Part 1, Chapter 7

 

VII: The Sun

Ray jolted awake on the pink sofa to a shoulder-punch from Paula.

“Wh…?” He rubbed his aching side and squinted open tired eyes. He wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d gotten, but he could physically feel the weight of his eyebags. All things considered, the sofa had proven to be comfortable, its cushions likely having softened over years of abuse and enduring massive weight.

“You’ve slept enough. Up.”

Something about Paula’s clothing looked different. He knew before that her tank top was supposed to be white under the dust and spots of dried mud, but now it very nearly was white.

“What’d you do to your shirt?”

“It’s called washing, Ray. I used water and soap, and I suggest you try it, too.”

Wait…how long had he been asleep? He’d only intended a quick nap to wake himself up. He rushed over to the ladder, stumbling as he slowly regained his balance from being deep in sleep, and pushed open the heavy lid of the manhole. The sky was still bright and blue through the layers of interlocked sea grape and peppertree—he hadn’t missed it.

As he passed the remainder of the afternoon, he periodically opened the lid to check the sky. He was waiting for the day to take its first step towards darkness—for the first hint of imminent sunset.

When it was time, he took one of the towels that had made up his former bed into the kitchenette and laid it flat on the cracked and lopsided counter. Then out of the cupboard he gathered the stash of snacks and the bottle of soda he’d taken with the help of Hitchcock, as well as two (questionably discolored) plastic cups from the cupboard (he brushed the dust off first—he was man of hygiene). Then he tied the ends of the towel over the pile of goods into an ugly, but functioning, sack. He threw it over his shoulder and held it where the four corners knotted together. It was awkward to carry, but sort of fun; it made him feel like he was a man about to set off on a long journey. That, or a homeless man (which, really, he sort of was).

“Hey, I want to show you something,” he called to Paula.

“What?”

“Come follow me,” he said, “It’s outside.”

She followed behind with eyebrows knitted in suspicion as he climbed the ladder. Hitchcock, perched on the armrest of the sofa, sensed the excitement and lighted, following suit.

“What, is it something you found in the dumpster?” she asked once they had gotten to their feet on the surface. Hitchcock fluttered through the opening, and then she kicked the lid shut. But then she saw Ray was starting off in the opposite direction to the dumpster. “It’s not something bad, is it?”

“No, no, it’s not bad,” Ray said. Hitchcock landed on his shoulder and ruffled his feathers.

“What’s with the towel?”

“You’ll see! Patience, woman.” Paula shot him a look.

As they trudged through the mangroves, the woods gave its crown to the nocturnal, and soon the trees and underbrush were singing with frogs and crickets. Though the sun still hung in the sky, the approaching twilight had whisked away the brutality of the day’s heat, so that Ray didn’t dread leaving the shade of the canopy when they reached the woods’ end.

Now the abandoned stadium was in view, and they slunk around the edge of the asphalt until they reached the fence gate encircling it. He led them through the gap in the fence through which they’d exited on the night they’d woken up, and entered the jungle of graffiti and crumbling cement.

“Why are we back here? Did you figure something out?” Paula asked, voice rising with interest.

Ray felt a little guilty now. “Uhh, no. No, sorry,” he said, “It’s a little less…significant to our livelihood. But still cool.”

They’d reached the wooden boards that bridged the ground floor to the roof of the stadium. Under the cape of night, and with only Hitchcock to accompany him, the rotting platform had seemed a fun challenge within the bounds of danger a street cat would traverse—completely agreeable to Ray. But now that he’d come with Paula, the peril of the gaping holes in the wood and the worrying thinness of the wood stung a bit more sharply, and he wondered if she’d even want to try.

“Okay, this is the hard part,” he said. “It’s totally fine though, promise. I literally did it last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘this’? What’s ‘this’?”

“Climbing. Climbing this thing. We’re going up to the roof.”

“The roof? We’re climbing that thing? That splinter?”

Ray chewed his lip uncertainly.

“You can hold on to me if you want.”

“No, thank you.”

Steadily, they stepped onto the platform, leaning forward to keep their body weight balanced. A warm gust tugged at the board, and the wood creaked feebly. At one point Paula’s foot nearly slipped through one of the gaps, and Hitchcock chuffed as if to laugh at her. It was so steep that while climbing, they were nearly on all fours, so close were their hands to the wood in front of them.

Finally, they reached the concrete edge of the roof, and took the last ambitious steps off the platform. The air up here still carried the salt of the ocean, but was stripped of the murky stench of the mangroves. Under the light of the bronzing sky, the dull grey concrete glowed with warmth, and Paula’s sunglasses were turned so bright an orange they appeared fluorescent.

He opened his hands and gestured towards the horizon of the city skyline. “It’s the sunset!”

Paula cracked a smile. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

Ray sat down at the ledge of the roof, overlooking the city. He set down the sack beside him and untied the ends of the towel, revealing the mound of colorful plastic snack packaging. There were plantain chips, and cookies, and granola bars, and gummies, and all sorts of things that looked so artificial even Ray called into question their safety for human consumption.

“What? Where did you get all of this?” Paula asked, beaming. She sat to his side, so that her legs also hung off the edge.

“I found them,” he said proudly.

The smile vanished. She furrowed her brow. “You found them? You didn’t fish them out of the trash, did you?”

“No, no!” Ray said, waving his hand, “They’re clean, they’re clean, alright? From a vending machine. Totally luxury. I swear.”

Paula rummaged through the pile. “Some of these look so familiar,” she said distantly. She picked a bag of Swedish Fish. “These are pleasing to the eye. I think I’ve had these.”

Ray couldn’t have explained what Swedish Fish were. He wasn’t sure he’d even heard the name before. But somehow, he had a gut sensation that liking them was an incorrect perspective.

He took the soda bottle and fiddled around with it. He hadn’t realized bottle caps were so difficult to remove. Suddenly the raven jumped down from his shoulder and took the cap in his mouth, twisting his beak to the side until it flung off and bounced down the cement to the rows of seats far below their dangling feet.

“Ah. Thank you, Hitchcock.”

“You named that thing?”

“I did name that ‘thing’, and I think he appreciates it.”

He poured half the bottle into his cup, and half into hers, and they took sips of the fizzy soda. It was the strangest sensation—like his mouth was sparkling, and his nose burning, but not in an unpleasant way.

The sky seemed to fizz, too, as the setting sun sent sparks of bright orange to the edges of great cumulus clouds so vast they stretched directly above Ray’s head. From here the entire earth seemed to be dipped in a golden haze, like the light itself was a tangible veil hanging in the air. In the distance, the humidity in the air made the city skyline faint and misty.

He glanced over at Paula. She was sitting hunched forward, as if trying to submerge herself deeper into the sunset, staying completely still. He looked back down at the cup in his hands and watched in admiration of the sun’s reflection in the drink, and pretended he’d caught a part of the sun to keep.

“I’m supposed to be better than this,” Paula said suddenly.

Ray looked at her quietly. He’d envisioned snacking and looking at pretty colors, but evidently the sunset was making her introspective.

“None of this was supposed to happen,” she said.

Ray wanted to say, Well, there’s really no way of knowing that if you can’t remember anything about your life, but he stopped the words from blurting out.

“I think all of this was supposed to happen,” he said instead.

Paula looked at him doubtfully. “You’re not upset? It doesn’t mess with you, knowing there’s a massive gaping hole in your life? Or not even a hole, just an expanse of nothing up until a few days ago?”

He fidgeted with his cup, moving it so that the soda swirled and made a tiny carbonated whirlpool. “No, not really. It’s like, I don’t know what I’m missing. You know? I can’t be sad about something I can’t even remember. Maybe my life totally sucked before. I don’t know.”

“But maybe it didn’t. Maybe you had a family that loved you, and friends, and a nice house.”

Ray scratched his head thoughtfully. “I mean, either way, it’s not something that can be helped. It’s not an actionable thing. So I don’t see a point in upsetting myself over it.”

“I just feel like—like—” She was digging her nails into her scalp. “Like something was stolen from me. You know? Like I’m supposed to be doing something. Achieving things. And now, maybe it’ll all be nothing. Maybe I’ll do nothing. Maybe this is it, and I’ll just sit back and this is life now, and I’ll just let this be my entire life forever. Living in a hole in the ground, and eating expired food, and never knowing what the hell is wrong with me.”

“I don’t think you’re the kind of person to do that,” he said.

Paula threw her hands up. “I don’t know! Maybe I am! Maybe I am the kind of person to always do that. How could I know otherwise?”

“I haven’t known you for very long, and even I feel like I already know otherwise.”

She turned her head to face him. “Maybe I’m dangerous. Maybe I’m a bad person. Maybe I’ll hurt you.”

He eyed her. “Will you?”

Hitchcock croaked.

“I don’t know, I don’t think so, but I don’t know! I don’t know myself.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “you need to relax. Right now—in this moment—everything is okay.”

“Is it?”

“Dude, we’re alive,” he said. “We woke up in a dying stadium in the middle of an island with zero memory of who we are, all janked-up and bruised, and we’re surviving.” He lifted his head and watched the sun burning red as it lowered itself beneath the darkening horizon. “That’s pretty crazy. All things considered, I think we’re killing it.”

Paula’s eyes wandered to the rows of old plastic seats far below and took a deep breath. In the darkening atmosphere, the light from her eyes was becoming more visible behind her shades, and her cheeks glowed in the warm radiance. Even at this altitude, the light was attracting moths that flitted about her face.

Ray raised his cup and nudged Paula’s. “C’mon, cheers me. To killing it.”

If she’d had visible pupils, he was sure she’d have rolled her eyes at him. But she grabbed her cup and touched it to his. “To killing it.”