by Patrick Ness
—So … I’m in?
—Irretrievably.
—When can I start?
—You’re almost there, Mr Odom. You just need to answer me one simple question.
Thomas took a last long drag and extinguished the end with a slow turn in the ashtray.
—What’s the question?
—I want you to think about this clearly, Mr Odom – may I call you Armand? – Armand, because it’s the most important part of your application, the most important question we have here at Hennington Hills. The question is.
—Yes?
—What do you like?
25. Maggerty in the City.
The young man in the apron swept the sidewalk in front of the store with a petulant snap of his wrists. He was the son of the owner and would naturally have rather been doing anything else in the world than sweeping the sidewalk in front of the store. It was hours before noon, but the sun was already promising another hot day, perfect for the illegal No Margin Surfing off of Darius Point that the young man, whose name was Jay, loved to sneak away to with his friends. NMS was a sport for those who thought themselves invincible, hence only those under twenty were ever interested. You paddled your board out over currents that could grab you and pull you down three hundred feet, collapsing your lungs before you even had a chance to scream, but that was only if the sharks, which were everywhere, didn’t get you first, which they would eventually. Jay had already lost three fingers on his left hand down the gullet of a hammerhead. No big deal. Forty-one stitches didn’t take all that long to heal. But the currents and the sharks were only the beginning. If you managed to make it around the Point alive, what awaited were waves sixty feet high traveling at forty nautical miles an hour. If you then actually managed to catch one of these monstrosities, you still had to navigate it perfectly to expel yourself out the end of the tube and into open water before the wave slammed you into the solid rock cliffs that comprised the western side of Darius Point. None of this was at all possible without being thoroughly twinged on itch which, if it didn’t help your navigation much, at least got you out on the water in the first place. No Margin. Meaning no mistakes.
Jay ran his hand absentmindedly over the flat packet of itch in his back pocket. He looked up at the sun again and frowned. Fuck, man, it wasn’t fair. He went back to pushing the broom angrily across the concrete. He was just about finished and ready to go back inside (and maybe, just maybe, say sayonara to the old man and take off for some NMS anyway, maybe if the old man was sleeping, maybe), when Maggerty stumbled down the street, heading right for the store. Jay looked around for The Crash and saw them passing along a cross-street one block up. Maggerty’s reason for straying was obvious. Jay’s father sold produce in slanted racks out in front of the store, packed full with the morning’s delivery of apples, oranges, cantaloupes, strawberries, blackberries, haggleberries, and huge, pink bonnet melons with the vines still attached, as well as a generous helping of yesterday’s white corn and a solitary jumbo kiwi sweating juice through its hide of erect hairs.
Maggerty reached the middle of the street and stopped about ten yards away. Somehow, without even looking up, he seemed to notice the young man with the broom standing in front of the piles of fruit. Traffic had been cut off by The Crash up at the main intersection, so there were no cars to honk Maggerty off. He shifted from foot to foot, looking at different patches of ground that hopped into and out of his line of vision.
Here was a moment of expectation. If there had been no one there, Maggerty would simply have taken something and the morning would have continued onward. But there was someone there and so this moment was necessary. He had made his peace with it. He knew that he had only to stay where he was before he would either be given food or he would not. Sometimes this latter version of events involved being chased away, but not often. Only wait, and something would eventually happen to kick the day forward again. His breathing slowed. He touched his wound and brought his fingertips briefly to his nose to smell the nature of the suppuration. He tapped his bare, filthy toes on the warm blacktop and scratched between his buttocks. He waited for an outcome.
Jay rubbed his hand across the packet of itch again and stared at the Rhinoherd. He had never seen him this close before. He had only heard the regular town folklore of Maggerty – something about a goat and fairly obvious madness – along with all the usual talk at the high school, where ‘Maggerty’ was pejorative for any poor kid with a hygiene problem. But at this hour of the morning, when the sun was already squint-worthy and shadows turned you into a mountaintop, there was only himself looking into the street at the Rhinoherd, who seemed to be dancing in a shuffling, fidgety sort of way. A faint, foul smell reached Jay’s nostrils, but it was more animal than filth, more sad than disgusting.
He walked slowly over to the fruit without taking his eyes off of Maggerty. He took hold of an orange and palmed it up into the air and down again. He leaned backwards against the wood of the fruit rack and felt the itch pressing from his back pocket. Silently but with the efficient motion of a muscled No Margin Surfer, he tossed the orange underhand towards the Rhinoherd. It hit Maggerty in the shoulder and rolled clumsily to the pavement.
Maggerty roused from his stopped-time stupor. There was fruit at his feet. He reached down to pick it up. A bonnet melon rolled across the concrete into his reach. An apple appeared there, too, and then a soft, wet jumbo kiwi. It was as much as Maggerty could carry, and he scooped them up into his arms. He stumbled away down the street back towards the already disappearing Crash, pressing the fruit into his mouth.
Jay watched the Rhinoherd turning the corner a block away. He touched the itch in his pocket again without realizing it and reluctantly returned to sweeping.
26. What Do You Want?
—You wanted to see me, Cora?
—Have a seat, Max.
—So it’s one of those kinds of talks.
—Actually, come to think of it, maybe you are in trouble. You’re the one who’s going to have to figure that out, I think.
—Why do I feel like I did when my parents wanted to know if I smoked hash in the eighth grade?
—Did you?
—Smoke hash? No. But then again you already know that. ‘No skeletons allowed', if I remember my first job interview correctly.
—I was merely being a smart politician, Max. However megalomaniacal it may sound, I do have a legacy, and I don’t want to leave it to just anyone. Which brings us conveniently to the point.
—Look, I’m sorry again about the fundraiser, but Talon was sick.
—Yes, I know, that’s not the issue. We raised over eighty thousand for you last night. That puts your pot at over 1.2 million. More than enough for airtime, signs, get-out-the-vote projects, the rest of your campaign staff. In short, pretty much enough for the whole race, including your inauguration ball and hair of the dog the morning after. Now, if you would just start your campaign any time in the near future, why, that would be lovely, too. Oh, don’t sigh at me, Max. I’ve known you for ten years. Something’s going on, and I want to know what it is.
—Nothing’s ‘going on'.
—Then answer me this simple question. Do you want to be Mayor or don’t you? Because if you don’t, you’d better tell me right now, as in this morning, or a lot of people are going to be plenty peeved. Fundraising is bad enough, though I am happy to spend my evening touting your real and considerable assets. That’s not bull. I think you’ll make a great Mayor. But explaining to all those folks whose behinds are wet with my saliva why their money might not be going where they thought it was would be much worse.
—I said, I’m sorry for not being there.
—Not the point. I know you model yourself as a kind of brooding idealist—
—I do not.
—You do. You do, and that’s fine. Money to soup kitchens, needle-exchange programs, hunger relief for The Crash, all good stuff, but it’s the idealism catch that’s been around forever: in order to accom
plish anything idealistic, you have to first be in a position of power to do something.
—That’s not quite true. Volunteers implement a lot of idealistic ideas.
—Oh, for God’s sake, Max, quit being argumentative. It’s a simple equation. Idealism without implementation equals moral impotence. I know you find politicking distasteful, so do I, but why come this far just to not get over that final qualm? Is it a case of nerves? Is it a matter of requiring a simple pep talk? Because I can do that if that’s all you need. But I’m worried that it might be something more. Well, not worried exactly, but aware that something’s at work here. So stop being evasive and start talking.
—Cora, there’s nothing I could tell you that would ease your mind.
—So don’t ease my mind. Shake it up a bit. I’ll manage.
—All right then. It’s this whole question of the inevitability of it all.
—You mean the election being a foregone conclusion?
—Well, yes, in a way, but I also mean for myself. I haven’t done anything since I got out of law school except work here and stay on this career fast-track. I’ll be forty in three years, and I’ve never done anything else.
—My suspicion is that that’s probably just cold feet, Max. It’s natural to question your motivation, especially just as you’re about to join the battle to move to the next level.
—I wouldn’t believe you’ve ever gotten cold feet about anything.
—Every time I’ve run. Hell, I get cold feet when I decide where to go for dinner. ‘Do I really want noodles?’ Perfectly natural, even more so for someone like you who’s introspective to a rather large and annoying degree. You commit five years of your life by becoming Mayor, more if you include the campaign.
—It’s not the time commitment that bothers me, although it’s odd to think that Talon will be about to graduate from high school before my first term is up. I don’t like to think I’d be slighting her. But more to the point it feels as if I’ve been heading for this and only this from the beginning, that Mayor is what I was destined to be. At least that’s what people seem to say when they talk to me, that fate has selected me out because of whatever reasons fate has and everything’s lined up to lead me directly to this, as if I’ve had no choice in the matter.
—But it’s hardly as if this has been handed to you, Max. You’ve worked hard to do what you’ve done, to get where you are. This hasn’t happened to you. Surely there must have been some motivation there, if not just right this second, then at some point. And if you had it once, you’ll have it again.
—That’s just it. I look at my life, I look at my daughter, and sometimes I can’t remember how I got here.
—So are you saying you don’t want to be Mayor or that you don’t know?
—I’m saying I don’t know.
—Is this serious enough to make you drop out of the campaign?
—I don’t know. Maybe.
—Well, I’ve got to be honest if it kills me, I suppose. It’s not too late to quit. You’d lose a little face, and there are people who’d be mighty disappointed, but four months is enough for someone new to step in if they had to. I’ve no idea who, frankly, but you need to do what you need to do.
—I don’t know if I want to quit. I’m not sure.
—Then how about this? Why not take tomorrow off and just have a three-day weekend? Spend a ton of time with Talon, don’t think about the campaign, although you’ve been doing a pretty good job of that on your own already, and just, I suppose, reflect. Search your heart and mind, Max. Being Mayor is something you shouldn’t do half-assed. There’s a lot of nonsense you have to put up with, and the job is only worth it if it’s worth it to you.
—I’m not sure that’s going to help.
—It either will or it won’t. Do it anyway. Unfortunately, the way things lie, I’m going to have to know one way or another when you come in on Monday. As much a martinet as it might make me, I want to have some say over who the next Mayor is, and if you’re out, there are a mind-boggling number of things to be done.
—All right. Sorry for the wrench in the plans.
—No, no, my fault. I’ve been the advisor in this whole thing. I thought you were having doubts, but I thought they’d I take care of themselves. I was wrong. Take the weekend. Hell, go home right now. Let me know what you decide on Monday, okay?
—I can agree to that.
—My grandmother always told me that if you search yourself top to bottom, then there’s no such thing as a wrong decision. Whichever way you decide will ultimately be the right way, Max. I trust you.
—I’m assuming your grandmother didn’t tell you the part about how we sometimes make wrong decisions so we can be taught unpleasant lessons.
—Of course she didn’t. My grandmother was a very smart woman.
27. ‘Cleave’ Has Two Meanings.
Luther Pickett was born in Tishimongo Fair, that small, incongruously wet burg stuck deep in the crook of the Molyneux Valley, near the disputed Mohair Pass on the mountain border to the Rumour Land. Besides its more common and justified reputation as a literary bedrock – being the birthplace of both Joan Reachpenny and Christina Ungulate, as well as the summer home of Midge and Lolly Tottering and the location of the Alms Hotel where Shelbert Shelbert famously ended his life with Fergus Pangborn’s triple-barreled rifle – Tishimongo Fair was also the primary production spot of Archie Banyon’s Vallée de Molyneux Merlot, a ‘deeply spicy wine with a tart sensuality’ that made Hennington society matrons blush as they reached for another sip. Lachlan Pickett, Luther’s father, was the winery’s head of distribution. Having been raised by teetotalers, Lachlan knew effectively nothing about wine, but he was good with a clipboard, had a strong profile with a virile haircut, and exuded a calm confidence that deflected attention away from what was marginal competence at best. He had all the usual blessings of the physically beautiful: an equally beautiful wife, an array of jocular friends, and a golden son with a beatific smile and the usual knack for sports. This last, of course, was Luther.
The memories of Luther’s childhood before the tragedy were lit by warm, soggy sunlight. Tishimongo Fair caught both the rain from the mountains on either side and the heat that came north from the Rumour deserts. Long, steamy summers melted into long, steamy winters. The family wasn’t especially wealthy – Luther’s mother Annika was a stubbornly unsuccessful portrait photographer – but he could never recall wanting for anything. He remembered his home as a casual place with friends dropping by for dinner parties, baby showers, the whole list of middle-class fêtes. Luther was popular at school, did well in his studies to the surprise of his perplexed but proud father, and was a child of whom the dreadful word ‘potential’ was often applied. In short, he was happy, which just couldn’t last.
At twelve, the tragedy, shocking enough in its casualness to hit the newspapers and ultimately enter Tishimongo lore, came along and took Luther’s parents. On an unusually chilly autumn night, the Pickett family slept soundly in their beds. Sometime during their slumber, a Caucasus Asp, out of season and no doubt freezing to death, slithered into their house through an open vent near a basement window. The basement, unfortunately, also served as the master bedroom for Lachlan and Annika Pickett. The snake, sensing the room’s most potent source of heat, slowly coiled itself under the sheets, between their warm, dozing bodies.
First Annika stirred and was bitten, then Lachlan. Neither of them woke up before their deaths, witnessing only sudden and permanent ends to dreams. Wondering about breakfast, young Luther found them lying there the next morning. He jostled his father’s shoulder but was unable to rouse him. When he did the same to his mother and touched her exposed, cold skin, he realized something more was at work than simple oversleeping. His jostling awakened the snake, which now realized that its haven had cooled. The Jungle Dangers training Luther had taken at school probably saved his life. He stayed completely frozen while the red-and-white-speckled asp slunk across the floor
to another snug sanctuary at the bottom of the linen closet. Luther dialed Crisis Services on his parents’ phone and waited, wide eyed and quiet, on the front walk until the paramedicals arrived.
At the same time, Archie Banyon was in town, making the dreaded annual inspection of his Molyneux vineyards. The dismal weather was not encouraging. His merlot required day after day of steamy sun, to the point where the grapes almost boiled on the vine. Drear could turn the year’s harvest sickly sweet if it stuck around too long. He was irritable and opprobrious and growing increasingly furious with the head shipping clerk for having the insolence to be late to a morning meeting where he would be asked to share his portion of the blame for the weather. Archie had, in fact, gone as far as making a great show of firing Lachlan Pickett in absentia in an attempt to strike fear into the vineyard’s other managers. He was mid-rant when the police showed up.
There is no more potent driver of charity than saving face, a fact which coupled nicely with the realization that Archie had also been in a vineyard when his wife and daughters had perished. He felt some fateful request was being made of him. Perhaps it was a reprimand for firing a dead man. Conversely, maybe the fates were giving him a child as recompense for the loss of his own. Whatever the reason, Archie adopted the blond-haired, serious-browed Luther without hesitation, sweeping him out of Tishimongo Fair and installing him in a hilltop mansion overlooking Hennington.
To Archie’s surprise and delight, Luther immediately turned out to be the ‘son I feel I’ve never had', always whispered out of earshot of Thomas, of course. Young Luther Pickett – he never considered giving up his last name, and Archie, in a rare show of modest sensitivity, never pushed it – was courteous, intelligent, hard-working, and showed an interest in Archie’s work. All of which could also be said of Thomas Banyon, aside from courteous, but Luther was just so much more likable. He wore none of Thomas’ surliness, none of that considerable anger that threatened to flash in inappropriate places, and perhaps most importantly, none of that resentment that made Archie seethe. Moreover, Luther owed him. Archie Banyon was a kind and generous man, but he was also rich, a rich that went very deep down. He was more comfortable being owed than owing.
