Twenty Palaces: A Prequel

by Harry Connolly

  Back at my apartment, I loaded the books into the shelves, then mounted the bell outside the door. I hung the string from it and tied off the other end to an eye screw placed on the ground floor.

  "What are you doing, Raymond?" Aunt Theresa walked across the yard toward me. She seemed to be struggling a bit, as though the neatly-mown grass was treacherous footing. She held a square pastel green envelope in her hand.

  "I didn't want you to have to climb those stairs every time you wanted to talk to me--I know it was you who put my clothes in the drawer. Anyway..." I pulled on the string and the bell up by the door jingled. It was a clear, cheerful tone.

  Aunt Theresa smiled and sighed, then patted my arm with such affection that it made me feel embarrassed. "That's so sweet of you, I'm almost sorry to give you this." She gave me the envelope. My name was scribbled on it in a heavy, cramped hand. There was an invitation inside.

  I read it. "Jon is having a party tonight," I said. "A celebration. And he's inviting me?" I looked up at my aunt.

  "He came by, and seemed quite disappointed that you were out."

  "He wants me there?"

  "Very much so, I thought. Are you all right, Raymond?"

  "Yeah," I said, reading the invitation again to make sure I hadn't missed the word not in there or something. "Yeah, I guess so."

  "You knew, when you came up here, that you'd have to see Jon again, didn't you? You knew you'd have to make peace with him."

  Her brown eyes seemed to be looking straight through me. "I was going to try. But Uncle Karl--"

  "I know what Karl said. He's got a sharp eye, my husband does, but he's more understanding than he lets on. You're not going to be able to avoid Jon forever, not if he's coming around here."

  "I don't want to avoid him," I said, even though I'd done just that the night before.

  "Of course not. You may visit him and discover you have nothing in common anymore. Maybe you'll wish each other well and go your separate ways."

  "But I ought to see him."

  "I told him you would be starting a new job today. He asked if you would come by the house after your shift. He even said please."

  "Okay," I said. We both knew I'd be going to the party. "How did he...?"

  "How did he look?" Aunt Theresa said as she started back toward her house. "He looked so happy that he frightened me. He looked like a starving man just sitting down to a Christmas feast."

  She went back into the house, leaving me with too much to think about.

  I made sure to arrive at the copy shop fifteen minutes before the already early time Uncle Karl had given me. There were no customers, but they were both busy. Oscar was loading paper into machines and Andrea had to stop working on something at the back of the office to meet me.

  "Oh good, you're early. Come on back." She led me into the office where Wally had collected his things. It was a sad little room with bare drywall and a stamped metal desk that someone had kicked the hell out of. The chairs looked like cafeteria discards and boxes of stationery were stacked along one wall. "Paperwork first, of course. All the usual boring stuff."

  She handed me a clipboard and promised to come back. The forms I was supposed to fill out seemed incomprehensible to me at first, but I managed to get them finished before she returned. She read them over, approved, and gave me a green polo shirt like her own and a name tag with masking tape over the front and Ray written on it in blue ball point pen. When I put them on, it felt like a Halloween costume.

  "Everything here is easy," Andrea told me. "Just remember a couple things: Clean clothes, close shave, no B.O. Oscar will train you on most things while I run a big job, just be sure to push the blue legal paper. Wally over-ordered so we're offering a two-penny per sheet discount." She took a step toward me. "So," her voice was lower now. "You know him?"

  "Wally? I knew him in school, but it's been 15 years."

  She absent-mindedly tugged the little gold cross from beneath her collar. "Not that creep. I'm talking--"

  "Oh." I suddenly understood her. "No, I mean. Not for a long time." I realized just how I'd gotten this job so quickly, and it made me want to quit on the spot. I wasn't going to spill my history to this stranger just because I needed a paycheck. "Do I have to talk about this if I want this job? Is it a requirement? Or can I just push the blue legal paper and--"

  She seemed taken aback. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to pry."

  "I understand, but it's complicated."

  "No problem. You don't have to... Um, hey, it's five minutes to. Come on out at four and we'll get started."

  She left me standing in the room, feeling awkward and stupid, like one of the victims of the world. You think you've paid your debt, but you haven't.

  I went out the door early and shook hands with Oscar. It turned out that Andrea was right: the job was the easiest thing I'd ever done in my life. I learned to clear paper jams, tell people I was sorry when I wasn't, and to sweep the floor. The only challenge was that the four-hour shift seemed endless. Did people really do twice this every day? I couldn't imagine it.

  After my shift, I went outside to unlock my bicycle. Oscar came out behind me and said "See you tomorrow, dude," in a way that showed he approved of me.

  Andrea came out right behind him, her car keys jangling in her hand. "Heading home?"

  "Yep," I lied. She told me I'd done well enough to earn more hours, if I kept it up. I thanked her and rode away.

  It wasn't that late, but the streets were empty enough that my ride to Jon's place was almost lonely. I went slow--my clothes were nice if not terribly fancy, but I didn't want to be sweaty and rumpled when I arrived at Jon's. What's more, on the way I passed within two blocks of the house I grew up in, but I didn't detour to see it. My family had left years ago, and I had no interest in looking at an old building full of bad memories.

  Approaching Jon's parents' house, the first thing I saw were the lights. Someone had mounted powerful lights on tall stands, which were shining on the crowded sidewalk. There was a cop car with two bored cops inside parked at the corner, and I slowed my approach. It didn't look like the party had moved into the street...

  Once I got closer, I saw that the lights were plugged into outlets on the sides of news vans. And a surprising number of the people out on the streets were in wheelchairs, or pulled oxygen tanks behind them. I hopped the curb and rode the sidewalk on the far side of the street, behind the news vans and far from the house. How could I have thought these people milling around in the lights were party-goers? Many were in obvious pain, and they turned resentful, desperate expressions toward Jon's house.

  I chained my bike to a tree, listening to a reporter interviewing a woman in a wheelchair. Both sounded weary and more than a little frustrated.

  As I clicked the lock shut, I felt something strange, something I'd never felt before in my life. There was something wrong with this tree, but I had no idea what it was. I touched the bark and felt, among the rough exterior, that someone had carved something into it. A shape or a design that I couldn't make out because it lay in the shadow of the news lights.

  I didn't know what to make of it, so I moved away. Further along the sidewalk, standing in the shadow of another, larger tree, was a small figure. At first glance I thought it was a homeless person, although I'm not sure why. Bulky clothes made it hard to guess if it was a man, woman or kid, but I didn't trust the way they stood there, watching.

  The reporter was ending the interview, although the woman seemed to want to repeat her grievances all over again. I moved toward the house, noting the sign on the front yard that read PRIVATE PROPERTY! TRESPASSERS WILL BE SUED! Down the block, a bald bowling ball of a man started shouting about God and his wife and whether the one was going to the other before her time. I heard the distinctive sound of cops slamming their car doors shut.

  Two camera men jumped out of their folding chairs and rushed across the street. Up ahead, a young woman was leading an older man up the front walk of Jon's house. I
slowed, letting them go ahead the way I would watch a dog wander into a minefield. The cameramen stopped at the edge of the lawn and so did I, if only to avoid walking into their shots.

  As the old man and his helper approached the wheelchair ramp on the porch, the front door opened and a dark-haired woman came out. What the hell. I drew the invitation from my pocket, took a deep breath, and started up the walk.

  As I got near them, I heard the dark-haired woman say: "I'm sorry, but this is private property and you're trespassing. You'll have to leave." She sounded as if she'd said that so many times that she was sick of it. "Go home."

  "This may be my last chance," the old man said. His voice was shaky and frail. "If I go, I might not be able to come back."

  "We can't do anything for you."

  "If I could just talk to the young man--"

  "Please--"

  "I have money."

  "Please. Go home. Please."

  The old man sagged, and the young woman holding his elbow helped him struggle back to the sidewalk. "I shouldn't have come," he said to her as he passed me. "I was ready for the end. I'd accepted my prognosis. Then I heard about this young man and... Lord, I was so much better off without this hope."

  The dark-haired woman turned to me, obviously about to give me the same speech, then she froze. "Oh. My. God. Ray Lilly."

  I suddenly recognized her. "Bingo?"

  "Don't you dare call me that."

  "I'm sorry, um..." I blanked on her real name for a moment. "... Barbara. I didn't--"

  "You should be sorry. Of course you show up now, of all times. Of course you do."

  I held up the invitation. "Jon asked me to come here."

  But she wasn't listening. She just kept right on talking. "And you're sorry, of all the things to say. After everything Jon's been through over the years while you've been who knows where, and you're here now and you're fucking sorry. I'll tell you what: You stay right there, okay? You stay right there. I'm going to go inside and get Dad's thirty ought-six, and then I'm going to show you how sorry feels."

  So much for being invited. She marched up the stairs onto the porch, and I turned tail and ran. The cameras followed me, and I wanted to curse at them, smash them so they couldn't record me while I ran for my life. I didn't. I just sprinted for my bike, digging my key out of my pocket as I went.

  The sick people cleared a space for me, but the reporters and their camera people closed in. I needed that bicycle; it was no good trying to get away from someone on foot, and since I was not not not going to boost a car on my second day in town, I would have to ride.

  I slipped the key in the padlock as the reporters started shouting questions, their lights shining on me. I looked up at the tree; the news people had very kindly lit up the weird, disturbing shape carved into the bark, but it was just a strange meaningless shape to me. I opened the lock, ripping the chain from the bike and slinging it over my neck. Let them shout at me, I didn't care. As long as they stayed between me and Bingo, they were my best friends in the world.

  Someone shouted "GUN!" and we all turned toward the Burrows' house. Jon was there on the porch, having just come out the front door, with others pushing through behind him. Bingo stepped to the side, a hunting rifle in her hands.

  Mr. Bowling Ball sprinted across the lawn as fast as his bulk would allow, heading straight for the porch. He raised his hand, and Jon flinched, lifting his own left hand as a shield as he ducked low.

  A camera man side-stepped in front of me, blocking my view. I heard a long string of pistol shots, coming very fast, then screams and shouts of terror. The crowd was too thick to fight through, so I yanked my bike away from the tree and ran with it to the back bumper of a news van, where I had a nearly-unobstructed view of the porch.

  Jon was surrounded by people fretting over him. He clutched at his left hand, looking down at it, then stuffed it into his hip pocket. With his other hand, he began making unmistakable motions of reassurance, trying to convince people he was fine.

  Mr. Bowling Ball lay sprawled on the grass, almost as if he was having a nice little nap. The two cops stalked toward him, their weapons drawn, but it was clear they'd already done everything to him that anyone was going to do.

  I saw Bingo lean the rifle against the wall as she joined the others in the crowd around Jon. Still, she turned and scanned the crowd, while Jon did the same. I pushed the bicycle a little further along and rode away, wondering how I was going to convince Uncle Karl not to throw my ass out of the apartment once he found out I'd been less than 50 feet from a police shooting.

  The ride from Jon's house to Aunt Theresa's had several uphill stretches. I ate my pride and walked the bike no less than three times, and I was ready to turn in and get some sleep when I rode down the alley and braked by the garage.

  As I swung my leg off the bicycle, a van parked across the driveway suddenly started up. It startled the hell out of me, and I jumped back against the wall.

  But the doors didn't swing open suddenly, and the engine didn't race. Instead, the driver slowly backed out into the alley. The night's excitement had made me jumpy as hell. If Arne and the others had seen me startle at the approach of a GMC Savana, they'd have laughed themselves sick.

  I knew who it was even before the van turned and I looked into the driver's window. It was Jon Burrows. Somehow, at the party, I hadn't noticed that he'd gotten a haircut. "Ray!" he called as he rolled down his window. "Ray, you came!"

  "Yeah, I did, and your sister ran me off with a gun." There were so many years between us, and I couldn't believe that was the first thing I said to him.

  "Dude, I'm sorry. That was a misunderstanding."

  There was more I wanted to say--being threatened with a gun isn't something I shake off lightly--but I couldn't. Not to him. "I have to put my bike away."

  I turned my back and pushed the bike toward the garage. Behind me, I heard the van door open. "Dude!" Jon called to me, and I could hear him approaching. "Hey, man. Hey. Check this out."

  I yanked open the access door at the back of the garage and shoved the bicycle inside, letting it crash against the wall. I was feeling threatened and reckless, as though Jon and his party invitation had brought a prison sentence to my door.

  "Check this out," Jon said again. He held up a framed photo for me to take. I did. It showed the two of us as twelve-year-old boys, wearing the T-shirt and cap of sponsored intramural baseball teams. My cap was blue and his was orange, which surprised me because, as I remembered it, we'd been on the same team. "Remember the day this was taken? It was the league championship."

  And suddenly I did remember. Jon had been pitching for the opposing team, and I'd hit a home run off him to win the game. It was the sort of play that you see in the movies, and I'd felt eight feet tall as I'd rounded the bases. But what I remembered most was that, even though I'd just beaten him and won the game, Jon had smiled at me. He had been proud of his friend.

  The picture had been taken less than a year before That Day. "I do. I remember this." I handed him the photo and he took it with his left hand. "Hey, what happened to you?"

  "Nothing to worry about." Jon held up his hand to show that his pinkie was gone at the bottom joint. The grin on his face was hard to read. I remembered, not even an hour before, that he'd raised that hand to shield himself from Mr. Bowling Ball. Even at that distance, it had seemed whole and complete to me, but that couldn't be right, because the injury wasn't bloody or fresh--the skin looked pinched closed like a kid's clay sculpture.

  But I couldn't talk about that, because that was crazy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Ray, seriously, I'm sorry about Barbara," Jon said. "I totally forgot to tell her. That was all my fault."

  "No," I said, and the word nearly stuck in my throat. "No, you don't have to apologize to me. I'm the one who--"

  "It's not necessary," Jon said.

  "No, I mean, I never apologized to you."

  "Ray," Jon laughed. "You don't have to s
ay it. I don't want you to, okay? I don't care. Look at me." He stepped back so I had a view of his whole body. "Everything is different now. Right?"

  We both turned at the sound of the sliding door on the far side of the Savana rolling open. A few seconds later, a man and a woman stepped around the front fender. The woman was tall and lean, with short hair and thrift shop style. The man was slightly taller but built like a college linebacker. He looked wary and stood too close to the woman, as though she was his favorite toy and he was afraid someone else would wind her up.

  "Hey," Jon said. "These are my friends, Echo and Payton. The party broke up, big surprise, so we're going to pick up my girlfriend and head out. Come with us, Ray. I want to celebrate with my old friend."

  "Nobody else is going to be shot, are they?"

  Echo laughed. Her voice was deeper than I'd expected. "That's why we're going out, to get away from the crazy."

  "That's not the only reason." Jon pointed at me with the framed photo. "Come with us, dude. Please."

  "Well, if you're going to say 'please'...." I started toward the van, following Payton and Echo around the front of the van while Jon climbed in the driver's door. Everyone was smiling, even Payton, who didn't seem to smile easily.

  The only chairs in the back of the van were vinyl benches with the legs cut off. Payton and Echo sat together on the bench along the back doors, and I sat on the side-facing one. The floor was littered with burger wrappers. Gross. I looked over at Jon to tell him he needed a trash bag for his ride, and saw that he was sitting in a wheelchair.

  "Oh, shit."

  Jon turned toward me. "Oh hey, don't freak, Ray. I haven't had time to trade it in for one with gas and brake pedals. I mean, I don't need it now but someone else will."

  "You think so?" Echo asked from her back seat. Jon laughed.

  We rode in silence for quite a while. The front passenger seat was empty, but no one suggested I take it so I sat quietly while the radio played some kind of trip hop I'd never heard before.