PHOENIX
Due to a panda’s low sex drive, scientists have found that the combination of exercises, porn, and the occasional menage a trois have proven effective.
As we walk to the underground garage, I worry that I failed to put my car on the charger. Maintenance on my vehicle is near the bottom on my list of priorities. The garage is musty, its spaces only half full. Most people use the train, foregoing having a car. The only reason I have one is to get to my country house. The very house we’re going to now. Jewel’s eyes never stop moving.
I exhale in relief when the engine turns over.
“What were you doing to the cameras?” I ask.
“Creating a white-out.” She shrugs.
I want to ask more questions but pull out into the dark night instead and let the road take over my thoughts. The drive has always been relaxing for me at this time of night, once we’re out of the busyness of the city.
The Moyo home has been nestled in the valley overlooking the Hudson River for decades. My grandfather was still alive when I was a little girl, and some of my favorite early memories are with him, walking the paths that led from the house to the water. He was much kinder than my grandmother, whose bark had some bite. He was soft all over, his round belly jiggling when he laughed, and he was quick with the hugs and eager to share whatever sweets he carried around in his shirt pocket. For years, I avoided coming back here because it was too hard to think about how life was after he passed, but then it became too hard to leave behind that part of my life. I’m inclined to think that any semblance of decency I have comes from him.
“We’re almost there,” I tell Jewel when we’re a few minutes away.
“I’ve been watching your house for the past three days,” she says.
“Right,” I say under my breath.
The driveway is long. My car bounces over the potholes, lobbing us toward the roof. I park near the row of birch trees to the left of the house. The solar-powered lights guide our way to the door and as I place my wrist over the reader, I wonder if Jewel has already been inside. She seems a little too familiar with everything to not have been here before. She places her hat on the hall tree in the entry, and I look at her with suspicion, waiting to see what she’ll do next.
She catches me watching and widens her eyes, attempting innocence. I smirk and shake my head.
“Make yourself at home,” I tell her, walking into the old-fashioned kitchen. “When can we expect her—them?”
“An hour or two, if all goes according to plan,” she says.
“I’ll make some coffee then…”
“Real coffee?” she asks.
“Real coffee.”
“Must be nice…”
My hand stills over the machine. I am privileged—I have access to real coffee, milk, fruit—but to be called out like this itches my insides with guilt. I’ve seen how the lower end lives. How the rich ignore the problem rather than trying to help fix it.
I press the button on the coffee machine and it hisses to life.
She grins. “Don’t mind me. I speak before I think.”
I slide the mug across the table toward her and she hugs it between her hands.
“How often do you come out here?”
“As often as I can. It’s a break from...everything.” The words aren’t even out of my mouth before I regret saying them. Who am I to complain? My life is a bedazzlement of luxury. The type of life even women in the upper end covet. Jewel doesn’t seem to notice my slip. I relax a little as she sips her coffee, nodding slowly like she understands.
Before she can ask any more questions, I head to the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I need to process everything that’s happened in such a short amount of time. Turning on the light in my grandmother’s bedroom, I stare at the row of photos on the chipped green dresser.
There are photos of my mothers—their wedding day, and one of them with me at my first ballet recital. I try to imagine what they were like before I came along—free, perhaps. Before they had me, they were avid campers and often volunteered their time in the lower end. Their friends describe them as free spirits, but the only spirits I’ve ever seen either of them display are the ones in the bar. It’s like I came along and all of a sudden they turned into regimented robots.
I hear footsteps outside the door and then Jewel’s voice.
“They’re here,” she says.
I fling open the door. “Have them pull the car into the barn. It’s around the back.”
She nods once and briskly walks to the door.
My heart is pounding as I glance out the side window. A car sits next to mine, headlights off. Jewel goes out there and says something to the driver. Before the car moves, the doors open, and I turn away. I’m nervous; seeing them makes it real. It is real, you idiot, I tell myself. And you got yourself into this.
I open the back door and a tall woman with long dreads walks in, two redheads who must be twins, a girl who doesn’t look old enough to be a prison escapee...and last of all, Gwen. Her hair is no longer than her shoulders; it climbs out from beneath her hat, a mass of wiry curls. She’s thin, very thin—like she hasn’t had a real meal in months. She catches me staring at her chapped lips and she lifts a hand to touch them.
“The perils of a fugitive,” she says, half smiling.
I blink, embarrassed. I hadn’t meant to stare. She’s still beautiful.
“I’m Phoenix.” I step back to give them more room.
The one with dreads speaks up first. “I’m Cardi.” She points to the twins. “Kelsy and Khan.” And she puts her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “This is Tahira. And you probably recognize Gwen.”
I nod. We stand there timidly for a moment, staring at each other. There are questions, things that we all want to say and ask, but I can see the exhaustion pulling on their faces.
Gwen glances at Jewel and puts her hand on my arm. “We all know the risk involved with hiding us here—for both of you—and we are so grateful. And we will keep everything as we find it.” She eyes Tahira when she says that, and the girl smirks then leans her head over on Gwen’s shoulder.
“You must be exhausted,” I say quickly. “I’ll show you to your rooms. My closest neighbor is a mile away, but with the hovercrafts over this area, I would ask that you stay inside and keep the blinds closed.” They all nod briskly.
“There’s food in the fridge,” I say to Jewel. “If you could get something ready…”
She nods. I lead the way, the trail of fugitives behind me.
Later when the women are in bed, I wander into the living room, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I sit on the couch, dropping my head into my hands. Too wound up to sleep, I recount the happenings of the day from Jackal to the very dangerous position I just placed myself in.
“Rough day?”
I jump. Gwen is standing in the doorway wrapped in my grandmother’s quilt. She sits down opposite me, tucking her feet under her legs. I don’t know what to say to someone like Gwen; my existence is shallow, the events of my life meaningless. We are roughly the same age, but she’s done more with her years than most women three times her age.
“I can’t sleep,” I admit. “You?”
“I’m not really good at it anymore.”
I press my lips together. I can’t imagine someone in her position would be.
“Is it okay that I have this out here?” She holds up the quilt.
“Of course. My grandmother would love that you’re using it. I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
“I am already. You’re a generous person to welcome us like this. Thank you.” She looks around the room. “So you’re that ballerina,” she says, changing the subject. “What’s that like?”
“Probably the same as it is for you,” I say. “Being famous for something you didn’t intend to be famous for.”
“I doubt that,” she says. “You have to work pretty hard to be doing what you do.”
I shrug. “I’m good at it. I don’t love it.”
She nods like she knows just what I mean. She’s intimidating in the same way a storm is: you can feel her energy, but the extent of what she will do is unpredictable.
“May I ask you something personal?”
She smiles faintly. “Is there anything personal left to know about me?”
“Folsom,” I say. “You fell in love.”
“Yes.”
“It just seems…”
“Stupid,” she answers for me.
“Well...” I pause and then say—”Why did you let yourself?”
Gwen laughs. Her laugh is throaty and I can’t help but grin at the mischief in it.
“Love is something that happens to you. You don’t necessarily invite it in.”
That doesn’t really sound pleasant at all. Control, precision, discipline—things I value, things that are an intricate part of my life.
“Has he...is he...do you know…?”
It’s like shutters come down on her eyes, and I realize that asking about Folsom is a no-no.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t pry. We just all got so wrapped up in your love story.”
“My priority right now is my son. Getting us both out of of here.”
“Of course,” I say. “Of course.”
My mind goes to Jackal, the danger of what I felt earlier in the night. It has been rumored that Gwen’s pregnant sister escaped with Folsom. I don’t have a sister to compare that to, but I know enough women to know how they react to the End Men. Perhaps sisterly bonds are enough to withstand temptation. Or perhaps Folsom loves Gwen enough to never look at another woman again.
“What do you do when you’re not dancing?” Gwen asks me in a much lighter tone.
I look at her square in the face when I answer.
“I steal things.”