The Light Pirate(44)
The more Wanda interacts with these bodies of water, and by extension, the creatures living within, the stronger her sense grows that they are trying to communicate with her. She describes them to Phyllis as whispers, but it isn’t something she hears. Not exactly. Maybe it is more accurate to say that she feels them, but even that is not quite right. Phyllis encourages all of Wanda’s observations, no matter how strange or unscientific. Privately, she is skeptical. The human mind inevitably reaches for personification to soothe the shock of forces or creatures it doesn’t understand. This is all well and good for a child. But Phyllis is a scientist. She relies on the data.
That spring, Wanda and Phyllis stop at a tag sale on the way home from surveying a forest plot. Wanda’s never been to a tag sale before. Kirby calls them junk stores whenever they pass one and refuses to stop. On either side of the driveway, knickknacks are laid out on top of big blue tarps, the corners held down with rocks or chipped furniture. A middle-aged woman with inky dyed hair and skin too pale for Florida inspects a pile of china, picking up each plate and turning it over in her hands before she decides whether to buy. A man in a lawn chair smokes and reads a magazine, holding reign over the yard with a cash box at his feet, a baseball cap tipped back on his head.
“If you see something, just make an offer,” he calls out without looking up. Phyllis nods and begins perusing. Wanda slyly watches the man, sure she knows him. It’s Arjun—he came to her birthday party last year. The red plastic fireman’s hat he gave her is still on her dresser. She has faint memories of the softball tournaments he and Kirby used to put on every year, for the firemen, the linemen, the cops, and the EMTs. Arjun was the master of ceremonies at these gatherings, the center of everything, as if the games and the grilling and even the placement of the picnic tables radiated out from him in a burst of activity inspired by his presence. There hasn’t been one for years. Now—she looks at the array of broken treasures carefully arranged on the ground. This is a moving sale, an everything-must-go sort of affair. He is not an epicenter of people anymore, but of things. She hovers, picking up an old lamp with no shade, then putting it back down. Arjun finally raises his eyes and recognizes her, too. She remembers how much he used to smile; now he just looks tired, emptied of the charisma that used to overflow.
“You’re Kirby’s kid,” he says. “How’s your dad?”
“He’s okay.” The fire chief nods and lights a fresh cigarette with the one he’s still smoking. Takes a deep, sharp drag. “You’re going?” Wanda asks.
“I’m going,” he says.
“Where?”
He shrugs. “My sister lives in Montana. It’s supposed to be better up there. Anyway, have a look around. Whatever you want, just go on and grab it, okay? Call it a birthday present. I won’t be here for your next one.”
“Okay.” Wanda feels sad that Arjun is leaving. He has always been kind to her. She sees Phyllis inspecting old books in the garage and she moves to join in, but something stops her. A glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, except there’s nothing there. Arjun has lost interest in her. Phyllis is preoccupied. But there it is again, another flicker—whether it’s a thing she sees or hears or feels is hard to determine. It wants her to follow—she understands this much at least—and so she does. Past a card table laid out with empty picture frames and old bedsheets and a milk crate full of records, past a bicycle with a worn seat, past a little wagon piled with stuffed animals, to the narrow space between the house and the garage. For a moment, she thinks she’s mistaken. There’s nothing here but weeds and rusty garden tools and—ah. She immediately knows it’s meant for her.
It’s only an old canoe, tucked back behind the lawnmower—an algae-crusted, mud-smeared vessel with two bench seats and what looks like gator teeth marks on the hull. A torn life preserver lies in the bottom, its orange reflective tape shining, and one long, double-ended paddle is stashed under the seats. There’s nothing special about it. Only this feeling, this whisper, that she will need it.
Chapter 42
When three weeks have gone by since he started calling his supervisor to file the crew’s overtime requests and he still hasn’t been able to get anyone at city hall on the phone, Kirby resolves to go in person. He leaves Lucas and Brenda at the job site after lunch and heads over. Pulling into the parking lot, he can already feel that something is wrong. It’s nearly empty. The flagpole is bare. The lawn is overgrown, sprouting wildflowers. The windows are dark. The fears that he told himself were premature are beginning to seem entirely plausible. Inside, the hallways are dim shadowy stretches and the offices are all empty. When he gets to the city planning bullpen and finds a lone employee flicking through a box of files, he feels as though he’s come upon a ghost. Kirby pauses in the open doorway, reassuring himself that this is just an ordinary man, in a regular building, doing his job. He raps his knuckles against the pane of frosted glass.
The man yelps and puts a hand on his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry,” Kirby says, but he isn’t. He’s relieved there’s someone else to confirm how eerie this building has become. They look at each other. The man is middle-aged, with a hairline creeping back toward the tops of his ears. A deep pink flush of rosacea spreads across his cheeks. Kirby tries to remember if he’s ever met this man before, but nothing about him seems familiar. “Are you…Do you work with Declan?”