Pariah

thought about his last exchange with his mother-and it was a last exchange, with her Luddite tendencies and shunning computers and the Internet even when Alan had offered both so she could be more connected. She of the landline and rotary kitchen phone. There’s one sound no child ever wants to hear and that’s the sound of a frightened parent. His mother’s final words to him, choked and perforated by little intakes of air, trying so hard not to cry, to be strong for her boy, were, “I’m all out of turkey. I’m almost out of food and I’m afraid.”

I’m afraid.

Those two words made it all real for Alan. Not the news. Not the panic on the street. Alan wanted to comfort her but it was impossible. He couldn’t get to her. A lifelong mama’s boy and he was trapped, travel between boroughs prohibited. In that moment his insides turned to liquid.

“Mom,” he’d begun.

The line went wild, wailed electronically, died.

He’d held the receiver like it was a totem imbued with the essence of his mother. It had held her voice, a voice he’d never hear again. Why hadn’t he gone to her at the onset? Or brought her here? Because he’d been dumb enough to think this would pass, too. He didn’t recradle the handset. He just held it and stared at it.

The thought of his mom, alone and terrified.

His mom, the rock. The tough lady.

Yeah, Alan thought now, eyes stinging and wet, we are so fucked.

AUGUST, N OW

Karl and Dabney lay on the tarp, the rock pile untouched. Both were admiring the crowd below, awaiting the return of Mona, both psyched to see her do her Moses thang. Between them were a couple of empty cans, one from cling peach slices in light syrup, and the other string beans. Both men were happy and felt a sort of father- and-son companionability. Dabney rolled onto his side and belched, the gassy reflux sweetened by the aftertaste of peaches. In direct response, Karl let out a melodious fart and both men laughed. Their spirits were fine and low comedy wasn’t beneath them.

“Did you like Blazing Saddles?” Karl asked.

“Why, ’cause it had a black sheriff?”

“No, because it had farting. That scene by the campfire, all those cowboys eating beans and letting off.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Dabney chuckled, feeling foolish for having thought this was some well-intentioned attempt at ebony and ivory racial bonding. But this was nothing to do with the late, great, Cleavon Little. It just had to do with passing gas, something everyone could enjoy, race immaterial. Why was he feeling so stuck on race? The only races that mattered now were humans versus zombies. Skin color was passe.

But he still wondered how it would be if his van had made it home.

He lived in a project, a honeycomb of ten thirteen and fourteen story buildings. All manner of mayhem likely went down there. Even when things were normal it was no great pleasure. Project rats-the human kind, not the rodent kind-whose idea of fun was pissing and setting small fires in the elevators and stairwells. Graffiti. Litter. Noise on top of noise. Every time his wife went out after hours he was nervous that she might not come home or would get molested or what have you-no matter how many times she assured him that other men didn’t lust for her the way he did.

Dabney reached over and ruffled Karl’s hair.

“What’d you do that for?” Karl asked, his face suddenly confused.

“Never ruffled a white boy’s hair before.”

“You’re not getting all funny on me now, are you, Dabney?”

Dabney laughed. “Not if you and I were the last two folks on Earth, son. I’m just missing my own boys and they didn’t exactly have the kind of hair you could ruffle. I figured I’d see what a white daddy might feel. Greasy, but not so bad.”

“You had sons?”

“Two, plus a girl. Both boys grown, left home. I like to think maybe Johnny, my eldest, might be alive-he left the city. A while before my van crashed I spoke to my youngest, my girl, on my cell phone one last time before the signal went dead. Like everything else.” Silence hung between the two men, neither articulating the thought that Dabney’s offspring were likely dead, too. “Yeah, well. At any rate, I hope that Mona comes back soon.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Is she back yet?”

At Ruth’s grating query Abe shuddered to wakefulness, slapping a fly off his nose. He’d dozed off, the constant ache of hunger no longer there to keep him vigilant. Just like the good old days, after a thick pastrami and tongue sandwich from Second Avenue Deli, he’d grown slumberous on a full belly.

“You were sleeping?” Ruth’s voice rose, her tone accusatory. “Ucch, Abraham, you’re given one simple task, to keep an eye out for our fairy goddaughter, and you botch it.”

“It’s not like I fell asleep on purpose!” He lifted himself off the chair, glissandi of pins and needles strafing his quaking legs, and hobbled off to pee in the bucket in defiance of his prostate. “If she came back she’d have said something. I would have heard. What, I’m the only one around here who can keep a lookout? If she came back she’d call up, wouldn’t she? Hah?”

“Who knows? She’s an odd girl. And don’t go putting the blame on everyone else. You volunteered to keep an eye out for her.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.” Abe shook off the last few burning droplets and zipped up, wishing he’d asked Mona to pick up some Flomax; maybe next time, if there was one. He maintained his ornery posture but he knew he’d screwed up. He’d admit it to almost anyone but Ruth; she took too much pleasure in seeing him fail. How long had she been watching him slumber? It would be just like her to watch him rather than the street below, just to needle him for having blown his responsibility.

“No, not ‘whatever.’ You had an important task. Maybe a younger person should do it. I thought you were at least capable of doing a job that involved basically sitting around doing almost nothing, but apparently nothing is the only part of that you’re actually qualified for any more.” Her voice lanced through his ears, sharp, pointy, shrill.

Abe exited the bathroom with the sloshing bucket and fought the urge to empty its contents on his fishwife’s head. With all the dignity he could muster he padded by across the moth-eaten Oriental rug and tossed his amber-colored, slightly acid discharge out the front window. In his heart he hoped this act would elicit the stock slapstick cliche: that Mona would be down there, full shopping cart before her, wiping Abe’s piddle from her face. It’s not like he wanted to douse the poor girl, but his tossing the piss seemed the perfect setup for her return. But no mwah-wah-wah comedy trumpet trill moment was in the offing. The liquid splashed the mindless shufflers and that was that. The last vestiges of light faded, darkness returned, Mona didn’t.

“This is not good,” Abe muttered as he lit a candle. “This is not good at all.”

“So where is she?” Ruth said, her voice small.

“Like I know. Like suddenly I’m the Amazing Kreskin.” Abe looked at Ruth’s face. Even in the shadows it was obvious she was more than upset. She wasn’t hollering and screeching and fussing and nagging. She was silent. Abe shuffled over to her and held her, pressing her balding noggin against himself. It would be too cruel if Mona didn’t come back, but life was nothing if not immeasurably cruel. He patted his wife’s back gently and tried to make his assurances sound heartfelt. Even if Mona didn’t come back, the coffers were well stocked. They’d last a few more weeks. He kept petting Ruth, hoping the tears leaking out of his eyes wouldn’t drip on her. Then the jig would be up.

“I can’t believe that spooky little bitch ditched,” Eddie said to the top of Dave’s head. Dave was busy, so he didn’t reply one way or the other. But Eddie didn’t need confirmation. He could totally believe it. Why the fuck would anyone voluntarily stay with a bunch of losers like the ones in this building? Eddie yearned for being someplace else. There had to be other survivors, somewhere. Pockets of tough motherfuckers holed up, giving the zombies what for-real men with guns and weapons. That totally sucked about this bunch. No weapons. Sure, some kitchen knives, even a couple of