A light shines in Gregory Eternity’s eyes not unlike the sort of light that might shine on a porch if you are inside waiting for someone to come home to have sex with them. Why don’t you tell me, he slurs suggestively, and then comes at Isabella with his tongue protruding beneath his moustaches.
She takes him, right there on the roof. First she’s on top, then underneath, then they’re doing it in a sideways fashion with their limbs sticking out like the blades of a multipurpose knife splayed for cleaning in the dishwasher. Below the streets roil with body fluids and desire. People incorporate all the positions they know, and when those run out they make up new ones: Up-from-Under, Dirty Squab, the Bonnet & the Bee.
Where are the children?
Anyway, more urgently the attackers are steadily and stealthily approaching in their craft from the lake, so at some point Gregory Eternity dismounts and screams, Okay, everybody finish up, and he starts counting and at, One hundred! everyone climaxes at the same time. It’s indubitably the most beautiful moment many people in attendance have ever seen or heard or smelled or in which they’ve partaken, even former members of the glory-days-era Lady Y’s, Back-2-Back Champs.
Okay, say Gregory Eternity and Isabella, together and all at once. Now let’s go show these invaders what tough meat we’re made of.
WITH JESSICA RESCUED and tucked inside a Y’s cap pulled down to his ears, in the roominghouse’s flooded yard Olpert discovered the armoire’s doors bumping against a tree. He pulled the boards off, split them in two halves, and, repressing pained memories of forced swimming lessons, lay upon the less damaged side and tried a few flutterkicks: the door held.
Upon this dubious watercraft he paddled back toward the ferryport. Jessica’s initial panicked scrabble had subsided, all he could feel was the rapid stammer of a heartbeat against his forehead. It’s okay, Jess, he whispered as he swam, pushing off on ground gone mucky and soft.
This was not what a hero looked like: a skinny man in too-big clothes and a rodent tiara drifting atop cheap timber. And what hero would abandon a corpse, the one-eyed teen, had Crocker Pond melted, had he gone down? The sunlight soaked the water’s dark surface in an oily sheen. He imagined it sucking him under, he could taste the tar.
He’d left Gip with the strange man, Olpert’s housemate, was he a kidnapper? A terrible, dangerous mistake: it reminded him of a riddle from his childhood, how to cross a river with a boat that fit two and not three among a falcon, chickadee, and sack of seed, the goal was to have nothing eaten, he’d been first in his class to solve it, Katie Sharpe had been impressed — where now were those smarts? He’d spent too much time browsing magazines and living indoors and going pale, everything about him had paled.
But here he was at the Ferryport, and Sam and Gip were waiting. The water made suckling noises against the walkway’s underside. The boy waved.
He keeps saying he has to finish his work, Gip said, but I’m the one. Raven chose me.
Great, said Olpert. Listen, Sam, I’ve got the door from your wardrobe, we’ll use it as a raft to get across the Cove. We’ll just hold on and kick. And, Gip, you’ll ride it, okay?
But I’m the one, right? said Gip. Can you tell him?
Sure, said Olpert. Sam, he’s the one.
I just want to finish the work okay, said Sam, and patted the TV remote in his pocket.
Okay, said Olpert, and slid into the water.
Perint’s Cove was the colour of steel. Across it the Islet flotilla reached Lakeview Campground, the lake so high they boated right into the trees.
I can’t really swim, said Gip.
You don’t need to swim, you’re going on this raft.
That’s not a raft. It’s a door.
It used to be a door. Now it’s a raft.
Olpert stood nipple-deep in the flood. He realized his Citypass lanyard had come off at some point and disappeared into all that water. Past him flowed debris, each cluster telling a little story. Here was a ruined party: balloons, streamers, a slice of cake topping a paper plate — and plastic bags by the dozens.
Gip, said Olpert, climb down, get on the door.
The boy swung over the railing and dangled a hesitant foot. Just step down, Olpert said, steadying the door, I’m right here. Gip said, Sure? and Olpert said, Sure, and the boy dropped, landed on his knees on the door, which wobbled but didn’t tip, then flattened onto his stomach, knapsack riding his back. I’m on it, he said.
Sam, come down, said Olpert. This is the only way across. If you stay you’ll drown.
I can’t swim, he said.
It’s not swimming, you just have to kick.
Sam picked at his facial wound, sniffed what smeared his ducktaped fingers. A pause. And with a shrug folded over the railing and flopped into the water below. The door nearly capsized, Gip clung to its edges, and when Sam surfaced his blindfold had gone askew.
Olpert pulled the wet rag over those dead pink eyes and placed Sam’s hand on the door’s handle. Next he whisked a Bargain Zoom bag through the air, tied it swiftly: an inflated bladder. Hold this with your other hand, he said, passing it to Sam, then made a similar float for himself and moved to the door’s opposite side.
We’re going to cross now, said Olpert. Sam, kick. Gip, lie there and hold on. Okay?
The current carried them briskly into the Cove. Gip sprawled facedown, white-knuckling the door’s edges, while Sam and Olpert paddled. The temperature of the water plummeted. Sam, yelled Olpert, keep kicking! We’ll stay warm if we keep moving. And though with every swell and dip the raft pitched and icy water washed over the sides, the waves felt to Olpert like hands, passing them shoreward all the way to the city.
IV
HE FATHER-DAUGHTER Poole duo was escorted first to Lakeside Campground to gather their luggage (the minivan could be collected, they were told, upon the bridge’s. . rematerialization), then down into People Park. The previous day’s snowfall had melted into a brown gravy, Kellogg and Elsie-Anne found a dry knoll behind the gazebo where they sat upon their bags. But as more evacuees arrived they were forced to stand, penned in by Helpers stalking the periphery like bored shepherds.
A man with a camera asked to take Kellogg and Elsie-Anne’s picture, they complied, he furnished a business card: Ruben Martinez, Photographer. He’d come here solo, he told them — Kellogg pulled his daughter a little closer — and had been staying at the Grand Saloon until getting tossed that morning. Two of those guys in khaki came to my room and were all, You’re going home, and I was all, But I’ve paid for tonight, and they were all, All nonresidents are going home, get your stuff together, and that was it, and here I am, said Martinez brightly, as though being interviewed for TV.
My son went missing, my wife’s looking for him, Kellogg said, and held up his wedding band as some sort of proof.
Martinez nodded. I mean, as far as a refund goes I don’t really care. I can afford it. But this is supposed to be my vacation, know what I mean? Those permits were a hassle!
This was supposed to be our vacation too, said Kellogg. And then my kid goes missing! I mean, he’s got to be somewhere, right? My wife’s from here, she’ll find him. I’m not worried about it. Though we did have to abandon our car too. .
Thing is I can’t even say for sure if they credited my account. I mean, not that I care. Money’s just paper. But it’s annoying, know what I mean?
Yeah, said Kellogg, fanning himself. Getting hot out here, huh?
I got some great snaps on Friday night. Pretty spectacular, that stuff with the bridge.