Lucky releases a frustrated breath. “My aunt is always on my back.”
“Your aunt loves you,” I say while I hang a shirt. “You’re lucky you have her and Eli, and that you had your grandparents. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be pissed at your mom because she was the one who was supposed to be there for you.”
“You didn’t have a dad?”
“He left when I was seven, and I never heard from him again.”
Lucky goes back to his clothes, and I think he’s done with this conversation until he says, “My dad OD’d, but I was a baby then.” He wets his lips. “My mom got caught up in all of that. She couldn’t stop. She tried, though. She did.”
Lucky will protect his mother at his own expense; he’ll run himself into the ground to do it. I think of the little boy who bought drugs for his mom—her lucky charm—and I want to gather him up and tell him he deserved more. He is more. I saw the quiet kid in the hospital who looked with envy at the patients who had visitors, and the kid who gave Craig his place in line to leave the hospital cafeteria, thereby putting himself in more danger.
Eric shakes out wet laundry behind me. I feel his eyes on the back of my head, but I push on, “So did mine. But it felt like she didn’t care enough to stop for me. I wanted her to love me more than her next bag or bottle, and I hated her because she didn’t. But I also loved her. That’s why it hurt so much.”
Lucky’s cheek twitches. His lips are squashed. But he’s listening.
“I’d get angry at everyone and everything,” I continue, “or I’d make myself feel nothing at all. I did those things a lot when I was your age. It seems easier than being sad or talking about it, but it’s not. You’ll never be happy if you don’t stop, and all Indy wants is for you to be happy.”
Lucky ducks to his basket for more clothes. “When did you stop?”
“Maybe a month ago.”
He stands with a grin, shirt in his hands. “No, when?”
“Really, a month ago. I’m still working on the talking part. Don’t be like me.”
Lucky’s shoulders jiggle before he moves into laughter, hand over his mouth. I join in because if you can’t laugh at your own idiocy, you may as well give up for good. “That’s messed up, Sylvie.”
“Thanks a lot.” I snap him lightly with a wet towel. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. We can practice together. Okay?”
“All right.”
He goes back to his basket, and I spend the rest of our clothes-hanging time hoping I got through to him a little. I don’t want him to be like me. Especially now, when survival depends on the relationships we forge—if we don’t starve to death waiting for our Lexer contingent to take a hike.
Eric stacks the empty baskets and we file downstairs to the laundry room, where more clothes spin in the machines. Maria and Jorge have arrived with Paul and Leo, and Rissa is setting a CD into the radio.
“All I could find was Hector’s greatest hits,” she says.
“That’s fine,” Maria answers. “We need something besides that noise outside.” Her feet already tap the floor, and she claps soundlessly as the salsa music begins.
Lucky moves further into the room, then turns to me and nods once, same as Eli does. I smile as he’s dragged away by Jordan, a petite girl of nineteen, onto the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room with Harold, Tommy, and the other teenagers.
Maria is in heaven, hips swinging. Leo dances in the joyous, unselfconscious way little kids do. Rissa views the proceedings with disdain, arms crossed, but then Jorge steps in front of her, dancing for all he’s worth, and she wastes no time before she joins in. Carlos has no such reluctance and already has Grace and Micah by his side.
I sit on a table pushed to the edge of the room and swing my legs. I have no idea what the lyrics say, but salsa music makes me wish I could dance. Eric puts his arm around my shoulders with a soft squeeze. I don’t regret him hearing what I said to Lucky, and maybe part of me wanted him to, but that doesn’t make it easier to unbuckle the armor.
“Cassie and Penny love dance parties,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it was Maria’s influence.”
“I don’t dance, but I love music parties.”
Eric lifts his chin at Bird, who watches the festivities with mild alarm from his perch high on a washer. “He’s definitely your cat.” I elbow him.
A couple of songs later, April, of kissing-Vinnie fame, tucks her short bleached hair behind her ear and approaches Eric with a hopeful look in her heavily eyelinered eyes.
“Look at how nervous she is, you can’t refuse,” I say in his ear, then push him off the table. His smile says I’ll pay for this later, but he allows himself to be led off by April, who is now a tomato-red color.
Paul drops next to me. “Not dancing?”
“Nope,” I say, though my feet still swing. “You?”
“Look at them, look at me. I can’t do that.”
I motion at Eric, who already has the steps down. “He’s so annoying.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jorge twirls Maria, and their feet move in time while they sing along. I can imagine her at twenty, with a husband and two girls in her future, full of life and hope and joy. The song changes and Maria dances over, wiggling her fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Is today the day I’m going to get Sylvie to dance?”
“Today is not the day.”
Maria yanks me to the floor by my wrist and won’t release her grip. “Just follow my feet.”
There’s no way out of this. And, to be truthful, I want to dance. I wish I didn’t care what I looked like, but that dance-like-no-one’s-watching thing is not something I can do. “I’m going to break your toes. Just warning you now.”
She smiles and counts off every beat at which I’m supposed to do what she does. All I know is that it involves my feet somehow. But Hector’s voice is smooth, the horns ring out, and you can’t help but feel the rhythm. So, I try my best, as I’ve been trying to do in every other facet of my life.
“I like this song,” I say. “What’s it called?”
“El Dia De Suerte.”
“Day of…?”
“Lucky day.” She spins me around so that I trip over myself, then stands beside me and coaches my feet along. “He’s waiting for his luck to change. His parents died, he has no one, and everything gets worse and worse. His life has been full of suffering, but he believes that if he can wait long enough, his lucky day will come.”
I gape at her. “That’s what he’s saying? Why does it sound so happy?”
“Because you might as well dance while you wait,” Maria says.
It’s what she does—not just now, but always—and her rosy cheeks and glowing eyes, her absolute aliveness, are proof of that. I tug Paul’s sleeve until he lumbers to Maria’s other side, where his lack of coordination makes me feel better about my own. And then, just when maybe I don’t look like a complete ass, Jorge grabs my hands and does something complicated that involves moving to the side.
I wave him away. “Jorge, stop trying to kill me!”
He wraps me in his sturdy arms so that my stumbling doesn’t matter. Eric winks from across the room as I trip for the hundredth time, and I smile and shrug in reply. Maybe I can’t dance like no one’s watching, but I can decide not to care that they are. It could be days, weeks, months until those zombies move from our walls. And though we have to wait until they leave, we might as well dance while we do.
Chapter 46
Eric
It’s a week into our zombie siege. I tune out the noises coming from Gate 5A while I examine the web of peas attached to a trellis, which are ready later than they would be if planted on time. I snap one off and hand it to Leo. He’s taken to the garden, and I’m teaching him everything I know. Not only is the knowledge essential for survival, but it’ll also make him a valuable asset in whatever world comes next. People will always need to eat.
“Good,” he announces, crunching on pea
and pod.
It could be a damn sight better. It’s not a terrible yield, but poor soil, unavoidable late planting, and lack of knowledge have taken their toll. They already harvested lettuce, but then they planted more. In the past day, the plants have sent up stalks and begun to flower, making them far less palatable. I uproot the lettuce heads and stack them in a box. We’ll eat the bitter leaves anyway, and I’ll leave part of a row to make seeds for next year.
Sylvie walks down the path and takes the pea I offer, eyes on the ground while she crunches. She eats the pods now, and I sneak them to her because she needs some vegetables in her life. It’s a wonder she’s lived this long. “The lettuce is bolting,” I say.
“You’d better catch it before it gets away?”
“Bolting is when it flowers, then goes to seed. The days are too long and it’s too hot for lettuce.” I notice her hunched shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“They called.”
“Who c—” I figure out she means Wadsworth. “Oh.”
“They’re going down to Jersey tomorrow. They got a radio call from some people who can’t get to Staten Island. They wanted to meet at dawn.”
We’d have to leave today to get to the marina by then. Out of the question because of Lexers. I rip the last plant from the dirt and slam it into the box with a curse, then stomp to the next row. They couldn’t have called a week ago, or next week, or any other time when we’re not surrounded. If we’re ever not surrounded, and I don’t plan to hold my breath on that one. I finally have a way off this island, but, as usual, zombies have thrown a wrench into the plan.
Sylvie follows. “I’m sorry,” she says, laying a hand on my arm.
Her touch calms my anger. I force myself to breathe deep. “They’ll call again.”
I hear the doubt in my voice, as she must. Every day I think this may be the day Cassie finally succumbs, if she’s made it this far. I have a terrible feeling our paths will never cross again, no matter how optimistic I try to appear.
“Ren said they would, if they go anywhere.” She stands a minute more. “Can I help with the lettuce? I have thirty minutes before I have to be on a roof.”
“Sure.”
Sylvie yanks lettuce and asks me questions about the other plants, and I find it hard to wallow in my disappointment as I point out how the beans climb the corn stalks and the glut of yellow flowers on the tomatoes. Mom always said it was impossible to be pessimistic in a garden.
When we’re finished, Sylvie says, “I know you want to get up there more than anything. We will.”
Her eyes burn with conviction. She wasn’t dying to work in the garden; she stayed because I’m disappointed. She isn’t dying to walk around zombie-infested forests, either, but she makes sure that stupid radio is charged at laundry and turns it on five times a day, without fail, for me. It’s become her personal crusade.
“Thanks.”
“For what?” she asks.
“For saying that.”
“Well, it’s true. It’s beyond peradventure that we’ll get upstate.”
She kisses me and heads for her shift after her use of today’s word. It means doubt. And because it’s heartfelt, I don’t mind that she’s bested me once again.
I turn to the garden, thoughts a little lighter, until I see the compost piles near the stone wall along Fifth Avenue. They haven’t been turned in a while, which wouldn’t be a big deal if they were properly aerated, but they’re cold, dead piles of manure, leaves, and the few plant parts goats won’t eat. I grab a nearby pitchfork and step into the muck between wooden frames that separate the piles by age. This garden needs about a year’s worth of work.
Guillermo stops by. “How’s it going?” he asks.
I don’t want to criticize, but he should know the deal. “The compost needed some air. And I pulled up the lettuce because it was going bad. It’s too late in summer for it now, so maybe plant some more dried beans—I can start them germinating tonight. They’ll be protein for winter. Also, more root vegetables wouldn’t hurt. I think we’re somewhere around zone 7 or 7b now, with climate change, so we might have enough time for them to mature before the first frost.”
Guillermo studies me under a dropped brow, then leans an elbow on the frame. “I have no idea what you said there, except good to eat in the winter.” He grins. “Maybe a little more than that, but you’ve got the job if you want it.”
“What job?”
He gestures at the park. “This job. Head of all this. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Denise is supposed to be in charge.”
“Denise?” I ask. “I’ve never met her.”
“Exactly, man. She said she could run the garden. I gave it to her because she has a kid and doesn’t want to do night watch.”
“I don’t want to take a single mother away from her kid.”
“Pitch in or get out, she knows the rule.” Guillermo leans in. “She’s no good. I’d never kick her out, but I don’t like her or her kid. How about I still won’t make her do nights? And here’s the best part—you can choose your workers, and because it’s full-time day work, they don’t have to take night shifts.”
I would love to be in charge of the garden. There are so many improvements that could be made now, and a thousand more to ready the ground for next year. A greenhouse would be a welcome addition to our setup, and I would have time to play with hydroponics if I’m free from other tasks. In this world, it’s grow food or die, and I’m not willing to bet my survival on a woman I’ve never once seen in the garden.
I put out my hand. “I’ll take it.”
Chapter 47
I stand under a tree to escape the July sun and take in the view down the slope. The gardens look much better than they did two weeks ago, if I do say so myself. What were once spindly plants is now a lush tangle of green. Beyond the buildings at the base of the park, a church steeple rises in the distance. Behind that, the bay still floats with junk. Wadsworth hasn’t removed the Verrazano, though not for lack of trying, which they told us in a radio call a week ago. Again, we had to sit out the trip due to the mob, but I busied myself in work to take my mind off my frustration.
The animals were moved to the park, where their noises are less audible in the streets outside our walls. One of the goats might be pregnant. We don’t have a doctor, much less a vet, and though Maria thought she heard a second heartbeat before the goat kicked her, she couldn’t be sure.
We built a new chicken coop from repurposed fence boards, and the sunflowers that grow outside their run will help to feed them this winter along with sprouted seeds. Guillermo has sacks of feed they took with the livestock, but those will be gone far too soon. I don’t know if anyone else visited the live markets throughout the city before everything went to hell, but I’m glad Lupe thought of it.
I walk to where Betty, the possibly-pregnant brown goat, grazes in the overgrown grass behind temporary fencing. If you don’t keep them penned, they’ll eat everything.
“Hey, girl. How’s it going? We have some nice grass growing for you, but it’s not ready yet.”
She watches me, unimpressed, and chews on a weed stalk. I don’t know shit about goats, except that they’re ruminants. I do know we’re going to need a lot of hay for the winter, don’t have a lot of land on which to grow it, and most likely will end up eating goat at some point. I’d rather not, since it’s possible we have the last goats in existence. I can envision the walls of SPSZ being pushed out, and the adjacent streets made into fertile goat-feeding ground with our compost and dirt taken from nearby backyards. If we got a sizeable herd going, we wouldn’t have to worry about food.
I know a little more about chickens, since my parents often had them at the cabin during the summer, but I don’t have experience incubating eggs. The roosters are a pain in the ass but required for chicks, and we’re letting the broody chickens sit on some of the eggs in the hope that nature’s incubator will do the trick and chickens bred for meat will make decent mot
hers.
“Get it while it’s good,” I say to Betty.
A laugh comes from the path, where Indy walks toward me under the trees. “Talking to the goats?”
“I was telling Betty here to enjoy her food. We have to save the feed for winter or we’ll be eating goat.”
“You know what I could do with goat meat? So many dishes. My mom’s parents were Jamaican, and my grandma owned a restaurant for years. I make the best goat curry you’ll ever taste.”
My stomach rumbles. It’s not only a cry for goat curry, but also for something other than nuts, potato chips, and bitter lettuce. “Food runs in the family?”
“I wish it still did,” she says, and leans on a fencepost with a sigh. “But we’ll have a lot of vegetables soon. Maybe you should start showing us how to preserve them, in case you’re gone.”
“Right.” I do want to be at the cabin, but it saddens me to think of leaving these people behind. Ten miles is a world away. Two hundred miles is a universe. “You, Eli, and Lucky are welcome to come—anyone’s welcome. If up there is still there.”
Indy watches the goats, nodding noncommittally, and I add, “It’s fine if you don’t want to. Just saying we’d like it if you did. I know Sylvie would be happy.”
“She already said we should.” Indy smooths her hair back two-handed and gives me a rueful smile as it springs into place. “I hate taking things from people. It seems like that’s all we do these days.”
“It’s going to be a tough trip, depending on how many come. I’ll need you more than you need me.”
“I’ll talk to Eli. I do appreciate the offer, I’m just bad at accepting it.”
“No wonder you and Sylvie get along,” I say, and she flashes her wide smile.
Paul walks up. His t-shirt is wet and cheeks sunburnt. “It’s hot as balls. You’re killing me with this double-digging, Forrest.”
“Whiner,” Indy says.
Paul spreads his arms to engulf her in a sweaty hug, but Indy is five feet away in the blink of an eye. Paul fakes a move, smirks when she flinches, and then says, “So while you two stand here and commune with nature, I’m the one working?”