Chapter Eight #2
No wonder Isaiah is afraid of dogs.
Iris watched as the Digi-dog took three steps up onto a mound of rubble before toppling over, moving its stiff animatronic legs in the air like a beetle before a fresh chatter of photographs. A few onlookers laughed as it took two officers to right the heavy machine.
“Looks like we’re safe from our robot overlords,” Iris said.
“For now.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m Josh, by the way.”
Iris saw a press pass around his neck— Joshua Keaton, New York Times —and she got an idea.
If the perfume was working in her favor, she wondered if she could use it to the Pattersons’ advantage.
She flipped her hair for extra wafting and feigned surprise.
“You’re Joshua Keaton? I know your name from your byline. I read you all the time. I’m Iris.”
“Really? Thank you.” He flushed. “I’m not used to getting recognized.”
Iris almost felt bad for lying, but it was for a good cause. “Are you writing a story about this?”
“Everything that’s fit to print. NYCHA and housing are my beat.”
“Do they know what caused the explosion?”
“Gas leak caused by neglect. No shocker, unfortunately, this will probably get bumped to D-fifteen, if I’m lucky.
If you know the kind of shape these buildings are in, it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.
The outdoor CO2 meter has long been broken, and down in the basement, police said the Dante valve was missing. ”
“The what?”
“Oh, the regulator on a gas pipe—it’s called a Dante valve, because if you open it, you open the gates of hell, like in The Inferno . Who knew pipelayers were so literary, right?”
Iris thought it a grim name, but she smiled and set about her agenda.
“Actually, I have a good news tip for you. My friend’s teenage daughter, Kiara Patterson, was the one who first identified the smell and called 911, and then she got her neighbors to evacuate.
She saved a lot of people. But NYCHA is excluding her family from the emergency housing because of some rent dispute.
So literally her reward for saving lives is being made homeless. ”
“Hmm. That’s good. Patterson is the last name?” He started taking notes; Iris spelled it for him. Then he looked up and smiled at her. “So I’m pretty much done here and free the rest of the afternoon—”
“That’s a good story, no? Do you think you could write about them? It’s so unfair what’s happening to this family, you could help bring light to the injustice.”
“Sure, right. Maybe.” He scrunched up his nose, either in consternation or to fix his glasses.
“Problem is, the girl wasn’t actually the first person to report the gas.
A resident called in the smell to building admin earlier that morning, and someone was supposed to check it, but no one ever did.
Like many public housing complexes, Hendricks uses an outside contractor for maintenance, and as usual, the guy didn’t show.
I’m more interested in potential corruption and outsourcing to crony contractors, although like I said, this was an accident waiting to happen, so it might not be the best example. ”
“Oh.” Iris didn’t hide her disappointment.
“But ‘hero to homeless’ is still a great angle,” he added, eager to regain her attention.
“I can pitch it to my editor, for sure. Maybe we could talk more about it over drinks? Let me give you my card…” He was handing it to her when his cameraman called to him from a few yards away. “I gotta go. Text me!”
Iris was left holding his card, not particularly hopeful he was going to be of any use to the Pattersons.
—
Roman and the kids were playing with Hugo on the lawn while Veronica was taking waterlogged items from the “Keep” box and doing her best to dry them.
Iris knelt beside her to help. After laying out some books in the sun, Iris pulled out an upholstered bulletin board crisscrossed with purple ribbons and photos tucked inside.
The water had made the ribbons bleed blooms of violet across the photographs, whose edges had gone soft and pulpy, but the images were still clear: Kiara with her girlfriends dressed up; she and her mom showing off manicures; Isaiah taking a selfie too close to the camera, squeezed next to an old man, maybe a grandfather.
Iris carefully slipped each photo from the damp, inky board and brought them over to Veronica fanned out like playing cards. “I found these, but I’m afraid if I stack them, they’ll stick together.”
“Ooh! Thank you.” Veronica took them carefully.
“Did you find your photo albums?” Iris knew those were the only items that mattered.
“Yes! That was my prayer for the day, and I got them. They’re even in pretty good shape.
” Veronica regarded her. “James said you lived through a fire as a child, but you lost your parents. I’m so sorry.
That’s why I keep saying we can’t feel sorry for ourselves, we are so lucky no one got hurt.
What about the rest of your family, siblings? ”
“I’m an only child. But my older cousin was living with us when it happened, Jacob. He saved my life that night.”
“Wow. Like Kiara, springing into action. I’m so proud of her, but I’m so afraid this will change them.”
Iris thought uncomfortably of Jacob. That holiday break his freshman year of college, he’d been sleeping on the pullout couch in the living room not far from where the Christmas lights started the fire, he could’ve run out the front door to safety immediately, but he got eleven-year-old Iris first. While carrying her downstairs, he fell and broke his back but still managed to get them out alive.
They were both hospitalized for smoke inhalation, burns, and, in Jacob’s case, a fractured lumbar spine.
He recovered with the help of a prescription for oxycontin.
And he never got free of it.
He didn’t graduate from St. Joe’s.
He graduated to heroin.
Veronica cut into her reverie. “Did you ever get to feel like a kid again, after it happened?”
Not even close. But Iris smiled. “I had a lot of happy times living with my grandparents.”
Veronica nodded, not likely fooled.