I raise my hands in a plea. “Normal work. Carrying things. You’ll get more per hour than this.”
He stares at me for a few seconds, then picks up his box and leaves just as the doors are closing.
The train heads on. We’re past Tremont Avenue when the train comes to a halt between stations. The driver apologizes for the delay. The aroma of fried plantains drifts over and my stomach starts to grumble. I have more than enough money to eat. But suffering the smells of good food seems better. Then, from the corner of my eye, I see a head turn away. I look and see the back of a woman’s head. Before I can even think, the woman twitches, as if she knows she’s being looked at, also she’s trying too hard to be still, and the twitches come off as forced. And in that slight movement, my brain tells me I know her. I hesitate getting up, but finally I decide to do just that.
“Dalcia,” I say when I come around. I point at the seat next to her.
“I’m getting off at the next stop,” she says.
There’s a waver in her voice that’s very unlike what I remember. “What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head jerkily while pursing her lips.
The subway eases forward, then stops again. Everyone in the car mutters under their breath. An older man throws his hands up in the air. “Always,” he says.
I sit perpendicularly to Dalcia, wondering what I can say that will get her to open up. Her eyes are puffy, and they dart away from me. At anything but me.
“How is everyone?”
She shakes her head vigorously.
The subway starts moving again, and soon we’re at the next stop. I hesitate, but follow her out. “You don’t live here.”
“What business of yours is that?”
“Come on.” I want to grab her and ask her what’s wrong, because as my memories charge up, I know very well that there’s something very wrong. She’s not full of life as she was before. And I grab her hand. She spins, her palm flying towards my face. I dodge and she swings through the air.
“Sorry,” I say, making sure she doesn’t lose her balance by holding her, but then letting go and stepping back before she nails me again.
“Are you? You’re...”
I cock my head. “What? What did I do? How...” Her face twitches because she must know what I’m going to say, and now I think I know where her pain is coming from. “Where are you going?” I look over at the stop. It’s the last one. People have milled off the platform. I know this stop. And she doesn’t live here. If she wanted to get here from where she lived, she would have to take a bus. Not the subway.
“I have to go,” she says, hesitating.
Why? “No you don’t. Tell me where you’re going,” I say in a louder voice. People start to look at me. Dalcia uses my hesitation to run up the stairs. I follow, clutching the money tight to me. Everything about her is wrong. We come up on top. The streets are full of people, going in all directions: that fractal cacophony that is New York, and that dark shade that is the Bronx.
“I would like to see your family again,” I say, this time running in front of her. Dalcia is already getting looks from the men who seem to eternally hang out on the streets, as well as passerby’s.
That finally deflates her defiance and she stops in her tracks. Her shoulders sag. “You can’t.”
“Why?”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Oh, the whole wanted thing?” I smile.
She smiles. The old smile I remember. But it fades quickly.
“No. They’re not here.”
I stared at her for a second, my heart dropping fast. “Oh.” I’m not sure, but her face, that look that begs me not to say anything, tells it all.
“They’re going to take the house soon. So I have to go.”
Her eyes fall behind me. I turn and see a light skin man with his hands folded over in front of me. He’s looking at Dalcia. His gaze falls on me, and it takes great resolve for me not to flinch. I return his stare. Then remember that this isn’t my street. That this isn’t the place for showdown because this man obviously belongs here, knows this place, and I don’t. When his gaze falls back on Dalcia, and he jerks his head, I have a curdled feeling run through my muscles, as if they remember something. And as Dalcia brushes past me and walks towards the man, I see Behemoth in him as well.
I grab Dalcia’s hand, and pull her with me towards the street. A gypsy cab screeches to a halt. I open the back door and push Dalcia in. She’s not fighting back. “Get moving,” I say to the driver, and fling some money at him. He looks at me, stern. I notice his jaw and large nose. Pretty sure he’s Arab. “Yealla!” I yell.
The car screeches down the road. I turn to see the tall man walking into the street, focusing his gaze on the car.
We get on the highway.
“Where to?” the man asks in a heavy accent.
“What’s your address?” I ask Dalcia. Reluctantly she mutters it as she looks out the window, a tear running down her cheek.
The cab makes it way back to the windy streets of the North Bronx suburb, and as it slows down in front of Dalcia’s house, she gasps. There are a few men walking into an obviously bashed in front door. As the car comes to a halt, I can hear the loud symphony of tearing cloth and shattering dishes. I scan around. On the pavement, with a pile of garbage bags, I see a broken futon frame with a jagged edge. I lean into the door, pushing to open it. Dalcia lets out a small cry and grabs me, her nails digging into my neck, and body.
“I have to. They’re destroying everything.”
Dalcia shakes her head. “Just let’s go. I don’t want that place anymore.”
“I can call the cops,” I say.
Dalcia gives me a look of disgust, like I’m an outsider. I remember how bad it is, in certain spaces to call the cops.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound nice. “Why let them destroy that?”
“They own it. I owe him.”
I should ask for details, but the defeated look on the her face is enough to silence me. I clutch my bag and remember the money. “I can pay them off.”
“They don’t want money. The ones who have money don’t want money. They want your soul.”
A few minutes later we’re heading to midtown, watching the leafy views of Northern Manhattan. I’m not even sure why I listened to her, why I didn’t stop those men. I look at the Hudson, shimmering now, a runner going by, faster than most. I open the window a crack. I need to rest. The melancholy hovering around Dalcia is so strong now that the cab driver glances at me a few times and raises his eyebrows. I don’t respond. Dalcia’s sadness is from more than losing her house. I still don’t ask her where her grandfather and brother are. For a second, as I close the window and am filled with my own warmth, I think of the warmth that her family was offered me. Then I think of Khalid. I shiver, scared, trying hard not to think about that, even though he’s alive.
“I need a place,” Dalcia murmurs.
“Of course,” I say.
“Why were you gone so long?”
It’s an accusation. Completely unfounded, I’m certain, for they kicked me out, didn’t they? But it cuts nonetheless. So there’s something unwritten that I violated.
We get to the building and walk in. Though there’s scaffolding up front, the noise has dimmed. At the lobby, Kurt stands at ease with a fancy bespoke suit on. “Georgie boy. How are you?”
It’s the same guy I knew from before. “I’m good,” I say, letting go of all reservations and hugging him. He hugs me back before pulling away and looking over at Dalcia. He gives me an approving glance.
“This is Dalcia. Dalcia, a good friend of mine, Kurt.”
She hesitates, but gives him a small hug.
Kurt, all smiles, looks over my shoulder. “Well, if it isn’t the HNIC.”
Dalcia smiles. Hard not to like someone as easy going as Kurt—and it’s great to see Dalcia smile. I turn, following Kurt’s gaze, and see Turing. Also in a bespoke suit. Also all smiles, that perfect w
hite paint I applied still going strong.
“Well, George. How was today?”
I remember my job. “I’m making progress.”
Turing looks around. “Like the place?”
“It’s not bad,” I say, not wanting to give the machine too much praise. He regards Dalcia with something close to mockery. I give him a look, to which he invites us upstairs.
We make it back to the room where I spent a night and it’s completely finished now, with computer screens everywhere, as well as a few programmers. It’s like a war room, really, and the drawn down curtains and white light only adds to that feeling. I sense something evil about the place, but I see Yusef in a corner. He’s looking over the shoulders of a couple guys on computers. He’s muttering something. For some reason his presence calms me.
“We need a place for Dalcia,” I say to Turing. He nods, though I can tell he’s not interested.
“She part of your plan?”
“Our plan,” I say.
“Where will she stay?”
“Down there. She needs some time from this city.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I don’t. But I’m assuming. From her reaction.” I turn to look at her. She’s staring at some of the computers. “From the emotion wafting off her.”
“Ah,” says Turing. “A sixth sense of sorts?” He’s annoying me, turning everything into a lesson for his goddamned self. “I can tell... a little. But you humans have a myriad of reactions.”
I don’t answer and give a nod to Yusef who glances over with hostility.
“Kurt was better, don’t you think?”
I turn back to Turing. “Yes. He seems like the same old guy I knew back at 1-36.”
“That’s perfect. We did some fine tuning. Now what do you say?”
Again, I’m hesitant to give him too much. Dalcia tugs at my wrist. She grabs my hand. I want to help Dalcia. “The lake.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a lake down there. Let... Take us there.”
Turing looks at me. Amused. “Of course.”
We walk up to an elevator in the room. I look at Dalcia, and notice that she’s trying too hard not to look at Turing. Turing must have sensed this because he stares her down. Her grip tightens around my hand and I grunt at Turing. We enter the elevator, which hardly beeps and heads down without the slightest jerk. A minute later, we’re in the hallway with brick walls and a ceiling too high to see. Turing points at a wooden door. He’s still smiling, looking over Dalcia. Does this robot lust? He sees me looking at him and points at the door again. I push it, stopping half way because I sense a trap—once hunted, ever the hunted? But Dalcia squeezes my hand again, and so I push to go in.
“I’ll be back up stairs,” Turing says.
I see nothing but darkness in front of me, so I turn to see where Turing is, but his footsteps echo off in the distance. I can see the small light, indicating the elevator buttons. And silence falls. But an odd fear, one I hadn’t quite remembered since my childhood, grips my stomach. “Turing! There’s no light.”
“I’m right here.”
I jump, flinching back and raising my hands, but not to fight, rather to defend. In a split second I realize that Turing has been standing here all along. So whose footsteps were those?
“Use this,” Turing says and hands me a flashlight.
I switch it on, and mutter a thanks, feeling disturbed, my heart still hot and only now starting to slow down. I flash the light in his face. He squints and raises his hands.
At first I hold back asking the question, then I finally do. “Does the light actually hurt your eyes?”
He lowers his hands and smiles at me. “No. I thought it would make you more comfortable.” He stares right at me, a reddish glow pulsing behind where his pupil should be.
“It’s fine,” I say, waving my hand.
“Have fun. Supplies are in the locker past the trees.”
“This is the same lake?”
“Same one.”
“See you soon, Turing.”
“You will recruit better tomorrow, won’t you?”
I pause. That sounded close to an order.
“If you can, of course.”
Or a mock. “I’ll get people, Turing. We need them.”
I feel Dalcia’s hand pinching me, so I step inside, and she slams the door.
The flashlight has ruined my night vision, but nor do I want to flash the light in her face. I cup the flashlight head with my hand, it turns an evil red, and look at her. She’s breathing hard, and shields her face. I’m not sure what stopped me from asking, but I turn to where the locker should be and shine my light. “There should be a locker with supplies. Look for it.”
“What is this place?” she asks. “I thought we were in the city.”
Do I let her in? Do I let her know about this place I discovered? “It is the city,” I say, not even sure I believe there’s a lake anymore because before my light is a wall of leaves and vines.
“It can’t be. The air here... it’s different I’m telling you.” She breathes in through her nose.
“Look for the locker.” I stick my hand into the vines and try to pull them apart. They don’t budge. The air is different for it’s cold. Already leaking past my clothes, it tightens my skin and my body shakes. Even though the air is cold, it’s easy to tell it’s different from a cooled room. There’s something in the air, the moisture, the fine grains of sand, that differentiates it from the city air above ground. Dalcia steps beside me and starts to help to pull apart the vines.
I hold the flashlight in my mouth and start to grab random vines. When that fails. I shine the light on the ground, trying to see if there’s a natural path. There’s nothing but a hard clay ground. Doubt creeps into my mind and I wonder if this is the same room. The same lake I was talking about.
“Here,” Dalcia says.
I shine at her face, she grimaces, and I shine it in front of her. A wall.
“Damn,” I say.
“No, shine it again.”
I step over and shine it. A series of stones. I remember Turing in front of that wall. I start to press some of the stones. They’re all immovable. Dalcia lets out a long sigh. It’s one that I’ve heard from my wife before. It’s the what the hell have you gotten us into this time sigh. Then I remember, or think that I don’t remember her using it with me when we parted. At least she forgave me of that. My heart lifts and I press a stone that moves in like it’s on a smooth rail. I push until it stops moving. I give one more push and it clicks. I step back. More clicks, building up in sound then a vault-like hiss. The hiss grows louder and I look over at Dalcia. She’s not standing close to me now. The hissing stops, but I don’t notice a door.
“Fuck me,” I mutter.
“You wish.”
I mutter just to mutter and flash the light in her eyes.
She giggles. “Stop that.”
It’s good to hear her laugh.
I turn the light to the vines. The air’s colder, enough to entice a cough from my throat. I notice that there are vines moving. At first it takes a form. Then it looks like it’s actually something pushing to make it through. It takes a second of looking slightly off the vines, holding the light steady, that I see there’s nothing really animate about the motion. Stepping past Dalcia, who still seems to have the giggles, how annoying, I push my hand through the vine. The wall has parted.
“This way.” I part the vines and step forward, my shoes pressing down, grinding on sand. I raise the flashlight as Dalcia stands beside me. She doesn’t smell of perfume anymore. Doesn’t smell of anything, really, there’s just this heat coming off her. “You okay?”
“Of course, papi, let’s go.”
I squish my way through the sand, taking it all in; taking in the clear air, the splash of small waves. Waving my light around, I look for the locker, then see a foot locker up ah
ead. Sand has slipped into my shoes. I stop. Not thinking, just looking. Dalcia stands next to me. She takes off her shoes, flipping them with a whip of each leg. They go flying.
I think of telling her that she might need them. I turn off the flash light, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I reach down to take off my shoes, but my back spasms. I’m not sure why. I take a knee and pull them off, then my socks. My feet touch the cold sand. I hold them both in my other hand, the grimy sweat of a day’s wear doesn’t repulse me, because I sense that something else is wrong. Then I remember Dalcia, why I brought her down here.
“Turn it back on, it’s scary out here.”
“Let your eyes adjust.” I remember what I learned in the military. For a split second I’m even back there in the Georgia forest—the smell of sandy soil and grass strong in my nose—dropping to the ground whenever a flare was launched, drill sergeants yelling in the background.
“You here?” she says, waving her hand in front of me.
“At night, when you want to see something, look directly above it.” I use a monotone voice.
She doesn’t answer. By the time my eyes adjust, I can see that she’s trying hard to look just above everything.
I point to the foot locker. “We should have supplies in there.”
She grabs my elbow. Not nicely.
“Is this real?”
Perhaps answering her isn’t wise at this point in time. I trudge forward, letting the sand push between my toes. The grinding sound relaxes me. Dalcia follows with a similar grind.
In the footlocker are a pair of sleeping bags, down from the touch, a lighter and lighter fluid, and a couple packages of food. Though it’s all junk, so I pass. Dalcia dives in. After a few seconds the aroma of potato chips hits me and I tear open my own package. We eat like that, in darkness. I fumble for each part of the meal, feeling and only slightly seeing it. It’s a cloudy night, but whenever the moon shines through a crack in the clouds, I hold up whatever it is I have at hand.
The lighter fluid is for, I assume, a stack of wood in front of me. But that radar of mine, probably broken, but the only thing that I can trust, tells me something is wrong, someone is out there. On the beach we’re on, there’s nothing. But it’s wedged between the lake and a berm with tall grass and some trees. Pine trees as it would be. I stand and look around. All I can hear is the wind, the lake pushing against the beach, and my heart pushing blood past my ears. And Dalcia munching her food. I place my hand on her shoulder. She brushes it off. But after a second she falls silent.
The Labyrinth of Souls Page 28