Читать книгу Neon Green - Margaret Wappler - Страница 9

2

August 1994

Prairie Park was a two-mile slice of dream community: moderately affluent, educated, safe, and green. Prized for its quality schools where the kids buried time capsules preserving Bop magazine, Depeche Mode cassette tapes, the front page of the Chicago Tribune, and a clutch of Jolly Ranchers. This suburban grid, rich and pliant, with Montessori day care and weekly farmers’ markets, supported all the spoils of upper-middle-class American life. Between the petitions to keep Prairie Park free of nukes, dutifully signed before entering the library, and the el train shuttling workers in Reeboks they’d exchange for heels and oxfords once they hit the office, it was a thoughtful and efficient almost-utopia, connected to the city but with enough quaint neighborhood parks to pretend otherwise.

Ernest would never leave it—but he was often worried it would leave him. All of it—the people, the parks, the planet—ravaged in a lifetime or two. Standing right here in Aurora Park, a block away from his house, he could envision the time-lapse demise of Earth from millions of miles out. A dead spot would start on one continent and spread to the entire globe, like a lawn plagued by disease. Granted, on his fortieth birthday, stationed at one of the barbecue grills open to the public, there was plenty else to be panicked about—the images of genocide and war in Rwanda and Bosnia were gruesome and atrocious—but the planet, a temperate rock cradled in a gaseous film as moth-eaten as a vintage veil, was the most precarious and central of all causes. It was the planet, for god’s sake. Without it, what else?

There certainly wouldn’t be Andrés Escobar, Ernest thought ruefully, watching three kids playing keep-away with a soccer ball. The Colombian soccer player had been gunned down at a Medellín nightclub last month for the heinous crime of accidentally scoring a goal against his own team during a World Cup match. Chicago had hosted the World Cup in June for the first time ever, painting soccer balls all over the streets downtown, and Ernest, whose interest in sports was casual, to say the least, found himself swept up in the fever. Escobar’s murder stunned him—the kid was only twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven years old! It was 1994 and people were getting fatally shot in the back for sporting errors? The medieval violence galled him.

OK, breathe. It’s Saturday. It’s your birthday! Ernest tried to tap into the divine relaxation vibes his wife was always urging him to find. Not that she had the road map to them herself. Not that you could just strike the stream of peace and love whenever you wanted to. It was more spontaneous and lucky than that. “When grace goes by the window,” she’d say, “you have to grab it fast.” Ernest had to admit the day was doing its part to yield the right circumstances. Far away in the summer afternoon sky, Mercury glowed like a hunk of pyrite. Families, teenagers, and working people sunbathed and picnicked on the plush lawn of Aurora Park, relaxed, open, deliriously dazed by the heat.

But there was a problem. Behind him at the picnic table, his wife and their two teenage children waited for their lunch on the verge of riotous impatience. And the grill master upon whom they depended was distracted, big-time.

At a neighboring grill, another chef—a buff guy around his age—was sparing no fanciful gesture with his engorged bottle of lighter fluid, as if fire, the oldest thing ever, needed a haze of poly-whatever to nurture it into being. He doused his charcoal once, twice, three times, zigzagging at the end for a little extra flourish. Then he threw a match in and immediately flames leaped out of the stacked pyramid. His girlfriend or whoever—Ernest estimated she was a good fifteen years younger than him—clapped her hands together, which made a funny squashing noise because she was still holding her can of illicit beer.

“Ernest,” Cynthia said to her husband in a warning murmur. “Don’t.”

Ernest had a kind of environmental Tourette’s, where he was compelled to remark if something didn’t adhere to his principles. Cynthia and most people who knew him understood that he didn’t intend to offend anyone with his comments. He was just as likely to observe his own failings in the exact same tone of voice, beset with a grim acceptance of life’s inevitable compromises. For now, he pursed his lips in a grim line.

The fire at his own grill wasn’t going nearly as well. In fact, it wasn’t going at all. His son, Gabe, kept repeating, also in a low voice, “Just ask that guy for his lighter fluid, what’s the big deal?” but Ernest would never poison his charcoal (and their food) with additives. As a result, the light summer wind kept stalling his efforts at ignition. The twists of newspaper he set on fire blew out before the charcoals could catch, time after time after time.

Their neighbor had a surplus of fire, so much so that he was forced to step back for a moment as the flames roared up past his chest, threatening to take his eyebrows with them.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” the man announced smugly to his girlfriend, and pumped a fist in the air.

“You know,” Ernest called out indignantly. The man and his girlfriend looked over at them. Cynthia put her head in her hands. “You might want to consider skipping the lighter fluid next time. So many terrible chemicals, you probably don’t realize. You should let that fire burn off for a while before you throw your burgers on it so you don’t eat any of the residue.”

The girlfriend cocked an eyebrow and crossed her legs, anklet jingling. The man took a sip of his beer, and as his flexing biceps caught the sunlight, Ernest noticed then that he was muscular to the point of it being nearly a handicap. His arms did not lie smoothly against his torso; they stuck out at angles.

“I’m good,” the man said, before adding, “Hey, how long have you been trying to light that fire?”

“Forever,” Gabe piped in.

“This is how we do it,” Ernest insisted to no one in particular.

“It’s my dad’s birthday,” Alison tried explaining. “He’s stubborn but we love him.”

At fourteen years old, Alison was eighteen months younger than her brother and therefore more likely to cut her sarcasm with sweetness. The man grinned. “You’re so cute,” the girlfriend sang to Alison—though she was barely a woman herself—while her boyfriend started toward them, lighter fluid in hand.

“Tell you what: for your birthday, I can get this fire going for you in no time.”

They all laughed, except Ernest.

“No, no, thank you. I’ll taste it in everything. It’ll ruin my whole day, maybe my week.”

The man gave him some side-eye. “Seriously?”

“He’s impossible,” Gabe said. “This is what we live with.”

“You’re so nice to offer,” Cynthia finally spoke up. “Don’t worry about us.”

“Listen,” the man said, “I know you want to do it your way, but I’ll just leave this here, in case you change your mind.” He handed the lighter fluid directly to Gabe, who hissed, “Yesssss,” and clutched the prize to his chest.

As soon as the man returned to his camp, just barely out of earshot, Ernest leaned over to Gabe and scream-whispered, “You think that guy’s cool? Please.”

“Well, he can start a fire. That’s pretty cool.”

“He’s also drinking beer illegally in the park.”

“So are you!”

“It’s my birthday! And it’s in a red cup. Everyone knows to put it in a red cup. He’s being flagrant about it.”

Ernest went back to his collection of cold rocks. More determined than ever, he twisted fresh newspaper sections into potential screwdrivers of flame. For a second they burned with promise but then petered into ash, lighting not a single charcoal in their vicinity.

“Um, I’m shedding pounds waiting for this meal,” Alison said.

“Have some more baby carrots,” Cynthia said.

“Ew, no way,” Alison said, looking at her mother as if she were a festering boil.

“Fine,” Cynthia said, dragging the plate of limp sticks back over to her side of the table. The rest of what she wanted to say—“you don’t have to be such a little brat about it”—was already implied. She wanted to keep the peace, but Alison must’ve seen the look pass over her face.

“Sorry,” she halfheartedly offered. “But they always remind me of skinned fingers.”

Cynthia examined one and then popped it in her mouth. “Fingers taste good to me.”

The man and his girlfriend were now sitting down to their lunch of succulent Polish sausage slathered in mustard, relish, and hot peppers, accompanied by skewers of perfectly grilled vegetables. They pretended to chat, but Ernest felt the man’s eyes drift over, real casual-like but with a clear mission. The fire was still a no-show.

“Just one squirt,” the man said, sweeping one arm in the air, “and boom!”

This was all the encouragement Gabe needed to pop up with the bottle. He held it up high, as if he were slam-dunking, and squeezed—“Here we go,” he gleefully announced—but Ernest was fast and pushed him out of the way before any of the chemical splashed on the coals. But the victory was only temporary. Gabe moved in again, his bottle poised for re-attack. “What are you doing?” Ernest yelled. Cynthia cried out for them to “stop it right now!” But too late. In the melee, Gabe lost his grip on the bottle and it crashed to the ground. The plastic cracked and the smelly flammable bile gushed out onto the concrete. Their neighbors had stopped eating their sausages and could only stare in amazement at the disaster.

“See what you’ve done?” Ernest said.

Gabe scuttled to pick it up.

“Step back,” Ernest snapped. He approached the bottle with makeshift mitts on his hands, napkins he’d grabbed off the table. Like a surgeon working with a still-beating heart, he carried the bottle at just the right angle so it wouldn’t spill more and brought it to the trash. He laid it gingerly on the pile of soggy buns and crushed soda cans, making a mental note to eventually take it to recycling.

“I’ve got to mop this up,” he told the family, looking at the still-damp spot of concrete.

“What?” Alison said, crashing her face into her hands. “Oh my god, we will never eat.”

“Dad, are you out of your mind? It’s on the concrete.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can’t just leave a chemical spill like that.”

“Come on, Dad,” Gabe protested. “You make it sound like Exxon.”

“Gabe,” Cynthia said in a zip-it tone before exhaling with her eyes shut. To Ernest: “Clean it up how?”

“I’ll run back home and get some soap and mop it up.”

“The field house doesn’t have any soap?”

“Nothing natural,” Ernest said.

She put her hand to her forehead. “This is totally impractical.”

“I don’t understand why you’re mad about this.”

“Because we’re all starving, Ernest. Let it go, just this once.”

“It’ll take ten minutes. You can start the fire while I’m gone.”

Cynthia shook her head and closed her eyes. She drew in what Ernest recognized as a cleansing breath, deep and slow. When she looked back at him she appeared radiantly determined. “Be here with your family, Ernest. What about this day? It’s your birthday. Be here with us.” She lifted her hand into the air and grasped at something and slowly pulled it down with her palm closed. The air outside of himself, the divine stream. “The day is right here,” she said.

He took them in: Alison, rooting around in the baby carrots she’d formerly rejected; Gabe, glaring at the ground, ravenous and ordered to silence by his mother, the only parent he sort of listened to; his wife, her figure directed toward him as a block and an anchor, her palm still closed around the air she wanted him to breathe. He found her attractive when she was like this—focused, determined—even if she had let a little extra weight gather around her hips and arms, but his mind was made up. It was his birthday, after all, and this was who he was—a committed environmentalist. The very idea filled him with energy. His life was a fight. He was a fighter, no apologies and no breaks for inconvenience. Of course he knew that mopping up the spill would probably do nothing, that it was an infinitesimal smidgen in the grand scheme of things, but his fight was no less important when it was symbolic. Symbols added up to something.

“Ten minutes,” Ernest said, and gave her other hand a squeeze. He crossed the lawn of Aurora Park, where the high school girls rubbed in more tanning oil and talked in bubble script over their radios playing Whitney Houston, her supple voice reduced to a tinny stream. “No other woman is going to love you more,” Ernest sang along as he passed by without breaking his stride, purely for the girls’ entertainment and delighting in their laughter. At the bleachers, a homeless man sat and repacked his bags, preparing to take the el train back into the city. Three middle-aged women, scrunchies around their stubby ponytails and wearing shapeless dresses in summer fabrics, walked by, subtly checking him out. Everyone seemed like they were posing for some sort of community yearbook yet to exist.

By the time he returned with a bucket of sudsy water and a raggedy mop, most of the spill had evaporated, but still, he sloshed water on the dark stain left behind. Cynthia had gotten the fire going—suspiciously fast, Ernest thought, but he wasn’t about to question her methods. She hadn’t greeted him upon his return; only a weak smile played on her lips, pitying or almost mocking, he couldn’t tell. Sometimes it was easier for Cynthia and Ernest to move in silent, hostile arcs around each other, marking their dissatisfaction with only the distant orbit of their bodies. The kids didn’t acknowledge him either. They had picked off everything edible on the table and were now sullen. The man and his girlfriend had long since decided that totally ignoring this scene was the most merciful gesture. Ernest mopped until he felt reassured that he’d done as much as he could.

Later, he’d think about what Cynthia had said: “Be here with your family.”

He should’ve listened to her. A year later, none of this would exist in the same form: the park or his family. What he had built haphazardly and carefully, with equal parts love and mistakes, would be destroyed, and nothing as he knew it would be left.

Back at home, after the picnic where his kids and wife had roused an acceptable amount of obligatory birthday cheer to get through the meal, Ernest sat in the living room with Gabe, who tinkered with his latest obsession, the shortwave radio, which he’d carried down in a box from its usual perch upstairs in his bedroom.

The muggy early evening wasn’t exactly scotch weather, but Ernest stationed himself in his armchair and sipped at his generous pour all the same, determined to enjoy this expensive gift from Tom, his close friend and neighbor and an avatar of good taste. Usually Ernest drank beer, preferred it to all else, but he’d decided that he’d tell Tom the scotch was wonderful, despite the fact that it tasted like that lighter fluid if it hadn’t evaporated but rather boiled in the sun. He could still see the liquid gushing out of the bottle, the simultaneous evaporation and sinking in. A part of him wanted to dash to the park right now, to see if he could still find the stain—an idea he’d already run by Cynthia, who’d given him a sympathetic pat on the hand and then promptly disappeared into her home office—but he stayed put, sipping at his fire water.

He wanted time with Gabe, who was setting up the shortwave on the carpet. Gabe had promised earlier, before the fight, to give his dad a tour of the different stations for his birthday, to play him something he called “natural radio,” but Ernest could tell that Gabe was now halfhearted about the plan. He’d have to warm him back up.

“Was that the best birthday gift ever or what?” Ernest said, nodding toward the black box.

Gabe, not looking at him, said, “Yep.”

“We got you one that came very highly recommended.”

“I know, Dad, you told me all this two weeks ago,” Gabe said. “What do you think of my birthday gift to you?”

Ernest wiggled his toes in his brand-new pair of navy-blue New Balance sneakers. “Perfect,” he said.

“Don’t you ever get tired of the same shoes?”

“Why would I? They’re comfortable,” he said. Ernest considered himself an unfussy, easygoing man in dress, even though his commitment to such a look was actually quite fussy in practice.

Every morning he strapped on his digital calculator watch within five minutes of waking up, along with his jeans, dutifully replaced from the Land’s End catalog whenever the knees got too threadbare, and his braided belt that made a satisfying creak when he pushed the prong into the woven leather, in the same worn spot every day. Then he topped it off with an old T-shirt with cracked lettering celebrating something like 1983’s Earth Day, or a Lake Michigan beach cleanup, or a wildlife initiative like Save the Wolves, and an unbuttoned flannel. He finalized it with the New Balance sneakers (or brown boat shoes when he had to dress up).

“What if next year I get you a bright red pair? Would that blow your mind?” Gabe asked.

“I can’t live on the edge like that,” Ernest said.

Gabe laughed.

“So, how does this radio work?”

“The ionosphere—it’s a shell of electrons around the Earth, and the radio waves bounce off of it.”

“So who do you hear out there?”

“Everyone, everything,” Gabe said. “Anything can be radio. You could have electromagnetic waves hit a rock and that sound would be radio. And in a way, it’s going on all the time. I can shut this thing off right now, but all those voices are still there, carrying on without me.”

The scotch had warmed Ernest’s tongue; his thoughts flowed. “Did you know that in the 1800s people were scared of electricity coming into their houses because they thought ghosts might make their way through the wires?”

“Really? That’s crazy.”

“Maybe, but it’s hard to trust something you don’t totally understand. They had no idea what it meant for them except that it happened kind of overnight and it was totally life altering. How can that not be scary?”

Gabe shrugged. “I guess.” As he dialed through the stations, garbled voices and snatches of static emitted from the speakers.

“Those voices on the radio, people used to think that was their dead ancestors talking to them.”

Gabe shook his head. “I don’t want to hear anything from dead people.”

“Who do you want talking to you?”

“Pretty much anyone else, but wait, I have the perfect show for you, Dad.”

The shortwave radio blinked on the living room rug. Wiring from an antenna snaked over the fleur-de-lis pattern as Gabe twisted the dial, then stopped: a series of pops, whistles that bent in the air, and crumbly static.

“What is this?”

“This one guy plays ‘natural radio.’ Well, technically natural radio would be live from a special receiver, but it’s still pretty cool. He makes recordings of the Earth’s electromagnetic field all around the world and then he plays it, like, around the clock.”

After a particularly fiery crackle, a man’s voice cut in and announced, “That’s the sound of some massive coronal ejections.”

“Wow, this is amazing.” Ernest smiled. “Nice find.” It felt good to admire his son, and for a moment, he was there with him, in the moment, as Cynthia had urged him to be. Then he noticed Gabe tugging on his earlobe and plunging his finger into the canal.

“What’s the matter with your ear?”

“It’s ringing.”

“For how long?”

“Like, maybe five minutes straight this time.”

“You’ve been listening to the radio too loud.”

“It’s not like I’m listening to Slayer.” Gabe checked his watch. “Oh, it’s time!”

Frantically, he dialed in a station that crackled with static and a whining high pitch. After a few moments, a woman’s voice cut in and urgently recited, “Anna? Nikolai? Ivan? Tatyana? Roman?” She stopped after each name. After a longer pause during which the static snapped with more fury, she repeated her call: “Anna? Nikolai? Ivan? Tatyana? Roman?” The woman sounded concerned but also resigned to calling these names for every night of her life.

“Is that from Russia?” Ernest asked. “Can’t quite tell from the accent.”

Alison walked in. “Ooh, look, it’s Christian Slater. What’s going on in pirate radio land?”

“Not pirate,” Gabe corrected. “Shh, listen.”

Alison’s face fell as she heard the woman’s call. Gabe nodded.

“I wonder if she’s looking for her kids. Maybe they got separated?” Alison asked.

“Who knows?” Gabe said, then looked at his dad. “I discovered her a week ago, and every night around this time, she repeats those names.”

“That’s sad,” Alison said. “Is she all alone?”

“How would I know?”

“Let’s hear another station,” Alison said, taking a seat next to Gabe, but they didn’t change the dial. They listened to the sad woman repeat the string of names a few more times, until it became just a stream of syllables.