by A. M. Geever
He was just about to drop down into the yard behind the fence when more voices approached. He climbed higher into the tree, his arms beginning to feel rubbery. He should have listened to Doug, should have been smarter. Once they caught him, his brother would know he wasn’t dead and—
Footsteps, coming at a jog, jolted him from his panic attack. He hugged himself closer to the tree’s main trunk.
“It’s that stupid alarm is all. It goes off all the time.”
“He said he saw a person running from the door.”
The first voice snorted as two shadowy figures approached.
Everyone knows Joey smokes too much weed. He probably sees little green men, too.”
The men didn’t stop. Mario watched them turn the corner. He squinted back at the wall. Lights were on by the door, and three men searched the area.
His calf throbbed, and he could feel blood seeping into his boot.
“Got myself shot in the fucking bargain,” he muttered.
He didn’t reach down to feel his calf to try and assess the damage. He stayed still, hoping the tree’s leaves and branches, and his stillness, would hide him. Eventually, the lights at the door were turned off. No one else passed by his perch. Mario stayed put for what felt like an eternity. He checked his watch, shielding the backlight with his jacket. It had only been forty minutes and was now 4:13 a.m. He had to get into place before dawn broke, or he might as well walk to his house and turn himself in.
Carefully, he lowered himself down and dropped from the tree onto the fence, then to the ground. He walked its length behind the hedge, then emerged into the street. He stuck to shadows when they were available, keeping his pace steady but not too fast, topping out at a fast limp. He continued on Emerson for a few more blocks on well-maintained sidewalks, passing dark houses tucked in snug for the night. This had felt normal before he left the Valley; now it felt like another planet. He slowed at the intersection with Seale Street, where he would turn right. His house, his family, was three blocks in the other direction.
It felt like being in the gravity well of a planet, the pull of an irresistible force so strong, so overwhelming, that for a brief, insane moment, he almost gave in to it. An irresistible force was something you couldn’t fight. You couldn’t beat it. It was foolish to even try. He looked down the shadowy street, the longing a physical ache that pushed away the pain in his calf. Home, where his children and Emily slept in their beds, so close he could almost touch it.
He turned away, hobbling in the other direction. When he reached Alma, he crossed the street. The strip of land between Alma and the Caltrain tracks was planted with hedges, so it provided good cover most of the way as Mario made his way south. The sky above him shifted to predawn gray.
He saw the first cat, then several more that scurried away, alarmed at his approach. The astringent smell of cat piss filled his nostrils. He picked up the pace, energized by finally reaching his goal: the Oregon Expressway.
As the sky lightened, the concrete gully of the expressway came into focus. Alma Street continued on its course above the expressway, via an overpass, but a section of the next overpass had collapsed and dangled down as if on a hinge, forming a crude, steep ramp.
The smell of cat piss grew stronger, along with the mews, as Mario moved farther into the feral cat colony. Lithe shapes slunk close to the ground as they scurried out of sight, away from the lumbering human among them.
A stab of pain lanced through his calf. “Goddamn, that hurts,” he said, to the cats he guessed, as he climbed over the guardrails that divided the road.
He ducked under the section of Alma Street that had collapsed and sat down. Angry hisses preceded the scurry of feet over crumbling concrete. More faintly were plaintive cries, squeaky and high-pitched. Relief crashed through him at the confirmation that there were kittens here. He stretched and twisted his leg to inspect his calf in the watery light. It was still bleeding. He skimmed his calf with his fingertips until he found a painful, hard lump, so tender he had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out. The bullet was lodged in his calf.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said.
He pulled his knife from its sheath. He took a couple quick breaths, psyching himself up, and wriggled the knife into the wound. Tears streamed down his face. When he caught the bullet with the knife’s tip, he pressed against it from the outside of his calf with his thumb. He continued this way, wriggling the knife and pushing on his damaged muscle, until the bullet was out. He was trembling and sweaty by the time he was done, and thought he might puke.
“Oh my God,” he gasped, resting his head in his hands.
When he finally thought he wouldn’t upchuck the contents of his stomach, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the hankies he had tucked inside. Gently but firmly, he wrapped them around his calf. When he had finished, he moved a little farther under the section of the collapsed overpass. He could hear the stealthy scurrying of mama cats returning to their kittens.
It had sounded like the children weren’t under lock and key like their mother. They were just kids, after all, and how could they escape a fortress like New Palo Alto? If this was actually the case, then Anthony would come. Even if it wasn’t, Anthony would come. He searched for litters of kittens every single day before school, whether it was kitten season or not. Mario leaned against the wall, closed his eyes as he tipped his head back to rest, and waited for his son.
29
Mario jerked awake, panic flooding his body. Bright morning sunshine had replaced the early dawn’s pink-tinted gray. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but by the time he settled into his hiding place he’d been up for almost twenty hours. Then he realized what had woke him. Singing—a child’s voice, high and piping. Anthony’s voice; his bet had paid off. The desire to rush out to meet him flooded his nervous system, its power intoxicating, but Mario stayed still in the shadows. If anyone was with his son, he couldn’t risk approaching him.
Anthony walked into view, the bright sunlight limning him in gold. He had grown a couple inches, and his dark-brown hair was longer. It reminded Mario of the haircuts sported by The Beatles when they first hit the American charts, on their way to becoming the biggest band in the world. Anthony carried a large cat carrier. It was too big for him to manage well, so he moved awkwardly, like Silas had when he’d insisted on carrying Mister Bun Bun. A wave of grief crashed over Mario, despite his joy at seeing Anthony. He’d already thought of the boys as brothers, but it would never happen now.
He heard Anthony’s footsteps but couldn’t see him, so he crept toward the edge of the fallen overpass, staying well back in the shadows. When Anthony reappeared on the other side, he reached over the center divider between the four lanes. Carefully, he set the carrier down on the other side of the divider, then scrambled over it. He walked to a sheltered corner near the on-ramp, thirty feet from where Mario was hiding. An old concrete barrier had been placed at a diagonal to it. Pipes overgrown with weeds that had withered during the dry summer ran up the side of the concrete. Anthony squeezed through a gap at the end of the barrier. A puffed up black and white cat bolted from behind it.
“I’m sorry, Mama Cat,” Anthony said.
He crouched down, only the top of his head visible. Mario heard the rattle of the carrier door being opened. Anthony’s voice never stopped—he was talking to the kittens he was collecting—but all Mario could hear was a soothing murmur. The top of his son’s head ducked out of sight, then popped back up. Mario turned to look the way Anthony had come. There was no one in sight. He walked to the edge of the overhang so that when Anthony turned around, he’d be visible.
Anthony stood up. The expression on his face was satisfied, but also a little sad. “I’m sorry, Mama Cat,” he said again, his voice raised. “I’ll take good care of your kittens. Only nice people will adopt them.” He paused, then added, “Maybe I’ll catch you soon, and then you won’t have to keep having them.”
Mario said, “Anthony.”
Anthony looked up, curious, then seemed to slump. His face went slack and blank. His mouth fell open. When Mario held his finger up to his lips, indicating that he should be quiet, it broke the spell. Anthony rocketed to him, kittens forgotten, and hit Mario so hard that he knocked him down. Anthony didn’t say anything. He sobbed, his cries heartrending. Mario held his son close, rocking him like he’d done when Anthony was a baby.
“It’s all right,” he managed to choke out, almost sobbing himself. “It’s all right, Anthony.”
He felt Anthony’s head nod. He looked up at Mario, his face tear-streaked, confused. “Is it really you, Daddy?”
The overwhelming relief of seeing his son alive and whole and still collecting kittens, of being able to hold him in his arms and wipe away his tears, was too much to take in. “Yeah,” he whispered, looking into those serious brown eyes. “It’s me.”
They sat on the ground, the reek of cat piss blown away by the gentle breeze from the east, and he held his son. Eventually, he said, “Are you okay?”
Anthony straightened up and looked at Mario. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“What about Mommy and Michael and Maureen?”
“They’re okay, too.” His voice became hopeful. “Are you coming home?”
Was there anything worse than watching the hope in the eyes of your child die? Mario was pretty sure there wasn’t. He wanted so much to spare Anthony that pain, that disappointment, but he couldn’t.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m sorry, but not yet. I want to but—”
“Uncle Dom.”
Mario nodded. “Yeah. And because I stole the serum for the vaccine.”
Anthony almost smiled. “Mommy told us. Uncle Dom was so mad…like, scary mad. We didn’t get to stay with the priests very long before he brought us back home.”
“I know,” Mario said. “That’s why I came. To see you, and do something about Uncle Dom.” Anthony nodded, but didn’t say more, so Mario continued. “I need you to do me a favor, but you can’t tell anyone. And I mean nobody. Nobody can know.”
“Okay,” Anthony said, his voice sounding small. He was nine, but suddenly seemed so much younger. Mario hated having to pull him into this.
“Tell Mommy I’m here, and that I’m coming to see her tonight.”
Anthony shook his head. “You won’t be able to, Dad. They watch her too much.”
Mario had figured as much, but he still had to try. “Your mom is really smart. She’ll figure something out. What time does Uncle Dom get home, or does he work from the house?”
Anthony shook his head. “He goes to work. He gets home near bedtime.”
“Still nine o’clock?”
“Yeah.”
Mario ruffled Anthony’s hair. “Tell her I’ll be along the back fence, at eight. If she comes out and I’m not there, then I couldn’t make it. She shouldn’t wait for me. Can you remember that?”
“Yes.” Anthony looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t.
“What is it?” Mario asked.
“She’s scared all the time, Dad. She says she’s not, but I can tell. But she’s mad, too. And Uncle Alan makes her crazy.”
Mario laughed softly, “Uncle Alan makes everyone crazy. He’s an idiot.”
Anthony grinned. “That’s what Mom says.”
“Are there a lot of guards at the house?”
“Yes. There are fifteen now.”
Mario smiled at the precision, but precise was how Anthony had always been. Even as a toddler he had wanted his toys in particular places, arranged in a particular way, and noticed everything.
“None of the ones when you were at home. They’re different. They act nice but they’re not our friends.” Anthony’s mouth twisted with disgust, then his eyes filled with devilment. “They can’t figure out how I sneak out to get the kittens and it’s driving them crazy. I don’t go on the same days, or the same time.” He snorted, the condescension for stupid adults only a child can possess coming through loud and clear. “There are, like, four ways to do it. They’re too stupid to find them.”
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, kiddo.”
Mario checked his watch. His stomach lurched. He and Anthony had spent half an hour together. If he didn’t get home soon, the guards might notice he was missing and come looking for him.
“You need to go now, Anthony. Before anyone comes looking for you.” He held his son’s face in his hands. “I love you so much, Anthony.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
Anthony’s eyes filled with tears, just like Mario’s were doing.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, wishing he had something to tell Anthony that didn’t feel—wasn’t—so inadequate. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Anthony nodded, and Mario pulled him close, knowing it could very well be the last time. The last time he smelled Anthony’s skin, felt his soft hair against his cheek. He drank it all in like a man dying of thirst, the sight and smell and feel of his son, so that he would always remember. The boy in his arms, the rest of his family only blocks away, were the fuel for what he had to do to end all this.
“Go on, now,” he said, untangling himself from Anthony. It hurt so much to let go of him, like he was ripping off a limb. “Remember, don’t—”
“Tell anyone,” Anthony said, interrupting him.
“That’s right. You’re going to want to, but you cannot tell Michael or Maureen, okay?” He waited until Anthony nodded. “I love you so much, Anthony.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Mario’s eyes filled with tears again. He watched as Anthony began to walk carefully through the scattered concrete and rocks beneath the fallen overpass. Then he remembered.
“Anthony!” he said. Anthony spun back to face him. “The kittens.”
Anthony’s face filled with surprise. “The kittens!”
He ran past his father without stopping, to the carrier still out on the road beside the center divider. He crouched down on hands and knees, then turned around, smiling, and gave a thumbs-up. Mario wanted to go over and help him get the carrier over the center divider, but he couldn’t risk being spotted. Anthony set the carrier across the gap between the back-to-back steel guardrails, then climbed over. He picked up the carrier of kittens and looked back to Mario. His brown eyes were bright, face hopeful.
Mario’s love for his children, deep and boundless, fierce and unstoppable, filled him. He would get them away from his brother, get them all in the same place. He would make things right.
He walked to other side of the overpass when Anthony walked out of sight. When he reappeared, he looked over his shoulder, squinting a little, so Mario took one more step toward the opening. Anthony smiled. Mario blew him a kiss. Anthony smiled more broadly, with a touch of ‘I’m too old for that; on his face, but pleased nonetheless. Then he turned away and ran out of sight.
Mario watched him go. Then he crept back, closer to the fallen edge of the overpass, where the cover was better, to sleep.
But before he drifted into dreamless oblivion, he wept.
Mario was at the corner of the first block into the neighborhood when he realized something was off. Almost every house had its porch light on. Some people always turned on their porch lights, but just as many didn’t. He dropped back into the shadow of the giant sycamore tree near the corner. He pushed up the bill of his baseball cap. Lots of people were out, going from house to house in groups. Then he saw them…children on the well-lit stoop a third of the way up the block, dressed as witches and firemen, ballerinas and pirates. Shit, he thought, just as they chimed, “Trick or treat!”
Halloween…it’s fucking Halloween.
Mario checked his watch again: 7:55 p.m. He cursed himself for instructing Anthony to tell Emily not to wait if he was late. He didn’t want her putting herself in danger by waiting for him, but this was going to slow him down.
The other side of the street had a couple porch lights that weren’t on. He pu
lled the cap down low and crossed the street. The throb in his calf flared into a sharp jab with every step, worse when he tried not to limp. He walked as quickly as he could, but not so much that it would look like he was in a hurry.
“Happy Halloween,” a woman said as she walked by. The group of children she was minding had run ahead in a pack, shrieking and laughing.
“You too,” he replied, nodding.
His heart felt like it might thump out of his chest. What time did trick-or-treating usually end? Eight thirty? Nine? Not soon enough, he thought, stepping to the grass parking strip alongside the sidewalk for a group of firemen and fairies to hurry by.
“Great weather for this, isn’t it?” a man with another group of children said to him.
“Sure is,” Mario said, sweat drenching his back and armpits while he smiled and dipped his head low. By the time he got to the neighbor’s property on Waverly Street, which backed onto his, he was so rattled he just walked down the driveway like he belonged there. He’d planned to walk by, give it a good look and make sure the coast was clear, but now he just wanted to get off the street.
He slowed as he got to the garage, staying in shadow. There were lights on in the front of the house; someone was probably giving out candy. The kitchen at the back of the house, facing the yard, was also lit up. He could see the glow of the lights of his house on the other side of the high hedge that ran along the wrought iron fence along his backyard. He crept to the back patio, trying to stay out of areas where the kitchen’s light spilled out, and looked for the best place to wait. The pool house wasn’t far from the fence, but he had to cross the patio, which was illuminated by the kitchen light and small accent lights. Better than motion sensors, but still not ideal. He checked the house again, then darted across the patio and slipped around corner of the pool house. He checked his watch. He was seven minutes late.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
The neighborhood seemed to be quieting down. Normally this would be good, indicating nothing was out of the ordinary was going on, but every second he spent leaning against the pool house made his body hum with anxiety and dread. He checked his watch—a minute had passed. The watch beckoned him to check again. He resisted, but when he finally gave in, only two more minutes had passed. If he was on time, Dominic would be getting home in about forty minutes.