Children of the Underground

  The bus ride to New Jersey took three days. I had to switch buses three times. It was the cheapest route I could find. For three days, I practiced what I was going to say to the woman who was, by blood, your grandmother. I was ready to tell her about every characteristic that you shared with your father—the way your ears stuck out a little, the slant of your eyes, the thickness of your lips. I was ready to beg for her help. I was ready to get down on my knees and plead with the woman who’d taken everything I’d ever loved from me.

  The bus let me off five miles from your father’s old house. I had been there only once before, but I remembered how to get there. The walk took me a couple hours, but it felt good to move again after three days cooped up on the bus. It had been a long journey and I felt ready for almost anything, except for what I found.

  The house was empty, stripped completely bare. It wasn’t merely that no one was home. Everything was gone. The house looked like it had never been lived in. I noticed the curtains first. I walked up the driveway toward the house and I could see that the curtains were missing. When I stepped closer and peered through the windows, I saw that all the furniture was gone. I went to the side door and placed my hand on the doorknob. I twisted it and it gave way easily. The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. I stepped inside. The house already had a musty odor. A thin layer of dust had collected on the countertops in the kitchen. I walked over to one of the cabinets and opened it. Everything that should have been inside was gone—the plates, the glasses. Only ring stains on the wood where the cups used to be remained. I began moving more quickly. I ran upstairs to your father’s room. It was empty too. All of the things that his mother had saved for him since his childhood were gone—his trophies, his pictures. I went into his sister’s room, the one that I’d slept in, the one his mother had kept as a shrine to his murdered sister. Nothing. I felt my heart drop. It felt like they had killed your father all over again. I walked back into your father’s bedroom and crouched down in a corner and cried. It’s amazing how much you can cry before running out of tears.

  I stayed there, in the house where your father grew up, for three days. I slept on the floor in the sleeping bag that I carried with me. I didn’t eat. I didn’t want to leave. Leaving meant leaving your father forever.

  Eventually, I had to leave. I wasn’t going to let myself die in that house. I wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. I went to Manhattan to be surrounded by people. Nobody ever told me how lonely it is to be surrounded by strangers. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. I had always been the smart kid, the overachiever—prizes, awards, university at sixteen. Everything in my life had been so easy, but none of that mattered. I couldn’t solve this problem with a pencil and eraser. I got lonely enough once that I called my parents. I couldn’t tell them about Joseph. I couldn’t tell them about the War. I couldn’t even tell them about you. I didn’t dare risk pulling them into this mess. All I could tell them was that I was okay. All I could do was lie to them. My mother cried when I spoke with her. I wanted to tell her not to cry. I wanted to tell her that the only thing that I knew in the world was that crying doesn’t help.

  According to my book, sometime while I was in New York, you smiled for the first time.

  After New York I headed back to Montreal, to the apartment where your father and I shared our first weekend together. It was the only lead I could think of. Whoever owned that apartment was part of the War. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something.

  Montreal was cold when I arrived. I’d come a long way from New Mexico. It was dark outside when I stepped off the bus. I headed straight for the apartment. The lights inside the apartment were still on. I could see the light from the sidewalk across the street. I remembered standing in almost that exact same spot and looking up at that window before the first night that I ever spent with your father. I never told him this, but I had stood there for a moment, looking up at the window, and I almost ran away. If I’d run your father would probably still be alive but you wouldn’t exist. I’m glad I didn’t run. I know that your father would feel the same way.

  I decided that I should wait until morning to confront whoever lived in the apartment, but I didn’t have the strength to leave. Instead I pulled my jacket tight around my neck and sat down on a bench. Shadows were moving inside the apartment. I watched them dance along the walls. The lights went out around midnight. Once the apartment was dark, I leaned back on the bench and shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat. I think I slept a bit, but I can’t be sure. In the morning, some warmth returned. I sat in silence and watched the front door to the apartment building. The building had eight apartments, but only one mattered.

  I stopped the first man who came out of the apartment building and asked him if he could tell me who owned apartment 3A. He told me that the woman was about my height and had straight blond hair. I saw the woman come out of the building about an hour and a half later. I followed her, not wanting to confront her yet, not wanting to scare her away. She walked downtown from her apartment and disappeared into a tall office building downtown. I waited outside. I decided that I’d talk to her when she came out for lunch. I tried to calm my nerves.

  Around lunchtime, the woman came out of the building, along with throngs of others. I followed her again. She walked about four blocks and then got in line at a place that sold chopped salads for the amount of money that I survived on for days. I got in line behind her. I felt how much I stood out. I’d been wearing the same clothes for three days. I hadn’t looked at my hair since I left New York. I waited a few minutes, slowly shuffling forward as the line moved. The woman didn’t speak to anyone. When we were nearing the front of the line, I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to act as casual as possible. “Don’t you live at ———?” I named the address of her apartment.

  “Yes, I do,” she said with a slight francophone accent. “Why do you ask?”

  “I stayed in one of the apartments there once. I thought that maybe I’d seen you.” I instantly saw the paranoia in her face. I’d said something wrong. The War breeds paranoia. I knew that. “Don’t worry,” I said to her in a whisper. “I’m a friend.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she answered, a nervous tremble seeping into her voice. “When was it that you stayed in my apartment building?”

  “About a year ago,” I answered.

  “Then you couldn’t have seen me there. My husband and I bought our apartment only two months ago.” She looked me up and down now. “Who are you?” She stepped out of the queue and started hurrying away from me. I followed her. I couldn’t let her go. She began walking faster to try to get away from me, but she was wearing heels. I caught up to her when we got back to the plaza in front of her office building. When she turned toward the entrance, I reached out, grabbed her arm, and twisted it so that she was forced to turn and face me.

  “I need your help,” I said, sounding as desperate as I was. “Please.”

  “What do you want from me?” the woman shrieked, trying to pull her arm from my grip. I was holding on too tight.

  “I need to know about the War,” I blurted out. “I need to know where they took my son.” I was raving like a madman, near tears. I could see fear in the woman’s eyes but it wasn’t the right kind of fear. She wasn’t afraid of me because she knew something. She was afraid of me because she didn’t. To her, I was just a crazy woman grabbing her on the street, rambling about wars and missing children.

  “Let me go!” the woman screamed. A crowd formed around us.

  “You bought your apartment two months ago?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Who did you buy it from?”

  “It was a bank sale, a foreclosure. We never knew anything about the owners.” I let go of the woman’s arm. She didn’t run. Something in my voice had caught her off guard.

  “They just abandoned
the place?” I asked. I didn’t expect anyone to answer me. I already knew the answer. They’d left it because of me. This woman was as innocent and naïve as I had been a year ago. I could see it in her eyes.

  “Do you need help?” the woman asked me, her fear turning into pity. Pity isn’t something that I can stomach.

  “Yes,” I answered her, “but not from you.” I turned away from her and away from the crowd that had gathered around us. I walked away as quickly as I could. They had wiped the world clean. If I hadn’t seen everything with my own eyes, even I would have begun to doubt that the War existed. That’s what they wanted. Everything that could connect me to the War was gone. They made it disappear. The only thing that they couldn’t take away from me was my memory of you.

  I stayed in Montreal even longer than I had stayed in New York. I got a job. I rented an apartment. I saved some money. At night, I read your father’s journal over and over again. I pretended that your father was trying to help me find you. While I was in my apartment in Montreal, you probably rolled over for the first time. You probably started saying the word Mama to a woman that wasn’t me. Unless I find you in another month or two, I’ll likely miss your first steps. One night while reading your father’s journal, it hit me. Michael could help me. I just had to find him. That’s how I ended up in St. Martin.

  Five

  The morning that I first saw Michael, my plan was to search Orient Beach again. Based on its reputation alone, it was the obvious choice. If Michael was on the island at all, it only made sense that he’d be on its most famous nude beach. I’d already searched Orient Beach once, the first day I got to the island. I roamed through the masses of naked bodies, looking for someone who I had never seen before. All I had to go on was a name that I wasn’t sure Michael was using anymore and that scar on his abdomen. I could have easily missed him the first time. I decided to give it another chance.

  I lasted only a couple of hours. All those people walking around naked, without cares or anything to hide. I felt like an alien, like a germ. I had enough to hide for everybody. So did Michael. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t there. I had to leave. I headed to the city of Marigot to get more sunscreen and supplies. I’ve been staying in this same cheap motel for five days now, living on peanut butter sandwiches. After restocking, I planned on heading out to another beach, one that I hadn’t been to before. I never made it to the second beach. Instead I spent the afternoon reading through your father’s journal again, trying to confirm that the man I saw actually was THE Michael.

  Michael wasn’t where I expected to find him. He was working on the docks in Marigot, loading supplies onto a cruise ship. I was walking by, heading for the convenience store, when I heard someone call out his name. I didn’t hear anything else, only his name. It echoed over the din from the crowds in the market, and I heard it as clearly as if somebody had whispered it in my ear. “Michael.” The word sounded teasingly sweet. I almost dropped my bags when I heard it. I tried staying realistic. How many Michaels were there in the world? A million? What were the odds that this was the one I was looking for? I walked closer and looked at the four men working on the pier. They were all lean and muscular. They had the builds of people who pushed and lifted things for a living, their bodies drenched in a thick, workingman’s sweat. One of the men had a tank top on. The other three were shirtless. “Get a move on, Michael,” I heard one of them yell with a slight Creole accent. “I’ve got a date I don’t want to be late for.”

  “Relax,” Michael answered, almost out of breath from his work, “I hear your mom doesn’t even own a watch.” The other two men laughed. Michael was pushing a large crate on a dolly across the pier toward the boat. The crate rattled as it moved over the slats of wood. I could see only his back as his muscles tensed and he leaned lower to push the crate faster. “You could always help me push. You know?” This time, all three of the other men laughed. I couldn’t take my eyes off this Michael. I tried willing him to turn around. What are the odds? I asked myself. What are the odds that this is the man that I’m looking for? But somehow I knew.

  “Who put a stick up your ass?” the Creole man called back to Michael.

  “I’m just tired,” Michael replied. He had pushed the crate all the way to the plank leading up the ship. The other two men took it from there.

  “You off tomorrow?” the Creole man asked.

  “Yeah,” Michael replied. He didn’t sound like I expected. I expected him to sound more boisterous, more alive. I stepped over to one side of the pier so that I could hide behind one of the pylons and watch this Michael. I knew where the scar needed to be. Your father told me the story so many times. I didn’t understand why the details were so important then. Now I do.

  “So, Michael, whatchya goin’ to do on your day off?”

  “I’m going to Grand Case to lie on the beach and get drunk,” Michael answered. Then he turned toward me. I looked for the scar on his right side, slightly above his waistline. As Michael turned I could see the folds on his abdomen where his skin bubbled up surrounding a deep slit. It looked like he had a pair of lips on the side of his stomach.

  I stayed on the pier for another hour at least, watching Michael. They had tried to wipe the world clean, to cleanse any connection I had to the War. They failed. I finally found something that they failed to erase. I needed to make a plan. I needed to figure out the best way to approach him. I figured I had one shot. He was going to Grand Case the next day. So was I.

  Six

  Addy and Evan made it as far as they could on foot. Even out in the fresh night air, they were both still struggling to breathe. They had made it out of the fire, but the fire was still inside of them. Addy kept scanning the streets for a place for them to hide. Hiding was the one thing in the world that she knew how to do really well. She was learning how to fight. She was trying to learn how to rebel. But, to her growing shame, what she knew how to do best was run and hide. It was what she’d been trained to do.

  As they ran down the empty city street, Addy spotted a deserted building with a door that appeared loose on its hinges. She knew that the odds were good that it wasn’t locked and, even if it was, Addy was certain that she could kick through the lock. Addy was pulling Evan behind her by his hand. She’d grabbed his hand after he killed the cop and she still hadn’t let it go. “Come on,” she urged him. “We need to rest. We need to get inside.” She guided the two of them toward the dilapidated doorway. Before reaching for the door, Addy looked back. She could see the smoke billowing up in the moonlight from the house where they’d been asleep not long ago. She wished she knew what the fuck was going on.

  When they reached the door, Addy pulled on it, but it wouldn’t give. She couldn’t tell if it was locked or merely rusted shut. She didn’t care. She lifted up her leg and kicked the door near the doorknob. The door swung open. She pulled Evan inside. Once inside, Addy sat Evan down on the floor. She let go of his wrist. She began moving around the building as quickly as her choked lungs would allow her. She was checking the windows to see if anyone could see them hiding from outside the building. The windows were all boarded up. Satisfied that they were hidden from view, Addy began looking for an escape route. She found another door down the stairs in the back. It led to a concrete yard surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. With a little strength, she thought that she and Evan could climb over the fence if they had to. It wasn’t much of an escape route, but it would have to do. Convinced that this was the best that they could hope for at the moment, Addy returned to Evan. Evan hadn’t moved. He looked up at her when she came back into the room. It was dark. Only a little gray light from outside slipped through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Evan could see a bit of light pass through Addy’s hair in the darkness. Her hair was as red as the flames that had engulfed the house. He tried to imagine what she looked like before she dyed her hair. Addy and Evan were still close enough to the madness that they could hear the sirens. Fi
re trucks. Police cars. Ambulances. Addy wondered how long they’d been blaring like that. Until that moment, she hadn’t noticed them.

  “What are we going to do?” Evan asked Addy. His fear was evident in his voice. After what he’d just done, he had reason to be afraid.

  Addy walked over to one of the windows and peered out through the cracks in the boards. She was trying to see the smoke from inside their hiding place. She couldn’t. The angle was all wrong. Addy tried to think of what they should do next. She and Evan might have been the only two to make it out of their house, but she knew that there were other houses with other people across the city. Addy feared that those houses had been raided too. She knew that this wasn’t an ordinary raid. For all Addy knew, every house in Los Angeles had been raided. For all Addy knew, she and Evan were the only rebels left in the whole state. She could check her phone—she’d managed to save it from the fire—but she knew that there wouldn’t be any news yet. “We get our strength,” Addy said to Evan, trying to sound strong, “and then we get the fuck out of here.”

  “Where are we going to go?” Evan shook his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on. What were cops doing there? Why were they trying to kill us?”

  “I don’t know,” Addy answered him. She was trying to figure it out too. Could all of those policemen have been part of the War? She turned back to Evan. “How did you know how to do that?” she asked him. She was taking inventory, trying to figure out everything that they had going for them.