Amerika (14 page)

Peter looked from Ms wife to his daughter, furious but trapped. The logic of Amanda’s words was inescapable. He opened the door and stared coldly at Justin. “TMs is my home and Jacqueline is my daughter. You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he declared, and stormed out of the room.

Justin stood in the doorway, confused by the sudden burst of anger. “Hi, Justin,” Amanda said. “You’re letting the cold in. There’s some soda in the icebox.”

She walked out of the room, closing the hall door behind her.

Jackie walked over to him and kissed him. “You’re cold,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.

He stood stiffly. “What the hell is this? Your parents tell you everything you’ve got to do?”

“They’re my parents, Jus. Daddy’s just being a father.”

Jackie led him to the table, trying for levity. “C’mon. Take off your coat and stay awhile. We’ve got fifteen minutes. Whattaya say we make love?”

Justin didn’t smile. He remained standing. “My uncle came home.”

“That’s great.”

“He’s wasted. They blew him out. Maybe they even did a lobotomy or something. I don’t know.”

She walked over to him, feeling his pain, “Oh, Jus.” “I can’t hack this anymore,” he said. “This system. The way they twist people’s lives. I’ve got to fight back. Look, we tan go to the Rockies, or even Alaska. If I stay around here, the best I can hope for is some job as a laborer. The same for you—you said so yourself. This is our chance. If we wait, we’ll get sucked in, like everybody else.”

“I can’t go, Jus. Not now. They’ve reinstated me for the Area Dance Company.”

Justin stiffened, as if he’d been struck. “Screw the dance company! Your old man fixed it.”

“You said yourself I deserved it.”

“And you’re buyin’ it? They reject you and you’re sad, they tell you you’re good and you’re ready to buy into the whole goddamn scam?”

“I am good, Justin.”

“It isn’t about being good. It’s about being one of them.”

“I’ll spend my life being me, Justin. I can have a good life.”

“I thought you wanted me in your life. That’s what you said. Or have you forgotten so fast?”

She lowered her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I want you both. You and my dancing.”

“But you can’t have us both,” he said. “It’s two different lives. You have to choose.”

“Oh God, Justin. That’s what my father said.” “Well, for once he was right. Choose, Jackie. Me or them.”

The question, the ultimatum, put her in an emotional vise. But it was unfair to expect her to come with Mm.

“Justin, I love my dancing.” She could barely hear her own words.

“More than you love me?”

“No. But... I just can’t run off to Alaska. Maybe later. Maybe ...”

“Okay,” he said slowly. Then, his words coming faster and louder, “Good luck, Jackie. I hope you’re happy.”

He was out the door in an instant. Jackie froze, too proud to call after him, but when she heard the sputter of his motorcycle, she rushed out with an agonized cry.

Justin sat astride the bike, ramrod-stiff with awareness that the door had opened behind him. He turned and glared at her. She’d never seen that look, which she knew well, directed at her. It stung deeper than she thought anything could. “Justin,” she said softly.

They maintained their positions, waiting for each other to make another move. Finally, Justin jerked down his goggles and gunned the engine.

“I love you,” she cried, forgetting everything except the fact that he was going. But her words were drowned out by the thunder of his bike’s motor, and suddenly he really was gone.

The welcome-home d
in
ner was Alethea’s idea, though she herself could not have said whether she conceived it on a generous, loving impulse, or as a cruelly ironic comment on the hostile band of strangers that the Milford family had become. She recruited Betty, Ward’s plump, good-natured wife, and the two of them spent the afternoon scrounging around for the ingredients for some of Devin’s favorite dishes: Irish stew, sweet potatoes, combread, and chocolate cake.

Alethea decorated the dining room. It was a formidable task, because even in better times, it had been, a dark, gloomy room, with heavy Victorian furniture, thick drapes that swallowed the light, and portraits of grim ancestors. Alethea had always thought, with those eyes on you, who could enjoy a meal. She put up red, white, and blue ribbons, and again she was scarcely aware whether her true intention was to honor her brother or in some sense make a mockery of the patriotic colors that had brought so much misfortune to them all. Above the sideboard, she hung a hand-lettered placard that said
welcome home, dev,
but even the printing, scrawled in her shaky hand, seemed ambivalent.

In all, the ambience fell far short of festive.

Will Milford, stem and silent at the head of the table, cast a pall over the evening. Ward gamely tried to keep conversation going, mostly with Alethea, whose spirits were kept afloat by a large glass of Scotch. She gulped from it frequently, knowing that each sip was a rebuke. Betty sat silent, worrying about Justin, who had not been seen all day, although she hardly expected him to
show up for a family dinner. And Devin, the guest of honor, sat on the edge of his chair at the foot of the table, picking at his food. He had no appetite for food—it had taken him a few minutes to realize that they’d fixed the dishes he’d liked best—and not for conversation either. He was almost as silent as his father.

“First they took the farm and put the Exiles on it,” Ward was explaining to Devin, “then they took our house, then Alethea’s. We wound up with just this house and the fifty acres around it.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, to all live together under one roof the way our ancestors did,” Alethea quipped. “Talk about your nuclear family!”

“The Exiles are mostly helpless out here,” Ward continued. “Don’t know the first thing about taking care of themselves. Can’t dig a cesspool or a leach line. Damn near had to keep them from pissing in the streams.”

“They’re city people, but most of them are good folks,” Betty protested.

“If they’re so good, what’d they do to get themselves sent here?” Ward demanded.

“The same thing Devin did to get sent to prison,” Alethea retorted. “Standing up to the government.” “We’d do a hell of a lot better in this county without them,” Ward insisted. “Some of them steal grain from the elevators—that’s one reason we might not reach our quota this year.”

“Is it better to ship it to Russia? What do we get for it there?” Alethea demanded. “I’m sick of blaming the Exiles for every damn thing.”

The room became suddenly quiet. Finally, Betty said with forced cheerfulness, “I think it’s time for a surprise.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and in a moment returned carrying a cake.

Devin grinned, boyish again, in spite of everything, at the prospect of the sweet spongy dough and the chocolate icing that had been coaxed into delicate elf-curl points. Betty led the off-key singing.
Welcome ho-ome to you, Welcome ho-ome to you, Welcome ho-ome Dear Devin, Welcome ho-ome to you.

The song broke off when Will lurched to his feet, banged the table, and stamped out of the room. In the hush that followed, Aiethea went to Devin and kissed hitn. “Well, almost everybody’s giad you’re home,” she said gently.

A hint of amusement danced in his eyes. “Three out of four ain’t bad,” he said. “Better than my last vote

count.”

They all laughed a little too much, grateful for the break in tension.

“You gotta understand him,” Ward said. “All his life—ten thousand acres. Milfords worked hard for this land. Hell, we used to produce six hundred thousand bushels of com, and a hundred fifty thousand of wheat.”

“What about milk for half of Omaha,” Aiethea said sarcastically.

“Damn you, Ali,” Ward grumbled. “Why do you do

this?”

“We’re not those Milfords anymore. If we’ve lost, then think of all the people in the country who’ve lost even more. How about their lives? How about Devin? He’s been in a prison camp for five years and we’re sitting around mourning our past. We’ve lost what our forefathers built, not what we created.” Aiethea looked around the dining-room table. “Look at us, we sit around clinging to our last fifty acres. We’re not doing anything, we’ve given up. All we do is peek through the windows at the awful squatters, thinking, Well, there goes the neighborhood.”

“What are you doing, Ah?” Ward asked. “What are you doing to make it better? You call getting drunk and sleeping with that—”

“Stop it, Ward,” Betty demanded. “Don’t you say anything else.”

Alethea pushed back her tousled hair and tried to regain her dignity. “We all have our weaknesses. I try not to hate the Russians, the Exiles, or even myself.” She stood up. “I’m sorry, Dev,” she said. “This is one hell of a homecoming party.” She stumbled into the kitchen and out the back door.

Devin got to his feet and followed her.

He started out to find Alethea, but when he saw the light in the barn he was drawn to it. Devin crossed the yard, beneath a broad and starry sky, and stopped at the bam door. His father was spreading hay into the troughs of his dairy herd, using this most basic labor to exorcise his anger. Four cows chewed silently in their stalls.

“Dad.”

The old man looked at his son, then turned away and continued to work. Devin found a second pitchfork and wordlessly began to help him spread the feed. For five minutes they worked side by side, until Devin said, “We’ve got to talk sometime.”

The old man kept on working. His face was sweaty and red, his hair hung down over his eyes.

“Like it or not, I’m your son,” Devin said.

“There ain’t nothing about you that’s mine,” Will said evenly. “And there ain’t nothing about me that’s yours. Let’s leave it that way.”

“I want to try to explain ...”

“You’ve been a part of something else for twenty years, something that hasn’t done us any good, hasn’t done anybody any good.”

“I understand how you must feel,” Devin said. “I respect how you’ve lived your life.”

Will lowered his fork and stared coldly at his son. “Do you? You’ve lived your life like it didn’t mean a damn what I did—or my father or his either. Three generations of Milfords have worked this land, carving it outta nothing: all good, loyal Americans. Building up this country. Then you come back from Vietnam tearing it down. Then you go off on some showoff thing against this new bunch. The only good it did was call attention to yourself.”

“I was trying to do the right thing. To help save America.”

“You lost the land!” his father shouted. Fighting for control, he plunged his fork into another pile of hay. Devin watched him, anguished, silently pleading for acceptance.

As if Will heard his thought, he stopped pitching and glared at Devin. “They say I got to live with you. Eat with you. But that don’t mean I’ve got to talk to you.” He spread the hay furiously. Devin laid his pitchfork against the bam wall and walked slowly back to the house.

At dawn the next morning he moved out.

Andrei and Kimberly were watching home videos of Devin Milford. Images of Devin’s face illuminated the huge screen. He was laughing, younger then, lifting a small child into the air. It was Billy, age three. Devin brought the child back into his arms kissing him, and reached around to bring Marion into the frame. Ran
dom shots of Devin’s family on the Milford farm. Alethea, Ward, Betty; young children running amuck across the fields.

Kimberly watched the videos silently. Something about this man moved her. She stared at a shot of Devin alone. He stood a little away from the Milford clan, looking over the land, then back to his family. Kimberly recognized the look of great sadness on his face. A second later he waved to the camera and smiled.

“He knows,” she said, speaking quietly into the darkness of Andrei’s apartment.

The tape stopped. Andrei started to rewind it. “What does he know?”

“That something is going to happen.”

He looked over to her and saw that she had tears in her eyes. “What is it? Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed so sad. It was as if he was having a good time with his family, but he’s still alone. Except maybe with the boy.”

Andrei walked over to the machine and took the tape out. “It was interesting how happy he and Marion seemed. A few years later, she betrayed Mm.” He walked over to his desk and rummaged through a pile of tapes and files. “Here’s a tape of him announcing his candidacy for president.” He started to put the tape in. “Do you remember him much?”

Kimberly repositioned herself in the chair. “I’ve never been particularly interested in politics.”

Andrei turned the machine on. Devin stood before a podium in Washington at the Vietnam Memorial. He had an undeniable charisma, Kimberly thought. She found herself listening intently to his speech—about the sense of greatness Americans had always assumed to be an integral part of their heritage but which was destroyed with Vietnam. He spoke of the dangers of the New Society which the Kremlin had designed for America, supposedly to give Americans the opportunity to be “truly equal.
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