Camp zero a novel, p.10
Camp Zero: a Novel, page 10
When the Blooms are off for a night, they gather in the kitchen to talk shop about their clients and complain about the food. Rose stays silent during these conversations, preferring to listen rather than offer her thoughts. She feels cautious of giving away too much about herself and why she is really here. It’s the same when she is with Meyer, who has implored her to tell him about her life back in the South.
And so she fabricated memories about where she lived and what she did before arriving in camp, what she longs for when she leaves. She unspooled a narrative that made Meyer comfortable and made him see her as a nonthreatening community college dropout now saddled with debt, who longs to have a family of her own one day. All of this is a lie, of course. She can’t see the future clearly enough to imagine ever raising children, and college seems out of reach now. But Meyer doesn’t seem to notice otherwise. He blithely believes her like he believes his building project in camp will happen.
Judith has done her best to insert her vision of a party into the neglected bowling alley. She spent a day methodically combing the dollar store in the Millennium, scavenging decorations to repurpose. Pink and red streamers are draped from the ceiling, and birthday balloons have been tied to the ceiling fans. A long dining table is set with a white plastic tablecloth and lit by tea light candles. Judith has even scattered glittery stars along the alleys and lugged a portable generator to power the ancient jukebox, which now pulses green and yellow and emits a sappy love song.
The kitschy decorations are in jarring contrast to the Blooms, who have all been told to dress their best. They wear slinky, backless dresses and high heels, and are surprised to see cocktails are already laid out on the bar counter. Clearly, tonight is special. They each take a drink and wait for their clients to arrive. Their beauty and poise seem wasted in this recreation center once used for children’s birthdays, retirement parties, proms, the weekly practice of the local geriatric bowling league.
Judith greets each Bloom with a perfunctory kiss. She wears a plum satin dress that she’s pilfered from one of the clothing stores in the mall. It’s a new look for her, but not a terrible one, and she’s worn makeup that softens her hawkish features. “Welcome, girls,” she says. “I want you to enjoy yourselves tonight.”
The front door swings open, and their clients arrive in a cloud of cold, tramping in ice and snow. Judith trots over to them and takes their coats, greeting each man like an old friend.
Unburdened by their winter layers, the men enter the room and head to their Bloom. Rose watches the men carefully, wondering if one of them is her contact. The camp’s PR, Reilly, follows Iris down one of the bowling lanes, leaning into the corner near the gutter. Willow throws her head back in laughter while the Foreman draws her close. Tonight, she’s worn a bright pink wig cut bluntly across the bangs, giving her face an impish quality. Fleur and Jasmine have already disappeared with the two security goons, Orson and Carter, and Waxman, the camp’s chief financial officer, pulls Violet into the bathroom.
When Meyer reaches Rose, he smiles apologetically. “Don’t mind them. This is their chance to show off.” He kisses Rose’s cheek. “You look appropriate for the occasion.”
It’s the first time Rose has seen Meyer without the sheepskin jacket. In a button-up shirt and dinner jacket, he looks polished and put together. She pushes her sheaf of hair to the side and exposes the long plane of her neck. The Blooms have already told her who their clients are, but she asks Meyer anyway, “Are these your colleagues?”
“That’s a flattering way to describe them.” Meyer looks around at the bowling alley and shakes his head. “These are the men who are helping me get the project off the ground. I can’t say I like them very much, but they get things done.” He points to a young man in a tweed jacket and jeans, who stands by himself at the edge of the room without a Bloom. “That’s my newest hire, Grant. A brilliant young man who is going to run the academic program once we’re up and running.” He waves at Grant, who visibly brightens and waves back. “And you know the Barber, of course. He’s here to keep an eye on things.” Rose looks back to see the Barber smoking a cigarette while standing sentinel at the door. He nods once, and she smiles in return.
Meyer reaches into his blazer pocket and retrieves a box. Inside, a gold locket necklace rests on white silk. “Happy New Year, Rose.”
She pops open the box and sees a photo of an oasis embedded in the locket, a tiny palm tree bending over a blue blot of water.
“Remember,” Meyer says, and gently clasps the gold chain around her neck. “There is always water in the desert.”
“Thank you, Meyer. I love it.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Any resolutions?”
“I always set a series of intentions, but this year I’ve decided on just one.”
She senses his hesitation and squeezes his hand. “And?”
“To finally do good.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. You’ve already accomplished so much.”
His tone suddenly turns sour. “I haven’t. We should be much further along on the project, but here we are.” He looks around again at the clients paired with their Blooms. “Moored in this terrible midcentury.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll find a way forward.”
“Thank you, Rose. I hope you’re right.” He kisses her again. “You always see the best side of me.” He finishes his glass quickly. “Can you fetch me another drink?”
She takes his glass and finds her way to the bowling shoe rental corner that Judith has transformed into a makeshift bar and lined with a few bottles of whiskey.
As Rose inspects the labels, a voice says from behind her, “Meyer will like this one best.”
She looks over to see the Barber is next to her. He reaches over and pulls out the stopper on a bottle of whiskey and pours it into Meyer’s glass.
“Thanks,” she says. “Can you pour me one, as well?”
“Of course.” He makes a drink for Rose, then himself, and looks around the room. “I used to come here as a kid.”
“To bowl?”
“No,” he says. “To watch my grandfather drink with his buddies. I’d read a comic book and they’d shoot the shit right here, drinking rum and Cokes in plastic cups.” He raises his glass to her. “Cheers to watching old men drink.”
She laughs and clinks her glass against his. As she drinks, she looks up at the stag heads above the shoe racks. Their eyes are fixed on the far wall where a hand-painted mural of Dominion Lake, frozen in winter, remains.
She wonders if she can trust the Barber. Hired by Meyer without Damien’s knowledge, and yet somehow friendly with Judith and the Blooms. A local who sees himself as an outsider; a hunter who is gentle with animals. She remembers how Annie’s bristled fur softened when she heard his voice, how she trotted toward him like a friend instead of a threat. Maybe the animals know something that the humans don’t.
She looks over him and says, “It doesn’t feel right to be here.”
He sets his glass down. “I know.” He leans toward her and lowers his voice. “Not everyone is as happy about the camp as Meyer thinks.”
She glances behind her quickly and sees that Meyer is deep in conversation with Judith. “Who? The Diggers?”
“I can’t talk about it here. Maybe somewhere else. But not here.”
“Where?” she asks.
“I’ll try and think of something that might work.” He reaches over and refills his glass, and for a moment his fingers brush against her hand. His face flushes as he looks away. “I should get back to my post.” He nods toward Meyer and Judith. “Before they see us talking.”
She watches the Barber walk away and resume his place by the door.
“Keep your eyes on the prize,” Damien warned her. “Stay focused on Meyer and don’t get caught in the periphery.”
But perhaps life is lived on the periphery.
* * *
The New Year’s Eve dinner is served at a long banquet table decorated with bunches of freshly cut holly in glass vases. Judith guides each Bloom to a place at the table, and seats Rose between Reilly and the Foreman. Rose notices that Willow is chatting to the new hire, Grant, who seems to have loosened up after the predinner cocktails. He leans into Willow as she whispers into his ear.
Iris’s client, Reilly, is a short, rotund man with reddened cheeks who looks Rose up and down when she sits next to him. He’s dressed formally for the evening in an ill-fitting blazer and a loosely knotted tie, his blond hair slicked to one side. Rose already knows from Damien that Reilly is a PR shill, hired by the camp to maintain a good image with the public. He was the one who sold the line of the “societal benefit” of the settlement to the local authorities. In the ranking of the clients, he is low-level. A well-paid pawn brought north with a suitcase of gold.
The Foreman, though, is different. He’s the only man present at the table who has not changed out of his work clothes. Rose knows that he’s been hired to oversee the Diggers and spends more time on-site than any of the other clients do. Up close, she takes note of his particular presence. His booming voice, his stained coveralls, his salty smell of sweat. At nearly six and a half feet tall, with a knotted red beard, the Foreman is more Viking than man, more stone than flesh.
“You’re Meyer’s Bloom,” Reilly says to her after the first course is served, a potato soup that the Cook unceremoniously plonks down in front of them. “He’s mentioned you a few times. I have a good thing going with Iris, but I’m open to other arrangements if you’re willing.”
“I don’t think Meyer would like that,” she says as a deflection.
“Of course he wouldn’t. But we don’t have to let him know.” Reilly smiles a smug schoolboy smile intended to be disarming.
Rose tries to remember whether she is contractually bound to entertain the advances of the other clients. Judging by the way each Bloom leans into the man by her side, she is.
Thankfully, Judith stands and taps a knife against her wineglass, beaming in her plum splendor. “I’ve been informed that we broke ground on the prototype this morning. Meyer, can you say a few words?”
“I’d rather not, Judy,” Meyer says. “Reilly is the natural public speaker.”
“Speak, old seer!” Reilly yells. “We want to hear from our fearless leader!”
The clients all join in tapping their knives against glass. Meyer shakes his head, but the men keep urging him on.
Finally, he folds his cloth napkin on the table and stands. “You’ve experienced this northern country yourself—the space, the fresh air, the water and trees. You all know how increasingly rare these resources are, and how lucky we are to be here.” He takes a sip of wine, and then continues, “This is the most ambitious project I’ve ever been a part of. And the most important. We once imagined fleeing here during times of political unrest, but what we’re doing is much more altruistic than nation-dodging. We will build a new way of life here. A new home.”
As he sits back down, the men break out into applause, cueing the Blooms to as well. On Judith’s signal, the Cook clears the soup, and serves the main course. He sets a plate featuring a lump of brown meat garnished with dried herbs in front of Rose. She prods at the meat with a fork disappointedly. She takes a bite and tastes the deep iron of game.
“How are the Diggers?” Reilly asks the Foreman.
“Surprisingly resilient,” the Foreman says.
“That’s encouraging to hear.” Reilly takes a swig of wine. “Any unforeseen problems?”
“A couple of curious minds, but nothing we can’t handle.”
“Good. I heard that the site is spectacular.”
“We’ve discovered an utterly beautiful parcel.”
“As beautiful as her?” Reilly asks, and pokes his steak knife in Rose’s direction.
The Foreman places a heavy hand on the nape of Rose’s neck. “It’s even better. Less contaminated.”
Reilly laughs and busies himself with slicing strips of bloodied meat. “She’s listening, you know.”
“Of course she is.” The Foreman’s fingers press on her neck. “But she knows what her role is here.” He scrutinizes her with his pitted eyes the color of raw sapphire.
Her role. How she despises the way he is looking at her, forcing her into a tiny box. Peripheral whore. Irrelevant female. Pretty handpiece with a poor sense of humor. Why does she have to take herself so seriously? he’s wondering. Why can’t she just loosen up and have a little fun? Isn’t that what she’s being paid to do? She’s heard it all before from the Loop, this kind of bemused pandering. A justification to define her based on her job.
She wants to tell him that he is wrong. That this place is wrong. That the decorations and altruistic speech can’t change the fact they are sitting in a mildewy bowling alley lined with the heads of dead animals. That Dominion Lake is as dead as the taxidermy, and despite Meyer’s high-minded dreams, it’s never coming back alive.
But she doesn’t say any of this to the two men. It would be stupid and risky. Instead, she smiles and excuses herself from the table, and then walks quickly to the bathroom.
The bathroom is mint tile. Three stalls. Someone’s phone number is scribbled on a cracked mirror. Tea lights flicker on the counter. Rose applies a swipe of lipstick in the mirror.
The door opens, and the Foreman walks in. He kicks open a stall door, unzips, and then takes a long, luxurious piss. She caps her lipstick and quickly washes her hands, but before she can leave, he looms in front of her.
“Did our conversation bore you?” he asks.
She doesn’t like how he’s looking at her, but tries to keep her voice light. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You seemed disinterested.” He’s so close now that she can smell the whiskey on his breath, the smell of rank meat. “What would you rather talk about? Clothes? Boys? What it’s like to fuck Meyer?”
“Fuck you,” she says, and turns away.
“Defiant little thing.” He grins, revealing the gold caps on his teeth. “You may think you’re better than me, but we have more in common than you realize.” He leans in and sniffs her hair. “We’re both Damien’s bitches.”
For a moment she has no words. So this is him. Her contact. She should have known that Damien would choose someone who would never put them together. The Foreman is the antithesis of the Loop’s clients, the well-groomed men who kept their hair short and fingernails clean.
“Are you surprised?” he asks.
“Nothing Damien does surprises me.”
“Good. Then you’ll be prepared for a message he asked me to give you.” He grabs her by the waist and pulls her close. “He wants you to know that he’s watching over your mother. That he’ll take good care of her as long as you do your part.”
Her skin prickles. “And if I don’t?”
He runs a finger down her spine. “You’re a smart girl. I think you can figure it out.” She tries to move again, but he has her pinned. “Damien wants an update, so I’ll ask you again. What is it like fucking Meyer?”
She turns her face away from him and tries to keep her voice steady. “Meyer has no idea what Damien is after.”
The Foreman nods. “Good. So he’s still charging ahead with his asinine plan.”
“For the time being. But he seems restless.”
“Well, you’ll have to keep him distracted.” The Foreman places a hand on the inside of Rose’s thigh. “It hasn’t been easy dealing with Meyer, but he’ll be gone soon, and you’ll be back with your mother in the Floating City in no time.”
She looks uneasily at his hand. “What will happen to Meyer?”
“He’ll be sent back to the South, where he’ll find some other cause to obsess over.”
“And the rest of the workers?” she asks.
“You mean the Diggers? They’ll find another hole to dig.”
“I mean the Blooms.”
“Those sluts are disposable. They’re not like you, my dear. You’re Damien’s prize horse.”
They are all alone. If she were to scream, would the Blooms hear her? She tries to push him off, but he squeezes her thigh. “I can see why Damien is so smitten.”
The door swings open, and Willow walks in. The Foreman steps away from Rose and smiles broadly at Willow. “There’s my girl. Were you looking for me?”
“I was,” Willow says, and glances over at Rose. “Everything okay in here?”
Rose forces a smile. Better to play it light. To brush this terrible man away and pretend that he is nothing to her, when in fact, his cooperation means everything.
The Foreman splashes cold water on his cheeks and uses a hand towel to wipe his face dry. “I was just washing up. How’s the party going?”
“Good,” Willow says, and then turns to Rose. “Meyer is asking where you are.”
“Well, you better go to him, Rose,” the Foreman says. “He must be wondering where his little dog has run off to.”
Rose pushes past the Foreman, and Willow follows. When they are outside the bathroom, Willow grabs Rose by the elbow. “Come with me. The rest of the Blooms are waiting outside.”
“But what about Meyer?”
“He’s getting wasted with the rest of the clients. Judith says we’re done for the night and can go home.”
The clients are clustered around the bar, drinking shots of whiskey. They’re so drunk that they don’t seem to notice, or care, that the Blooms are pulling their parkas and boots on by the door. Judith stands behind the bar and pours out rows of shots. The men drink, and she refills the shot glasses again. Only the recent hire, Grant, seems to notice and waves goodbye to Willow. She waves back, and then says to Rose, “I feel sorry for him.”
“Why?” Rose asks. Nothing about the clean-cut young man makes her feel pity.
