The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

He cups the corner of his mouth with a hand. “I’d be scared to be left alone with these guys.”

  “Your elderly Catholic lady did a great job.”

  “She made me three of them. I was told one is for Sundays. And, see?” He shows me two pockets she built into the seams, and a fabric loop on either side. “For my knife.”

  “Almost makes me want to be a monk.”

  Brother David smiles sadly. “I like you, Sylvia. It’s too bad you’re going to burn in the hellfires.”

  I stare, flummoxed, until he laughs riotously. “I feel like you might need more priest training,” I say as Jorge nears. “Our friendly neighborhood priest just told me I was doomed to burn in eternal damnation.”

  “I could’ve told you that,” Jorge says.

  He hugs me close when I squeal and keeps his arm around me as we light our way past a hundred paintings of what could be the same old white man. One room has been smashed to bits, and the remains of glass cases sparkle on the floor. The placards say it contained sets of silver tea service, and I wonder aloud who’s now drinking from Paul Revere silver.

  “Probably Teddy,” Paul says.

  We hit daylight at the Temple of Dendur: a sandstone temple in a glass atrium. It used to be that you could only enter the first section, but now we could climb the thing if we wanted to. The walls are carved with scenes of Egyptian gods and plants, as well as the name Leonardo, who was kind enough to let us know he etched his name into the stone in the year 1820.

  “Look at that,” I say to Eric. “Did you know there’s even graffiti on the walls of Pompeii?”

  “What you’re saying is that people have always been jerks.” He runs his finger over the name. “Why aren’t you mauling everything?”

  Eric isn’t either, and he’s been quiet for most of our visit. I can’t bring myself to touch things I might injure, even if it’s by leaving minute traces of finger oil on canvas. The stagnant air is likely damaging enough.

  “This is some of the history of the world,” I say. “If we don’t destroy it, maybe it’ll still be here in a hundred years. Someone might have the means to protect it again.”

  Eric nods. “I keep hearing my mom say, ‘But what if everyone touched it, Eric?’ She said that whenever we wanted to do something we shouldn’t. What if everyone dropped just one gum wrapper on the ground, or tasted a grape before buying, and so on.”

  “Your mom was a smart lady.”

  “The smartest. Present company excluded, of course,” he adds.

  I flutter my lashes. “And she taught you well.”

  We wander through the Egyptian wing, where someone has stolen the jewelry but left the mummified remains, and continue into the grand entrance hall. Ticket booths sit below soaring stone arches and balconies, and a few bodies decorate the marble floor. In the museum store, we load bags with fun yet educational things for the school. Then we speed through Greek and Roman art now that our time is running short.

  “This room is boring,” Paul says, to which Indy humphs. He gestures at the cases of brown, black, and white patterned urns. “Yes, yes, I know. Paul doesn’t get art the way Indy the Magnificent does, but c’mon. If you’ve seen ten of these things, you’ve seen ‘em all.”

  Indy spins around, lips pursed, and then laughs. “You’re right. They could’ve stopped with ten.”

  “Thank you,” Paul says. They exchange a smile that fosters my belief Landon should be locked outside the gates and nature allowed to run its course.

  “We’ve got to go,” Jorge says after a check of his watch.

  I hold up the map. “One more place? Arms and armor.”

  Casper practically sprints the direction in which I point. Most of the rooms are dark but for one long hall lined with high, arched windows and smashed glass display cases. A few still contain armor and long, pointy objects.

  “Italian staff weapons,” Brother David reads. They remind me of his knife and broom handle, though where his knife would be is a rounded axe head with a tapered spike.

  “That was made for zombies,” Jorge says. “You should take it.”

  “The handle can’t be good.” Brother David hefts it in one hand. “That’s nice.”

  “We’ve been well-behaved so far,” I say, “but I think zombie killing takes precedence over sitting in a glass case for no one to see.”

  “True,” Brother David says. “It’d need a new handle.”

  “We can rig one up easy,” Eric says.

  Brother David holds it to the light. “Can you believe I’d be killing zombies with a four-hundred-year-old axe?”

  Clanking sounds come before Casper emerges from a dark room, his arms laden with swords. He stops, hair hanging in strands around his face. “These are all that’s left. I don’t know if the temper’s still good, but they seem strong.”

  His cheeks glow as he sets them on the wooden platform in the center of the hall and strokes them as gently as one would a baby fresh from the womb. If anyone will care for these swords, it’s Casper.

  “Who wants one?” he asks.

  I lift a long sword by its gold hilt to find it weighs a thousand pounds. “Not me.”

  “Some weirdos like chisels,” Eric says, and I feign stabbing him with a jewel-encrusted dagger. He staggers, clutching his side like the dork he is, and then checks his watch. “It’s later than I thought. We need to get back.”

  Casper gathers his swords with our help, and Carmen lets us into the Safe Zone, where we walk the path to our couse. “Thanks for taking me to the museum,” I say to Eric.

  “It was here. So were we. It was a no-brainer.”

  I take his hand and slow to allow the others to move ahead. “It’s not a no-brainer. You remembered I wanted to go. Thank you for remembering.”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  He’s less inclined to take credit, to be happy, than he was before. “Why are you arguing with me?” I ask. “As boyfriends go, you’re inimitable. Superlative.”

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “Nonpareil.”

  Eric squeezes my hand. My eyes wander over the trees and plants and outbuildings—I could use those same adjectives for this Safe Zone. We catch up to Brother David and his new weapon, where I say, “I’m breaking a Commandment right now.”

  “Which Commandment is that?” he asks.

  “Coveting my neighbor’s property.”

  “As long as you don’t plan to murder anyone for it, I think Confession is enough. How about you say a Hail Mary and all is forgiven?”

  “I’m not sure I remember the whole thing. I blocked it out due to Catholic school trauma.”

  “I don’t know word one of it,” Eric says.

  “Heathen!” I say. “At least you’ll burn with me. We’ll have fun.”

  Brother David winks. “As Twain said: Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.”

  30

  Eric

  We reached the FDR through Central Park’s series of interlocking gates. While the highway was clear, the mobs in the streets are relentless. Or a mob, singular—we can’t be sure of anything except they’re everywhere. Brooklyn and Queens are almost eight times larger than Manhattan. Add Long Island to that, and a mob can disappear for weeks, even months, at a time. Manhattan is just over two miles at its widest point, and thirteen miles long if you count the destroyed neighborhoods to the north. That doesn’t make for much elbow room.

  Roger wasn’t at StuyTown when we returned, and he hasn’t shown up in the past few days. The chance of him making it through those bodies isn’t great, and although the others seemed sure he’d return, they’re no longer as convinced.

  “He always carries insulin,” Julie says at dinner. “And he has a truck filled with food.”

  “I’ll get really worried in a few more days,” Kate adds, though her brow knits whenever Roger’s absence is brought up.

  She’s taken to sitting with us when her schedule permits, as have Julie, Chris, Casper, Louis, and
Artie. We hardly make mention of the High Line, but it’s as if those of us who plan to move subconsciously decided to have a trial run. So far, we get along.

  Julie pops a piece of bread into Jin’s mouth and smiles as he gums it enthusiastically. “I wish I could teach him Chinese,” she says. “My moms tried, they even sent me to Chinese classes and hired a tutor, but I was a brat and wouldn’t learn it.”

  “I could teach him,” Harold says from the table beside ours. “My parents only spoke Mandarin at home. They gave me an English middle name in case I wanted to use it.”

  “What’s your first name?” Sylvie asks.

  “Huan. Harold was easier, and then it stuck.”

  “We can call you Huan.”

  “Harold’s good,” he says. “I’m the one who chose to use it, and I’m used to it anyway.”

  “He’ll know English, Mandarin, and Spanish,” Jorge says. “I like it.”

  “Baa!” Jin screeches in response to all the eyes on him.

  “And baby talk,” Julie says. She rubs his nose with hers. “You do know baby, don’t you? Yes, you do, cutie.”

  Sylvie watches like an anthropologist observing the ritual of a foreign tribe. Then she shrugs and hands Leo a fresh pea pod. Her plate holds plain rice and a pile of raw pea pods, since she still refuses the majority of vegetables.

  “I want to learn Chinese and Spanish,” Leo says.

  Sylvie chews a pea philosophically. “How about you start with English, squirt, and get your butt to school?”

  “Please, Leo,” Emily begs. “It’s fun.” Leo raises a skeptical eyebrow.

  “We have a foosball table and bumper pool,” Chen says. “And we play soccer. I’m the best in the class. Maybe you’re better, but you’re not there.”

  I hold in my laugh when Leo pouts in response to Chen’s unsubtle jab. May pats her son’s head. “The humility is strong with this one.”

  “Leo gets to work.” Sylvie pinches Leo’s cheek. “He’d much rather add credits with me. What could be better than math all day?”

  A small battle rages on Leo’s face. Missing out on soccer and foosball is killing him. Paul continues to eat his stir fry. This scene plays out once a week, minimum, and it always ends with Leo refusing to go.

  “Will you walk me and stay for ten minutes?” Leo asks Sylvie. Paul lifts his head, chewing slowly.

  “Of course.”

  “You can’t come late to pick me up,” he says.

  “I’m almost never late,” Sylvie says. “But, if I am, someone else will get you.”

  “What if I don’t like it?”

  “Then you leave, bud,” Paul says.

  Normally, he’d insist Leo go to school the way he insists on a decent bedtime and vegetables, but Leo’s terror of being separated is genuine. The fact that Paul can’t promise shit won’t go wrong—or even lowball the estimate that it won’t—does not help.

  “I’ll try on Monday,” Leo says.

  “Yes!” Emily pumps her fist. She’s been working on him, slowly but surely, and now she turns her liquid brown eyes on me. “I named my doll.”

  “What’d you name her? Mario?”

  “No! I named her Beatrice.”

  “I like it,” I say. “It’s much better than Butch, too.”

  Emily giggles. “Did you see any more dolls?”

  “We didn’t have a chance to look, but I’ll try to get you another next time we go out,” I answer, feeling guilty. The American Girl store wasn’t far from Sylvie’s office, and I’d planned to run in, but then the mob arrived. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  May shakes her head like it’s not a big deal, but it doesn’t make me feel better. I push my food around my plate while the others continue talking.

  Sylvie’s lips near my ear. “There are a couple upstairs in our building. I saw them when we got toys for Leo. They’re not new, but they’re in good condition.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We finish dinner and head toward the fountain in the early summer warmth. As we pass, Bridget smiles thinly beneath the brown hair she wears in a poufy bun. She and Kate are about the same age, though Bridget is cheerless where Kate is cheerful, and it shows in her permanent frown lines.

  “Kate,” she says, “we need to discuss Mo. Why aren’t we doing anything?”

  “All I know is what I told you,” Kate replies. “Which is what Teddy said.”

  “Why don’t you sound like you believe him?”

  “I don’t like Teddy, and I don’t trust him. Mo returned our trucks. It doesn’t mean Teddy’s lying about the bad things he’s done, but I’m not getting anyone killed over his problems. If you want the council to vote, by all means call a vote, and you can work out a plan to go after Mo.”

  Bridget’s frown lines become grooves, and I remember how Kate said Bridget doesn’t like to make rules, only bitch about them. She wasn’t in cahoots with the people who attacked StuyTown last year, though she was friendly with the group—a fact not surprising based on her dislike of Kate and the system in place. “You want to go after that other guy, but not the one who lives on our island?”

  That other guy is Walt. I force myself to bite my tongue. Because Walt isn’t a direct threat, he’s a distant villain in her mind, although we stand as proof he’s a menace while Mo’s crimes are hearsay. She likely voted against bringing our weapons request to consensus in order to spite Kate. I hope, for both our sakes, Bridget never has cause to regret her pettiness.

  “Like I said, Bridget, call a vote,” Kate says.

  “One day we won’t do things by consensus and meetings,” Bridget snaps. “How would you like that?”

  “I cannot wait for the day, my good woman.”

  Kate resumes walking, leaving Bridget to roll her eyes at Kate’s back. Bridget drops her bag on the ground, and I pick it up before she can bend over. “Thank you,” she mutters.

  “No problem,” I say with a smile. I’d rather kick her bag out of reach, but I’m ever-mindful of her influence. No sense making enemies I can’t afford.

  After we’ve caught up, Kate murmurs, “She rolled her eyes, didn’t she? I love to make her roll her eyes.”

  “I think she wanted to stomp her foot, too,” Sylvie says.

  “Don’t put it past her. She once plugged her ears when she didn’t want to hear my side of an issue.”

  “Wow,” Indy says, “that’s some immaturity right there.”

  “It might be time to leave,” Landon says. “Central Park is better anyway.”

  “Good luck getting in,” Indy says.

  Landon flashes his white teeth. “They offered me a spot,” he murmurs.

  Indy and Sylvie stop at this declaration, though the others didn’t hear and continue on. Indy puts her hands on her hips. “You didn’t tell me that. When?”

  Indy doesn’t cause a fuss where Landon is concerned, but her irritation is clear, from her stance to the angle of her head.

  “When you were at the museum, I went for a walk. Teddy and I discussed the theater and we hit it off. Turns out his wife had seen me before.” Landon extends a hand which Indy ignores. “I didn’t tell you because it wasn’t important. I’d never leave without you.”

  “And I’ll never leave without my friends,” Indy says.

  “I know that.” Landon forcibly takes her hand, where it sits limp in his. “Why cause strife where there isn’t any?” He presses her hand to his lips, then kisses up her arm. “I. Wouldn’t. Go. Without. My. India.”

  She giggles, allowing herself to be pulled to his chest, where she doesn’t see his sullen expression. Sylvie does, though, and she shakes her head as she leads the kids down the path. “Hey, Eric wants to take a trip upstairs for toys. We can have a race to see who gets there first.”

  Herding three kids up a dozen flights of stairs is more tiring than running up yourself. By floor ten, every step was a complaint. At the top floor, Sylvie flops to the landing while Leo, Emily, and Chen rac
e into the first apartment.

  “Why was that so difficult?” she asks. I thrust my thumb in the kids’ direction and pull her to her feet. She walks down the hall. “Hey, brats! We’re going to the end apartment where there are toys. See you there.”

  They’re at our heels within seconds and then past us in a blur. The apartment door slams against the wall before they disappear inside. “Why do you think they offered Landon a spot?” I ask.

  “Because he’s Landon Mann, and he’s good at playing a role. I’ve seen him talking to that blond chick, Lydia, all the time. Have you noticed how when Indy gets upset or pulls away he’s all over her?”

  “Do you notice everything? One might say you’re perspicacious.”

  She smiles before she lowers her eyelids in suspicion. “How long have you been waiting to use that?”

  “Two days, maybe three.”

  “Fine. You win.”

  Our word game has evolved, or devolved, depending on how you look at it. At Sylvie’s insistence that a new calendar would bring bad luck, we no longer play the word of the day. But we see who uses the best or most interesting word, and Sylvie found an inches-thick thesaurus that sits in our living room for inspiration.

  A cry of delight comes from the hall, and we follow the sound to a bedroom with a gray and white loft bed constructed to look like a cottage, with white shutters and sheer curtains in the windows. Emily sits on the mattress roof behind a white picket fence, her face slack with awe.

  “Pretty cool, right?” Sylvie asks.

  Leo and Chen lounge in pint-sized chairs in the playhouse, and the two agree it’s the coolest bed they’ve ever seen. Emily still hasn’t spoken. Sylvie plucks two American Girl dolls off the shelves in the corner and brings them to her. “There are accessories, too.”

  Emily sets them on the bed and pats their hair, their clothes, and then arranges them on the pillow of whoever lived here before. It’s best not to think about that part.

  “They’re yours if you want them,” Sylvie says, in case that wasn’t clear.

  Emily nods. Sylvie and I inspect the rest of the apartment. After ten minutes of Leo and Chen diving through the playhouse windows, I say, “We’d better start down. Take what you want.”