The Great Unknowable End Read online

“They’re starting!” shouts a suited man close to the town hall doors. “They’re starting, everyone!”

  The crowd surges, men and women pushing against me, straining toward the open doors that lead to the assembly room. I hang back, letting them flood past. I stand like a stone driven deep into the earth, my neck craned, eyes barely blinking, until the projection shifts again, and the twelve turns to an eleven. Only once the entire crowd has fit into the building do I follow, and even then I do what I have always done at these assemblies. I keep near the exit, alone and silent—here to observe.

  Our mayor, Grant Branum, is already standing at the podium on the raised stage before us, looking down on bodies packed tight into rows of puce-green folding chairs. He’s an older man—a retired banker—with a full head of white hair. I’ve seen him before at our county fair and Fourth of July parades, and I like him. He has a relaxed face, and his mouth naturally rests in a smile. Even now, as he addresses a clearly jittery audience, he’s smiling through his words.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for attending our monthly public forum. I’m well aware that we congregate today under somewhat alarming circumstances. These winds have been mighty strong, and it would seem some of Slater’s animals haven’t taken too kindly to the change. As to the projection of numbers above this very building—a countdown, some are calling it—let me assure you that, at this very moment, I have men attempting to locate their source. We will, as a community, find an explanation for what has occurred here, and I have no doubt we will grow into a closer community as a result.

  “Now.” Mayor Branum lifts a yellow notepad into view, scanning over its contents. “That being said, it’s never been town policy to let recent events overshadow our schedule of discussion. We have an agenda for this evening, and the first topic of discussion is whether or not the signage out on Herring Street should—”

  “Now, now!” A deep voice resounds in the hall, cutting into Mayor Branum’s words.

  Startled, the mayor lowers his notebook and frowns out at the audience.

  “Now, now!” the voice repeats, and every head in the room turns toward it.

  I knew who it was from the first. I would know that voice anywhere. It is John Barkley, the pastor of First Baptist—my old church. The man whose sermons I sat through every Sunday morning of my childhood.

  Pastor Barkley is standing in the third row from the front, arms raised high above his head. He is dressed in a pressed suit, and his pale neck is splotchy around the collar. “Now, begging your pardon, Grant, are we to leave it at that? The people here don’t want to know about signage on Herring Street. There is a spirit of distress in this congregation.”

  From the back, somewhere close to me, a man shouts, “Amen!” Many townspeople clap their agreement. Encouraged, Pastor Barkley goes on in his booming voice.

  “Far be it from me to disrespect my local authority, but I believe I speak for these people when I say the impetus of tonight’s conversation should be the portent of doom hanging over this town.”

  Mayor Branum is not smiling anymore; he looks annoyed by Pastor Barkley, and a little frightened, too. He clears his throat before saying, “I hardly think we should be throwing around words like ‘doom.’ ”

  “It’s the Second Coming!” shouts another voice, closer to the front. “It’s the Rapture!”

  There are loud murmurs around me as Mayor Branum waves his hands in a quieting gesture. “Please, please. As I was saying, John, I appreciate your concern for our town, but we have a set way of conducting—”

  “The people need answers!” Pastor Barkley interrupts, waving for the crowd not to quiet, but speak up. “My people, let me tell you where you’ll find them: in the Good Book. Not on your television screens or in fashionable new philosophy. And let me tell you: That is the reason the Lord is judging our town. Because we have turned our backs on him. We have abandoned him for our own selfish lifestyles. Just take the pagans on our very doorstep. How have we allowed ourselves to live comfortably side by side with the members of that so-called community? How do we sleep quietly in our beds when those God-haters live on in sin? And now the Lord has come to judge us for it. Heed his warning, my brothers and sisters. Could it be he has struck down your animals in order to save your souls? Do not be deceived: God is not mocked. We must not allow the wicked to flourish among us!”

  By now, the crowd has grown loud with chatter and shouts. Some people shake their heads, in disagreement with either Pastor Barkley’s method or his message. A good many seem to be nodding along, though. I shrink back farther against the wall.

  Mayor Branum, meantime, is pounding a gavel into the podium. It is only when Sheriff Allen joins him on the stage and shouts for quiet that people settle down. Then Mayor Branum speaks again, addressing the matter of a new speed limit to be posted on Herring Street. He is determined to adhere to his agenda, and I do not blame him. I suppose, in his eyes, it is the only way to maintain order—to give us some semblance of normalcy.

  The trouble is, the strong winds and odd animal behavior—even deaths—are not normal. Violet numbers appearing over town hall is not normal. Pastor Barkley sits down, and there are no more rogue shouts from the crowd, but that does not mean the people are at peace. I hear them whispering, conjecturing. I hear snatches of sentences: “aren’t good for the town” and “probably poisoned the water.” And when Mayor Branum asks if there are any questions on the Herring Street topic, the only person to raise her hand is an elderly woman, who asks, “What are the numbers counting toward?” The room fills with gentle laughter, but it’s nervous laughter too. We want to know the answer. I want an answer most of all, because that countdown is in my bedroom.

  I leave town hall before the meeting has adjourned, less satisfied than when I walked in. Further discussion of the strange events is shut down by Mayor Branum’s placating assurances that he and the town council are doing everything in their power to “look into it.” No one has answers, only blame to cast around. According to Pastor Barkley, it’s all to do with the sinful ways of Red Sun. It’s an absurd idea, but it’s appealing, too—in a very bad way. It is nice to have someone to blame. It feels good to pitch your dirt upon another person. I think, before he and I began to write, Craig was that for me.

  Even on my bike ride home, Pastor Barkley’s words stick on my skin, like cold and insidious leeches.

  • • •

  I take two Salisbury steak dinners out of the oven. Jill has already switched the television on to NBC Nightly News. She is in a pouty mood tonight, which she claims is owing to her friend Rachel Mayer being sick with a head cold and therefore unable to go to the park when, in Jill’s words, “No one gets head colds in August.”

  When I point out that Rachel cannot help that she’s on the wrong side of the slim odds of getting sick in summer, Jill explodes, “Well, where were you? You were a whole thirty minutes late!”

  I could shout back that I do not owe Jill anything save dinner, and I can stay out as long as I want. But something about the town meeting and those violet numbers has sapped away my will to fight. Jill notices this, I think, because she gets very quiet during the news—even the brief update on the search for Son of Sam. When the thirty-minute report is over and we take our emptied trays to the kitchen, Jill hangs back by the oven.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “What what?”

  This is usual. I press on. “What’s the look for?”

  “Nothing,” Jill says, and then I wait for it. Something always comes after the nothing.

  Only a few seconds later, as I am scrubbing my hands, she asks, “Are you mad at Dad?”

  It’s not what I expected. My mind is fogged with countdowns and angry townspeople. I haven’t thought of Dad or his news all day.

  “No, Jill. Why would you ask that?”

  “Seems normal to be mad. You remember Mom. I don’t. So.”

  “I’m not mad at him,” I say, and I am happy to find I’m being
honest. “I think this is good for him. I really do. I’m excited to meet her.”

  “Yeah,” says Jill. “I guess I am too.”

  I tug a strand of her thin hair. “Sorry you couldn’t go to the park today. Maybe I could take you instead. On Saturday, before the dinner?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  It is later, as I’m lacing up my sneakers for the Dreamlight and Jill is reading her Nancy Drew on the couch, that I finally work up the courage to ask it.

  “Jill.”

  “Huh.”

  “Have you noticed anything strange in your room?”

  Jill drops her book, spine tenting over her chest. “What?”

  “Anything strange? In your room. Maybe . . . maybe your closet.”

  “What the heck do you mean? Like mice or something?”

  “I . . . guess.”

  Jill has already answered my question, though. Now I wonder why I asked it. She would have already told me. If Jill had that same countdown on her closet door, I would be the first to know.

  “You’re weird,” Jill supplies after a few beats of quiet consideration. Then she says, “I’m getting more freckles.”

  “Well, that’s good.” I am absentminded, focused on my left shoestring.

  “No, it’s not. Freckles are ugly. Rachel told me she knows a cure, though. You have to take a bath in tomato juice.”

  “Is that right.”

  “Yeah. So can I?”

  “Can you what?”

  “Have a bath of tomato juice.”

  I frown at Jill, finally listening. “What?”

  “To get rid of my freckles!”

  “What? No, Jill. That would take cans and cans of soup. We’re not rich enough to waste food.”

  “But she—”

  “Anyway, Rachel’s misinformed. You can’t get rid of freckles.”

  Jill makes a face. “I’ll find a way.”

  At that, I smile. “If anyone could, it’d be you.”

  It’s true. Jill has a lot of growing up to do, but I admire both her persistence and her brashness—what she calls being a good sleuth. I think sometimes I could learn from my little sister. Perhaps I could do with some more persistence and brashness of my own.

  11

  Galliard

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3

  “Where are my greens?”

  “Up in one minute, Chef.”

  “Should be up now.”

  I take the reprimand with a bent, repentant head. It’s what you do in the kitchen: absorb the blame and do better. Before, my blame was a mere matter of poorly peeled onions or rogue seeds left on bell peppers. Now J. J. has put both Archer and me at the stoves, per our assignments. The new preassignments will take over my chopping and washing, and I’ll start to cook.

  Using tongs, I turn the green beans over in the skillet, coating them in the butter, vinegar, and garlic—all perfectly proportioned by J. J. in a recipe that’s made them the Moonglow’s most popular side item. During lunch and dinner hours, there’s always a steady stream of green-bean orders. And now it’s my job to cook them. It’s just so damn fun.

  I wish Archer were here. J. J.’s making big changes, and today’s the first time he’s put us on two entirely different shifts. I guess it makes sense, since two in-training cooks would be chaotic. Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed about it, though, because the Council spun this position like Archer and I would work side by side. No such luck. I take the grunt work that Lola—the experienced saucier—assigns me, and that’s that. No more cracking jokes with friends at work; I guess that’s what becoming a Red Sun adult is all about.

  Apparently, it’s also about private conversations with Rod. About becoming a leader. About training to be on the Council itself. I haven’t wrapped my head around that. All the stuff Rod said blindsided me so hard, my brain was a white blank afterward, and has been since. I was sure he was going to yell at me for smoking pot, only to be told he’s handpicked me as some kind of successor. That he’s going to train me to lead come September; that’s why I didn’t get resident artist.

  Thing is, I don’t buy Rod’s story. The Council already as good as said Phoenix’s art was more profitable than mine. That’s why they screwed me over. And up until now, I never once got the impression Rod thought I was the stuff leaders are made of. I didn’t think he liked me—noticed me, even. Then again, he has to mean what he said, at least a little. If he’s bringing me in to Council House, he’s got to mean something by it.

  I’ve never pictured myself on that Council. I’d have to be some delusional ass if I did. There have only been two Council appointments since Red Sun was founded—one when Leander died and one when an elderly founding member named Miriam stepped down for health reasons. I’ve had no reason to think that another appointment is coming anytime soon, but maybe it’s possible that Opal is thinking of taking it easy. Or . . . maybe Rod and Saff are thinking that Opal’s days are numbered; it’s a morbid thought, sure, but she is in her seventies.

  Even now that I know this whole Council thing is a possibility, I still don’t picture myself on a team with Rod and Saff. In fact, the thought makes me kind of nauseated, and shouldn’t that be a sign? I’ve only seen myself as one thing: a songwriter. The Council knows that. They know, because I wrote it down in the essay I submitted. Which means Rod knows. Which makes me think this has to be a consolation prize. Or something worse. After all, there’s no knowing when Opal’s going to pass. I could be waiting for more than a decade, and if that’s the case, Rod’s logic will hold every time I apply for a reassignment. I won’t get resident artist when I’m twenty-six, thirty-six, maybe even forty-six—all because I’m meant for something “better.”

  Smells like bullshit to me.

  There’s this, too: I can’t shake what Rod said when I left his office. About Crossing being for the weak. About how I was changed now. About “negative consequences.” It sounded like a threat. A threat against ever Crossing again. Maybe I’ve got it wrong, though. Maybe I really am a delusional ass.

  Heat rises from the pan, drawing beads of sweat from my forehead. The bath of butter and vinegar sizzles and slowly evaporates. Today’s shaping up to be a bad throat-tic day. The low, clearing sound punches its way out every couple of seconds. Somewhere else, I’d be self-conscious, worried someone’s bothered. It’s not that people are ever mean about it. I was only teased a few times by other kids growing up, and the last incident was addressed in a commune-wide gathering during which Opal emphasized how Red Sun had been established as an accepting place for every human. These days, I only get the occasional strange look from a Red Sun newcomer, and those soon vanish. At Red Sun, I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.

  I know my tics are annoying; I’m annoyed by them. It’s not like I can stop them, though, and even if I try—as I attempted so many times when I was younger—they’ll resurface with a vengeance. The tics are going to happen no matter what, but here in the kitchen, they aren’t as noticeable. They turn into white noise and peripheral movement, same as everything else. My fellow workers are used to the way I move, including my rare waving tic, and they make allowances accordingly, same as I adjust around the distinct ways they move. That’s one thing, at least, I like about the job.

  If I were to be a Council leader, though? That would mean the public spotlight. That would mean speeches and talking to people day in and day out. What part of that is appealing? Once again, I think of Rod’s words and get to feeling sick.

  “Beans up,” I shout, sliding the three requested portions onto their waiting dishes, then wiping the plate edges free of speckled oil. I pretended not to notice Mac, one of the waiters, leaning against the kitchen line, shooting eye daggers at me.

  “About damn time,” he says, loading up his arm with the dishes. He disappears behind the swinging door before I can respond. Not that I would. The kitchen is no place for apologies or for fights; J. J. taught me that early on.

  When I get back to my station, a tal
l brunette woman stands in my place, coating the sauté pan with a new round of olive oil. It’s Miracle, who’s a few years older and usually never shares a shift with me.

  “You’re early,” I say.

  Miracle laughs. “Hardly.”

  I look at the large clock that hangs over the sinks: 6:05. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t even five thirty.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh,” Miracle imitates, swatting my elbow. “Get out of here.”

  I can’t untie my apron fast enough. I throw it on its peg and run out the back door.

  It’s hot out, no more strong gusts of wind, no nudges at my back. Instead humidity licks over my skin. The smells of the kitchen linger out here, taunting Red Sun members with food meant only for outsiders and Wichita Eagle food critics. I’m allowed to take a supper plate to go, but tonight I don’t have much of an appetite. If I get hungry later, I’ll dip into the sack of granola I keep in my bottom desk drawer.

  Or maybe I’ll eat on the Outside.

  Maybe I’ll go out again with Archer. He’s off tonight too. And according to him—someone who can make sense of what the numbers on my dollar bills mean—I have an impressive allowance saved up. If I wanted, I could eat in style.

  Rod shouldn’t have talked to me. He shouldn’t have said that stuff about Crossing. Because now I want to do it more. If that makes me weak, then too bad: I’m weak. If there are negative consequences, then I’m ready for them. Rod acted like he knew me, but he doesn’t. The Council members, Ruby and J. J., every adult at Red Sun—they don’t know what’s in my head. Maybe my head is telling me to get out.

  “Galliard! Hey!”

  I haven’t taken ten steps when I hear the shout at my back. It’s none other than Mac, the Impatient Waiter, on the back stoop of the Moonglow. He’s waving to me as though I’m a distant ship.

  “What?” I shout back.

  Don’t tell me someone sent back the beans. That they were overcooked. That there was a hair. A roach leg. A toenail.

  “Oh, hey.” Mac looks like he didn’t expect to catch my attention. Now it’s my turn to be the impatient asshole.