Severance Read online

  Opening up the book, I saw, on the inside front cover, written in frilly teen cursive script, the name of its owner. Property of Paige Marie Gower.

  I enacted an old ritual from product-coordinating days. With my eyes closed, I opened the Daily Grace Bible to a random page and placed my finger on the text. I’d read whatever verse I touched.

  And David said unto God, I am in a great strait: let us fall now into the hand of the Lord; for his mercies are great: and let me not fall into the hand of man.

  It was then that I heard it, a quiet sound, like paper rustling. I put the book down. I stood up, slowly, and approached the windows, where the sound was coming from. As I approached, I spotted something beneath the curtains. A pair of socked feet, red polka dots on orange.

  I drew the curtains back.

  It was a girl, twelve or thirteen years old. She was reading, or assuming the act of reading. She turned a page, looked at it for a few seconds, and then turned the page again. It was upside down. I craned my neck. A Wrinkle in Time, a vintage pink edition. As she read, she chewed her hair, a strand in her mouth. In fact, she was literally chewing all of her hair off. That was the sound that I was hearing, hair chewing and the turning of pages. The carpet around her was covered with strands of auburn hair.

  She was fevered, obviously. She was thin from malnourishment, bruises running down her discolored, impossibly bony legs. Mosquitoes feasted on her open sores. Her bare calves were sticky with some kind of dried liquid. On the windowsill was a glass of possibly orange juice with a whitish mold growing in it. Periodically, she reached up for it and drank the rotted juice.

  The sight took me away. I stepped back slowly, still holding the Bible in my hands.

  This was probably Paige Marie Gower. Her mother had set out four place settings in the dining room. The fourth seat was probably reserved for her.

  I heard the sound of Bob’s rifle down the hallway, heading toward the study.

  I closed the curtain on Paige and arranged myself in an armchair, pretending to look through the Bible.

  How is it coming along? he asked.

  I found this Bible, I said, holding it up unnecessarily.

  Good. Bob nodded. We’ll take it.

  There’s not much else in here, just a lot of children’s books.

  We’re about to wrap up. Meet us in the dining room for a poststalk. Bob was about to turn away, then stopped. He stood still and looked around.

  In my haste, I had not drawn the curtains fully as to obscure Paige Marie Gower entirely. Her socks peeped out from underneath the curtains. I held my breath. I looked elsewhere, at the children’s books on the shelves. So many were ones that I had read myself as a kid, when my mother would take me to the library every week. Anne of Green Gables. The Secret Garden. Matilda.

  The sound of a page turning, quick, like paper ripping.

  Bob was now walking around the room, trying to track the sound down. He drew aside the curtains. A long, terrible moment passed.

  He turned to me. How did you not see her? he asked, although he already knew. He could read it all over my face.

  Come with us to the dining room, he said. He swung his carbine behind him and yelled for Adam. Together, they grabbed Paige Marie Gower and dragged her down the hall and toward the dining room. I scurried behind, dreading what was to come. They were rounding Paige in with the rest of her family, to join in the cycle of endless dinners.

  Todd had gathered everyone.

  At the end of every live stalk, we had another stalking rite. Everyone had to observe it. We crowded around the doorway of the dining room. Through the window, the sun was setting. In front of us, there was Mrs. Gower, going through the plates with her French-manicured nails, now overgrown, dirtied, and broken. And Mr. Gower and his son, running their tongues over the plates. Paige Gower had sat down at the table.

  Bob began. So, I realize now that Candace has gone on a few stalks with us, we should properly explain to her our poststalks. Can someone fill her in?

  When it’s a live stalk, we kill them at the end, Todd supplied.

  No, we don’t kill them, we release them, Bob corrected. And why do we do that?

  It’s the humane thing to do, Genevieve replied. Rather than having them cycle through the same routines, during which they degenerate, we put them out of their misery right away.

  Bob removed his bad arm from his sling, which he wore inconsistently. He needed both hands to work the M1 carbine.

  This is how Bob shot Mrs. Gower, Mr. Gower, and Gower Jr., one after the other, all in a row. Each sustained a brusque, merciful shot to the head. Like slumbering bears in a fairy tale, one by one they slumped over their dinner plates.

  Bob turned to me. Now you go. I’ve left you one more target. The girl behind the curtains, whom you apparently didn’t see.

  I flushed and tried to refrain. I’m not really good at shooting.

  Let this be a lesson to you to be more observant next time. Here. He put his carbine in my hands. It was heavy, still warm, sticky as if he’d been eating candy all afternoon.

  I grasped it halfheartedly, its long, lean shape bundled awkwardly in my arms. I’ve never done this before, I protested.

  It’s okay. Here, let me do it, Janelle said. She reached for the carbine, but Bob stopped her.

  No, he said. This is for Candace only. She should do it. He turned to the rest of the group. Okay, now let’s see Candace shoot.

  The first shot blasted through the window, its recoil force ricocheting through my shoulder, searing it with an afterburn that was so deep I almost cried out. The second shot pierced through the chandelier and shards of crystal rained over the dinner table. Paige Gower barely glanced up.

  Jesus, someone—was it Todd?—muttered in the background.

  Steady, Bob said. Hold it firmly. He adjusted the gun.

  The third shot hit a place setting, piercing through the porcelain of a salad plate. Paige Gower did not flinch. The fourth shot hit her in the arm, at which point she registered something. Her eyes widened and she started to get up. The fifth shot hit her in the stomach, and the ensuing cries were weak little bays, attempts at protesting more than actual pleading.

  At this point, everyone was beginning to get impatient.

  Okay, look, Bob said. He was speaking slowly. You have to put some intent into this. If you do this without intent, it’s not going to work. Locate your target. Focus on it.

  I let my gaze rest on Paige Gower’s face. The target was the forehead. In the moments before we shot them, they looked at us with crocodile eyes, knowing our difference.

  She raised her blue eyes and looked at me, as the sixth shot hit her in the cheek, and then the seventh reached the forehead. The eighth shot hit her in the arm, the ninth in the stomach, the tenth in the eye, which spurted. At some point, I lost track of what I was shooting. I just kept shooting, my hands welded to the humming carbine by someone else’s sticky candy, every shot pulsing through me like a spark of electricity. She was probably obediently dead by now, but still I was shooting, past the death barrier and into someplace else, I don’t know where. Where else is there to go. I kept going.

  A cool, light hand touched my back. That’s enough, Janelle said.

  I stopped. There was a strange rattling sound in the room, a shallow, irregular wheezing. It took me a moment to realize it was the sound of my phlegmy, panicked breath.

  Bob broke the silence. Good job, he said.

  5

  So, tell me a bit about yourself.

  I took a breath. Well, I was a Visual Studies major. I studied photography. And I am impressed by—here, I glanced around the office, filled with a swarm of books on the shelves—the book projects that Spectra has produced. I’m familiar with many of the art titles here.

  Well, this position isn’t about art appreciation, Michael Reitman said. His desktop pinged with another email, and he glanced at the screen briefly, momentarily distracted from my unimpressive answer. He picked up a pr
intout in front of him, skimmed over it. Your résumé doesn’t tell me much. Is your interest in being an artist or is your interest in working in book production?

  I hesitated. I do dabble in photography. But obviously, that doesn’t pay the bills.

  Okay. I don’t mean to be blunt, he said, leaning back in his chair. We get a lot of aspiring artists and designers applying here, thinking that they’re going to be involved in book design or that they’re going to be part of the art world. This position is not about that. It’s about project management. We work with publishers in New York and printers in Southeast Asia. It’s about logistics. It’s about making sure the right people have the right information at the right time.

  I nodded slowly, realizing how little Steven had told me about the position.

  Did my brother tell you what this job entailed? Michael asked, as if reading my mind.

  He said it’s an assistant position. That’s all he mentioned.

  Typical, Michael muttered under his breath, which made me wonder how many girls Steven had sent here, that maybe this entire place was staffed with girls who’d once bedded Steven Reitman.

  Well, let me backtrack by explaining what this company does, he said. He swiveled around in his chair, plucked a case off the shelves behind him, and set it down in front of me. It was a white coffee table book, with an irregularly pleated jacket cover. I riffled through the pages carefully, recognizing the designs of Rei Kawakubo, Yohji Yamamoto. It was a book on the history of Japanese fashion.

  We help publishers produce specialty book projects at printers and suppliers overseas. They contract these projects out to us, we contract them out to the manufacturing plants, typically in Southeast Asia. Now, you’ll notice that the books we focus on often require more labor-intensive work. You see this pleated cover?

  Yes, it’s a beautiful book.

  This publisher specifically wanted a pleated feature to recall—I can’t remember the designer’s name. He’s well-known for pleats?

  Issey Miyake, I supplied.

  Right. Issey Miyake. He smiled for the first time. So this pleated cover requires a certain hand detail work that printers here in the United States and even in Canada just aren’t capable of. It’s cheaper to produce more labor-intensive book projects like this in Southeast Asia, even factoring in the cost of shipping. To say nothing about the four-color printing.

  Four-color printing?

  CMYK, which is cyan, magenta, yellow, and black. Essentially, color printing. Almost all of that is done overseas nowadays. But you don’t have to worry about color printing, because the position we’re looking for is in our Bibles division. What do you know about Bibles?

  Well, I grew up going to Sunday school. I had this Precious Moments–themed Bible. It was this powder blue. All the kids had that Bible, either in pink or blue.

  Uh-huh.

  I hesitated, intimidated by Michael’s intricate knowledge. I can’t say that I have any Bible production experience, though. Or, really, any book production experience.

  No one does, he said gently. What we do here is very specialized. But that’s not what’s important to me. What’s important to me is that you’re organized, that you’re detailed and meticulous. He lowered his voice confidingly, in a way that reminded me of his brother. Our last production assistant quit. I suspect he found the work too tedious, and he grew bored easily. But this job is only as boring as you make it.

  I know I don’t have that much work experience, I said, but I am organized and meticulous, as you mention. I worked an office job at a federal home loans bank, mostly filing papers and inputting data. Working with other people’s accounts, I had to be very careful and thorough. I think I could do well in this position.

  He glanced at my résumé printout again. So when you worked at this bank, it was during a year you took off from college. Why not just finish college first?

  It was a family situation. My mother was ill. I liked working in an office. It took my mind off things.

  He nodded, appearing to soften. I’m sorry to hear that. That’s certainly a priority.

  My eyes flickered over the pictures on his desk, showing his wife and two preteen kids. A family man.

  He shifted in his chair, looked at me closely. Steven said that you pick things up quick, that you’re very detail-oriented. You came on his highest recommendation.

  That’s nice of him, I replied, thinking of that Windsor knot I tied, the warm silk in my fingers.

  He studied me. You say you like working in an office.

  I do. I like the routine.

  Michael nodded, stood up decisively. Let me get Blythe. She should meet you.

  After he left the office, I looked around: a bleached wood desk, a Noguchi coffee table, and a sleek chaise longue. Upholstered in black leather, it would not have looked out of place in a psychiatrist’s office. I had seen this model in design magazines. If the walls weren’t made of glass, I would have lain down on it to see how it felt. Maybe that’s what he did. Maybe that’s what power would feel like, napping publicly while everyone in the office scurries on with their tasks around you. I thought of Lenin’s tomb, his preserved body on display in Moscow, remembering a photograph from a book my father owned about the rise of communism.

  Michael appeared with someone who had to be Blythe. She looked young, maybe only a few years older than me, but infinitely more pulled together.

  This is Blythe, product coordinator in our Bibles division. You’ll be working closely with her, Michael said.

  Wait, so I have the job? I asked, glancing at both of them.

  Michael paused. Well, first we’ll put you on a three-month trial period. But we’re thinking you can start next Monday. HR will review the terms of the position with you.

  Blythe smiled and extended her hand. We just need someone quickly, she said in a manner that suggested I should calm down. I’ll be making a trip to Shenzhen in another few weeks, to check on a print run. You’ll come with me, and I can show you the exciting world of Bible manufacture.

  Thank you, I said, trying to cover my surprise at the pace of things. I look forward to it.

  Michael looked at me. Do you have a passport?

  6

  On every trip to Shenzhen, I always stayed at the Grand Shenzhen Moon Palace Hotel. It is not a hyperbolic name, because the hotel and its expansive grounds, featuring tennis courts, a rolling golf course, and an English-style rose garden, all enclosed by feudal iron gates, are indeed grand and palatial. If there is anything false in the name, it’s the Shenzhen part, because you wouldn’t know from staying there that it is located anywhere remotely in Shenzhen, let alone in China.

  But the first time I went to Shenzhen, I shadowed Blythe on her visits to various printers and suppliers. We had flown into the Hong Kong airport. A white van with tinted windows, sent by one of the printers, picked us up and chauffeured us over the mainland border to Shenzhen. The two cities were less than an hour apart, but crossing into mainland China, we had to go through customs a second time. The weather felt more humid on this side.

  It was a relief, then, after a twenty-hour journey, to step into the sweeping, aggressively air-conditioned marble lobby of the Grand Shenzhen Moon Palace Hotel. Blythe handed some documents to the Chinese attendant at the checkin counter. Someone came to show us to our rooms and helped us with our bags. The lobby opened up to a grand atrium of several floors. The rooms were seemingly arranged in a maze. My room and Blythe’s room were across the hallway from each other.

  What do we do now? I asked Blythe.

  Now we rest. Even if you’re not tired, jet lag catches up to you. Charge whatever you need to your room. She fiddled with her key card at her door.

  What about tomorrow? I asked. She had told me our itinerary, but now I felt disoriented and unsure.

  Our first appointment is tomorrow morning. We’ll meet in the lobby at nine and then head out to the printer. The door clicked open, and she stepped inside. Sensing my disappointment,
she assured me: Don’t worry, we’ll have fun when we’re in Hong Kong.

  My room at the Grand Shenzhen Moon Palace Hotel was pleasant and nondescript, except for an intricate navy bedspread, embroidered with phoenixes in elaborate plumage rising to the moon. The place smelled like fake, sweet peach candy. The motorized curtains opened to a sweeping view of the estate. Off in the distance, a handful of white businessmen in polo shirts and khakis played golf, cigars hanging out of their mouths.

  Feeling restless, I paced around the hotel. The carpeting was so plush and springy that I felt as if I were on another planet, one with weaker gravitational pull. I took the elevator to all the different floors. There were three restaurants of differing cuisines: an upscale European bistro, an Asian tapas lounge, and an Italian trattoria. There were two gift shops, a specialty one that sold silk ties and jade paperweights, and a cheaper one that sold Hong Kong souvenirs, even though we weren’t technically in Hong Kong. There was a gym, and on the same floor a swimming pool. A water-aerobics class was in session, a tall Nordic man practicing leg lunges in the shallow end.

  I circled back to the lobby and out the front entrance. I meandered down the long, winding driveway to the edge of the estate, looking for something. It didn’t feel like I was in China. It didn’t feel like I was anywhere.

  I had only returned to China once since my parents had immigrated. I’d visited Fuzhou during high school. My father had been sick, and the trip was understood as a peacemaking attempt with his relatives, who had felt abandoned after he’d moved to the States. I saw all of my relatives, many of whom I remembered and some I did not. My grandmother cried upon seeing me. My contact with them has been intermittent at best.