Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (9 page)

“That’s the other thing I wanted to thank you for … My brother-in-law … I know you moved him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch him, couldn’t look at him,” Zack says, staring down at his palms. He’s wearing faded jeans and a dark green thermal long-sleeve T. “I saved some things from his place, before the thieves showed up.”

“So that’s what happened,” I say quietly.

“They took everything and one of them … You saw. I was trying to warn you. I’m worried they’ll come back. They couldn’t get into this apartment and I wouldn’t be surprised if they returned,” he says. “Everyone is so desperate. They do terrible things.”

“We’ll be ready for them,” I reply, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry for cutting you off yesterday. I don’t want the others to know about your brother-in-law, about what happened to him. It was hard enough just to get them up here in the first place—you’d think it was halfway around the world and not just upstairs. I’m not sure how they’d react to something like that.” Zack doesn’t need to know I wasn’t big on the move in the first place. We’re talking in generalizations, euphemisms, but I’m too nervous to say the word “murder” in front of him. I choose to leave out that once Phil stepped in, the move upstairs happened relatively quickly. “That still doesn’t explain the hot oatmeal.”

“Oh!” he says, brightening up. The curtains are open and the light coming in is pale, milky. It casts a glowing light that makes the room feel sleepy and comfortable and soft. Zack’s green eyes glimmer in the dim haze of yellow and he smiles. “I rescued a hibachi. There aren’t many coals left, but enough for a few meals. I’ve never tried lighting it up with just newspaper, but we could try that.”

“A hibachi? Phil will positively die of happiness. Unless it comes off a grill he doesn’t consider it real food.”

“I’d have to agree with him there,” Zack says, chuckling. “I mean … Well, all right, I have a confession to make,” he says, his smile fading. I don’t know why, but the expression makes my stomach flip over. He sighs very slowly, his chest inflating and collapsing like a baster balloon. “I was the sous chef at L’Etoile, so hot oatmeal doesn’t exactly present a challenge.”

“See? I knew there was a reason I stuck my neck out for you,” I tell him, smiling. That feeling in my stomach fades. Out in the living room I can hear the first evidence of Hollianted waking up. There’s shuffling and the scratch of a can opener across a countertop.

“It’s cute,” Zack says.

“What is?”

“How you worry about them. You’re the mother hen around here, aren’t you?”

“I—oh, it’s that obvious?”

“You sure you don’t want to tell them about the thieves?” he asks. I want to eat the oatmeal but it’s hard to dig in with him scrutinizing my face. “It doesn’t seem right, ya know, to leave them in the dark.”

“Let me worry about them. Like you said, I’m the mother hen.”

“You don’t think they have a
right
to know?”

It’s touching that he’s worried about people he’s only known for a matter of hours, but it’s hard not to snap at him. That’s something I need to work on, the urge to start a fight at the first sign of disagreement. I don’t know what’s got me so touchy, maybe it’s the tantalizing food just inches away that I haven’t been allowed to touch yet. The proximity of the hot food must have made my mind fuzzy. My memory’s not perfect, but I said something like, “Everything is so fucked, Zack. Who knows what will happen tomorrow or the next day? It seems like leaving it open, letting them think there’s a chance for something good … I just can’t add another reason to worry. Not now. Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’ll leave you alone. If you’ve gotten them along this far then you must know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I just want everyone to get along.” The oatmeal is perfect, gooey and warm and remarkably well-textured. It does not taste like it’s come out of a cardboard box. “This,” I say, holding up a spoonful of the oatmeal, “is probably your one-way ticket to their hearts and minds.”

It only takes a few hours for Zack to start fitting in. I don’t know why I was so worried about it; it’s how we live now. Another human, another living creature, you learn to accept them and like them and take them into your family. It’s not even a conscious process, but an unavoidable survival technique. None of the usual friendship rules apply—there’s no slow, intermediate zone where you’re just starting to know someone. You’re living in close quarters, you sleep, eat and live in the same small, cramped apartment and you discover quickly how to fit that new person into your routine.

*   *   *

Zack helps with dinner and somehow we make a kind of fried casserole out of cocktail weenies, baked beans and canned corn. Now he’s helping Hollianted clean up the dishes. I’m back in my room, sitting on the bed with the curtains open. I can see the city. I can see what’s left of it. In the distance, smoke lingers on the horizon, buildings black and charred as they burn slowly from the inside out. I wonder if it will all end in fire, if we will live to see this apartment, and the store, in flames. And I wonder where my mother is, if she’s alive, if she found a group like I did, a broken little family to cling to.

I’ve been tinkering with the radio. Sometimes I think I can hear voices, a single voice, humming beneath the static. I’ll find it for a minute and then it’s gone. I want so badly to hear someone out there that I think sometimes I’m imagining the ghost of a voice.

Update: October 1, 2009—Approximately 1:30
A.M.

Ms. Weathers’ wine supply has been discovered. Ted and Zack now best friends. All of us now best friends. There’s no more room on the bed, there are bodies sprawled everywhere. Dapper insists on taking up 1⁄3 of it for himself. Dog not drunk.

Zack has requested—nay—
demanded
I provide a portrait for you all. I oblige. Behold:

(Note to reader: Zack insists I point out the following: that his hair is not, in fact, made of macaroni noodles, that he actually has a bit of a beard and not the pocks, and that he is jubilantly swigging from a bottle of Chianti, not a giant’s used tampon. Also that his eyes are not wildly out of whack as shown in portrait.)

And again. Cubist:

And finally, Holly’s contribution:

Spot the art major.

COMMENTS

Mom says:

October 1, 2009 at 2:27 am

Allison sweetie, is it really you? Stop getting drunk and respond to this, please. I need to know that you’re okay. Your aunt is here with me and the neighbors too. I’m afraid there isn’t much food left and we’ll have to leave soon. Can we come to you? Do you think it’s safe? Oh thank God you’re okay. I love you so much and I want to come to you.

Allison says:

October 1, 2009 at 2:57 am

Holy shit, I’m the worst daughter ever. Mom? You there? How did you find this? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Is everyone okay there? Can you take the side streets? I think you should avoid Main Street, it’s clogged with cars and those things. Don’t try for us unless you think you can make it. I love you too, I love you and write back soon.

Mom says:

October 1, 2009 at 3:08 am

That’s it. We’re coming to you. Give us three days. It should be more than enough. If you don’t hear from us by then … Then I don’t know, but don’t come looking, Allison. I need you safe and sound. I’ll be seeing you soon, sweets.

October 1, 2009—Other Voices, Other Rooms

“Ho-ly shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”

“Wow. That’s almost word for word what
I
said.”

Upon hearing the news, Ted graced us with a rousing rendition of his happy dance (not to be missed, trust me, like a Maypole doing the Electric Slide), ecstatic that my mother is both computer literate and a total badass. The others had a more measured response, especially Zack. I think he knows it’s rough out there and he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up too high. But my hopes are up now and they’re not coming down: my mom is alive and she’s coming to me. But that’s not all, that’s not nearly all.

There are voices that you never forget.

They don’t come often but when they do, they implant on your memory like a soft, invisible polyp. You might not hear the voice for years and years but when you hear it again, your mind sparkles to life, activates, and the voice becomes as real as a warm stone in your palm.

Your mom (w00t), your dad, Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Dick Clark, Bono …

My dad died when I was young, really young. I shouldn’t remember his voice; I didn’t even get to know him really. But I can conjure the sound of his laugh, the way he made a soft hmm’ing sound when he thought, with just a skip into memories. I can hear him, I remember him. He will always be with me.

There’s a new voice now, a voice I know I will never forget. It may as well be God or Buddha or a great, unknowable deity too gentle and perfect to perceive …

The radio is working.
And someone is out there.

The Lord’s light will carry you past harm …

Maybe you’re right, Rev. Brown. After all, believers find God’s touch, His work in every infinitesimal thing. And now there’s a new light for us to cling to, something to strive for, to use as a shield against the daily doubts, the pessimism, the fear. Maybe it isn’t religion, maybe it isn’t God, but it’s something good and beautiful to believe in.

91.7 is the magical number. I found it in the dark, thick time of night when you know morning is still far off and you crave rest, but you know too that you won’t be getting back to sleep. It’s the kind of lonely, empty time when you need something, anything to occupy your mind. I started fiddling with the radio, keeping the volume very soft so as not to disturb the others. Dapper stirred at the fizzling, constant static, wriggling his way over to me across the valley of irretrievably wrinkled bedsheets. His head was resting on my calves as the little line indicator went up and down, up and down, searching across the bleak airwaves until finally, after an hour of idle tuning and flipping between AM and FM, twiddling the antenna in different directions, the voice crackled to life.

“… down to us, if you can manage it, we have food, shelter and limited medicine. We have nurses and volunteers at the ready to help you if you are injured. I repeat: the university campus is open. We have gathered in the gymnasium. If you can get down to us we have some food, shelter and limited medicine.”

I scooted closer to the window, breathless, euphoric, and stuck the antenna as close to the glass as possible. The message repeated, this time more slowly. I wondered if perhaps it was a recording, but then, as if reading my thoughts, he said something else:

“I don’t know how many of you are listening, or how many of you are still trying desperately to survive, but I want you to know this: all hope is not lost. You have somewhere to go, somewhere to seek. It’s late and you feel afraid, hopeless, but don’t despair. Just today a woman came to us. She was starving, injured, terrified, but she crossed ten miles to get here. She heard us, she persevered, and she arrived in one piece. Her name is Melissa. She came with her two-month-old daughter and she told me that the radio, the broadcast, inspired her to continue. And so to honor Melissa and her courage, I’ve chosen to read from her favorite book this evening. So dear listeners, close your eyes, let the worry drain away and listen.”