The captive, Stevick noted with relief, didn’t appear any more — or less — uncomfortable than when he’d first been lowered into his hole. He stood, as if to acknowledge the inspector’s attentions, but didn’t glance upward, possibly not wishing to incur rebuke, or perhaps he had merely grown incurious about what were, for him, routine operations. When the inspector went back to his car and returned bearing a wax-paper cup with a straw and a pair of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, Stevick understood that he intended to feed the man in the hole, and saw also that the captive had at some point spat the dirty cloth from his mouth, so that it now encircled his throat like a necklace. Probably it had never been secure to begin with, and the captive had not wished to embarrass the men who’d dug the hole by flaunting their ineffectual knotting skills. The inspector lowered both the cup with the straw and half a sandwich to within range of the captive’s mouth, and the man in the hole quietly and efficiently fed and drank. Stevick considered the fact that the captive could have cried out at any point and had chosen not to. Perhaps he’d learned that it led only to more punishment, if punishment was the right word. Stevick had begun to realize that he ascribed a certain strength, a gravity and authenticity, to the man in the hole, or perhaps to the hole itself, with which he wished to be associated, as in the sense of a shared undertaking. The passerby with whom he’d crossed umbrellas had been, in a manner, right: This was a kind of personal situation.
Stevick helped the inspector replace the wooden planks over the hole, then gratefully accepted the gift of the second wrapped sandwich, which turned out to contain pleasantly peppery chicken salad, albeit on soggy white bread. Stevick had been hungrier than he realized. Before departing, the inspector went back to his car one last time, returning now with an olive-green duffel, which he chucked gently to the edge of the hole, just beside Stevick.
“What’s that?”
“Standard issue,” the inspector explained obscurely. “It’ll be there when you need it.” He offered Stevick a quick salute and was off.
*
It was only after the café had closed for the night, the chairs overturned on the tables, that the rain ceased completely, leaving Stevick with the question of whether his shift here ought to conclude. He shook out and shuttered the umbrella, and had just reached for the enigmatic duffel when he was greeted by the sound of his own name in the familiar voice of his ex, Charlotte. It was perhaps inevitable that she’d pass by if he camped out here all day. In another lifetime, which was what even yesterday seemed to be after this present occurrence, he might have been guilty of doing exactly that. As it happened, he’d overlooked completely the possibility of her wandering past. Charlotte was dressed and scented for a night on the town, clacking in her heels toward the subway entrance, most likely to undertake her usual carousel of Stevick’s former favorite bars in the company of his lately-out-of-touch friends.
“Well, now, look at you,” she joshed. “Keeping busy, as usual.”
Stevick guiltily withdrew his hand from the duffel bag and stood alert to indicate his vigilance, though now, rain cleared, umbrella folded, it was hardly evident what his duties were. He’d always had to straighten his posture in Charlotte’s presence, her height and perfect carriage a kind of warning or rebuke to him, and now he found himself wishing that she’d step off the curb, down to his level. The three planks that covered the hole were too expertly flush to the asphalt to be any help to him.
“There’s a man in this hole, Charlotte.” It was the second time he’d tried to even the field by stating this absolute truth, almost as if he needed to hear it himself to believe it, though he’d been presiding there all day. He wanted acknowledgment of his effort, but first he had to establish the basic situation.
“Sure,” Charlotte said. “I’ve heard of this sort of thing.”
“I guess I’d heard of it, too, though it’s different to have it right in front of you. Still, I guess it has to be somewhere.”
“True enough,” Charlotte said. “I just hadn’t pictured you getting involved. But by your logic, I suppose, someone had to step forward.”
Stevick couldn’t really improve on this sentiment, so he let it stand.
“So, what’s in the bag?” Nothing was lost on Charlotte, he had to give her that.
“More sandwiches, I suspect,” Stevick said, surprising himself with the guess. Should they be called rations, or provisions? It depended on who was eating them, he supposed. “They’re not bad, if you like chicken salad. Take one, if you’re hungry.”
Charlotte had by this time poked inside the bag, assuming her usual privileges in regard to Stevick’s boundaries, and pulled out a plastic-wrapped jumpsuit, identical, except for its virgin state, to those worn by the operatives and by the captive below. There appeared to be four or five of these stacked within the small duffel.
“You’re hired!” Charlotte exclaimed. “You’ve been promoted from a temp position to staff.”
Stevick found himself pleasingly able to ignore her goading. In many ways, Charlotte, like much else, was receding from view. The new conditions made irony a luxury. Was he meant to hoard the jumpsuits for his own use or to recruit other operatives from the neighborhood? Or, for that matter, were they intended for future incarcerees? Stevick considered the possibility that he’d eventually be fitted for a hole himself. The beauty of the uniform was that it settled nothing.
“Do you want to see him?” he asked Charlotte, and immediately regretted a question that seemed inappropriate, even somewhat craven on his part. He knew only after he’d said it that he would never again let himself use the man in the hole as a token or a bargaining chip. He was a person!
Charlotte’s cavalier reply felt predestined. “No, thank you,” she said. “I should go, I’m running late. But it’s really good to see you doing so well, Stevick.” Her voice was like a pat on a baby’s downy skull.
The hint of tenderness cloaking Charlotte’s dismissal disgusted Stevick. Talk about your passing connections! Stevick felt closer after a single day to the man in the hole, though they’d exchanged not a word. As he watched Charlotte make her way up the street, Stevick experienced only relief that she’d refused his suggestion. To pry up the planks when he had nothing to offer was a small indignity he had spared the captive below. The last thing Stevick wished to do, after all, was annoy him with inessentials. Success in an endeavor like this one lay in the details. Stevick was certain he was going to do a good job.
Their Back Pages
Page one, panel one, the island. A dense atoll in a wide barren sea peppered with shark’s fins. Palm trees, sandy shore, pale lagoons, distant smoldering volcano, etc. Interior rain forest cloaking caves, freshwater springs, shrieking inhuman trills, a nest of ferns where bleached skeletons embrace, who can say what else.
Page one, panel two, the plane. A bolted turnip with wings, now aflame.
Page one, panel three, porthole windows of plane. In first class, the Dingbat Clan. Father Theophobe Dingbat, mother Keener Dingbat, son Spark Dingbat, daughter Lisa Dingbat. In coach, Large Silly (a clown), Poacher Junebug (a hunter), C. Phelps Northrup (a theater critic), Murkly Finger (a villain), Peter Rabbit (a rabbit), King Phnudge (King of the Phnudges), C’Krrrarn (a monster). Large Silly and C. Phelps Northrup are in black and white, all others are in color. All gaze downward, terrified, except C’Krrrarn, who plays computer solitaire.