Yesterday — two Mondays after his “miraculous resuscitation” of Emily Barton — he’d gotten on the number 14 city bus after his shift with no real destination in mind, happy to pay a buck seventy to get out of the World. He’d wound up riding it all the way to the ferry docks. It was raining when Kiwi climbed down from the bus. A black cat was stalking a fat, doofy pelican across the cement landing; Gus’s ferryboat and a few misused U-RENT kayaks were moored there. The ferry had received a fresh coat of paint, a spectacularly ugly gourd orange. Nobody was around. FERRY SERVICE SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE said a sign on the gangplank. Kiwi sat through the intensifying rain for an hour and fifty minutes, the time it took for the bus to repeat its loop, and for that entire period he stared in the direction of the island. Slowly it sank in that he couldn’t get home that afternoon, even if he’d wanted to. Kiwi could feel this thought descending from his brain to his lungs, where it winnowed like a noose. You’re stuck here, kid, Kiwi imagined the Chief saying in his microphone voice, a booming, put-on friendliness. We need you and you’re nowhere.
Lost Souls percolated around him in the Leviathan, sightlessly munching at diabolical corn chips or tugging up their bathing straps. A few of the tiny kids were wearing Whalehead hats, foam skullcaps in orca whites and blacks that looked vaguely French, monastic, cost $17.99, and disintegrated — Lost Souls were always complaining — in the wash. Kiwi Bigtree seemed to have hit minute fourteen of his fifteen minutes of fame. It had been over a week since Emily Barton did her last TV interview about “the angel” whom she had seen underwater and later pegged as the human lifeguard Kiwi Bigtree. Since Monday he’d signed only three autographs. Lost Souls still stopped him in the halls, but most of them needed to validate their parking ticket, or urinate.
Heaven, Kiwi thought, would be the reading room of a great library. But it would be private. Cozy. You wouldn’t have to worry about some squeaky-shoed librarian turning the lights off on you or gauging your literacy by reading the names on your book spines, and there wouldn’t be a single other patron. The whole place would hum with a library’s peace, filtering softly over you like white bars of light …
Kiwi grunted; someone had written BOOTY FUCK THE MOTHERFUCKERS on the wall beside the escalator to the Jaws. Where was his paintbrush?
Heaven would be a comfy armchair, Kiwi decided, rubbing at expletives with his elbow. Beige and golden upholstery, beige and golden wallpaper (what he was actually picturing here, he realized, was the pattern of his mother’s brown rosettes on their curtains). You’d get a great, private phonograph, and all of eternity to listen to your life’s melody. You could isolate your one life out of the cacophonous galaxy — the a cappella version — or you could play it back with its accompaniment, embedded in the brass and strings of mothers, fathers, sisters, windfalls and failures, percussive cities of strangers. You could play it forward or backward, back and back, and listen to the future of your past. You could lift the needle at whim, defeating Time.
Roaring erupted from the high, angled vents that lined the Leviathan — it began all at once, as sudden as a flood of rainfall. The white intrusion that makes you aware of what the silence had been before. Kiwi paused with his hands in the bucket.
Mom? Kiwi shuddered, feeling immediately stupid.
“Whadduppp, Bigtree!” Sergio from concessions appeared in one of the labyrinthine hallways, wheeling a trash can behind him. His name tag was coming loose on its pin and the great red moose fans of his devil horns hung around his scrawny neck.
“I thought I was the last fool in the World. Weird to be inside the Leviathan so late, right? That air conditioner sounds like a fucking hurricane, bro! I’m freezing.”
On Monday, Kiwi got special permission to leave work early and get his medical certificate for the FAA licensing requirement. He’d thought about making the appointment with the Bigtrees’ family physician, Dr. Budz, a liver-spotted Ukrainian man who was sort of mentally spotty as well — who did not, for example, require that his patients have insurance or even legally viable surnames; who’d instructed the Bigtree tribe to call him Al in an accent thickened by his weird humor, and whose office was above a women’s gymnasium. You could hear the basketballs drumming as he stethoscoped your heartbeat. No one had seen Dr. Budz since the previous fall, when Hilola’s medical needs introduced them to a new class of death specialist.
Instead, Kiwi made the appointment through the World-contracted flight school with an AMA-accredited physician. The office was in the fanciest part of Loomis, where the buildings were identical pastels and weepy-eyed with windows; even their decorative plants had this sort of futuristic sheen that said, “I’m germless.”
Kiwi had to answer pages and pages of questions about himself. Nope to measles, never to mumps, scabies, diabetes. He’d had two weeklong bouts of weird dreaming and terrible chills when he was six that his mom referred to as “grasshopper fever,” but who knew how that illness translated into mainland etiology? Old crackers in the swamp used bear piss to cure chicken pox. One section of the form was called “Family History.” Well, for starters, my sixteen-year-old sister is crazy, she has aural and visual hallucinations … my youngest sister is an equestrian of Mesozoic lizards … my father wears a headdress … my grandfather bites men now …
The doctor’s office smelled like lemon disinfectant and even the big-shouldered leather furniture made him very nervous.
“Oh, Mr. Bigtree!” the receptionist called after him. “You forgot one. No, don’t get up, hon. I’ll fill it in for you. I just need your home address.”
“The World of Darkness” fell lightly from his lips, Kiwi noticed.
The private CFI the World of Darkness had hired to train him was an ex-army guy in his early sixties, Dennis Pelkis, or Denny, as he kept encouraging Kiwi to call him. “Relax, relax,” Denny would say, and then he’d proceed to regale Kiwi with some story about a former student who fell out of the sky. In every case these tragedies had occurred because the student pilot failed to obey the teachings of Dennis. He kept referring to “Denny’s ground rules” and “Denny’s philosophy on that issue,” with open arms and a tour operator’s smile, as if he were giving Kiwi a cultural orientation to the country of Denny. Dennis Pelkis had silvery chest hair and a satyr’s physique. He smiled at Kiwi in a sightless, professional way, a smile that faltered only slightly when Kiwi asked him, apropos of nothing, if he and Mrs. Pelkis had ever been to a place called Swamplandia! to see Hilola Bigtree wrestle alligators.
“I’m sorry?”
“Sorry,” Kiwi mumbled, which was the usual volley. “Thought you looked familiar …” Really, Kiwi had hoped that his face would look familiar to this Denny. On those rare occasions when Kiwi found a mainlander who knew about Swamplandia! even secondhand, he went after their memories like a magpie tugging at bright string. He’d strike up conversations with the Lost Souls in the Leviathan and engineer an opportunity to ask them, Say, have you ever visited Swamplandia!? A few days ago he’d met a couple from Sarasota, Florida, who began nodding immediately when he mentioned the Bigtrees.
“Oh, right, those alligator people,” the wife had laughed. “I remember that place. Swampy Land. That woman alligator wrestler, Don, what was her name, we used to pass her billboard on the way to your sister’s …?”
Hilola!