Time Zero

by Carolyn Cohagan

“It sounds terrific.”

  “I can’t even remember what happened to the corn family. . . . It seemed like we had them for a really long time . . . like, years. Is that possible? Does corn last for years?”

  I shrug, trying to imagine my own mother, on her knees, acting out a silly puppet show for my benefit, but I can’t. I can only imagine her yelling at my brother and me to clean up the mess all that shucking would make. “It must have been nice to grow up with a mother like that.”

  “Most of the time, yeah.” He jumps up and flicks off the light switch, leaving only the amber glow of the lantern between us. “You should close your eyes.”

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  As we lie there in silence, I can hear him breathing. I want to keep talking to him, to ask him a million more questions. I decide I didn’t say anything wrong earlier, or he wouldn’t have told me the corn story. I guess there are times when boys want to kiss you and times when they don’t. I don’t have enough experience to know the difference.

  Breaking the stillness, he says, “Rats.”

  “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

  “No. Rats. I hate ’em. Have since I was a kid. And, um, before I would come down here, I made my mother come down and make sure there weren’t any.”

  I grin so wide it hurts my face. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, rolling over. “Good night.”

  EIGHTEEN

  FRESH FRUIT IS THE LAST THING I EXPECT IN this depressing gray room, but when I wake in the morning, Juda offers me a jar filled with sweet pieces of apple, peach, and blackberry.

  “You said all the food down here was rotten,” I say, confused.

  Pointing to the tin cans, he says, “All the stuff that was already here. My mother’s been bringing other things by.” He hands me a fork, says a quick prayer, and offers me the first bite. “Fruit salad is her specialty.”

  I happily sink my teeth into a juicy peach and then a crisp, tart apple. I then choose a ripe berry, deciding this may be the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever had. “It’s so good! Where did it all come from?”

  “It grows all over the city. You just have to know where to look,” he says. “My mother spends her weekends foraging.”

  “That’s amazing.” I certainly can’t picture my parents out in the city, hunting for a blackberry bush.

  “I didn’t think it was so amazing when I was a kid. She’d drag me from Wall Street to Columbus Circle in search of a pear.”

  “Right now, it seems totally worth it,” I say, licking my fork as I hand him the jar. He grins, helping himself to several bites. We keep eating until there’s nothing left. “Is there any more?” I ask.

  “Not today.” He places the empty jar next to several others I hadn’t noticed before, up on a high shelf.

  My stomach gurgles. “Maybe we could eat something else?”

  “Okay. But something with more substance, so we’ll be full longer.” He looks at the shelf below. “This’ll work.” He sits back down, holding a small container of brownish-gray meat. “It’s squirrel. Nice and filling.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  “You don’t like squirrel?”

  “We . . . uh . . . don’t eat a lot of it.” More than half the city eats squirrel, but it’s really considered the meat of last resort.

  “Of course,” he says, embarrassed.

  “Mother is silly about it, really,” I say, afraid I’ve insulted him. “When we can’t afford ham or even goat, she’ll serve us spinach and carrots with no meat. She just can’t wrap her head around the idea of squirrel. But I’ve always wanted to try it.” I smile.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” he says, laughing and opening the jar.

  I laugh too, as a sharp, gamey smell fills the room. “Ooh-wee! That smells strong!”

  “I know. It tastes better than it smells. The thing about squirrels . . .” He holds the open jar forward for me to examine. “They eat nuts—acorns and walnuts—so their meat is really nutty and sweet. I actually like it better than ham.” Spearing a big hunk of the gray-brown meat, he shovels it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he says as he chews. “Delicious.”

  Tree rat is all I can think, but I need to repress my judgment, because I know it’s my mother’s voice talking.

  Suddenly, and with great relief, I remember the potatoes in my pocket from yesterday, and I offer one to Juda. I eat mine, but he places his on his knee while he continues to eat the squirrel.

  “Convenes are raised on this stuff,” he says as he swallows. “We’re taught to hunt squirrel before we’re taught to speak.”

  I smile, gnawing on my potato, but my expression must be too forced for him to believe it.

  “Did you not know I was a Convene?” he asks, amusement in his eyes.

  “Of course I did.”

  “I think we’ve already established that you are a terrible liar.”

  I groan. “How was I supposed to know? You don’t have a long beard. And your accent has disappeared.”

  “I’m not very good at growing a beard of any kind.” He strokes his stubble. “And Mrs. Asher made me work on my accent as soon as I started working for Damon.”

  “But she was a Convene once.”

  “Exactly. She doesn’t want to be reminded. Ever.”

  I’m embarrassed. Despite his lack of accent or beard, I feel like I was still supposed to know. I mean, what did I think he was? A Deserver who’s been working since he was a boy? Who has a mother who works in the Fields? I guess I didn’t really think about it. If only Mother could see me now: I’ve run away from my rich fiancé so I can sit in a basement and eat squirrel with a Convene.

  He offers me the jar, but I’m not quite ready. If only the meat were hot, I think I’d be able to stomach it. To divert attention from my squeamishness, I ask, “What was it like to grow up on the East Side?”

  “Hard,” he says, taking a bite of his potato. “At times it could be very hard. A lot of families didn’t have any fuel, any electricity. People died every winter—children, the elderly—just because they couldn’t get warm. And it was hard to look over to the west and see buildings with the lights on and know they had heat when you didn’t.”

  I feel ashamed. I’ve never been cold in the way he’s describing.

  “But in general, Convenes are much happier,” he adds.

  “Really?” I’ve never heard that before.

  “Yeah. Neighbors are nicer. Everyone knows one another. There just seems to be more . . . trust, I guess. You don’t worry about being robbed when you have nothing worth stealing.”

  I remember Mother’s certainty that Katla had stolen our silverware.

  “At least they used to be happier, before the plague. I can’t really say now.”

  I’ve never heard it called a plague before.

  “My friend Shad,” he says, becoming more quiet, “he lived across the street from me growing up. He died last year.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I am. I can’t imagine losing Sekena.

  “Sometimes I wish . . .” He jams his fork back into the jar, frustrated.

  “What?”

  “That I still lived there, that I was helping.”

  “Then you’d be sick, too.” I hope his family is okay.

  “ALL of us Convenes are going to get sick. Haven’t you heard? God hates us.”

  “That’s not how disease works, and you know it.” Father has explained germs to me.

  “Why aren’t the Deservers getting sick, then?”

  I have no answer for him.

  “Even if Deservers do start getting sick,” he says, “you’ll find a way to buy yourselves out of it.”

  I don’t like the way he’s talking about Deservers, like we’re a bunch of rich creeps with one brain. And nothing he’s saying makes sense. “What do you mean? Money can’t heal people. You need science.” Father complains about this a lot—how people think if you throw money at a problem, you
can make it go away.

  “Science isn’t fast enough for people like the Ashers. I mean, how do you think they’re powering an air conditioner?”

  “I have no idea.” I’ve never known people who had one before this week.

  He puts down the squirrel meat. “It’s coming from outside Manhattan.”

  “What is?”

  “Diesel fuel.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everyone outside the Wall wants us dead. Why would they give us fuel?”

  “I guess everyone has a price.”

  “But then . . . then . . .” It’s like he’s just told me you can eat sidewalk cement. “Then why doesn’t Uncle Ruho just buy as much fuel as the whole island needs? Or send people for proper medicine for the Convenes?”

  “It would be Apostate fuel. Apostate medicine. It goes against God and His plan for us.” Sarcasm gives his voice a dark edge. “If we take their medicine, then we might as well pull down the Wall, let in the Apostates, and give up our belief in the Prophet.” Juda believes in God and the Prophet, as far as I can tell. He said a prayer before we ate our breakfast. But the tone he’s using suggests that he finds the logic around not using the fuel and medicine to be ludicrous.

  “So why are the Ashers allowed to use the fuel?” I ask.

  “They’re rich—they think they’re allowed to do whatever they want. One time, no kidding, I saw Mr. Asher invite over a Herald and have him say a blessing over a container of smuggled car batteries. So maybe he thinks he can pray his way out of it.”

  “I don’t believe you. The Twitchers would catch them. Batteries, maybe, but Uncle Ruho would know if huge barrels of oil were coming over the Wall.”

  “My theory is that they’re coming under the wall. Besides, who says Uncle Ruho doesn’t know?”

  My face turns hot. I wish he would stop talking. “So now it’s a big conspiracy?” Why did my father spend his entire life finding an alternative energy source if Uncle Ruho could just leave the island at any time and say, I’d like some gas now, please? “But the people—they would rise up if they knew!”

  “They’re already rising. Haven’t you seen the green leaves around town? Sprayed all over Ruho’s face?” His voice has gone from bitter to excited. “Rumor is that it’s some sort of rebel group.”

  Painting leaves doesn’t seem like much of a rebellion to me. I remember the Twitcher yesterday mentioned one—they left me to find “a graffiti leaf over on Park.”

  “I bet it’s a group of Convenes.” Juda holds up the jar of meat. “You know, if you’re going to survive without your family, you’re going to have to try new things.”

  “Fine,” I say, grabbing the jar. Snatching my fork from the floor, I poke a piece of meat, trying not to think of a rodent with beady little eyes. I count to three and take a bite.

  “See? It’s good!” Juda says.

  I finish chewing and swallow. It’s gamier than goat, but he’s right. It tastes nutty. “It’s not as bad as I expected.”

  “You’ll learn to love it.”

  “You said rebellion ‘group,’” I say. “How do you know it’s more than one person?”

  Something about “graffiti leaf” is poking at the edges of my memory, but I can’t figure out what it is.

  “I don’t. You just hear about people getting arrested, and yet the leaves keep popping up.”

  Juda offers me a second bite of squirrel, and I’m hungry enough to take it. I chew on the meat, wondering if Nana ever ate squirrel. It seems like something they would serve in the Tunnel. Then I remember: “Nana left me a leaf!” I shove my hand in my pocket, only to remember that I’m wearing Mrs. Asher’s cloak, not my own. I can’t believe I lost it. The Primer and now this. Can’t I keep any part of her?

  “That’s a weird coincidence,” he says.

  “Maybe it’s not.” Nana never went out, because of her bad knee. The leaf I found was fresh. If I didn’t bring it to her, how did she get it? She was definitely up to something.

  “So why did she give it to you?” he asks.

  I stare at the floor, trying to piece it all together. “Maybe she wanted to tell me something about this person—or the people—who are painting the leaves around the city.” I’m frustrated with myself, like I’m missing something obvious that Nana thought I would understand.

  “Where did you find it?”

  I’m relieved he asked, since I don’t want to keep anything from him. I tell him about the Primer and Nana’s teaching me how to read. I fight not to get emotional as I describe our lessons.

  He gets a funny smile on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That explains a lot.”

  “What does?”

  “Why you’re so . . . different. You’re smart and defiant. And you want to do things your own way. She must have taught you that.” I’m amazed he sees me this way. I feel like the whole world tells me what to do and I always comply. “So she told you to get this Primer thing, and you did, and then the leaf was inside it?”

  “Yes.”

  Extending my mind back to the time before the Ashers’, back to my bedroom, when I was lying on my bed, looking through the Primer, I concentrate on the pages and images, trying to recapture the moment of surprise when I first saw the leaf. Was I reading about food? No. Movies? No. Then I think, Top Live Shows. Music! “It was between pages seventy-one and seventy-two,” I say.

  “Wow. Good memory.”

  “I know the Primer pretty well,” I say, shrugging. “That’s what happens when you only have one thing to read.”

  Nana must have counted on that. My blood starting to circulate faster, I think of the pages again. I see flowers on the left side and a photograph on the top right. I murmur, “‘Pere Ubu frontman David Thomas sings in “Musicians Are Scum,” a spicy standout on the avant-punk album Lady from Shanghai, “Why don’t you get in line”—’”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh. ‘Since 1975, the Ubu starting lineup has gone through more changes than the New York Knicks, with Thomas the stalwart eye of the hurricane.’” Is something in there supposed to help me?

  “You’re kind of scaring me,” Juda says.

  “It’s how they talked in Time Zero.” The words go on and on about these people called Ubu—and how they are “the most mutable band in avant-punk.” Nana could never explain “mutable” or “avant-punk,” but I always loved the sound of the words and the way they felt in my mouth. I imagined telling someone, Hi, I’m Mina, and this is my friend Avant Punk.

  “What’s Time Zero?” Juda asks, interrupting my train of thought.

  “That’s just what Nana and I call the time before the Prophet.” Remembering that right at the end of the page it says, “Bowery Ballroom, Sept. 12,” I ask Juda if he thinks it could be significant.

  “Uh, Bowery Ballroom. That’s a prayer center.”

  “Maybe Nana wanted me to go there.”

  He raises an eyebrow skeptically. “You think the leaf is a reminder to pray?”

  “No,” I say, irritated. He’s obviously not taking this seriously.

  I turn away from him, trying to imagine what else about these musicians could be important to Nana, but then I realize that I’ve forgotten about the other side—the flower page. I picture it again, but all I can remember is a bunch of roses and lilies and stuff. The page didn’t have much for me to read, so I always just wanted to flip by it, but . . . Nana would always make me stop and look at it.

  I breathe more quickly. I’m getting close. I can feel it. Nana made me stop, look, and concentrate on this page every time. What else was on it? All I can see are the flowers. No. Wait. There’s an announcement. “‘At Macy’s!” I blurt. “‘There’s a flower show at Macy’s!’”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Juda says, his mouth half-full of squirrel.

  “It was a picture of beautiful flowers with big letters saying how it was time for the yearly flower show at Macy’s. And then, at the
bottom, in little letters, it said, ‘The Magic of Macy’s.’” My mind is reeling now. “I always thought Nana stopped on that page because she liked the flowers, but it must’ve been because she wanted me to remember what was on it! She wanted me to go to Macy’s!”

  “That building was bombed out years ago. There’s nothing left.”

  “No. It’s where she wanted me to go!” I say in a petulant voice. Jumping up, I start pacing around the room. “The leaf was supposed to be a clue that I’d recognize, but I was too worried about Damon and you and my marriage to think about it. And it was really smart of Nana, if you think about it, because if she’d written it down for me, like, ‘here’s where this secret group is hiding,’ then anyone who found the Primer would have found the group!”

  “Mina, you need to calm down.” He stands up to face me. “You’re acting like you’re going to go running out the door and down to Macy’s, and you know you can’t do that.”

  “Not right this second. But eventually . . . maybe . . .”

  He pleads with me. “Even if this crazy group is down there, why would your grandmother put you in that kind of danger?”

  “Maybe she only meant for me to do it if she died.”

  He throws his hands in the air. “So she knew she was going to fall down the stairs? And she went out and found a leaf first? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe not at first, but—”

  “STOP IT!” he says, so loudly his voice echoes around the room and admonishes me multiple times. He tries to soften his tone. “Please be realistic. You’re safe here.”

  Impatience bubbles inside me. I’ve figured out what Nana wanted me to do, I know it in my bones somehow, and now Juda wants to stop me from doing it. “We can’t stay here forever,” I say. “And you know that every day we’re here is another day we put your mother in danger.”

  He looks like I’ve slapped him. “She wants us here.”

  “Juda, if we get caught, they’ll punish her for letting us into the Park!”

  “I’m extremely careful. We won’t get caught.” A new tension has entered his voice, and exasperation is making a vein throb in his forehead.

  “You can’t control everything. You have to know it’s not realistic to stay here.”