Burn (Pure #3)(5)

Partridge isn’t surprised when Foresteed walks into the room. He’s been the face of the Dome’s leadership for some time, and he attends most of these services. Partridge’s father had used him as a figurehead ever since the start of his deterioration, and surely Foresteed expected to step in as Willux’s replacement upon his death. Naturally, he’s not fond of Partridge.

Foresteed isn’t alone. He’s flanked by Purdy and Hoppes, who work for him. They all say their hellos and sit across from Partridge at the mahogany table. Partridge is wearing one of his black funeral suits. He has seven of them now—one for each day of the week.

“I thought we’d take a minute to talk,” Foresteed says.

“Well, I’d like to know how many more memorial services there are going to be,” Partridge says. It’s like being on tour with his father’s urn—a grief tour. The worst part is sitting through the eulogies. Some of the speakers talk about what his father saved them all from—the wretches, those vile blights on humanity, soulless, no longer human. He’s had to tell himself that he can turn them around—when the time comes. He’s said to Lyda, “When they meet a wretch, like Pressia, everything will change.” But the whole thing makes him sick and anxious.

Foresteed cocks his head and says, “This too much for you? I mean, dealing with your personal grief on top of all this adoration? You sure you can handle it?”

Foresteed is a layered conversationalist—Partridge will give him that. Is he being sarcastic about Partridge’s personal grief? Is he hinting that Partridge isn’t grieving enough? Does he suspect that Partridge killed his father? Or is Foresteed simply calling Partridge weak? “I just want to get to the work at hand,” Partridge says, “the work my father wanted me to do.” Partridge puts his chin to his chest and scratches his forehead, hiding his eyes for a moment because they’ve gone teary. Fact is, he killed his father, yes, and he doesn’t regret it, but he misses his father too. This is the sick part. He loved him. A son’s allowed to love his father no matter what, isn’t he? Partridge hates how the emotions come upon him so fast—guilt, fear of being exposed, sadness.

Purdy checks a planner on his handheld.

For someone who lives in the Dome, Foresteed is very tan. His teeth are so shiny they look polished. His hair is stiff as if it’s been misted with hair spray. He says, “The people are still in need of public mourning.”

“How about some private mourning?” Partridge says. “Culturally speaking, I think we’re pretty good at bottling our emotions.”

“Your father wanted a public mourning period,” Foresteed says. Sometimes Partridge thinks Foresteed might have hated his father. Always the second in line, he had to be jealous of the power.

“But this service is different,” Purdy says.

“How?”

“I mentioned it in my last report,” Foresteed says. He gives Partridge reports all the time—fat stacks of papers filled with bureaucratic policy updates written in dense, senseless language (“Heretofore the forewith will be presumed to forbear and withstand the aforementioned duties…”). He can’t stand reading them.

“Ah, right,” Partridge says. “I must have missed that part. Can someone fill me in?”

Purdy looks at Foresteed. “We’ve got all the dignitaries and socialites coming in this time,” Foresteed says. “It’s closed to the public. We’ll be broadcasting it, however. Live streaming. We want this one to have the feel of magnitude. The moment when the people truly recognize the leaders of tomorrow, moving into this new phase.”

Partridge sits back and sighs. He’ll recognize these people from political functions, parties, those who live in the apartment building where he grew up, the parents of his friends from the academy. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to sit next to Iralene this time. Don’t get me wrong. I like Iralene. I respect her. But they’ve got to get used to the idea that we’re not going to get married. Every time they see me with her, it’s going to be harder to explain that I’m with Lyda.” On Christmas Eve, Partridge and Lyda kissed a little. He put his hand on the soft skin of her stomach where the baby is just starting to grow. “I’m going to be a father. Lyda and I are going to get married. We have to introduce this idea and undo my father’s lies.”

Hoppes shakes his head and his fatty jowls wag. He’s taken over managing Partridge’s image. “We’re working on a story that will set this all right. We’ve got a plan. But it’s just too soon. My staff is working diligently. Trust me.”

“How about the truth?” Partridge feels a surge of heat run through him. Lies were how his father operated. He told the people fairy tales so they could sleep at night—tales of a world divided into Pures and wretches. “How about the goddamn truth for once?”

Foresteed sets his fists on the table and stands up, leaning over Partridge. “The truth is that you knocked someone up and you’re engaged to someone else. Your concubine’s set up in a nice place to keep her quiet—like father, like son.”

“I’m not anything like my father.” Partridge stares at Foresteed, waiting for him to back down but Foresteed doesn’t. He glares at Partridge as if he’s begging him to take a swing.

Purdy breaks the silence. Scratching the back of his head, he says, “I just don’t get why you wouldn’t be interested in a girl like Iralene. She was made for you.”