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“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll let you get settled.” He turns and walks heavily down the hall.

The winter afternoon light is fading. I turn on the lamp, heave my backpack onto the bed, take out a phone charger and some T-shirts. Charisse brings sheets and towels. The aroma of fresh laundry fills the room. I pick up a pillowcase, press it to my face and inhale. Charisse smiles. “My mom used the same detergent,” I tell her. It may only be an echo of Home, but at least it smells like it.

Fallout

Saturday, December 31, 2022, and Sunday, January 1, 2023 (Alba is 21 and 21, Zach is 22)

Alba: A friend of a friend of Zach’s has managed to rent the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge for a private New Year’s Eve party. I dread New Year’s Eve because that’s the anniversary of my dad’s death. But I didn’t want to disappoint Zach, so: we are going to this party. The theme is “The Beautiful and Damned” (we are supposed to be welcoming 1923, not 2023) and I’ve borrowed a beaded dress and some vaguely appropriate low-heeled shoes from Mama’s closet. Mama and Beck have gone to Detroit for a few days to visit Beck’s parents. At first they tried to talk me into coming with them, but when I told them, reluctantly, that I have a date (!) and we are going to a party (!!), they backed off. Mama seemed a little shocked, but Beck said, “That guy from the other night? The one with the excellent car?” and I admitted that yes, that was the one. I’m relieved that I won’t have to introduce them to him quite yet.

I haven’t seen him since the party at the Lamonts’, though we’ve been texting. When he arrives, looking a little old-school gangsterish with slicked-back hair, a fedora and the same suit he was wearing when I saw him last, I feel a slight shock, a sort of brain-zap. It’s just lust, I tell myself, but I can’t stop smiling. I hope Zach doesn’t think I’m already drunk. We put on our masks, as much for concealment as for hygiene, and set forth.

When we get to Uptown, the sidewalks are teeming with merrymakers. We park on Lawrence, next to St. Boniface Cemetery. People shout at each other from cars; it’s hard to tell if they are friends or foes. Someone sets off professional-grade fireworks in the alley and Zach and I both jump, then look to see if the other noticed, then laugh sheepishly. It’s a relief to arrive—it’s almost curfew, but you’d never know it from the crowded streets. Zach gives the password, jellyfish paradox, and we’re in.

The Green Mill is a former speakeasy, and tonight it’s easy to imagine that I’m time traveling: the long, curved bar is crowded with young men in vintage suits and girls with carefully curled hair wearing dresses that sparkle in the low, warm bar light. Lots of people have stylish masks that match their dresses and suits; ours are more utilitarian. The Fat Babies are playing “Every Day’s a Holiday.” A few couples are dancing, but it’s early yet, so most people are chatting and drinking, or packed around the perimeter of the small dance floor, listening to the band. The crowd is eclectic, though almost everyone seems to be under thirty except the bartenders.

“I’ve never been here before,” Zach says. “This is wonderful.”

“Isn’t it?” I am happy to be here, with him, even though it’s New Year’s Eve, my annual day of mourning. There’s something sweet and serious about Zach; he’s so—kind. He puts his arm around my waist. Everything feels right.

Zach heads to the bar to order us drinks, so I veer off to the ladies’ room. When I get back, I find him standing with a dirty martini in each hand, talking to Caralora. They both look worried. She leans down and kisses me on the cheek. “Happy New Year, Alba.” Zach hands me a martini. I’m not keen on martinis, but I accept it with a smile.

“Happy New Year,” I say to Caralora. “Mmm, you look great.” She does, too. C-lora’s interpretation of flapper style is very goth; she reminds me of Irma Vep with her kohled eyes, sequined mask and bat-wing dress. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“And yet, you invited me.” Caralora wraps her hand around my wrist, meaning, don’t ask. “I was just telling Zach that I heard from Nick tonight. He didn’t mention where they are, but he says they’re safe.”

“Okay. Good.” The music and bar chatter are loud enough that I have to lean close to Caralora to hear her, but she keeps her grip steady. Don’t say more than you have to.

Zach spots the friend that invited him to this party and excuses himself. Caralora says, “I know you’re not planning on drinking that,” and appropriates the martini from me. She lowers her mask to sip it and I admire her mouth, perfectly lipsticked in eggplant purple. She says, “Listen, Alba, I was on my way to a completely different party when you called—”

“I didn’t call.”

“I know, I know; some future you called—whatever. Do you ever get tired of supervising your past selves?”

“Sometimes I change it up and boss my future selves around instead.”

Caralora says, “Anyway: why I came: you two need to get out of here without being seen.”

“Do we? Uh-oh.” I study the crowd. Everyone looks friendly enough to me. “Why?”

“Well, you know, Zach’s car is pretty conspicuous. It was noticed, and there are some guys waiting for you out there.”

“What kind of guys?”

“Large guys. Friends of Junior’s.”

“Most of Junior’s friends are large. Do we have to leave right away?” The Fat Babies are one of my favorite bands. I watch Zach give his friend a quick hug and head back to us, angling his torso sideways to navigate the throng. I’d like to dance with him, but Caralora says, “’Fraid so, Alba.”

Zach joins us. He notices the transferred martini; I shrug. Caralora says, “Ready to go?”

“I guess,” Zach says. “Is there a back door?”

Caralora and I exchange glances. “Not exactly,” she says. “The Green Mill, rather famously, has extensive tunnels connecting its basement with some of the other basements on the block. They were used to deliver coal, back in the day. And various criminals had illegal card games and stored their hooch down there.”

“Al Capone and his gang used to sit right over there in that booth, and if the place got raided they’d escape through the tunnels,” I add, sounding absurdly gratified, even to my own ears. Zach looks dubious, as though I’m claiming I used to date Elvis.

Caralora says, “Well, actually—” and I interrupt her interruption: “But Caralora, you know the management won’t let anyone go down there. I heard they’ve bricked up the exits, anyhow.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too,” she replies evenly. “I’m just following your instructions, though. You ready?”