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As we walked, the sounds of the city grew slowly louder and the smell improved because we were close to open air. The gray light grew larger until we reached the edge of the tunnel. It was open and unfinished--the tiny trickle of water that was supposed to be diverted from the White River was instead dripping down into it, two stories below us.
I looked up. It was past ten o'clock, but I'd never seen the city look so blindingly bright. I could see everything: the green moss on the boulders in the river below; the golden frothy bubbles at the base of the waterfall; the trees in the distance bent over the water like the roof of a chapel; the power lines sagging across the river below us; a great silver grain mill absurdly still in the moonlight; neon Speedway and Chase Bank signs in the distance.
Indianapolis is so flat you can never really look down on it; it's not a town with million-dollar views. But now I had one, in the most unexpected place, the city stretching out below and beyond me, and it took a minute before I remembered that this was nighttime, that this silver-lit landscape is what passed, aboveground, for darkness.
Daisy surprised me by sitting down, her legs dangling over the concrete edge. I sat down on the other side of the trickle of water, and we looked at the same scene together for a long time.
We went out to the meadow that night, talking about college and kissing and religion and art, and I didn't feel like I was watching a movie of our conversation. I was having it. I could listen to her, and I knew she was listening to me.
"I wonder if they'll ever finish this thing," Daisy said at one point.
"I kind of hope not," I said. "I mean, I'm all for clean water, but I kind of want to be able to come here again in like ten or twenty years or something. Like, instead of going to my high school reunion, I want to be here." With you, I wanted to say.
"Yeah," she said. "Keep Pogue's Run filthy, because the view from the unfinished water treatment tunnel is spectacular. Thanks, Russell Pickett, for your corruption and incompetence."
"Pogue's Run," I mumbled. "Wait, where does Pogue's Run start? Where is its mouth?"
"The mouth of a river is where it ends, not where it begins. This is the mouth." I watched her realize it. "Pogue's Run. Holy shit, Holmesy. We're in the jogger's mouth."
I stood up. I felt for some reason like Pickett might be right behind us, like he might push us off the edge
of his tunnel and into the river below. "Now I'm a little freaked out," I said.
"What are we gonna do?"
"Nothing," I said. "Nothing. We're gonna turn around, walk back to the party, hang out with fancy art people, and get home by curfew." I started walking back toward the distant music. "I'll tell Davis, so he knows. We let him decide whether to tell Noah. Other than that, we don't say a word."
"All right," she said, hustling to catch up to me. "I mean, is he down here right now?"
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think it's for us to know."
"Right," she said. "How could he have been down here this whole time, though?" I had a guess, but didn't say anything. "God, that smell . . ." she said, her voice trailing off as she said it.
--
You'd think solving mysteries would bring you closure, that closing the loop would comfort and quiet your mind. But it never does. The truth always disappoints. As we circulated around the gallery, looking for Mychal, I didn't feel like I'd found the solid nesting doll or anything. Nothing had been fixed, not really. It was like the zoologist said about science: You never really find answers, just new and deeper questions.
We finally found Mychal leaning against the wall opposite his photograph, talking to two older women. Daisy cut in and took his hand. "I hate to break up this party," she said, "but this famous artist has a curfew."
Mychal laughed, and the three of us made our way out of the tunnel, into the silver-bright parking lot, and then into Mychal's minivan. The moment my door slid shut, he said, "That was the best night of my life thank you for being there oh my God that was just the best thing that's ever happened to me I feel like I might be an artist, like a proper one. That was so, so amazing. Did you guys have fun?"
"Tell us all about it," Daisy said, not exactly answering his question.
--
When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a mug of tea. "What is that smell?" she asked.
"Sewage, body odor, mold--a mix of things."
"I'm worried, Aza. I'm worried you're losing your connection to reality."
"I'm not," I said. "I'm just tired."
"Tonight, you're gonna stay up and talk to me."
"About what?"
"About where you were, what you were doing, who you were doing it with. About your life."
