I clap his hands together. “You’re getting smarter. Yes, you are.”
He grins. I give him the kisses I promised Jorge, then hand him off to Brother David while trying not to think of how I will have my own dumb baby in the future. “Talk later?”
“Tonight,” he says. “Your place.”
I leave for our building, where I climb the stairs to the roof. It’s cold and windy, but I stand at the ledge to view the bits of the water I can see and the tallest buildings of Brooklyn and Queens.
The door opens. Roger steps onto the roof. He stops at the ledge a few feet away, but I catch the faint scent of alcohol with my new taste and smell superpower. “You okay?” he asks.
I burst out laughing. Then I laugh some more, until he smiles the smile of someone who thinks you’ve lost your mind but doesn’t want to let on. He’s right about that. Finally, I stop and wipe my eyes, still hiccupping.
Roger lights a cigarette and hands it to me, then lights another for himself. It’s only after I let out my first drag that I realize I’m smoking. While pregnant. I can’t pretend everything is the same. I don’t want this kid, but it didn’t ask to come, and it doesn’t deserve carcinogenic chemicals. Grace would say to surrender, that the universe has given me this and there’s nothing I can do about it. Grace was right an annoyingly high percentage of the time.
I stub out my cigarette with a sigh. I’m going to miss nicotine.
“Are you okay?” Roger asks again.
Maybe the pregnancy part is set in stone, but not everything is. If I have to have this baby, then I’m going to make sure it’s born into a world that isn’t fucked beyond repair. God knows I’ll mess the kid up enough without any help from the rest of the planet.
“I’m getting there,” I answer.
92
Eric
I might’ve scared a few people when I dispatched Emilio, judging by the way they’ve avoided coming within arm’s reach of me. But he deserved every twist of the knife and every gasp for air. It cut through the cobwebs in my mind, too. Made my purpose crystal clear. If I want to go to the city, I need to be in the best shape possible, and a fast limp-walk isn’t going to cut it.
This is day five of running. Sort of running. Every day, I start out slow then move to a semi-fast clip, circling the perimeter of the grounds until the pain is not quite excruciating, and then I stop. I do my stretches and chin-ups and the heavy lifting chores whenever I can. Usually when Anaya isn’t watching.
Today, on my ninth time around the inside of the wall, I feel the pain in my shin that reminds me to ease up. Yesterday, it was eight times around. While it’s an improvement, working to regain something you once had without effort makes you want to tear your hair out.
I limp toward the porch. A guy walks down the steps, reminding me so much of Paul that I stop. It is Paul. My heart, already beating fast from exercise, goes into overdrive at possible bad news.
Paul closes in, face solemn, and I force myself to meet him on the grass. “What are you do—”
His fist connects with my cheekbone, and my head snaps back before I bend forward. Heat blooms along with the pain. My left eye waters. I know why he’s punched me, but the point is to punch the person while they’re being a dick, not after they’ve stopped. I guess I should be thankful he held back some.
“Jesus Christ!” I twist my head to the side, see two of the nuns on the porch, and raise my other hand. “Sorry! Sorry.”
I straighten up, left eye squinted. The throbbing has begun, and I press my fingers to sore flesh. All things considered, he could’ve held back a little more than he did.
“Not even a hello?” I ask. “How about: I thought you were dead but I’m glad you’re not? Did you come all the way here just to punch me?”
Paul crosses his arms over his chest. “I came to drop off Leo so that I can go to StuyTown and take care of your girlfriend, since you’re not going to. The punch was a bonus.”
The pain in my cheek fades into the background at his words. “Why? What happened to Sylvie?”
“Nothing. But she and Indy might need protection.” His avoidance of my eyes confirms that nothing is actually something. “Walt’s never met me, so I figure I’m fine with Roger’s help. I don’t think he’ll try to kiss me.”
I glare at him. “Spit it out, Paul. What’s wrong?”
“You fucked up big time by leaving Sylvie,” he says. “Big, big time.”
I’ve always liked how Paul doesn’t mince words, but every now and again it’d be nice if he’d go easy. “I know. I’m working on that.” I gesture to my sweat-soaked shirt. “I’m coming to the city soon.”
“I don’t know if it’ll help,” he says, and, finally, he shows me the smallest bit of pity. “It may be too late.”
“She might forgive me,” I say. He looks away. “What are you not telling me?”
“I promised I wouldn’t.”
“Paul!” I roar. He came all the way here, obviously dying to tell me, and now he’s playing this game. “I swear to Christ I will beat it out of you if I have to.”
“Fine.” He wets his lips. “Not only did you break your promise to Sylvie, but you got her pregnant and then you broke it.”
I hear the word pregnant in his sentence, blaring like an alarm, before the rest of the words tumble into place around it. My head swims, and I limp to sit on a very welcome bench.
“Pregnant?” I ask. “Sylvie?”
“Yes and yes. She’s not happy about it.”
I shake my head. I’ll bet she’s miserable. Because, while this is a sweat-producing, hand-trembling event for me, it must feel like impending doom for her. If I’d been there for the news, I could’ve made it okay. I know I could’ve. Maybe she wouldn’t have been overjoyed, but she would’ve known I’m all-in for anything as long as it’s with her.
“Is she okay? Physically?”
“She’s hormonal and can’t eat Twizzlers, but she’s not puking or anything.”
“She can’t eat Twizzlers?” I ask, feeling like I’ve entered The Twilight Zone. “Why?”
Paul shrugs. “Food aversions. Hannah had a million of them.”
“Why can’t I know?” I ask. “It’s not like she can keep it a secret.”
“She thinks you’ll want to be with her because of the baby, even though you don’t want to be with her now.”
“Of course I do. I acted like an asshole, but she can’t think that—”
“Bro, you ditched her without a word. She assumed you broke up with her. She said she can’t trust you again, or she doesn’t think she can.”
I lift a hand to my forehead and close my eyes. I wasn’t kidding when I said I go big or go home. Of all the times to go off the rails, I chose this one. “Did she say she can’t or she doesn’t think she can? Which was it?”
“Doesn’t think she can.” Paul grunts. “I think. Or maybe it was that she can’t.”
“Paul!” I’m going to punch him.
“I’m ninety-nine-percent sure it was think.”
I can work with think. I release a breath. Paul pushes my shoulder. “Bro, you’re gonna be a dad. Crazy.”
I mirror his smile as best I can. “Crazy.”
It doesn’t feel real, while at the same time it’s real enough to scare the shit out of me. There’s a baby coming. Our baby. I did want kids once upon a time, and there’s no one I’d rather have them with than Sylvie. But it’s terrible timing. It’s a terrible world out there. Add in the small matter of her not wanting anything to do with me, and things are definitely looking up.
Paul lifts his chin toward the house. Jorge walks toward us across the brittle grass, his face kind and his smile huge. When he nears, I ask, “Are you planning to punch me, too? I’m not sure I can take it.”
Jorge lowers himself to the bench. “I thought Paul was kidding when he said he was going to knock some sense into you.” His broad arm comes around my shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”
“
You, too.”
“I’m gonna check on Leo,” Paul says.
We watch him climb the porch steps. Jorge stretches out his feet and leans back. “You freaking out yet?”
“A little.” I notice I’m bouncing my legs and force them to stop. “Maybe a lot.”
“Yeah. I freaked when I found out my son was coming, and then I messed it up bad.”
“I’ve got that part down already.”
“Nah, you’re not me.”
Maybe I’m not the old Jorge, but I wouldn’t mind being a little more like this one. We watch the trees in silence before he says, “Sometimes I wondered at how you took everything in and didn’t give it back. No one can do that forever. Everyone has a breaking point. Looks like yours was being stabbed, almost dying, and then being told your girlfriend was kissed by the guy who stabbed you.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say, though I smile. It feels good to get it out there, and to know that Jorge doesn’t hold it against me. “How is Sylvie, really?”
“She could be better. I don’t know how she is now, but she was scared and trying to hide it when she left. There’s a lot of emotions tied up in becoming a parent, you know? Probably more for her than for you.”
Two shitty parents and a lack of love wouldn’t make me view parenthood favorably either. But I’ve seen her around kids, most notably Leo. If anyone understands how much they need love, it’s Sylvie. She manages to be funny and kind and loving all while professing to dislike them. Maybe she never would’ve chosen to be a mother, but she’ll be a great one.
“How do you always know what to say?” I ask.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about my mistakes.”
“Me, too, recently.”
“You know what helps with that?” he asks. “It’s easy—don’t make any mistakes.”
“I wish you’d told me that sooner.”
Jorge chuckles. “You’ll fix it, I have no doubt.”
I have my doubts, but I push them aside. There are few times in life when you have no doubts, but of one thing I’m sure: I love Sylvie, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.
Leo is tucked away on a mattress brought into my bedroom, Bird curled in a ball on his pillow. I’m bringing Leo to the city with me when I go, and I’m pretty certain Bird will have to make the trip. Leo will throw the world’s biggest tantrum if he doesn’t, and I wouldn’t be too happy myself.
Because Paul is Paul, he brought liquor and cigars to celebrate once the punching part was over. We sit on the porch to enjoy them, keeping quiet so as not to disturb the nuns in the monastery or families in the nearby building. The alcohol warms us, if the air doesn’t. The zombies might freeze if this continues.
“Can’t believe it,” Guillermo says. His delight in the situation is pure and absolute. “This is the best news.”
“The fact that I accidentally impregnated my girlfriend who no longer trusts me is the best news?” I ask. “What’s the worst news?”
Susan chokes on her cigar, and Dennis pats her back. They’re best friends now, filling the spaces their respective spouses once inhabited. Jorge, puffing on his own cigar, grins through his smoke.
“A baby is never bad news,” Guillermo says. “It’s a baby. They’re all cute and shit. Innocent.”
He slurs his words. I’ve had a lot to drink. And time to think. Any remnants of patience have gone out the window. I want to storm into StuyTown, grab Sylvie and everyone else, and throw a bomb over my shoulder as I leave. Sitting here helpless is bullshit.
“Speaking of babies,” Paul says. “Rissa wanted us to tell you not to beat up Micah when you see him.”
“Don’t tell me my sister is pregnant,” Guillermo says. “Don’t even joke about that.”
“She’s not.” Paul smirks. “I thought babies are always good news.”
Guillermo punches his arm, his laugh boisterous. A few of the parents from the school have joined at our invitation, and they sit at a nearby table, Anaya and Christian among them. Kearney sits at ours. Paul and Jorge have been nothing but courteous to him, though every now and again I catch them staring.
We found our old marine radio in Sunset Park, and it crackles from its spot on the table. Once, we thought we heard distant voices, so we leave it on for a few hours each day. Guillermo leans to shut it off as the likelihood of a call at night is slim.
“Anyone there?” a voice says.
Guillermo’s hand freezes, and he lifts the radio to his mouth in slow motion. “Yeah, who’s this?”
“Jerry Strand, United States Coast Guard. With whom am I speaking?”
Paul’s mouth falls open as mine has. Jerry is alive. I hope we don’t have to break the news about Wadsworth to him. I don’t think I can do that.
“You can’t tell him who you are,” Susan whispers. “Someone could hear.”
“That’s classified information, Jerry,” Guillermo says. “Ears everywhere. But we’re friends. Where are you?”
There’s a silence. The radio clicks, and we hear a long breath. “We finally got into New York fucking Bay. You believe that?”
“I do, and you’re welcome.” Guillermo sticks out his tongue when we laugh, and our amusement is reflected by a laugh from the radio.
“I’m going to take a guess here,” Jerry says. “If you know where to meet at dawn, say, if you wanted to get a lift upstate, meet us there tomorrow. I’m all out of breakfast sandwiches, though.”
“Tell him we know,” I say.
“We’ll see you there at dawn, Jerry,” Guillermo says.
“All right.” I can hear the smile, maybe even relief, in Jerry’s voice. “All right, then. See you at dawn.”
93
I stayed behind rather than slow them down and ran the yard while I waited. Twelve times around. Either last night’s alcohol is numbing me still, or I’m on the mend. Leo ran some with me and now sits on his bed, where he snuggles with Bird.
“He missed you,” I say. “So did I.”
“I missed you, too.” He kisses the top of Bird’s head. “I don’t like when everyone’s sad.”
I sit beside him and lean against the wall. “Me neither.”
“Then why’d you break your promise to Sylvie?” he asks. “That made her sad.”
I wince at the digging of his tiny fingers into my psychic wound. “How’d you hear about that?”
“Daddy gave her vitamins for the baby, and she told him you broke your promise.”
Paul, once again, has managed to be a better father to my unborn child than I have. He’s going into StuyTown for Indy, but he’s going for Sylvie, too, in no small part because I can’t.
“Did you ever get really mad?” I ask. “So mad that you didn’t care what happened after, even though you really did care?”
“I threw a Twix bar, and Sylvie said that was Hulk-level mad.”
My laugh hurts my ribs. Or maybe it’s my heart. “Yeah, well, I threw a huge Twix bar. I want to take it all back, but you can’t change things like that. You can only apologize and hope they forgive you.” He screws his mouth to the side, nodding, and I tousle his hair. “Cross your fingers for me, Buddy.”
He lifts his hands, fingers crossed, as the sound of people entering filters upstairs. Leo and I hit the first floor to find Jerry standing in the back parlor. He sets a grimy pack on the floor. His white beard is longer and he’s tired, but his big smile is the same. “Eric, good to see you.”
Our handshake turns to a hug. Two more men enter: Blake and Ren. Blake comes straight for a back-clapping hug, saying, “Hey, we didn’t draw weapons on each other first.”
“About time.”
I take him in. His blond hair reaches his cheekbones, and though the cornfed farm boy still has that Iowa look about him, his thin frame and the squint lines around his eyes speak of tough times. I shake with Ren, who was restrained but friendly. Now his eyes are distant and his face drawn.
“Where were you guys?” I ask.
> Jerry sinks into a chair. “Long story. About a year long, now.”
Sister Frances bustles in. Sometimes I think she must be tired of strangers invading their cloistered space, but she comes alive when a person in need arrives. “We have clothes and showers ready while we make up lunch,” she says. “Come along and I’ll get you set up.”
An hour later, they’re clean, fed, checked over by Anaya, and holding stiff drinks. Jerry lifts his glass to his mouth and swallows, and his newly-trimmed beard puffs out when he exhales. “We got a call last fall. A group of people out on Long Island.”
Those of us from Sunset Park nod where we’re perched around them. We didn’t hear from Wadsworth after that, and, a few weeks later, we found the Safe Zone full of Lexers.
“They said they had about two dozen people. Families. Remember how we were planning to get another boat when we were up in Connecticut?” Jerry directs this to me, and I nod. “We found a small one, so we brought both boats out there for the return trip. When we got to the Island, we were met by twenty men.”
He tells us how they’d barely docked before they were attacked. Five Guardsmen managed to run into the once-luxurious wilds of The Hamptons, staying where they could in expensive houses looted of food and full of zombies. Ren was shot in the foot during the escape, and two others took bullets in their torsos.
“We kept hoping they’d pull through,” Jerry says. “They would’ve made it if we’d had a damn hospital.” He stares into his whiskey glass before he swallows a mouthful. “It was months before we could move out.”
Once they could, they ran into the problem of covering over a hundred miles through mobs of Lexers. All roads were clogged with dead cars. Long Island’s traffic was a nightmare in the best of times; people attempting to escape the island would have brought it to a standstill. While we celebrated the Lexers heading off toward Queens and Long Island, those same Lexers became the bane of the men’s existence.
“We’d go an eighth of a mile and have to hide for three hours,” Blake says. “Sometimes we’d end up back where we started.”
The City Series (Book 3): Instauration Page 63
