind.”
“Oh?” Halimah was interested now. She peered again at the photo and seemed disappointed that she’d never seen him before. “And you’re saying Branko’s mixed up with this guy?”
Anja’s heart dropped. I have a guy, Branko had said.
Again the officers looked at each other. “Branko was caught buying from him,” the one holding the picture said. “We took him into custody. He says the pills were for himself, but, well. It doesn’t add up. Can you think of anyone he knew who might want something like that? Anyone who showed signs of antisocial behavior, mental instability, morbidness?”
Halimah shook her head again. “I can’t say, sorry. Didn’t know him that well. You can talk to the rest of the staff, though.” She gestured at Raj, who was stacking glasses behind the bar. “They’re a tight bunch. Might be able to tell you more.”
The officer nodded. “Thanks for your time. We’ll hang around for a bit, then, if that’s okay.”
Halimah crossed her arms and nodded. “More of them in the back,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the kitchen.
Anja leaned out of the doorway, heart pounding and hands sweaty. She pressed the side of her head against the sticky, oil-splattered wall and tried to think.
“Cute, isn’t he?” Rosalie whispered, still looking out of the kitchen. “I think he’s giving me the eye.”
When Anja didn’t answer, she turned toward her. “Did you see him? The tall one, with the beady eyes? Hey, you okay?”
Anja’s head was spinning. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the heat an animal squeezing her till she couldn’t breathe.
Rosalie took a step toward her. “Anja?” she said, reaching out to touch her forearm.
At the touch of Rosalie’s cool fingers, Anja snapped back into herself.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just so hot in here.” She made a show of pulling at her shirt collar.
“Now you see what I have to deal with every day. Standing at the stove ten hours at a go, breathing in this rank air, sweating like a pig. And for no thanks at all,” Rosalie grumbled. But then her eyes softened. “You’re not used to it. Poor thing. Why don’t you go out and get some fresh air?”
Anja nodded and pulled off her apron. She shot a quick glance in the direction of the door, her heart still pounding in her chest.
“Don’t worry about those guys. They’ll probably just ask you the same questions all over again. The whole thing is sad, really; you’d never guess Branko was the sort.”
Anja opened her mouth to protest. But then she pressed her lips together and nodded slowly, as if to say, No, you’d never guess. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
She tore her apron off, dropping it onto the floor. She left through the back door, stepping out into the empty alleyway where they often stood around during breaks, hiding from Halimah.
Branko in custody—what did that mean? Was he locked up? Being interrogated? In prison?
She stood in the alleyway holding her elbows, thinking of Branko alone and locked up. Stupid, stupid stupid stupid. Why had he done it? She remembered the look on his face when he had told her about his “guy,” the hurt in his eyes when she’d turned him down. Stupid, kind, brave Branko. He hadn’t told them about her, she was sure, otherwise they would already have come looking.
He hadn’t told them about her. Carrying T-pills was a serious crime, federal, she imagined. Suddenly her bones felt too heavy for her body. She had done nothing to deserve Branko’s loyalty. Something swelled in her chest, spilling out of her eyes.
But then she wiped her cheeks. There was no point—she could do nothing for him. Besides, even if Branko didn’t give her up, they would figure it out soon. A non-lifer buying T-pills made no sense. They would check the records, find out she was the only lifer he knew, probably find out about her mother, WeCovery, the Club, everything else too. Then she’d be thrown in jail, and her mother sent to a farm to decompose with thousands of other subhuman bodies.
Anja began to walk toward the harbor. As she walked, she felt a hot energy humming in her ears, coursing through her veins, and soon she broke into a run. The tops of buildings were jagged against the spotless blue sky. Nearby, a woman leaned out of a window in a low, skeletal house, holding a bundle of laundry in her arms. A loud cry, the laundry squirmed, and Anja saw that it was a baby. The woman seemed to be watching her run.
When she arrived at the dock, the ferry was poised to leave, the last of the languid crowds slipping off the gangway. Slowing to a walk, Anja boarded the ferry. A lady with raisin skin and a bright fuchsia hat turned to look at her.
“In a hurry, honey?” She smiled, revealing pointed yellow incisors.
Anja smiled back, but didn’t answer. Would they question the lady later, when they traced Anja’s footsteps, along with everyone else on the two thirty-five ferry? Would they ask if she had said anything, seemed unusual, exhibited signs of dangerous psychosis? She pushed the thoughts out of her mind and headed to the deck outside. It was almost empty, for the day was sharp and cold, and most knew how strong the winds were. The only people outside were tourists, taking videos of themselves with their tablets on sticks, recording their faces against the dull gray steel of the water.
The ferry began moving, and the wind sped up against her cheeks. As the wind gathered strength, it seemed to be flaying off a layer of skin from her face, revealing something soft and new beneath. Anja fixed her eyes on the dock, watching it get smaller and smaller as they pulled away from the shore. The boat rumbled beneath her feet, sending vibrations through her knees and hips, a comforting engine drone.
She wondered if it would be the last time she saw Staten Island. Her plan seemed more unlikely now, out on the water, as the old ferry groaned and grumbled its way toward the other gleaming shore.
Where would they go, even if she did somehow manage to transport her mother in her current state? Anja felt a sudden chill as she thought of moving her mother.
Anja hadn’t touched her in months. The last time had been shortly after her mother stopped speaking, when she realized that she hadn’t bathed her in several weeks. So Anja filled the plastic basin with water from the communal bathroom, waiting five minutes for the hot water to run, and brought it back to their room. She placed the basin on the bedside table and lifted the comforter off her mother’s chest. This was before her skin started to turn, back when her cheeks were beginning to hollow out but she still looked like herself.
When Anja touched her mother’s arm, her fingers seemed to come away damp. She paused and touched the bony arm again, this time running her fingers lightly across the crinkled skin. Sure enough, she hadn’t imagined it. Her mother’s skin was faintly sticky, like old rubber that had started to melt. Anja pulled her fingers away as if she’d been burnt. She examined her fingertips, but they appeared to be clean. She examined the place where she had just touched her mother’s forearm. There was nothing that distinguished it from the surrounding skin.
Anja sat motionless for some time, listening to the sounds of the city dimly filtering through the thin walls. Then she stood, picked up the basin of water, and poured it down the sink. She didn’t touch her mother again.
* * *
That had been months ago. Now, she had visions of her fingers sinking into her mother’s flesh, of the bones snapping under her weight. She saw her mother’s face sliding off when she sat her upright.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Anja jumped. She seemed to feel her brain bounce against the top of her skull.
“Sorry honey, didn’t mean to frighten you.” It was the lady from before, the one with the canine teeth and the crumpled face. She wore a faded blue scarf wrapped around her hair.
“That’s okay,” Anja said shortly, turning back toward the water.
“Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?” The lady unfurled a claw in the direction of Anja’s bare arms.
&
nbsp; “No, I’m fine,” Anja said, adding: “Thank you.”
“You foreign? You look foreign,” the lady went on, undeterred.
Anja turned toward the woman. Her eyes, she saw now, were bright and unfocused, darting about even as she spoke, and her hands seemed to have a life of their own. Her fingers shook at her hips, as if playing an invisible piano.
“Not really,” Anja said, kindly now. “I’ve been here a long time.”
“Oh. You have family here, then?” The lady blinked rapidly. Her eyelashes were long but very pale.
Anja looked down at the gray water again. A plastic bottle bobbed past on the lightly foaming waves.
“I do,” she said. “My whole family is here.” Her fingers gripped the cold railing, knuckles whitening against her goose bumps.
“How lovely. My family used to be here too, once. Not anymore, though. Now it’s just me.” She spat words out in quick succession. “You have a child? Son? Daughter?”
“No,” Anja said. “But we’re trying, my husband and I. Anyway, we have our parents to keep us busy. They all live in the city too. Sometimes I cook dinner, a nice roast veg pot, and they all come over to visit. My husband, he likes that, you know. His brother comes, too, with his little niece.”
“Lovely, lovely,” the lady said, her eyes wide and dreamy. “And what do you drink with these dinners? Do you have a drop then? A nice drop of red? Or white, you look more like a white kind of girl.”
“Yes,” Anja said. Why not go all out, now that she’d started? “We have a bit of red. No more than the recommended monthly intake, of course, but that’s the only time we do it, so we can each have a full glass. My husband’s father—he has connections in Europe, so he gets bottles sent from Italy.”
