The Dead And The Gone (6 page)

Alex pressed two.

“The bodies of unidentified women are being held at Yankee Stadium,” the voice continued. “If you wish to go to Yankee Stadium to search for your missing family member, press one.”

Alex pressed one.

“The next available viewing will be Thursday, May twenty-sixth, at eleven-thirty am,” the voice said, its tone changing with the specific time and date. “If you wish to go to the next available viewing, press one.”

Almost without thinking, Alex pressed one.

“The bus for your viewing will be leaving from Port Authority at eleven-thirty am on Thursday, May twenty-six. Please be at Port Authority one hour before. Only one family member will be allowed on the bus. Only people who arrive on the designated bus will be allowed into Yankee Stadium for the viewing. If you wish to reserve your seat on the May twenty-sixth eleven-thirty am bus, state and spell your name.”

Alex did as he was told.

The voice parroted back his name and told him to press one to confirm the information. Alex pressed one.

“Thank you,” the voice said. “You have reserved a seat on the May twenty-sixth bus, leaving Port Authority at eleven-thirty am. If you wish to make a reservation for a different bus in search of a man or child or a woman missing from Brooklyn or Staten Island, please press one. Otherwise you may hang up.”

Alex hung up. What had he done, he asked himself. Why had he agreed to go to Yankee Stadium, of all places, to look for his mother, who was most likely in Queens hard at work. She was sure to come home between now and Thursday. Why would he even think she might be dead, an anonymous body lying in a makeshift morgue.

It didn’t matter. If Mami returned home, or if she called, he just wouldn’t go on the bus. But if they hadn’t heard from her by Thursday, he’d have to look for her.

Alex realized then he was crazy not trying to call Papi, no matter how expensive it was. He found Mami’s address book, and dialed Nana’s number.

“We’re sorry. Calls to Puerto Rico cannot be put through at this time.”

That meant nothing, Alex thought. The lines to Puerto Rico would open eventually, and then he’d speak to Papi.

 It will just take time, he told himself. Time and a miracle.

Monday, May 23

The electricity came back on around eleven that morning. Bri and Julie promptly fought over the remote control, only to find it was a national day of mourning and all the TV stations had memorial services on, with sermons and choirs and politicians.

“Put on a
DVD
,” Alex told them. “I’m going out for a walk.”

He left his sisters debating over which
DVD
to watch. He hoped they settled on something funny.

He strolled over to St. Margaret’s, not knowing where else to go. The city remained mostly closed, but he supposed tomorrow things would open up again, when the national day of mourning was over.

The church was almost full, but Alex found that Father Franco was in his office. There were five people waiting to talk to him. Alex felt like he should take a number, but they were on the honor system, remembering who was there before them and who arrived after. Two women were sniffling, and one man kept staring at his shoes, as though he was waiting for them to untie themselves.

An hour later, six new people had shown up, and it was Alex’s turn to see Father Franco. He found Father Franco, jacket off and needing a shave, sitting behind a cluttered desk.

“Thank you for seeing me, Father,” Alex said. “I know-how busy you are.”

“Please, sit down,” Father Franco said. “You’re one of Isabella Morales’s boys, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Father,” Alex said. “I’m Alex Morales.”

“Is your mother all right?” Father Franco asked. “I haven’t seen her here in the past lew days.”

“We don’t know,” Alex said. “She went to work Wednesday and we haven’t heard from her since.”

Father Franco winced. “I’ve been hearing stories like that all week,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help your family?”

“I hope so,” Alex said. “I didn’t know where else to turn. It’s my father. He was in Puerto Rico for my grandmother’s funeral, and we haven’t been able to get through to him. I was wondering if you’d heard anything about Puerto Rico, how things are there.”

“Where in Puerto Rico is he?” Father Franco asked.

“Milagro del Mar,” Alex replied. “Midway between San Juan and Fajardo, on the northern coast.”

Father Franco nodded. “I’ll call the diocesan office,” he said. “They might have heard something from the San Juan diocese.” He dialed a number and smiled when someone answered on the second ring. “Yes, hello. This is Father Michael Franco at St. Margaret’s. I need information about the town of Milagro del Mar in Puerto Rico. It’s on the northern coast, east of San Juan.” He turned to Alex. “It is east, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Father,” Alex said. His fist was clenched so tightly his fingernails were cutting into his palm.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Yes, I’ll hold.” He cupped the phone with his hand and smiled apologetically at Alex. “The person I’m speaking to doesn’t know anything about Puerto Rico, but he’s sure there’s someone there who’s heard something, so he’s checking.”

Alex nodded.

“So where do you go to school?” Father Franco asked.

“Vincent de Paul,” Alex replied. He could hardly remember what the school looked like.

“I’m impressed,” Father Franco said. “They turned me down. You’re a junior?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Your parents must be very proud,” Father Franco said. “Yes, yes, Milagro del Mar, on the northern coast. Yes, I sec. I understand. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“How bad is it?” Alex asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“That’s hard to say,” Father Franco replied. “Information is very sketchy. From what they can tell, the coastline of Puerto Rico was hard hit.” He paused. “Very hard. Devastated. The person I spoke to didn’t know about Milagro del Mar, but things are very bad all along the coast. There was a huge amount of damage to the infrastructure, so communication is sketchy. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you for certain that your father’s village survived, but there doesn’t seem to be
any
way of finding out.”

“Do they know how long it will take before things get back to normal?” Alex asked. “I mean, until there’s phone service and planes leaving Puerto Rico?”

Father Franco shook his head. “We must pray for Christ’s mercy,” he said. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Alex stood up and tried to smile. “Thank you,” he said.

“My prayers will be with you and your family,” Father Franco said. “Please let me know when you hear from your parents.”

“I will,” Alex said, and left the office. There were ten people in the outside office now, all with nightmares of their own. He walked over to the bulletin boards, but there was nothing new, just more names on the listings of the missing and the dead. He tried to pray for their souls, but the words had lost all meaning.

Tuesday, May 24

When Alex got to school the next day, he found a note posted on the front door instructing the students to report to the chapel. Alex followed the other boys in. It was a relief to be back at school. He’d walked Bri and Julie to Holy Angels first, just in case. New York City, with fewer people, seemed more threatening somehow.

Alex went to the section reserved for juniors. Talking was forbidden in chapel, but he could sense the undercurrent. Chris Flynn, seated between his friends Tony Loretto and Kevin Daley, gestured for him to join them, but Alex shook his head and sat by himself. Ordinarily he would have sat with them, but he wasn’t ready to swap stories about what had happened during the past five days.

He looked around the chapel to see if there were more empty seats than usual and found there were. Not a lot, but a noticeable amount. Then he realized none of the three priests on the faculty were there. Other teachers were missing as well, but they might not be in chapel; they didn’t always attend. But the priests should have been there.

The illicit buzz grew as the other boys noticed their absence. Alex noted that a few of the boys looked concerned, even frightened. A couple of the seventh graders began to sniffle, as though they’d suddenly realized something bad had happened. Alex felt a familiar wave of resentment, which he ordinarily fought to keep under control, but this morning welcomed as an old, reassuring presence. Rich babies, he thought. What did they know of missing parents, needy sisters, thirty-dollar flashlights. They were protected by their mommies, their nannies, their maids. The nannies and the maids knew, though, Alex was sure of that.

“Silence!”

The buzzing stopped. This was the voice of authority. Alex stared up at an elderly priest. He was ramrod tall, and gaunt, with thinning white hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a mouth that looked as though it had never smiled.

“Oh God,” Kevin whispered. “It’s the living dead.”

“My name is father Francis Patrick Xavier Mulrooney,” he announced in a voice so cold it sent chills down Alex’s spine, in spite of the hothouse atmosphere of the chapel. “Due to the extraordinary circumstances in which the archdiocese finds itself, I have been called out of retirement to be acting headmaster of St. Vincent de Paul Academy. Fathers Shea, Donnelly, and Delveccio have been temporarily reassigned.”

Not even Father Mulrooney’s rocky stare could keep the boys from reacting to the news that the three most important members of the faculty, including Father Shea, the headmaster, and Father Donnelly, the assistant headmaster, were now gone.

“Quiet,” Father Mulrooney said. “Two other members of the faculty, Mr. Davis and Mr. Vanich, will not be returning. They will not be replaced for the remainder of the school term. If you have any questions about your classes, you may bring them to me during my office hours. In addition to being acting headmaster, I will teach Latin and advanced theology. Previous to my retirement, I instructed in both those subjects at St. Vincent de Paul Academy. It is quite possible I taught your fathers those very subjects.”

Not my father, Alex thought.

“In addition, two members of the custodial staff and one of the kitchen workers will not be returning,” Father Mulrooney said. “It has proven impossible to contact another of the kitchen workers, so it can be assumed she will not return. Since we find ourselves so short staffed, additional responsibilities will fall upon this student body. After Mass is celebrated, the class officers are asked to meet in room twenty-five to further discuss what will be required of their classmates.”

Alex cast a quick look at Chris Flynn, who, sensing his gaze, glanced back and shrugged.

“It is the belief of the archdiocese that the occurrences of the past few
⁷
days are but a taste of what is to come,” Father Mulrooney continued. “Unpleasant though it is to contemplate, we must assume deprivation and death lie in wait.” The grim expression on his face inspired several boys to begin weeping.

“Look for inspiration in the lives of the early Christian martyrs,” Father Mulrooney said. “They marched bravely to their deaths, sure in the knowledge of life everlasting.”

“But they died for something!” one of the boys in the sophomore section called out.

“Silence!” Father Mulrooney thundered. “This is chapel, not the Roman forum. None of us has the right to debate God’s decisions.”

Even the boys who’d been crying stopped, as though tears had been proclaimed sinful.

“For as long as I am acting headmaster, attendance at morning Mass will be mandatory,” Father Mulrooney said. “For the remainder of this week, if you have an open class hour because of the departure of our faculty members, you are to come to chapel for prayer and contemplation.
A cruce salus”

Alex wondered if Father Mulrooney would say the Mass in Latin, but the priest intoned the usual English words instead. It felt good to hear them in a setting so familiar. He knew Father Mulrooney was right. It wasn’t for him, for any of them, to debate God’s wisdom.

“Thy will be done,” he whispered under his breath. “Thy will be done.”

Wednesday, May 25

At the end of the school day, Alex went to the headmaster’s office. Neither of the two clerical workers he was used to seeing was there. With no one to tell him what to do, he simply knocked on the headmaster’s door.

“Enter.”

Alex opened the door. It felt strange seeing Father Mulrooney sitting behind Father Shea’s desk. He realized with a start how much he was going to miss Father Shea, who’d encouraged his dreams more than anyone else except Mami.

“Excuse me, Father,” Alex said. “I just wanted to tell you I won’t be in school tomorrow morning. I’m not sure about the afternoon yet.”

Father Mulrooney raised his formidable eyebrows. “If you already know you’re going to take ill tomorrow, you must know when you’re likely to recover,” he replied.

“I’m not going to take ill,” Alex said. “It’s a personal matter.”

“That’s hardly an acceptable reason,” Father Mulrooney said. “We all have personal matters, as you so dramatically put it. Regardless of what is happening right now, school must come first. Although I appreciate that you came looking for permission to play hooky, I’m afraid I cannot grant it.”

Alex swallowed his anger. “I have to go to Yankee Stadium,” he said. “I’ve made a reservation. They’re holding unidentified women’s bodies there. My mother’s been missing since last Wednesday and I’m going to look for her.” He stared Father Mulrooney straight in the eye and dared him to object.

“I see,” Father Mulrooney said instead. “There’s no one else in your family that can do this?”

“No, Father,” Alex said.

“Very well,” Father Mulrooney said. “I appreciate your giving me notice of your absence, Mr. Morales. If you cannot make it back for afternoon classes, I will understand.”

“Thank you, Father,” Alex said.

Father Mulrooney nodded. “I will expect to see you in school on Friday,” he said. “Unless, of course . . .”