Overland

by Graham Rawle

  There was a ray of hope at around lunchtime on the following day when he found himself on a street he thought he recognized. There was a Cooperative Food Mart, outside which stood a six-foot sign announcing a special price of nine cents. He remembered seeing it some weeks ago, wondering to what exactly the nine cents referred. A couple of stores up from the Food Mart was the Doheny Smoke Shop. Yes, hadn’t he once stopped there to buy cigarettes? He looked around for more clues. There was the Mermaid Club (open till late), Rite-way dry-cleaners and a tiny antiques emporium with a For Sale or Lease sign in the window. It all looked vaguely familiar, but he still couldn’t think where he was. A block further on, he saw something that brought it all back with a queasy, sinking dread. Set back from the street behind a large parking lot was the Skateland Roller Rink.

  This was where all the trouble started—Muriel getting the part-time job and teaming up with that greasy hunk of ham, Gus Moretti. He no longer cared for Muriel; she and Gus probably deserved each other. But seeing the Roller Rink again and thinking back to that time of demeaning betrayal was a reminder that though this neighborhood sometimes looked like Overland, it wasn’t. Beneath the surface, everything down here in the underworld was essentially rotten. If he were to stay here he’d be faced with it again and again.

  Of course he’d been on that street before. He had dropped Muriel off there on numerous occasions, delivered her to the door. He might as well have carried her inside and set her down right in Gus’s lap.

  He turned away from the Roller Rink to light a cigarette, staring through the window of a Western Union office where folks inside were going about their business. Various placards and posters promoted a range of telegraph services: cablegrams, singing telegrams, holiday and special-occasion telegrams. Everyone pictured here was cheerful and smiling. There was no hint of the darker role Western Union played in sending messages to the folks back home: the ones expressing “deep regret” … Or the telegram: the one delivered to him on February 14th last.

  What George had never understood was why she had sent it as a Valentine Greetings Telegraph, the envelope promising friendly, even romantic, felicitations within. He liked to think that this had been no more than an unfortunate clerical error: an uncharacteristic example of Western Union getting its wires crossed. The telegram itself had a color illustration panel across the top depicting a jolly tableau in which a smiling middle-aged man was reading a recently delivered telegram while behind him a gay party was in progress. Two young ladies in long dresses wearing red hearts in their hair had taken time out from the festivities to pin a big cardboard heart onto the uniform of the blushing delivery boy who waited, cap tucked under his arm, by the door. The message below it, purple block capitals on hastily pasted ticker strips, had read: I wanted to tell you this before Valentines so you can cancel the Parkmoor. It’s no good anymore George. There’s no use pretending. You are always at the studio and it’s where you belong. Now I’ve found where I belong too. I have taken Fuffy as he never really liked you and Gus is more of an animal lover. —Your wife, Muriel.

  Since he had naively been expecting her to present him with the tie clip as a Valentine gift over their planned candlelit dinner at the Parkmoor Supper Club, it would be fair to say that he had not seen this coming; now he kicked himself for being so blind. The line that troubled him most was the one about Gus being “more of an animal lover” and what she may have meant by it. It conjured up unwelcome images of Gus stripped to the waist, beating his big gorilla chest, his brow dripping sweat from the exertion of his lovemaking.

  In Overland he had put Muriel to the back of his thoughts. Not going home at night had made this easier. Besides, there was no longer any reason to go home. No Fuffy to feed or take for a walk. She’d even taken his bowl—with the food still in it. He had been left with nothing—nothing but a big stupid cardboard heart pinned to his chest. What a dope.

  As Kay was passing a bus station, she saw travellers waiting in line or gathered in groups around clusters of suitcases while buses drew in and out of the allotted spaces.

  Tucked round the side of the main building an assortment of boxes and baskets had been stacked against the wall beside a couple of dumpsters. Among them was a bright green bird in a cage. It caught Kay’s attention because it reminded her of Mrs Ishi’s bird, Mr Green. It was the same kind of cage too. There was no one nearby so she went over to take a closer look, and for a moment she thought it was him, even though she knew that by now he was on his way to Chicago. But, this bird’s demeanor was different. When she asked the bird what it was doing there, thinking it might answer like Mr Green would have done, it suddenly lunged at the bars, startling her. There was a miaow from one of the baskets and rustling movement in what looked like a rabbit hutch. In a little wire cage, she saw something furry—a hamster or guinea pig—asleep (or dead) amongst the straw. She realized that all the boxes and baskets contained pets of one sort or another. Was anyone going to take care of these animals or had they simply been abandoned? She wanted to ask someone, but had to remind herself that she was incognito and trying not to get herself noticed, especially now that she was so close. She couldn’t afford to get involved.

  At the corner she opened her purse and took out the tightly folded piece she had torn from the street map in the library. She rotated it to establish her relation to, and distance from, her goal. If she could just find a way through the recently introduced army roadblocks and diversions she’d be there. She remembered there was a tunnel—several tunnels, Queenie had said—all feeding in from different directions to hide the rush-hour traffic flow to and from the factory.

  It was as she was cutting through a parking lot that she saw it: a long straight road leading into the freestanding stone archway of a tunnel entrance. At first she thought it might have been the same tunnel that the factory bus took, but inside the mouth of it, she could see that this one was richer with flora and herbaceous vegetation. The whole thing looked artificial, like an accessory for a child’s train set, or something that might have been created as an entrance archway to some fancy public botanical garden. Had she got it wrong? Perhaps it was nothing to do with the Lockheed factory. She continued, just to see, burrowing deeper into a rich, leafy cocoon. Further on, she stopped to admire the profusion of roses and chrysanthemums growing in the hedgerows, interested to note that their colors—red, pink and white—perfectly matched the flower design on her dress. She plucked a rose and discovered that the flowers were artificial, made from plastic. She took one of each color, removed her hat—Queenie’s hat—and threaded their stems through the band around the crown. She held it against her skirt to admire the coordinated colors. Pleased with the new adornment, she placed the hat back on her head.

  A motorcycle sped along the approach road towards the tunnel entrance. The engine was sounding sweet, like a contented mountain lion. The bike’s new owner opened up the throttle to put it through its paces. As he headed into the mouth of the tunnel, sharp sunlight broke through a gap in the clouds.

  In the shade, the motorcycle rider struggled to adjust his vision. The sunlight twinkled and flashed as it pierced through gaps in the foliage canopy overhead. The wind swayed the trees, creating stippled shadows that fell across the road ahead. Confused by their movement, the rider squinted and blinked in an attempt to navigate a safe path through the spangled green gloom.

  As he approached a hedgerow full of flowers, everything before him seemed to be shifting. A pattern of red, pink and white. For a moment, he thought he could see someone, a woman in a flowery dress, moving in the road up ahead, but unable to make out the outline of anything solid, he put it down to the confusing effect of the creeping shadows.

  Kay stood, mesmerized by the effect of dappled light shapes playing across the floral pattern of her dress. The buzzing drone of an engine somewhere in the distance filled her head, growing louder and louder. She turned, surprised to see a motorcycle racing towards her.

  Stranded there in the m
iddle of the road, she had only a split second to decide which way to move, to anticipate the direction the rider might swerve to avoid her. But it seemed she and the motorcycle were predestined to occupy the same space at the same precise moment—the collision was inevitable. She made a too-late dash for the hedgerow opposite, inadvertently running into the rider’s path. She raised her arm in a futile attempt to block the impact, but with devastating speed came a shattering blow; her elbow, along with every other part of her, smashed by the unstoppable force. The jolt came like an explosion, punching the air from her, jolting her insides as the bike carried her along at equal momentum. She was looking up at her own legs floating in the air, a section of swirling sky, something spinning: her shoe and a piece from the bike. Then her face suddenly slammed into dark asphalt. A series of body-twisting flips followed and then she found herself on her back moving at tremendous speed along the ground, the road beneath her, gritty and searing hot. Her shredded dress tugged tight at her armpits. As she gasped for breath, she caught sight of the bike on its side, skidding along ahead of her—someone, the rider perhaps, tumbling like an acrobat into the hedgerow. And she was still sliding along the ground, traveling in a perfectly straight line as if she were on a luge sled. She finally came to rest—neck all skewed and tight, a choking bone in her throat. Arms useless. After a drifting spell of dark sleep, a motorcycle boot smelling of freshly grated rubber appeared near her head. Its wearer stood over her, silhouetted against the sun. His face came into focus for a moment as his shadow fell across her. He had a beard and an eyepatch like a pirate. She heard his voice. Oh Jesus. This is bad. This is bad.

  But it wasn’t so bad—was it? If only she could catch her breath, straighten herself out. Deep in her chest she heard a thick fluttering like a caged bird and felt a choking throat full of something warm, like the time she tried to eat tomato soup lying down, the rich tangy taste reminding her of home.

  Her eyes were still open, but the light here was quickly fading and in a couple of heartbeats she was transported to—

  —Overland. Kay lay on a grassy hillside by the lake, a permanent Resident now. She gazed up into the azure sky, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight. It was a perfect day, like all the others that were to come. The lazy growl of an airplane overhead reverberated through the atmosphere, but she was unable to pinpoint its position. Abandoning her search, she closed her eyes, let her hands drop to her sides and slipped peacefully away.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  QUEENIE ENTERED THE Black Cat Cafe and shuffled to a window booth. She looked completely drained of life, no longer recognizable as the vivacious Hollywood starlet, the girl about town with pep in her step. Now she was pallid and shaky with barely the strength to walk. The only trace of color left in her face was lent by sunlight reflecting off her red tartan purse, which she had placed on the table in front of her and from which she now took a cigarette.

  The clock on the wall showed five minutes to four.

  By four twenty Queenie was growing agitated, checking folks on the street, hoping to spot Ma Young among them.

  Four fifty-three, and still no sign of Ma. Queenie nudged her empty coffee cup to one side with her elbow and rested her head in her hands.

  One minute to five. She opened up her handbag and took out her coin purse. Getting to her feet, she managed to haul herself to the payphone. The waitress, who had been staring idly out of the window, turned to eye her with uneasy concern.

  Queenie called to her. “Watch my handbag, would you, miss?”

  The waitress glanced over to the corner booth table where Queenie had left it. She nodded, but was more troubled by Queenie’s enfeebled movements.

  Queenie took the little triangle of folded paper from her coin purse and opened it up, ready to dial the number. But there was nothing written on it. She turned it over in desperation, but the reverse was blank too. She realized she had been duped. Ma wasn’t coming to help her; no one was coming to help her, she was on her own. She staggered back to her seat.

  The waitress approached. “Are you OK, sister? You don’t look too good.”

  A stocky man wearing a cowboy hat looked up from his ice-cream sundae.

  “She’s got anemia.”

  “Who are you, Dr Kildare?”

  “I’m only saying.”

  Queenie smiled wanly. “I’m just tired.”

  The waitress touched Queenie’s shoulder. “I’ll get you some more coffee. Perk you right up.”

  “Er. No. Just some water. I feel a little dizzy. I’ll just sit here for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  “Iron. That’s what she needs.”

  The waitress snapped back at him. “Pipe down, would you?”

  He did so with a huffy little shrug.

  Queenie was slipping in and out of consciousness. The scene outside the window seemed to change each time she blinked her eyes, as though a new shift of extras had been brought in to replace the last. It was becoming increasingly hard to pull herself out of the dark spaces in-between. A nearby voice brought her back.

  The waitress set a glass of water down in front of her. “You’ll have to move when it gets busy.”

  “Sure. I’ll move. I just need a minute.”

  Using the Roller Rink as a point of reference, George headed left at the next intersection. It was a one-way street going against the traffic, so wasn’t one he would have taken if he’d been driving, but he reckoned it was heading in the general direction of the Lockheed plant. He wasn’t used to so much walking. By car he could probably be there in ten minutes, but that would mean taking the freeway and he could hardly do that on foot. The street should have brought him out somewhere near San Fernando Road, but he’d been walking for ages and had not yet come to it. At a Y intersection, he took the right-hand fork and headed towards a big white building he thought he recognized as the Spanish colonial revival church on Vineland only to discover when he got to it that it was a movie theater. He thought he knew all the theaters, but he’d never seen this one before. None of the street names rang any bells either. He stopped and turned around, reviewing the path he had just taken.

  A man carrying a sack of groceries stopped to speak.

  “Are you lost?”

  “I can’t seem to get my bearings,” said George. “I know it must be round here somewhere. I’m looking for the aircraft plant.”

  The man frowned, puzzled.

  “You know. The big factory that builds airplanes.” For some reason George kept forgetting the name of it. Why was that?

  He shook his head. “Hmmm. Not round here.”

  “Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s vast. You must know it.”

  “Don’t think so, bud. I’m a resident of this neighborhood and I’ve never heard of it.”

  “This is Burbank?”

  “You’re not talking about the movie studios?”

  “No, no, an aircraft plant. I think it’s near Empire Avenue. Empire Way, something like that. Near San Fernando Boulevard. There’s a railroad track …”

  The man shook his head. “Sorry, bud.”

  “Oh, I get it. You said you’re a Resident.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you’re sworn to secrecy.”

  “Secrecy?”

  “Of course!” George nodded sagely. “You think I might be a spy.”

  “I don’t think anything, mister.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a Resident too. I work there.”

  “You work there, but you don’t know where it is?”

  “I know where it is. I just can’t find it.”

  “There’s a factory over on Compton makes machine parts—for tractors, I think.”

  “No, no, no. The aircraft factory. It covers over a hundred acres of ground. There’s like twenty-five thousand people working there.”

  “No. Definitely not round here.”

  George leaned in, speaking confidentially. “You can tell me. I designed the whole thing. Yo
u know … the place upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?”

  George spoke under his breath. “Over …” He nearly said the name, but decided to swerve. “You know. Over … the top of it.”

  The man looked back blankly. “You’ve lost me, mister.”

  “You said you were a Resident.”

  “A resident … sure.”

  “Then where’s your Resident’s pin?”

  “Pin?”

  “You’re supposed to be wearing a pin.”

  “No one told me.”

  “I should report you. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  The man tried to move away. “Well, sorry I can’t help.”

  George fingered the man’s sleeve. “You must have seen planes taking off?”

  The man looked down at his cuff like something alien had attached itself to it.

  “Come again?”

  “Planes. Taking off. You must have seen them.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Where? Where do they take off from?”

  The man answered as though it were a quiz. “Er, the airport? Los Angeles airport?”

  “No, there’s a place right here in Burbank. Manufactures military aircraft. Big bombers. Hey, wait a minute. How do I know you’re not a spy?”

  “Who would I be spying on?”

  George sized the man up. “You don’t look like a spy.”

  “What do spies look like?”

  “Same as everybody else, that’s the problem. They blend right in.”

  The man smiled, but was trying to extricate himself from the conversation. “Well, good luck. Sorry I can’t help.”

  “If you really are a Resident, you should know who I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the boss. I created the whole place and everything in it. I’m God.”