“Yeah. He’s got the kind of face I want to punch.”
I agree with that statement wholeheartedly. Paul slouches again, and I get the sense he hasn’t rid himself of what troubled him a minute ago. “You can talk to Grace, too, you know,” I say.
“I don’t like to talk.”
“Really? I didn’t get that vibe.” He grunts, and I continue, “Maybe it’d help. She’s good at telling people what’s wrong with them and how to change it. You should hear what she says about me.”
“That bad?”
“Fucked up beyond redemption.”
I rip open the bag of chips I saved for watch and hold it out. Paul takes a few. “I’ll give you some of mine tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, and he nods his thanks. “Anyway, you might want to try it. She probably won’t tell you you’re beyond redemption. She’s easy to talk to, which, coming from me, says a lot.”
He shrugs. “I’m not good at talking to shrinks. You’re easy to talk to.”
My shriek of laughter causes Bird to tear out of the room without a backward glance. “Paul, I can say this is the first time anyone has ever said that to me.”
“I think you are.”
“That’s because I don’t talk about feelings and neither do you, so you know I’m not expecting you to. We’re two people who won’t talk sitting together not talking about anything in depth.”
The corner of his mouth rises. “Works for me.”
“Me, too.”
Quiet feet pad down the stairs, and Leo enters with sleepy eyes, messy hair, and his stuffed dog clutched to his chest. “Daddy, why’d you leave?”
Paul opens his arms. Leo climbs into his lap and curls into a tiny ball against his dad’s broad chest. “Just talking to Sylvie, buddy. You get scared?”
“A little.”
“I’m always nearby, promise.” Leo nods, already drifting away. Paul closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of the chair.
“It looks hard.” I motion at Leo. “Parenting.”
Paul turns his gaze to his son, and if there’s such a thing as exhausted love, it’s on his face. “They can be a huge pain in the ass, but you love that pain in the ass more than anything in the world, and you’ll do anything to keep them safe. Sometimes I don’t think I can take another second of this, then I look at him and keep going.”
My father kept going, too, as far away from me as he could. He never once contacted me, and though my mother was abysmal at mothering, at least she didn’t abandon me—not for extended periods, anyway. Paul would never do that. “You’re a good dad.”
“I just called my kid a pain in the ass and I’m a good dad?”
“You’re being honest. I would think you were either crazy or lying if you said it was always magical. I don’t think your five-year-old son calling you a meanie butt qualifies as magical.” Paul chuffs, and I go on, “Leo feels safe with you. You love him and would do anything to protect him. I think that makes you a good dad.”
“Not being able to protect him is the one thing that terrifies me like no other. If I die…” His Adam’s apple bobs as he turns his head toward the windows.
I know what it’s like to be a kid with no one to count on, and the thought of Leo experiencing a moment of that terrifying, rootless feeling seems more than possible with the dark outside and Kearney near. I won’t let it happen, and not just because I can’t stand to see lonely things, but because Leo is a charming little human. Paul shouldn’t have to worry that if he dies, Leo will, too.
“I’m not exactly mother material,” I say, “but I hope you know I’d never let Leo end up alone. We’d take care of him—I’d take care of him. I promise you that.”
Paul’s nod is curt in a choked-up way. “So, you like my pain in the ass?”
“Yeah, I guess he’s all right.”
We smile at each other, and the last vestige of my uneasiness around Paul dissipates. I put my hand to my mouth and widen my eyes. “Paul, I don’t want to scare you, but I think we just had a deep discussion.”
“Never again,” he says, still grinning.
“Never ever,” I agree.
Chapter 20
Two days later, we return to the monastery on bikes. Grace is home with Leo, excited to have a patient at last, and Maria has come to check on the kids’ health and corroborate the news about Kearney, with Paul and Jorge as backup. Zombies have infiltrated our previous route, so we use the trip to mark a map with alternate streets that are passable by car, but when we veer to Fifth Avenue just past Sacred Heart, we find it’s been cleared all the way to Bay Ridge.
“They need a way to get to the nuns,” Jorge says. He eyes the plundered stores—more stuff for Sacred Heart, less for us. “I guess this is it.”
Lexers wander singly and in groups, but between our quiet bikes and open streets, we reach the monastery gates quickly. Two zombies move toward us outside the church. I slide my chisel from my holster and pierce the old lady’s eye while Jorge shatters the skull of her old man counterpart with his cleaver. Sister Frances is on her way down the driveway by the time they’re on the sidewalk, and she ushers us through the gate as five zombies wheel around the corner.
Once inside the safety of the wall, Sister Frances gives us a tour of the church, the chapel, and the school. Carpeted classrooms have become mini apartments, with a sleeping area on one side and a living area on the other.
“At first, we only took in children, but now children with parents are welcome as well.” Sister Frances lifts remorseful eyes to Paul. “The goal was to help orphans, not create new ones. I’m sorry we turned you away.”
“I wasn’t offended,” Paul says. “Just happy you fed my son.”
She lowers her head at his acceptance of her apology. A few rooms are empty but for desks, chairs, whiteboards, and assorted classroom materials. “Those are for schooling still. These children will need to read and write no matter what comes.”
Sister Frances has a soft voice and peaceful nature. I disliked my short tenure in Catholic school, and one nun in particular, but these nuns bear no resemblance to the hellion that was Sister Jean Marie.
“No school today?” Jorge asks
“It’s Sunday.”
He fiddles with his ponytail. “Right. We don’t get to church much nowadays. I won’t lie to you—I didn’t get to church much before, Sister. We didn’t mean to interrupt your services.”
“Our lives have changed quite a bit. I spend less time in quiet contemplation than I once did.” A happy scream comes in a window, and she tilts her head toward the noise. “For obvious reasons.”
We laugh, and she says, “We have tea on the porch. I hope you’ll join me.”
***
The table on the back porch, looking out over the grounds, is the most relaxing place I’ve been in months. If you overlook the gray wall, you can almost believe the meandering paths would take you frolicking off into a countryside unoccupied by Lexers.
“I see why you love it here,” Maria says, and sips from her cup. “I wouldn’t want to leave.”
“We rarely did,” Sister Frances says. “Now the world has come in to us, instead of the other way around. We were meant to be a gentle presence in a violent world, and to help relieve humanity’s suffering with our prayer and devotion to God.”
I don’t see how prayer would relieve the suffering in the world more than actually doing something about it, but my job probably helped to up the suffering, at least in a consumerist way, so I’m the last person who should argue.
“Speaking of a violent world,” I say, “we wanted to talk with you about Kearn—Joseph.”
“He spoke with us once you left. He’s made no secret that he’s repentant of his past and said to judge him accordingly.” She takes a long draw of her tea while that sinks in. “God is the only judge in this world. Joseph is a kind man as far as we’re concerned.”
“To the kids. Did he tell you he killed—”
Sister Frances raises a slim, lined hand. “That’s between Joseph and God. Sylvie, I understand your impulse to want to impose punishment, but that isn’t how things work with us.”
Her voice makes it clear she’s done with this discussion. Maria pats my arm while I seethe and listen to talk about the seeds. When I can stand it no longer, I clomp down the stairs and take a path under the trees to the wall, then follow another to the lake.
Jorge appears beside me. “It’s frustrating, right? That they won’t see him for who we’ve seen him to be?” I nod and watch the water. I hope they filter it before drinking because, fresh or not, it’s pretty murky. Jorge exhales. “Maybe he is different, Sylvie. People change.”
“That much? I’m not sure about that.”
Jorge puts his arm around my shoulders. “Listen, I still don’t trust the guy, but what are we gonna do? Blow up his church? He’s got innocent people in there, and that would make us no better than him. If he gives us a reason, I’m first on board to stick his head up his ass.”
The murderous feeling diminishes a little when I laugh. “You shouldn’t talk like that on holy ground. God might smite you.”
“AA meetings are held in churches—God’s heard it all. You know what they say: grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
He’s right, but I say, “I like the blowing up plan best. It’d change things for sure.”
Jorge squeezes me to his chest with a chuckle. “I know you do, mami. That’s why you’re one of my favorite people.”
Jorge is like a big brother, a bit of a father, but mostly a warm-hearted friend. My personal bubble has expanded to include more people than I thought possible, and I would happily blow up Kearney rather than risk losing a single one.
“You’re one of mine, too,” I say quietly. “I’m afraid…”
I meant to say more, but my taut throat strangles my next words. He hugs me tighter. “I know. Me, too.”
Chapter 21
We eat chips, water our plants, and visit Sunset Park Safe Zone—or, as everyone has taken to calling it, SPSZ. Grace sticks to her patient confidentiality policy, but whatever she and Leo do in her playroom-office in Avocado House might be helping. He had a nightmare-free night, and yesterday he told a funny story about his mom, whom he hadn’t spoken of since he told me her fate.
Indy and Eli have paid us a surprise visit today. Though I was never a fan of the drop-by, giving a call first isn’t possible, and I don’t mind if they do, especially since Indy brought ingredients to make a snack.
She stands in our kitchen, curls held back by a cloth headband while she dumps a mixture of boiled potatoes and carrots into a bowl. “Here, beat this.” She hands me an old-fashioned hand beater—avocado green, so I know where it was found. “I miss my Vitamix.”
“I loved my Vitamix,” Grace says. “The Hipster Zombie House has one.”
They’re sad about glorified blenders, of all things, but I suppose there are more absurd things to be sad about, and Vitamix blenders appear to inspire unquestioned loyalty.
“What if we took it out to the truck in front and used that inverter in the cigarette lighter?” I ask.
“Blenders use too much power,” Indy says. “We’d need a generator for that.”
“We need a generator in general,” I say. “And where did you learn about generators?”
“She’s not only an actress and chef, she’s a scholar,” Eli says from the kitchen doorway.
“I listen to Gary, he knows his shit,” Indy says. “You’re the scholar. Eli got a free ride to law school.”
“India graduated summa cum laude from NYU.” He leans against the doorframe with a proud smile. “And she’d just landed an important role in an off-Broadway play.”
“They don’t need to know that—”
“Yes, we do!” Grace yells. “That’s amazing. I was a therapist, and Sylvie—”
“Wrote ad copy,” I say. Grace frowns, but I have no plan to advertise the job I couldn’t wait to quit. “You guys are a couple of overachievers.”
“After our older sister went the way she did,” Eli says, “our parents only let us leave the house to go to school and study.”
“What way did she go?” Grace asks.
“Drugs.”
“She was older?”
“By fifteen years. We were surprise babies, when our mother was in her forties, and she wasn’t going to let that happen again.” Eli raises his eyebrows at me. “You know how parents are.”
“Sure do,” I say, rather than open that can of worms.
Eli takes the bowl from my hands and sits at the table to beat the mixture while Indy measures out spices and other ingredients. She pours a flaky yellowish powder into a measuring cup. The potatoes and carrots have already aroused suspicion, but this is hard evidence.
“That’s nutritional yeast,” I groan. “You’re making something healthy.”
“You’ll like it. It took a lot of sweet-talking to get those potatoes and carrots from the Key Food, so you’d better like it.”
Grace claps; this is her dream come true. Eli spins the beater, but the gloppy consistency Indy predicts doesn’t occur. She dumps in the other ingredients, and we watch Eli until she says, “Damn, it’s not working.”
“Maybe it needs to be a blender?” I ask.
“I guess so. I didn’t think it made a difference.”
“The blades turn the potatoes into a weird consistency,” Grace says. “I know this because I ruined the mashed potatoes with a stick blender last Thanksgiving. They turned from fluffy to Elmer’s Glue in less than a minute.”
Grace’s words have jogged my memory, and I jump up. “Be right back.”
I wasn’t particularly upset I wouldn’t be eating that concoction, but Indy looks crestfallen that her plan has failed. I head across the yard to a house with a cordless stick blender on the counter. Though the power has been out for months, if it was charged on its stand it may have some life left.
It does, and within minutes of Indy plunging it into the bowl, the mixture turns to yellow-orange goo. She shoos us into the yard and then appears bearing bowls of tortilla chips, salsa, and the yellow glop.
“Nachos,” Indy says. “It’s not gourmet, but I thought different would be good.” She wipes her hands on her pants and gnaws at her lip while she waits for us to dig in.
“I eat Kraft Singles, remember?” I say. “This is gourmet. And it doesn’t have mold.” I stop, chip in hand, because who knows what she added when I wasn’t watching. “You didn’t slip in any moldy cheese, did you?”
“I’m still waiting on Carlos.”
Grace and I laugh, though no one else gets the joke. I pick up a chip, dunk it, and take a bite. It’s not just good, it tastes like cheese. Or my cheese-deprived brain says it’s close enough. “You made vegetables taste like cheese. This is delicious.”
Everyone agrees through mouths full of food. We attack the meal without a single ounce of restraint, which is a compliment to her skills and a sign we need more food than we get, even with added potato chips and nuts. Bird gobbles down a cheesy chip, then sits back on his haunches and cleans his face with a pristine white paw.
“Please come live here and cook,” Grace begs.
“You should come live with us.” Indy leans back in her chair and twists her hair. “All those teenagers are driving me crazy. We need more people our age.”
With Indy’s teenage boys and those who were already there, hormones and teen angst are in full force at SPSZ. Around half of the residents are between the ages of two to twenty-one. It could be annoying if I lived there, but it’s fun when we visit. I find teenagers hilarious—probably because I act like one half the time.
“I’m flattered,” Jorge says. “I know I may not look it, but I am a couple years older than you.”
Indy blows him a kiss. “You and Maria, too, old man. The hou
ses on the other side of the park are mostly empty. It would be like our own neighborhood.”
“But there are so many people,” I say. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Living with my six people is one thing, but Guillermo has close to seventy now, and that means a lot of weather-related conversation and unlimited occurrences of the dreaded drop-by.
“Let’s see what happens when Eric gets back,” Maria says. She’s been quiet and distant this week, as though she’s half out there with Eric, searching for Ana and Penny.
I haven’t torn the words off the calendar day by day, as I told Eric I would. It used to be my game, but it’s no longer fun to play alone and would only make me think about him. I’ve imagined throwing myself into his arms upon his return instead of getting weird. I don’t have high hopes I can pull that off. Every day that passes makes our nights together seem further away. I went from sure he liked me, to pretty sure he does, and now I’m thinking I imagined the whole thing.
“Hey, no double dipping,” Paul says to Leo, who jerks his bitten chip away from the bowl.
“You have to plan it before you go in,” I say to Leo. “Look at your chip size, then take however much you’ll need to cover it. Let some cheese slide to the other end and take the first bite. Then the second half of the chip will have dip, too.”
Leo performs the exercise with his next chip, holds up the second cheesy bite in triumph, and pops it in his mouth. I catch Paul’s head shake and say, “You can count on me to teach him the important things in life.”
“Yeah, you have those down,” Paul says, smirking, but then he dips his next chip using my strategy. “You know what would be good with this? A beer.”
“Crack open one of those cases,” Jorge says of the beer we found a few days ago hidden under a bed in a nearby apartment. At Paul’s nod, he gets to his feet. “I’ll get one for you.”
I follow him into our house. I want a beer as much as Paul, but not at the expense of Jorge, who’s sober, feeling tempted or left out. Jorge climbs from the basement with a case in his arms and stops where I wait in the kitchen. “What’s up?”