Amerika (12 page)

Jackie Jiried to mask her alarm, yet somehow she was not at all surprised. “Why? Where?”

“My old man talks about these runners—guys working with the resistance. Most of them head west. There’s a big movement out there.”

“That’s really stupid, Justin,” she said angrily. But not for nothing was she Amanda Bradford’s daughter; she too felt the nobility and appeal of his quixotic decision.

“Well, that just about answers my next question.” Even unasked, the question was terrifying. Jackie studied Justin’s face a moment, trying to gain some control over her rising anger. “You want me to come with you? You’re crazy. I can’t just leave. What about my family—my dancing?”

If Justin had expected any other answer, he didn’t let it show. He was one of those who would rather bear a thousand wounds than admit that he was wounded. He shrugged and turned to go.

She reached out to stop him. “Jus, wait. Look, I don’t know—it’s scary. Let me think about it. I gotta go. Will you wait?”

“Awhile.”

She kissed Mm and started to leave, stopping dead in her tracks. “Damn!”

Justin followed Jackie’s gaze and saw a kid of thirteen coming down the hall. He was wearing blue pants, wMte shirt, and red tie as well as the red armband of the Young Lincoln Brigade.

Justin pulled her to him. “If we just pretend we’re makin’ out . . .’’He kissed her, and when she struggled free, the monitor was upon them.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, with an exaggerated air of self-importance.

“I wanted to ask her something.”

“Everybody’s supposed to be in class.”

“It was important,” Jackie said. “I’m going right now.”

“I have to report it. What’s your name?”

Justin showed his teeth. “Max S
mi
th. And this is my sister, Abigail.”

“Those aren’t your names. I’m calling the principal.” Justin grabbed the boy by his collar. “Listen, you little red-tied pimple, you’re not going to call the principal. You’re going to walk quietly down that hall or I’m going to tear your stupid head off. Understand?” “It’s okay,” Jackie said evenly. “I’ll go to the principal’s office.” She looked at Justin. “You’re making it worse,”

The boy started to yell. Justin clapped one hand over his mouth and wrestled him to the floor. “Don’t, Justin, please!” Jackie grabbed Justin, and the boy broke loose, Jabbing his whistle into his mouth and blowing with all his might.

Doors flew open, teachers and students poured out. Several of the teachers seized Justin. One of them who appeared was Justin’s aunt Alethea. She started toward Justin but stopped, realizing that by this time there was nothing she could do.

Minutes later, Justin and Jackie were escorted into the office of the principal, Mr. Purvis, a plump, nervous man. Purvis had learned to defer to the real power in the school, Vice-Principal Herb Lister, the top PPP official in Milford County. Lister, a small, balding man with a pinched face, was clearly delighted by the scene before him.

‘‘Jacqueline, do you know that an unauthorized meeting is grounds for expulsion?” he demanded.

Alethea, who had joined the group, said, “Okay, Herb. So they’re guilty of a capital offense, why not take ’em out and shoot ’em in the quad during lunch!”

“You’re here to help, Alethea,” the principal said softly.

“You people think you can get away with anything,” Lister said. “The Milfords of this world are no longer better than the rest of us. I’m bringing this issue before the advisory committee—since it involves the county ad
mini
strator’s daughter and a well-known hooligan and malcontent from a former elitist family. And we’ll see—we shall see a lot of things. Like how it’s possible for people of questionable loyalty and character to continue to teach.”

“Just a moment, please,” the principal pleaded. “I have a responsibility here.”

“No you don’t,” Lister declared. “This is a political matter and that is my area of responsibility.”

With a final leer at Jackie, he stalked down the hall.

Peter Bradford was on an emotional roller coaster. He was angry with Jackie, determined to get Justin Milford out of her life. And yet, when he walked into Herb ’n Betty’s that morning he was overwhelmed by the townspeople’s heartfelt congratulations on his nomination. “Hey, I’m just one candidate out of five,” he protested, but as far as his friends were concerned, his selection was already official.

Peter was still beaming from the warm feeling of the morning when Alethea and Jackie unexpectedly entered his office. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by a mountain of paperwork.

“Safety in numbers, huh?”

Alethea smiled. “I’m a witness. Parents sometimes categorically disbelieve their own kids.”

Peter looked to Jackie. “We’ve never had that problem.” He noticed that she held back a little. “Well, at least until now. Well, kid, all I can tell you is that your timing is lousy.”

“It was no big deal, really.”

He got up from his desk and walked to her. “Not according to Mr. Lister.” He kissed her. “You know, one of the interesting things about life today is you never know what’s a big deal and what isn’t. I’ll have to think of a way to handle this.”

“I think you should just fire Mr. Lister. He’s so dumb he’s dangerous,” Jackie said.

“Well, you’re right about one thing. He’s dangerous.”

“Peter, it wasn’t her fault,” Alethea said.

“I could have guessed that, with Justin involved.” “He’s really not so bad; he’s sort of like Devin—got good stuff in him, but it bursts out in funny places. Honestly, this was all pretty innocent,” she continued. “Alethea, he attacked an eighth-grader.”

Alethea smiled. “You have to know the eighth-grader.”

Peter walked back to his desk, but did not sit down. “I know it’s all very funny, and it’s only us folks who are in a place of authority who can’t take a joke. I, as you may or may not know, come to this not a big fan of your favorite nephew, despite your assurances, Alethea. And I’m particularly not ecstatic about Jacqueline’s hanging around with him.” He turned and looked directly at Jackie. “Which I must tell you, young lady, is at an end.”

Jackie was growing increasingly frustrated. “You never even asked me why it happened—why Jus wanted to see me.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. Sometimes it doesn’t matter so much why something happens as what it causes.” Jackie had had enough. She walked to the door and turned to her father. They stood a moment, unable to bridge an emotional gap each was only beginning to be aware of. “He needed me,” she said softly, and left.

The train ride up from Texas was a slow, dirty purgatory, lurching between the horrors of the past and the uncertainties of the future. Amtrak’s service had not improved under the new regime. The passengers in the car were scattered, as though avoiding contact with one another. It wasn’t crowded and no one sat next to anyone else.

Devin spent most of the trip sitting alone by a dirty

window, crouched in the manner of those long confined, as if there were always a barrier, always a cage, around them. On the last night of his journey, a few hours out of Omaha, he was stirred out of his restless sleep. A car’s headlights raked across the windows of the train. Suddenly , with a jolt, the train came to a halt. The passengers peered out the windows. Cracks and pops of gunfire cut into the eight. A man dressed in black threw open the door to Devin’s compartment. An M-16 preceded him, held out in front of his body. Over his face the man wore a black stocking cap with the eyes cut out.

“Everybody up and face the windows,” he commanded harshly. “Put your travel visas and valuables on the seat behind you.” He watched each of the passengers closely, his gun now held at gut level. He reached out for a man’s visa. “You’re from Houston.” He laughed, a short and cynical cackle. “You an oilman? All of you are collaborators. You wouldn’t be riding around on this train if you weren’t. I’m going to give you a choice: either get off this train right now and join the Texas Guards, or give up your cash and valuables to support the resistance.”

Nobody moved. In the silence, guns exploding a short distance away could be heard. The man started to move down the fine, picking up the wallets and personal belongings. He walked to Devin.

“Where’s your visa, man? And your stuff?”

“I don’t have any,” Devin answered slowly, reaching into his pocket as if to prove his point.

“Watch it dude,” the man threatened.

Devin cautiously pulled out his papers. The man looked at them.

“Devin Milford. I be damned.” His face broke into a
grin. “I heard you speak. I’m a ’Nam vet too.” He shrugged. “Hell, I would have voted for you. Get your stuff, the commander’ll get his rocks off seeing you.”

“I’ll stay,” Devin, said quietly.

“What the hell for?”

“Just my preference.”

“They get your balls?”

Devin remained silent.

“Shit. You sure turned gutless. Things got a little rough in ninety-two and you folded. The hell with it. You’re not worth the trouble. Maybe I should cut you off right here—save you the trouble of livin’ the rest of your life.”

Devin just looked evenly at h
im
. The man stood firm, then finally moved away to fill his bag from the rest of the car. Outside, a car honked—the signal to withdraw. As the man came back down the car, he stopped beside Devin, who was again facing the window.

“You’re nothin’,” he grunted. He started to leave, then suddenly reached out and gave Devin a vicious chop to the back with the butt of the gun. Devin pitched forward. The Resister thought briefly about shooting the man he had once admired, but the insistent homs outside changed his mind. He walked out the door of the train, his black figure blending into the darkness of night.

It was still dark when the tarnished Amtrak train pulled into the terminal. Built in 1890, the station had retained an atmosphere of grandeur with its vast vaulted ceilings made of stone from nearby quarries. At this t
im
e of night, it was virtually deserted.

Devin got off the train alone and walked slowly down
the platform toward the main waiting room. Once inside, he stood perfectly still for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He spotted two soldiers along the far wall—one national guardsman, one SSU. The American soldier wore an olive-drab helmet liner, the other a white liner with wraparound blue stripes: the mark of a UN peacekeeper. Instinctively, Devin moved away from them, circling around the perimeter of the cavernous room, as might a fugitive.

Ward was standing against the far wall, studying this newcomer. When he finally recognized him, he was shocked at how Devin had aged, at how thin and gaunt he was. Devin’s beard was new, and Ward was startled by the fact that it was almost entirely gray, a sharp contrast to the chestnut brown of Devin’s hair and mustache. Ward pushed his felt hat back from his forehead, sighed, and walked slowly toward his younger brother.

When Ward was still some thirty feet away, Devin looked up, instinctively aware that he was being approached. His look caused Ward to hesitate for a moment.

“God, Dev—” He stopped abruptly, his sadness at what Devin had become spilling into his voice.

Devin tried a smile and a shrug. Tears filled his eyes. Slowly, he extended his hand. “Hello, Ward.”

Ward ignored the hand and gave his brother a bear hug. Carefully, Devin put his arms up to Ward’s waist. They held each other, as Ward grimaced to hold back his tears. “It’s the shits, man. God damn if it ain’t.”

And then he attempted a joke. “What a pair we are,” he said. “Me fatter’n ever and you about to dry up and blow away.” Ward reached down and grabbed Devin’s duffel bag. They walked toward the exit side by
side—they didn’t exactly feel like strangers, just not like the brothers they’d once been.

They drove most of the way in silence, the faint light from the dashboard illuminating their faces. For most of Ward’s life, Devin had outshone him. Ward had dropped out of college after one year, gotten married, and joined the sheriff’s office. Unlike Devin, he had been content to live and raise his family in Milford. He knew he was not a glamorous man or as intelligent as Devin. Yet he had never resented his brother’s success.

Or had he? In the buried psychological life of families, no emotion is ever quite unalloyed by tinges of its opposite. Had Ward Milford been a more sophisticated or self-aware man, he might have wondered if his curiously dispassionate greeting of his prodigal brother might not have had some deeper cause.

Finally, as they neared town, Ward’s voice broke into the silence. “You get much news down there?”

Devin shook his head.

“That’s what we figured.” Ward sighed. “Never heard from you so we figured you never got anything from us, neither.”

“You write?” Devin asked tentatively.

Ward nodded. “To you, care of the state. You?” Devin shook his head. “It wasn’t permitted.”

Ward suddenly pulled the truck to the side of the road, leaving the motor running. “Look,” he said. “There’s some things you oughta know. We took some heat back there. Dad lost most of the farm. They confiscated it, said it was reparations—for you being a people’s enemy. They moved a bunch of Exiles on our land. And they bumped me out of being a sheriff. I’m not complaining.” He smiled, though he found it difficult to keep an accusing edge out of his voice. “I
guess I’m lucky to be around at all. I guess what I’m sayin’ is don’t expect a hero’s welcome or anything like that.”