The Park Service 01: The Park Service

by Ryan Winfield

  “Do you swim in it?” I ask.

  “I’m not supposed to,” she says, “but I do it sometimes anyway, when my parents are away. Maybe we can all go out for a swim tonight. What do you think?”

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  Jimmy pushes his soup bowl away.

  “Is the taste not to your liking?” Hannah asks. “I can have Gloria prepare you something special if you want.”

  “Ya got any fish?” Jimmy says.

  “Oh, no,” she says, “we don’t eat fish here.”

  “What, there ain’t no fish in yer lake?”

  “The lake is swimming with fish. All native species, too. But it’s not natural for humans to eat other animals.”

  “If it ain’t natural,” Jimmy says, “then why do we got these teeth in our mouths? I’ll tell ya what it ain’t natural—livin’ in a big place like this while others is hidin’ out in caves.”

  Hannah scowls at him.

  “I’ll forgive your ignorance and just assume you don’t understand the human condition.”

  Jimmy puffs out his cheeks and looks away.

  Thankfully, Gloria breaks the tension by bringing out little dishes of mango sorbet and we eat them with tiny spoons that remind me of the one my father fed me with when I was a boy. After clearing away our sorbet dishes, she delivers a cold potato casserole to the table. Hannah watches Jimmy scoop it up and eat it with his hands, letting Junior lick his fingers clean beneath the table. She looks at me and shakes her head. I shrug.

  We eat slow, the courses coming one at a time. I notice that Hannah eats only little tastes of things, telling us the names of all the foods. Then she tells us about the flowers around the lodge. She says the lodge is very old and that it once stood on a bluff overlooking the lake. She says that when the dam was built the water rose and brought the lake up and turned the bluff into a peninsula. Jimmy asks her when the dam was built and who built it, but she waves his question away and says it’s been there since long before she was born.

  “Which was sixteen years ago last month,” she adds.

  Our final course is a green salad with candied walnuts, and by the time it arrives, the evening alpenglow is sliding down the mountain and spreading across the lake like a luminous pink blanket. The torch reflections rise on the water, twins distorted by gusts of wind running on the lake, rustling across the grass, and softly billowing the netting around the table. The candles, protected in their jars, burn straight and still, and they cast a soft yellow glow over us and the remains of our feast.

  As night comes on, Jimmy’s face recedes into shadow and his gray eyes slowly disappear until just the reflections of the candle flame hang there in each eye, like two yellow teardrops. He pushes his unfinished salad plate away and stands.

  “I’m tired now and need to sleep,” he says.

  “Of course,” Hannah says. “I’m sure Gloria has turned down your bed with fresh sheets.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.

  Jimmy reaches beneath the table, scoops up Junior, ducks under the netting, and is gone, his shadow disappearing toward the house. Hannah watches after him, too. I think she might say something when he’s gone but she doesn’t.

  We sit together and stare at the lake, the water darkening as the torch flames brighten on its mirror surface. A thick slice of moon rides above the trees, casting its double on the lake.

  Gloria comes out and clears the table. When she returns, she has three stemmed glasses and a crystal bottle filled with red liquid that in the reflection of candlelight looks like blood. She nods toward Jimmy’s empty chair, but Hannah shakes her head and she takes the third glass back with her into the house.

  Hannah pulls the stopper from the bottle, fills the glasses, and hands one to me. She picks up her glass and swirls the red liquid, smelling it before she takes a sip. I pick up my glass and copy her movements, tasting the sweet bite of bitter at the back of my tongue. It slides warm and heavy down my throat.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s port,” she says. “You like it?”

  I nod and take another sip.

  The night grows dark around us until we’re sitting together in a private world enclosed by the mosquito net. We drink and watch the candle flames reflect through the crystal decanter of port. The red glow highlights Hannah’s hair and her green eyes burn with an emerald sparkle as she sips her wine and looks at me. The port sits like an ember in my gut, slowly radiating heat outward until even my fingertips tingle with warm excitement. Hannah lifts the stopper again and refills our glasses.

  “You must have been very brave to cross the mountains,” she says, breaking a long silence.

  “Nah, it was nothing really,” I say, feeling myself blush.

  “How long did it take you?”

  “Two days total on the upper mountain, maybe another three on the approach, I think.”

  “It must be lovely to be so close to the stars. I’ll bet you felt you could reach up and pluck them from the sky like fruit.”

  “Have you never been to the mountains?”

  “No,” she says, with a look of disappointment. “I’ve never been anywhere but here. But that will all change soon enough now. Now I’ll get to tour. How long have you known Jimmy?”

  “Since early summer, I guess.”

  “And how did you two meet?”

  I’m not sure how much to tell, or if she’d even understand. I remember Jimmy’s warning that we don’t know anything about her yet, and part of me knows he’s right. But her green eyes smile at me with patient understanding, and her freckled face is so open, her look so soft, that I can’t imagine her being anything but sweet and pure and kind.

  Nervous, I sip my port and set it down. Then I pick it up and sip it again. The warmth oozes into my chest and rises to my head, and I feel my cheeks flush, my heart quicken.

  “Okay,” I say, “I have to tell you something, but I’ll warn you first—you might find it hard to believe.”

  “You might be surprised what I’d believe,” she says, lifting an eyebrow and sipping her port. “Please, do tell.”

  I look at her face, feel the wine wash away my inhibitions, and without thinking, everything pours from my mouth:

  “The thing is this—I’m not from up here. I mean, I’m not from the surface. I grew up miles underground and we didn’t think any of this existed anymore up here. The lake, the trees, the ocean—anything. Then a terrible accident happened on a train—well, a kind of train that travels underground—and I climbed out of the wreck and onto the surface and nearly died. I met Jimmy and he really helped me a lot. He did. His family helped me too. But then they got slaughtered and we set out to find out what’s going on, who’s behind things. Then I saw you. Anyway, this probably isn’t making any sense, is it?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” she says.

  “You mean you believe me?”

  “Believe you?” she says, a sexy, mischievous smile curling on her lips. “Of course I believe you.”

  “Are you joking with me, or you really do?”

  “I knew it all already,” she says. “And what I didn’t know I pieced together when you showed up.”

  “What?” I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to clear the fog because the port is making me feel funny and I can’t be hearing her right. “You knew? How did you know?”

  She drains her port, the smile still on her face.

  “Because we had been expecting you, silly.”

  “What do you mean you were expecting me?”

  “We’ve been worried sick with wondering what happened to you. But let’s not think about that now. Daddy will explain everything to you tomorrow. Right now, let’s enjoy the night and go for a swim, shall we? Come on.”

  She stands and passes through the mosquito net and with her silhouette cast on the sheer netting by the torchlight, she slides her dress free from her shoulders and slips it off.

  She steps out of it
and runs down to the dock.

  I stand and the world spins for several seconds, then rights itself and sits glimmering before me, magical and incandescent, the night filled with mystery. Our conversation slips away into some dark faraway place, and I duck beneath the netting and step over Hannah’s green dress where it lies piled on the grass.

  I run after her.

  She walks along the dock ahead of me, her perfect body appearing and then disappearing in the light of the torches as she passes. When she reaches the dock’s end, she stands for one moment with her arms upstretched, as if to embrace the crescent moon that hangs pale above the lake, then she dives headfirst into the water with a splash.

  I stand at the edge of the dock and watch her swim away, floating on her back and kicking the water playfully.

  “Dive in,” she calls. “You’ll love it. I promise. The water feels like cool silk against your skin.”

  I strip off my shirt and hop free of my new pants, almost pulling off my undershorts, too, remembering how Jimmy and I swam naked, but I blush thinking about it and leave them on. Piling my clothes in a heap on the dock, I dive in after her.

  The cold water shocks me sober.

  There’s something I should be thinking about now, I know there is, but before it floats to the surface of my mind, Hannah appears from underwater in front of me, her hair slicked away from porcelain features, her red lips parted, her teeth glinting white in the moonlight as she spits water in my face.

  “Try to catch me if you can,” she says, giggling.

  She takes off. I swim after her, the moon shattering into a million miniatures of itself as I stroke across the black water. All I can think about is Hannah, Hannah wanting me to chase, Hannah ahead of me nearly naked in the lake.

  I overtake her and wrap my arms around her from behind. She turns, wraps hers around me, her body warm and inviting in the cool lake. In each other’s arms, we float in a shimmering sea of moonlight and our breath blows hot against the cold air rising from the lake, mixing together like smoke between us.

  I lean forward and close the distance and touch my lips to hers. She takes me in and we kiss, long and deep, our tongues searching one another. She tastes sweet and oh so much more intoxicating than any port could ever be.

  Hannah—my sweet, sweet, Hannah.

  CHAPTER 25

  Dr. Radcliffe

  Jimmy isn’t in his room.

  A shaft of morning sun landing on the untouched bed and his borrowed clothes sitting folded on its end.

  I search the house but it’s empty. I search the yard but see no sign of either Jimmy or Junior. I hike the bluff to our camp. Jimmy’s pack is gone. My empty pack sits propped beside the wind-felled log, right where I left it the other morning when I lied to Jimmy about seeing Hannah play tennis. I feel absolutely terrible about letting him walk away from the table last night without a word.

  When I get back to the lake house, Hannah is standing at the edge of the dock, her white dress flapping in the wind and hugging her curves. I come to stand beside her.

  “I can’t find Jimmy,” I say.

  Hannah stands with perfect posture, her chin raised to the wind and her red hair waving behind her on the breeze.

  “Did you hear me? Jimmy’s gone.”

  She turns to me.

  “Gloria said he made camp in the woods not far from her cottage. Just down the beach there a ways. She brought him food and supplies this morning. He’ll be fine.”

  I touch her arm.

  “Hannah, what did you mean last night when you said you’d been waiting for me?”

  “Daddy will explain everything,” she says.

  “When can I talk to him then?”

  With one graceful motion, she lifts her arm out over the water and points. I follow her finger and skylight a boat in the distance growing ever so slow and steady as it approaches. Hannah stands close beside me and I wonder if she can tell that I’m nervous, if she can smell my sweat. I can smell the soap on her skin and a light perfume in her hair and the wind presses her dress against her just enough to expose the curve of her breasts. I want to kiss her again and feel her in my arms. I’m nervous to meet her father, and I don’t know if it’s because of the questions I have for him, or because I can’t stop thinking about kissing his daughter.

  The boat comes closer into view—

  It’s an antique wooden motorboat like some I’ve seen in educationals from the twentieth century. The bow is polished wood with brass fixtures reflecting the sun. It must be powered by electric motors for the boat moves across the water without sound. Two figures sit in the boat with perfect posture, like dignitaries on some parade float.

  I see right away they’re Hannah’s mother and father.

  Her mother has Hannah’s red hair, and she gracefully lifts a hand to wave. She might be Hannah’s own future reflection cast years from now across the lake. Her father, piloting the boat, has silver hair that looks almost metallic in the glint of the sun. Something about his face seems familiar to me, even from such a distance. I lift my hand to shade my eyes and focus on his features. As the boat moves closer, the outline of his face evolves and his nose comes into view. Then the arch of his brow. Lastly, I see the blue sparkle of his irises shining like two Benitoite lanterns in his shaded sockets. He turns and says something to his wife and when he looks back, his blue eyes flicker three times as he blinks.

  I know who he reminds me of—Dr. Radcliffe.

  “Is your father related to Dr. Radcliffe?”

  Hannah turns to me. “My father is Dr. Radcliffe.”

  “I knew it. He is related then. He must be a descendant of Dr. Robert Radcliffe, the founder of Holocene II?”

  “No,” she says, a smile curling around her lips, “he is the same Dr. Robert Radcliffe who founded Holocene II.”

  Before I can ask her what she means, the bow of the boat sinks into the water as it slows and glides past us and comes to rest with perfect precision beside the dock. A step plate folds out on silent mechanical hinges and secures the boat to the dock with some kind of magnetic connection. Dr. Radcliffe steps down onto the dock and turns to take his wife’s hand and she steps down beside him.

  Then they turn and stand before us. He’s not much older than the Dr. Radcliffe I saw in the founder’s video they showed us on testing day, and when he smiles and blinks at me, I know it’s him, even though it’s impossible because that video was recorded nine hundred years ago.

  “Dr. Radcliffe?”

  “You must have many questions,” he says, nodding his head and blinking. “Trust that they will all be answered in time. But first let me welcome you. We had given you up for gone. This is my wife, Catherine.”

  She stretches out her delicate hand and I take it in mine. She looks so much like an older version of Hannah that I can’t stop looking back and forth between the two and comparing.

  Dr. Radcliffe wraps his arm around me and leads me from the dock. Hannah and her mother stay behind chatting.

  “I hope Hannah has made you comfortable here,” he says, smiling down at me. “Your journey looks quite well on you, young man. Let’s retire to my study; I’ll clear up a few things.”

  He shows me to his study and asks me if I’m thirsty and I say that I am even though I’m not. He leaves to fetch us iced tea. My mind is running with questions, my pulse races. I need to steady my nerves. I walk around the study and inspect the walls of books. From floor to ceiling they’re stacked in no certain order from Socrates to Charles Darwin and everything in between, including the plays of Tennessee Williams and the works of William Shakespeare. I’ve dreamed of reading books like this. Real books bound in leather, crisp pages yellowed with time. Not the sterile graphite letters displayed on my lesson slate down in Holocene II. Spotting an ancient leather-bound collection entitled The Complete Works of Leo Tolstoy, I slide out the first book of four comprising War and Peace. I open the cover and look at the title page. The English translation I’m holding was prin
ted in 1910. I can’t imagine it—something that old resting in my hand. I want to sit and read it, maybe lock myself inside the study and read them all.

  Dr. Radcliffe steps through the door and closes it again.

  I snap the book closed and slide it back into its slot.

  He hands me an iced tea.

  “Good choice,” he says, indicating the book with a nod. “Have you read it?”

  “It wasn’t in the Foundation library,” I say, nervous.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” he says, as if just remembering who I am. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to read them now. Let’s take a seat and have a chat, shall we?”

  He leads me to a brocaded chair beside the fire. I sit; he sits next to me. I watch the gas flames dance in the fireplace shadows. He sips his tea, I sip mine. He slides a polished-agate coaster free from a stack of coasters on the table and places his glass down on it. I slide a coaster free and place mine next to his, and our glasses sit there side by side, catching the light filtering through the study windows, the ice cubes swirling slow and then finally coming to rest in the amber tea. The room is silent except for a clock ticking loudly somewhere on a shelf.

  Dr. Radcliffe clears his throat.

  “Well then, let’s start at the very beginning and I’ll do my best to explain how we’ve arrived where we’re sitting here today. Sound good?”

  “Okay,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.

  “Many years ago,” he says, his voice grave, his tone that of one beginning a speech, “before we were locked underground, I was trusted to lead a very important venture between private enterprise and our government.”

  “Holocene II, right?”

  “That’s right,” he says.

  “That’s nothing new,” I say.

  “Hear me out, lad. There’ll be plenty that’s new.”

  “Sorry. Okay. Go on.”

  “Good. So, many of us, mostly men who had become very wealthy in biotechnology and energy science, believed that we were on the verge of making great leaps in human longevity.”

  “Lifespan?”

  “Boy, let me talk.”