The Veil
Page 47
“I’ll talk to her tonight.” It was Sunday night, which meant it was dinner night. “Now go away so Cinderella can get into her gown.”
“Cinderella didn’t wear taupe. And she had fairy godmothers and a Prince Charming.”
“I have a store, a lemon tree, and the Commandant’s chief adviser.”
“That is true.” He stood up. “I’ll see you tonight. I invited Burke, if that’s all right.”
“Wait—why did you invite Burke if Tadji’s not into him?”
“Because I like him.” He frowned. “I don’t have many male friends. I need more male friends.”
“Because Tadji and I only want to talk about princesses and ponies?”
Gunnar grunted. “You know what I mean. And he offered to bring red beans and rice. I couldn’t exactly say no to that.”
I looked at Gunnar suspiciously. “He’s not from New Orleans. Does he know how to make it?”
Gunnar shrugged. “He says he can. I say we give him a chance. And since it was your turn to cook, and it doesn’t look like you’ve started anything . . .”
He had a point there. “Fine,” I said. “But if this dinner goes sideways, it’s your responsibility to turn it around again.”
He made a gallant bow. “At your service, ma’am,” he said, and disappeared into the stairwell.
• • •
I got dressed. Today’s ensemble was ankle boots, a short skirt, and a flowy button-down shirt, all of them in taupe. Gunnar’s opinion aside, it was about blending. Especially now, when blending seemed like the best course.
I walked downstairs, flipped on the lights in the kitchenette . . . and nothing happened. I rolled my eyes, checked my watch, made a mental note to try again in ten or fifteen minutes. Power outages usually didn’t last very long. It was the frequency that was irritating. There were members of Congress who’d suggesting moving everyone out of the Zone, bulldozing the area, and layering on new soil from consecrated grounds. That, they assured us, would fix the problem, and we could all get back to normal.
The idea was stupid. And I guess, in a way, we’d gotten used to it. I’d been a normal teenager before the war, and I’d had my own share of gadgets. And yeah, they’d been a crutch, a way for me to tune in or zone out instead of thinking about whatever high school angst I’d been dealing with. In the beginning, it was weird not to have them anymore. But you learned to adjust. And you certainly learned to focus on the stuff in front of you.
I found my usual delivery guy, Trey, outside the back door in his fatigues, fanning himself with his clipboard in the heat. He worked for Containment, distributing across the Quarter the goods that had arrived in the Containment convoy. He stood beside the old mail truck Containment had refashioned into a delivery vehicle that could easily maneuver through the Quarter’s narrow alleys.
“Already a scorcher today,” he said.
“Extra hot this year,” I agreed. “You get to take War Night off?”
“Whole city took the night off. Wife and I had a great time. A little too much Drink, not enough water yet this morning to shake it off.”
“I always forget you’re married,” I said with a grin.
“Fourteen years of bliss. Ida hates me today as much as she hated me the day we were married.”
The truck’s back door was open. He looked over the boxes and their Containment seals, counted them, filled in something on his clipboard.
“What have you got for me today?”
“MREs, big surprise. Nutrition bars. Water. Powdered milk. Soap. Nylon cord. Batteries. Duct tape.” He looked up at me. “You know what they say.”
“Cinderella didn’t wear taupe. And she had fairy godmothers and a Prince Charming.”
“I have a store, a lemon tree, and the Commandant’s chief adviser.”
“That is true.” He stood up. “I’ll see you tonight. I invited Burke, if that’s all right.”
“Wait—why did you invite Burke if Tadji’s not into him?”
“Because I like him.” He frowned. “I don’t have many male friends. I need more male friends.”
“Because Tadji and I only want to talk about princesses and ponies?”
Gunnar grunted. “You know what I mean. And he offered to bring red beans and rice. I couldn’t exactly say no to that.”
I looked at Gunnar suspiciously. “He’s not from New Orleans. Does he know how to make it?”
Gunnar shrugged. “He says he can. I say we give him a chance. And since it was your turn to cook, and it doesn’t look like you’ve started anything . . .”
He had a point there. “Fine,” I said. “But if this dinner goes sideways, it’s your responsibility to turn it around again.”
He made a gallant bow. “At your service, ma’am,” he said, and disappeared into the stairwell.
• • •
I got dressed. Today’s ensemble was ankle boots, a short skirt, and a flowy button-down shirt, all of them in taupe. Gunnar’s opinion aside, it was about blending. Especially now, when blending seemed like the best course.
I walked downstairs, flipped on the lights in the kitchenette . . . and nothing happened. I rolled my eyes, checked my watch, made a mental note to try again in ten or fifteen minutes. Power outages usually didn’t last very long. It was the frequency that was irritating. There were members of Congress who’d suggesting moving everyone out of the Zone, bulldozing the area, and layering on new soil from consecrated grounds. That, they assured us, would fix the problem, and we could all get back to normal.
The idea was stupid. And I guess, in a way, we’d gotten used to it. I’d been a normal teenager before the war, and I’d had my own share of gadgets. And yeah, they’d been a crutch, a way for me to tune in or zone out instead of thinking about whatever high school angst I’d been dealing with. In the beginning, it was weird not to have them anymore. But you learned to adjust. And you certainly learned to focus on the stuff in front of you.
I found my usual delivery guy, Trey, outside the back door in his fatigues, fanning himself with his clipboard in the heat. He worked for Containment, distributing across the Quarter the goods that had arrived in the Containment convoy. He stood beside the old mail truck Containment had refashioned into a delivery vehicle that could easily maneuver through the Quarter’s narrow alleys.
“Already a scorcher today,” he said.
“Extra hot this year,” I agreed. “You get to take War Night off?”
“Whole city took the night off. Wife and I had a great time. A little too much Drink, not enough water yet this morning to shake it off.”
“I always forget you’re married,” I said with a grin.
“Fourteen years of bliss. Ida hates me today as much as she hated me the day we were married.”
The truck’s back door was open. He looked over the boxes and their Containment seals, counted them, filled in something on his clipboard.
“What have you got for me today?”
“MREs, big surprise. Nutrition bars. Water. Powdered milk. Soap. Nylon cord. Batteries. Duct tape.” He looked up at me. “You know what they say.”
