Children of the Underground (4 page)

I decided that I should wait until morning to confront whoever lived in the apartment, but I didn't have the strength to leave. Instead I pulled my jacket tight around my neck and sat down on a bench. Shadows were moving inside the apartment. I watched them dance along the walls. The lights went out around midnight. Once the apartment was dark, I leaned back on the bench and shoved my hands into the pockets of my coat. I think I slept a bit, but I can't be sure. In the morning, some warmth returned. I sat in silence and watched the front door to the apartment building. The building had eight apartments, but only one mattered.

I stopped the first man who came out of the apartment building and asked him if he could tell me who owned apartment 3A. He told me that the woman was about my height and had straight blond hair. I saw the woman come out of the building about an hour and a half later. I followed her, not wanting to confront her yet, not wanting to scare her away. She walked downtown from her apartment and disappeared into a tall office building downtown. I waited outside. I decided that I'd talk to her when she came out for lunch. I tried to calm my nerves.

Around lunchtime, the woman came out of the building, along with throngs of others. I followed her again. She walked about four blocks and then got in line at a place that sold chopped salads for the amount of money that I survived on for days. I got in line behind her. I felt how much I stood out. I'd been wearing the same clothes for three days. I hadn't looked at my hair since I left New York. I waited a few minutes, slowly shuffling forward as the line moved. The woman didn't speak to anyone. When we were nearing the front of the line, I reached out and touched her shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said, trying to act as casual as possible. “Don't you live at ———?” I named the address of her apartment.

“Yes, I do,” she said with a slight francophone accent. “Why do you ask?”

“I stayed in one of the apartments there once. I thought that maybe I'd seen you.” I instantly saw the paranoia in her face. I'd said something wrong. The War breeds paranoia. I knew that. “Don't worry,” I said to her in a whisper. “I'm a friend.”

“I don't know what you mean,” she answered, a nervous tremble seeping into her voice. “When was it that you stayed in my apartment building?”

“About a year ago,” I answered.

“Then you couldn't have seen me there. My husband and I bought our apartment only two months ago.” She looked me up and down now. “Who are you?” She stepped out of the queue and started hurrying away from me. I followed her. I couldn't let her go. She began walking faster to try to get away from me, but she was wearing heels. I caught up to her when we got back to the plaza in front of her office building. When she turned toward the entrance, I reached out, grabbed her arm, and twisted it so that she was forced to turn and face me.

“I need your help,” I said, sounding as desperate as I was. “Please.”

“What do you want from me?” the woman shrieked, trying to pull her arm from my grip. I was holding on too tight.

“I need to know about the War,” I blurted out. “I need to know where they took my son.” I was raving like a madman, near tears. I could see fear in the woman's eyes but it wasn't the right kind of fear. She wasn't afraid of me because she knew something. She was afraid of me because she didn't. To her, I was just a crazy woman grabbing her on the street, rambling about wars and missing children.

“Let me go!” the woman screamed. A crowd formed around us.

“You bought your apartment two months ago?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Who did you buy it from?”

“It was a bank sale, a foreclosure. We never knew anything about the owners.” I let go of the woman's arm. She didn't run. Something in my voice had caught her off guard.

“They just abandoned the place?” I asked. I didn't expect anyone to answer me. I already knew the answer. They'd left it because of me. This woman was as innocent and naïve as I had been a year ago. I could see it in her eyes.

“Do you need help?” the woman asked me, her fear turning into pity. Pity isn't something that I can stomach.

“Yes,” I answered her, “but not from you.” I turned away from her and away from the crowd that had gathered around us. I walked away as quickly as I could. They had wiped the world clean. If I hadn't seen everything with my own eyes, even I would have begun to doubt that the War existed. That's what they wanted. Everything that could connect me to the War was gone. They made it disappear. The only thing that they couldn't take away from me was my memory of you.

I stayed in Montreal even longer than I had stayed in New York. I got a job. I rented an apartment. I saved some money. At night, I read your father's journal over and over again. I pretended that your father was trying to help me find you. While I was in my apartment in Montreal, you probably rolled over for the first time. You probably started saying the word
Mama
to a woman that wasn't me. Unless I find you in another month or two, I'll likely miss your first steps. One night while reading your father's journal, it hit me. Michael could help me. I just had to find him. That's how I ended up in St. Martin.

Five

The morning that I first saw Michael, my plan was to search Orient Beach again. Based on its reputation alone, it was the obvious choice. If Michael was on the island at all, it only made sense that he'd be on its most famous nude beach. I'd already searched Orient Beach once, the first day I got to the island. I roamed through the masses of naked bodies, looking for someone who I had never seen before. All I had to go on was a name that I wasn't sure Michael was using anymore and that scar on his abdomen. I could have easily missed him the first time. I decided to give it another chance.

I lasted only a couple of hours. All those people walking around naked, without cares or anything to hide. I felt like an alien, like a germ. I had enough to hide for everybody. So did Michael. Maybe that's why he wasn't there. I had to leave. I headed to the city of Marigot to get more sunscreen and supplies. I've been staying in this same cheap motel for five days now, living on peanut butter sandwiches. After restocking, I planned on heading out to another beach, one that I hadn't been to before. I never made it to the second beach. Instead I spent the afternoon reading through your father's journal again, trying to confirm that the man I saw actually was THE Michael.

Michael wasn't where I expected to find him. He was working on the docks in Marigot, loading supplies onto a cruise ship. I was walking by, heading for the convenience store, when I heard someone call out his name. I didn't hear anything else, only his name. It echoed over the din from the crowds in the market, and I heard it as clearly as if somebody had whispered it in my ear. “Michael.” The word sounded teasingly sweet. I almost dropped my bags when I heard it. I tried staying realistic. How many Michaels were there in the world? A million? What were the odds that this was the one I was looking for? I walked closer and looked at the four men working on the pier. They were all lean and muscular. They had the builds of people who pushed and lifted things for a living, their bodies drenched in a thick, workingman's sweat. One of the men had a tank top on. The other three were shirtless. “Get a move on, Michael,” I heard one of them yell with a slight Creole accent. “I've got a date I don't want to be late for.”

“Relax,” Michael answered, almost out of breath from his work, “I hear your mom doesn't even own a watch.” The other two men laughed. Michael was pushing a large crate on a dolly across the pier toward the boat. The crate rattled as it moved over the slats of wood. I could see only his back as his muscles tensed and he leaned lower to push the crate faster. “You could always help me push. You know?” This time, all three of the other men laughed. I couldn't take my eyes off this Michael. I tried willing him to turn around. What are the odds?
I asked myself. What are the odds that this is the man that I'm looking for?
But somehow I knew.

“Who put a stick up your ass?” the Creole man called back to Michael.

“I'm just tired,” Michael replied. He had pushed the crate all the way to the plank leading up the ship. The other two men took it from there.

“You off tomorrow?” the Creole man asked.

“Yeah,” Michael replied. He didn't sound like I expected. I expected him to sound more boisterous, more alive. I stepped over to one side of the pier so that I could hide behind one of the pylons and watch this Michael. I knew where the scar needed to be. Your father told me the story so many times. I didn't understand why the details were so important then. Now I do.

“So, Michael, whatchya goin' to do on your day off?”

“I'm going to Grand Case to lie on the beach and get drunk,” Michael answered. Then he turned toward me. I looked for the scar on his right side, slightly above his waistline. As Michael turned I could see the folds on his abdomen where his skin bubbled up surrounding a deep slit. It looked like he had a pair of lips on the side of his stomach.

I stayed on the pier for another hour at least, watching Michael. They had tried to wipe the world clean, to cleanse any connection I had to the War. They failed. I finally found something that they failed to erase. I needed to make a plan. I needed to figure out the best way to approach him. I figured I had one shot. He was going to Grand Case the next day. So was I.

Six

Addy and Evan made it as far as they could on foot. Even out in the fresh night air, they were both still struggling to breathe. They had made it out of the fire, but the fire was still inside of them. Addy kept scanning the streets for a place for them to hide. Hiding was the one thing in the world that she knew how to do really well. She was learning how to fight. She was trying to learn how to rebel. But, to her growing shame, what she knew how to do best was run and hide. It was what she'd been trained to do.

As they ran down the empty city street, Addy spotted a deserted building with a door that appeared loose on its hinges. She knew that the odds were good that it wasn't locked and, even if it was, Addy was certain that she could kick through the lock. Addy was pulling Evan behind her by his hand. She'd grabbed his hand after he killed the cop and she still hadn't let it go. “Come on,” she urged him. “We need to rest. We need to get inside.” She guided the two of them toward the dilapidated doorway. Before reaching for the door, Addy looked back. She could see the smoke billowing up in the moonlight from the house where they'd been asleep not long ago. She wished she knew what the fuck was going on.

When they reached the door, Addy pulled on it, but it wouldn't give. She couldn't tell if it was locked or merely rusted shut. She didn't care. She lifted up her leg and kicked the door near the doorknob. The door swung open. She pulled Evan inside. Once inside, Addy sat Evan down on the floor. She let go of his wrist. She began moving around the building as quickly as her choked lungs would allow her. She was checking the windows to see if anyone could see them hiding from outside the building. The windows were all boarded up. Satisfied that they were hidden from view, Addy began looking for an escape route. She found another door down the stairs in the back. It led to a concrete yard surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. With a little strength, she thought that she and Evan could climb over the fence if they had to. It wasn't much of an escape route, but it would have to do. Convinced that this was the best that they could hope for at the moment, Addy returned to Evan. Evan hadn't moved. He looked up at her when she came back into the room. It was dark. Only a little gray light from outside slipped through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. Evan could see a bit of light pass through Addy's hair in the darkness. Her hair was as red as the flames that had engulfed the house. He tried to imagine what she looked like before she dyed her hair. Addy and Evan were still close enough to the madness that they could hear the sirens. Fire trucks. Police cars. Ambulances. Addy wondered how long they'd been blaring like that. Until that moment, she hadn't noticed them.

“What are we going to do?” Evan asked Addy. His fear was evident in his voice. After what he'd just done, he had reason to be afraid.

Addy walked over to one of the windows and peered out through the cracks in the boards. She was trying to see the smoke from inside their hiding place. She couldn't. The angle was all wrong. Addy tried to think of what they should do next. She and Evan might have been the only two to make it out of their house, but she knew that there were other houses with other people across the city. Addy feared that those houses had been raided too. She knew that this wasn't an ordinary raid. For all Addy knew, every house in Los Angeles had been raided. For all Addy knew, she and Evan were the only rebels left in the whole state. She could check her phone—she'd managed to save it from the fire—but she knew that there wouldn't be any news yet. “We get our strength,” Addy said to Evan, trying to sound strong, “and then we get the fuck out of here.”

“Where are we going to go?” Evan shook his head. “I don't understand what's going on. What were cops doing there? Why were they trying to kill us?”

“I don't know,” Addy answered him. She was trying to figure it out too. Could all of those policemen have been part of the War? She turned back to Evan. “How did you know how to do that?” she asked him. She was taking inventory, trying to figure out everything that they had going for them.

Evan knew what Addy was asking him about. Evan tried to replay what happened in his head. He remembered it like he was remembering a scene from a movie. The man in the uniform was catching up to them. Even with his helmet and vest on, even carrying one of the biggest guns Evan had ever seen, he was catching up to them. He and Addy were running up a hill, leading away from the highway. The ground was rough and dry and covered in the hard, dead roots of whatever used to live on that embankment. Even though the man in the uniform was catching up to them, they probably would have made it to the top of the hill if Addy hadn't tripped on one of withered, dead roots. If they could have gotten to the top of the hill, Evan thought that they could have gotten away cleanly. The cop seemed reluctant to shoot them from a distance.

Evan heard Addy fall. He heard the thump as her body hit the ground. He heard her cry out. The cry was a high, quick whimper that was almost over before it started, as if Addy nearly caught the sound before letting it escape her body. It was close to nothing, but Evan heard it. For the first time since Evan had met Addy, she sounded scared. It was the sound of her fear that made Evan look back.

When he looked back, he saw Addy lying on the ground. She was beginning to lift herself up. She was already on one knee, but the cop was so close to her now. Evan had stopped running. Maybe he was even moving back toward Addy already. He couldn't remember. The cop lifted the gun and aimed it at Addy's head. The cop wasn't going to stop her or arrest her or take her in or do whatever else cops did in the movies. The cop was going to shoot Addy in the head in cold blood. Evan knew that. Evan had heard the cops shoot the others. He heard the bullets tear into their bodies. He didn't want to hear that sound again.

The cop didn't see Evan coming. He didn't sense that he was in danger. He lifted up his gun to shoot Addy and, moments later, he was lying on the ground, dead. Evan acted to save Addy. He acted on instinct. He didn't do what he did intentionally. Addy knew that. Addy also knew that it didn't matter.

Evan had taken the gun first, grabbing it by the nozzle and pulling it away from the cop's hands. Evan was surprised how easily the cop let the gun go, but his surprise was nothing compared to the cop's. Two swings. The cop got in two swings with his empty fists, but the cop was no match for Evan. Evan was quicker and stronger. The cop died on the ground, a sharp rock buried into his skull. It took only seconds. Evan had never killed a man before, but when he did it, he did it with glorious efficiency. How did he know how to do that? “I've been training for years,” he said to Addy in response to her question, “with him.”

Addy looked at the cracks in the boards covering the windows again. “What do you know about the War?” she asked Evan.

Evan shook his head. “Just what I've been told. That there are supposed to be rules. That innocent bystanders are supposed to be left out of it.”

Addy looked at Evan, beginning to understand. “You thought it was a game, didn't you?” she asked. She didn't need him to answer. What has this poor, innocent kid been dragged into? she thought. These battles didn't need to be his battles, but they were his battles now, whether he liked it or not. Addy could see in Evan's face that he didn't think that the War was a game anymore.

Evan sat in humbled silence.

“We have to leave here before daybreak,” Addy said to Evan as she continued to stare out the boarded-up window, listening for encroaching danger.