“Someone poured a lot of money into this place,” Eric says.
Maria admires the decorative plaster oval on the ceiling. “It’s beautiful. Why hasn’t anyone taken it?”
“They want to be on the other side of the park with everyone else, but we’re gentrifying this side—Eli dug the outhouse,” Indy says, and we laugh. “There are five bedrooms. Three upstairs and two downstairs, with an office. Downstairs has its own kitchen. I think it was a rental apartment before, but they opened it to upstairs.”
I pop the door on Bird’s box. He walks out sniffing the air, then smells the rug and moves to the couch with cautious steps. Leo crouches beside him. “Look, Mr. Bird, it’s your new house.” Bird gives Leo’s hand a lick before he resumes his explorations.
“Come see the kitchen,” Indy says.
A small room with wide arched doorways connects the parlor to the dining room. Granite counters and fancy appliances sit to the left, with a breakfast counter separating them from the dining area. It’s sunny and bright with the French doors that open onto a wood deck, where stairs descend to the yard.
Indy points to the similar deck of the neighboring house. “That’s us.”
The yards are the usual mix of concrete and grass, and nicely landscaped. An outhouse sits in the far corner of theirs, and tall ivy-covered fences hide the backyards of the houses behind us, though only a short picket fence divides ours from Indy’s.
“We’ll take that down,” Jorge says of the fence. “You kids want the upstairs, and Maria and I will take downstairs?”
I stay silent while the others approve of this arrangement. With five bedrooms, I won’t have my own, and I have no idea in whose room I’ll live. I trail behind on the way upstairs. Three bedrooms and a bathroom sit off a short hall, one of which has two twin beds and a lot of toys, though it’s classy as a kids’ catalogue. Leo squeals. Paul follows him into the room, saying, “Guess I know what room I’m in.”
The next two bedrooms are larger. One has a full bed and is tastefully decorated—an older kid’s room with its music posters and dead electronic equipment. The master bedroom has a king bed with an expensive-looking wooden headboard and matching furniture. A fireplace sits on one wall, and the windows have the same seats as the parlor.
I’d like to see the view from those windows, but I spin for the stairs before a discussion of bedrooms can ensue. I’m on the first step when Grace says, “You and Sylvie should take this room.”
“I’m not…” Eric begins.
I hit stairs two and three, then fly down the remainder. It was different at the brownstone, where I had my room with Grace but also a standing invitation to sleep upstairs. Formally cohabiting a room with Eric is a declaration of something, and I’m not sure he wants to declare that something. I’m not sure we should declare that something, with my track record. There’s the possibility I’ll ruin things, or that I’ll suddenly dislike him. More probable, he’ll get sick of me. Sharing a room will create more opportunities for that to occur, culminating in a dramatic moving-out event I can already envision.
Everyone tromps down to the parlor floor while I stand by the windows. From here, the slope and foliage block my view of much of the park. A few people remain beneath the trees on the rise across the street, and I peek at them through a gauzy curtain. They look normal enough, but they might be weird. They could drop by at any moment to say hello, the thought of which makes me edgy.
I snort. I’m spying on people while I freak out about receiving friendly visitors, and I’m worried about whether or not they’re weird.
Eric touches my arm, and I leap into the air. “Whoa, there,” he says.
He stands beside me while the others continue to the bottom level, though Grace raises her hands in a silent gesture of What’s your problem, lunatic? Eric scrapes a hand through his hair. “Grace said we should take the big room.”
I keep my eyes out the window, wishing my brain and mouth worked in tandem. The words sit in my chest. They clog up my throat. I want to spit them out, to tell him there’s nowhere I’d rather be, but I don’t.
“I’d like it,” he says. “That is, if you want to shack up with me.”
I turn to find the confident smile in his voice isn’t as assured as it sounded. It’s hopeful, and asymmetric in a way you’d have to know him well to detect—he just barely sucks in the left edge of his lower lip when he’s nervous or hesitant. It’s not much of a tell, but I’m used to reading people, of searching for evidence of their thoughts and assessing their moods. It comes in handy when you have an unpredictable parent.
As illogical as it may be, his uncertainty that I would want to live with him makes me certain. I’ll have to hope he won’t get sick of me. My disliking Eric is not within the realm of possibility, and I think maybe I’m past the point of ruination.
“I want to,” I say in a rush. Once it’s out, I can breathe again. “But what if we can’t stand each other in a month and we’re stuck in a room together? What’ll we do then?”
“That’s easy. We have a battle to the death, and last man—or woman—standing gets the room.”
“That sounds fair. Also, I should tell you now that I snore.”
He knows I don’t, since he’s slept in a bed with me. At least I hope I don’t. Eric shrugs. “You don’t seem to mind my bed-wetting, so we’ll call it even.”
My laugh travels out the open window, and I automatically check the street to see if I’ve attracted zombies, but it’s empty. Safe. That, right there, is pretty amazing, as is this odd and amusing guy who stands next to me. I grip his hand and revel in the idea that I don’t have to do this alone. The people out there may be weird, but I think, between the two of us, we have them beat.
Chapter 39
There’s a guard schedule, but we’re not yet on it, and I slept the whole night through in the king bed with Eric. It’s as though getting sleep has made me more tired, rather than the other way around. I brush my teeth in the upstairs bathroom and splash water from the jug on my face, which does nothing for my puffy eyes, and then I drag my butt to the kitchen.
The rest of my housemates sit at the table, and Maria points to the coffee thermos on the counter. We brought our food and cooking equipment to put in with theirs, but Guillermo had us keep it on this side of the park. I’m glad I don’t have to brave the outside people just yet.
There’s space for everyone at the sleek wood dining table, and extra seats for Indy and Eli, who are here. “Look who decided to join us,” Indy says in a chipper voice.
I grunt her way and head for the outhouse. It’s newer than ours and smells decent, though I can’t quite give up the dream of flushing toilets. Once done, I walk the grass under the already-warm sun, climb the deck stairs, and make a beeline for the thermos.
Sugar is on the counter, and I dump some into my coffee along with evaporated milk that’s magically appeared in our stash—maybe a perk of the Key Food. I take two long swallows and turn to find everyone staring.
“How about a good morning?” Maria asks.
“Don’t even,” I say. “I learned morning manners from you.”
She laughs. “¡Callate!”
It means shut up. People love to tell me to shut up, in every language. I wink at her and sit in the empty chair beside Leo, then catch Eric watching me and smile before I bury my face in my mug.
“We’ll leave in half an hour,” Eli says. He rises from the table, and I notice his leather coat and gloves. “I’ll let Guillermo know.”
He strides into the living room. The sound of the front door opening and closing follows. It takes me a minute in my exhausted state, but I’m able to glean there’s a trip on the horizon. “Where are we going?”
“You aren’t going,” Maria says. “They are going to Sacred Heart.”
“Who’s they?”
“Me, Jorge, Guillermo, and Eli,” Eric says, avoiding my eyes.
If I had any energy, I’d yell, but all I manage is to s
et my mug down a little too hard. Before I can speak, Paul says, “And me.”
“Paul, you are not coming,” Eric says slowly. His jaw tightens as though they’ve been over this a million times.
Paul’s cheeks flush and his hand curls into a fist on the table. “Why do you think—”
“Paul,” Jorge says. His eyes cut to Leo, who chews on something that looks a lot like a baked good. I want a baked good. “You know they’re right. You’re too angry.”
“Fucking right I’m angry!” Paul shouts.
Grace and I exchange a glance. Hers tells me this is the millionth time they’ve had this discussion. I’m glad I slept late, though I’m not pleased with what I’m hearing.
“Come on, Leo,” Grace says. “I want to see your room.”
She rises and holds out her hand. Leo gapes at his dad, crams the rest of his breakfast in his mouth, and leaves for the living room.
“Leo needs you here anyway,” Maria says. “This is a big change for him, and after what happened when you left last time, you should be here today.”
“C’mon, bro,” Paul pleads with Eric or Jorge, but it lacks the force of before. At their head shakes, he crosses his arms and scowls.
“Why wasn’t I invited?” I ask. Crankiness will get me nowhere, so I’m going with Innocent Wonder.
“Because you don’t need to see Joe—Kearney—again,” Eric says. “And he doesn’t need to see you. You hate him, and, from what I hear, he’s not an admirer of yours. We don’t need to create problems.”
I curse my big mouth and narrow an eye at Maria and Jorge. There’s only one way Eric would know what I’ve said to Kearney in the past. Paul throws back his chair and stomps off, muttering, “I guess I’ll hang out with the girls today.”
“I take offense to that,” I call after him, then ask Eric, “But why do you have to go? Last I heard, Guillermo has other people here.”
“Because it was our house,” Eric growls like a territorial dog. It’s a stupid reason, and I shake my head.
“And I might recognize the ones who got away,” Jorge says. I don’t want that to make sense, but it does, so I try to think of a way around it.
“You’re staying with me,” Indy says. “I was at Sacred Heart the last time. Believe me, you don’t want to go. It was creepy.”
“I know that. But I don’t want them to go either. Especially not to see Kearney.” I look at Eric. “He tosses people to the zombies like they’re Milk Bones to dogs.” The corners of his lips fight to stay straight, and I sigh. “Okay, that was a dumb analogy, but what are you going to find out? They’re not going to admit to anything.”
He raises his shoulders. “Like Jorge said, he’ll see if he can spot the guys.”
“I won’t say a word to Kearney,” I promise. “Not a single word. I won’t even look at him. Sister Frances says he’s changed. Maybe he has. Stranger things have happened.”
I don’t believe Sister Frances has a clue, but they don’t know that. Eric runs his finger around and around the handle of his coffee mug, deep in thought. I almost have him; he’s going to give in.
“Sylvie, you said you wanted to blow him up,” Jorge says. “And that was after Sister Frances said that. Nothing good can come of you and Kearney in a room, and you know it.”
Eric’s shoulders jump and he looks up, all traces of concession gone. “Seriously?”
“You had to be there,” I say. “It was a tumultuous time.”
They’re right about me and Kearney, and it’s the only reason I should relent. If there’s a hint he tried to hurt Leo, Maria, and Jorge, I will lose it, and, if there isn’t, there’s something about Kearney’s tight, mean face that makes me go bitchcakes. I want to keep Jorge and Eric from dying, not be the reason they’re killed.
Also, I brought every can, tube, and disk of roach poison I could find on our block. I plan to spray this place down, and the fewer people to make fun of me on extermination duty, the better. “Fine. Go. Just please be careful.”
Eric’s eyes thin in suspicion. Jorge pats my shoulder after he rises, and Maria and Indy follow him out of the dining room. It’s just me and Eric, whose gaze hasn’t left my face.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t believe you’re giving up that easily.”
“Kearney really does hate me. And I hate him, which is not the greatest combination.”
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s hard to get down. I’m not worried about Eric’s ability to make it from point A to point B for such a short distance; I’m worried about Kearney’s response to them showing up. He doesn’t appear to put much thought into his actions—something I have experience with—and if you toss someone to the zombies and regret it a moment later, it’s difficult to take back.
“Don’t do anything rash,” I say. “Kearney is bad news, as you might say.”
Eric moves to the chair beside me and puts his hand over mine, which I only realize is tapping my mug when he forces it to stop. I’m not good at hiding my mental state when it comes to him. I must have a million tells, and he spots them all.
“I’ll be cool, calm and collected,” he says. “He won’t get to me.”
“Mother Teresa would be strapping on a suicide vest if she went near him. You’ve met him before, you know it’s true. Trust me, you’re going to want to blow him up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“We’ll see. Now go before I change my mind and make your life miserable.”
I give him a quick kiss, but his hand twists in my hair and he rests his forehead on mine. “I don’t like to leave you.”
Eric knows exactly what to say, and he’s not afraid to say it. I wish I could thank his mother. Maybe she did say he was perfect, but I think she was congratulating herself on a job well done.
“The feeling’s mutual,” I say. “So be quick about it. No dillydallying or lollygagging.”
His breath of laughter is soft on my lips. “How about shillyshallying?”
“None of that either.”
“You got it. See you in a bit,” Eric says, and, with a final wave, strides off to rid the world of bad guys.
If only it were that easy.
Chapter 40
Months ago, eighty people in Sunset Park would have seemed a pittance, but now it feels like Times Square on a Saturday. They wander the gardens and stand around talking and do sporty things in the fenced courts behind the pool. This side of the park is much livelier, and I silently send appreciation to the trees that screen our house on 41st Street. Guillermo is gone with Eric, so the job of making us into certified residents has fallen to his sister, Marissa. We stand in the living room of their two-story limestone house by the corner of Fifth Avenue, where supervisory stuff happens. The two front rooms of the parlor floor have become an office, and two desks and filing cabinets are intermingled with the couch and chairs.
She lifts a binder from a desk with a shy smile. “This is where you sign up for what you want to do. They post the schedule on the bulletin board in the hall and in the rec center. I like to do laundry and cook.”
“You like laundry?” I ask. “What’s wrong with you?”
Marissa fingers the ends of her hair, eyes downcast. Grace hits my side. “She’s kidding.”
“I honestly was, Marissa,” I say. “It’s just that I hate laundry. You’re a brave soul to want to do it.”
“People call me Rissa,” she says.
Her mother, Lupe, nods from her spot at a filing cabinet. “Rissa’s a good girl. She does what’s needed.”
Rissa runs her finger along the rows on the paper. “So, you can do whatever jobs you want. But everyone who’s old enough does three night guard shifts a week on the roofs.”
“Don’t forget the gates,” Lupe says.
Rissa’s eyes move to her mother, and I detect a hint of annoyance. “Right, or the gates.”
Maria has already signed up, in her efficient manner, and now she sticks her head in the door. “Lupe, they’r
e looking for you outside.”
“You have this?” Lupe asks Rissa, who nods. After a probing squint that expresses doubt Rissa does have this, she leaves with Maria.
Rissa’s stance eases the second the door slams behind her mother, and she looks up, her lips curved in a smile that’s no longer innocent—it’s crafty. “Listen, you want to do laundry. We hook the generator up to the machines and hang out while it washes. It’s in the laundry room of that co-op building.”
She gestures toward the higher avenues, where I’ve seen a small apartment building with a fancy glass entry. “We plug in a radio and play video games. Everyone charges their phones. No one can hear us in the basement. We have to carry water to the machines, and hang the clothes to dry and fold them, but whatever.”
I’m thoroughly amused at how Rissa has gone from docile child to plotting teenager in seconds. “Why are you telling us this? We might turn you in.”
“Micah and Carlos say you’re cool. Lucky says so, too. Should I sign you up?”
Grace, Paul, and I aren’t stupid, so we agree. “Sign Eric up, too,” I say.
After more chore deliberation, which includes choosing nights on roofs, where we take the liberty of adding Eric on shifts with us, we’re thrust into the sunshine of a hot June morning with instructions to come back at one o’clock to help with weeding.
“Rissa’s, um, interesting,” Grace says as we walk up to the Sixth Avenue entrance, where we left Indy and Leo.
“Rissa is trouble,” Paul says.
“Rissa is under her mother’s and brother’s thumbs,” I say, “and she’s going to pop. Imagine being a teenager and never leaving the same square block as your parents? And, if you do escape to another section, there’s always someone who can report back.”
Grace and Paul groan. “Remember what we were up to at seventeen?” I ask Grace.
“Yeah, that would’ve sucked.”
“Hannah got pregnant at nineteen, so you know what I was up to,” Paul says. I do the math in my head, but Leo’s not old enough to have been that pregnancy. Paul sees my confusion and says, “She had a miscarriage after we were married for two months.”