by A. M. Geever
“If you hadn’t made a mistake, you’d be sleep-deprived and changing diapers right now, and I’m real sorry that didn’t happen.” A note of teasing entered his voice. “I mean, you were gonna ask me to be his godfather, right?”
Despite herself, Miranda laughed. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We were going to ask Doug.”
Rocco snorted. “That’s typical,” he grumbled, but she could tell he was teasing.
“I screwed things up with Mario so badly.”
“You said some really dumb things. He did too.”
She puffed out a breath. “We got a second chance, and I blew it. He’ll never forgive me.”
“Did you mean those things you said to him?”
Miranda shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“Then what do you think the chances are that he didn’t mean what he said to you?”
“I still feel responsible,” she said, tears overflowing again. “I still feel like it’s my fault.”
“I know you do,” Rocco said, gripping her knee in his enormous hand. “You might feel that way for a long time. You’re punishing yourself for not being able to see the future, which nobody can do. You’ve gotta take this fucker of a lesson to heart. Take that second to ask yourself if you should be doing what you’re doing. Otherwise, you’re pissing on your baby’s memory.”
Miranda sighed and lay her head on Rocco’s shoulder. She felt like a wrung-out rag, an old one that was frayed, with lots of holes and threadbare patches. Not being able to tell the future. She hadn’t ever considered that she was crucifying herself for not being able to predict what would happen in a situation where no one had known what Jeremiah was capable of.
“You’ve never asked me what I did before this, Tucci,” Rocco said.
He sounded amused, like he did when he was about to good-naturedly harass her. Miranda realized she never had.
“Guess I never thought about it,” she said. “What did you do before?”
“I was a therapist.”
Miranda stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing. Rocco grinned, looking really pleased with himself.
“I can spot someone who’s avoided dealing with their shit a mile away, but you? Ten miles, easy.”
“You’ve been picking my brain since you met me, haven’t you?”
Rocco smiled. “No. I’ve been poking,” he said, poking her side. “At those feelings you lock up. I swear to God… The toughest nuts to crack always think therapy is about the intellect, because you’re all totally out of touch with your feelings.”
She thought, suddenly, of Doug. Priest or not, she knew what he would say about the covert therapy Rocco had apparently been conducting; that God sends what you need whether you want it or not.
“That’s probably why I have such a bad temper.”
Rocco barked out a laugh. Then he kept on laughing, so hard he began to weep. It was so infectious that Miranda couldn’t help but laugh, too, even though she didn’t know what had struck him as so funny.
“No, that’s not it,” he finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s because you’re a bit of an asshole.”
Miranda laughed harder, in on the joke this time. “I think it’s why we get along so well.”
Rocco climbed to his feet. She took the hand he offered and let him pull her up.
“Thanks. I feel… Awful, but better. You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” Then his expression became serious. “Seriously, though. You deserve good friends. You’re a good person, Miranda. You’re just kind of rampantly dysfunctional. But you’re getting there.”
Miranda rubbed her forehead with the heels of her hands. The insistent pounding behind her eyes felt worse. Not from crying, but from all the alcohol, though the crying hadn’t helped. She also wanted to hide the new tears that prickled the corners of her eyes because of what Rocco had just said—that she was a good person. She’d made so many mistakes. That he believed that about her meant more than he knew.
“Drink a lot of water, and go to bed,” Rocco continued. “You look exhausted.”
He was right about that as well. She felt enervated, like she could barely manage to move her feet, let alone climb into her bed. The idea of sleeping there alone felt overwhelming, endless and awful and too much to face. For a split second she thought of tracking Alec down so she wouldn’t have to, but it didn’t feel right anymore.
“Will you stay?” she heard herself say. “I can’t sleep in that bed by myself, not tonight.”
Rocco looked at her, long-suffering plastered on his face, then rolled his eyes.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph… You’re killing me, Tucci.” He pulled her to him, wrapping his arm around her neck and shaking her a little, like an obnoxious big brother. He cemented it by rubbing his knuckles against her head. “I’ll stay. But if you tell anybody how nice I’m being, you’re dead to me.”
25
Silas.
Mario tried not to think. He’d convinced himself over the past few days that if he could just not think, then he also wouldn’t feel. It wasn’t working, but still, he tried. The trick might be to keep at it. He squinted up at the sky as they walked. It was well past its zenith but still unrelentingly hot, with not a scrap of shade. As was normal for early October, the weather was magnificent, with clear blue skies and warm to hot days full of sunshine. The leaves of the vines in the now wild vineyards were beginning to turn yellow and red. After several nights at the little winery, they were underway again. Once they reached the top of the ridge, the walk into the Napa Valley was downhill the entire way. On another day, the stroke of lucky topography would have been a topic of conversation—but not today.
Oh, Silas.
Violet held his hand and walked alongside him. She was a trooper when it came to walking. When she tired and began to lag, he carried her. The others offered to carry her, too, but Mario always said no. He needed to keep her within reach. If the price of that was arms so tired they felt like cement, or his neck and shoulders cramped from her little hands holding on when she rode piggyback, so be it. The real reason, though, was it assuaged his panic that he’d fail her, too.
I slapped your little sister, Silas. And then she comforted me.
His shame felt bottomless, like it would never end. He didn’t want it to, because he’d slapped a little girl who had just seen her brother die, horribly. He didn’t know he was crying until he felt the tear drip from his jaw. He didn’t bother to wipe them away, nor get his hanky from his pocket. Pop Pop Santorello, a man as gentle as his son had been violent, had used handkerchiefs. Pop Pop was who Mario picked up the habit from as a very small boy. He’d felt so special when Pop Pop gave him one of his hankies, freshly laundered and ironed smooth. He had a distinct memory of using that hanky in kindergarten. When zombies appeared, he still had it, threadbare and delicate, stowed safely in his sock drawer.
He only had one, now. He’d given Silas the other.
“Do you want to stop?” Doug asked.
Mario shook his head no. When Violet patted his hand, he looked down at her. She looked up at him, her brown eyes solemn, and leaned against him. He swiped at his face with his other hand, but didn’t even try to pull himself together. He didn’t have the energy.
“Thanks, Violittle.”
Doug hovered, and a good thing, too. They’d stopped to take a leak near the top of the ridge, and Mario completely missed the zombie walking toward them. It approached from his side and was loud as hell once he was roused from his stupor, never mind the stink. But it wasn’t until Doug walked over to kill it, before it started moaning, that he realized it was there. He was zoned out in a way he’d never been before. He couldn’t concentrate or recognize threats, couldn’t figure out simple things. And what he could felt overwhelming. Impossible. He was in shock, he knew this, but even that seemed like a distant, faraway concept. The only thing he seemed able to manage was putting
one foot in front of the other and keeping Violet close.
Right now, he was dangerous—a hazard.
He wondered if this was what it felt like just before a dissociative state. Miranda had told him about them. How, sometimes, she hovered near the ceiling or the tops of trees. She would look down on herself, unable to feel whatever it was that Miranda below was mired in. He’d worried about her after she told him that. That had been before, when they were only friends. As with most difficult topics back then, and even now, she’d laughed and blown it off—and quit telling him. She didn’t share anything like that again until much, much later, when they lay together in her bed, their bodies wrapped together in the warmth of making love. He had whispered how much he loved her, how it would be all right, while she sobbed for the latest person she’d lost like her heart would break—again.
Oh Miri, he thought, shying away even as the memories bubbled. He couldn’t go there, couldn’t allow himself another second thinking about her, because that managed to pierce the haze of his grief. It cut just as deep, and let all the horror of losing Silas pour out.
“Vehicle ahead,” Skye said.
Mario looked down the long ribbon of road. A truck was approaching. He checked to make sure he still held Violet’s hand, twisting his arm behind his body when she hid behind him. Doug planted himself ahead of Mario. Skye did, too. Tessa pulled Violet to her, and set Mister Bun Bun’s carrier at Mario’s feet. If he were the kind of man who looked for slights, Mario might have been insulted that he was entrusted to protect only a rabbit, but it was an accurate assessment just now.
The truck was a really old Japanese one, like he’d had in college. There had been an inverse relationship between how well the truck ran and how bad it looked. He’d called it his Mexican Gardener truck, and when his mother heard this and began to scold him, he’d told her, ‘No, no, Ma. I’ve had three different Mexican gardeners offer to buy it. It doesn’t have a lot of electronics, so if you know how to work on cars, they’re really easy to keep running.’ This had mollified his mother a little, but she still told him he shouldn’t call it that.
As the truck began to slow, Mario could see that there were three people in its cab. A white man with a weather-beaten complexion, sandy hair that was going gray, and a friendly face, got out on the passenger side, followed by a black woman. Mario’s whole body relaxed when she appeared. He noticed that everyone else’s posture softened some, too. Then the driver got out, also a woman. Her face was shaded by a baseball cap, which made it difficult to see.
“Hello,” the man said. “We saw you and thought you might like a ride, or a place for the night. It’s a hot day to be walking.”
“It is hot,” Doug said. His hand went to his holster. Not as a threat, just to let them know that they weren’t defenseless. “We’ve been walking a—”
“Mario?”
The woman in the baseball cap looked at him intently. She pulled the cap off and walked closer. Her dark eyes were wide-set under perfectly arched eyebrows that matched her raven-black hair. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight and elegant. Even though he felt like he was looking at the world through layers of fog, Mario knew who she was immediately. He’d know that face anywhere.
“Maria-Elena.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yeah. It’s me.”
Maria-Elena, who had lived up the street in the old neighborhood, lived in a castle.
Like, for real.
After introductions were made—the man’s name was Bob, and the woman was Candy, Maria-Elena’s wife—they climbed in the truck for the short drive to Castello Di Saraceno Winery.
Mario had been to Castello Di Saraceno so long ago that he’d almost forgotten about the place. When zombies came to town, this should have been the number one destination on his list. It had a moat and drawbridge, a lake, acres of still tended vineyards, and food crops, too. It had towers, ramparts, and courtyards. The chandeliers of the massive, vaulted wine cellars in the underground levels were now lit with oil lamps, but that didn’t detract at all. If anything, the flickering lamps deepened the romance of rows upon rows of four-foot-high iron-banded barrels that lay stacked on their sides. The castle had terra-cotta tiles on the roof, stained glass and vaulted ceilings, and grand dining halls with gorgeous frescos painted on the walls. It had an armory, a chapel, and stables. It even had a dungeon. The only thing it didn’t have were giant cauldrons on the ramparts from which boiling oil could be poured upon hostile forces. Mario kind of thought maybe, just maybe, they were lying around somewhere, but only pulled out when the situation warranted.
They’d arrived in time for the evening meal, so after they’d had a chance to clean up, Maria-Elena and Candy brought them to the Grand Hall.
“You can read the book they used to sell in the gift store,” Candy said. “It’s an authentic, medieval castle, or as close as they could get and still be up to code. It took almost ten years to build. The stone is from her—from California—but the furniture is from Europe. Everything’s handmade.”
Candy pushed the tall arched doors to the main dining room open. There was no denying the room was indeed gorgeous, with the long, polished tables that stretched the length of the room, wooden chairs the color of dark honey, and brilliant medieval-style frescos on the walls that featured jesters and friars, wimpled maidens, and knights on horseback.
Mario jerked to a stop just inside the doors, jerking Violet along with him. He was surrounded by the appetizing aroma of expertly cooked food, the friendly chatter of a hundred people, maybe more, and it was too much. He had to force himself to not bolt away.
When Maria-Elena noticed he wasn’t with them, she looked around, then came back.
“Are you okay?”
“It’s a little much, is all.”
“Oh,” she said, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before. “We can go to one of the smaller dining rooms. Wait here. I’ll get the others.”
Three hours later, they lingered over the dinner table, talking and drinking wine. Maria-Elena had steered them to a much smaller dining room called the King’s Chamber. Mario’s first impression of it, with the diamond patterned gold and red frescoed walls, was that it was a little busy. Beautiful, of course, with rough hewn timbers above them, but busy. The shutters on the windows that looked out on the vineyard grounds were opened wide. As the sky outside faded to an orange sunset, followed by a velvety, star-speckled sky, the busyness of the room began to feel cozy. Candlelight was the only illumination, which intensified the effect. All the wine he’d drunk probably hadn’t hurt, either.
The King’s Chamber only held twelve people, so it afforded a level of privacy that the Great Hall couldn’t match. Bob stopped by after they finished their meal. He was one of the five people who ran things at the winery, having been the general manager years ago. He was the only one of them here at the moment; the others were visiting at other wineries, where other communities had also sprung up. It was he—in an official capacity—and Maria-Elena and Candy, to whom they told their tale, beginning with the Jesuit plot to liberate the people of Silicon Valley.
“There’s a working vaccine up in Portland?” Bob said. “And it’s really free? Wow.”
“Almost killed the first few people it was given to,” Doug said, squeezing Skye’s hand under the table. She gave it a squeeze back, the reassuring sidelong glance she directed his way full of love. “But yeah. It works. Most of the worst of the side effects had been mitigated when we left… How long ago?”
“I have no idea,” Tessa confessed.
Mario shrugged. He had no idea, either.
“Makes San Jose pretty irrelevant, once word gets out,” Bob said thoughtfully.
“That was the idea,” said Mario.
He took a sip of his wine, which was excellent, and stroked Violet’s soft, curly hair. It was still on the short side, but growing in. She had fallen asleep and lay on the chair next to him, with her head in his lap.
Bob raised his glass. “
That deserves a toast, because San Jose is a mess.” He waited for the others to raise their glasses. “To cleaning house.”
Glasses were clinked, wine was drunk, another bottle was opened. Bob said good night, with a promise to arrange sleeping quarters for them. Not long after he did so, yawns began flying fast and fierce.
“I think they need to go to bed, honey,” Carmen said to Maria-Elena.
Maria-Elena nodded, but put her hand on Mario’s arm. “I need a little time to talk to Mario. Do you mind getting everyone settled?”
“Violet needs to be put to bed,” Mario said, regretful, because he really wanted to talk with Maria-Elena.
“We’ll take her,” Doug said. “And we’ll make sure you’re near her,” he added when Mario opened his mouth.
“All right then,” Candy said, her tone brisk, like she meant business. “Let’s see where Bob’s put you. Probably back in some crevice where you’ll get lost all the time. He never seems to realize that no one knows the castle as well as he does.”
Violet murmured but never really woke up when Mario handed her off to Doug after kissing her forehead. Soon he and Maria-Elena were alone, seated together at one end of the table.
“It’s so good to see you, Mario.”
“I know,” he said. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Of all the gin joints, right?” she said, laughing. “I knew it couldn’t be true, what they said you’d done in San Jose with the vaccine. I just knew there had to be more to it.”
Mario smiled, but it was tempered by sadness. “That’s very loyal of you, Maria-Elena. It means a lot.”
She shrugged the compliment away. “Oh, please. What kind of friend would I be if I believed it?”
“The kind who believes the evidence in front of her?”
She shook her head at him, dismissing his rebuttal.
“And you’re married?”
“Yeah,” he said. “My wife’s name is Emily. We’re still married, but we haven’t been together for…a while. We got married for all the wrong reasons, though I can’t regret it. We have three kids who are amazing, and Em is a wonderful mother.” Mario shrugged. “She’s a good person. She was just—” He searched for the word. “Damaged by it all, you know?”
