Chapter 3

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 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..."

Unless Mami is dead, Alex thought. Unless I find her dead body lying there with all the other unidentified dead bodies.

"Yes, Father," he said. "Unless."

 

Thursday, May 26

 

Alex walked down from his home to Forty-second Street Thursday morning around the time he would have left for school, far earlier than he needed to, but he couldn't risk missing the bus.

He hadn't told Bri or Julie, pretending instead that he was going to school. If he found Mami, then he'd tell them. He wasn't sure what he'd say if she wasn't there. They could keep on hoping then, but he hadn't figured out whether that was a good thing or not.

New York was no longer a ghost town, but there were few signs of life. The buses, police cars, fire engines, and ambulances drove swiftly, no trucks, cars, or mobs of pedestrians to slow them down. Most of the stores were still closed, their steel gates locked and protecting whatever had survived the days and nights of looting. The farther downtown he got, the more police officers he saw. They looked aimless and bored, as if they were uncertain what they were protecting.

It was a pleasant day, but no one smiled as they walked by. Alex realized he heard almost no conversation. People walked because there was no other way to get to their destination. Eyes were downcast, as though no one wanted to acknowledge what other people might be feeling.

He could see the Empire State Building in the distance, and it reassured him to know it was still there. Alex had heard the Statue of Liberty was gone. He'd been there once on a class trip. Never gone to the Empire State Building, though. He was glad he'd still have the chance.

He hadn't felt like eating breakfast, and although there was still plenty of food left, he'd started to get nervous about when it would run out and what they'd do when it did. But the walk made him hungry, and it was then he realized there weren't any street vendors selling pretzels or hot dogs, roasted nuts or souvlaki. Strange to see a New York where you couldn't get a complete meal on the street.

When he got to the Port Authority, he saw a vendor on the street corner, selling bags of nuts. The line had to be fifty people long. Not worth it, he decided, noticing the shoving and the shouting. He'd find something after he got back.

The vendor's line only added to the chaos. It seemed like all the people left in Manhattan were fighting to get into the bus terminal. They dragged small children with them, or dogs, or cats in carriers. They carried suitcases, backpacks, duffel bags, all crammed to the point of bursting. Maybe some of them were going to friends or families who lived more inland. Maybe some of them were simply going wherever a bus might take them.

There were plenty of cops there, and Alex went to one to ask where the buses to Yankee Stadium left from.

"Around the corner," the cop said. "You got a reservation?"

Alex nodded.

"You ready for it?" the cop asked. "It's hell up there."

"I don't know," Alex admitted. "I'm looking for my mother. We haven't heard from her since it happened."

"Good luck, kid," the cop said. "Hey, you over there! Watch it!"

Alex walked around the corner. There were several cops there telling people where to stand and giving them flyers. Alex walked over to one and said he had a reservation for the 11:30 bus.

"That line over there," the cop said, and gave him a handout.

Even though Alex was early, the line for his bus was already thirty people long. People stood there, shuffling their feet, reading the handout, going through their bags. A few had something to eat. Most look terrified, or angry, or simply miserable.

Alex looked at the sheet of paper he'd been handed.

 

YOU MUST FOLLOW THESE RULES

1. Do not attempt to get on any bus other than the one for which you have a reservation. Note its number when you board.

2. You will be given a numbered ticket when you board the bus. You must show your ticket to be admitted to Yankee Stadium.

3. At no time may you leave to go off by yourself.

4. Once inside the stadium, walk in single file up and down every row.

5. Look carefully at every body. Pay particular attention to jewelry, as that may be the best way to identify the person for whom you're searching.

6. If you find the person you are seeking, keep walking until you see a Police Identification Booth. Go there and inform an officer of the approximate location of the identified body. You may only return to the body you've identified if you are accompanied by an official. Any attempt to return on your own will result in ejection from Yankee Stadium.

7. If you see a person in need of physical assistance, keep your place in line, and notify a police officer at the first opportunity. Do not stop to help the person in need of assistance.

8. No food or drink is allowed in Yankee Stadium. All bags must be left on the bus. Anyone carrying anything into Yankee Stadium will be ejected.

9. If you find the person you are looking for, you will remain at Yankee Stadium to fill out the appropriate paperwork. If you do not, you must leave on the bus you took to get there. You will not be allowed on any other bus.

THESE RULES ARE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. THEY MUST BE OBEYED.

 

Alex thought the rules were stringent, but they made sense, and he was relieved that what was called for was so carefully spelled out. He liked rules. Carlos was always trying to get away with something, or at least he used to be like that before enlisting, but Alex found that rules imposed a structure, and he preferred that. He always did better when he knew exactly what was expected of him.

He wished the flyer hadn't kept referring to bodies, though. He couldn't stand the idea of Mami being nothing more than an anonymous body.

He pictured Mami then, sitting at the table, working on her homework while her children worked on theirs. How proud they all were when she got her GED. He thought of her at the stove, cooking their dinner. He remembered once when he'd been sick with fever, and Mami had pressed a cold washcloth against his forehead and held his hand until he'd fallen asleep. He envisioned her in church, shushing them while Father Franco gave his sermon.

For a week he'd refused to think of her, and now he was overwhelmed by a thousand different images. What if he found Mami at Yankee Stadium? What if he didn't?

He realized then that everybody in line for the 11:30 bus, everybody waiting for whatever bus, was as overwhelmed with thoughts and memories of the people gone from their lives as he was. No wonder no one was talking. The only protection from grief was silence and rules.

Eventually they began boarding their bus. Number 22, he noted. He gave his name to the bus driver and was handed a card that said 33. He took an aisle seat, next to a heavyset woman who kept squeezing a packet of tissues.

"You all have your tickets?" the bus driver asked before they began the journey.

Everyone said yes.

"And you have the list of rules?"

"Yes," they all responded.

"Be sure to follow the instructions," the bus driver cautioned them. "Stay in place once you get there. God go with you."

Alex looked around the bus. He was the youngest person there, but a few seemed to be in their early twenties. Since only one person from a family was allowed to go, the passengers on the bus were all strangers to each other. Several of them were praying. Others stared straight ahead, or looked out the window. A few had their eyes closed, and a handful were crying.

Alex stared out the window at the apartments on Riverside Drive as the bus whizzed up the West Side Highway. The buildings looked substantial, unlikely ever to erode. As they drove past Eighty-eighth Street, he resisted the temptation to demand to be let off. He knew what he had to do, what rules he had to follow.

After a while the bus pulled into its parking space and the people were told to get off in an orderly fashion, making sure to have their tickets in hand and to remember where their bus was located and that its number was 22. Alex got off and displayed his ticket to the officer standing there. From the outside, Yankee Stadium seemed much as it always had. He remembered the half dozen or so times he'd gone to a game with Papi and Carlos, sitting in the bleachers, worrying, shouting, eating, thrilled to be there with his father and big brother. During one game—he was nine or ten—the score was tied in the bottom of the eleventh and one of the Yankees hit a walk-off grand slam. He'd felt like he'd witnessed history, he'd been so excited.

"Stay in line. Don't wander off," the officer said. "Stand in line. Don't wander off. If you leave your place, you will not be allowed in. Stand in line. Don't wander off."

Alex stood at attention, as though his posture proved he wasn't the sort who would ever wander off.

The line inched its way closer to the entrance. Two women walked from the head of the line to the foot, one holding a pot of menthol-scented gel, the other face masks and sickness bags.

"Rub the gel under your nose," the woman instructed them. "It will help with the odors."

"Wear your face mask at all times," the other woman said. "Put it on now. Only take it off if you feel the need to vomit. Use the bag, then put the mask back on. Do not leave the bag on the ground, but carry it with you until you leave."

The menthol smell was strong. People looked strange wearing face masks, like a convention of surgeons had accidentally assembled in front of the ballpark. Alex thought of when Mami had shown them a face mask and told them she'd be expected to wear one as an operating room technician. If she hadn't been ambitious to improve her family's lot, she wouldn't have gotten the training and the hospital in Queens wouldn't have called for her to come in because of an emergency and she wouldn't have taken the 7 train to Queens and Alex wouldn't be standing in front of Yankee Stadium with menthol-scented gel rubbed beneath his nose.

"Remember to stay in line at all times," a voice over a bullhorn called out. "If you see someone in need of physical assistance, inform the next available officer. Do not leave the line. Leaving the line will result in your ejection. Keep walking. Only leave the line if you can identify the body of the person you're looking for. Look at the person ahead of you in line and the person behind you. Don't ever stray from those people."

Alex did as he was told and looked at the man ahead of him and the woman behind him. The woman behind him wore sunglasses. The man ahead of him was balding.

The door opened. "Stay in line! Stay in line!" the officer shouted. Everyone shuffled forward, staying in line. They walked through the entrance, down the corridor, and finally down the flights of stairs that led to the playing field.

The noise was what attacked him first, a cacophony of screams and sobs. He could make out some cursing, some praying, but mostly the noise was just the sound of agony.

Then came the smells, unlike anything he'd ever known, a sickening combination of vomit, body odor, and rotting meat. The menthol covered the stench slightly, but still he gagged, and he was relieved that he hadn't eaten all morning. He could taste the smell as he inhaled the scent of decomposing flesh.

It was a scene unlike any Alex could have imagined. If he looked up, it was Yankee Stadium, filled with empty seats. But if he looked at eye level, it was hell.

Alex made the sign of the cross and prayed for strength. All around the playing field were corpses, lying head to toe in neat rows with just space enough for one person to walk between. How many bodies were there? Hundreds? Thousands?

Some of the bodies had clothes on; others were nude. The naked ones were covered with sheets. All their arms were out, their hands prominently displayed, their rings gleaming in the sunlight. Their faces were swollen, many to the point of being unrecognizable. They were covered with flies, millions of flies, their buzzing providing a white-noise background to the screams and the wails. His hell was a fly's heaven, Alex thought.

"Stay in line! Stay in line! Leaving the line will result in your ejection!"

Alex longed to be ejected, to be bodily lifted from Yankee Stadium, from the Bronx, from New York, from Earth itself, to be slingshotted into the soothing void of space. He focused instead on looking for the Police Identification Booths. There were dozens of them, with police officers and medical personnel stationed there. He saw priests, also, and people he assumed were ministers and rabbis and Muslim clergy.

Staying firmly in line, Alex began the death stroll. Most of the bodies couldn't possibly be Mami. They were black or white or Asian. They were too young or too old, too fat or too thin. Their hair was gray or white or blonde, too short or too long. One woman, hardly more than a girl, had green and purple hair. One was chemotherapy bald. Another was pregnant. Their eyes were usually open, and they stared up at the moon that had killed them.

Sometimes the line stopped short, when someone ahead of them needed to check a face, a body, a piece of jewelry. A scream would pierce the air as a loved one was found. A woman several people behind Alex cried, "Holy Mother of God!" and he assumed she'd found who she'd come to look for, but she stayed in line until they made the next turn, when she went off to the nearest Police Identification Booth.

Alex felt a sharp sting he was stunned to identify as envy. He hated himself for feeling that way. No matter what, it would be better not to find Mami there. As long as she was only gone, there was a chance their prayers for her return would be answered. But if she were lying there...

"Stay in line! Stay in line!"

Twice Alex saw women he thought might be his mother. Something about the shape of their faces, the tone of their skin, stopped him short. But one woman had a diamond engagement ring, and the other wore a Jewish star pendant. When he looked more carefully at them, he realized they looked nothing like Mami, not really. Mami would laugh if she knew Alex had mistaken a woman with a Jewish star for her. He tried to remember the sound of her laughter, but it was impossible. He told himself he'd hear her laughing again, that it was all right not to be able to remember what the sound of her laughter was like just then.

By the time he'd finished the march around Yankee Stadium, two other people from his bus had left the line to go to the Police Identification Booths. The rest walked out in the same order they'd come in. They tossed their sickness bags and face masks into the appropriately labeled bins.

No one spoke as they showed their tickets and boarded bus 22. Eventually the bus pulled out. One woman had left her Bible on her seat, and she picked it up and began reading it, her lips moving silently. A dozen or more people wept. A man mumbled something Alex assumed was Hebrew. One woman laughed hysterically. The woman sitting next to Alex pulled tissue after tissue out of its packet, tearing each one methodically to shreds.

God save their souls, Alex prayed. God save ours. It was the only prayer he could think of, no matter how inadequate it might be. It offered him no comfort, but he repeated it unceasingly. As long as he prayed he didn't have to think. He didn't have to remember. He didn't have to decide. He didn't have to acknowledge he was entering a world where no one had laid out the rules for him to follow, a world where there might not be any rules left for any of them to follow.