The words are barred to him now, but as Darlene said once, it’s all in the hands.
The men he pickpockets never know. A low fluttering gesture and they stop seeing him; a twist of invisible threads, and they forget they’re carrying anything at all. Rob collects from them like a quiet, shuffling raccoon.
In his apartment, a figure is beginning to resolve itself: reading glasses, gloves, pocketwatch and fob. From one man at the YMCA he got black dress pants, and from another, patent leather shoes. The pockets are filling with coins, charms and handkerchiefs.
Rob calls the figure Boulevard.
Dishes. They’re a constant, an endless stream: unload, set, dirty, rinse, load again. When the washer breaks down it’s chaos.
The cabinet where most of them go is right above the counter, so her kids stand on it to put them away. When they’re in a good mood they make up mottoes for themselves, cheerfully, shamelessly.
It’s adorable and it’s heartbreaking. Even her oldest, standing on the counter, is still two feet short of the ceiling. Why are they so small? Why does she have to have a job? How can they be unable to reach the cabinets, when he’s gone?
Holly plops down and idly traces something in the hot black gravel with one finger. She’s almost sixteen and her calves are bare, the hems of her ragged pants bound with purple tape. Roger’s still not entirely sure how they got up on the roof of the athletic building, but he’s in love with her calves; he stares, and fumbles a rolling paper.
Later, high, Roger laughs to see the ants three stories up. Because they’re black on black, though, he doesn’t notice their long complicated line. It’s like they’re following a sweet trail of spilled Kool-Aid: long cursive loops, H-O-L-L-Y.
“Worthless,” spits Conrad. “Kitchen oregano in a cheap capsule!”
“Cilantro, actually,” says Williams. Her voice is rich, mild and faintly mocking.
“And you claim they perform miracles. How can you possibly justify–”
“The contention that the pills’ contents cause no direct chemical change doesn’t mean they’re ineffective.” Williams is smiling. One of her teeth is gold. “There are older and more basic forces at work. We are legitimately changing people’s lives. We’re–” She leans forward, thumbing an intercom. “What did I call us, Van?”
“‘Consorts and enablers of the placebo effect,'” says a tinny voice.
“Yes,” she says. “That.”
“Pardon. Sorry,” says Bo. “Excuse me. My–pardon me.” He’s squeezing his way through everyone, provoking many a glare, trying to keep track of the big tree on what was once the city park. Tall landmarks are like gold these days.
When he arrives, Linda’s already there, sandwiched between two obese women and trying uncomfortably not to touch either. She manages a smile.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles back, knowing they’d both like a little more privacy. That’s even more precious than tall landmarks, though. It’s a tight fit, with all 293 million of them, but nobody’s ever leaving Delaware again.
“The difference,” says the Abbot, “is that here several orders share one roof–united in devotion, divided amicably about its expression.” He’s the first fat man Pearl’s seen here, which fits her mental image perfectly. The long scars of his eyes, however, don’t. His fingers see for him, quick as spiders.
“We’ll talk after dinner. Brother Pruitt will take you to your cell,” he says as a stooped man enters the office. An Anorectine, she guesses, under vows of hunger. He holds the door, and his hands look intensely fragile: yellow and dry things, formed of rice paper and balsa wood.
“Jesus, you guys. Who decided to let her do that? ” Larry isn’t concentrating on driving, and Lowell’s gripping his seat. They’re cruising Broadway. “Is she bleeding? Nose, eyes, ears? Well check.” Pause. “Okay, is she breathing? I know she can’t. Check her breathing.”
His loose shirt is puffed up by the air vents, and he’s got a sunburn on his upper arms; his skin looks older than it should. The blue light from the dash shadows out his eyes. Sweat on his upper lip: he needs a shave.
“She’s fine, okay?” he says, trying to cradle his tiny phone. “Fine.”
Hugo laughs an ugly, wheezy little laugh, shakes Dylan once by her collar, and throws her off.
Alex is two seconds ahead of him. He’s at the tower, then running up the wall, counting on horizontal inertia to pin him against it just long enough–
At one second, Dylan is thirty-three meters up. At two, it’s thirteen, and she’s only getting faster.
Alex knows that the right upward vector might reduce her momentum enough to keep them alive. He’s six strides up. Seven. Eight: he exhales and launches himself backward, headlong into gravity, first and most visceral human experience of acceleration.
Malkin’s halfway through droning about demo-centric sales thrust, and Guyver’s so busy trying to figure out who has the ball that he barely catches Byatt’s wink before she sends it his way. He catches it footwise without looking down, then kicks up; it seems to hang suspended above the table, then plops into his hand just as Malkin whirls around.
Guyver snaps on his best interested-vacant face and lets the ball roll down his leg, stopping it with a practiced foot-stall.
“As I was saying,” mutters Malkin, “the B2C market…”
Guyver gives Patel the slightest of winks, then kicks it on.