Fallow Park Today

by Joseph Glenn

  Dr. Makepeace answered her half-asked question, “All the park directors have backgrounds like mine.”

  The cameras were still rolling, so Meredith decided to continue pursuing it. “What?!” she shouted, acting as if this was news to her. “That’s outlandish! These people are not criminals.”

  “No, but in a very real way they’re prisoners.” He smiled across his desk of fishing trophies, plainly pleased with the way he had expressed himself. A slow, confident grin took shape over his deeply tanned face. Meredith found herself begrudgingly aware of the fact that he was a good-looking man. Under different circumstances his arrogance might have been attractive. In this instance, she was disgusted. That he was confident that this last statement would never appear in the finished documentary was clear.

  “And like prisoners are they all trying to escape?”

  “No one has ever broken out of here!” His next words were classically predictable: “Not on my watch, anyway. There is no escape from Fallow Park.” He looked over Meredith’s shoulder after this pronouncement. He was looking at the camera directed on him, as though he were issuing a warning.

  Austin curtly said “Cut.”

  “No one?” Meredith asked, oblivious to Austin’s instructions. “Didn’t Jack Harbour live here once, and on your watch?”

  Makepeace whistled quickly, imitating Austin’s earlier siren. He did a throat cutting gesture with an index finger drawn across his neck as his way of telling the camera operators he wanted them to stop.

  “We’re not filming” Austin told him. “I already said cut. We won’t start up again until you two get off this topic. Doctor Makepeace, please don’t try to direct my crew. They won’t follow your orders, so issuing commands to them is a waste of your breath.”

  “Yeah,” Meredith jumped in, hoping to gang up on him. “Who do you think you are? You’re not the director. You’re not in charge of this project. And didn’t Jack Harbour escape from this very facility?”

  “Meredith!” Austin broke in. “Move on to something else.”

  “Jack Harbour never lived at Fallow Park,” Makepeace said, now apparently as oblivious to the director’s demands as she was. “Jack Harbour is at best a glamorized rebel figure. Some people don’t even think he exists. I am one of them. And if he does exist, he certainly never lived at any of the parks. That has been documented! He’s probably never even set foot in this country. He’s a media whore, worshipped by some fringe ‘avant-garde types’, those free-love, feel-good radical elements you’ll be sure to find in Europe. The people who worship him are the types who like to bash this country, at the cost of their souls I might add. Most disturbing of all, they seem mighty cavalier at the prospect of being labeled unpatriotic. People who defend this Harbour fellow are no better than anarchists; if they were given any credence, why they’d destroy the country. In the circles I travel, it isn’t considered polite to so much as speak his name. I know some of you people who live on the coasts—either of them, take your pick—will jump on top of just about every liberal cause that comes along, but the rest of us just shake our heads and worry about you. Why do you think the idiots who support the Jack Harbour types have been squarely denounced by the American press?”

  “And the Canadian press?” Meredith asked archly, with confidence. “They don’t denounce him. Nor does the Central American press, the South American, the Australian. And Jack Harbour is no myth. He isn’t Robin Hood, Paul Bunyan, or the Green Hornet. He’s a real person.”

  “Even if that’s true, most—if not all—of his exploits are pure fiction,” Makepeace asserted through clenched teeth. “He just holds press conferences from Madrid or Paris—where he was probably born,” he added contemptuously, “and rallies up anti-American sentiment with tales—tall tales!—of freeing people from the parks and bringing them to Canada or Spain or the United Kingdom or wherever. What connection has he got with the United States? He just tries to increase anti-American sentiment overseas. That’s why the American press gives him so little coverage. He typifies the homosexual problem outside this country. Paris!” he said again, spitting the word out like chewing tobacco. “Each day it seems to be a different place. He never escaped from Fallow Park, or any other park. And for the record, no one assigned to this park has ever left it. I’m not even aware of anyone who has ever tried—or even wanted to.”

  Meredith caught Austin out of the corner of her eye. He was gesturing wildly as he repeatedly said, “Cut! Cut!” He stepped up to the desk between Makepeace and her and waved his hands between them. Meredith could ignore him as long as Makepeace could. It had become a question of who would back down first, and she still had some choice words to unleash. “Are you saying he never lived here,” she charged. “Do you mean to state that you never met him? Because there are pictures. I’ve seen them. They’re out there. There’s one of him standing outside this very building.”

  “Yes,” the park director said with a calm that surprised her. “We are all familiar with his propaganda, including his doctored ‘photographs’.” This, it appeared, was a new tactic, played for the cameras or her benefit she could not tell. It was infuriating.

  Bill stepped in, placing a hand on Meredith’s shoulder. Good for him, she thought, taking his intervention as a sign that she should reign in her accusations. This is just what a high-quality assistant should do when confronted with a scene escalating out of control like this. Anything less might draw into question his suitability for his job. And it was most important that Bill appear to be suited to his job.

  Meredith returned to the gentle, inquisitive tone appropriate for a friendly interview. “You seem to have an answer or explanation for his behavior, but in the same breath you’ve also said he doesn’t exist. Tell me, why would he go to the trouble of fabricating, as you say he does, all the claims he makes?”

  “To take advantage of the anti-U.S. element over there, and our critics in Canada. Trust me, whoever he really is, his self-promotion, his so-called campaign to rescue the poor, poor mistreated homosexuals in America is lining his pockets one way or another. The morons who want to believe he’s real are trying to embarrass us. They’d love to see this country go the godless direction half of Europe has.”

  Meredith could have left it alone. Makepeace had played into her hands so beautifully she could not have scripted his part better herself. But she had to add this: “Tell me, if his exploits are exaggerated, why is he on the FBI’s ten most wanted list?”

  Austin retreated from the desk, stepping out of the shot. He motioned with a wave for Bill to do the same. Meredith wondered if he had given up, if he figured it would be best to let the scene play out, or if he was just a little bit interested in its outcome, however academic and unusable the interview had become.

  “And isn’t it true that you put him on it?”

  Makepeace shot her a glance of pure fire. He turned to Austin, but got no support from him. The director busied himself with the business of looking busy.

  “After he left Fallow Park, we needed to find out how he did it—”

  “I thought he was never a resident—”

  “He wasn’t,” Makepeace said with a note that rang of finality.

  “Hmm,” Meredith mused, trusting she had paused long enough while she appeared to contemplate his answer. (“Wait for Makepeace’s response,” she reminded herself.) “The reports that he helped people get out has given him a high profile outside the U.S., and has presumably gone a long way in raising money for his underground railroad.”

  “There is no underground railroad!” Here was the rise she hoped to achieve. Despite Bill’s continuing influence and Austin’s warnings, she had forged ahead and reaped the pay-off she knew she would find. “No one has ever escaped from Fallow Park! Jack Harbour does not exist!” Doctor Makepeace was screaming now. All composure was lost. “He did not take anyone with him when he left!”

  It was like talking to a child. “I’ve had enough,” she announced. “Haven’t
you filmed as much as you need of this bit?” she demanded of Austin as she stood and disengaged her body microphone.

  “We’re through?” Makepeace asked, looking desperately from Meredith to Austin to the cameras and light people. He was on his feet, but stayed behind his desk. He was paralyzed, it seemed, by the reality that he could not restrain her if she chose to leave.

  “Merry, don’t go,” Austin insisted with a firm director-in-charge, How Dare You Treat Me Like This on My Own Set delivery. He saw the flash of anger in her eyes. He took a step back to let her and her assistant pass. In a whimper he beseeched, “Merry, come back here. We’re not—” he began, but must have seen the firmly set features of her face and the resolve behind them as she stepped past him. She was out the door at this point.

  From the hallway she shot back: “Don’t call me Merry!”

  Meredith tugged on Bill’s sleeve. He immediately produced a cigarette from his coat pocket. He handed her the lighter.

  “You’re learning. Yes, I think you could easily earn your living as a personal assistant—quiet when you need to be, the voice of reason when you have to be, and always nearby for whatever is thrown at you. That was well played in there—the business where you stepped in to try and diffuse the situation.”

  He tossed off the compliment. “I don’t know if there’s any kind of smoking lounge around here.”

  “I am not going out in that weather just to smoke. Anyway, no one is around. Who’s going to complain?”

  “I was just wondering where you can ash—” He watched as she brazenly flicked ashes on the hallway floor.

  They were aimlessly walking the halls of the Administration Building, unsure where to locate themselves after Meredith’s walkout, but certain they wanted to stay indoors. A quick elevator ride had brought them to the third floor, away from Austin’s posse, but a few hasty turns had led them into the windowless center of the building, unsure how they had come to this spot and uncertain how to find their way out.

  “Did I push too hard?” Meredith asked. “Do we gain anything with a cat-and-mouse game with him, particularly if I tip my hand too much? None of it will end up in the finished film.”

  “Maybe not. I don’t know. But the recording device in your purse might go a long way towards embarrassing the parks, and everyone responsible for placing idiots like Doctor Makepeace in charge of them. What are you going to do with that when you’re done?”

  “Do?” she asked, unclear why he was worried about it. He watched her pack the audio recorder—even sighed when she was able to get it past security, “I’ll just sneak it out the way I snuck it in.”

  “No,” he said, pointing at her cigarette. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Ah, my sweet darling underling, it would seem there are a few things I’ve yet to teach you. To the veteran smoker, the world is an ashtray.” After a final drag, she dropped the butt and ground it out on the hallway floor. A pity, she thought afterwards, for it was one of the few polished ones they had seen.

  Chapter Five

  She could tell the suite, such as it was, had recently been prepared for her. There was a slightly antiseptic odor about the room, at first an assault on the senses, but reassuring to her in light of some of the living conditions she had seen that day. Her luggage had arrived and, despite her specific and well-articulated request that it be left alone, its contents had been placed in drawers and hung in the closet. There was just the one closet, but it was ample for her week’s wardrobe. She was too tired to bother expressing her irritation about strangers viewing and handling her possessions. And what good, she asked herself, would be served by doing so? For that matter, to whom would she complain? Choose your battles. Choose your battles.

  The efforts to provide her with suitable housing and to go the extra step to help her settle in sharply contrasted with the pervasive feeling of neglect, the general failure to be responsive to basic needs that permeated the park. She wondered about the logistics and execution of her accommodations, and multiplied that effort by the number of people visiting the park this week, each presumably provided with similar accommodations. Visitors to the park were such a rare occurrence, she could not help but speculate what these workers—for surely dozens had been involved—were normally employed to do. To what extent had their customary tasks been left unaddressed? She was intrigued, too, by the fact that so many private rooms and baths were available. Were they running a hotel? With the reported shortage of housing for residents of the park, it seemed contradictory for so much housing space to be allotted for guests, particularly when the park reputedly had so few visitors. With so many suites available, she wondered that they were not made available to the public. Guests visiting residents typically stayed in those residents’ living quarters, or just as often in local hotels. Several hotels had been built in the International Falls area concurrent with the opening of the park.

  Bill was already ensconced in his “suite,” a similar sitting room, bedroom, and bath. His established lower position on the documentary’s totem pole had not translated into lesser living space. Both their accommodations, although located in the Administration Building, were identical to the standard mini-apartments that comprised the residential buildings. Bill’s quarters, it could be noted, were less optimal than hers; she had a view of the front grounds, the rolling, snow-blanketed hills, and a glimpse of the remnants of the amusement park at the top of the closest hill. Bill’s apartment, across the hall, faced the other direction and boasted views of several of the residence halls, the central laundry facility, one of the leisure buildings, and the hospital.

  Meredith thanked the attendant who had shown her to her room and assumed he would withdraw without more than a few words interchanged. Instead, he followed her into the sitting room and went about turning on the lamp and adjusting the heat. He was a young African American man of no more than thirty, but possibly a good deal younger. He kept his head shaved, though upon close scrutiny it was apparent to her that he could have a full head of hair if he wanted. His name was Ansel Jones. Prior to dinner she and Bill were introduced to him and were told he would help them get settled in their rooms after the meal. They invited him to join them for dinner, but he declined, explaining that his shift had just begun and he had eaten before leaving home and punching in at the park. But as he was assigned to look after them, he hovered about the great dining hall, never out of sight and never more than a matter of yards away.

  The hall was expansive; Makepeace, before depositing them at the table and calling it a night, informed them that this was The Grand Dining Hall, and that it had a seating capacity of two hundred and sixty. Fewer than ten percent of that number were visible as Meredith and Bill were seated. This, Makepeace explained, was the last dinner of the night, a nine p.m. seating that had only been added to help with the park’s recent overcrowding issue. Without cameras present, Makepeace had been free to speak about the closing of Thumper Park and its impact on the remaining parks. Much of the hall was closed for the evening; the lights were off in the further recesses of the room; there it was so dark it was difficult to see the far walls and get any sense of the exact dimensions of the room.

  Meredith finally had enough of Ansel Jones pacing and waiting, a matter of feet away and frequently in her line of vision, and insisted that he sit down at the table with them.

  He was a tall man, six foot two or three Meredith estimated, and as he reluctantly agreed to join them, she was conscious of how much of his height was in his torso; he towered over them to almost as great a degree as when all three had been standing. He must have had some kind of athletic background; even in his park-issued uniform—blue work pants and white tee-shirt with the park’s name on the front and “attendant” on the back—his physique was impressive. While his height suggested basketball, the arms and shoulders indicated something with even greater upper body requirements. The torso was most certainly the product of a gym.

  Meredith and Bill attempted t
o draw Ansel out over the course of the meal. He was neither forthcoming nor evasive. His one or two word answers, usually “Yes, Ma’am,” or “No, Sir,” provided nothing more than the basics, but he did offer this much willingly and in a pleasant manner with a full grin. He did not seem to lack self-confidence; his initial, quiet demeanor, she guessed, stemmed from a misunderstanding on his part that he was supposed to maintain a respectful distance. Why are people so worshipful? she had once asked a Life magazine reporter. She and Bill encouraged him to join their conversation. She was certain, nevertheless, it would be unwise of her to say anything around the man she did not wish to find its way to Makepeace’s ears. That Bill had come to the same conclusion she was equally certain. Thus, short of engaging in small talk, or worse, spending the entire meal discussing the food, the best course seemed to be to draw the man out. “You’re the only black person I’ve seen here,” she said.

  Ansel responded with raised eyebrows and altered his grin to a crooked half smile. He pointed at diners at nearby tables: “This guy here. That whole table by the window.” He gestured with his head: “These two walking out now.”

  “I don’t mean residents,” Meredith qualified. “I mean the staff here at the park seems predominantly white—in fact, almost exclusively so.”

  “That’s because this is a predominantly white part of the country.” Ansel continued to smile—a smile of the even, noncommittal variety. He was neither self-conscious nor sarcastic. He was simply conveying factual material without emotion or the appearance of a personal agenda. He was most difficult to read. “I think it’s something like ninety-six percent white. The next biggest demographic—at something less than two percent—is Asian. The people on staff, particularly attendants like me, and all the other ‘workers,’ by which I mean those employed in blue collar jobs, come from International Falls and the outlying communities.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Meredith agreed.