The Crashers

by Cubed, Magen

  Most families came to East Essex at the turn of the last century to flee the Ottomans, as Norah’s own family had done in 1915. These immigrants came to America to escape the horrors of Turkish persecution and strove to create their own internal economy on the Essex River based on the meager manufacturing foundations of the homes they left behind. Families of European descent, like those that shared Bridger’s Polish and German heritage, came in the ‘20s and ‘30s before the outbreak of the Second World War, bringing with them hatters, drapers and bakers. While the Protestant English and Irish rose to prominence in the EBC (families like the Connors, who built empires in shipping and real estate), the immigrants of East Essex survived but by the strength of community alone.

  Bridger said nothing of that. He had long since forgotten those tensions after burying them with his father. As Adam rounded the corner on Chelsea Street, Bridger righted himself in his seat.

  “Hey. Hey, stop the car for a minute.”

  “Why?” asked Adam.

  “Just pull over—here, right here.”

  Shrugging, Adam did as he was told, coasting to the curb to kill the engine in front of Harold Levi’s tenement building. The house where Bridger had grown up hadn’t aged well since his father’s death, and he knew he was to blame. After the aneurysm claimed his father ten years earlier, Bridger let the property sit unattended. It sat had empty but for the occasional squatters that kicked in the back door. Blackened windows boarded over from the inside lined the first floor between ornate wooden frames. The locks on the front and back doors were busted. The grass and trees had overtaken the yard in a canopy of burdened branches and knee-high reeds. The fence around the backyard had sagged to the ground.

  When Bridger got out of the car and walked to the door, Adam and Clara held back.

  “What is this?” Adam called out, slipping from the driver’s seat to lean against his door.

  “My old place,” Bridger yelled back. “Well, it was my dad’s. He used to own it back when it was a boarding house.”

  “So, what’re we doing here?” Clara hung her head out of the car window to look around. “This place looks abandoned.”

  “It is.”

  Pushing open the door, Bridger disappeared inside to look around. The interior was just as ragged as the exterior: paint chipped from the walls as dust caked onto the measly furnishings left behind. The wooden floors bowed and creaked, and all around, spiderwebs connected in a lattice of insect carcasses and grime. The staircase to the second floor was rotten, with wood splintering from the banister and pulling against the ancient nails that held the frame in place. Empty rooms connected by the dark hallway groaned with every step as the entire house shifted, settled and finally sighed around him. He finally emerged to wave them inside.

  “And it’s perfect. Come over here and get a look.”

  “Perfect for what?” Adam trekked across the yard, stooping under heavy tree branches. “What’re we even looking at?”

  In front of his old house, Bridger held his arms out welcomingly. “Home.”

  III.

  It took a ride on the train and fifteen blocks on the bus before Norah and Hannah finally found the address Adam texted. They walked hand in hand through the unfamiliar streets of East Essex. Norah’s parents had a party to attend; it left her no choice but to pack up Hannah and bring her across town. Norah followed directions on her phone as she texted Clara for confirmation the whole way there. Apparently, Bridger had gone crazy and called a meeting at his father’s old boarding house. After a hard, dreamless sleep, a greasy breakfast, and another nap before picking Hannah up from school, Norah didn’t have anything else better to do the rest of the day. The last time Bridger had a prophetic moment, he saw the hospital explosion, after all. It made sense to follow up on it.

  Reaching the old house on Chelsea Street, Hannah anxiously swung her mother’s arm. “Are these people your friends from the train?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say friends, but, yes.” Norah pushed back the unruly overgrowth to let Hannah walk ahead of her to the door. “Clara is nice, and so is Adam. You can talk to them. Don’t go near Bridger, though.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s... a bad influence.”

  “Why?”

  “He just is. And Kyle—don’t talk to Kyle, either.”

  “Why not?” came Kyle’s voice from behind.

  Turning, Norah found him standing on the sidewalk, stomping out his cigarette. He jogged to catch up with them. She sighed.

  “Because he can be rude.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “Hi,” piped Hannah.

  “Hi.” He looked to Norah. “So, Adam messaged you, too?”

  “Yeah,” she said and led them up the path to the front door. “Apparently, Bridger’s having a mental episode or something. He wanted to have us all come.”

  At the door, Adam let them in and stepped aside. Norah pointed to him, nudging her daughter forward through the open door. Hannah shook his hand as she walked by.

  “Adam, this is Hannah. Hannah, this is Adam. You have my permission to talk to Adam.”

  “Hello, Adam.”

  “Hello, Hannah,” he smiled.

  Adam and Kyle exchanged glances as Adam closed the door behind them. They said nothing to each other. Inside, Clara zipped around, pulling back the boards and tape from the windows to let light into the darkened house. Bridger sat waiting at the foot of the stairs. Norah introduced Hannah as she held close to her mother’s side. Clara’s blurred outline zigzagged wildly across the room. When Adam called her name, Clara stopped midstride in the kitchen doorway.

  “Norah brought her daughter,” Adam said. “Come say hi.”

  Clara blinked out and in of vision again, materializing in front of Hannah. She bent a knee to meet the little girl’s level and extended a hand. Beaming, Hannah took it in a firm shake.

  “I’m so glad to finally meet you,” Clara said.

  “You have superpowers!” Hannah blurted out excitedly. “That’s so cool!”

  At that, Clara just laughed. Bridger got up from the stairs and wiped the dust from his hands with a nod to Kyle. Adam remained at the door while Clara and Norah brought Hannah to stand with them in the middle of the foyer.

  “Well, this is all suitably dramatic,” remarked Kyle, looking around. “What’s up?”

  “Tell them what you told us,” Adam said. “We’ll see what everybody thinks.”

  “All right,” Bridger said with a clap of his hands. “So, I’ve been thinking we’re all kind of in the same boat right now. Norah got kicked out of her apartment, Clara’s sleeping in Adam’s bathtub, and I’m living on Adam’s couch. Ever since this accident, we’ve all lost something—some of us more than others. Now, this house belongs to me. It used to be my dad’s and he ran it as a boarding house when I was a kid. It has four efficiency units, a gang kitchen, dining room and living area. The washer and dryer are in the basement, and there’s a greenhouse on the roof. It’s seen better days and it’s going to take a while to clean it up, but once we do, you’re all welcome to it.”

  “Welcome to what?” asked Norah.

  “To live here,” Clara answered. “Together.”

  “I have the money for the remodeling,” Bridger said, “but if you all pitch in, we can get it all done and get everyone moved in as fast as possible.”

  Kyle bristled at the idea. Norah shook her head. Hannah looked around at the dust and waved a hand in a tangle of spiderwebs.

  “I don’t know,” Norah said. “We already have a place to stay until we get back on our feet.”

  “And I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this,” Kyle added. “No offense, but we don’t know each other that well.”

  “Just hear him out,” said Adam.

  “Look, I know this seems out of left field, but I already own the property. I can pay for the upkeep myself,” Bridger explained. “I’m offering you a place to live rent-free. Just pay your port
ion of the utilities every month. You’re not going to find a better option anywhere in the city, I guarantee it. And, honestly? We could all use a break from the shit right now. At least here we have some stability, and we have each other.”

  “We could hunker down here and get back on our feet. Concentrate on getting our lives back together,” Adam said. “I think it’s a good idea.”

  “It could be like your secret headquarters,” Hannah piped up, roaming around to take inventory of the empty bookshelves and overturned chairs stacked about the foyer. “You could be safe here.”

  Norah sighed. “Well, if I didn’t pay rent, I could save up some money. Get caught up on my debts.”

  “I don’t know, I think I’m with Hannah on this one,” said Clara. “This could be our Hall of Justice.”

  Kyle shook his head. “That’s cute and all, but you said there were four units. There’s six people here.”

  “My dad converted the attic to a loft,” Bridger replied. “We used to keep it as the guest room for company when we weren’t renting it out. Believe me, I helped my dad keep this place in order until I left for college. There’s room for all of us.”

  “So, I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but, why are you doing this for us?” Norah asked. “I mean, we don’t know each other that well yet. You’re talking about fixing this place up and giving me and my kid a place to live. That’s huge.”

  Bridger just shrugged. “Where else are we all going to go? I’m a forty-five-year-old runaway who used to make money for corporations professionally, and despite that, you guys put up with my shit. Whatever happens next, I want to pay it forward.”

  “All right.” Norah nodded. “I’m in. And so’s the munchkin.”

  “Me, too,” said Clara.

  “Same here.” Adam looked to Kyle. “What about you?”

  Kyle looked at each of them, then bounced a shoulder. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

  IV.

  “Hey, it’s me. Look, I know I haven’t called in a while, and I’m sorry. It’s been a long week. Anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know I found something to do with the house, so don’t worry about it. I’ll call the lawyers and get all that crap straightened out so you won’t have to deal with it anymore. Well, that’s all. I miss you, and I hope you’re okay. Yeah, all right, this is awkward. I’m hanging up now. Sorry.”

  The line clicked, ending the message. Caitlin ran it back and played it again, comforted by the calm sound of Bridger’s voice. She listened to it a third time and saved it to her inbox, and that night she slept just that much easier.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I.

  They destroyed the old house on Chelsea Street so as to build it back up again. The contractors and designers marched through on Monday morning to write the appraisals and draft the estimates that Bridger approved with a signature and a handshake. Plumbers and carpenters worked their way across the boarding house room by room. They replaced the pipes, fixed the ceiling, laid down new floors and installed modern fixtures. Bridger all but emptied his private savings account—the money he was going to use for the future that would never come. He counted bills, balances and debts on Adam’s kitchen table. The rest of his assets rested safely in their high-yield investment portfolio. His post-marital existence was buoyed by his ample severance from Baxter & Sans as his lawyers completed the process of untangling his financial life from Caitlin’s. In the meantime, he continued to sleep on Adam’s couch while Clara slept in the bathtub. They ate meals together and stepped on each other’s toes while they waited on the renovations.

  Remodeling crews worked long days with the promise of large heaps of cash if the work was completed ahead of schedule. Kyle, Norah and Clara had all ended up functionally homeless in the aftermath of the bombings, chased out of homes by the encroachment of the outside world. Within a few weeks, however, as Adam and Clara drove by the old house on Chelsea Street to watch the roofers patch the flat rooftop, none of them were talking about the subway, the bank or the hospital. They had plans. They had somewhere to go—a place to hide while the city began to eat itself outside their doors.

  Kyle packed up what little he had pulled from suitcases and boxes and rented another truck to retrieve his records and books from storage. Norah stuffed her and Hannah’s clothes back into their bags and moved the boxes from her parents’ garage. She collected Hannah’s scattered toys and art supplies to make sure nothing was left behind. Clara eventually returned to her apartment to collect her things and to hug Padma goodbye, promising to keep in touch. Bridger had nothing left to his name but the gun, a few changes of clothes, and his coat. He kept himself occupied by helping Adam box up his tiny apartment, wrapping picture frames in newspaper, and packing up knickknacks.

  The boarding house was ready on a Tuesday. By Wednesday evening, they all descended in rented trucks loaded with furniture and cardboard boxes. By the following Monday morning, they had all made homes in their separate rooms. Powers made it simple enough for Clara to race up and down stairs with boxes, Adam to heft the sofa in atop his shoulders, Norah to will her books onto the shelves and her clothes into the closet. All the while, Hannah watched quietly as she drifted through the rooms of the boarding house. She marveled at each of them and their various talents. Soon she settled to camp on the living room floor with pencil and paper, to draw heroes in suits and masks while the adults moved in their things.

  There were four identical units atop the staircase and one in the attic. Each of them claimed a room as Kyle carried his boxes up the pull-down ladder to the loft he chose for himself. Below that, the kitchen was a sleek contemporary space with new counters and appliances; it opened to a spacious dining room that in turn led down the hallway to the laundry room. The living room sat just off the foyer through French double doors. It was a wide open area with tall windows and a new fireplace. Perched on the roof was his mother’s old greenhouse, which he left as it was for Hannah to appropriate. With some curtains, a rug, and a few strings of tea lights, she and Clara transformed it into a tiny cottage for toys, art projects, and social events dictated by the whims of a seven-year-old. Drawn into separate corners, the old house on Chelsea Street felt like a home again for the first time in a long time.

  II.

  Norah moved in on Wednesday, rearranging her life to fit into one of Bridger’s offered rooms. By Friday morning, she was balancing her budget at the kitchen table while Hannah crunched her way through her frosted cereal. Her braces click-clacked whenever she kicked her feet. Without rent to worry about, Norah could save eleven hundred dollars a month to square her debts with her family and catch up on her credit cards. Within a few months, she could clear the nagging bills still looming overhead from when she struggled to make ends meet at the diner. Perhaps by the end of the year—after she had some time to breathe—she could begin to address the gnashing teeth of her student loans. They were still sitting on deferment after the hundredth sob story she gave to her loan counselor about her daughter’s medical bills, but they were a reminder of all the money she could never quite seem to pay back.

  With Bridger’s roof over her head and his new floors under her feet, she might be able to get ahead. She could take the time she needed to look for a decent job. She could go back to teaching if she wanted to. Maybe, she thought as she punched numbers into her calculator, she could go back to school like she and Clara had talked about. She could file for financial aid and get her master’s so she could teach at the university level. She could get out of the instability of the K-12 school system, with all its shrinking and budget cuts. Maybe she could get her life back on track again.

  When her phone vibrated on the table, flashing Chris’s name and number, she ignored it. She ignored it like the other calls in the weeks since this entire process started. She was too busy to deal with him and his prodding. Instead, she gathered Hannah’s emptied bowl and put it in the sink, and she set her calculations and budgets aside to herd he
r daughter to the door for school. If she searched vacant teaching positions on her phone while on the bus, it didn’t have to mean anything. If she filled out a few online candidate forms and submitted a few resumes by the following Monday, it was harmless. She was just fielding her options and seeing what would come of it. If, by some miracle, she found she had a message on her voicemail about an interview for a position at an elementary school, what harm could it really do?

  III.

  Kyle unpacked in the loft above Bridger’s boarding house without the help of powers or party tricks. It was a clean and open space with one large window overlooking the street below, adjoined to the rest of the house by one trapdoor to the hallway and another to the rooftop. Bridger had a partition built between the loft and either trapdoor, offering Kyle some semblance of privacy from seven-year-olds traipsing about on the roof. He appreciated the gesture, if nothing else.

  Unpacking took little time. He had his bed, some bookshelves, an armchair, a sofa, a work desk, and a laptop. The space and utility of his old apartment afforded him few unessential niceties, and left him with two boxes of original press vinyl records and three boxes of books. It was just easier to keep things to the bare minimum. The only items left in storage from the house’s previous life were a tall, empty bureau and two boxes of trinkets and photos that belonged to Bridger’s father. When asked what he wanted to do with these remnants, Bridger simply shrugged and went back to carrying his meager belongings to his designated room.

  “Keep the bureau,” he said to Kyle. “It belonged to my grandmother when her family came over from Romania before the war.”

  “And the boxes?” Kyle asked, ducking under the cumbersome swing of bookshelves as Adam carefully maneuvered through the hallway.

  “What’s in them?”