“It’s nothing. I mean, I told you what I’d do for you. For her.”
“I just don’t know what I did—what we did to deserve your devotion.”
“And would you do it for me?”
“I would.”
“Then that’s it. It doesn’t matter that we barely know each other. There’s nothing left.”
“There’s Jaz.”
“He…he’s been good to me.”
“And me.”
“When I was eighteen, I had a baby girl,” she says, composing herself. “Jessica. She was two, and I was pushing her stroller down the street. On 127th and St. Nicholas. A car drove off the street. A Cadillac truck with spinners. It spun sideways and crushed my girl in her stroller. It slammed all the way into the building on St. Nicholas.”
Nos holds out his hand over the edge of the bed, and Leila grips him.
“I’d lost everything. I didn’t want to live. For years, I did all the drugs I could find. I was admitted into five institutions. I wanted to die but didn’t have the courage to kill myself. So I did it more slowly. I came out West. Who knows why, I had money from the accident so it never mattered where I went, or with who. It was all a fog anyway of blow and speed and weed and drinking all night and fighting and tricking, even though I didn’t need any money. I came to Jaz’s tattoo shop. People came from all over to get tattooed by him. I asked him for a Phoenix, because I believed I’d risen from the ashes of my former life. But I was so wrong. And he didn’t let me get it. He took one look at the image that I’d found on the internet and said it was corny. And he just talked to me. Not like he was trying to get in my pants—he had chicks from all over the country texting him naked pictures. I told him about my little girl. I’d never told anyone about her. None of my fake friends or dudes knew anything. But I told him how I was whole with her and fractured ever since. How she would cling to my breast and place her little hand on my chest. And he gave me this,” Leila says, standing to take off her shirt.
And her bra.
The image of a suckling infant is tattooed from her ribcage to her breast, tiny mouth on Leila’s nipple and a hand flat on her chest, just the way she described. The little girl is done in black and white and shaded so perfectly that she is remarkably real. Nos is stunned at the picture of the scarred, brokenhearted mother. Yet there’s something disturbing in those black markings. The baby’s face is turned toward Leila’s nipple, so her eyes are just out of sight. Nos thinks of the girl back in New York who died against the fire drum, the pictures of Clair’s stillborn baby, and the terrible rash on Naomi’s neck. With that tattoo, how could Leila hope to get over it? Maybe you can’t, you don’t. Maybe the tattoo is to remind her to accept that she won’t ever be over it.
Yet in all her sadness, her naked body is sexy. He can’t help it—cravings he should be dead to. He wants to give her another. In that instant, he wants to make another. Good thing my body doesn’t work, or I’d try.
“She had the same beautiful skin,” Leila says, tears filling her face again. “She had those eyes that slanted outward. Long lashes women pay for. And she would be Naomi’s age. She would be six. Six, last week.”
***
The rash is worse than ever. Nay can feel it growing. She feels it when she sleeps and dreams about it. It’s pink and big and bubbles down her chest. She wakes up in the sick dawn and looks down her shirt. Before, she couldn’t even see it and would feel Pa worry and touch her shoulder, fingers walking the rash like a trail. Now the bumps form a shape on her flesh like a raised continent on a globe at school.
She misses the needles even though she hated them. The needles would pinch her, but she got used to it. She knows that he was only taking care of her. Now she’s hot like a fever. When she used to have a fever she could stay home from school and watch cartoons. She would put the thermometer up against a lamp bulb when Mommy wasn’t looking. This fever had no comfort. Last night she was cold but sweating. She would wake up wet and shivering. She didn’t understand how she could be cold but also sweating. Confusing and scary when your body stops making sense.
Now she’s delirious in the morning. The streets seem to sway. The ground moves like she’s back on the river. She wishes she was back on the river.
The lady wakes up worse than ever. Last night’s food is still on her face. It is difficult to look at her. Nay knows the instant she’s awake because she’s already talking. Everything’s nonsense. She doesn’t call herself Galadriel anymore. She calls herself Anne Meara. She rants horrible words like ‘cocksuckers’ that Naomi doesn’t understand, but she knows from the way the words cut her ears that they’re violent and ugly, and the lady’s mouth makes everything more and more gross.
Naomi pulls up her hood and zips her zipper all the way so no one can see the rash or her sweat or whatever else. It’s hot in the hood, but she keeps it up anyway. Pa would want her hood up. It’s bad to let people see you or know anything about you. No one is ever allowed to see the rash.
She hears voices from outside of the dark, hollowed building where they slept. A phone rings. The only people who have phones are them. Them. The tan soldiers with the flame and circle. They talk in harsh accents like the men from back at the amusement park.
The lady stumbles out toward the voices. She’s already in a rage. She leaves the shopping cart behind. She never saw that Naomi was sweating.
“Putrid devils!” she screams. Naomi peeks out the opening. The sun is not yet bright. The tan men in tall black boots talk into a phone and are stunned at the gruesome sight of this haggard woman. They smile. At first.
“It’s me you worship!”
Their faces turn to frowns.
“Shut it, old woman.”
“It’s me, Anne Meara. You’re all too stupid to know. It’s me you worship. I give life to the savior. I was raped! I was, by you putrid filth devil mutants. I was raped, and I gave birth to the savior. No thing immaculate. No magic! Rape! Rape!”
“You keep the Lord’s name out of your mouth, now,” says one.
“Rape! Rape!”
The other smacks her hard across the face.
“You keep talking crazy, lady, we’ll shut it for you.”
“God’s honest truth.”
“Rapist! Rapists! You rape me, how you rape me!” she’s crying now and lurching toward the men. Naomi cannot tell if she wants to attack them or hug them, like she wants them to hold her up. But the moment she touches one, he steps back and pushes her up against the wall.
“Rape Rape!”
The other smacks her, and she gets his hand and jumps and bites into it. The man screams. The other tries to pull her off, but she’s in deep. Her teeth draw blood. Finally he gets her off and pushes her away and pulls out a huge gun. It has two long barrels. As she stumbles back he fires. The blast is too too loud, and she flies away as if the sound alone is too much.
The man holds his bleeding hand.
“Fucking crazy bitch.”
“Coulda gave you rabies.”
“Fuck rabies—AIDS.”
“Keep that unholy blood away from me.”
“Aw, fuck you.”
“Should we clean her up?”
“Fuck that, I’m bleeding here! I need medical.”
“Punk.”
“They want us to scout? Then they can clean up after us. Calvary’ll be here, matter of moments anyways, and clean up this whole diseased excuse for a city.”
They linger. One spits. Maybe on the lady, Nay can’t see her where she lays. They move on.
The morning is getting brighter. It’s quiet again. The lady doesn’t talk. Now Nay misses her babbling. She knows she has to move. Keep moving, like she did with Pa. Like the river. She steps out into the sun and walks. She doesn’t want to see the lady. She isn’t curious. She’s seen enough death. She’s sweating. The salty moisture is in her mouth. She doesn’t know where the sweat ends and the tears begin.
Chapter 8
Dust in the Basement
; Leila and Nos tour the city once again. Nos walks this time. They take the dogs and a shopping cart. They find the scuba gear and the guns stashed under the pier where Nos left them. Should work as payment for Jaz and the doctor.
Hours pass and the sun begins to set and still no sign of the girl. They are back at Jaz’s place. The city is littered with signs of the three waves of water. Jaz told them not to put up the signs. Anyone could follow them to find him. Nos and Leila put them up anyway.
Four Decepticons wait on Jaz’ porch, smoking blunts. Their glassy eyes follow Nos and Leila and the dogs inside, short on welcome.
“I’ve overstayed,” Nos observes when they get inside.
Leila says nothing.
“Nostradamus,” says Jaz, appearing in the kitchen. He stares for a second.
“Jaz.” He nods.
“Leila,” he says, reaching out and drawing her close to him. He kisses her on the mouth. “What’d I tell you about putting those signs up?”
“Had to be done,” says Nos. “There’s only one person in San Francisco those signs will mean anything to.”
“Hmm,” growls Jaz, unconvinced. “Well, come this way,” he says.
Jaz opens a door behind the kitchen and descends the steps to the basement. Nos glances as Leila. This a setup?
Jaz turns on the lights.
A pale young man is gagged and tied up to a chair. His eyes are bruised and his mouth is caked with blood. He has track marks all over his skin, new and old, and some in his legs. His arm is tied to the arm of the chair, and a metal wire is tied around his ring finger. The wire has been twisted deep into his flesh. The young man shakes like a terrified puppy. His body seems disproportionate, fat and bloated in some places and lean in others. Like a heroin addict.
“Who’s this?” Nos asks.
“You don’t know?” Jaz responds, twisting the wire deeper into the young man’s finger so he groans through his gag. “This is the Chef.”
“I knew some of my crew was dealing the Cure, so I followed the line of supply and found this miserable piece of shit. Had him followed. Turns out, you were right about him. He’s worth a fuckin’ fortune. Dough, but more than that he’s got a fuckload of drugs. Shit he makes himself. White boy drugs I never even heard of.”
The boy struggles against his gag.
“I think he’s trying to speak.”
“I’ll let him speak when I’m ready,” says Jaz, tightening the wire again. “I come down here and tighten that wire every hour. Eventually, it’ll tear right through his finger. How long you think that’s going to take, Chef?”
He mouths something, muffled.
“OK,” says Jaz, taking off the gag.
“I’m not the Chef!” he spits out. “I’m Art. The Chef is my father, please, stop! I’ll help you. Please!”
“Speak your mind.”
“The drugs, the money—everything is at a compound in the hills. My dad has it guarded, but I can slip in and shut the generators. I can tell you where everything is.”
“Is there a cure?” Nos demands.
“By the fucking kilo.”
“No, a real cure. I need a cure for the disease.”
“Nasty virus, isn’t it? Daddy calls it the Braun Virus.” He says daddy with barely concealed contempt. He has the affect of a spoiled party kid. Even bound and tortured, Art speaks with an air of superiority. “Daddy named it after himself since he thinks he’s the first to figure it out,” says Art, spitting blood on himself. “Ghastly thought. How sick are you?”
“Not me. My daughter.”
“Where’s she?”
“Lost.”
“You sure the fanatics haven’t gotten her? They have a thing about the sick. You know, like Jesus said. ‘Murder the sick.’”
“Has your father figured out a cure?”
“There is treatment. I can tell you exactly where. I don’t know about a cure, only that he’s been working on it. He thinks it can outsell the other cure.” He snorts. “I have my doubts.”
Chapter 9
Reasons
Nos needs to rest. He lets the dogs in with him. Killah jumps up onto the bed, and Nos doesn’t have the strength to shove him off. Killah curls up between Nos’ legs and rests his mouth on Nos’ knee, tongue licking his moist nose. Nos swears he’s smiling. He’s warm and Nos falls asleep.
Leila nudges him, sitting close to the bed.
“We have to get out of here,” she says with urgency.
“I know,” says Nos, groggy. “I’ve overstayed.”
“No, we have to get out of San Francisco. The Revelation is coming.”
“And go where? They’re everywhere.”
“Asia. Boats are leaving every day. People have been lining up for weeks. Jaz knows a ship. He tells me less and less, since you showed. Still, long as you pay, he’s willing to let you ride the ship.”
“You know I can’t leave without her.”
Leila nods, knowing it was coming.
“You’ll die,” she says. “We don’t know about her,” she pleads. “We don’t know anything. She could be…”
“More than likely.”
“So you would stay?”
“It’s only right.”
“You can’t—just throw your life away.”
“What choice is there?” he asks.
Their words are mere whispers. This conversation has run unspoken in his mind for two days. They each know what the other will say before they say it, but they say it anyway, like actors rehearsing a script.
Leila looks down.
“You’re selfish,” she says.
“Selfish?”
Leila surprises him. This isn’t part of the script. She’s supposed to understand. She’s supposed to leave him be.
“You think I don’t know? I haven’t felt that pain? You’re the only one?”
Nos is quiet.
“If she’s gone—if—then you are still here. You’ve survived, and there’s a reason.”
“I’ve survived for her. That’s the only reason.”
“No. Not if she’s gone. Then you find a new reason.”
He wants to say there is no new reason. No such thing. Impossible. Yvette, Mikey, Joachim, then Naomi. There can’t be a reason. Not with them watching and waiting.
“I’m supposed to be…with my family.”
“And if they’re gone?”
“But I feel them. Waiting.”
“And if there is no one waiting, only the dead and gone, you would go, too? For what?”
“They must be somewhere.”
“You sound like those fanatics.”
“That saved you.”
“That hunted you. That would kill her for being sick. No, if all we have is right here, what we can see and touch, then you’re alive, and that’s enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough reason to find a new reason.”
He wants to look in her eyes and tell her there can be no new reason. Impossible. He wants to tell her. But he can’t. He can’t look at her and say it.
Jaz opens the door without knocking. Smoke rises from a burning cigar at his fingers. He sees them, close enough to whisper. He squints and glares. The sound of his breathing fills the room.
***
Naomi can’t believe her eyes. The three wavy river lines. Just the way she drew them. There are arrows at the end. She is shivering then sweating, shivering then sweating. All day the streets have looked blurry. Now, as though sudden clarity through a fog, it’s the wavy river lines on a piece of paper blowing through the street. She holds the paper and traces the lines.
Pa.
She keeps walking and sees more. They are taped to lampposts and abandoned bus stops. The papers wave in the wind. The arrows lead to more signs and more signs. She walks on along the arrows. At times she loses the trail in the disorienting streets and walks around the blocks and finds them again. People avoid her. The shaking, sweating, hooded little girl.
A kid is walking with her. His hood is up, too. He’s older than her. She thinks he’s following her. Then he passes her. Then he drops back behind. Then they walk even.
“You following those signs, girl?” he says in a young rasp.
“Un-huh. I’m looking for my pa.”
“Me, too,” says the boy. He’s skinny, but not as skinny as her. “Is your pa a Decepticon?”
“Nope.”
“Mine is,” he says. He sounds like he isn’t afraid of anything. He squints in the streets. Or maybe his eyes are just slits and always look like that. He walks and bops like the streets belong to him.
They keep walking. They keep the same pace. It’s like they’re walking together, then not, then are.
“I’ma find my pops,” he says. “I’m Luke. Calls me Skywalker.”
“I’m Naomi.”
Then they walk together.
And they hear it. A slow, methodical gallop off in the distance. Feels like an earthquake.
“Fuck is that?”
Naomi wants to hurry. She walks faster. So does Luke.
They see a house along a row of houses on top of a hill. The road then goes way down. Four men lean and sit on a porch, looking around, but looking like they’re not looking around. Two huge U-Haul trucks stand outside the house.
“I recognize them,” says Luke.
He walks up to the porch. The four men watch. Naomi waits at the stairs.
“You Decepticons?” he announces.
“Nah, kid, keep it moving,” says one with a wave of his hand. He looks familiar to Nay.
The rumble keeps getting louder. The four men look in the distance down the hill.
“I’m looking for my pops. Styles Carson. Ya’ll know Styles Carson.”
“Yeah, man, Styles dead,” says another. “Dead two days. Your pops gone, kid. Keep it moving,” he orders, eyes off toward the noise.
“Well, maybe I can stick around,” he says, all confidence and rasp.
“Nah,” says the first one, standing and showing the butt of his big shiny gun sticking from his waist. “What we gon’ do with a punk like you?”
“Kiss my ass, motherfucker,” says the kid.
“What?” they all look away from the sound for the first time.
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