It was raining heavily back in the city when he stepped off the train.
He pulled his coat tightly around him, squinting up at the metal-gray sky.
Calliope hissed as water began to drip through the slats on the top of her crate.
He picked up his suitcase and walked toward the bus stop.
 |
The bus was late.
Of course it was.
He took off his coat and put it on top of Calliope’s crate. It did the job. For now.
He sneezed.
He hoped he wasn’t getting sick. That would be just his luck, wouldn’t
it?
|
Twenty minutes later, the bus came, tires sluicing water.
The doors slid open.
Linus was soaked as he stepped onto the bus. “Hello,” he said to the driver.
The driver grunted in response as Linus struggled to swipe his pass.
The bus was mostly empty. There was a man in the back, head pressed against the window, and a woman who eyed Linus suspiciously.
He took a seat away from them.
“Almost home,” he whispered to Calliope. She didn’t respond.
He looked out the window as the bus pulled away from the train station. A sign next to the train station caught his eye.
On it, a family was at a picnic in the park. The sun was shining. They sat on a checkered blanket, and the wicker basket sitting between them was open and overflowing with cheeses and grapes and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The mother was laughing. The father was smiling. The boy and the girl were staring adoringly up at their parents.
Above them, the sign read: KEEP YOUR FAMILY SAFE! SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!
Linus looked away.
|
He had to change buses once, and by the time he stepped off the second bus it was almost five in the afternoon. The wind had picked up, and it was cold and miserable. He was three blocks from home. He expected to feel relief at this moment.
He didn’t. Not really.
He huffed as he lifted the crate and suitcase. He was almost there.
|
His street was quiet as he turned onto it.
The streetlights were lit, beads of water clinging against the panes of glass.
86 Hermes Way was dark. Oh, the brick pathway to the house was the same, and the lawn was the same, but it still felt … dark. It took him a moment to realize what little splash of color there’d once been—his sunflowers—was gone.
He stared at the front of his house for a moment. He shook his head.
He’d worry about it tomorrow.
He walked up the path and reached the porch. He set down his suitcase as he fumbled for his keys. They fell to the floor, and he grumbled as he bent over to pick them up.
Through the rain, he heard, “That you, Mr. Baker?”
He sighed as he stood upright. “It is, Mrs. Klapper. I have returned.
How are you?”
“Your flowers died. Drowned, if you can believe that. I had a boy come pull them. They were rotting. Hurts the resale value of a neighborhood when a house looks so rundown. I have the receipt for what I paid the boy. I expect to be reimbursed.”
“Of course, Mrs. Klapper. Thank you.”
She wore the same terry cloth robe and was smoking out of the same pipe. Her hair was in the same bouffant. It was all the same. Every little piece of it.
He started to put the key in the lock when she spoke again. “You back for good?”
Linus felt like screaming. “Yes, Mrs. Klapper.”
She squinted at him from across the way. “You look as if you’ve gotten some sun. You don’t seem as pale as you once did. Lost some weight too. Quite a vacation you had.”
His clothes were a little looser on him than they’d once been, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself not caring about that at all. “It wasn’t a vacation. I told you I left for work.”
“Uh-huh. So you said. Though, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with snapping at the office, threatening to murder everyone, and then getting sent away to a rehab facility.”
“That’s not what happened!”
She waved a hand at him. “None of my business if it was. Though, you should know it’s already the talk of the neighborhood.” She frowned at him. “Hurts the resale value.”
He gripped the doorknob tightly. “Are you planning on selling your home?”
She blinked at him as smoke curled around her craggy face. “No. Of course not. Where would I go?”
“Then why on God’s green earth do you care about the damn resale value?”
She stared at him.
He glared back at her.
She took a puff on her pipe. “I got your mail. Most of it was ads. You don’t seem to get much personal mail. I used the coupons. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll get it tomorrow.”
He was sure that was the end of it, but of course she continued on. “You should know you missed your opportunity! My grandson met a nice man while you were gone. He’s a pediatrician. I expect there to be a spring wedding. It will be in a church, of course, because they are both godly men.”
“Good for them.”
She nodded as she stuck the stem of her pipe back between her teeth. “Welcome home, Mr. Baker. Keep that filthy animal out of my yard. The squirrels have known a month of peace. I’d like to keep it that way.”
He didn’t bother saying goodbye. It was rude, but he was tired. He went inside the house and slammed the door behind him for good measure.
|
It was stale inside his house, the smell of a home that hadn’t been lived in for a while thick in the air. He set down his suitcase and the crate before switching on the light.
It was the same. Perhaps a bit dusty.
There was his chair. His Victrola. His books. It was all the same.
He bent down and opened the gate for Calliope.
She shot out, tail standing straight up behind her. She was damp and didn’t appear to be amused. She disappeared down the hall to the laundry room where her litter box was.
“It’s good to be home,” he whispered.
He wondered how many times he would need to say that before he believed it.
|
He set his suitcase at the foot of the bed.
He changed out of his wet clothes. He donned his spare pajamas.
He fed Calliope.
He tried to eat himself, but he wasn’t very hungry. He sat in his chair.
He got up from his chair.
“Some music,” he decided. “Perhaps I should listen to some music.” He selected Ol’ Blue Eyes. Frank always made him happy.
He slid the record from the sleeve and lifted the lid to the Victrola. He set the record on the spinner. He switched the player on, and the speakers crackled. He lowered the arm and closed his eyes.
But what came from the Victrola wasn’t Frank Sinatra. He must have switched up the sleeves before he left.
Trumpets flared brightly.
A sweet masculine voice began to sing.
Bobby Darin, grooving about somewhere beyond the sea.
He remembered the way Lucy had bounced in the kitchen, bellowing the words at the top of his lungs.
He put his face in his hands.
As Bobby sang, Linus’s shoulders shook.
|
He went to bed.
The blankets and pillow were slightly musty, but he was too tired to worry about that now.
He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Eventually, he slept.
He dreamed of an island in the ocean.
|
On Sunday, he cleaned. He opened the windows to air out the house, even though it was raining. He scrubbed the floors. He wiped the walls. He
washed the counters. He changed the sheets on the bed. He took a toothbrush to the grout on the tile in the bathroom. He swept. He mopped.
His back was aching by the time he finished. It was early afternoon, and he thought about lunch, but his stomach was a lead weight.
Laundry. He needed to do laundry.
And he still needed to complete his final report.
He went to the suitcase at the end of the bed. He lay it on its side and unlatched the buckles. He lifted the lid and froze.
There. On the top of his folded clothes, on top of files, on top of RULES AND REGULATIONS, was a brown envelope.
He hadn’t put it in there.
At least he didn’t think he had.
He lifted the envelope. It felt stiff in his hands.
On the top were two words, written in black, blocky letters: DON’T FORGET.
He slid the envelope open. Inside was a photograph.
His eyes stung as he looked down at it.
Zoe must have taken the picture. He didn’t even remember seeing her with a camera. It was the first adventure they’d taken through the woods to her house. In it, Lucy and Talia were laughing. Sal sat with Theodore in his lap. Chauncey and Phee were wrestling over the last roll. Arthur and Linus sat together. Linus was watching the children with amusement.
And Arthur was watching Linus, that quiet smile on his face.
It was grief, then, that Linus felt in his little house on Hermes Way. Grief bright and glassy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He was but paper, brittle and thin, and he clutched the photograph to his chest, hugging it close.
|
Later, much later, he sat in his chair, the final report in his lap. It still only had one sentence written on it after the introduction.
He thought it was enough. He set it aside.
He listened to the Big Bopper bopping along. He drifted, eventually, and disappeared onto an ocean, the waves lapping beneath him, and it felt like home.
Outside, the rain fell steadily.
|
His alarm went off bright and early Monday morning.
He got up.
He fed the cat.
He took a shower.
He dressed in a suit and tie. He picked up his briefcase. He remembered his umbrella.
|
The bus was full. There was barely room to stand, much less to sit.
People didn’t look up at him except to scowl when he accidentally bumped into them. They returned to their newspapers as he apologized.
|
No one greeted him as he walked into DICOMY.
He walked through the desks, and no one said, “Welcome back, Linus.
We missed you.”
There were no streamers on Row L, Desk Seven. No balloons. No paper lanterns.
He sat down, setting his briefcase beside him.
Mr. Tremblay glanced over at him from Row L, Desk Six. “I thought you’d been sacked.”
“No,” Linus said as evenly as he could. “I was on assignment.”
Mr. Tremblay frowned. “Are you sure? I could have sworn that you’d been sacked.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh!” He looked relieved, and Linus started to feel a bit better. Maybe he’d been missed after all. “That means you can have all your cases back.
Thank God. I didn’t have time for them in the slightest, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll dig them up for you first thing.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Linus said tightly. “I know, Mr. Barkly.”
He said, “It’s Mr. Baker, you git. Don’t make me correct you again.” Mr. Tremblay gaped at him.
He opened his briefcase. He lifted out the files he’d been given and his final report. He hesitated before taking out the only thing that remained.
He set the framed photograph on the desk near the computer.
“What is that?” Mr. Tremblay asked, craning his neck. “Is that a
personal thing? You know you can’t have that!”
“Maybe you should consider minding your own business for once,” Linus snapped without looking at him.
“On your head, then,” Mr. Tremblay muttered. “See if I’m ever nice to you again.”
Linus ignored him. He straightened out the photograph until he had it just right.
He turned on his computer and got to work.
|
“Mr. Baker!”
He groaned to himself. Today had been going … Well, it’d been going. He didn’t look up as he heard the sounds of heels clicking against the floor, getting closer and closer.
A shadow fell on his desk.
The typing around him stopped as his coworkers listened in. It was probably the most exciting thing that had happened in the last month.
Ms. Jenkins stood above him, the same dour expression on her face. Gunther, of course, stood slightly behind her, his clipboard ever present. He smiled sickly sweet down at Linus.
“Hello, Ms. Jenkins,” Linus said dutifully. “It’s nice to see you.” “Yes, I expect it is,” she said with a sniff. “You’ve returned.” “Your observational skills remain unparalleled.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”
He coughed and cleared his throat. “I said, yes, I have returned.” “From your assignment.”
“Yes.”
“Your secret assignment.” “I suppose.”
The skin under her left eye twitched. “Just because Extremely Upper Management did us all a favor and got rid of you for a month doesn’t mean things have changed around here.”
“I can see that.”
“I expect you to be caught up with all of your work by the end of the week.”
Impossible, of course, but she knew that. “Yes, Ms. Jenkins.” “Your caseload will be returned to you by lunchtime.”
“Yes, Ms. Jenkins.”
She leaned forward, putting her hands flat on his desk. Her nails were painted black. “Gunning for a promotion, are you? Think you have what it takes to be a Supervisor?”
He laughed. He didn’t mean to, but he did. Ms. Jenkins looked scandalized.
Gunther’s smile fell from his face. He looked shocked.
“No,” Linus managed to say. “I’m not trying for a promotion. I don’t think I’m quite cut out for Supervision.”
“For once we agree,” Ms. Jenkins said nastily. “I couldn’t think of anyone more ill-suited than you. You are lucky you still have a desk to return to. If I had my way, you would … have … had … Mr. Baker! What is that?”
She pointed a black fingernail at the photograph. “It’s mine,” he said. “It’s mine, and I like it.”
“It is prohibited,” she said shrilly. “Per RULES AND REGULATIONS, caseworkers are not allowed personal effects unless sanctioned by Supervision!”
Linus looked up at her. “Then sanction it.”
She took a step back, hand going to her throat. Gunther scribbled furiously onto his clipboard.
“What did you say?” she asked dangerously. “Sanction it,” Linus repeated.
“I will not. This will go into your permanent file! How dare you speak to me this— Gunther! Demerits! Demerits for Mr. Baker!”
Gunther’s smile returned. “Of course. How many?” “Five! No, ten. Ten demerits!”
The caseworkers around them began to whisper fervently.
“Ten demerits,” Gunther said, sounding rather gleeful. “Yes. So wise, Ms. Jenkins. So knowing.”
“That … that thing will be gone by the end of the day,” Ms. Jenkins said. “Mark my words, Mr. Baker. If it’s not, I will see to it you don’t have a job to return to.”
Linus said nothing.
That didn’t sit well with her. “Do you understand me?” “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Ms. Jenkins.”
She sniffed again. “That’s better. Insolence will not be tolerated. I know you’ve been … wherever for the last month, but the rules have not changed. You would do well to remember that.”
“Of course, Ms. Jenkins. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Her words seemed to drip poison when she said, “Yes. There is. You have been summoned. By Extremely Upper Management. Again. Tomorrow. Eight o’clock on the dot. Do not be late. Or do, and save me the trouble.”
She whirled around. “What are you all staring at? Get back to work!” The caseworkers began to type immediately.
Ms. Jenkins glared at Linus over her shoulder once more before stalking away, Gunther trailing after her.
“I wonder who my new desk neighbor will be?” Mr. Tremblay asked. Linus ignored him.
He stared down at the photograph.
Right below it was a mouse pad with a faded picture of a white sandy beach and the bluest ocean in all the world.
It said, of course, DON’T YOU WISH YOU WERE HERE?
|
By lunchtime, files had been piled on his desk. Dozens of them. He opened the top one. The last notes were his own. They hadn’t been touched in the last month. He sighed and closed it.
|
The office was empty by the time he left, a little before nine that night. He put the photograph in his briefcase and headed for home.
|
It was raining.
The bus was late.
|
On his porch sat a plastic bag filled with his mail. It was all bills. There was a note on the top. It was a receipt from Mrs. Klapper seeking reimbursement for gutting his flower bed.
|
He took the photograph out of his suitcase and set it on the nightstand next to his bed.
He watched it until he fell asleep.
|
At a quarter till eight the next morning, Linus pressed the gold number five in the elevator.
Everyone inside the car stared at him. He stared back.
They looked away first.
The elevator slowly emptied until he was the only one left.
EXTREMELY UPPER MANAGEMENT BY APPOINTMENT ONLY
He pressed the button next to the metal grate. It slid open, rattling on its tracks.
Ms. Bubblegum blew a pink bubble. It popped prettily as she sucked it back in between her teeth. “Help you?”
“I have an appointment.” “With who?”
She had to know. “Extremely Upper Management. I’m Linus Baker.” She squinted at him. “I remember you.”
“O-kay?”
“I thought you died or something.” “No. Not yet.”
She tapped a couple of keys on her computer before looking back at him. “Do you have the final report?”
He opened his briefcase. Inside, his fingers brushed against the frame of a photograph before he found what he was looking for. He pulled the folder out and slid it underneath the glass.
She frowned as she picked it up. “This is it?” “It is.”
“Hold one moment.”
The metal grate slammed back down. “You can do this, old boy,” he whispered.
|
It took longer this time for Ms. Bubblegum to return. So long, in fact, that Linus was sure he’d been forgotten about. He wondered if he should leave, but couldn’t figure out how to make his feet move. They seemed rooted in place.
Minutes went by. At least twenty of them.
He was about to give in to temptation and peek inside his briefcase at the photograph when the metal gate rattled open.
Ms. Bubblegum was frowning. “They’re ready to see you now.” Linus nodded.
“They’re … not happy.”
“No, I don’t expect they would be.”
She blew a bubble. It popped loudly. “You’re a strange, strange man.” A buzzer sounded, and the wooden doors opened.
|
Ms. Bubblegum didn’t speak as she led him past the fountain toward the black door with the gold plate on it. She opened it and stepped aside.
He didn’t look at her as he walked through the door. It shut behind him. The lights lit up on the floor, showing him the way. He followed them until they spread into a circle. There was a podium in the center of the circle. On it sat his report. He swallowed thickly.
Lights burst to life above him.
And there, staring down from atop the stone wall, was Extremely Upper Management.
The woman. Jowls. The bespectacled man. And Charles Werner.
“Mr. Baker,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “Welcome back.” “Thank you,” Linus said, shifting nervously.
“Your reports have been … well. They’ve been quite the topic of conversation.”
“Have they?”
Jowls coughed wetly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You know how I feel about euphemisms,” the bespectacled man said with a frown.
“Mr. Baker,” the woman said. “Is what you see before you the final report?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
She sat back in her chair. “Baffling. I find it to be lacking, compared to your other reports. Very lacking, indeed.”
“I believe I got straight to the point,” Linus countered. “Which is, after all, what you asked of me. I made my recommendation after a month of observation. Isn’t that why I’m here?”
“Careful, Mr. Baker,” Jowls said, squinting down at him. “I don’t like your tone.”
Linus bit back a retort, something even a couple of weeks ago he would never have had to do. “My apologies. I simply—I believe I’ve done what was required of me.”
Charles leaned forward. “Why don’t you read it for us? Perhaps hearing it spoken aloud will impress upon us any meaning lost in translation.”
Fine. He would play their games. He’d done it for years, ever the obedient employee. He opened the folder and looked down. “I solemnly swear the contents of this report are accurate and—”
“We know that, Mr. Baker,” the bespectacled man said rather impatiently. “All the reports start the same. It never changes for anyone. It’s the next part we’re most interested in.”
He looked up at them. “You know what it says.” Charles grinned at him. “Read it, Mr. Baker.”
Linus did. “It is my recommendation that the Marsyas Orphanage remain open, and that the children therein continue under the tutelage of Arthur Parnassus.”
That was it. That was all he’d written. He closed the folder.
“Hmm,” Charles said. “I didn’t get anything new from that. Anyone else have further insights?”
Jowls shook his head.
The bespectacled man sat back in his chair. The woman folded her hands in front of her.
“I thought not,” Charles said. “Mr. Baker, perhaps you could expound.
What is it that brought you to this conclusion?”
“My observation of the children and the way they interacted with each other and Arthur Parnassus.”
“Vague,” Jowls said. “I demand more.”
“Why?” Linus asked. “What is it you’re looking for?”
“We aren’t here to answer your questions, Mr. Baker,” the woman said sharply. “You are here to answer ours. Do not forget your—”
“My place?” Linus shook his head. “How can I, when I’m reminded of it constantly? I have done this job for seventeen years. I have never asked for more. I have never wished for more. I have done everything that has been asked of me without complaint. And here I stand before you, and you are demanding more from me. What more could I possibly have to give?”
“The truth,” the bespectacled man said. “The truth about what you—”
He slammed his hands on the podium. The sound was sharp and flat as it echoed through the room. “I have given you the truth. In each of my weekly reports, you’ve read nothing but the truth. With every assignment I’ve been sent on, I’ve only ever been honest, even if it hurt me to do so.”
“Objectivity,” Jowls said. “As written in the RULES AND REGULATIONS, a caseworker must be object—”
“I know that. And I have been. I remember them. All of them. All of their names. The hundreds of them that I’ve observed. And I’ve maintained my distance. I’ve put up that wall. Can you say the same? What are the names of the children on the island? Without looking down at whatever notes you have, what are their names?”
Jowls coughed. “This is ridiculous. Of course we know their names.
There’s the Antichrist child—”
“Don’t call him that,” Linus growled. “That’s not who he is.”
Charles had a smug grin on his face. “It’s Lucy. A rather ridiculous nickname for what he is.”
“And?” Linus asked. “The other five?” Silence.
“Talia,” Linus spat. “A gnome who loves to garden. She is fierce and funny and brave. She is prickly, but once you get past it, there is a loyalty underneath that will take your breath away. And after all that she has been through, after all that was taken from her, she still finds joy in the smallest of things.”
The woman said, “Mr. Baker, you should—”
“Phee! The forest sprite. She acts tough and distant, but all she ever wanted was a home. She was found in squalor because her kind had been sectioned off without aid. Did you know that? Did you even read her report? Because I did. Her mother starved to death in front of her. And Phee
herself nearly died, and yet when men came to the camp to try and take her from her mother’s body, she managed to turn them into trees with the last of her strength. The forests on the island are thick because of her, and she would do anything to protect those she loves. She taught me about roots, and how they can be hidden away, waiting for the right moment to burst through the earth and change the landscape.”
Extremely Upper Management remained silent as Linus began to pace. “Theodore! A wyvern, one of the few that remain. Did you know he can
talk? Do any of you know that? Because I didn’t. I’d never been told. None of us had. But he can. Oh, he doesn’t speak in English, but he talks just the same. And if you listen long enough, if you give him the time, you will begin to understand him. He is not an animal. He is not a predator. He has complex thoughts and feelings and buttons. So many buttons!” Linus reached down to his coat pocket and felt the brass button inside, indented from sharp teeth.
“Chauncey! A … well, no one knows what he is, but it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter because he might be more human than any of us. He’s been told his whole life that he is a monster. That he is the thing that hides under beds. That he is a nightmare. That can’t be further from the truth. He is a curious little boy who has a dream. And my God, how simple it is. How breathtakingly lovely. He wants to be a bellhop. He wants to work at a hotel and greet people and carry their luggage. That is it. But would any of you allow it? Would any of you give him the opportunity?”
They didn’t respond.
“Sal,” Linus growled. “Abused and neglected. Shuffled around without a care for his well-being because of what he is capable of. He bit a woman, yes, and turned her, but she hit him. She struck a child. If you raise your hand enough, they will cower. But every now and then, they will strike back because that’s all they have left. He is shy. And quiet. And worries about everyone more than he worries about himself. And he writes. Oh Lord, he writes the most beautiful words. They are poetry. They are a symphony. They moved me more than anything else I’ve ever heard.”
“And what of the Anti—what of the last child?” the woman asked quietly.
“Lucy,” Linus said. “His name is Lucy. And he has spiders in his brain. He dreams of death and fire and destruction, and it tears at him. But do you know what I found? I found a boy, a six-year-old boy who loves going on adventures. Who has the wildest imagination. He dances. He sings. He lives for music, and it moves through him like the blood in his veins.”
“Regardless of whether or not you like to hear it,” Jowls said, “he is still what he is. That can never change.”
“It can’t?” Linus retorted. “I refuse to believe that. We are who we are not because of our birthright, but because of what we choose to do in this life. It cannot be boiled down to black and white. Not when there is so much in between. You cannot say something is moral or immoral without understanding the nuances behind it.”
“He’s immoral,” the bespectacled man said. “Maybe he never asked for it, but it is what he is. His lineage demands it. There is a wickedness in him. That is the very definition of immorality.”
“And who are you to decide that?” Linus asked through gritted teeth. “Who are you? You’ve never met him. Morality is relative. Just because you find something abhorrent, doesn’t mean it actually is.”
The woman frowned. “Many things are widely accepted as abhorrent. What was it you said he dreams of? Death and fire and destruction? If I recall from your last report, his nightmares were capable of manifesting themselves. Someone could have been hurt.”
“They could have,” Linus agreed. “But they weren’t. And it wasn’t because he wanted to hurt anyone. He’s a child who came from darkness. That doesn’t have to be who he becomes. And it won’t be. Not with who he has around him.”
“Would you leave the other children with him?” Jowls asked. “In a locked room with no supervision.”
“Yes,” Linus said immediately. “Without hesitation. I would stay in a locked room with him. Because I trust him. Because I know that no matter where he came from, he is more than a title you’ve given him.”
“And what happens when he grows up?” Charles asked. “What happens when he becomes a man? What if he decides this world isn’t what he wants it to be? You know who his father is.”
“I do,” Linus said. “His father is Arthur Parnassus. And he’s the best damn father Lucy has, and as far as I’m concerned, the only one.”
Extremely Upper Management gasped in unison.
Linus ignored them. He was just getting started. “And what of Arthur? Because I think that’s why I’m really here, isn’t it? Because of what he is. You have classified these children as a level four threat when by all rights they are just like every other child in the world, magical or not. But it was never about them, was it? It was always about Arthur.”
“Careful, Mr. Baker,” Charles warned. “I told you once I don’t like being disappointed, and you are very close to disappointing me.”
“No,” Linus said. “I will not be careful. It may not have been by your hand that he suffered, but it was by your ideals. The ideals of DICOMY. Of a registration. Of the prejudice against them. You allow it to fester, you and all the people before you who sat where you do now. You keep them segregated from everyone else because they’re different than the rest of us. People fear them because they’re taught to. See something, say something. It inspires hatred.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared up at Charles Werner. “You think you can control them. You think you can control him. To use him to get what you want. To keep him hidden away with your other dirty little secrets. But you are wrong. All of you are wrong.”
“That’s quite enough,” the bespectacled man snapped. “You are treading on very thin ice, Mr. Baker, and you don’t seem to hear it cracking beneath your feet.”
“Indeed,” the woman said. “And it certainly doesn’t help that we received a report from a concerned citizen about a confrontation between Arthur Parnassus and—”
Linus ground his teeth together. “Oh, concerned, were they? Tell me. In relaying their concern, did they explain what exactly they were doing at the dock to begin with? What their plans were? Because from what I could see, they were the aggressors. If Arthur Parnassus hadn’t intervened, I don’t even want to imagine what would’ve happened. Regardless of what he and the children are or what they can do, no one has the right to bring harm upon them. Unless anyone here thinks otherwise?”
He was met with silence.
“That’s what I thought,” Linus said, putting a hand on top of his final report. “My recommendation stands. The orphanage must remain open. For their sakes. And for yours. I promise you that I will do everything within my power to ensure this happens. You can fire me. You can try and have me censured. But I will not stop. Change starts with the voices of the few. I will be one of those few because they taught me how. And I know that I’m not alone.” He paused, sucking in a breath. Then, “Also, speaking of euphemisms, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling them orphanages. That implies something that has never been the case. These are homes. They have always been homes. And some of them haven’t been good, which is why I recommended they be closed. But not this one. Never this one. These children don’t need a home, because they already have one, whether you like it or not.”
“Ah,” Charles said. “There it is. The disappointment. How sharp. How profound.”
Linus shook his head. “You told me once you had a vested interest in what I would find. I believed you, then, though I expect it was out of fear more than anything else. I don’t believe you now, because you only want to hear what you think you want to hear. Anything else is unsatisfactory in your eyes. I cannot help that. The only thing I can do is show you that the path you’ve helped set this world upon has gone off course, and hope that you one day come around to seeing it for what it truly is.” He stared defiantly up at Charles. “Just because it’s not what you expected doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Things have changed, Mr. Werner, and I know it’s for the better. I’ve changed. And it has nothing to do with you. Whatever you hoped to find in the rubble you left behind on that island makes no difference to me. I know what they’ve become. I’ve seen the heart of all of them, and it beats tremendously despite everything they’ve gone through, either by your hand, or others.” He was panting by the time he finished, but his head was clear.
“I think we’re done here, Mr. Baker,” Charles said coolly. “I believe we
have a clear understanding of where you stand. You were right; your report said it all.”
Linus felt cold, though he was sweating profusely. All the fight seemed to rush out of him, and all that remained was exhaustion. “I—I just—”
“No more,” the woman said. “You’ve … no more. We will consider your recommendation and have a final decision in the coming weeks. Leave, Mr. Baker. Now.”
He picked up his briefcase. He heard the picture frame rattle inside. He glanced back up at Extremely Upper Management before he turned and fled.
|
Ms. Bubblegum was waiting for him outside the chambers. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open.
“What?” Linus asked irritably.
“Nothing,” she managed to say. “Absolutely nothing at all. You were very … um. Loud.”
“Yes, well, sometimes volume is needed to get through thick skulls.” “Wow,” she whispered. “I need to go call—never mind who I need to
call. You can find your way out, can’t you?”
She hurried away and disappeared behind the door that led to her booth. He walked slowly away. As he passed out of the offices of Extremely Upper Management, he heard her talking excitedly, but he couldn’t make
out the words.
|
He thought about leaving. About just … leaving it all behind.
He didn’t.
He went back down to his desk.
Furious whispers ceased as soon as he walked into the room. Everyone stared at him.
He ignored them, making his way to Row L, Desk Seven. He didn’t even apologize when his wide hips bumped into things.
He felt the gazes of dozens of people tracking every step he took, but he kept his head held high. After all he’d been through, after everything he’d
seen and done, what his colleagues thought of him didn’t matter in the slightest.
When he made it to his desk, he sat down and opened his briefcase. He took out the photograph and propped it up on his desk.
No one said a word.
Ms. Jenkins stood in front of her office, scowling at him. Gunther scribbled furiously on his clipboard. Linus thought he could shove his demerits up his ass.
He took a folder off the top of a pile and got back to work.
