The City Series (Book 3): Instauration

by Lyons Fleming, Sarah

  The kids load a found suitcase with the toys they can’t live without. Emily clutches a doll in each arm and gazes at the bed. Her lips move. I crouch to her level. “What’s that?”

  “I didn’t know there were beds like that,” she says softly.

  “Do you want it?” The words leave my mouth without forethought. She could be Sylvie after her grandma died, learning to expect nothing special. She could be the daughter I’ll never have but whom I would spoil in the best way possible, the way my parents did me and Cassie. May won’t mind, especially if I do all the work.

  Emily nods, her mouth open.

  I inspect the bedframe to see what tools I’ll need while the kids finish collecting their loot, then I head for the hall. After rummaging around neighboring apartments, I find a socket set and Allen wrenches. When I return, Emily still faces the bed, overwhelmed it will soon be hers.

  She steps forward as I loosen the first bolt. “Thank you, Eric.”

  “No problem. You’re lucky I can’t fit, or I’d take it for myself.”

  Emily giggles, her face alight. She’s once again the little girl in Sunset Park who had a mother and father and brothers. Who, though the world outside left a lot to be desired, had her own small world intact. This is going to be a huge pain in the ass, but it’s more than worth it for that trace of magic.

  “You’re doing it now?” Sylvie asks quietly. “That’s a lot of trips up and down the stairs this late.”

  I shrug. “Did you see her face?”

  “Did you see yours?” Sylvie turns to study the bed, but not before I see something in her face I can’t read. She usually tells me what’s on her mind these days, but I think she plans to keep this to herself.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask anyway.

  Sylvie kisses my cheek. “Nothing at all. You looked happy. I’ll help you bring it down. But, I’m telling you right now, I’m going to curse your name the entire time.”

  31

  Casper and I sit in the guardhouse on Avenue C, staring at the closed gate to the river path directly ahead and the broken remains of the FDR Drive that loom above. It’s as good a spot as any to sit and stew, which is what I’m doing. My brain is like Bird after the red dot of Sylvie’s laser pointer, pouncing from one idea to the next and unable to grab hold of a single one.

  I drum my fingers on the counter. “What’s wrong?” Casper asks through a mouthful of food. Well-deserved food, I might add; the kid is out there every morning, running loop after loop.

  “We’re stuck,” I say. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Casper ponders the question seriously, as he typically does. “Sometimes. But I don’t want to be out there. You saw me—I’d be dead.”

  “You haven’t had a chance since then. I have no doubt you’ll do great next time.”

  He brings a sword outside at dawn. It’s just him and Mr. Szeto practicing sword work and Tai Chi, respectively. Casper is getting good at swinging that thing around. By the time I appear for our run, he’s put it away, but that’s because I wait for him to finish.

  “You want to go to Brooklyn, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Have you ever had something you needed to finish but couldn’t?”

  “Just everything in my entire life, starting with my kindergarten bully,” he says, grinning, and I laugh.

  “Then you understand. These guys are no joke.” My temple begins a steady throb, and I force my hands to uncurl on the arms of my chair. I understand Brother David’s perspective, but he didn’t see Walt’s beaten-man performance. There will be no compromise, no deal you could make that won’t eventually go south. “They killed their own kids, and ours, and I don’t understand why that doesn’t matter to anyone here. It’s not just revenge—it’s preventative. They’ll come here eventually.”

  “It matters to me,” Casper says with a firmness I haven’t heard before. “If you think I can help, then I will.”

  Another six months, and this kid will be kicking ass with the best of them. “Thanks, I appreciate—”

  I break off at the distant roar of an engine. Before I can call the roofs, a voice comes through the radio. “Truck coming from the south. Looks like ours. I’m gonna see if I can get a look with the glass.” It’s Marshall, who takes this job seriously. Fifteen seconds later, he says, “Ninety-nine-percent sure it’s Roger.”

  Casper and I leap to our feet. We’d given up hope. People can live for months out there, but Roger can’t without insulin, and no one knew how much he had with him. We leave the guardhouse for the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, it’s him,” Marshall says. “Just flashed the light sequence and stuck his head out the window.”

  We cross the white-striped crosswalk and stop at the exit ramp. Casper runs the gate open as the engine nears. The truck rounds the ramp onto Avenue C ten seconds later, and Casper closes the gate as I make my way to Roger’s open window.

  “Good to see you, man,” I say. Roger nods and drops his head against the seat. His face is covered with a gloss of sweat, and his chest rises rapidly. “You look like hell.”

  “Out of insulin. Days ago.” He says it slowly, mouth forming the words with effort. His hands drop from the steering wheel to his lap. “Might need a little help.”

  “Casper, help me move him so I can drive. Then open the gate and call someone to get to the fridge.”

  He runs to the passenger side of the truck. Between the two of us, and partly under his own steam, Roger ends up slumped on the passenger’s seat. I pull through the two gates onto Avenue C Loop, drive to the inner gate, which is open for our arrival, and then roll slowly toward the café so people on foot can move out of our way.

  “Almost there,” I say.

  “Hate this shit,” he mumbles. “Should’ve died a year ago like the lucky ones.”

  Roger doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who enjoys pep talks and lectures about the half-fullness of glasses. “I could slow down a bit,” I offer. “You might die before we make it there.”

  A sardonic smile crosses his face. “It’ll take longer than that. Might as well live.”

  I stop outside the café. Barbara, a nice woman in her fifties, comes out the doors with a zippered pouch. She hands it to me through the window. “I think that’s the emergency stuff.”

  I place the pouch in Roger’s outstretched hand and thank her. She waits outside the truck and is soon joined by a few others. People on the path have slowed to view the commotion, and the garden workers have stopped their gardening.

  Roger digs in the pouch. “We’re good. Can you get us away from here?”

  I put the truck in drive and roll down the path as he fills a syringe from a glass vial. Similar to, though bigger than, the vials Sylvie used with Maria, and I envision her drawing up the clear fluid the way Roger is now. That this will save him, rather than euthanize him, doesn’t completely detract from the sick feeling the image brings.

  I stop the truck near the store under an overhang of trees. Fewer people stroll by and most aren’t curious, since there’s often a truck unloading outside the building. Roger pinches skin on his abdomen and sticks himself, then lowers his shirt and sets the syringe on his thigh.

  “Should be good soon,” he says, and closes his eyes. “You can go.”

  “I’ll stay until you’re good.” I pick up the radio. “Casper?”

  “How’s Roger?” he asks.

  “Getting better. I’ll be gone for a half hour or so. Can you get someone to stay with you?”

  “I’m on it,” Paul says via radio. “We have three at 20th anyway.”

  “Cool,” Casper says. “I’m glad Roger’s okay.”

  I sign off and set the radio on the dash, then listen to the tick of the cooling engine and watch the sun-dappled path until Roger sniffs. “That kid.”

  “What kid?” I ask.

  “Casper. Saying he’s glad I’m all right. If there’s anyone who should want me dead, it’s him.”

  “Casper’s a good g
uy.” It’s the closest I’ll come to saying Roger’s right. There’s more drama here than I can stand, and I do my best to stay out of it.

  “I was at the bridge and wondering if anyone would care that I was back,” he mumbles. “If I made it. Wasn’t holding my breath.”

  “Everyone’s glad. Kate was worried,” I say. His eyes remain closed, but he’s regained color and his breathing has regulated. “What do you mean you were at the bridge? Which one?”

  “What?” he asks sleepily. “Oh, got on the FDR by the bridge. Had to go all the way downtown, then drive up this way. Holed up in a building in midtown until the mob passed.”

  “At least you had plenty to eat.”

  “Kind of like giving a snowman all the heat he could want. I stopped eating yesterday to keep my sugar down. Found a bottle of whiskey and drank that. Sometimes it lowers blood sugar, but not this time. How’s that for God laughing?”

  I laugh myself. “Hope you saved it for later.”

  “Did.”

  Sylvie exits the store doors and walks for the truck. When she reaches us, she steps onto the running board and folds her arms on my window frame. “They just told me you were out here.” She inspects Roger. “How are you feeling?”

  Roger sits up a little, wiping his face with a weary hand. “Fine. Better.”

  “Good. Kate’s on her way.”

  “Great.” His tone is as far from excitement as one can get.

  “She was worried.” Sylvie raises her eyebrows. “Everyone else was plotting to find your stash, so be glad someone stopped them.”

  “I’ll be sure to thank her.”

  “God, you’re an ass even when you’re about to die. I have to get back.” Sylvie leans in to give me a kiss, then points at Roger. “Be nice to Kate, jerkass. She actually cares about you for some reason.”

  We watch her walk the path to the store doors. “Did you guys meet before this or after?” he asks.

  “After. She was at my house when I got there. She helped save my life.”

  “She yell at you like that?”

  “Pretty much,” I say, and he laughs.

  32

  Sylvie

  It’s Leo’s first day of school, and Paul and I walk him through the front door like nervous parents seeing their firstborn off to kindergarten. I’m used to having him around, I worry about what could happen when he’s out of sight, and I’m pretending neither of those things is true.

  “Good morning!” a voice sings. A forty-something woman with long blond hair and a round face smiles at Leo, then us, as she nears. “Leo, we’re so excited to have you with us today! I’m Miss Anabelle.”

  “Hi,” he says.

  After more introductions, Paul kisses Leo’s head. “I gotta go, Buddy. Love you.”

  Leo nods, and Paul breezes out the door. Maybe I’m the only one who’s nervous. Paul already did the first day of school back in the normal world.

  “I promised Leo I’d stay for ten minutes,” I say to Miss Anabelle. “Is that okay?”

  She bows her head, hands in prayer position. “Of course, Sylvie. You can help Leo meet all his new friends. Right now, they’re having silent reading. Leo, would you like to join them?”

  Leo grabs a book off a shelf and lies belly-down on the rug between Emily and Chen, checking every five seconds to make sure I haven’t escaped.

  “Do you have somewhere to be?” Miss Anabelle asks me.

  I rack my brain for a good excuse but finally admit, “Not yet.”

  “Would you help with snack?”

  I help Anabelle, as she insists I call her, cut up early carrots and place popped popcorn into bowls that go on a cabinet near the desks. They’re pushed together in clusters of four, and I see she made Leo a nameplate at the same grouping as Chen and Emily. “Leo was worried about today.”

  “I still remember my first day of school,” she says. “I was scared. But my teacher was so wonderful that I knew right then I wanted to be one when I grew up.” She clasps her hands in front of her, smiling. Either she’s on serious drugs or she was born to be an elementary school teacher.

  “Will you tell me if he has any problems or needs help? I’m not his mom, but I’m kind of the closest thing he has.”

  “Of course.” She glances kindly at Leo, whose back Emily now uses as a headrest. “He’ll be fine. I can tell.”

  I say goodbye and kneel next to Leo. “I’m leaving, squirt. You good?”

  “Yes,” he says. “And Daddy will pick me up?”

  “Yup, and you’ll tell me all about school later.”

  I kiss his cheek and wave on my way out, where my eyes sting suspiciously enough that I press my back to the brick wall of the building. While I want him to go to school, I worry that his gentle soul will be hurt.

  I laugh—I’m blowing this out of proportion big time. Miss Anabelle is made of fairy dust. I step onto the path as Roger and Eric walk by. “Leo in there?” Eric asks. He must see something in my face because he tilts his head, silently asking if I’m okay.

  “He’s fine. I seem to be the one having a hard time. It’s just—school. School is terrible. There’d better not be any bullies in there.”

  Eric pulls me to his side as we walk. “I’m sure you’ll take care of them if necessary. You can toss sand in their eyes.”

  “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  “Nope,” he says, grinning, and pinches my butt before he leaves for the garden.

  Roger and I continue on. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “At the store this week,” he says. “Perfect hangover work.”

  I can smell the liquor from two feet away, and the day doesn’t call for sunglasses as dark as those he wears. “Long night?”

  “And a hair of the dog this morning.”

  Roger’s apparent drinking problem is his own affair, but I can’t resist a joke. “So, is it like one shot of whiskey equals one shot of insulin? How does that work?”

  “You’re brutal,” he says. “Depends on the liquor—some raise sugar, some lower it. I have it down to a science. I plan to leave no alcohol on the Earth when I finally leave it.”

  “My mother would be proud.”

  “Right, you had one of those, too. Where’s she?”

  “She drank herself to death the day of the virus. She didn’t know it was coming, but she had impeccable timing.”

  I could add more, like how her timing was impeccable—it led me to Maria and Eric and everyone else—but Roger would probably scoff at that idea.

  “Mothers,” he says. “Who needs them?”

  I so clearly see the me of a year ago in Roger, and it’s odd to be on this side. “You’d be surprised,” I say. “But maybe chill with the drinking. You don’t need to hasten death along. Obviously, you’re not a teetotaler, but if you want to talk to Jorge about opiates, he’d be willing to listen. He has eleven years sober.”

  This spring, I made Jorge a new coin that wasn’t any nicer than the first, but he liked it just the same. He doesn’t mind my mentioning his past when it could help someone—he’s told me as much.

  “I have enough serenity in my life.”

  “It’s practically oozing from every pore,” I say. “Oh, wait, that’s whiskey.”

  “Do you ever stop?” Roger asks.

  “You gave me free rein. Bad idea.”

  Roger lifts his sunglasses to give me an amused stare, then drops them down again. Julie catches up to us, also on her way to the store. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Mothers,” I say. “Or lack thereof.”

  “Mine moved to Northampton years ago. I lived here, in my moms’ rent-controlled apartment. Tenth floor. I moved the furniture downstairs.”

  I know she was a librarian and worked in the city somewhere, but I didn’t know she’d lived here. “Are they…?” I ask.

  Julie kicks a stray pebble on the concrete so that it bounces ahead. “Probably.”

  “Sorry.”
/>   “We should just all say one giant sorry at once and get it over with. Then we’ll never have to do it again.”

  I smile and kick the pebble when we reach it. “That was the only sorry you’re getting.”

  “Good,” she says, then holds her nose. “Roger, you reek.”

  “Thanks.” He holds the store door open for us and heads to the adult only area, either to work or pluck a few more dog hairs.

  I pull my binder from under my counter and wait for my first customer. Roger slides behind the counter next to mine, sticks what I think are airplane bottles of liquor on the lower shelf, and pulls out the binder.

  “Really?” I ask. “You’re a cashier?”

  “Benny got a better job this week.”

  Sharla walks in, sees Roger, and stops with a hand to her chest. “Oh, hell no. Why are you here?”

  “It’s nice to feel wanted,” Roger says. “I promise it’ll be nothing like last time.”

  “It’d better not.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I split when I got bored. They docked me credits as punishment.” He smirks, flipping through his binder. “I have more credits than anyone needs.”

  “I’ve seen. How’d you get them?”

  “Work, trade, bringing in a huge haul on my own. You have to work the system.”

  I can’t work the system because we can’t leave this place. Indy comes through the door with puffy eyes and disheveled clothing. “Glad you could join us, Sleeping Beauty,” Sharla calls out.

  Indy ignores her and leans on my counter. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I tally up the purchases of a man who really likes pickles and send him on his way. “You look tired. Up late?”

  “I got my period. Do you have any tampons?”

  “Not on me. I only get my period every few months, and I know when it’s coming.”

  “That’s not fair. How do you do that?”

  “I take the pill. I stop once in a while and then start again. Every three months.”

  “Isn’t it bad to put all of those hormones in your body?” Indy asks. “Won’t it mess you up?”