The Loudness Page 16

  “Take care of that heart, Henry,” Dr. Singh says, clapping me on my shoulder, and I look blankly after her as she strides purposefully through the thinning crowd.

  It’s a packed car on the way to the Other Side. Grammy’s driving, tapping the gas pedal with a nervous rhythm I can’t quite place, and Conor and the skinny engineer are sharing the passenger seat, hands pressed protectively against the dash. I’m in the back with Mrs. Wallace, Guv, and another, fatter engineer from the dam. The fat engineer, who’s actually not fat so much as he is husky, is obviously interested in Mrs. Wallace. I can tell by the way he focuses on the lace of her dress instead of meeting her eyes, and by the way he chivalrously gives her as much space as possible. Which would be fine, except he’s scootched over so far that he’s half-sitting on my leg.

  Not only is it still raining—all of us are dripping from the crazed run to the car—but Grammy has her headlights off so as not to draw any unwanted attention. The darkness, coupled with the pounding rain, makes it almost impossible to see, and even though Grammy’s driving painfully slowly, we keep running over deceptively deep troughs where the road’s been ripped up but not yet repaved. The first time this happened, I was trying to get the story about their trip to the dam, about Freckles, from Conor, and Grammy—cursing—shushed me, saying she needed complete silence to concentrate on the road.

  I cross my fingers, praying that the tires on Grammy’s old sedan hold up at least until we get to the Other Side and imagining worst-case scenarios regardless: the car turned over in a muddy ditch, wheels spinning against the rain, while a fleet of black jeeps surround it. My parents, dead. Mouse, dead. Myself, alive in a federale jail, in a full-body cast from the car crash.

  Waiting for the end.

  The storm makes it easy to feel hopeless, to give myself to it. I stare sadly out the window of the car—which is silent except for the rain’s white noise and Grammy’s occasional muffled curse—and let the engineer sit on my leg, because nothing seems to matter anymore. Even the Other Side, when we finally reach it, seems depressed. The flags are tangled and mottled with dirt. The million multicolored flyers are peeling off walls, collecting into unrecognizable piles of soggy pulp when they hit the ground.

  It feels uncomfortably like the Grey, to be honest. Quiet and creepy. Grammy idles the car, and we all wait in silence, unsure whether to stay or make a run for it. I bounce my knee, feeling trapped by the crush of the crowded back seat and by the emptiness outside. All my life, I’d been raised to believe that—no matter what—it was possible to carve out a life here, to grow something new and vibrant out of the silt-rich dirt. But now even the Other Side is covered in mud and darkness; in a mute, collective fear . . . and it feels like no matter what, the Zone always ends up buried in a dingy, heartless Grey.

  The white noise of the storm envelops the car, and we marinate in our increasingly black thoughts until we can’t bear them anymore. Grammy, snapping first, slams the car into drive.

  “No use waiting for the rain to stop,” she mutters, as if to herself, jerking the car into the middle of the road. We inch down the main stretch, drawn to a wavering beacon calling out to us through the rain: a lone light, flickering orange, behind the drawn blinds of Food Eats. As hopeful as I feel about this single sign of life—and we all feel hopeful, if Mrs. Wallace’s gasp is anything to go by—the contrast of the one flickering window against an entire unlit street is troubling in a way I try not to think too deeply about. Grammy pulls up to the curb in front of Food Eats, and then slightly over it, scraping the undercarriage of the car against unyielding cement with an otherworldly screech. The restaurant’s blinds shake hesitantly in response, dirty fingers propping open dusty plastic slats just enough for nervous eyes to peek out into the wet, black night.

  Lightning strikes, spotlighting the monsters on the mural next to Food Eats—the happy, grilling Frankenstein and the toothy vampire having trouble drinking out of a straw—as the rain pelts down with a renewed sense of purpose. Without stopping to think, I pop open my door and run out into it, forsaking the relative safety of the car for the promise of a warm buhscuit and some less downtrodden company. It’s terrible outside, but as bad as it is, the air is thick with the scent of wet flowers, and I’m happy to be pounding on the door, shouting my name with an excitement I’d thought I’d lost forever.

  “It’s me,” I yell, rain pouring down my face, into my eyes and mouth. “It’s Henry Long.”

  A bolt slides open and the door’s thrown wide, nearly knocking me off balance and into the mud. Standing dryly in the doorframe is a very haggard Tom, who pulls me into the restaurant by the shoulder of my shirt while waving everyone else inside.

  “Hank,” he says, face gaunt. “Your friend told me you’d probably be coming back tonight.”

  I shake the wet off of me as best as I can while I let my eyes adjust to the light. It’s weak, just a single naked bulb with a thick amber filament, but compared to our blind drive over, it’s like being in the center of the sun. In any case, my blinking eyes finally adjust and settle on the only other occupant of Food Eats.

  Freckles.

  She’s leaning against the back wall, a plate with a half-eaten biscuit beside her, looking both happy to see me and sorry that we’ve had to come.

  “Hey,” Tom says, nervously ushering Grammy and the rest of our comically large party into the Food Eats. “Quickly, please.” He scans the street behind them, which is empty to the naked eye, and rushes the engineers, who are similarly scanning the street. And then, with a snap, the door closes, and Tom slides the bolt back into place.

  “Hello again, Thomas,” Grammy says, as if she’s been here before.

  Like she owns the place.

  “Milly,” Tom says, walking toward Grammy with his hand outstretched. “Hey.” Grammy proffers her wrinkled paw for Tom to hold in greeting, which he does, relieved to see her.

  “What?” I say, the word out of my mouth like a screech from a hawk—sharp and high-pitched. “You two know each other?”

  “This is ruined,” Grammy says matter-of-factly, unbuttoning her wet sweater and spreading it out on the counter. Ignoring me. “That was cashmere,” she sighs wistfully, and then shakes her head back into the present. “Status?”

  “She told us you’d be back tonight,” Tom says, gesturing toward Freckles. “Told us everything . . . about the federales and the cars, the kidnapping, the photos.” He takes a deep breath, momentarily overwhelmed. “Everyone who stayed after hearing about that is at The Corner, making plans and—”

  A big trumpeting sneeze cuts Tom off, and Mrs. Wallace finds herself suddenly, sheepishly, at the center of attention. The rest of our group has gravitated toward Freckles, and is huddled wetly in the corner. “Sorry,” Mrs. Wallace says in a strangled voice, holding back another sneeze.

  “Oh, right,” Tom says, just as Mrs. Wallace sneezes again. “Bless you! Carel left, but I think . . .” He continues, clumsily banging his way back into Food Eat’s kitchen. “Good, they’re still warm.”

  Meanwhile, the skinny engineer, to the bigger engineer’s chagrin, thinks to offer Mrs. Wallace a handkerchief from his back pocket. She instinctively accepts it with a nod of thanks, the big engineer pouting theatrically behind her back. Seeing the handkerchief more closely, though, Mrs. Wallace changes her mind.

  “Actually,” she sniffles, delicately holding the greasy rag between her thumb and forefinger, “that’s very sweet of you, but I think I’m okay.” The big engineer smiles widely and reaches for the plate of sticky buns Tom’s placed on the counter while Mrs. Wallace surreptitiously wipes her nose on her dress.

  The smell of sweet, baked bread and gooey cinnamon expands from the tiny platter to fill even the darkest, most wet corners of the restaurant. It’s almost like Tom went into the kitchen and came back a magician: everyone perks up and reaches for the plate. Tearing apart the soft, spongy bread of the bun—taking time only to lick the melted sugar from my fingers—I start to fee
l a spreading warmth. It’s a small comfort compared to the looming darkness and threat of war, but this sticky bun, I think, eating around an unexpected raisin, is symbolic of . . .

  Thunder rolls again outside, rain lashing against the rattling windows. Inside Food Eats, though, everyone’s smiling. Symbolic of this, I think. The anti-Grey. I quietly thank the fireplug of a cook with the thickly waxed mustache and the tattoos ringing his neck, hoping he’s okay, wherever he is.

  “Carol . . .” Guv says, appreciatively ripping into the last of his bun. “This is her restaurant?” For a split second, I get a visual of Carel in one of Mrs. Wallace’s frilly aprons. He looks like a bear in people clothes, and I almost choke on my bun trying not to laugh.

  “Kah-rell,” Tom says, still chewing. “He’s originally from Belgium, but we met him in Baltimore. Worked as a dishwasher back then, if you can believe it, ‘cause he couldn’t speak any English.” Everyone shakes their heads in disbelief. “If you like those,” Tom continues, pointing at the empty tray, “you should try his waffles.” The room falls into a thoughtful silence, a sense of wellbeing shrouding us from the storm outside. “Food Eats is actually Milly’s, though.”

  I look to Grammy so quickly that my neck almost snaps. “Technically,” Tom adds by way of explanation. I notice that Conor’s wide eyes mirror my own, and feel justified in my astonishment.

  “Oh, don’t be so surprised,” Grammy says dismissively. “We needed construction workers, the Other Side popped up, your mother needed some loans to finance the whole thing . . .” she makes a loose motion with her hands that I take to mean and one thing lead to another.

  “So, wait,” I say. “You own this place?”

  “Not own, just an investor,” Grammy says, patting her wet sweater down, distracted. “The Zone just needed a little help to tide everything over until the Charter. We were gonna get everything back then . . .” She rolls her eyes, miming annoyance. “But since that went south, it looks like the buns are on me.”

  “Thank ya, ma’am,” Guv says, rubbing his stomach demonstratively. “Delicious.” Grammy inclines her head in theatrical recognition and returns to worrying her sweater, which seems to have doubled in size since she hung it up.

  “First time I met Milly face-to-face was when she dropped her off,” Tom says apologetically, open hand stretched toward Freckles. I didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but I know I did. The Grammy/Tom thing was a surprise, and now I’m sensing the good feeling in the room slipping back into anxiety with a growing sickness. “Before Milly it was just . . .” He searches for the words. “. . . scrip for weekly supplies, everyone scrambling to live from meal to meal.”

  “Well,” Conor says, always happy to break an awkward silence. “D’you have any more buns back there, Ms. Long?” Everyone laughs, but it’s obvious that the darkness has crept back into the corners of Food Eats. Our warm and cinnamony moment is already a memory. After the room settles back into quiet contemplation, Freckles brings up the others.

  “Once I started telling people about the cars, about Julia, everyone freaked.”

  “It’s true,” Tom says, his lips tightening. “Most of these people, they came here because they had to. Some of them, like Carel . . . they can’t afford to have any more problems with the federales.”

  The revelation startles me almost as much as Grammy’s involvement with Tom and the restaurant. I knew the Other Side was different, but I didn’t realize the Other Siders were on the run. I shiver, despite the gooey warmth in my stomach. Carel must’ve been terrified when he heard about the federale kidnappings, but he still took the time to put the sweet buns in the oven so they’d stay hot for us.

  “I know it’s still wet,” Tom says, ambling toward the door. “But now that everyone’s settled, we should probably go see everyone who stayed. They’re gonna want to hear what y’all have to say.”

  After a quick talk, Freckles and Conor and I decide not to go to The Corner with the adults. I’m curious to see how it goes—especially now that I know about the Other Siders’ questionable pasts—but we had enough town meetings for a lifetime at the Library, and everyone agrees that it’s not like we’d have a lot to add to the discussion anyway. Staying at Food Eats isn’t an option either, though. The restaurant feels fully creepy now, the seeping darkness having colonized the last remaining vestiges of light.

  Even the flickering bulb overhead seems to be losing heart.

  Instead, Tom offers to drop us off at his house, where we can dry off and keep Rachel company. It seems strange to me that Rachel wouldn’t be at the meeting, but Tom shrugs his shoulders and says she’s in the middle of something. “We wouldn’t be interrupting, would we?” I ask, irrationally nervous about being in the same room with Rachel and Freckles, but Tom just smiles wanly and shakes his head. “I don’t think you could interrupt her if you tried.”

  When we get to Tom and Rachel’s place, soaked again from the two-block run from Foods, I understand why he said that. The rest of the Other Side might as well be washed away for all the signs of life we’re seeing, but Rachel has their generator working overtime. It seems dangerous, considering that everyone’s trying to hide from the federales; every window is aglow, light shooting out of crooked windows into the soggy night like she’s somehow found space for a pulsing star in their dusty, cluttered cavern of a living room. The rickety, gold-painted exterior catches and reflects the light, magnifying the effect.

  And the music . . .

  It’s more a feeling I get than an actual resemblance, but silhouetted against the dull night sky, rumbling and shaking with vintage rock and roll, Tom and Rachel’s hunchbacked house looks and sounds like a massive, grumbling, cosmic cat about to pounce. It’s strange—funny in a way I can’t quite explain without sounding crazy—so I let the rain wash down my face, soaking into dirty clothes I’ve decided will probably never be dry again, and laugh my way past the mannequins on the porch and into the belly of the beast.

  Rachel is sprawled on the hardwood floor among the stacks of books and records and memorabilia, painting. She’s still in her black tuxedo shirt dress, but it’s no longer spattered with paint; it’s streaked with it—crisscrossed lines in varying shades of yellow and pink and turquoise and red. She doesn’t hear us come in—the music is too loud—and we stand vibrating in the doorway. The fuzzed-out amplifiers are cranked up so loud it sounds like they might not make it through the song.

  It’s only when Rachel stands up, wiping a brush clean across her already paint-encrusted side, that she notices me, Tom, Conor, and Freckles dripping in the doorway. She says something, smiling. Only I can’t hear her. None of us can. Tom walks over to the amps and turns down the volume.

  “Hey,” Rachel shouts into the still-loud living room, wiping a paint-wet hand across her now-yellow forehead and wrinkling her nose. “What are you guys doing here?”

  I look at Tom questioningly, wondering how much she knows. He just shrugs anxiously and heads for the door. “I gotta get back to The Corner, Rach. Mind taking care of our friends, here?” He gestures at us like we’re a box of abandoned kittens, and Rachel nods her head in maternal affirmation. They blow kisses at each other, and Tom’s gone by the time we look up from our cold and pruning feet.

  “Towels,” Rachel says, shaking a turquoise finger in the air like this is the best idea she’s ever had. She dives into the maze of crates—stacked boxes of porcelain and books and records—making her way to a towering ziggurat of fabric. There must be some system to the mess, because in no time Conor and I catch two oversized beach towels, scratchy from overuse. “More coming soon,” Rachel promises Freckles. “Shoulda thrown one to you first . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Freckles says, trying to mean it.

  I rub my face red with the rough towel, drying off as quickly as I possibly can, and then move onto my hair, happy in my decision not to go to another soggy meeting. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a fingerprint-smudged reflection of Conor patting himself dr
y and notice that something’s . . . off.

  “Conor?” I ask, draping my towel over my shoulder. He looks up questioningly, his strong, wide-set nose streaked with turquoise. “You have something on your face,” he says, gesturing to his cheeks. “And . . .” He scrunches his painted nose and ruffles his hair.

  Freckles, still waiting on her towel, looks at us and laughs. We’re both striped with paint from the towels. Rachel looks down at her paint-streaked hands and grimaces. “Well,” she jokes, “good to see some color in your cheeks, anyway.”

  After we’ve all dried off, Rachel—hands washed—offers us dry clothes to sleep in from the pile. They’re too big, but it doesn’t matter . . . it feels so good to finally be dry. Watching Rachel wipe her brushes clean, I curl my toes into mismatched woolen socks and yawn. It’s been a long day, and, letting my eyes wander haphazardly around the room, I realize that for a room that has everything, there doesn’t seem to be a couch or an extra bed.

  “I meant to ask,” Rachel calls over her shoulder, scrubbing the paint from her arms with repurposed beach towels. “How’s the guitar?”

  The gui . . . tar?

  For a confused half-second, the word is as meaningless as any random sounds haphazardly struck together. And then, with a corrective shake of the head, it comes back to me. Of course. Tom’s guitar: glossy black and just a little chipped on the head where the body meets the neck. It’s probably still wedged in the corner next to the closet, collecting dust.

  Lonely.

  “Oh,” I say, a little ashamed—despite everything that’s happened—that I haven’t yet spent any time with Tom and Rachel’s gift. “It’s awesome.” Rachel looks up at me encouragingly. “I, um, haven’t had much time to actually . . .”

  Consolidating her painting supplies into a splattered crate, Rachel says, “You gotta practice if you wanna wail!”

  She’s right, of course. But I’m a little startled by how cavalier she is about everything the Zone’s been through the last couple of days. Between the Hospital and the dam; the hiding and the fear and the water-logged flight, I can’t think of a free minute I’ve had in the last three days. And I start to tell her that, but it seems like so much to explain, and I’m so very tired.