The Cracks in the Kingdom Read online

  No mention of the crack Sir James had come through, or how he’d found it, or whether he’d clambered over it, sidled under it, shoved it aside, or shot it to pieces with a rifle.

  Here he was, though, being warmly greeted by a young Cellian man in Beeks Vara. The young man clasped Sir James’s left hand with both his hands, which hands, Sir James observed, were “somewhat rough and calloused,” and next, Sir James observed, the young man began to “apply some measure of pressure,” to Sir James’s left hand, by means of those two “somewhat rough and calloused” hands, the second and third fingers of which were, inexplicably, “intertwined.” Sir James experienced some “discomfort,” as a result of this “pressure,” and even became somewhat “affrighted,” wondering if the young man intended him harm, yet recalled, almost at once, the warmth of the young man’s greeting moments earlier. Sir James, accordingly, found himself “confused beyond all measure.”

  It all ended happily. Sir James was “greatly relieved” when the young man, after what, upon reflection, had been only a “comparatively brief period of time, measuring, perhaps, upwards of two minutes,” released his hand.

  For crying out loud.

  That was how they said “hey” in Nature Strip! They grabbed your hand, crossed their fingers for luck, and gave you a good, solid squeeze!

  Four index cards, front and back, to tell us that?

  And of course the guy’s hand was calloused! What did Sir James think, you could live in Nature Strip without working as a Color Bender? You could Color bend without getting yourself a little scratched and battered?

  It was more or less how they all went, the index cards — not that they all described a basic handshake as if it were the plot of a horror film, but they meandered off into the same breathtaking pointlessness.

  Sometimes they’d start off seeming kind of fun — these guys from hundreds of years ago, describing Cello customs or fashion, vegetation or politics — with their fresh and baffled eyes. But within a few lines the fun would get trampled by the details. He might as well be reading his Algebra textbook. There was never a good, solid survey of how a town looked, say, or what people were drinking at the bar, or what sport might have been on everybody’s mind. No. It was comparing the toes on an Olde-Quaintian Liama with the claws of the World’s Mauritian broad-billed parrot. It was the angle of reflection on the surface of a mudpond made by a Golden Coast ostling tree. Measurements taken and recorded around the clock.

  The Cellian accounts of visits to the World were just as useless. Here they’d be in Cello — there they’d be in the World. “Neither have I now any great Curiosities to impart with respect to my Journey,” one card asserted. What a surprise, Elliot thought, feeling snarky.

  He supposed it must have been so obvious to them there was no point in describing it. As if a group of factory workers were asked to describe what happened on the production line, and they all took the 7:25 A.M. express to get to work. Why would they bother mentioning the 7:25 A.M. express? It just was.

  The Cellian accounts went on about botany, insects, and “wondrous contrivances” of the World. Like magnets. Now and then there was talk of political issues. In a 1648 account, there was mention of a King Charles I being in captivity at Newport on the Isle of Wight. A couple of cards later, there we were in 1660, Charles had been strung up, but here was another Charles stepping up to the throne. Why not? thought Elliot. Live dangerously. There were hints that there’d been some kerfuffle in the intervening years. “Rump Parliament,” Elliot read. And: “Oliver Cromwell.”

  Something rushed over him. There was a thin outer layer to this rush, which he recognized as the memory of studying for exams: stress shot through with boredom. He must have had to study this Oliver Cromwell for World Studies.

  But under the crackling was something else: another, better memory.

  His mother, leaning against the wall in the hallway, talking. His father, with a paintbrush, listening. Himself, Elliot, a kid on the floor, playing with one of those pull-back-and-go toy cars. His mother had loved World Studies in high school and liked to talk in long paragraphs about it. He’d never paid much attention, except to notice that her voice always got a happy, pleased-with-itself note, the one that people get when they talked about something they liked, and felt clever about. His dad used to get the same voice when he listed the components of a circuit board.

  It was just a short memory. The toy car bumping up against the paint sheets on the floor. His dad dipping the brush into a tin. The wall shining up under its new coat of pale yellow. Oliver Cromwell. Interregnum. “There was a newspaper called the Moderate Intelligencer,” Elliot’s mother had said, and he remembered his father’s smile and glance back at her. “Only moderately intelligent,” he’d joked, and she’d laughed too. The pleasure of the drag of the toy car’s wheels before it shot itself forward.

  Now Elliot looked up from the index cards. Nothing new in the square. People buying groceries, eating pastries, chatting by the fountain — everything moving so much slower than his heart. There was no reason for the quickening. It was just one of those nothing memories that took his breath away. They’d come out of nowhere and grab him like a Nature Strip handshake.

  They’d been coming a lot the last few days, actually, these commonplace memories of his dad. Must be the hope that the agents had ignited in him as they inched their way toward bringing Dad home.

  Might also be, he realized, on account of all the stories he’d told Madeleine these last few days. They’d been talking a lot, exchanging stories about their missing fathers, but also about everything and nothing.

  They’d talked about relationships — she’d been seeing her friend Jack for a while, she told him, and he’d been seeing his friend Kala, until she’d moved away to boarding school. Kala had a new boyfriend there. (She’d mailed him a photo of the guy, which he hadn’t especially needed.)

  Question after question about each other’s world they’d asked, slipping into ever stranger topics: leaves, musical instruments, water shadows on buildings. He’d got into the habit of bringing a deftball along, and he’d toss it while he waited in the schoolyard for her replies. Half thinking this could be his cover if anyone stumbled on him there: couldn’t sleep so came out for some deftball practice.

  Now and then he and Madeleine would experiment by sending tiny objects across to each other. Or by believing or falling into each other’s world. Mostly, nothing happened. Once or twice there’d been a spark, a flare, a glimmer. It was tricky to know what to call it. Like the kind of electric shock you got when you touched the shelf in the local library, only more pleasant than that.

  He’d caught a scent of something like strawberry once, and she’d told him that could be her lip balm. Another time, his palm had felt her elbow through the soft cotton of her jacket sleeve.

  There was always a jolt of astonishment and then it would be over. In less than a second. And he’d never seen her face, or got an image of the street or buildings around her. Never seen the pieces fit together.

  Like the stories on these index cards. Nothing but glimpses. Close-ups of irrelevant details. Nobody ever stood back and gave the full picture.

  Even Samuel’s handwriting was too caught up in the details, actually.

  He took a card now and studied the flourishes of calligraphy. Why all the loops and curls? It was like the kid thought he had to decorate every second letter. Same with Olde-Quaintian language, Elliot realized. Words and phrases were never left alone to be themselves; those Olde-Quaintians kept getting in and messing with them.

  An image came to Elliot of Samuel himself: short, plump, twelve years old, sitting at a table in some library basement, frowning over the original manuscripts, dipping his quill in a pot of ink, turning to the index cards, pondering how he might decorate the letter I. They didn’t have copy machines in Olde Quainte; that’s why he’d written out the index cards.

  For the first time it occurred to Elliot that Samuel had a life. When he
wasn’t researching in a library for the Princess, what did his days look like? His hometown, Twy Eam Peak, was as Hostile as a chained-up rooster, but Samuel was a member of the Royal Youth Alliance. If he wasn’t an outcast already — and Elliot suspected that the kid was one of those earnest, confused types who got taunted constantly — well, they’d have tossed him overboard by now. They must despise him. Probably not just kids either, but adults too. He could even be in danger.

  Ah, Samuel was annoying, but you had to respect that. He should cut the kid a break.

  He stretched his arms above his head, and as he did, he caught sight of Jimmy and Isabella. They were across the square at the grocery store, and they saw him and smiled. He switched his stretch to a wave.

  They had stopped at a tray of eggplants, he saw. Isabella picked one up, and went to put it in her basket, but right away Jimmy leaned over and took it back. He replaced it on the tray, chose another, and placed that in her basket instead. Shaking his head.

  You could almost hear his murmur of mock-disapproval — these Jagged-Edgians, he’d be saying, haven’t got a sweet darn clue about how to choose a vegetable. Isabella’s laughing protest drifted across the square.

  She was tall, that Isabella, and she held her back straight, not afraid of her own height. Her eyes, narrow and green, had a brightness to them, and her smile was always thoughtful, and slow.

  He ought to ask her about the quantum physics of cracks.

  Should have done so by now, but he kept finding excuses. There was how to phrase the question, for one thing: the reason he’d give her for his interest.

  And he wasn’t all that sure what quantum physics was.

  So that was another issue: He probably wouldn’t understand her answer.

  Ah, if he was truthful, he was scared. It was that Sergio, always going on about the World Severance Unit, and how they’d pickle his eyeballs or whatever. It had finally got under Elliot’s skin: He’d used up his stockpile of indifference.

  The fact was, he didn’t want to be arrested and executed.

  To be fair, who did.

  It didn’t help that Isabella was always walking side by side with the law — that was how Elliot’s mother liked to refer to the Sheriff and his Deputy. She was joking: Both Hector and Jimmy were good friends. But still. They were the law. Who could tell what happened when friendship crossed paths with a felony?

  Now he could see that Jimmy and Isabella were passing sentences back and forth at the cash register. They appeared to be arranging something, pointing at their watches and the clock tower, tilting their heads to indicate direction and plans.

  Next thing Jimmy had the paper bags of groceries under his arms. He was leaning over to kiss Isabella good-bye, and striding out across the square. He passed the Bakery, and looked over at Elliot.

  “See you at training later,” Jimmy called. He was the deftball coach. “I’ve got a strategy in mind for Saturday’s big game.”

  “Those Rangos are in for a beating,” Elliot agreed.

  They grinned at each other, then Jimmy headed out of the square.

  Elliot turned back and watched Isabella. She always wore that green pendant around her neck. It was the size and shape of a chicken’s egg. Her walking pace was fast, practically a jog, so the pendant would bounce up and down. It must hurt, banging against her chest like that.

  He felt like suggesting she slow down.

  Well, she was a physics teacher. He guessed she knew how these things worked.

  She was not far away now.

  He could call out to her.

  He could say, “Hey, Ms. Tamborlaine, can I ask you a question?”

  She’d come over to his table, ready to answer.

  She was friendly, easygoing. It’d be fine.

  “Hey, Ms. Tamborlaine,” he called.

  “Hi there, Elliot.”

  She smiled. He smiled. She kept walking.

  She was heading for the cheese shop, he saw. She pushed open the glass door and walked inside.

  Ah, he’d get around to asking her another time.

  3.

  “Do you ever want to, like, take someone’s face and twist it? The edges of it, I mean. And it’d go clack-clack-clack as you twisted, a bit like a lens cap?”

  Belle was lying on the couch, feet on Jack’s lap.

  They were in Belle’s living room. It was small and overcrowded: mismatched couches, dining chairs, dressers, side tables, a birdcage (empty), an art nouveau standing lamp, a stack of paperbacks, a cushion embroidered in butterflies, a doll’s rocking horse —

  Madeleine stopped cataloguing. There was nowhere you could look in this room without your eyes going into a panic.

  She’d been at Belle’s place often before, because Belle’s mother, Olivia, home schooled them in French and Citizenship. But that was always daytime, and always in the kitchen. This was Madeleine’s first nighttime social visit.

  She’d arrived as Belle’s parents were leaving, dressed up, both laughing.

  “The oven mitt!” Olivia had trilled. “Why not the oven mitt? The use of it, it escapes her?”

  “Ha-ha,” Madeleine had agreed politely.

  Inside, she’d found Belle at the kitchen sink with the cold tap running on her fingers. It turned out she’d taken a tray of spring rolls out of the oven with her bare hands. Forgetting they’d be hot.

  Ha-ha, Madeleine thought, but she couldn’t see what was so funny.

  Now, here they were in the living room listening to music. They’d eaten the spring rolls, and they were sharing pretzels and vodka.

  “You want to twist his face off,” Jack said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that, I don’t know, psychotic?”

  “Ah, it’s not like I’d do it.” Belle lifted her feet from Jack’s lap and sat up. “Faces don’t work like that. His face,” she added profoundly, “is not a lens cap.”

  She lay back down and thudded her feet onto Jack’s lap.

  “Is it,” she added for emphasis.

  “Oof,” he said.

  Madeleine did not know what they were talking about. Since she’d arrived, Belle and Jack had been talking like parallel streams. Now and then the streams converged, forming a larger, louder stream, before setting off again on separate paths.

  She felt like she was running back and forth between them in her bathing suit, trying to figure out how to get in.

  At the start, she’d said, “Who’s that?” and “Wait, how do you know him?” and “So that’s his sister, right?” and they’d veer in her direction to answer, but they usually got excited by her question, the streams getting tangled, turning into rapids.

  Eventually, Madeleine had given up.

  She decided to stop thinking of them as streams, and to see them as a stage show instead. She’d arrived at the show after intermission, so that’s why she was baffled. She sat quietly, waiting for the plot to make sense.

  The conversation seemed to be about the boys that Belle was seeing. Three at once, Madeleine thought at first, but then it turned out to be four.

  There was a tyre fitter with an aura like an old tea bag; a baker whose aura was droopy and bloodshot (because he had to get up early to turn on the ovens and make the little sugar mice); a student whose aura was like a mediocre episode of How I Met Your Mother; and a machine operator with an aura like seedless watermelon (and whose face Belle wanted to twist off).

  “None of them sound all that sexy,” Madeleine observed.

  “Oh, they are,” Belle assured her. “Dead sexy. As long as you don’t look at their auras.”

  It was morally complex, Belle explained, seeing four boys at once. She had rules for keeping things technically casual, mainly to do with how many texts she sent, and how many x’s she added to the texts. She always called it off if their auras turned all moony, meaning they liked her too much. And she never accepted gifts.

  “I’d only ever accept a gift,” she said, “even something tiny, like, say, a wheel nut from the tyre fitter, if I ha
d decided that he was the one.”

  “What if he wanted to give you a free wheel alignment?” Jack suggested. “Say you had a car.”

  Belle thought about that and decided it would be all right because you could see a wheel alignment as a sort of extended kiss.

  The conversation turned to girls that Jack had hooked up with in the past. It sounded like he’d hooked up all over the place, like he was a coat rack or something.

  “Sophie,” Jack recalled sadly. “Never worked out with her. She just wasn’t into me.”

  Belle gave him a sharp look. “Yeah, I don’t buy into that whole just not into me thing,” she said. “If a guy’s not into me, what the eff is wrong with him?” She swung her legs around so she was leaning forward again. This was a recurring pattern for Belle, like an exercise routine. Lie down, put legs on Jack’s lap, swing legs to sit up, lie down, put legs on Jack’s lap. It didn’t seem to bother Jack.

  “Sophie’s just not into you?” Belle continued. “What’s wrong with her? Seriously. Stupid cow.”

  Jack reached for the vodka, and handed it to Belle, who said, “What happened to that girl, Katya, you were seeing last year? Why’d you call it off with her?”

  “Just wasn’t into her.”

  “Yeah.” Belle drank from the bottle. “What can you do?”

  They paused, then both laughed hard. Their laughter was like flat hands pounding on a wall.

  Madeleine watched Jack with a vague, increasing sense of awe.

  The thing was, it wasn’t that long ago that she and Jack had been together. Back then, she’d thought she had him all figured out. She’d thought there were three components to him: He talked a lot; he liked astrology; and he was crazy about her.

  That was it. Jack.

  Now it turned out he had a trail of secrets, jokes, stories, broken hearts, and broken-hearted girls behind him. The more Belle and Jack talked, the more complex and remote Jack became. At the same time, he seemed to be growing taller and stronger. He was opening bottles with a twist of his wrist. He was standing to go to the bathroom and he seemed more in control of his body than she remembered — she’d always thought of him as sort of goofy.