“I’m sorry, that’s awful,” Grace says, and I add a sympathetic noise.
“We got Leo. We might not have had him if it hadn’t happened that way.”
“And he’s too awesome to not exist,” I say. “Still, that was young to get married.”
“Hannah said we didn’t have to. No one else thought we should. And then they all thought we’d get divorced after we lost the baby, but we never once thought about it. She was the one.”
Paul’s voice is low but level. He’s made it a point to mention Hannah in the past weeks. He might pretend feelings don’t exist, but he’s following Grace’s suggestion that he not make Hannah a taboo subject for Leo.
“That’s romantic, Paulie,” I say. He grunts, and I prod his side. “I didn’t know you were such a softie in there.”
“Shut up,” he says.
“I mean it. It’s sweet.”
He watches his feet until we reach the park entrance. Indy waves us over to the bench where she and Leo sit under the trees. “What’d you sign up for?” she asks.
“Night shifts,” Grace says. “And laundry.”
“Why laundry?”
“We wanted to be helpful.”
“You’re crazy. You could’ve chosen something easier. We give that job to the teenagers.” Grace plays off her giggle by tickling Leo, and Indy asks, “How about cooking? That’s what I sign up for.”
“Do you really want me in charge of what you put in your mouth?” I ask.
Indy gags as I sit on the neighboring bench. It’s nice to be outside and not have a wall within a hundred feet at all times. Sunset Park is twenty-four acres, not that I know how big an acre is, but twenty-four acres seems gigantic from where I sit and compared to what we’re used to.
Leo peers in the direction of sounds from the playground, then twists back to our view of Manhattan and yanks on a shoelace. “Do you want to play?” Paul asks. Leo shrugs in a way that makes it obvious he does.
“I tried to get him to go with me,” Indy says, “but he wouldn’t.”
“Didn’t you have fun the last time, with Maria?” I ask. Leo nods. “Then why not now?”
He doesn’t answer. I pat my lap in an invitation he snubs, so I hold out my arms and put on a fake whining voice. “I need snuggles. Why won’t anyone give me snuggles?”
Leo gets to his feet with a beleaguered sigh and climbs into my lap, turning his head to conceal his smile. “You’re so dumb.”
I wrap my arms around his little frame. It’s not weird to hold him these days, and I like the way he smells. In five years, he’ll reek like a locker room, but for now he’s clean and sweet-smelling even when sweaty. “You know what my grandma used to do?”
“What?”
I snuffle on his neck the way she would, which tickles like crazy. He squirms in my arms and screeches like I did, but, like young me, he loves every second. I stop after a minute and ask, “What do you say we visit the playground?”
“Fine.” Leo drags out the word like he’s doing me a favor.
“Did you hear that?” I ask Paul. “He’s more like you than you think.”
Paul leans against the bench with his hands behind his head. “I can’t wait to hear how this goes.”
“Shut it. We’ll be fine.”
Leo slips his hand in mine. Normally, I’d be grossed out over the colonies of kid germs transferring to my skin, but Leo gets a pass. We head by the chess tables and across the concrete toward the sports courts, then enter the colorfully painted iron fence that encircles the playground.
“All right, what do you like to do?” I ask.
“Slide.”
I lead him to the play structures, where about a dozen kids run and jump. Leo releases my hand and mounts the stairs like a man going to the gallows. He waits his turn, joylessly comes down the slide, and returns to my side.
I crouch to his level. “This is supposed to be fun, squirt. You don’t have to play if you don’t want to.”
His chest caves inward and he ducks his head. “I do want to, but…”
“But you’re nervous?” I ask. He nods, blue eyes shimmering, and my own eyes sting. I know that feeling. I am that feeling. “How about I push you on the swings?”
It takes five minutes of pushing before he livens up. By the end of it, I have him shrieking with joy. A few kids have come to watch, and when Leo finally jumps off, the kid sitting on the swing next to me says, “Push me now.”
He’s about eight, his face is set in a permanent sneer, and his voice is demanding. Rather than tell him to buzz off, I decide to model good behavior for Leo and the other children, like Mary Poppins. “I think we’re going to the slide, but you can come with us.”
I watch Leo go down the slide a few times. A dark-haired boy and a girl with blond hair, both about Leo’s age, sidle up to him. Within minutes, they’re playing. I retire to a bench at the edge of the playground, across from the two moms on the other side so I don’t have to make conversation.
“Sylvie!” Leo yells.
He waves. I wave back. He goes down the slide and waves again. I wave back again. Leo and his new friends head for the big sandbox to dig with the scattered toys while I reflect on how mind-numbing it must be to spend your days watching children in a playground. I can feel my soul being crushed, and I’ve only been here fifteen minutes.
A blood-curdling scream comes from the sandbox. Leo stands wailing with his hand over one eye and the other screwed up tight. I race to him. “What happened?”
Tears stream down his face. I pull his hand from his eye, praying he hasn’t been blinded the first time I take him somewhere on my own. It’s teary and pink and covered in sand. Leo claps his hand over it and howls when I try to brush it off.
“Leo, you have to let me clean it.”
“No!” he screams. “It h-hurts!”
I am not equipped to handle this situation. I try to channel Grace. “I know it hurts, but it’s going to hurt until it’s out. Please? I promise I’ll be gentle.”
He lowers his hand. The tears have washed most of it out of his eye. I use the hem of my shirt to clear the sand away and give him a hug when I’m finished. “That sucked, huh?” A blubbery laugh escapes him, and I put my arm around his shoulder. “Try not to do that again, okay?”
“He did it,” the blond girl says. She points at sneer kid, who peeks at us sideways while he swings on the monkey bars. “He threw sand in Leo’s face.”
“Really?”
She raises her dainty eyebrows. “Dominic’s always doing that. He told Leo he was stupid and he was going to be eaten by zombies.”
“He said that?” I ask Leo. He nods, lip trembling.
I glance at sneer kid, aka Dominic. He’s now smiling and kicking at the fence, quite pleased with himself. Sweet little Leo is not stupid and he is not going to be eaten by zombies, and the fact that this little brat would suggest it, and say it to Leo, makes me murderously angry. I check my rage as I get to my feet. I can’t murder him, but he must be stopped.
“Hey, Dominic,” I say when I’m close. The kid looks up, false innocence failing to cloak his smugness. “Did you throw sand at Leo?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Who’s Leo? Maybe I threw sand at him.”
He swipes at his hair, which is brown and grows in a series of cowlicks like one of those messy-looking guinea pigs. Except those guinea pigs are semi-cute and this kid is not. I motion to Leo beside me. A tiny smirk plays on Dominic’s lips. I reconsider my no homicide plan and move in close enough that his eyes bulge.
“You do not throw sand at people,” I say in a low voice. “If you throw sand at Leo, or anyone, ever again, I will throw sand in your face. Don’t think I won’t because you’re a kid. I will. Do you understand me?”
He grows paler and nods, though that sneer is here to stay. I smile. “Good.”
I depart with my kindergarten entourage and plop down on my bench. The mo
ms on the other bench watch, though I don’t think they heard or else they’d be over here hectoring me.
The dark-haired boy’s eyes are huge and black. “Will you really throw sand at him?” he whispers.
I hold back a laugh. “I can’t because I’m a grownup. But you should if he won’t stop. Sometimes bullies need a taste of their own medicine.”
“He punches people, too,” the girl says.
“Then maybe you should punch him.”
She smooths down her ruby-colored velvet dress, prim as can be, and then casts Dominic a low-lidded look that could slaughter, which kind of makes me love her. “I don’t know how.”
“Well, maybe I’ll teach Leo and he can teach you. I don’t think your mothers want me to teach you how to punch. Where are your mothers, anyway?”
“In the garden,” she says. “We’re allowed to play here as long as we use the buddy system.”
“A sound plan.” I ruffle Leo’s hair. “Have you had enough playground, squirt?”
Leo agrees he has, so we say goodbye and set off. The two kids tag along, and I learn their names are Emily and Chen as we approach the benches.
“How’d it go?” Paul asks.
I consider my options. I have to couch this story in as much detail as possible to highlight the fact Dominic is a brat. Now that Leo doesn’t seem physically or mentally scarred by the ordeal, I’m aware the mature thing to do was not to threaten to throw sand in an eight-year-old’s face, though I stand by my opinion that he deserves it. “Well, this one kid, Dom—”
“It was great!” Leo interrupts. “Sylvie’s going to teach us how to punch so we can beat up Dominic.”
“She might throw sand in his eyes, too,” Chen adds, and Emily brings it all home with an excited nod and slight curtsy.
Grace drops her head in her hands and Indy chortles at the sky. Paul nods, lips clamped, but his eyes glitter with mirth. “Yup. Went about how I expected.”
Chapter 41
Eric
I like that there are more streets between our new home and Sacred Heart. Even so, the bike ride is still too short for my liking. The two bell towers above the columned front are occupied by gunmen, and we raise our hands to show we mean no harm. The zombies that guarded the front steps, ostensibly to keep more zombies away, are gone, and the tall iron gates are chained shut.
The grassy area on the side of the church, also fenced, now holds gardens. The tiny sprouts are further behind than ours, and it’s possible they may not get to harvest before the first frost.
“We went in up there,” Guillermo says to Jorge, pointing up the side street.
The church changes to a rectory midway up the block. After that is a long brick building, and then the elementary school at the far corner. We walk our bikes that way while I guess at the reception we’ll receive. I figure we’ve run into Kearney twice, and both times he hasn’t killed us, so the chance of it happening now is slim.
“What the hell?” Jorge points to the Lexers trapped in the gated areas outside the first-floor windows of the brick building. Half a block away, they’re already announcing our arrival to those inside.
“The alarm system we told you about,” I say.
“That’s some sick shit,” he mutters. “Smart, but sick.”
An arched wooden door opens, and a man steps onto the second-floor stone walkway of the church. Medium height, with forgettable features and blunt-cut brown hair. It’s not Joe, or that guy Emilio. We halt at the base of the staircase, and, when the man beckons, we make our way through the gate at the street and climb the stone staircase to where he stands.
Up close, he’s as plain as he seemed from below, and his lips bend uncertainly. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re from Sunset Park,” Jorge says. “We came to talk to Joe Kearney.”
“Come in,” he says, and steps inside. “You can leave your bikes out there. They’ll be fine.”
We enter a small vestibule well-lit by sunlight streaming through four narrow stained glass windows. I get a glimpse of pews and arches through the doorway behind him, as well as two men, each holding a SIG.
The man waves at them to lower their weapons. “I’m Walter Young. Walt. Sorry. Sorry about that.”
We introduce ourselves in turn. He repeats each of our names and then leads us deeper in. I don’t know much about churches, but, based on the elaborate plasterwork, shiny columns of dark marble, and immense altar, I’d say this is an important one.
“This is the upper church,” Walt says. “There’s a lower church, the basement rooms, and then all the buildings up to the school on the corner. We don’t spend much time here.” He spares a quick glance at the dozen confessional boxes and the life-size Jesus above the altar, then turns away with an uneasy grimace. I don’t blame him for that—this church is dark and imposing, and that Jesus almost looks as though he wants us to join him in his agony. “We mostly live at the top of the block, but it’s all connected. I’ll show you.”
Eli raises an eyebrow as we trail Walt to a door at the altar. I shrug in response. I’m not sure what to make of our second visit. So far, Walt seems unassuming. The kind of guy who worked a 9 to 5, saved for retirement, and didn’t make waves.
Walt moves for the staircase in the short hall. The four of us slow—it’s dark down those stairs. He flicks on a flashlight that rests on the bannister, turns after a few steps, and waves the two men onto the stairs first. “We don’t bite. Promise.”
He chuckles lightly at his own joke and then continues on. We follow him down and through a hallway lined with offices and meeting rooms, then exit the rear of the church into a small courtyard garden. The rectory is to our left, and to our right is another building, door propped open and windows wide to catch a breeze in the late June heat. We’re all going to miss air conditioning very soon. Voices float from the interior, and a metallic thud comes from somewhere underneath. Based on its location, this is the building that sits over the underground garages I passed on my way to find Paul.
“People live in the rectory,” Walt says, “but most live in the elementary school.”
“How many people?” Guillermo asks.
“Um, about ninety.”
They’ve grown since we were last here, when we were told they had a couple dozen residents. “Does that mean you’re taking people in?” I ask. “Like a Safe Zone?”
“They took me in,” Walt says, like he’s surprised it happened that way. “So I’d say yes. Joe should be in the school, since he’s not in the church.”
We follow him into the long brick building that leads to the elementary school. The walls are institutional cream, the tile floor is scuffed, and the rooms have numbers and class schedules posted out front in subjects like bookkeeping and medical transcription. The only light comes from the windows of the few rooms whose doors are open.
“What was this place?” I ask.
“A career training school,” Walt says. “It’s where we keep supplies.”
A rail-thin man with long dreadlocks exits one of the rooms, and I get a glimpse of sunlight on stacked boxes before he slams the door. He nods at Walt, then us, and tests the knob to be sure it’s locked. Eli turns and watches him for several backward paces before he resumes moving forward.
Double doors deposit us in the back lobby of the elementary school’s gym, where we first met Kearney, though he didn’t invite us inside. Walt is certainly more welcoming, if harder to get a read on.
Ten kids play with basketballs and playground balls in the gym. Walt waves at them, and they return his wave as we cross the wood floor and enter the school hallway. Classrooms hold beds and furniture, from what I can see through a few door windows.
“Families are in this hall,” Walt says. “I live just down there.”
He turns at an intersecting hall and shows us into the cafeteria. People sitting at long white tables look up from trays of food. Many hold a brown plastic spoon, the type that come with an MRE. A quick glanc
e over the lunch counter reveals stacked cases of MREs, all with the green lettering we saw at Kingsborough. It would be damning evidence but for the fact that the MREs Guillermo appropriated are the same. Standard government issue.
Walt waves at one of the diners, who leaves his tray and walks our way with a slow, relaxed gait. As he closes in, I recognize Emilio. He lifts his chin. “Hey. How are you?”
Last we saw him, he had a dark beard and hair, but now he’s clean-shaven down to his buzzed head. He’s somewhere in his early thirties, whereas Walt is mid-forties.
“You know each other?” Walt asks Emilio.
“These are the guys that came by before. Sunset Park.”
“Now it’s all coming together,” Walt says. “I’m not from around here, and I don’t get out much. To tell you the truth, the Lexers scare me. I leave that to Emilio and the others.”
“And The Reverend,” Emilio says.
“You mean Joe Kearney,” Eli says.
Walt’s smile is tight. “It’s his unofficial and much-disliked nickname. Emilio, I thought you said you wouldn’t use it anymore. You know it bothers him.”
Emilio sticks his hands in his back pockets. “He’s not here. Can’t piss him off if he’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Nope.”
“He goes to the monastery a lot,” Walt explains. “I’m sorry about that, but maybe Emilio and I can help?”
“Six men came to our house the other night,” Jorge says. “We killed two, the others got away.” He goes on to describe them, and finishes with, “We’re not there anymore, and we took everything with us. But we wanted to see if you knew anything.”
“They haven’t come here,” Walt says, rubbing his chin with his index finger. The finger stops suddenly and his eyes go round. “Oh. What you really want to know is if we’re the ones who did it.”
Maybe he wants Jorge to hem and haw, but Jorge only waits for his answer with his arms over his chest. Walt’s head jerks side to side. “God, no! No one here would condone that. I’m more the administrative side of this place and keep things running smoothly. But I do know everyone here, and none of them would do that. Right, Emilio?”