Maybe she can be staid, but there’s nothing but pure joy on her face. “Of course he did. Jean and I say we’re in a four-person marriage.”
Jean is Dennis’ wife, and the two women might be as close as their husbands. They stick together on watch, whether it’s the gates or kids in the playground, and are side-by-side for most other tasks. The families shared a house before the winter, and they all seem to like it. The four oldest kids—two to each couple—are known as The Boys. Emily is Susan and Rob’s third child; the youngest and only girl, which has resulted in a benevolent dictator arrangement. She asks The Boys nicely to jump, and they inquire how high.
“Babe?” Rob croaks from the room.
“Coming,” Susan says. She clasps my arm, still smiling, and leaves.
Maria appears a minute later, and her hug I gladly receive. “Good work, mamita.” She rests a hand on Guillermo’s shoulder. “I said to go home, sweetie. You need to lie down and rest your ribs. He’s going to be fine.”
Guillermo nods but makes no effort to rise. His broad body has wilted, as though he wants only to curl into a ball and sleep this off. I remember how tired he said he was, how the responsibility was taking a toll. The fact that he can’t give his job away is proof of that.
“I’ll walk you,” I say.
Guillermo comes willingly, feet shuffling on the smooth tile and arm limp in mine. I forget he’s a few years younger than me when he’s bouncing around with fervor for his next plan, or when he meets every obstacle head-on. At this moment, he’s a child doing as he’s been bidden, and I think the best place for him is with his mother.
He stops at the top of the steps outside the entrance. His eyes roam the path, the trees, and the school across the street as though seeing them for the first time, and he takes shallow breaths from anxiety or rib pain. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says in short gasps.
“Okay,” I say. This is not the time for a pep talk, and at this point I don’t think I’m capable of one. “You don’t have to do anything but go home.”
He nods. It takes five minutes to get him down the hill to his house. The people in the parlor office rise to their feet when he enters, but I motion them away and ask, “Lupe?”
Gary mumbles that he’ll find her. I lead Guillermo upstairs. “Do you want to change?”
He shakes his head and lies on his bed, eyes closed. I wait at the window for Lupe to arrive. His bedroom looks over the yards, where people stand in a circle around a woman in a chair. Elena. Young, dark-haired, and slim. She stares straight ahead, her daughter on her lap, gazing past a mug someone holds in front of her.
It’s cold out there, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s the only one not intermittently rubbing her hands together or wrapping her coat a little tighter. Her consolers glance toward the back of Elena’s limestone house, likely wishing there were some magic word they could use to get her inside. Brother David enters the circle and kneels at her feet. He has a rosary, which she accepts, and he offers his arms to her daughter, Aurelia. Aurelia can’t be more than three, with curly light brown hair and her dad’s beautiful eyes. She jumps into Brother David’s embrace with a smile. She doesn’t get it. But Mom does.
I wonder if Elena can’t feel the cold because she’s cold inside. I recall the way icy strands of dread wove themselves through my insides at the thought of Eric climbing that building. The problem with loving people sits down there on that chair in the yard. It travels across Maria’s face at odd moments, even if she professes to think her girls are alive. I’m not sure I can do what Elena is doing, even if it means being happy now.
Lupe enters the room, moves to Guillermo’s side, and strokes his hair. “Oh, mijo.”
Guillermo curls into a ball despite his ribs, shoulders shaking. I don’t understand what she says next, but it’s plainly words of comfort. She nods her thanks as I leave for home. The trees are leafless and the frigid wind from the bay sinks into my chest. I used to have a wall that blocked out the warmth, but it also protected me from the bitter chill of heartache. The pieces of it are still in there somewhere, and I imagine rebuilding it brick by brick. I think I could. I might have to.
Radiator warmth greets me when I step into the parlor floor of our house. Between found fuel trucks, running water, and solar to get the boiler working, we could be living in the old days. The sun is almost down this early, and a few lights are on.
Indy lounges on a comfy chair in the living room, socked feet on an ottoman. “How’s Rob?”
“Okay,” I say. “Maria says he’ll be fine.”
“Thank God,” Grace says.
She and Eli sit beside each other on the couch, his arm draped across the back, and he uses that hand to touch her shoulder. She smiles at him with her easy intimacy. I would ask how she does it, but I don’t want to spoil it for her.
Indy looks pointedly at Eli, then to his hand and back again. “What’s up, big sister?” he asks. “Something on your mind?”
“Nothing you need concern yourself with, little brother.”
She turns her face sideways, lips puckered but smiling, and Eli’s deep laugh rumbles. Footsteps creak up the stairs, and Leo races to me, Jorge just behind. “Uncle Eric is Spiderman!”
“I know,” I say. “He’s also Crazyman.”
“Does Mimi need anything?” Jorge asks.
“I think she’s fine for now.”
“I’ll go over in a little while and check.” He runs a hand over his hair and cocks his head. “What’s up, mami?”
Of course he can see it. He and Maria never allow you to wallow in the emotionally-detached land of your choosing. Tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I need that wall, or a mental compartment where I can hide until this feeling is gone and it’s safe to come out. I move for the kitchen, which is another room, if not a mental compartment.
Jorge follows and folds me into his arms. “Hey, it’s okay. This was a hard day.”
Being on the rescue crew, he saw the damage firsthand. Felipe’s body and Rob’s deathly white face. He saw Eric arrive alone at SPSZ, when everyone thought the worst, only to be relieved before they found out it was terrible anyway.
“It’s sad,” I whisper, like a toddler who has six words to describe emotions. But I suppose I’m closer to a toddler than not in this area.
“I know,” he says, his voice as comforting as his embrace. “Just let it out, mami.”
So I do. I huddle in Jorge’s arms and cry for Felipe and Elena and his kids, and for Guillermo being a scared little boy, and because sometimes I miss the wall even though the truth is I don’t really want it back.
***
I thought I’d never go to church again. But here I sit at Felipe’s funeral mass in the church behind the school. It’s not a Catholic church, and it’s nowhere near as lovely or large as the one in which we found Brother David, but the light that streams through the few stained glass windows lends the plain space a mystical, sacred air.
There’s been a lot of talk about life after death, and though I’m familiar with the canon, it’s hard not to hear the occasional moan outside and think of that everlasting life instead. Music has been excluded because of the noise, even with two sets of thick wooden doors. Eric holds my hand and watches somberly, jumping slightly when the congregation throws an And also with you to Brother David, or any of the other responses that Paul and I parrot back without thinking. Grace sits on my other side, attempting to follow along. Maria and Jorge both know the drill.
I don’t believe a word of it, but I say the prayers out of respect for Felipe, and for Elena and her kids, who sit in the front row like statues. There’s no coffin to view—Felipe was buried in the nearby cemetery yesterday while the streets were passable. Not only do the zombies kill us, but they also dictate when we hold our burials.
Paul gets in line at Communion. I raise my eyebrows at Eric, who whispers, “He likes to hedge his bets, and he also likes Wheat Thins.” I swallow a highly inappropriate giggle. W
e’re lacking authentic communion wafers, but I suppose everything is just a cracker until it’s been transubstantiated.
When it’s over, Guillermo is first out the side door and most likely retreating to his reclusive state. Elena gets to her feet with the help of Brother David, who places a hand on her arm and talks softly. This seems to have given her some comfort, and I’m glad for that even if it isn’t my thing.
She plods down the aisle, gripping her kids’ hands, with Sister Constance and a few young mothers behind her. Elena’s face is puffy and her eyes dull. Two kids, and now only she stands between them and orphan-hood. With every step she takes from the altar, she looks lonelier. I could easily go from spectator to Elena—it’s as simple as slipping off the hood of a van.
Paul taps his watch at Eric. “We have to relieve Eli and Indy.”
Eric stands. “You coming?”
“In a little bit,” I say. “We want to say hi to Brother David.”
They leave, and eventually Grace and I are the only people who remain. Brother David drops to the pew in front of us. “That was my first formal funeral. I was worried I’d mess it up.”
“You did great,” Grace says.
“Thank you,” he says. “But it was more for Elena’s sake that I didn’t want to mess up. In a way, these were her last moments with Felipe, and to ruin it would be…” He exhales and lowers one of his thick dark eyebrows my way. “I’m glad you came. For a moment there, I expected to see icicles shooting up from the underworld.”
I laugh. It’s a good thing everyone has left. “You’re not supposed to make me laugh at a funeral.”
He shrugs beneath his robe. “We have to laugh, even at a funeral. In the midst of life, we are in death.”
I point toward the street, where zombies roam. “In the midst of death, we are in life.”
“Also true. Tell me, Sylvia, how did you find church after so many years away?”
“Honestly?” I ask, and he nods. “Still a load of crap.”
Brother David shows his pearly whites. He had to have known the answer he was going to get. The guy is a glutton for punishment.
“So tactful, Syls,” Grace says. “I thought the service was nice.”
“You don’t believe a word of it,” I say to her.
“Well, no. But what you said about the energy of love, that it is God, and it flows through all of us, it kind of didn’t seem very…Christian?”
“Grace, I’m beginning to think your name is no accident,” he says. “It’s nice to know someone listened.”
Of course Grace listened while I zoned out, thinking I’d heard it all before. “Teacher’s pet,” I say, and she sticks out her tongue.
“How didn’t it seem Christian?” Brother David asks.
The corner of Grace’s mouth rises. “It sounded more like something I’d say. Not a priest.”
He waves to the altar. “This is how I came to God—or whatever you want to call it—how I came to feel that love, to be in that love. But who am I to say your way doesn’t give you the same transcendence? There are myriad ways to draw on that loving energy.”
Grace’s eyes shine. “I feel it, feel in it, especially when I meditate.”
“Meditation, contemplation, prayer. All similar, if not one and the same.”
I sigh without meaning to, and Brother David asks, “What do you think, Sylvie?”
“I think you two sound like a couple of New Agers.” His half-smile and penetrating stare tell me he’s not letting me off the hook with a joke. I rub my forehead. “I don’t know.”
“You asked about the Sacred Heart when we met. Do you remember what I said?”
That’s an easy question; I’ve thought about it a lot since then. “You said it was symbolic of love for mankind, Jesus’ love of mankind, and that we should let our hearts burn with it.”
He inclines his head. “It was a pat answer, though it touched on the essential truth. That love, or life force, or God—pick your label—lives within and between all of us, and the Sacred Heart reminds us of how we should be consumed with that love.”
That’s all fine and good, but he says it as though it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. And maybe it is if you didn’t watch Elena sit in the yard, heart consumed to cool ash, and know it could be you.
“But consume can mean—” I stop at the tremor in my voice. Brother David watches steadily, like he’ll wait until Judgment Day for me to finish. “—to destroy.”
“But also to immerse,” he says gently. “Love can’t destroy you, nor can it be destroyed.”
“Tell that to Elena.”
“Her pain is from loss, not love,” he says. “In order to truly love, you have to surrender. Not only to that love, but to the knowledge that one day you will likely suffer because you loved so deeply. But, if you surrender to that suffering, allow it to transform you, you’ll find in yourself a space of boundless compassion and love.” He sweeps his hand over his chest.
“The heart chakra,” Grace says. “The seat of divine and infinite love. Anahata. It means unstruck. Unhurt and unbeaten.”
“Unbeaten,” Brother David repeats. “I like that.” When his eyes find mine, I see nothing but kindness, as if he’s speaking from that space. “Sylvia, not all surrender is defeat.”
Grace gives me a teary smile. Her willingness to surrender and remain unbeaten, to offer herself up to the prospect of more grief, makes her far braver than I’ll ever be. But, even as my brain tries to talk me out of it, my heart warms. My hopeful, fearful heart whose flames I try to blow out, though it stubbornly flickers back to life like one of those trick birthday candles.
I realize we’ve traveled full circle in this conversation. With deep love comes inevitable loss. In the midst of life, we are in death. I wouldn’t put it past Brother David to have known exactly where we were going. He and Grace are kindred spirits.
“That divine love flows between every single thing, it is every single thing,” Brother David says. “You must have felt it, at least once. And it never dies, which means neither do we. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I can’t find a grain of truth in harp-playing angels and a narcissistic male God who smites people for spending Sunday mornings in bed, but I think I can believe that love connects us. I have felt it—from my grandma, from Grace, from Eric and Maria and Jorge and Leo and all these new people in my life. Even from Paul, in his jackass manner. And if there’s anything I’ve learned recently, it’s that every time I surrender to that love, I win.
I smile past the lump in my throat. “It does sound pretty wonderful, but you have to admit it’s wacky dogma for a Catholic priest.”
Something slams against the outer doors at Brother David’s laugh. A rattling begins. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he says.
We pass through the gated yard and halls of the school and enter the park, where I stop on the steps. This space we’ve carved out for ourselves in the ruins of a dead city seems warm and bursting with life, though the trees remain leafless and the cold wind still blows. I must resemble Guillermo the other day, overwhelmed by my surroundings. But it’s full of wonder—wonderful—which is overwhelming in a different way.
“I have to check on Elena and Guillermo,” Brother David says.
“Thank you. I…” I shrug because I don’t know how to say what I’m thanking him for.
He bows. “Thank you both for reminding me why we’re here. I can always use a reminder. I’ll be by for some meditation soon, Grace.”
“Anytime,” she says.
We watch him glide away, robe sweeping the sloped ground behind him. Between Grace and Maria and Brother David, I ponder how many times I’ll have to be taught this lesson before it sticks for good.
Grace and I walk toward the greenhouse. I smile at the people strolling by and wave to Susan, who heads for the rec center with three kids in tow. I’m trying to put them all in my heart chakra, or Sacred Heart, or whatever, and it might be working. Thankfully, Deni
se is gone; I’m not a freaking saint.
“You know what really pisses me off about you?” Grace asks. I turn to her, startled, but see the hint of a smile when she levels her finger a millimeter from my nose. “I’ve spent almost fifteen years telling you this shit, then a priest tells you the same thing and you’re on board in fifteen seconds. And you don’t even like priests!”
“You know what you need to do with that?” I poke her coat, right over her heart, and purse my lips. “Stuff it in your heart chakra.”
She laughs and hugs me tight, whispering, “I don’t care how you get there, as long as you do.”
“I know,” I say, and take her arm to walk the rest of the way.
Chapter 73
Eric
I wake before dawn, when Sylvie and I have a watch shift, and turn on the light. Sylvie is still asleep across the bed, hair dark against her pillow and face peaceful. I shake her shoulder. Her eyebrows furrow at the annoyance, then she throws an arm over her head and smacks her lips before drifting deeper into sleep.
“For someone who claims to have insomnia, you sleep like the dead,” I say. She doesn’t answer. I tickle her armpit. “Good morning, my love.”
She smacks at my hand, eyes closed, and pulls the blankets over her head. “No.”
“No, it’s not a good morning? How can you tell? You haven’t opened your eyes yet.” Her hand comes out, middle finger extended, and I say, “I thought you had insomnia.”
“I did.” Her voice is muffled. “It went away, and so should you.”
“You told me you were a morning person when we met. You can’t renege on that.”
She lowers the blankets, eyes half-closed against the light. “I’m pretty sure I said I was a grudging morning person. And here I am. Grudging. You got what you paid for.”
“You are the worst person to wake up.”
“You like it because you get to feel superior about how cheerful you are.” She puts on a sanctimonious face. “Hi, I’m Golden Boy. Isn’t it a glorious day? Let’s climb something once I’m down off my high horse!”