“Right,” Alex said. “Harvey, did you find someplace?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Harvey said. “But the arrangements are all made. A van’ll pick you up and take you direct to this place outside Gainesville, Florida. It’s one of those safe towns for important people’s families. Plenty of food. Electricity. Schools. Even a hospital. Wish I could get into a joint like that.” He spit contemptuously. “I’d rather die here than in one of those evac centers,” he said. “Glad you won’t have that problem anymore.”
“Harvey, thank you,” Alex said. “How soon can we go?”
Harvey smiled. “How soon can you bring your sister to me? The cute little spitfire?” he asked.
“Could the van pick us up at our apartment instead?” Alex asked. “I don’t think Bri can walk this far.”
“No problem,” Harvey said. “Let me know when you can get the spitfire up here, and the van’ll be waiting to take you back to your place for the other one. This’ll work out great for you, Alex. You and that sick sister of yours will be just fine, and you won’t ever have to worry about the spitfire. I can’t name names, but the man who’s taking her is very well connected.”
Alex stared at Harvey. “You expect me to trade Julie?” he asked. “She’s my sister.”
“So what?” Harvey said. “You have another.”
Alex wanted to strangle Harvey, choke him so hard his rotting teeth would fly out. But without Harvey there wouldn’t be enough food for any of them to live.
He pulled his lips apart in what he hoped resembled a smile. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Thanks anyway, Harvey. I appreciate the offer, but I can’t accept.”
Harvey shrugged. “It was the best I could do,” he said. “There’ll always be a market for her, but I can’t guarantee door-to-door service to Florida.”
“I understand,” Alex said. He put his hand out to shake Harvey’s. “No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings,” Harvey said.
Alex put the vegetables and the juice boxes and the spinach and the lima beans and the rice and the Cheerios into his backpack. “See you next week,” he said, trying not to tremble as he put his coat back on.
Harvey nodded.
Alex walked out of the store and went around the corner. There was no food in his body, but that didn’t stop him from heaving until he collapsed from horror and exhaustion.
Monday, November 21
Alex confessed his sins, including homicidal thoughts, to Father Franco on Saturday and spent the rest of the day in silent prayer and fasting. He didn’t eat again until after Mass on Sunday, and he used the twelve flights of stairs he climbed by Bri’s side to meditate on the twelve stations of the cross.
By Sunday night he’d made his plan. The only thing that had held him back for so long, he acknowledged, was his false pride. And nowadays, pride could kill.
He didn’t think twice about the easy deceptions of Monday morning. Body shopping with Kevin, neither one of them doing much talking. Going back to the apartment with the little he’d garnered. Saying hi to Bri, awake but still in bed. Urging Julie to get ready for school, since they always ran late on Mondays. Going into Vincent de Paul, placing his backpack in his locker, and leaving without a word to Father Mulrooney or any of his other teachers. Boys came in and out now, and no one seemed to care.
He took out the card Chris Flynn had handed him so long ago, and checked the address, even though he’d committed it to memory. West Fifty-second Street, farther south than Alex had been since he’d gone to the Port Authority back in May.
It felt weird to see the skyscrapers once brimming with life and now half dead. But even half dead was busier than his neighborhood, and the people he saw walked with purpose. They were the important people, he realized, the ones with connections, the ones whose families were safe. Everything about them was cleaner, even their face masks. And they still had flesh on their bodies; not a single one was a walking skeleton. Alex wondered what it must be like, not to be hungry and dirty and scared. Although if they were sane, they were scared.
He hoped the people wouldn’t notice he didn’t belong and force him back uptown before he saw Mr. Flynn. All his life he’d had moments of feeling like an outsider—in his family because he loved school so much, at school because his family had so little money. But he’d never felt like an outsider in New York before. Now he did and it frightened him.
As he walked south of Central Park, he found there were no corpses and no rats. Either people were healthier midtown or the body collecting was more efficient. Either way, it showed that there was more than one New York, and this was the one that counted.
He fingered Mr. Flynn’s business card like rosary beads. He couldn’t even be sure Chris’s father was still in New York.
But there was no one left Alex could turn to who might possibly help. Bri’s and Julie’s lives depended on it. He paused for a moment outside the office building, prayed to Christ for strength and mercy, then straightened his tie and walked in.
There was a sole security guard in the otherwise empty lobby. “Yeah?” he said.
“I’m here to see Robert Flynn,” Alex said. “Danforth Global Insurance. He’s a vice president.”
“He expecting you?” the guard asked, his hand starting for the gun in his holster.
“He knows who I am,” Alex said. “I’m a friend of his son’s. I have his business card.”
“Well, that means a lot,” the guard said. “Let me frisk you.”
Alex walked over and stood absolutely still as the guard ran his hands over him. At least he wasn’t armed with a can of pineapple.
“Okay, I guess you won’t kill him,” the guard said. “Let me check. Yeah, Flynn’s a level six. You’ll find him on the sixth floor somewhere. Stairs are over there.”
“Are the elevators running?” Alex asked.
“Don’t matter,” the guard said. “Elevators are only for executives. You take the stairs.”
“All right,” Alex said. He walked over to where the guard had pointed and began the climb. So far so good.
He opened the fire door to the sixth floor, then checked all the doors until he found one with a handwritten sign saying, dgi, Robert flynn. He knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Alex opened the door. He didn’t know what to expect, but he’d thought there’d be some people, maybe a receptionist, waiting behind the door. Instead there was that same look of desertion he’d become accustomed to: no people, but boxes filled with papers covering the furniture and the floor. But the room was warm, maybe as warm as sixty-five. One office door was open and Alex walked over to it.
“Mr. Flynn?” he asked, but there was no need. The man behind the desk looked like an older, much wearier version of Chris. It shook Alex up to see him, as though he’d caught a glimpse of what Chris was going to look like in thirty years. Assuming Chris was alive in thirty years.
“Yes?”
“My name is Alex Morales. I don’t know if you remember, but I was in school with Chris. St. Vincent de Paul Academy?”
Mr. Flynn stared at Alex. “Oh yes,” he said. “Alex. Chris’s friend. Chris spoke of you often.”
“How is Chris?” Alex asked. “Does he like South Carolina?”
“Does anyone like anything these days?” Mr. Flynn replied. “He’s fine, I suppose. I haven’t heard anything in a while, but the last I knew he was in school. How are things at Vincent de Paul? Is it still open?”
“Yes sir,” Alex said. “There aren’t a lot of teachers left, but we’re still learning.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Flynn said. “Sit down, Alex. I’ll be sure to tell Chris I saw you.”
“Please do,” Alex said. “I apologize for bothering you, sir, but Chris told me if I ever had a problem, a really big one, I could turn to you for help. That was right before he left.”
“I hope it’s a problem I can solve,” Mr. Flynn said. “It feels like a long time since I’ve been able to solv
e a problem.”
“It’s my sisters,” Alex said. “Briana and Julie. Bri’s fifteen and she has asthma. It began this summer and it’s left her very weak. Julie’s thirteen and she’s tough, but she’s a girl, it you know what I mean, sir.”
“Where are your parents?” Mr. Flynn asked. “Can’t they help?”
“They’re gone,” Alex said, surprised at how much it still hurt to say it. “They’ve been gone since the beginning. We have a brother, but he’s in the Marines. I’m the head of the family now.”
“You’re just a kid yourself,” Mr. Flynn said. “How old are you, eighteen?”
“Next month,” Alex replied. “We’ve been managing all right, up until now. Do you remember Chris’s friend Kevin Daley? He’s been a big help.”
“The weaselly one?” Mr. Flynn asked with a laugh. “I haven’t thought about him in months. Is that it? Kevin’s all you have?”
“The church, too,” Alex said. “But it’s done all it can for us. I know there are evacuation centers, but Bri wouldn’t survive in one, and Julie has to be protected. That’s why I’ve come to you. I don’t know where else to turn.”
Mr. Flynn nodded. “We have to move fast,” he said. “For your sisters’ sake and for your own.”
“I can stay on,” Alex said. “I can manage on my own, especially if I know Bri and Julie are safe.”
“You might be all right now, but not for much longer,” Mr. Flynn said. “Listen to me, Alex, as if I were your father. New York City is on life support. It’s being kept alive for as long as it takes to get everything out of it that must be removed. Do you have any idea how complicated it is to transport things? Papers, computers, people? Scores of embassies, all of the United Nations? Every piece of art from the Metropolitan Museum and all the other museums we used to take for granted? Gutenberg Bibles. First Shakespeare folios. Cleopatra’s Needle, for God’s sake. You can’t just carry a Rembrandt out of town. Everything has to be labeled and cataloged and shipped to a safe location. Originally the plan was to move New York City out to Nevada. The rich and the mighty, not people like you and your sisters. The president, the mayor, the heads of the Fortune 500: All those people debated where we should go and when and how. For better or worse, our president is an optimistic person. He didn’t listen when the scientists said Nevada wasn’t such a good idea. Then the volcanoes started to erupt and Nevada no longer worked, and then the cold set in, and no place seemed to work, but the rich and the mighty still had to go someplace, and so did the Rembrandts. So they’re keeping New York alive a little longer. But as soon as they can, they’ll pull the plug and let the city die. It will anyway. It’s an island, Alex, and islands can’t survive in this world, not anymore. Get out while you can.”
“Thank you,” Alex said. “If you can get Bri and Julie to a safe place, I’ll leave New York. I can manage in an evac center, until I can figure out a way of getting us all back together.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Flynn said. “I can get all of you out if we move fast enough.” He got up and walked over to the wall and removed a painting, revealing a wall safe. He spun the lock a few times, pulled out some envelopes, and then, finding the one he was looking for, put everything back in the safe, and hid it once again.
Just like in the movies, Alex thought. A perfect place for a winning lottery ticket.
“Here are three passes,” Mr. Flynn said, handing Alex three cards. “They’re guaranteed passage and housing for my three family members. I applied for them when this all happened, but I was able to get my wife and children out before the passes arrived. I’ve held on to them ever since, figuring they’d be valuable someday, and now they are.”
Alex stared at the three cards that would carry his sisters and himself to a place of safety.
Mr. Flynn rifled through a sheet of papers. “People leave in convoys,” he said. “I haven’t kept track of where they’re sending families now, because mine is safe and sound in South Carolina. But I know the safe towns are in the south, inland, and they have police and medical facilities and food and schools. That I can guarantee you. The next convoy leaves on November twenty-eighth, but reservations have to be made two weeks in advance, so that doesn’t do us any good. Okay, the one after that is December twelfth. When’s your birthday?”
“December twenty-second,” Alex said.
“You’ll just make it, then,” Mr. Flynn said. “Dependents have to be under the age of eighteen. You’ll need to bring your birth certificates and proof of residency.” He pulled out a piece of business stationery from under a pile. “Is Julie a nickname?” he asked. “What about Alex?”
“Julie is Julie,” Alex replied. “Legally I’m Alejandro.”
“All right,” Mr. Flynn said, writing furiously. “Alejandro, Briana, and Julie Morales are now my legal wards. If they give you any grief about the passes, give them this letter. I’ll be making the reservations, so it shouldn’t be a problem. And here’s the list of what you can take with you. Not much, as you can see, but the town they’ll take you to should be fully supplied.”
“Thank you,” Alex said, taking the papers from him.
“The convoy leaves out of Port Authority at two Pm on Monday, December twelfth,” Mr. Flynn said. “Get there by eleven. Maybe Kevin Daley’s father could drive you down. He’s in trucking.” He paused. “No, on second thought, don’t ask him. Don’t tell anyone about the passes; they’re too valuable. Don’t tell anyone you’re leaving New York until the day you go.”
Alex nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Flynn,” he said. “You’re saving my sisters’ lives.”
“Yours, too,” Mr. Flynn said. “I couldn’t look Chris in the eye and tell him I let you die along with the city. I always appreciated what you did for Chris. Until he had you to compete against, he assumed winning came automatically. You gave him valuable lessons in losing. My guess is those lessons are helping him survive today.”
“The lessons he taught me have helped me survive, too,” Alex said. “Thank you, Mr. Flynn, for everything. I’ll be in your debt forever.”
“Stay alive,” Mr. Flynn said. “That will be payment enough.”
Thursday, November 24
There wasn’t pumpkin pie at St. Margaret’s Thanksgiving dinner, but there was pumpkin pudding in meringue shells. The string beans obviously came from a can but someone had thrown in some slivered almonds; the sweet potatoes had marshmallows mixed in, and there was enough stuffing for everybody. There was punch and even some apple juice. So what if there was no turkey.
Only eighteen more days until they were safely out of New York. Of all the secrets Alex had kept in the past six months, this was the only one that made him smile. He didn’t care that he had no idea where he and his sisters would end up. Maybe it would be Florida or maybe Oklahoma or Texas or someplace altogether different. It wouldn’t be the paradise Julie had fantasized about, with sunlight and clean air. But it would be safe and there’d be food and medicine, and from there they could make a fresh start.
For the first time in months, Alex allowed himself to think about the future. If he was too old to go to school, he could get a job. Towns couldn’t exist without workers. If he could leave and come back, he thought he might try to find Carlos or Uncle Jimmy. If not, he would stay on as a laborer until Bri and Julie were taken care of. It wouldn’t surprise him if, after high school, Bri entered a convent. Julie would probably find a guy while she was in high school and get pregnant, the way Mami had.
Alex finished his pumpkin pudding and grinned. If anyone had told him seven months ago that he’d be looking forward to a future where his kid sister had a baby before she turned eighteen and he would be a laborer instead of a college grad, he would have been furious. But now it sounded like-heaven on earth.
It seemed like everyone left on the Upper West Side was at St. Margaret’s that afternoon. What remained of the Vincent de Paul and Holy Angels faculties sat at one table, laughing together. Harvey sat at another, gumming aw
ay at his food. Alex couldn’t even hate him anymore. Life, for once, was too good for him to feel angry.
As he and his sisters walked home, they heard some noise on Ninetieth Street.
“What is that?” Julie asked, and Alex could see her tense up.
Bri looked puzzled. “It sounds like people having fun,” she said. “Hear? I think they’re laughing.”
The idea of people actually enjoying themselves was so implausible, they lost all fear and went to look. There, on Ninetieth and Columbus, were a dozen men playing touch football.
One of them spotted Alex and his sisters. “Come on,” he yelled. “We could use more players.”
Alex gestured to his sisters. “What about them?” he asked.
“Cheerleaders!” the guy called back.
“Can we?” Julie asked. “Oh, Alex, please.”
Alex looked at Julie and Bri. Half the football players were coughing from the polluted air. Bri couldn’t possibly stay out long. But none of them had had any fun since Julie’s birthday. “Just for a few minutes,” he said. “Bri, you watch.”
“All right,” Bri said, but she was bursting with excitement also. They crossed the street and joined the crowd.
“It’s not Thanksgiving without football,” one of the guys said.
“Touch football,” another said. “No helmets, no hits.”
“No Cowboys, either,” the first man said. “Jets versus Giants.”
“We need another guy on our team!” another man yelled. “Come on, kid. You’re a Giant.”
And for one glorious moment, that was just how Alex felt.
Tuesday, November 29
There had been eighteen seniors in St. Vincent de Paul Academy before the Thanksgiving break. Now there were five. Alex figured most of them had gone on the convoy the day before.
James Flaherty was one of the newly missing. It worried Alex to see him gone. His father was a doctor, and Alex had counted on him to get more cartridges for Bri’s inhaler when she ran out.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. Bri had enough until they made it to the safe town, a place with doctors and hospitals and real medicine.
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