Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,11
eyes. People; men, women, children, pressing in on each other, elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder. The noise carried to the window, barking, hawking, yelling, arguing, laughing. No room, no space between them.
Tom had seen me and come over, closed the blinds, put his hand on my elbow and steered me to one of the wooden benches, sat me there and left me alone. So did the others, for the whole night. I just sat there, hearing the noise, thinking about the crush. I imagine the others must have gone through this, one at a time, as each moved in, although we don’t talk about it.
During the day, though, it’s safe. No people, no noise except the rumble of anonymous distant machinery, a comfortable sound for all of us. A sound that proves things are still running, that there’s been no breakdown.
I walk back. “Nothing, Alex. Still plenty of time, don’t you think?”
Tom snorts. “Sonuvabitch always thinks there’s plenty of time. Drag his heels at his wife’s death bed, he will.”
Alex fixes Tom with a cold stare, the rest of us looking downward ever so briefly. After a second, Tom mumbles “Sorry” and we all turn our attention back to the game.
“You in this hand, Randall?”
I smile. “No thanks, Jason. Not interested.”
Peter guffaws. “You’d think after twenty-five years you’d get over being sick of this game, Randall. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
Everyone laughs, even me. They can bug me all they want, but each one of us has more than one strange habit left over.
Another hand is dealt, they pass across this time. “What do you think he’ll be like?” asks Peter.
“Hard to say. You’ve seen him on the news, looking pretty fucking spry, standing with the President and all the other politicians.” He almost spits the word. “I imagine still working for the government, they’ve managed to give him the best medical care that we all missed.” Tom plays the two of spades.
We all nod, not bitter about his luck, understanding that he was touched by God since he’d first been selected. Understanding that the touch had become a caress after the accident, after our return.
Jason takes the first two hearts, swallows the last of his beer and opens another bottle. “Shitheads,” he mumbles, but with a smile on his face. Five years of this, holed up together and playing this stupid game, swearing and bitching at each other. But all still friends.
I turn my head, watch the broom for a moment. It seems to be calling to me. After a few seconds that pass for thought I get up and make my way back to the broom, start pushing the dust around again. As I push and sweep, I listen to the conversation that follows the cards.
“Why do you figure he wants to see us?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Jack takes it. Who played the jack?”
“Maybe they’re starting the program again.”
“Ha! With what? Even if they do, what would they want with a bunch of sorry old cripples like us?”
“Fuck! I was going for power!” Laughter.
I stop sweeping, turn to them. “Maybe he’s coming to apologize for them.”
That stops them cold. I can feel my heart sinking, butterflies in my stomach, at the idea. I didn’t stop to think before I spoke, just said it.
Jason puts down his cards, backs away from the table and glides up to a window. I limp over and open the blinds so he can have a peek outside. “Too late to say sorry, don’t you think? Quarter-century after a so-called minor design flaw kills three of us, sends the rest of us on the slow boat, fucks us over and leaves us all shriveling up.” He bites his lower lip; I’m the only one that sees it quiver. I look away.
“Jason’s right,” says Peter. “Too late. Too fucking late. I’ll take their money, if they suddenly decide they can afford us, but I won’t take their apologies.”
The others push their cards away. The game is obviously over.
I finish sweeping the floor, push the dust and dirt into a pile, then slowly crouch down and sweep it onto a dust pan. What I miss I push back under the radiator, after standing back up. Too much effort to stay crouched down for too long. Besides, we all feel at home with some dust.
Tom’s notepad beeps. He gets up and saunters over as casually as possible, answers it. I strain my ears to try and listen in, but the sound is too small,