City of Savages

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FOR MY SISTERS, BRIDGET AND JILL.

WITHOUT THEM, THERE WOULD BE NO PHEE AND SKY.

PART ONE

We’re just lost migrants at the city’s mercy,

survivors scavenging for a second chance.

—From March 20 entry,

Property of Sarah Walker Miller

1    PHEE

Throug
h our wall of windows, I watch dawn stand up and take on the city. It throws a thick, molten net over the skyscrapers, sets the river on fire, and makes me restless to be outside. It’s our last day downtown, and I want to enjoy every second of it.

I untangle myself from the piles of blankets and clothes Sky and I share to keep warm this late in autumn, trying not to wake her. I take a peek around our apartment but can’t find Mom. She must be up and already on the hunt for breakfast, and since there’s no food left in our rooftop garden, she’s got to be by the river. I press my nose against the floor-to-ceiling glass and pretend to fly for a minute, look down five stories to the small tuft of grass that hugs the water, but I don’t see Mom anywhere.

After pulling on my boots and one of the coats we’ve scavenged, I rush out the door and practically sprint down the hallway to the dusty
EXIT
sign. But I take my time going down the internal stairs—a tunnel of darkness, but the only way out. Even though I know every chip on the railing and every groove on the stairs, I know I can’t be too careful. Besides, there’re far cooler ways to die in this world than tripping on a set of steps. When I reach the empty lobby, I crawl through the hole Mom bashed out of the glass door frame, maneuver around the Dumpster that hides it, and greet the morning.

The day is breaking open like an egg, the river runny with orange, red, and gold. I walk to the water’s edge and look out at the statue Mom calls Lady Liberty, a green, rusted woman floating in a sea swamped with shrapnel and debris.

Even though I’m pumped to go back to Central Park for the winter, I’m really going to miss this place. I guess if I called anywhere home, it’d have to be this corner of the city—the glass towers bordering Battery Park, the Hudson River slapping the remains of the docks. But now it’s October, smack in the middle of the month, and like on all my birthdays, it’s time to join Rolladin in the Park for the POW census.

I hear a snap of a twig behind me and turn, in time to catch Mom taking down a couple of baby peacocks with two quick shots from her BB gun. The peahen and the rest of her chicks scream and scatter in a rage of feathers and tiny limbs.

“I couldn’t see you from the window,” I say.

“Good.” Mom smiles. “Means I’ve still got my edge.” She carefully finishes off the chicks with Sky’s knife, removes the round pellets from the birds’ flesh, and cleans them off for another day. She places the birds in her satchel.

“I don’t know about that, old lady,” I tease, ’cause it doesn’t mean anything—Mom looks like she’s only a few years older than Sky. Mom’s tall with even features and long, tight limbs, as if underneath her skin there’s nothing but steel and coiled rope.

“Speaking of getting old . . .” Mom throws her arm around my shoulders as we walk back towards the apartment complex. “Happy birthday, Phee.”

“I was wondering if you remembered.”

“Are you kidding? I could never forget this day, Phoenix-of-mine.” She pulls me into her and pats her satchel, reminding me of the carcasses inside. “You ready for your birthday breakfast?”

“That’s all I get? A couple of dead peachicks?”

“No, this day’s going to be full of surprises.” I can’t tell if Mom sounds excited, or . . . nervous. Scared, even. “We need to hit the road, though. We don’t want to miss check-in, and your gift means a stop.” She takes a deep breath. “An important stop.”

We round the Dumpster and Mom climbs back through the opening of shattered glass. “I’ve been debating with myself whether it’s time to show you girls,” she adds. “Whether we’re ready.”

I’m not really following whatever she’s talking about, but one thing’s for sure, I want the gift. So I say, “Come on, I was born ready,” as I scramble through the opening after her.

And even though I’m clearly joking, Mom doesn’t smile, and her eyes drift, like they do when she’s thinking about her world of long ago. But this is how it is with her. You never know what’s going to send her away, back into the past.

“That’s very true,” is all she gives me, and we walk in silence towards the stairwell.

*   *   *

When we get back to the apartment, my older sister’s already laid all her favorite things across our bed. Sky sighs as she strokes all this totally impractical clothing, lace and feathers and sparkles and gems, biting her nails like what she packs has life-or-death importance. This is my sister—
everything
means more than it should for Sky. She cries over chopped-down trees, and she can’t sleep the days we find a dead animal.

“Just pick some stuff and throw it in your backpack,” I tell her, as I shove my own few things into my satchel—long underwear, boots, extra hoodie, and pants. “It’ll all be here when we get back. Or at least it should be. You can wear those practical miniskirts next summer while we hunt for squirrels.”

Sky smiles as she studies her clothes. “You know only one of us can get away with a year-round sweatpants uniform.”

I grab one of the hats she lifted a few years ago from what’s left of Bloomingdale’s, this big, stupid, floppy thing that makes her look like a sunflower, and throw it on. Then I use my high-pitched girly Sky-voice: “I’m thinking
sequins
for picking corn. No, no, the
suede
—”

She laughs and lunges for me. “God, don’t touch the brim—look at your hands!”

“Come on, guys. Pick up the pace,” Mom calls from the kitchenette. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

*   *   *

After a quick breakfast of peachicks roasted over the kindling fire Mom built in the fireplace, Sky gives me my birthday gift, a hand-woven necklace of grass. It’s beautiful, and something I could never make: I don’t have the eye or the patience. I thank her and put it on carefully. Then we gather up our coats and things and leave the apartment unlocked, just like Mom found it years ago.

We’ve spent summers in this apartment for basically my whole life. But like most stuff, Sky and I know only half the story of why. Mom’s mentioned in bits and pieces that she remembered the shiny skyscraper from “before.” Something about visiting her Wall Street friends during “lunch hour,” and being impressed with the “amenities.” So we set up summer camp in the building’s model unit after the Red Allies slackened their Park mandate. Mom said it was as good a place as any.

“Why are we heading east?” Sky says now.

“For Phee’s gift.” Mom checks the watch she’s had since we were kids. “We need to get moving, it’s already nine. You know we can’t be late for check-in.”

Rolladin has all these strict rules on timing—on everything, really. Sure, it bugs me as much as the next prisoner; but being on time’s a small price to pay for front-row spots at the POW census festivities.

“Where’s this present of mine again?” I ask.

“That’s part of the surprise.” Mom shakes her head, her eyes already watering from the cold. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

We brace ourselves against the chill and walk past townhomes with their windows blown out, through rows of mutilated storefronts. The corpses of the monsters Mom says once moved, she calls them cars, litter the streets and avenues.

“I’m freezing already,” Sky says.

“That’s ’cause you’ve got nothing on. Look at that coat.” I fluff the wide collar of her flimsy leather jacket. “You know, one day those fancy-pants outfits are going to land you in Rolladin’s den.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Our little Sky shacking up with the warden.”

Sky fake gags as she pulls my parka hood over my face. “You’re obnoxious.”

“And you’re asking for it.”

“Guys!” Mom hates it when we joke about these things—about anything to do with Rolladin, really.

I laugh and nudge her. “Come on, we’re kidding.”

As the sun climbs up the sky, we reach the ratty mess of streets once known as Chinatown, hike a wide circle around where Broome had greeted Bowery, trek all the way to the East River to get into the Lower East Side. The tear in the earth we circle is blocks wide, and it adds about an hour to our trip.

Mom never lets us come up this way, even though there’re no tunnels over here and the bombing stopped over a decade ago. But it’s still far too dangerous, she always says, so whatever gift she has for me must be good. And I’m excited for it, really, but I’m also anxious to get to the Park, settle in at the Carlyle, and get prime spots for the 65th Street fighting. When I’m about to point out that this is taking all morning, Mom finally says, “This is it.”

She stops in front of an ordinary row home. A pile of bricks, maybe four stories high. In fact, the only thing half-interesting about it is that it’s still in one piece, what with being so close to the bomb crater.

Sky and I look at each other, confused.

“What’s my gift doing in there?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes are lost again. “This was my old home, with your father. This is where Sky was born.”

Old home?
I wasn’t expecting this. Mom’s never mentioned this place. Or much of anything, really, about her life Before. I don’t know what to do with this information.

“So we lived here before the war?” Sky cranes her neck to look up at the wall of brick and dusty glass. She snaps her head back to Mom. “Before the Red Allies attacked?”

But Mom’s focus is on the front door, jiggling it open with a key I’d always thought was a necklace. “Only for a little while.”

“Was I born here too?”

Mom shakes her head at me. “Just Sky.”

The door sighs and clicks open. We walk into a musty stench so thick you can cut it, climb two sets of stairs, and stop in front of 3B. Mom stands in front of the bloodred door, waiting. Waiting for what, I don’t know. Sky’s trembling next to me like some cloud before a storm, so excited I think she’s going to burst.

“It’s getting late, Mom,” I say, as patiently as I can.

“Right.” Mom breathes deeply and clicks the golden key into the hole, and the apartment door opens.

It’s weird. Mom’s old place looks nothing like the glass box we live in near Wall Street, with its slate tiles, grays, and whites. This apartment’s stuffed and soft. Pillows and blankets thrown over worn-cushioned couches, books tucked into corners and teeming from tall shelves. Yellow walls and dusty junk. Dust
everywhere
. And pictures. We can’t see a tabletop, there’re so many pictures.

“Is this
Dad
?” Sky clutches a large photo. A man has his arms wrapped around Mom. She’s smiling, and younger around the eyes. “And is this
me
?” Sky shows me another one of a chubby baby.

My mom walks over to us carefully, slowly, like she might need to lie down any minute.

“That’s you, Skyler,” she finally says. “And yes, that’s—Tom. That was,
is
, your father.”

I can’t take my eyes off him. “He’s got my hair.”

“A wild crop of blond, just like yours.” Mom ruffles my wavy mane. “And Skyler’s eyes.”

“They are mine, right?”

“Definitely. Green eyes that were always probing, always questioning, just like you. Your curiosity and Phee’s mouth. A brutal combination.”

I look at Mom: she’s trying her best to smile and joke, but this all feels wrong. Hollow or something. It just reminds me that I don’t know this guy, that we’ve never even seen a picture of him. That the most we’ve ever gotten when we’ve asked what happened to him are vague answers or Mom’s knee-jerk, bogus mantra,
Sometimes the past should stay in the past
.

I look back at the picture.
Tom Miller. Husband. Father
. I try to match these names with his face, but I can’t shake the disappointing feeling—in my mind, he’s played by someone different. Someone a little older and heavier, maybe, and with a beard.

I stare at him longer, hoping for something to register that this is the guy who made me, who willed me into the world. But he’s just some stranger—there’s no connection—and the sharp truth of it pricks my eyes.

“Why haven’t you brought us here before?” Sky’s bottom lip starts quivering before I can say anything first. “All the times we’ve asked you for something,
anything
, from before . . .”

“She wanted to keep it to herself,” I answer.

“Phee—”

“Please, Mom, don’t ‘Phee’ me.”

I try not to get as worked up as Sky does, over all the holes in the past that Mom refuses to fill, but still, my
own
lip’s quivering. I walk towards the tiny kitchenette before either of them can tell.

“The Lower East Side was off-limits for years,” Mom starts slowly. “After the bombing stopped, the Red Allies quarantined the area. Even if I wanted to show you, Rolladin—”

“Oh, please.” Like Mom follows every order of Rolladin’s. “You could’ve brought us here sooner. You know it, and we know it.”

Mom shakes her head. “You’re right.”

She sits down on the ratty green couch for a minute and runs her fingers through her hair. “I know you two won’t understand this, but I brought you here when I could. I wasn’t ready to make these memories real. I’m still not ready. It hurts just to be in here, to see it frozen in time.” She looks at us with glistening eyes. “God forbid, one day you two might understand what it’s like to lose everything. To have to face it again, afterward—that might be the worst part.” She stands and turns to the window. “Sometimes the past should stay in the past.”

Mom stays there for a while, looking out to an empty street through dusty glass. I know what she’s doing. She’s centering herself, closing herself off before we can figure out another way inside her.

“We’re running out of time.” Mom turns towards the bedroom, her eyes on the matted carpet. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. Phee’s birthday present, remember?”

“So that’s it?” I call after her. “End of conversation?”

No answer.

Sky and I exchange a look. This is how Mom is. A closed book. It’s useless to try to open her.

“This gift better be good, is all I’m saying,” I finally whisper to Sky, and we follow Mom into her old bedroom.

Mom’s sandwiched herself in between the nearby wall and a bed that nearly devours the room. She takes a blurry black-and-white photo off the wall to reveal a small steel door.