Landry Park

by Bethany Hagen

  I flushed. Did I know Cook’s given name? Or our driver’s? Or anyone besides Elinor’s? “You were only a child,” I tried to say, but he shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter. Nan raised me better. Better than to overlook my fellow humans until I was old enough to be in school.” We turned a corner and the houses were spread farther apart, with large trees filling the gaps. Almost every tree had a rough wooden swing on it. I felt a twinge—not of guilt but of longing—thinking of my own playthings as a child: china dolls too precious to handle and windup toys imported from Europe. Ivory chess sets smuggled from the East. I’d never tumbled in the grass with friends.

  David went on. “Nan went into one of the lean-tos that passed for a house. A small window had been cut out of the particleboard and lined with plastic. There was a sick woman on the floor, covered by a sheet of plastic and with nothing but the dirt for a pillow. Nan knelt and touched the woman’s face, pulling out some water and a cloth. She wiped the woman’s face and hands, and finally her feet. She took the plastic off and covered her with a soft blanket that I recognized from her own bedchamber in the nursery.

  “After helping the woman sip broth and water, Nan sat back on her heels and cried. She must have cried over that woman for the better part of an hour. I eventually realized that the woman had died, right there under Nan’s hands, wrapped in her blanket.”

  A thin track of moisture felt blessedly cool on my face; I realized I was beginning to cry. “Who was she? The woman your nanny visited?”

  “Her sister. She had married the man she loved, and he happened to be Rootless. He died just a few years later, but it was too late for her to go back to being a servant or to work in a factory. She had been tainted.”

  I stopped and pretended to adjust my slippers. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve as discreetly as possible. David stopped too, crouching next to me.

  “Have you ever looked into the eyes of someone who has given up? Who has to watch their children fester in fevers and sores, or waste away in starvation? Who has to watch their neighbors killing for bags of weevil-ridden flour and rancid vegetables while they work in estates where food is literally thrown out in heaps? In Atlanta, the penalty for stealing from gentry trash is death. And the bodies strung up on the estates numbered in the hundreds. That is the desperation. That is the abject, blighted, horrific desperation of it all. And they live that every day. Every day for two hundred years, they have lived that.”

  David leaned forward to see my face. “I’m sorry. I just—I thought you would want to know why I cared. Why I helped Sarah in the park that day. Why I give them money, food—whatever they need. Why I have been helping them plan a way to force the gentry out.”

  I looked at him. “You would be killed if anyone else knew.”

  “I know,” he said. His eyes locked onto mine, no longer bright, but a murky crepuscular color.

  “I won’t tell,” I promised.

  “I feel like I’m caught between two worlds, and I can’t break through to either side.”

  “If you’re so unhappy, why not join the Rootless? Like your nanny’s sister?”

  He laughed bitterly. “And leave all my money? The nice clothes and nice cars and nice girls begging for dances? Am I that unhappy?”

  I could see the answer as clearly as the night on the balcony when I first talked to him at length. “Yes.”

  He passed a hand over his eyes. “Maybe I am. When I’m with the Rootless, it all seems so clear—justice, freedom, and health, regardless of who your parents were. But when I’m home, I find it impossible not to enjoy being the man everyone thinks I should be.”

  “You’re human.” I took a breath. “Do you think I don’t know better? That I don’t notice the incongruity of eating saffron and caviar every night while people just miles away starve on government rations? And have I done anything about it? Have I reached out to them? Have I given them anything I call my own?” I’d never said all that out loud before, or even articulated it that clearly to myself, but I knew it was true as soon as I said it.

  David looked shocked . . . and relieved.

  “It is so easy just to give money and supplies,” he said. “And anything that’s not a real sacrifice for me.” He stepped closer, so that his head blocked out the sun and his face was in shadow. I could see every curve and angle in sharp relief. “I’ve never met anybody who feels the same.”

  “Are we there yet?” Cara demanded, finally catching up to us. Sweat beaded on her forehead. David backed away from me.

  “I’m not taking another step,” she declared with a toss of her hair. She gave David a winning smile. “I hope you’re up to carrying me the rest of the way.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he told her. “It’s right here.” He pointed at a stone house that clearly used to be one of the zoo buildings. Real glass filled the windows and a real wooden door hung on antique hinges. The words KANSAS CITY ZOO were etched into the lintel.

  David noticed me looking. “They had to force him to live there. He doesn’t see why his family deserves a better house than the rest, but they insist.”

  “Because he’s their leader?”

  David nodded. “And so much more besides.”

  As we got closer, I could see two boys at work on the large lawn, stirring a giant vat over a fire. One looked about my age and was tall with hair the color of a rising sun. On closer inspection, I could see that he was the Rootless laborer I’d met in the clinic—Ewan.

  The other boy was no more than seven or eight, a laughing, tumbling thing with a shock of hair so red that it rivaled my own. He ran up and started trying to wrestle with David, who easily pinned the boy’s arms behind his back. The boy was grinning, but I could see the strength in his wiry limbs as he struggled to get free. He was no stranger to fighting.

  “Charlie,” Ewan said. “Stop.”

  The boy called Charlie made a face at Ewan and kept squirming and trying to kick David, who was now tickling him.

  “Charlie,” David said, “this is Madeline Landry and Cara Westoff. Can you say hello?”

  Charlie wheezed out a greeting between giggles, and David finally let him go. He ducked under David’s arm and scampered off without saying good-bye.

  David gestured to Ewan, who was using a long paddle to prod at the vat. “This is Ewan, Charlie’s brother. They’re Jack’s sons.”

  Ewan was scowling at me.

  No, not at me . . . at Cara. Cara, for her part, was doing everything she could to ignore him, looking this way and that, even as we drew close enough to exchange words. I could only imagine how foreign it felt for her to be despised so openly. I didn’t know if I could ever get used to the hatred they had for us. I had thought that Ewan liked me, since he was so kind at the clinic. But perhaps in his element, in his own home, he was different. Or perhaps the continuing raids and ration shortages made him regret sharing his pemmican with a gentry girl.

  “Ewan,” David said, extending a hand. “Good to see you.”

  Lines of displeasure creasing his otherwise handsome face, Ewan put his hands in his pockets and jutted a chin out at David. I could only see one sore on his body, hidden in his hairline, and it looked small. It made sense. Changing charges was a lower-risk occupation. Jack’s family was better off than most then, if they didn’t need at least one of their sons to work as a packer on the trains. Even Charlie looked astoundingly healthy, as if he’d been shielded from as much work as possible. Although Sarah’s death proved that even the “safest” job in this part of town could prove deadly.

  “This is Madeline Landry,” David said, nonchalantly dropping his hand.

  I held out my hand. “Remember, we met at the clinic?”

  He reluctantly shook it. “I do.”

  “I haven’t seen you on my estate since we met. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Immediately, it became clear that I’d made a major blunder. David cleared his throat uncomfortably while Ewan’s face fi
lled with heat.

  “Looking forward to seeing me back at work again?” he asked.

  “Ewan—” David said, at the same time I said, “That’s not what I meant—”

  Ewan snorted. “Sure, it isn’t. You know, if I had it my way, no charges would be changed, and they’d all expire and fill your houses with poison.”

  And then, before I could apologize, he dropped his paddle and stalked away, leaving the huge vat simmering and bubbling.

  Cara gave a choked cough, turning away. When she turned back, her chin was quivering.

  This stunned me; Cara never cried, not when she fell off her horse when she was ten or when she’d sunburned so badly that the skin peeled off her back for weeks. She hadn’t even really cried after her attack. I gave her shoulder an awkward pat, which she shook off with a violent motion.

  “Ewan is a little hostile at the moment,” David explained to us. “Sarah, his stepsister, died a couple months ago. They were very close.”

  “I didn’t realize,” Cara said, looking truly shocked.

  David made a sympathetic sound.

  “It must be difficult to lose someone you love,” she said, and I admired her attempt at empathy. David touched her arm and she leaned into him. I averted my eyes, focusing instead on Ewan’s retreating form. Even though it was laughable in a way, after we’d met at the clinic, I’d thought of Ewan almost like a friend. But maybe the divide between Landry Park and the decaying world of the Rootless was too vast to bridge.

  Charlie bounded up to us. “Papa’s on his way! He told me to show you into the living room! Follow me!” He sprang off to the house, and the three of us followed, Cara swiping angrily at her cheeks as we did so.

  • • •

  Jack sank into his chair with an audible groan, resting his hands on his cane. His chair was the only one with upholstery; possibly it had once been damask, but it was so patched and worn that it was difficult to say. The rest of us sat in hard wooden chairs that creaked unhappily, louder even than the wood floor, which was visibly buckled in some places. After a minute of sitting, David betrayed his natural restlessness. He stood and started pacing, filling the room with the noise of squealing wood.

  The furniture was mostly plain, but a few striking charcoal drawings were pinned to the walls. A few other discarded gentry items were scattered about—two chipped china teacups, dented brass candlesticks, and a patched silk pillow. A soft pink coat lay across a rocking chair, almost as if someone had been using it as a blanket.

  “The drawings are Charlie’s,” Jack said, noticing me looking around. “I trust you’ve met my boys,” he added, nodding out the window at Charlie and Ewan. Ewan stood with his arms folded, glaring off into the distance.

  “You will have to excuse my son,” Jack said. “He rather takes after his uncle in temperament. Family first, forgiveness second.”

  “You have a lovely home,” I volunteered, and Jack smiled at me.

  “You do not forget your manners, I see,” he said. “A true Landry.”

  “How did you know who I was? Back in the tavern?”

  “I’m familiar with the Landrys, and once you’ve seen one, you can spot them all. You are the spitting image of your father and grandfather, although you have your grandmother’s features.”

  “I hear that often.”

  “I’m not surprised. The Landrys defy Mendelian genetics with astonishing frequency. Every generation a display of recessive genes. It makes one wonder if Jacob Landry dabbled in more than physics.”

  I thought of the black roses. “He did. My father told me that he bred unusual plants.”

  “Yes, but I suppose it must be acknowledged that plants are not people. Perhaps the Landrys are simply blessed to carry such overpowering genes.” He coughed a deep, chesty cough that I could feel through the floor. “Now, as pleasant as it is to have visitors that are not keen to talk about war, I am afraid I must move our conversation to a more serious vein. Ladies, please explain why you were in our part of town today.”

  “I just followed Madeline,” Cara said quickly. “It was all her idea.”

  “You had no wish to come here under your own volition, then?” Jack asked. His voice was pleasant, but something about his eyes made Cara straighten up.

  “No . . . I wanted to follow her, and I knew she might come here but . . . no. I wouldn’t have come on my own.”

  Jack leaned his head back, peering at Cara through heavy-lidded slits. Each breath of his seemed labored, laden with phlegm and sputum. “I cannot untell a lie for you, even if it was a necessary one,” he warned her. I peered at Cara, wondering if she knew what he was talking about.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Mr. Dana?” Jack called. David emerged from the dining room, creak creak creak.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you escort Miss Westoff safely to our gates? And ensure that she arrives promptly at her house?”

  David glanced at me. “What about Miss Landry?”

  “Come back for her. Miss Landry and I are going for a little walk.” A small prickle of fear was at the back of my neck; I knew David trusted Jack, and nothing about him suggested I was in any physical danger, but something about his presence made me feel as if I was on a precipice and that a mere word of his could send me over the edge.

  “I’m not leaving Madeline,” Cara said suddenly. I glanced over at her, surprised, but she stared evenly at Jack. “She’s a friend of mine and I think it would be wrong of me to leave her alone in an unfamiliar place.”

  I did a double take at the word friend. Sneaking through the Rootless ghetto was hardly fertile ground for friendship. But I did appreciate the gesture.

  Jack thought about her words for a moment. “I believe Mr. Dana can vouch adequately for my relative harmlessness. Can you not, Mr. Dana?”

  David nodded to Cara. “It is perfectly safe for her.”

  She looked at me. “Madeline?”

  “I’ll be fine.” I hope. “Thank you.”

  She shrugged carelessly. “You would’ve stayed for me.”

  I suppose I would have.

  David came up and took my hand, and warmth spread up my torso.

  “I’ll be back to get you,” he promised.

  “I’ll be fine here,” I said.

  “I know. Just please stay with Jack.”

  Jack shook his cane at David. “Go! I will not let any harm come to Miss Landry.”

  David and Cara left, and Jack stared at me from across the room. I felt completely naked to him, as if he knew everything about me and my life. Normally, when Father gazed at me with such perceptive intensity, I buckled and dropped my eyes, but Jack’s stare was kinder than Father’s—warmer, like stones that had been lying in the sun.

  “Miss Westoff came because she followed you, and you came because you followed Mr. Dana. Now, putting the assumption that you care for Mr. Dana aside, why would you trail someone who obviously does not want to be trailed? Even a very strong attraction would not induce most gentry girls to pass our gates.”

  “I saw David helping Sarah,” I explained quickly, the words pouring out like rain eager to soak the ground. “In the park several weeks ago. She fell next to me, and I saw it all. David handled the charges himself, he carried them, and then he carried her. He didn’t hesitate to help her, and I had never seen anyone do that before.”

  “And that naturally piqued your interest,” Jack said. “If you do not mind me asking, if you saw Sarah fall, then why didn’t you help her yourself?”

  Now I dropped my gaze, and a shame stronger than any I’d ever felt filled me, hot and nauseating. “I was scared,” I whispered. “I was scared to touch her.”

  My words hung in the hot room, filling up the space until I could barely breathe. I was terrified to look at Jack. Would he hate me? Even though I’d only known him a couple of hours, I wanted him to like me, to approve of me, to invite me back into his company.

  “Madeline,” Jack said kindly. “Sa
rah was going to die either way. She was only a changer, the safest job we have, but even that small radiation was too much for her. She was never long for this world. Don’t fill yourself with useless guilt. You are a product of the people who raised you, and the fact that you do feel remorse means that you’ve already shown yourself to be more human than most of the gentry.” He stood with extreme difficulty, panting a little until he could lean on his cane. He walked stiffly over to the window, where Charlie still gamboled about in the grass.

  “I can’t forget what I didn’t do,” I said. “You say not to feel shame, but it’s all I can feel when I think of her.”

  “I didn’t say to forget,” Jack answered, still looking at his boys. “Don’t forget. Remember every face and every name.” He turned to me, his face folded in sorrow. “After these long years, I now believe our freedom can only be born through violence. Violence is a dark and dangerous path, but we will honor every victim as a martyr, and feel their suffering as if it was our own. A spirit cannot be whole if it willfully ignores the suffering of others.”

  Jack came over to me, his cane clunking against the floor, and offered a hand. “Shall we go for that walk?”

  • • •

  We headed east on a road that dwindled to a dirt trail, well worn but narrow. Trees encroached on either side, sending dappled green light onto the path.

  “What do you know of Jacob Landry?” Jack asked.

  Quite a bit, given the gentry’s adulation of him. “He invented the Cherenkov lantern, and then the nuclear charge. After the Empire invaded, he created the Uprisen and they fought against the dissenters in the Last War. He helped reorganize society afterward.”

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. “He is a hero, is he not? A visionary.”