Subdivision, p.14
Subdivision, page 14
But she didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she stood before me, nodding slowly, a look of consternation on her face. “Dear,” she said, finally. “You’ve been with us for a while now.”
“I have. I’ve been having a wonderful time.”
“I’m going to be honest with you. We’d … we’d hoped that you’d have solved the puzzle by now. It’s … not complicated.”
I was taken aback by this remark. It hadn’t been my understanding that the project was compulsory, or even very important. My meager attention to it was given exclusively out of politeness.
“I beg to differ,” I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I’ve come close, as you can see, but I must have made a mistake somewhere along the line. I can’t make the final piece fit.”
“If I may be so bold,” Clara said. “It’s basically finished. It’s time to move on, wouldn’t you say? You don’t really need the last piece to understand what you’re seeing, do you.”
“Of course I do!” I replied. “The last piece could change the entire meaning of the puzzle!”
Clara appeared startled by this argument and opened her mouth to speak, then appeared to think better of it. After a moment, she patted me on the shoulder and said, “I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry, dear.” She turned and headed back toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with the unfinished puzzle.
I gazed again at the image of the road accident in progress, and felt a great weight bearing down on me, as though everything I’d accomplished so far in the Subdivision had been meaningless. Clara was right, of course; the final piece didn’t matter. There was nothing that could be printed on it that would alter the big picture: I and my unseen collaborators had brought the task as close to completion as possible, and this was the result.
Dejected, I again drew the final piece from my pocket and gazed mournfully at the single eye depicted there. With a sigh, I tossed the piece onto the puzzle’s surface, where it bounced, flipping over in the process. It landed a few inches right of center, facedown.
It was then that I noticed something: the glossy top of the puzzle piece wasn’t the only surface bearing an image. There was something on the other side too.
I leaned in closer. It appeared that someone had written something on the back of the puzzle piece in fine black marker—I could make out a couple of numbers, and something that looked like an arrow. My curiosity piqued, I lifted up a corner of the nearcompleted puzzle and peered underneath. Sure enough, I saw more markings there—sketches, equations perhaps, scrawled in a barely legible hand.
I thought of Clara’s words. It was time to move on, she’d said. Perhaps she was right. Swiftly, and before I could talk myself out of it, I lifted one side of the enormous puzzle, and attempted to flip the whole thing over, as though it were a bedspread. All the pieces, taken together, were surprisingly heavy, and I struggled to wield their clinging, mosslike mass. I’d almost gotten it onto its back when chunks began to fall off and cascade across the table’s surface. Alarmed, I let the rest drop, and the pieces jumped, separating themselves and skittering along the polished wood, some of them bouncing onto the carpet below.
I’d made quite a mess. But enough of the puzzle had remained intact that I could see some logic behind the diagrams scrawled there. The dull brown surface resembled a scientist’s chalkboard, with numbered sections illustrating various obscure calculations and instructions: the rough map of a large building bearing a big black X; something resembling a weather map, with stylized lines and arrows that indicated colliding fronts; trajectories and velocities for various airborne objects; numbers corresponding to the properties of different surfaces; the flow properties of liquid through a meandering channel.
It all seemed quite meaningful, though I couldn’t imagine what specific objects or events it all referred to. I crouched on the floor to collect the fallen pieces, and noticed that my shoes looked quite different here in the dining room than they had last night, in the festive lights of Birthday; in the shadow of the table, their glittery confetti pattern appeared drab, brown and businesslike, with dots and slashes of black, not unlike the puzzle’s underside.
I dumped the stray pieces onto the table’s surface and idly began to fit them into their places. Yes: this was much better. The image on the puzzle’s obverse seemed simplistic, obvious in retrospect, and I felt embarrassed by my incapacity—or unwillingness—to complete it. This side, on the other hand, seemed to represent something sophisticated and demanding, a mystery befitting a professional like me.
What it all meant, though, was unclear, at least for the moment. The hour had grown late, and I had a busy day behind me, and another ahead; I lacked the energy even to snap the last few puzzle pieces into place. I climbed the stairs, instructed Cylvia to wake me, and collapsed, exhausted, into bed.
●
In the morning I woke early, determined to clean my office, which would necessitate a stop at the drugstore for supplies. I hung my legs over the edge of my bed and felt despair creeping up on me. Across the room, the self-help book stuck out of my bag; I got up, grabbed it, and shoved it under the mattress.
I knew what I needed: a long, luxurious bath. Yawning, I gathered up my towel and toiletries, and told Cylvia that it wouldn’t be necessary to wake me after all. Her white light pulsed faintly in response, but she didn’t speak. I opened my door and walked out, throwing my shoulders back and raising my chin, so that I would appear dignified to anyone who happened to be waiting in the hall. Nobody, however, was there.
I drew a bath and settled into it, this time getting the water level exactly right on my first try. I recalled my confused and emotional state the last time I had lain here, and marveled at the progress I’d made since that distant time: I’d gotten a job, and made some new friends: Justine, Mr. Lorre, and Forby. I found that I was proud to have assisted Mr. Lorre during his moments of anxiety, and eager to get back to work with Forby in the Dead Tower. I recalled Justine with less fondness, though I couldn’t have told you why.
I turned to gaze out the window: with the exception of some haze on the horizon, and a stiff wind tugging at some distant trees, it looked like another warm, sunny day in the Subdivision. The rooftop of the neighbors’ house was visible, as before, and I expected my other new friend, the crow, to alight upon it as he had the last time I took a bath. Indeed, I didn’t want to miss the moment he landed, so I concentrated very hard on the roof and waited for him to arrive.
What seemed like seconds later, I was awakened by a pounding on the door, accompanied by a wheezing man’s voice repeating the word “please,” and, further in the background, a female voice repeating the phrase “wake up.” The former was Mr. Lorre, demanding entry to the bathroom, and the latter Cylvia, sounding the alarm in spite of my instructions to the contrary. The water I lay in, however, was ice-cold, and my shivering body was pale and puckered from the excessive soaking. How long had I been lying here?
“Just a minute!” I called out, climbing out of the water. I had just gotten myself wrapped in a towel when the bathroom door crashed open and Mr. Lorre lumbered in, cupping his crotch with both hands. He was dressed in his clothes from the night before and appeared as disheveled and bewildered as ever.
“Mr. Lorre!” I scolded, but he didn’t even seem to notice I was there. He staggered to the toilet and fumbled at his belt.
I was not eager to watch what came next, so I quickly gathered up my clothes from the wall hook and hurried into the hall, pulling the door shut behind me. Soon I was safely enclosed in my bedroom, furiously drying myself and trying to heat my frigid skin with the towel.
“You must go to work,” Cylvia said, from her place on the bedside table.
“I know!” I exclaimed. “I’m trying to!”
“You must go to work.”
“Stop telling me that!”
Somehow I got myself dressed before Cylvia delivered another warning. I swept her into my bag and ran down the stairs. Before I pushed open the front door, I peered into the dining room. The sun had risen on the other side of the house, so the light was dim at best. But it was clear that someone—t he little boy, I now suspected—had completed the job I had begun the night before, fitting the final pieces into the newly overturned puzzle. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop and examine it: I had to get to the office immediately.
It was lucky that Fortuitous Items was more or less along my route to work, and open for business. I greeted the clerk, the same one who had sold me Cylvia, but he didn’t seem to remember me. In fact, he was busy doing something over by the front window and offered only the faintest nod in acknowledgment.
I found some paper towels, sponges, abrasive cleanser, and window spray, and brought them to the front counter. The clerk glanced over his shoulder at me. I could see now that he was using tape from a big gray roll to cover the window with old magazines—specifically, back issues of a publication called FAMOUS ACCIDENTS. A list of sensational headlines appeared on the lurid covers; they included 37-CAR PILEUP!, FREIGHT TRAIN MEETS BIG RIG!, and HELICOPTER SINKS FISHING BOAT!
Reluctantly, the clerk slouched over to the counter and listlessly dragged my items into a plastic sack. I couldn’t help but notice that the display rack of personal digital assistants no longer stood near the counter. I asked the clerk what had become of it.
He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. “You mean the little radios?” he asked, shoving the paper towels into the bag, and breaking it. With a frustrated grunt, he reached beneath the counter for a new bag, and started the process over.
“No—they were cylinders, light gray cylinders that you could talk to. Computers inside cylinders.”
The clerk shook his head. “Don’t remember anything like that,” he said.
“But they were just here. Were they discontinued?”
“Beats me,” he said, this time placing the paper towels into a second bag. “Lots of stuff comes and goes, I can’t be expected to keep track of it. What’s the matter, you want to return it?”
“No!” I said, horrified.
He shrugged, dismissing me with a little wave of his hand, and returned to his task, lifting another magazine from the pile at his feet and using it to cover up another pane of the window. Its cover read CAR STRIKES BRIDGE, TRUCK OVERTURNS!
“I’m curious,” I said to him, lifting my bag from the counter. “What are you doing there?”
“Battening down,” he said, without turning around. “Last time we had a storm, the window shattered. During business hours, no less. Kalim ended up in the hospital.”
“Storm? But it’s nice out. Breezy, but nice.”
“Whatever,” the clerk replied with a dismissive shrug. “Enjoy your killer breeze.”
I made my way to the Courthouse, quite deliberately appreciating the weather, and passed through the front door with what I hoped was a friendly nod to Heather, sitting motionless behind her enormous desk. She appeared mildly annoyed and alarmed to see me.
“Glad you’re finally here,” she said, and it was unclear whether her tone indicated relief, disappointment, or condescension.
“I was forced to deal with an emergency at home,” I said. “A neighbor in need. I’m sure Bruce would understand.”
Heather did not respond, and it was unclear whether her silence indicated satisfaction, offense, or pity.
I stepped into the elevator, took it to the other elevator, then crossed the skyway to the steel door, which let me in with my code. The lounge appeared unchanged, and the spiral stairs clanked familiarly under my feet. I was greeted on the fourth floor by the cheerful sound of Forby’s tennis balls, and by the odors of dust, mildew, and engine exhaust. My sleek, gleaming key let me into my office, and I began scrubbing the work surfaces and walls, and wiping down the windows until they squeaked.
By the time I finished, the sun had passed its zenith, and rhomboid patches of light were creeping across the office. Cylvia was set up on my desk to absorb that light. It wasn’t yet time to leave, but now that I was finally ready for some work, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.
I was about to ask Cylvia for advice when I noticed something that I had somehow missed while cleaning: a small blue light, blinking on the far wall. I crossed the room for a closer look. The light had been cleverly installed just beneath the surface of the evidently translucent white wall material; it would be invisible when it wasn’t lit.
I didn’t understand what the light signified at first. But then I noticed, just to its left, a square section of wall delineated by faint gaps. It looked as though it had been designed as some kind of door. I felt around its edges, thinking I could get a fingernail into the crack to pull it free. When that didn’t work, I gave the panel a gentle press, and felt a click.
Now I heard the quiet sound of turning gears, and the top edge of the panel popped out and fell gently toward me and down. In a matter of seconds, the panel was fully opened, revealing a light gray plastic tray, recessed into the wall. Upon the tray lay a pile of papers—forms or reports, from the look of them—casually collated and gathered into sections with paper clips.
This, then, must be the work I had been hired to do. I lifted the papers—they were quite heavy—and carried them over to my desk as the panel receded back into the wall with a quiet hum. The blue light switched off, and the wall once again appeared whole.
I took a seat and began to read the papers. They seemed to be case studies of some kind—complex life scenarios, some evidently frivolous, some with potentially serious consequences. At the end of each question was printed the heading ANALYST’S RESPONSE, followed by a series of prompts.
In my view, protagonist made the right/wrong decision (choose one).
Elaborate: ______________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
In the event of a similar future situation, protagonist should:
____________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
Protagonist’s mistake can/should (choose one) be remedied by:
____________________________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
Protagonist’s responsibility is primarily to herself/others (choose one).
Elaborate: ______________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
Protagonist should/shouldn’t have known better (choose one).
Elaborate: ______________________________________________
____________________________________________________________
As I perused the pile of documents, it struck me: Of course! This was the Courthouse! I had been hired as a Phenomenon Analyst, which, it now seemed to me, was akin to a judge. I settled in and began to read the first question.
A young boy, Hector, wants a popular new toy for Christmas. His mother, Juniper, finds it at the toy store, but also finds a knockoff version for much less money. Though she is comfortably well-off, Juniper buys the cheaper toy. On Christmas morning, Hector expresses his disappointment, so Juniper takes the cheaper toy away and sends him to his room. She also throws away the Christmas cake she bought for him at the Christian bakery.
This was an easy one—Hector was clearly an ungrateful, spoiled brat, and Juniper a thrifty, responsible parent trying to instill positive values in her child. The Analyst’s Response practically wrote itself, and I quickly moved on to the next scenario.
Mei-Lien is very fond of ducks. While out walking with her friend Georg, they happen upon an idyllic pond. Mei-Lien is delighted by the many ducks that approach them on the water’s surface, hoping for a morsel of bread. But she is shocked when Georg begins to pelt the birds with rocks. He explains that ducks are a public nuisance, and that they carry germs. Years later, when Georg is applying for a high-clearance Defense Department job, Mei-Lien is contacted by government officials for insights into his character. She tells them the story about the ducks. Later she learns that Georg was turned down for the job, and instead has signed on with a private military contractor believed to maintain so-called “black sites” where torture takes place.
This scenario required a little more thought. I got up and paced around my small office space, Forby’s tennis balls providing a potent counterpoint to my contemplative footsteps. After a few minutes, I sat down and wrote a few words about Mei-Lien’s narcissism masquerading as compassion, and her terrible betrayal that, luckily, couldn’t keep a good man down. Also, ducks? No, thanks!
The next scenario seemed out of place, based upon my expert analysis of the previous two, so I read it twice, just to be sure I had it right.
Divya has been dating her fiancé, Ronaldo, for several years. Because he doesn’t like her friends and family, she has grown distant from them—but, she tells herself, that suits her just fine. They don’t like or understand Ronaldo, and their distaste is an insult to her. She’s content to be with him alone.
One day, Divya receives a private message via social media from a woman who claims to be Ronaldo’s sister, and which reads, “Forgive me if I have the wrong person, but I think that you are dating my brother. I don’t mean to interfere, but there are some things he might not have told you that I think you should know about him. If you’re willing to talk, please call me.” The supposed sister has left a phone number.
Divya decides to tell Ronaldo about the message, and his reaction surprises her—he laughs it off, saying that the message-writer is not his sister but a mentally unstable ex, who has tried to pull this before. She has a personality disorder, he explains, and has been institutionalized for various psychoses; everyone knows she’s crazy. “Here,” he says, reaching for Divya’s computer keyboard. “Let me just block her for you, and I’m going to report her for harassment.”
With a few quick clicks and keystrokes, Ronaldo ejects the exgirlfriend from Divya’s online life. He is so apologetic about the entire incident, and so sweet in his attempts to make it up to her, that she lets the whole thing pass. In fact, when Ronaldo later argues that social media itself is toxic—a haven for liars, scammers, and weirdos—she agrees to delete her accounts, despite their being one of her last remaining connections to her family. To hell with them, she thinks—she and Ronaldo are a team.
