1999 (5 page)

Mrs. Mendelbaum's eyes widened. Sonya patted her arm.

“You got that?”

After a few whispered translations, nods rippled around the room.

“Good then. Glad we're understood. Let's go, ladies.”

But as Debbie was kicking her hostages to their feet, a voice called out: “Wait.”

Debbie whipped around. “Who said that?”

The pilot stepped forward, wings on her lapel tilted at a haphazard angle – the plane crash-landing. In her eyes was worry; in her accent, Germany. “There are others. Guardians of the city.”

“
Who?
”

“They are known as Diamond and Pearl.”

“His old dancers?”

The pilot shrugged. “They are blocking Paisley Park. They do not believe in his mission. Did you not receive their facsimile communication?”

“They're sending
faxes?
” said Sonya.

Debbie glared at her.

The pilot reached into her carry-on luggage, a blue leather satchel bearing an airline's insignia, and produced a folded piece of paper.

Debbie took it and read, tapping the grenade against her leg. Sonya watched uneasily, afraid one vigorous strike might set the thing off. At last, Debbie lowered the page and licked her lips. “Well, we'll see about this,” she snarled. And then, turning to Sonya, Mrs. Mendelbaum, and Esme: “Let's ride, ladies.”

MINNEAPOLIS WAS BURNING
in the starless, moonless night. The streetlights stood dead and unlit, office towers and homes sat in blackness, smoke billowed from buildings, and gunfire rattled in the snowy streets. “Drive!” screamed Debbie. “Drive!”

And so Sonya tore through the outlying suburbs, Mrs. Mendelbaum huddled with her head between her knees moaning, “No, no, no,” and Esme stared straight ahead, her face a starched sheet of terror, arms elbow deep in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

“It's D&P!” screamed Debbie. “Those whores trying to stop us getting to him!”

As they advanced toward downtown, a vicious pop sounded by the gas tank. “We've been hit,” wailed Mrs. Mendelbaum.

“Nope,” said Sonya, slowing the car down, “just blew a tire.”

“What are you doing?” screamed Debbie, mascara streaking her face like war paint. “Are you crazy? Don't stop!”

But there was no choice. Sonya got out of the car. The back left wheel was already withering into a black rubbery goop. In the distance something like a bomb went off and a flash of light doused the neighbourhood; a few shots followed, then silence. Sonya's breath puffed from her face in clouds; she shivered and clutched her elbows.

Debbie came and stood beside Sonya, eyeing the flat. Mrs. Mendelbaum rolled down her window and stuck her head out to evaluate the damage. “Tire's flat,” she said, nodding sagely.

Esme hadn't moved since they'd entered Minneapolis, and still sat petrified in the back seat, eyes tracking at once over everything and nothing, hands still hidden inside the pocket of her hoodie.

“If you want to keep going,” Sonya told Debbie, “we'll have to walk.”

Debbie's mouth opened, but no sound came out – her jaw just hung there slackly, her expression that of a stunned child watching a prized balloon lift into the heavens. The night was silent for a moment; everyone waited. Slowly into Debbie's eyes seeped that old look, a hungry, focused sort of lunacy, and her mouth snapped closed with a clack of teeth. She looked from Sonya, to Mrs. Mendelbaum, to Esme – but they were passing glances, because now she was off, shrieking, the grenade raised over her head, high heels ticking on the asphalt as she vanished into the night.

“Goodbye, Debbie,” called Mrs. Mendelbaum from the back seat.

Sonya got back into the car and sat there, staring out the windshield: the darkness was broken by sporadic pockets of light from the flames of burning buildings. Things felt still again for a moment – but once again that was short lived, as a fireball, like an orange fist thrust righteously into the sky, rose up from the Home Depot at the end of the block. The air was thick with smoke and ash, and debris rained down and went scuttling along the street.

Coughing, Sonya pulled her shirt over her face. “Anyone have any ideas?”

Esme leaned into the front seat and turned on the radio.

“People,” came
's voice, meek and exhausted, “U have gotta listen 2 me. This ain't no time 4 hate. I'm – I'm here. I'm waitin'. I don't wanna die 2nite.” There was a pause, then, and Sonya was sure she heard a sniffle – was he
crying?
“This is a song I wrote,” he finally spoke, “and it's called ‘Just as Long as We're 2gether.' I hope U listen to it and I hope it means somethin' 2 U.”

The music began and everything slowed down. Outside things seemed to settle; the flames leaping from the Home Depot dwindled. The only sound was
's voice over the shudder of instruments, the patter of drums. It was a sweet song. Everyone listened.

By the chorus all three of them had joined in: “Just as long as we're 2gether / Everything's alright (everything's alright) / Everything's alright (everything's alright).” While Mrs. Mendelbaum provided subtle harmonies, it was Esme's voice that moved Sonya the most: beautiful but fragile, at once knowing and innocent.

Then the song was over. They waited for
to speak, but only a light hiss of static played from the radio. Everyone in the car waited for another blast from outside, or rekindled gun battles, but none came. And there was something about this silence that didn't feel like an interlude – whatever battle had been raging seemed to be over.

Esme touched Sonya on the arm. She was pointing out the window at an alleyway off the main street. “Can you –”

“Do you have to pee, dear?” asked Mrs. Mendelbaum, with a look of empathy that spoke of her own ongoing urinary dramas. From within her snowsuit she produced a squashed roll of toilet paper, and with it a similarly flattened pack of Dentyne. “Gum?”

Once everyone was chewing she told Sonya, “Pop the trunk, I'll change the flat.”

Out on the street, the three women stood together and scanned the shadows for threats – holding their breath, listening. Nothing: no explosions or gunfire or sounds of any kind. The city was still and cold. “Go pee,” whispered Mrs. Mendelbaum, blowing into her hands. While she dug out the jack and spare and got down to business, Sonya and Esme walked arm in arm into the shadows, huddling together for heat.

Before she squatted, Esme reached into her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out the cardboard box she'd stolen from the rest stop. Sonya's guts did a little tumble at the sight of it.

Esme's voice trembled out of the shadows: “Do you know how these things work?”

DAYLIGHT WAS JUST BREAKING
as the Audi crossed over the Canadian border, spare tire struggling alongside the three chrome-capped wheels. On both sides of the highway were great walls of trees, pine and birch, larch and poplars and cedar, everything heavy with snow. Esme had fallen asleep, draped across the back seat. Ms. Jorgenssen (she'd reverted, in a blaze of self-satisfaction, to her maiden name) was a jumble of half-removed snowsuit, head lolling against the window, drooling steadily. The radio was off. The only sound was the gentle purr of the engine, and the forest was pierced here and there with spears of light from the rising sun.

Where were they going? What were they looking for? Sonya wasn't sure. She was just happy to be driving, out in the world, alive. There was no one else on the highway. She was confident they wouldn't see anyone. It was just the three of them. And maybe that was enough.

Looking once again at the blue dot on the testing stick that Esme had stuck to the dashboard with gum, Sonya recalled, how, only hours ago, her heart had fluttered at the sight of it. There had been something so proud and brave and terrified about the way Esme had fixed it there, and afterward Mrs. Mendelbaum had hauled them both into her arms for a mildly suffocating group hug – and then, releasing them, been reborn as Jorgenssen.

In the rear-view mirror Sonya could see Esme sleeping in the back seat. The girl lay there, curled up, with the hood of her sweatshirt pulled over her head. From it a wisp of hair had tumbled out along her nose, hanging by her mouth, and this wavered as she breathed: with each inhalation it clung to her face, was released as she exhaled, trembled for a moment, and then was sucked back in.

The car moved steadily over the road, through the forest, the snow glittering in the rising sun. And here on the dash was hope – that little blue dot. Sonya thought again of the log cabin she'd long dreamt about. It could be tucked away anywhere along here, behind and among the trees, out of sight and secret. It would be a quiet, simple little shack, and warm once they got a good fire going that lit the room golden, smoke curling up from the chimney.