“Help me,” he moaned.
A hand, heaven-sent, reached down. Up and into the truck he went, tumbling over bodies as the vehicle shot forward. A syncopation of bone-jarring bangs followed as the truck sailed out of the building and down the steps. Through the fog of terror and confusion, Brian Elacqua experienced a revelation: his life had been unworthy. It might not have begun that way—he’d meant to be a good and decent man—but over the years he had strayed far from the path. If I get out of this, he thought, I won’t ever touch a drink again.
Which was how, sixteen hours later, Brian Elacqua came to find himself on a school bus of 87 women and children, deep in the physical and existential sorrows of acute alcohol withdrawal. It was still early morning, the light soft, with a golden color. He had, with many others, watched from the window as the city faded, then disappeared from sight. He wasn’t completely sure where they were going. There was talk of a ship that would take them to safety, though he found this difficult to fathom. Why had he, of all people, a man who had squandered his life, the most worthless of worthless drunks, survived? Seated on the bench beside him was a little girl with strawberry-blond hair, tied in back with a ribbon. He supposed she was four or five. She was wearing a loose dress of thick woven fiber; her feet were dirty and bare, covered with numerous scratches and scabs. At her waist she clutched a ratty stuffed toy, some kind of animal, a bear or maybe a dog. She had yet to acknowledge him in any manner, her eyes staring forward. “Where are your parents, honey?” Elacqua asked. “Why are you alone?” “Because they’re dead,” the little girl stated. She did not look at him as she spoke. “They’re all dead.”
And with that, Brian Elacqua dropped his face to his hands, his body shaking with tears.
At the wheel of the first bus, Caleb was watching the clock. The hour was approaching noon; they had been on the road a little more than four hours. Pim and Theo sat behind him with the girls. He was down to half a tank; they planned to stop in Rosenberg, where a tanker from the isthmus would meet them to refuel. The bus was quiet; no one was talking. Lulled by the rocking of the chassis, most of the children had fallen asleep.
They had passed through the last of the outer townships when the radio crackled: “Pull over, everyone. Looks like we’ve lost one.”
Caleb brought the bus to a halt and stepped down as his father, Chase and Amy emerged from the lead Humvee. One of the buses, the fourth in line, was parked with its hood open. Steam and liquid were pouring from its radiator.
Hollis was standing on the bumper, slapping at the engine with a rag. “I think it’s the water pump.”
“Can you do anything about it?” Caleb’s father said. “It’d have to be fast.”
Hollis jumped down. “No chance. These old things aren’t built for this. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for one to conk out.”
“As long as we’re stopped,” Sara suggested, “probably the children need to go.”
“Go where?”
“To the bathroom, Peter.”
Caleb’s father sighed impatiently. Any minute of delay was a minute they’d be driving in darkness at the other end. “Just watch for snakes. That’s all we need right now.”
The children filed off and were led into the weeds, girls on one side of the buses, boys on the other. By the time the convoy was ready to move again, they had been stopped for twenty minutes. A hot Texas wind was blowing. It was 0130 hours, the sun poised above them like the head of a hammer in the sky.
The patch was complete, the dock ready to fill. Michael, Lore, and Rand, in one of six pump houses along the weir, were preparing to open the vents to the sea. Greer was gone, headed with Patch to Rosenberg in the last tanker truck.
“Shouldn’t we say something?” Lore asked Michael.
“How about ‘Please open, you bastard’?”
The wheel had not been turned in seventeen years.
“That’ll have to do,” said Lore.
Michael wedged a pry bar between the spokes; Lore was holding a mallet. Michael and Rand gripped the bar and leaned in.
“Hit it now.”
Lore, positioned to the side, swung the mallet. It glanced off the top of the rim.
“For God’s sake.” Michael’s jaws were clenched, his face reddened with effort. “Hit the bastard.”
Blow after blow: still the wheel refused to turn
“This isn’t great,” Rand said.
“Let me try,” said Lore.
“How’s that going to help?” Then, when Lore just stared at him, he stepped aside. “Suit yourself.”
Lore left the pry bar where it was, gripping the wheel instead.
“You’ve got no leverage,” Rand said. “That’ll never work.”
Lore ignored him. She planted her feet wide. The muscles in her arms tightened, thick ropes stretched over bone.
“This is pointless,” Michael said. “We have to think of something else.”
Then, miraculously, the wheel began to turn. An inch, then two. They all heard it: water had begun to move. A fine spray shot through the vent on the floor of the dock. With a jolt, the wheel released. Below them, the seas began to pour in. Lore backed away, flexing her fingers.
“We must have loosened it,” Rand said lamely.
She gave them a droll smile.
The time was fast approaching.
His army was gone. Carter had felt the dopeys leaving him: a scream of terror, and a blast of pain, and then the letting go. Their souls had passed through him like wind, a whorl of memories, waning, then gone.
He did the last of his chores for the day with a solemn feeling. A deck of low clouds moved over the sky as he rolled his mower to the shed, padlocked the door, and turned to face the yard so that he might survey his handiwork. The crisp lawn, every blade just so. The tailored edges along the walkways with their bit of monkey grass to mark them. The trees all limbed up and the flowers, banks of them, like a carpet of color beneath the hedges. That morning, a dwarf Japanese cut-leaf maple had appeared by the gate. Mrs. Wood had always wanted one. Carter had rolled it in its plastic pot to the corner of the yard and set it in the ground. Cut-leafs had an elegant feel to them, like the hands of a beautiful woman. It felt like an act of completion to plant it there, a final gift to the yard he’d tended for so long.
He wiped his brow. The sprinklers came on, scattering a fine mist over the lawn. Inside the house, the little girls were laughing. Carter wished he could see them, talk to them. He imagined himself sitting on the patio while watching them play in the yard, tossing a ball or chasing each other. Little girls needed time in the sunshine.
He hoped he didn’t stink too bad. He sniffed his armpits and supposed he’d pass all right. At the kitchen window, he inspected his reflection. It was a long time since he’d bothered to do that. He supposed he looked like he always had, which wasn’t really one thing or the other, just a face like most people’s.
For the first time in over a century, Carter opened the gate and stepped through.
The air wasn’t any different here; he wondered why he’d thought it might be. The busy city made a whooshing sound in the background but the street was otherwise quiet, all the big houses staring back at him with no particular interest. He walked to the end of the drive to wait, fanning himself with his hat.
It was the hour when everything changes. The birds, the insects, the worms in the grass—all know this. Cicadas were buzzing in the trees.
75
1700: Greer and Patch had been waiting in the tanker truck for two hours. Patch was reading a magazine—reading or perhaps just looking at it. It was called National Geographic Kids; the pages were brittle and popped out when he turned them. He nudged Greer on the shoulder and held it out to show him a picture.
“Think it’ll be like that?”
A jungle scene: fat green leaves, brightly colored birds, everything wreathed in vines. Greer was too preoccupied to look very closely.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Greer used binoculars to scan the horizon to the north. “I doubt it.”
“Because if there is, I hope they’re friendly. Seems like a lot to go through if they’re not.”
Another fifteen minutes passed.
“Maybe we should go look for them,” Patch suggested.
“Hang on. I think this is them.”
A cloud of dust had formed in the distance. Greer watched through the binoculars as the image of the convoy took shape. The two men climbed down from the cab as the first vehicle drew up.
“What kept you?” Greer asked Peter.
“We lost two buses. A busted radiator and a broken axle.”
All of the vehicles took diesel except the smaller pickups, which carried their own extra fuel. Greer organized a team to pour the diesel off into jugs; they began moving down the line to refill the buses. The children were allowed off but told not to wander far.
“How long is this going to take?” Chase asked Greer.
It took almost an hour. The shadows had begun to stretch. They had fifty more miles to go, but these would be the hardest. None of the buses would be able to travel more than twenty miles per hour over the rough terrain.
The convoy began to move again.
The dock had been filling for seven hours. Everything was ready—batteries charged, bilge pumps on, engines ready to fire. Chains had been fixed to hold the Bergensfjord in place. Michael was in the pilot house with Lore. The sea had risen a yard past the waterline—within a reasonable margin of error but disturbing nonetheless.
“I can’t stand this,” Lore said.
She was pacing around the tiny space, all her energy suddenly having nowhere to go. Michael picked up the microphone from the panel. “Rand, what are you seeing down there?”
He was moving through the corridors below decks, checking seams. “All good so far, no leaks. She seems tight.”
Higher and higher the water rose, wrapping the hull in its cold embrace. Still the ship refused to budge.
“Flyers, this is killing me,” groaned Lore.
“That’s not an expression I’ve ever heard you use,” Michael said.
“Well, I kind of see the sense of it now.”
Michael held up a hand; he’d felt something. He willed all his senses to focus. The sensation came again: the tiniest shudder, rippling through the hull. His eyes met Lore’s; she’d detected it, too. The great creature was coming to life. The deck shifted beneath him with a deep moan.
“Here we go!” Lore cried.
The Bergensfjord began to lift from her braces.
At the end of the block, the Denali appeared, turning the corner with painstaking care. Carter stepped into the road and positioned himself in its path. He did not hold up his hand or in any way indicate his wish that it should stop. He stepped aside as the car came to a halt in front of him. With a hushed, mechanical purr, the driver’s window drew down. Crisp air and a smell of leather flowed out onto his face.
“Mr. Carter?”
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. Wood.”
She was wearing her tennis clothes. The silver packages in back, the baby seat with its mobile of plush toys, the sunglasses perched on her head: all the same as the morning they’d met.
“You’re looking well,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed on his face, as if she were attempting to read small print. “You stopped me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t understand. Why did you do that?”
“Why don’t you pull into the driveway? We can have us a talk.”
She glanced around with confusion
“You go on now,” he assured her.
Rather reluctantly, she turned the Denali into the driveway and shut off the engine. Carter stepped to the driver’s side window again. The motor was making a quiet ticking sound. Hands locked on the steering wheel, Rachel stared straight out the windshield, as if afraid to look at him.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing this,” she said.
“It’s all right,” Carter said.
Her voice sharpened with panic. “But it’s not all right. It’s not all right at all.”
Carter opened her door. “Why don’t you come and see the yard, Mrs. Wood? Kept it nice for you.”
“I’m supposed to drive the car. That’s what I do. That’s my job.”
“Just this morning planted one of those cut-leaf maples you like. You should see how pretty it is.”
For a moment she was silent. Then: “A cut-leaf maple, you say?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded pensively to herself. “I always thought it would be just the right thing for that corner. You know the one I mean?”
“Absolutely I do.”
She turned to look at him. For a moment she studied his face, her blue eyes slightly squinted. “You’re always thinking of me, aren’t you, Mr. Carter? You always know just the thing to say. I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you.”
“Oh, I expect you have.”
“Oh, please. I have people, sure. Lots of people in Rachel Wood’s life. But never anyone who understands me the way you do.” She looked at him kindly. “But you and me. We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
“I’d say we are, Mrs. Wood.”
“Now, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. It’s Rachel.”
He nodded. “Anthony, then.”
Her face opened as if she’d discovered something. “Rachel and Anthony! We’re like two characters in a movie.”
He held out a hand. “Why don’t you come on now, Rachel? It’ll all be fine, you’ll see.”
Accepting his hand for balance, she exited the car. By the open door she paused with great deliberateness and filled her lungs with air.
“Now, that’s a wonderful smell,” she said. “What is that?”
“Cut the lawn just now. I suspect that’s it.”
“Of course. Now I remember.” She smiled with satisfaction. “How long has it been since I smelled new-mown grass? Smelled anything, for that matter.”
“Garden’s waiting on you. Lots of good smells there.”
He made a circle with his arm; Rachel let him lead the way. The shadows were stretching over the ground; evening was about to fall. He steered her to the gate, where she came to a stop.
“Do you know how you make me feel, Anthony? I’ve been trying to think how to say it.”
“How’s that?”
“You make me feel seen. Like I was invisible until you came along. Does that sound crazy? Probably it does.”
“Not to me,” said Carter.
“I think I sensed it right away, that morning under the overpass. Do you remember?” A feeling of distance came into her eyes. “It was all so upsetting. Everyone honking and yelling and you there with your sign. ‘HUNGRY, ANYTHING WILL HELP. GOD BLESS YOU.’ I thought, that man means something. He’s not just there by accident. That man’s come into my life for a purpose.”
Carter opened the latch; they stepped through. She was still clutching his arm, the two of them like a couple walking down the aisle. Her steps were solemn and measured; it was as if each one required a separate act of will.
“Now, Anthony, this really is lovely.”
They were standing by the pool. The water was perfectly still and very blue. Around them, the yard made an effulgent display of color and life.
“Honestly, I can hardly believe my eyes. After all this time. You must have worked so hard.”
“Wasn’t any trouble. I had some help, too.”
Rachel looked at him. “Really? Who was that?”
“Woman I know. Named Amy.”
Rachel pondered this. “Now,” she declared, raising a finger to her lips, “I believe I met an Amy not too long ago. I believe I gave her a lift. About so tall, with dark hair?”
Carter nodded.
“A very sweet girl.
And what skin. Absolutely glorious skin.” She smiled suddenly. “And what have we here?”
Her eyes had fallen on the cosmos. She separated from him and walked across the lawn to the beds, Carter following.
“These are just beautiful, Anthony.”
She knelt before the flowers. Carter had planted two shades of pink: the first a deep solid, the second softer with green flares, on long, tippy stems.
“May I, Anthony?”
“You go on and do as you like. Planted them for you.”
She selected one of the deeper pink and pinched off the stem. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, she rotated it slowly, breathing softly through her nose.
“Do you know what the name means?” she asked.
“Can’t say I do.”
“It’s from the Greek. It means ‘balanced universe.’ ” She rocked back onto her heels. “It’s funny, I have no idea how I know that. Probably I learned it in school.”
A quiet passed.
“Haley loves these.” Rachel was looking at the flower, gazing at it as if it were a talisman or the key to a door she couldn’t quite unlock.
The City of Mirrors Page 55