The Park Service 01: The Park Service

by Ryan Winfield

  “How about you?” I ask her.

  “Me?”

  “Do you have any hobbies?”

  “Oh, I’ve tried lots of things. Centuries ago, I found an old piano out touring and managed to bring it here and restore it. I’d always wanted to learn. But with nobody to teach me and nobody to play for, the damn thing just sat in the front room until I couldn’t stand the sight of it anymore.” She stares off through the archway into the front room, as if the piano might reappear there now that she’s mentioned it. Her attention turns back to me. “I noticed you like to read.”

  “Yes, I love books.”

  “I did also,” she says.

  “You did?”

  She sips her tea and nods. “I did. At first, it was nice to have all the time in the world. Time to just relax and read. And read I did. I read every book in that study. Every book in our Foundation’s digital library. Then I read them all again.”

  “You’ve read all those books in there twice?”

  “Some three or four times.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “What do you do with a thousand years?”

  “Oh, I can think of endless things,” I say. “I’d do anything I wanted to. Everything I ever dreamed.”

  She looks at me and sighs. “Oh, to be young again.”

  “I would,” I say. “I’d do everything.”

  “Well, why have you been lying in bed for two days then?”

  “The stupid rain,” I say.

  “Well, so much for doing everything you ever dreamed. Here you are already wasting days because of a little rain.”

  “But it hasn’t let up …”

  “I know. Can you imagine a rain that settles inside of you and never lets up? A rain that soaks your soul in sadness? A rain like that has the power to drown all those dreams.”

  I raise my cup, realize it’s empty, and set it down again.

  “What about your husband?” I ask. “Don’t you two love spending time together? Touring the park, or whatever you do? He told us how you met. In that rainstorm.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” she says, looking at the window again, as if seeing the creamery scene play out there on the gray pane of glass. “Aubrey, do you love my daughter?” she asks, without looking away from the window.

  Her question catches me off guard. I pick up my cup to buy time with a drink. Still empty. I set it down and spin it slowly on the table in front of me.

  “It’s okay if you’re shy,” she says.

  “I’m not shy.”

  “It’s endearing.”

  “I’m not.”

  She smiles. “I knew I loved Robert the minute I saw him,” she says. “I loved him so much.”

  “But you don’t anymore?”

  She breaks her gaze away from the window and looks at me, considering my question for a long time.

  “I think I loved him enough for two lifetimes,” she says. “But not enough for nine.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  “We’ve been together a very long time, Aubrey. Too long. Maybe we’ve just been alive too long.”

  “You didn’t want to live so long?”

  “I thought I did once. But now I think people were meant to have a certain amount of time and that’s it. We got greedy. Things need to turn over. Renew. Recycle. Refresh.”

  “But couldn’t a person end their life anytime they wanted? I mean, I’m not suggesting—”

  “Some of us have turned to suicide. Dr. Freeland ventured into the park and let the drones get him. Old Wesley jumped from the dam. Others have died in curious accidents. You’d be surprised just how many mishaps happen in nine hundred years. But deciding to end your life is a special kind of horror, a horror I find worse than waiting forever for life to end.”

  “Well, why did you go along with it then? Extending your life so long, I mean.”

  “It was my discovery that made it possible.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “But Dr. Rad—”

  “Oh, he takes credit for everything. I would have won the Nobel Prize if he’d made my discovery public.”

  She gazes down into her empty mug, a look of regret on her furrowed brow. Then she looks up and continues:

  “I was passionate about longevity when I was young. I had this silly idea that the progress of science was halted because of the human life span. I felt that just as we reached our true potential, we died, taking all that knowledge with us. Most scientists are lucky to make one breakthrough discovery in their lifetime. Do you know why? Because they spend their early career learning what the scientists before them knew. And just as they become experts, they’re lucky to add some small new discovery to the community of knowledge, and then they die. I thought if only we lived for hundreds of years working on a problem, we could advance our knowledge in enormous leaps. Science. Science. Science. Everything I did was for science.”

  She sits still, staring at the table in front of her.

  A gust of wind drives rain against the window.

  My cup is cool in my hand.

  “What changed?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I think things just accumulate in our brains over so many years. Too much judgment, maybe. Even too much knowledge. They collect in our consciousness like so much empty clutter. It destroys our spirit. Youth has its advantages, you know.”

  “I don’t see any advantages,” I say.

  “Well, that’s one of them,” she says. “Ignorance.”

  “Ignorance is an advantage?”

  “Of course. It allows you to hope, doesn’t it? It lets you take action without all the facts. Less thinking, more action—that’s what youth gives you. That and lots of mistakes.”

  “What’s so good about mistakes?”

  “Mistakes can be very beautiful. Mistakes lead to surprises. Even joy. And joy makes life worth living. I missed life because I was working. I missed my youth, my fertile years. And then Hannah came and changed everything. I watched her grow in Gloria’s womb and I was so very jealous. I’m ashamed I was so jealous. And then to watch her be born. Oh, to see it. To see her breast feed. So thirsty for that nourishment that I couldn’t give her. It filled me with regret. But I love her so incredibly much, Aubrey. And now I see things differently. I see we were wrong about living this long. And maybe we were wrong about other things too. Maybe we were wrong about—”

  “Morning.”

  I turn to see Hannah standing in the kitchen entry.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  She walks over and pulls herself down a mug.

  “Looks like somebody’s having a tea party and I wasn’t invited,” she says. “Mind if I join you?”

  “I was just talking about you,” her mother says.

  Hannah refills the kettle and sets it to boil.

  “Should I be embarrassed?” she asks.

  “Oh yes,” I say. “She was telling me all of your secrets.”

  “Is that true, Mom?”

  Mrs. Radcliffe laughs. “Of course not, honey. You know I don’t know any of your secrets to tell. Pull up a chair and let’s all plan a picnic. I think this rain is going to clear.”

  CHAPTER 32

  One, Two, It’s All Through

  Hannah serves.

  I pop the ball back, close to the net.

  She springs forward and returns to my off side. I race across the court, sending it back deep. She catches the ball just before a second bounce and drives it between her legs. I dive for it but miss and lie on the ground panting.

  She stands over me smiling.

  “Good game.”

  “Yeah right,” I laugh. “You said the same thing after the last three games you whipped me on.”

  She extends a hand, laughing, and helps me to my feet. We walk to the table and sit in the shade. Hannah pours us iced tea.

  “Is it hot out here?” I ask, shaking my shirt for some air. “Or is it just me chasing y
our returns all over the court?”

  “No, it’s hot,” she says, “because I’m hot, too, and you barely had me moving at all.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Well, enjoy it anyway,” she says. “It’s September already and we won’t get many more nice days like this.”

  She picks up a fallen leaf from the table, nodding to a small maple nearby, a ring of bright-red leaves around its base.

  “Is that a Japanese Maple? I read about them.”

  “No,” she says. “It’s called a Fullmoon Maple. See how the leaves are rounder. Mother loves trees and flowers. She brings all kinds of things back from the park. That’s why Daddy built the wall. He said we have to keep things from spreading where they don’t belong.”

  I look over the rest of the yard. Gardens of late blooming flowers. A fruit tree. Perfect green grass. Then I see a man on the lawn and he startles me up in my chair until I notice he’s pushing a mechanical mower.

  “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Tom. Gloria’s brother. And there’s Jimmy, too.”

  I follow her gaze and see Jimmy on the edge of the lawn, raking the grass clippings onto a fabric tarp. Jimmy looks good. His weight is back up to normal, his limp nearly gone. Junior is twice the size he was when I saw him last, just a week ago now, and he’s chasing the rake and swatting at it as Jimmy works.

  “I’m going to bring them some tea,” I say, taking two clean glasses off the tray and filling them from the pitcher.

  Tom sees me coming and stops, wiping his brow with his sleeve and leaning on the mower handle. When I offer the tea, he takes it and drains the glass. He clucks his tongue and hands the glass back.

  “Thank you.” Then he leans into the mower and pushes on, leaving me with both glasses, one empty, one full.

  I walk across the lawn to Jimmy.

  He drops the rake and bends over and gathers up the tarp. Heaving it over his shoulder, he walks right past me without making eye contact and the tarp hits my arm, knocking the glass from my hand. Junior stops to sniff at the tea and lick the wet grass. He looks up at me, his dark eyes showing no recognition, and then he lopes off and follows Jimmy out the open gate without looking back.

  “Hey!”

  The shout comes from behind me—

  “Come give an old man a hand, will you?”

  I turn and see Dr. Radcliffe standing at the boat, holding an armload of supplies. Snatching up the fallen glass, I jog to the table and return it. Hannah stands and hugs me.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  Then we hurry to the dock to help her father unload.

  Hannah and I take an armload each and carry them into the kitchen where Gloria inventories the supplies. Dr. Radcliffe brings in the last load as Mrs. Radcliffe appears in the doorway.

  “Did you get my medicine?”

  “There wasn’t any,” he answers.

  “You know I need it, Robert,” she says, her voice irritated. “This headache is making me mad.”

  “I said there wasn’t any, dear. The train comes tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll be in bed. Don’t disturb me unless the house catches fire. No, don’t disturb me even then.”

  “Oh, Mommy,” Hannah says, frowning. “Let me run you a nice bath and we’ll get you hydrated and tucked in for a nap.”

  Hannah takes her mother’s arm and leads her away toward the back of the house.

  Gloria opens cupboards, making space for the supplies.

  “Come with me, Aubrey,” Dr. Radcliffe says. “I brought a little something back for you.”

  I follow him down the hall to my room and into my bathroom. He sets a plastic case on the counter, and stands me in front of the mirror. He’s maybe six inches taller than I am, and a shaft of light streams in the high window and illuminates his white hair, creating the impression of some haloed saint I might have seen in an educational, standing behind me with his hands resting on my shoulders as if in a manner of blessing.

  He reaches around and twists the hot water tap on.

  “Wet your face good,” he says. “Open up those pores.”

  I cup my hands and fill them with hot water and lean forward and splash it on my face. When I look up again, he’s whipping soap with a brush in a small stone pestle. He puts two fingers beneath my chin, lifts my dripping face, and applies the lather to my cheeks, my lip, my jaw. When he releases my chin, I look at my white-soap beard in the mirror. Then he snaps the case open and plucks out a razor and turns my hand over and slaps the razor in my palm.

  “Draw it down slow, not too much pressure.”

  “But I don’t have any whiskers yet,” I say.

  “If you don’t, you will soon,” he says, waving his finger in an indication for me to continue. “My father taught me when I was your age. Besides, we can’t have you running around here looking like a savage.”

  I bring the razor to my lathered cheek and draw it down slow, cutting a clean path in the cream.

  “Be careful around the chin,” he warns.

  Steam rises on the mirror as I shave, never quite blocking my face, but obscuring Dr. Radcliffe’s reflection and creating the appearance of another me, alone, shaving in another world, on the other side of the foggy glass.

  When I finish, Dr. Radcliffe wets a towel in the hot water, rings it out, and hands it to me. I hold the towel to my face, breathing in the hot damp air. Then I pull the towel away and look at myself in the mirror. I look the same as when we started, other than a spot of blood where I nicked my chin.

  Dr. Radcliffe pats me on the back.

  “Well done, well done. Now you’re a man. The kit’s yours to keep. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  The basement is quiet, the laboratory dark.

  I follow Dr. Radcliffe across the tile floor to the far wall where he stops and lifts the lid on a keypad, its electric glow washing his face an eerie blue in the shadows of the lab. He looks at me, hesitating. I look away. I hear him punch in four numbers. Then, with a series of clicks, a panel in the wall pops out and slides open, revealing a large room lit with LED lights.

  I follow him inside and watch as he slaps a red button with his palm and the door slides shut and seals.

  The room is five meters across and five meters deep, with walls made of polished steel, a toilet shielded by a partition, and several wall-mounted cots. But what interests me is the farthest wall and a built-in command center. A desktop, a chair. A panel of controls and switches, a joystick of sorts. Mounted above the desk, a dozen screens show various live video feeds from around the park. Aerial images from cameras mounted on high-flying drones. Shoreline images from ships patrolling the coasts. Snowy regions, arid regions, tropical regions—all trapped like spooky movie sets in the silent monitors there.

  “Pretty neat, isn’t it?” Dr. Radcliffe says.

  My eyes dart from screen to screen.

  Screen one: a drone drills down its camera on a herd of elk, their velvet heads lifted toward two males facing off, their antlers raised, their lips curled as if bugling.

  Screen two: a ship’s camera pans fast, focusing a telephoto lens on sea lions hauling out of the surf onto a rocky shore.

  Screen three: a drone glides over a forest fire, glimpses of flames between plumes of black smoke.

  “Do you put out the fires?”

  “Not when they’re started by lightning,” he says.

  “What is this place?”

  “Well, it’s half control room, half safe room.”

  “Safe room?”

  “For protection,” he says. “Drones patrol the mountains and the perimeter of the lake pretty close, but the lake and its shores are a safe zone. I’m actually surprised you and your friend made it through. We retreat down here in case hostiles show up. Steel walls over reinforced concrete, two-inch solid Kevlar door, thousand P.S.I. electromagnetic locks—nothing gets in here. Food and water for a month over there. Batteries, too. You can hide in here and guide in
the drones and take out whatever threat is above.”

  “Have you ever had to use it?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. We did have a bear once.”

  “A bear?”

  “Yeah, before the wall. Marched right into the house and joined us for supper. You should have seen Catherine’s face.”

  “Did you kill it?”

  “Of course not,” he says, obviously offended. “We waited down here for it to leave, then waited some more just to be safe. I’d already planned to build the wall with all these invasive plants my wife brings home. But that’s not really why we’re down here today.” He slides the chair out. “Have a seat?”

  “You want me to sit?”

  “Well, who else would I be talking to?” he says, chuckling. “One of my other personalities?”

  I slide into the chair and sit at the controls.

  “This is a miniature command center,” he says. “We have bigger ones at the Foundation. The drones are all programmed with flight plans and auto-targeting features, so there’s really nothing to do. But you can override the programs and pilot a drone or a ship remote from here. Sometimes just to look around, sometimes to neutralize an abnormal threat.”

  “What’s an abnormal threat?”

  “Oh, things the drones don’t look for. In the early years packs of wild dogs, or livestock. Things like that. Not so much anymore. Most species that remain are native. Except humans, of course. But the drones target them without prompting.”

  “How do they target humans?”

  He reaches over my shoulder and taps a key, then another. One of the screens switches to a nighttime scene where two infrared silhouettes walk across a dark field, one bulky, one small and bent, walking with a strange padding gate.

  “This was just the other week,” he says. “It’s all automatic. Watch. Thermal imaging, mainly. Humans have unique infrared signatures. Sometimes mutations or strange clothing cause us problems, but the drones can map movement and compare it to a database. Not much is hot like a human, but nothing walks like one. Not even this funny specimen.”