Memoria (31 page)

Maggie was the first to come to her senses.

"You don't
need to be afraid of us," she said. "We won't hurt you. All we need
is a wash and a place to
clean ourselves up a bit
."

She stepped
forward. Frank squinted
at the coach.
The gun in his hands was gone
. He definitely knew how to handle firearms.

"My name is Maggie, Maggie
Douggan
. I'm from Brooklyn.
We are looking for the camp-
eh, the
Bronx leaders.
Your administration.
You think you can
take us there?"

T
he boy still stared at them
,
fear
in his eyes
. The girl gave them an analyzing adult look.

"You got to go to Fordham," she waived her hand pointing in the direction
of the
north east. "Over there,
see? The Council House
." She hugged the boy's shoulders.

"What's your name?" Maggie stepped closer.

"I'm Lynda. Lynda Nelson."

"Oh! You have the same name as the street!
" Maggie nodded at the signpost.

"I do," the girl said, pride in her voice. "This is our custom. We're all Nelsons here on this street. We're one big family."

Frank and
Max
looked at each other. The coach murmured, "I wonder what kind of names they have on
the
numbered
streets!"

"And your friend? What's his name?"
A
step
closer
, and
Maggie
was
crouch
ing
in front of the kids.

"He's my little brother," Lynda smiled and ruffled the boy's
curly hair. "Tom Nelson."

"Nice to meet you two," Maggie stood up.
"And these are my friends. This is Frank and that's Uncle
Max
.
"

"He's not an uncle," Tom
babbled
bravely. "He's too old."

Everybody smiled at the boy's
artless insight.

"You're a good judge of character, man," the coach said.

"Why are you
so
dirty?" the boy said. "You stink like
...
like
...
" he looked up searching for a word.
Lynda shook his sho
ulder reproachfully and whispered in his ear.

"We," Maggie looked back at the men
, "we managed to fall into the c
e
ss
pit
by the wall.
Maybe you could tell us where we could clean ourselves up? Or if you call an adult, they could probably direct us, too."

A
middle-aged,
broad
-faced black woman looked out
of a window over the front door
. Her large head was tied with a scarf
above a thick neck
.
Under a
white a
pron
she wore
a dress with a faded pink print.

"Lynda, Tom! Lunch time!" she yelled. Then she noticed the strangers and
hu
ng out
of
the window,
clutching
a flour-covered rolling pin in her
plump hand. "Now who would
you
be?" She glanced over the street and looked back at them.

"Gran, they fell in the shit hole!" Tom shouted
, beating everyone to it. "They
're
go
ing
to Fordham!"

Later they found out the woman's name was
O
p
r
a
h
.
She sent the kids back in
the house
for their lunch and allowed Maggie to follow them
inside
, leaving Frank and
Max
waiting by the door.
Shortly
, she reappeared, carrying an empty washbasin
, a couple of towels and
some soap
and told them to use the garden hose in the back yard.

They promptly found it lying on a garden patch next to a scarecrow.
Frank hung the towels around the scarecrow's neck,
pulled off his clothes
, t
urned the water on and splashed some on his head and chest,
snorting
happily.
He then d
irected
a
jet of water onto the disrobed coach
and, as he
lather
ed himself, stood under the cold shower enjoying its clean freshness.
After a few minutes
, he washed the
lather
off
Max
, handed
him the hose and
reached for the soap.

"I had no idea I'd enjoy a cold shower so much,"
the coach said as he hosed Frank up and down. "Life's little pleasures."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing,"
Max
gave an indifferent wave with his free hand. "Just remembering the war. The missions we went on. The trenches. Never mind.
"

To get the coach's mind off it, Frank said,

"Did you know
that, apart from water supplies, t
he Bronx is also
known for its cell networks?"

Max
raised a surprised eyebrow.

"Yes, it's
—
ouch!" Frank
had
disturbed the deep scratch on his side. He'd completely forgotten about it.

"Wait, let me clean it,"
Max
took the
remaining soap
and started washing the wound. "In the meantime, tell me what else
is
interesting here."

Wincing from
the
sting
ing
in his side, Frank drew in some air through his teeth and continued,

"Where the Zoo used to be," he
t
urn
ed his head to
get
his bearings,
then waved his hand to the
North, "they have a farm
where they
raise
cattle. A bit further on, by Van Cortlandt Lake, they work the land and saw oats, corn and wheat.
"

"You said you didn't know much," the coach
pointed out
.

"Thanks. But t
his is
only
general knowledge," Frank
pulled the towels off the scarecrow's neck, handed one to the coach and
started rubbing himself with the other. "You know as well as I do that the migrants provide New York with its running water and much of its food supply, too.
Remember you spoke about it when we were in your apartment? You mentioned the electricity, too. They have wind turbines working all along the East Coast, and a
tidal
power station on
the E
ast River Split
."

Frank
threw the towel
round
his neck, smoothed his wet hair and added, "Nothing prevents them from selling
the excess
energy as far as New Jersey."

"Do they have enough?"

"They do, and
Gautier
suggested
that
the Mayor spoke to their administration.
It didn't go through for some reason.
Most likely,
the Mayor
backpedalled thinking New York could use all the energy it could get."

"Someone could suggest
he did
,"
Max
mumbled.

"Do you suspect our Mayor of corruption?"

"Not at all. Just thinking aloud."

They wrapped the towels around their
waist
s, washed their shoes,
then filled the washbasin with water and started washing their clothes. Frank's shirt fell apart in
his hands, and he discarded it, but at least his trousers were still serviceable.

A few minutes later,
O
prah
came out.
She gave
Max
a funny look, took their wet clothes and went back in with a promise to iron them.

Max
and Frank watched her go. They sat down on the ground by the scarecrow sensing a slight change in the woman.
Frank opened his mouth to speak but
Max
motioned him to stop and pointed at an open window. Its curtain moved out of synch with the rest. It could be Tom or Lynda, but it could also be an adult who had a reason not to let the strangers know
he was there.
After all, they hadn't asked
O
prah
if there was somebody else in the house.

Maggie came out with their clothes.
Her eyes sparkled.
She looked fresh and rested. Frank smiled back, unable to take his eyes off her. Maggie handed him his trousers and a large checkered shirt.

"Whose is
this
?" he asked as he unfolded it.

"No idea," Maggie shrug
ged. "
Oprah
gave it to me for you. Don't forget to thank her."

"I won't," Frank looked down. "Are these her sandals you're wearing?"

"They are," the girl turned away. The two men hurried to put their clothes on.

Then all three came o
ver
to the front door wh
ere
O
prah
was waiting for them. Lynda and Tom looked out of the first-floor window. Maggie waived to them, and they returned her farewell.

"Thanks a lot for the shirt," Frank said.

"You've been a great help,"
Max
nodded at the children in
the window. "Lynda said the Cou
ncil was in Fordham. Is that
correct?"

"That's right," Oprah took one step down.

"It's that way, isn't it?" Frank motioned in the direction of
N
orth N
elson Avenue.

"I shouldn't hurry if I were you," Oprah grabbed the banisters and glared at the coach, her
corpulent
body filling the stairway.

Max
didn't move.
A car was approaching along
167th. Maggie
cowered
behind the men's backs.

A
few
seconds
later
, a
n
off-road pickup truck
pulled up at
the house
: light gray with
deep-treaded
wide wheels
.
Three fit
young
men jumped out of the
back. Two more
men
emerged from the cab.

"Lionel!" Frank
recogniz
ed the one with high cheek
bones as one of the camp's leade
rs. "You're Lionel Batford. Don't you remember me?
I was-"

"Which one?" the man cut him off and looked at Oprah. "Which one is it?"

She pointed at
Max
.

"I would ask you to surrender your gun, sir,"
Lionel loo
ked over Maggie and Frank and stepped to
ward
Max
. "You and your friends don't need problems, do you?"

The men stepped forward surrounding them.

F
rank stood by
a wide window in
the Keating Hall
. The
tower's shadow
lay a
cross the
neat lawn below
: the sun
was
setti
ng, darkening the grass with the barely
recognizable outline of the
upper-
story
turrets.
All around the former University building, h
eavy treetops barely moved
in the breeze
letting but a few soft sunrays
fall
through their
thick foliage
. Through
the
shafts of
dust
playing in the sunbeams
, Frank, Maggie and
Max
had been shepherded
up the granite stairs and
int
o the building.