Amerika (44 page)

Amanda promised to speak to Peter about the dangers, but Ward didn’t seem to think Peter mattered anymore. He and his friends were armed, he said, and they were prepared to deal with the SSU on their own terms.

Amanda wanted to see Devin, to talk to him; she thought that he could make sense of what was happening, if anyone could. She knew that Devin and Peter embodied profoundly different philosophies of how Americans should deal with the Russian takeover, and she wanted to hear Devin’s side of it. She’d heard Peter’s side often enough.

He was out at the remains of the Milford house— they were already starting to build a new cabin, Ward said—but she couldn’t go there. She felt an allegiance to Peter, their home and their marriage. She felt too vulnerable to go to Devin.

“Mama! Mama! Come quick!” Jackie called from the head of the stairs, snapping her out of her reverie.

Amanda dashed up the stairs. Jackie’s face was flushed—alive and animated, filled with hope. “What is it, darling?”

“It’s Justin. He ... he sort of smiled at me. Come see!”

Justin was in his wheelchair, facing the window, his unblinking eyes fixed on the rolling countryside where he had spent so many carefree years. Jackie put her face close to his, and Amanda knelt beside him.

“Justin, it’s me, Jackie, my mom and I are here with you. Can you see us? Are you okay?”

Amanda’s eyes were fixed on the boy’s thin, pale face, but she saw nothing; he might have been a Greek statue, of the purest white marble.

“See, Mama? See?”

Amanda searched his face, almost pore by pore, looking for the miracle, but she saw only the same, agonizing immobility.

“Don’t you see? His mouth? He’s smiling; he’s trying to talk.”

Amanda looked even closer. Was that a twitch at the comer of his mouth? Had those lips seemed to move, to tremble? Or was it only her—their—imagination?

“Can’t you see . . . he’s trying to talk to us!” Jackie declared.

“Yes, I see,” Amanda said. “You’re right, he is trying to talk. And he will, Jackie, any day now. You just keep giving him your love.”

Jackie threw her arms around her mother and began to sob, her tears wet and hot against Amanda’s old U of N sweatshirt. “Mama, I can’t stand it if he doesn’t talk to us soon,” she cried.

Amanda stroked her daughter’s soft, chestnut hair. “Yes, you can, darling,” she said. “Yes, you can.”

The next day broke windy and bright, the sky a deep, cloudless blue, the sun hot on their faces, a sweet foretaste of spring.

“What day is it?” Devin asked.

“Friday,” Ward told him. They were out by the bam, savoring the morning’s gentle paradox: the warmth of the sun and the chill of the breeze.

“Friday,” Devin repeated. “Then I declare a holiday. And on this Good Friday we’ll all take a walk.”

“Gonna be muddy out there,” Ward cautioned.

“You don’t know how I’ve missed mud,” Devin said. “I’ve been places where mud was against the law. Let’s go slogging around. Show Billy the sights.”

Alethea joined them. “Dev, you sure you’re up to this?”

Devin grinned. “It’s all that soup you been feeding me,” he said. “I’m full of piss and vinegar. Ready for a ten-mile hike, anyway, if you civilians can keep up.”

“A couple of miles is my limit,” Ward said. “Us law-enforcement types aren’t much for forced marches.”

“I’ll see what food we’ve got,” Alethea said. “And I’ll break the news to Dad: he’s not one of the world’s great hikers, either.”

She turned back to their root-cellar home. They had a canvas roof over it now, and a wooden floor in it. Mostly, they just slept there, because they spent then-waking hours hunting food, working on the new cabin, or planning for their defense when the expected SSU attack came.

Before Alethea could descend the ladder, a car came roaring up the poplar-lined drive.

“Who’s that?” Alethea demanded.

Ward squinted at the oncoming car. “Well, it’s not the SSU, unless they’ve taken to driving banged-up old Pontiacs.”

The car stopped and three men and a young woman climbed out, looking around uncertainly. One of the men sported a modified Afro and a wide grin on his broad, black face. Clayton ran up to Jeffrey, embracing him.

“Well, I guess we can start some trouble now that the press is here.”

“I want you to meet my friends,” Jeffrey said, pointing to the three others. “That big lummox is Ken, my cameraman. Those two beautiful people beside him are Kimberly and Cliff, a couple of actors who’ve joined up with what we laughingly call the resistance. You may have heard we did a little broadcast over in Omaha the other night.”

“Good to see you again, Jeffrey,” said Devin.

Devin looked at the three newcomers, then greeted them warmly. “You turned out the people who took over the hospital and got me out of that hellhole. Thank you.”

Kimberly clung to his hand, her face glowing with affection and awe. Looking around, at the burned-out house, the cellar with its canvas roof, the gun that the big, white-haired man carried on his hip, all she could think was that these people looked like the survivors of a war. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Milford,” she said. “We . . . when we heard what happened at the Capitol, we felt like we had to come here, to see what you’d say.”

“The fust thing I say is you damn well better call me Devin,” he told her. Kimberly was wearing jeans and a parka, but her head was uncovered and the sunlight sparkled on her blond hair.

“I want you to meet my family,” Devin continued. “Then all of you can join our picnic celebration!”

Thus began one of the best days any of them ever knew, a day for memories and magic. With the bright sun melting the snow, with the breeze playing on their faces, they trudged through the trees, over the hills, across the land that had once been the Milfords’ domain, past many of the milestones of their family members’ lives.

Alethea could not recall a better day. Not in her whole life had she ever seen her family together like this, happy and laughing and affectionate. She had grown up knowing her father to be an angry, embittered man, most often barely speaking to his two sons, or to her either. But on this sun-bright day, all three of his children, and his grandson too, walked gladly across the fields arm in arm with Will. It was as if losing his land, even the burning of his home, didn’t matter, because he had been reborn with the love of his family.

Devin led them to the dugout where Billy and Clayton had been hiding, and Will explained its history to the visitors. They picnicked there, and Devin and Billy and Kimberly went down to the pond to skip rocks on the water. Jeffrey, Cliff, and Clayton napped after they ate, and Will went and sat by himself at the top of the hill. Alethea was moved to see him up there, alone, gazing down at them with all the wisdom and courage of a long, hard life. She saw his mortality then, as if he were already dead and he had come back to watch over them. The thought did not depress her or seem improper. Will would die, just as they all would; the tragedy would have been for him to die before enjoying this one magnificent day with his family.

For a time, Jeffrey took Devin aside and talked to him—interviewed him—while Ken filmed them with his portable camera. The others stayed a respectful distance away, granting them their privacy, except for Billy, who delighted in making faces at his father, poking gentle fun at the solemn tone of the interview. When the interview stopped, Devin chased the boy around a tree, pretending great ire at his disrespect. In truth, Alethea thought she had never seen a sweeter love flow between two people.

In midafternoon, they set out walking again. People moved about, talking first to this person, then to another, but Alethea would have been blind not to see that Devin and Kimberly were often drawn together— he boyish and grinning, she blushing and nervous, in the first flush of their attraction. Alethea felt a sister’s unease at this flirtation, and something more than unease when Ken, the cameraman, let it drop that

Kimberly had until recently been the mistress of Andrei Denisov. Ken went on to tell her how Kimberly had left the Russian and joined the underground and that her broadcast in Omaha had paved the way for Devin’s escape.

A few minutes later, when they stopped by a stream for a drink of water, Aiethea walked up to Kimberly and hugged her. When she backed away, Kimberly smiled uncertainly.

“That’s because I like you,” Aiethea told her. “And because maybe we’ve got more in common than you know.”

They rested by the stream and, at Jeffrey’s insistence, Kimberly sang to them, a sad, haunting song from
The Fantasticks.
Everyone was touched by the song and applauded when she finished, even Will.

Kimberly buried her face in her hands. “Please,” she whispered, “it’s nothing really.”

On the way back, in the late afternoon, they stopped at the Milford family graveyard. An old iron fence surrounded the plot, where nearly a hundred headstones stood, many of them worn with age, their inscriptions almost unreadable. Will knelt beside his wife’s grave, absently brushing away snow and leaves. Devin knelt beside him, and dropped an arm across the old man’s shoulders. The old man tousled Devin’s hair, a gesture Devin often did with Billy. Standing a few feet away, Billy watched the rekindling of love between father and son. He ran over to them to be a part of it.

Aiethea watched all this, feeling somehow detached, knowing only that life was fragile and these moments precious. As they returned to the camp, huge thunder-heads were blowing in from the west. No one else seemed to share her mood—they bustled about, busy with this chore or that—but to Aiethea the huge dark clouds seemed to dwarf them, to mock their human concerns; their little band, each with his or her loves and sorrows, courage and hope, seemed tiny and helpless, silhouetted against the great brooding sky.

In the face of infinity, Alethea thought, all we have is our love.

Chapter 16

Andrei, in full
uniform, paced his Virginian communications center impatiently while technicians prepared for his broadcast. He had much on his mind that afternoon. His intelligence reports showed continuing unrest across Heartland. Party loyalists in several cities had clashed with pro-Bradford partisans. The general strike had faltered but there had been outbreaks of sabotage—the public bus service in Cincinnati had been disrupted by slashed tires, power outages were caused by bombings in southern Illinois towns. A police station in St. Louis captured by the PPP had been retaken peacefully, but there were reports that Marion Andrews planned a new appeal to the party cadres. And since his dramatic television appearance, Peter Bradford had not returned Andrei’s phone calls.

The need was for Peter to use the Heartland Defense Force to restore civic peace with minimal force rather

than for Andrei to unleash the SSU. Of course, the next question was whether Andrei could then control Peter and his troops, but that was the risk inherent in his new policy.

“Ready, sir,” the director called.

Andrei straightened his coat and stepped before the cameras. Across America, a dozen SSU commanders awaited his instructions.

“Gentlemen,” he said crisply, “your role in America is entering a new stage. Effective immediately, you will no longer be responsible to PPP officials. You will take no action that does not have the specific approval of this Command. As of this moment, you are on full readiness alert, but restricted to your barracks. You may defend yourselves, but you will not otherwise involve yourself in local conflicts. Any deviation from this order will result in immediate termination of command.”

The cameras switched off and Andrei turned to Captain Selovich, who stood in the shadows. “Get me Major Gurtman on the telephone,” he ordered.

The call was quickly placed. Andrei remembered Gurtman from their one meeting: a very tall, thin East German, cold and capable.

“Major, I trust you saw my broadcast,” Andrei began.

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. I wished to speak with you directly because of the special conditions in your area. What is the situation now?”

“The situation is serious, sir. The people of Milford are armed. They are protecting the two fugitives, Devin Milford and his son. I urgently request permission to retake the town and capture the fugitives.”

“Permission denied.”

Helmut Gurtman struggled to hold back his anger. “May I ask why, Colonel?”

“The townspeople may be armed, but at the moment they have no one to shoot, except perhaps each other. As for the Milford boy, it is not the role of the SSU to pursue missing children, no matter how impassioned their mothers may be. As for Milford himself, I will ask Peter Bradford to see to his recapture, using the defense force if necessary.”

Helmut Gurtman was beside himself. To be confined to his base while the occupied townspeople ran rampant was an outrage to everything he believed as a military man. And to have his former mistress’s family leading this rebellion added insult to injury; it was almost more than he could bear.

“Sir, one further question,” he said stiffly.

“Yes?”

“We may defend ourselves—fire back if fired upon?” Andrei nodded wearily. “Yes, Major, I thought I made that'clear: you may fire back if fired upon.”