Caleb throws his shoulders back. His eyes bounce from face to face. He wants to be taken as seriously as possible. He’s got a real question and it needs a real answer. The boy can contain himself no longer.
He tries to say it in the best grown up voice possible, “Are girls always angry when they bleed?”
Jack, Catarina, and Patrick can’t stop laughing.
* * *
The journey home is nice. Caleb strolls a few feet ahead, between Jack and Catarina, while Patrick takes the outermost edge. This is the formation they always walk in. A kind of off-set V shape.
Caleb’s happy to lead.
The four talk about topics they deem worthy. Precisely how goddamn stupid was the prequel to John Carpenter’s The Thing? Patrick and Jack argue about whether or not the latest Vader album is “face-destroyingly awesome” or “mind-meltingly kickass.”
Catarina talks about homework and studies and, whoa, girls with Caleb.
The littlest Svoboda keeps his mouth shut for the most part while the elders talk about physics homework. He hasn’t gotten as far into his father’s library as the others have. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself. Well, embarrass himself again.
To his brotherly credit, Jack never mentions the boner catastrophe.
Regardless of how cool the thought of vibrating strings as a mortar to reality sounds, Caleb doesn’t really feel the need to say anything at all. He stares at the scenery. He immerses himself in it. Bay Ridge has the advantage of being an hour from Manhattan by subway, but far away enough to be sorta suburban and affordable. Trees and parks line the streets. The colors of the morphing leaves are a sight to see.
The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge stands as a monolithic backdrop. It’s a tribute to the first European navigator to peek into New York Harbor and the Hudson River. An Italian guy named Giovanni da Verrazano.
The neighborhood is quiet and pleasant—aside from Guidos who wander over from Jersey and Staten Island. But Caleb’s never been to these places. And Jack uses his fists on anyone who causes mischief.
Far as Caleb’s concerned, Bay Ridge is a rare kind of place. Urban, but with a community feeling. He feels a kinship with everyone here. And he likes that the shopkeepers remember him. He waves to the mustachioed Turkish man who runs the bodega at the corner of Eighty-fifth and Fifth Avenue.
They passed by a local pizza parlor. A shuttered Off-Track Betting. An enormous Century 21 department store.
They hit Ninety-fifth Street. Now they come across people from outside the area—the Guidos. Caleb knows Jack calls them zips. They don’t live in Bay Ridge, but they take great pride in their cars.
A kid under the Verrazano overpass whistles at Catarina. Jack glances. Catarina stops the elder Svoboda from doing anything. She says, “Don’t be dumb.”
The fight’s not worth it.
Catarina knows what stupidity is. She knows what an actual threat is. The line might appear thin, but she knows the difference. She keeps the Tribe calm.
Or tries to.
Everything’s fine.
Then someone throws a half-eaten apple at Caleb.
The fruit splatters against the boy’s shoulder.
Jack grabs his younger brother. “You okay?”
Caleb nods. He’s surprised more than anything else. Nothing like this has happened before. People mind their own business in Bay Ridge. They leave each other alone. Nobody sees the point in harassing a little kid on his way home from school. Even if that little kid’s stuck in a tie and slacks.
Especially because Jack is always a few feet away.
But Jack’s unpredictable. He might be willing to let someone else dictate what fights are worth getting into—like Catarina did a moment ago—or he might do nothing at all.
Or he might decide to harm someone.
Why? Because Fuck You, that’s why.
Jack puts his hand on Catarina’s shoulder. Looks into her eyes. “Get Caleb around the corner.” He taps Patrick and nods in the direction of the troublemakers.
Catarina walks Caleb to the edge of Ninety-sixth. “Stay here.”
Jack and Patrick stride toward three jerks leaning on a modified blue Honda. They know one threw the apple. Jack and Patrick don’t need to puff their chests. Jack’s five-foot-ten, but wide. Patrick’s a towering six-foot-three.
Jack shouts. “Apologize.”
The biggest, Number One, laughs. “Eat shit, faggot.”
Number Two and Number Three laugh too. Hysterically. Because calling someone “faggot” is apparently the pinnacle of comedy.
Jack cracks his neck. Pulls a set of brass knuckles from his pocket.
Patrick stretches his shoulders.
They rush the trio.
Patrick catches Number One by the throat and forces the asshole’s head against the car. He punches One’s left kidney. The bastard bleats like a goat.
The detachment of violence envelopes Jack. A red lens falls over his vision and blanks everything else out. It’s a gift.
Jack ducks under a wild swing from Two. Plants a hand under Two’s jaw. Lifts him up. Slams him to the ground. Jack squats on Two’s chest. He punches Two’s face with his brass-knuckled right hand. Spit flies. Specked with blood.
Idiot Number Three tries to sneak up on Jack. The bully’s got a piece of pipe. He readies the length of metal. Hikes his hands up to swing and cave Jack’s head in.
Catarina plows into the pipe-wielding thug at full tilt. Hits him with her shoulder. A linebacker. Her long hair flutters. Shakes. She collides with the sonuvabitch.
Both sprawl to the side. Catarina sits on him. She snaps her palm forward. Hits the base of Three’s nose, forcing it sharply to the right. There’s a crack. Blood pours from the jackass’s nostrils. Catarina stands. Kicks the man in the side. “Just remember—” she hocks a loogie “—I was on top.”
Jack grins at her. Checks to see if the man he’s been fighting with is still capable of being a problem. The answer is: No. Jack dusts himself off. Fighting is tiring. And worse, Jack thinks while he checks his knuckles, fighting hurts.
He almost embraces Catarina. She looks at him like a kiss might be in order, but both ignore the feeling. They walk toward Patrick. He checks himself for damage. Aside from being sore, he’s fine.
Jack glares at the asshole Patrick beat the hell out of. Number One. Then the two others who scramble—shaken, bleeding—into the car. He waves at them.
Shitheads One, Two, Three haul ass across the Verrazano Bridge.
Some of the local shopkeepers clap. The older men hoot. Jack and Patrick and Catarina throw their arms up.
“That was cool,” a small boy—maybe four or five—coos next to Caleb. The boy’s mother snaps up the child’s hand. “No, it wasn’t. Somebody should’ve called the cops. Where are the cops?”
Some people cheered the fight. Some people didn’t like the violence.
Caleb knows why the older guys liked it: It was an old-school cowboy taking-out-the-trash kinda thing. Caleb knows other people hated it for the same reason.
Jack coughs. Winces. They won, sure, but violence is a big Tribe no-no.
Not that that stops Jack. Not as though Jack pays much attention to the rules.
Caleb isn’t sure how to feel.
On the one hand, they hadn’t started the fight. They finished it. And his older brother had been looking out for him. On the other hand, Caleb can’t shake the feeling that everything went too far.
Caleb enjoys the primal aspect of it all, but feels guilty for doing so.
Jack and Patrick light cigarettes.
Catarina puts her backpack over her shoulder, silent.
Jack arches his eyebrows at Caleb. “Don’t tell Mom, okay?”
Caleb nods affirmative and salutes Jack. “Yessir.”
“First goddamn week of school.” Jack stretches his arms. Massages his shoulder. “Who’s ready for dinner?”
The Tribe continues its walk home.
* * *
&nbs
p; Something trembles under the Verrazano Bridge. A shadow darts out below the waters of the Hudson River to check the temperature of its surroundings.
It’s been dreaming for a long time.
Chapter 4: The Watcher
“Jack, I love you. But stop. You’re seventeen. You don’t know shit about shit.”
Viktor, the eldest Svoboda, wants a relaxing dinner. He spent the day trying to replace the carburetor on the 1968 Dodge Charger and received a face full of frustration for his efforts. He’d forgotten to drain the old fuel from the line. Gasoline gushed out. Coated him. No real damage done, but Jack and Caleb came home to a literally combustible father.
Jack jabs a fork into the mashed potatoes on his plate. He doesn’t look to his mother or Caleb or Catarina or Patrick. He’s more annoyed than embarrassed at being called out by his old man for fighting.
Viktor says, “You can’t just attack people like that. Even if they deserve it.” His son’s disdain is pretty easy to see. So he adds, “Jack, buddy, they did deserve a beating. They were dirtbags. I’m not absolving them. But think for a minute. What if someone had called the cops? And what if the cops found those precious brass knuckles of yours? They would’ve locked your ass up.”
Viktor sets his fork down. He chews the last bit of steak on his plate. He scans the faces of the other children there. He catches Catarina’s eye. Then Patrick’s. “And you two. I noticed the dirt stains on Cat’s knees. And I saw the little cut across Pat’s knuckles. You’re good friends for sticking with Jack, but you’d be better friends if you can find a way to keep him out of trouble.”
Everyone except Caleb gets a little reaming out.
The teenagers stab at their food.
Viktor slaps the table. Stands. Grabs himself and Dierdra beers from the fridge. “Now that the obligatory ‘wise dad’ shit is out of the way, I’m glad you guys won.” Viktor pushes aside the stained-glass kitchen light that hangs over the table and hands Dierdra a Czech Rebel. She winks at him. Viktor smiles.
Jack and Caleb grimace. It weirds them out when their folks flirt.
Catarina thinks it’s adorable.
Patrick’s got no real opinion on the matter. He’s anxious about smelling like cigarettes. His own parents are gonna arrive soon.
Dierdra sips her beer. “Since your father has essentially ruined the lesson by turning it into a joke—”
“Heyyyy,” Viktor says as he sits back down.
“—I do want to point out that it is important to think these things through more clearly.” Dierdra pushes her long dark hair back. She cocks an eyebrow toward Jack.
Jack throws up his hands. “Caleb’s the thinker. Not me.”
Viktor raises his beer and lowers his head as if toasting to some ideal.
“Stick together,” Dierdra says, “and think.” She sips her Rebel.
Caleb smiles at his mother. Her blue eyes seemed like endless pools.
Jack huffs. “Christ. Can we talk about something else now?” He shoves a lump of mashed potatoes in his mouth. “Dinner’s great, Mom.”
Viktor stares at the ceiling of the kitchen. Exasperated by Jack’s intrusion into what he thought was something of a tender moment. He smacks the table again and leans forward. “The birds.” He eyeballs everyone. “The whip-poor-wills earlier today, around when you kids were getting out of school. That was damn strange, right?”
Catarina brushes food from the corner of her mouth. “Patrick’s mom said they’re nocturnal. That they shouldn’t have been out during the day. Patrick got a picture, too.”
Patrick nods and grabs his phone. He hands it to Viktor.
Viktor examines the picture. “Dead?”
Caleb says, “Zarifa’s brother brought it over. He found it and just sorta threw it on the ground. Might’ve been dead for a long time. Dunno if it was one of the singing ones.”
“All the ones I saw were dead, too. Bugs and creepy crawlies were squirming all over them.” Viktor wriggles his fingers at Caleb.
Jack says, “Where’d you hear em, Dad?”
“Everywhere. Had the day off. Called out sick to spend some time with your mom—” he winks again at Dierdra “—and I was walking back from the bodega when they started up. By the time I got to the house, they stopped, but I saw more than a few bodies. That fuckin song of theirs gave me a bastard of a headache.”
Jack looks up from his food. “Yeah, me too. So what the hell?”
Patrick tilts his head. “My mom said they’re considered omens in American folklore.”
Viktor gives Patrick a discouraging look. “Nothing supernatural here, kiddo. But...I can’t deny that something must’ve stirred them up.” He looks around the table. “What do you guys think?”
Caleb adjusts himself in his chair. He fidgets. Wants to say something, but doesn’t want to look stupid in front of the big kids.
Dierdra nods to him. “Go on, Caleb.”
“Well...” Caleb starts. Stops. Starts again as he meets everyone’s eyes. “There has to be a reason, right? A not-spooky reason. A real reason.”
“Not-spooky” is the term Caleb’s used since he was in the single digits to describe the scientific, or rational. The Svobodas aren’t a spiritual family. Viktor and Dierdra abandoned any kind of religion decades ago. And the children never found a use for it, either. They never found a need to inject God or gods or spirits when explaining. Doing so was the opposite of actually explaining.
Viktor leans. He hands Patrick’s phone back and reaches out to Caleb. “Then what’s the reason? Let’s go step by step.”
“What makes birds sing?” Caleb asks.
“They’re probably boys,” Dierdra says. “Male birds are the real singers.”
Jack winks. “To attract female boids.”
“Or to declare property,” Catarina says.
“Or—” Viktor says in a deep, gravelly voice “—to warn.” He cackles with his best Vincent Price impression. “Mwahahaha.”
Caleb snaps his fingers. “Something scared them.”
“You’re probably right. Though what can it have been on such a scale…” Dierdra shrugs. Drinks. She turns to Viktor. “Construction. Subways maybe?”
Viktor leans back in his chair. “Shitty as the subways are, I’ve never seen them startle animals above ground. And any bird in Brooklyn would get used to it. I see where you’re going. Vibrations. Like how critters respond to earthquakes. That happens, sure. But it would have to be a really interesting vibration to get this kind of reaction.”
Silence envelopes the kitchen. The whole house seems to settle. A light breeze moves the trees outside and the leaves shudder. Crackling like cellophane.
Caleb looks to Jack, who returns his gaze. Both boys’ eyes water—a hint that they’re scared. If their parents’ intentions were to make them feel creeped out, then, hey, mission accomplished.
Jack rubs his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose.
The front door flies open.
Everyone in the kitchen jumps.
“Yello,” shouts Bill O’Connor, Patrick’s father. He and his Biology-teaching wife Mary stroll through the living room and into the kitchen. Viktor and Dierdra stand to greet them. The women exchange hugs. The men give each other firm handshakes.
Mary cocks an eyebrow. “Someone die? It’s quiet as a tomb in here.” She smiles at the kids at the dinner table. “And I smell cigarettes, Patrick. Your ass is grass.”
Patrick slumps in his chair. “Shit.”
“Watch your mouth, kiddo,” Bill says. “It’s useless to try to hide it. Mothers always know.” He pauses. “Seriously, though. Why so low key?”
Viktor offers a shrug. “We were talking about the whip-poor-wills. Trying to figure out why so many of them came out. Why so many of them died. Caleb thinks they all got scared of something.”
“Could be,” Mary says. She takes her jacket off and folds her arms. “We still need to know what scared them and how it made the whole damn population wig out a
t the same time. And we’re probably never going to find that out at all. I don’t have the time to play bird detective.”
Dierdra returns to her seat. She runs her fingers through Caleb’s hair. “Mary, Bill, you want a drink?”
Both nod. Dierdra motions to Jack. He grabs more Czech Rebel from the fridge for the parents. He picks up a third bottle, points to it, then himself. He arches his eyebrows, Can I have one?
“Oh, sure, Jack. Drink up. It’s not like you’re underage and one of your teachers is here,” Dierdra says.
Jack frowns and puts the beer back.
Viktor sits. “Well, anyway, it was a nice, spooky nighttime topic.”
Bill opens his beer. “So’re demons.”
Mary chuckles. “Maybe aliens bothered the birds.”
Caleb shifts in his seat. Squirms a little.
“All right, all right, enough,” Dierdra says.
Bill says, “Just teasing, sorry. It is weird.”
Jack, Patrick, and Catarina stand. They bring their plates to the sink.
“Dinner was awesome, Mrs. Svoboda,” Catarina says.
Dierdra bows her head. “Thank you, honey.”
The teenagers clean their places and amble into the living room of the Svobodas’ modest house. Viktor holds several patents for industrial machine tools and writes books on mechanical engineering, so he makes good money. The family could live in a more luxurious home, but education is the most important thing. Whatever money might have pushed the family into serious wealth goes toward schooling. The Svobodas are comfortable, not extravagant.
Caleb stays with the adults to see what they might discuss.
Patrick turns on the Xbox in the living room. He offers controllers to Jack and Catarina. “Who wants to kill some monsters?”
Jack snatches up the controller.
Catarina puts her hand up. “Eh, I have an assload of homework and it’s already nine-thirty. My dad’s gonna be home soon.” She reaches down to grab her book bag, throws it over her shoulder. “See you Monday, Patrick. And, Jack, I think we have a certain Night of the Living Dead to catch tomorrow.” She smirks.
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