Daybreak (29 page)

Mackenzie said firmly, “You should go on. You were right when you said it is necessary. Go on, Albert.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, my wife and the little girl were in the south of France. Then the Nazis came, and the Vichy government, and we knew we had to move on. We thought of crossing the Pyrenees into Spain, then Lisbon, where we would wait in safety for some visa to anywhere in the world away from Europe. You hired a guide and went on foot across the mountains, a long, hard, dangerous trip. Guides could betray you, and German patrols lay in ambush. Nevertheless, we started out in a party of eight, people we had met along the way, and we would have gotten through if it had not been for my wife’s miscarriage. I have to sit down,” Albert said abruptly.

It relieved Tom not to have the man standing above him, blocking the view of middle space. There had been no place to which he could direct his gaze, since the dog had moved away, except the old man’s chest. Now, while a volley of words continued, he looked out to the lawn.

“I’ll make it short. As soon as my wife was able to walk well enough, though not well enough to cross a mountain range, we returned to the place in Toulouse where we had been hiding. What’s the use of even trying to describe our days there? Huddled in a room, afraid to go out on the streets except for a quick foray to get food. So? So they caught us and interned us, women and children in one camp, men in another. After that came the long train to Auschwitz. I never saw them again. They died, my wife and our little Lotte. I lived. That’s all.”

“You’re wearing yourself out,” Frieda said. “It’s not good for you to relive all that, not worth it.”

“But it’s good for Tom. It’s worth it for Tom. Now I want him to hear your story.”

Frieda was reluctant, and in Tom’s opinion, that was to her credit. Who wanted to stand there or sit there and spill his guts out to a stranger? For I am a stranger, he said to himself, a stranger to them and their sadness. Of course, it’s terribly sad about his wife and the little girl. And it has to be true, he couldn’t have made it up, there are the numbers on his arm, he wasn’t lying, his eyes were wet. Still, there has to be more to it, there has to be a reason why all this happened. When you read Hitler’s book, you get the other side of the story, loud and clear. Anyway, what has it all got to do with me?

Frieda was hastening through her narrative. “I was
born here after my parents escaped. My father was a young doctor in Germany when the troubles began. He had just married my mother. The two of them went to Italy, where he learned Italian and got a license to practice. Then came Mussolini; so they fled again, this time to New York, where he had to learn a second new language and start all over. But for me, life was easy, I was an American child. I grew up, married Albert, we had Margaret, and when she married Arthur, we came here to be near them. That’s all. A short story.”

“But far from simple,” Mackenzie observed, and looked meaningfully toward Tom.

Again Tom had the feeling that the entire performance this day had been rehearsed. They were trying to rope him in, to make him one of them. But he wasn’t one of them. The very thought made him sick. These people were victims, always beaten, always losing …

And he had a vision of them down through the years ahead, continually reaching for him by letter, telephone, and in person. He would be asked again and again to come back here. Mom would plead with him to go. Dad would defend his refusal, and the home that had been calm would be destroyed by quarreling. Worse yet, the news about this horror would leak out. The world was not so big that such a thing could remain hidden forever.
AMAZING BABY SWITCH
would scream out of the headlines in those papers that they sell at the supermarket checkout counter.… He felt breathless, stifled.

“Well, have you any thoughts about what you’ve heard?” asked Arthur.

“Not many.”

“A few thoughts, then. I would like to hear your few thoughts.”

He would not look at Arthur, but kept his gaze upon the lawn and on the trees through which the wind was briskly moving. It reassured him to see that air was circulating, that he was not going to be smothered.

Patiently, Arthur repeated, “Your thoughts?”

Tom forced himself to come to. “I’m sorry the little girl died. All of them. It was sad.”

“They were your people. Did you feel that?”

“No, I’m not Jewish. I’m a Methodist.”

“You’re perfectly free to be a Methodist, but they were still your people.”

“No.”

“Well, let’s allow for the moment that they weren’t. Should anyone at all write the things that appear in that paper for which you write? Should anyone?”

“I got hold of a copy,” Holly said. “It has your name on the masthead. Your disgraceful name.”

“Holly!” warned Margaret.

So that was what they had been leading up to.

“Your church doesn’t agree with the ugly lies in that paper.”

The man hung on like a bulldog with its teeth in someone’s leg. And Tom flared up.

“Look, I came here because you wanted me to. I didn’t come to defend myself. I didn’t expect to be attacked.”

Margaret said softly, “It’s only that we want you to accept us as we are, Tom.”

She was sitting in a wicker chair close to his, and now impulsively, she laid her hand over his hand, pressing it so hard that he turned to her in astonishment. Her expression was so intense that it frightened him. It repelled
him. This was the first time she had touched him, and he had an awful thought, shocking himself with the awareness that, in spite of Bud’s denials, this was the woman within whose body he had come to life. It had never crossed his mind to think of Mom in that way; if it had, he would have shrunk from the thought as from an obscenity. And now this woman, this strange woman—

He jerked his hand away. Everyone saw him. The gesture was unmistakable.

“I just want to be let alone, now and forever. It’s a free country, isn’t it? Why won’t you let me alone?”

Margaret stood up trembling, and Holly put her arms around her.

“Today was my mistake,” said Mackenzie, “I hoped it would be otherwise. God knows, I don’t want to make things harder for you people.”

“Or for Tom,” Margaret amended.

“Well,” said Mackenzie. “Well. Suppose we call it a day. Tom, let’s go.”

Tom was still not feeling well. It was still an effort to breathe. Mackenzie was angry, and would have plenty to tell Mom, no doubt about it. The affair was a mess. He had stupidly allowed them to make him lose his cool. So now, through civility, he had to try to retrieve it.

“I did not intend to be offensive,” he said stiffly. “Please excuse me if I was.”

“Oh, Tom,” said Margaret, still holding Holly.

Arthur went to the door with them. “Thank you for everything,” he said to Mackenzie, and shook his hand.

“Another time it will be better,” he told Tom, and did not touch him.

As they drove away, Arthur was still standing at the door watching them go. On his face was the same stern, grieving gaze.

They went a mile or two before Mackenzie spoke, saying dryly, “Didn’t go so well, did it?”

“What made you think it would?”

“I don’t know. I sort of hoped.”

They drove another short way before Mackenzie spoke again. “You hurt them, you know.”

Tom knew well how much he had, especially when he had rejected Margaret’s hand. He hadn’t really meant to do that. It had been automatic, something he couldn’t help. So he shouldn’t be condemned for it.

“They wouldn’t let me be. You heard how he forced answers out of me. Then he didn’t like my answers.”

“They weren’t very likable.”

“To you, and them.”

“I don’t understand. Your mom says you’re softhearted. Yet I saw that you were annoyed with Albert’s terrible story. I don’t understand.”

“I was only annoyed because they tried to connect me with their misfortune. These—Jews—are losers, and I’m not one of them.”

“No, you’re wrong. They’re not losers, they’re victors. People who can survive such horrors are victors.”

“But first they’re victims, and there’s a reason. I could give you some literature on the subject and you’d see why.”

“You’re talking nonsense, evil nonsense. Someday you’ll find that out.”

Mackenzie spoke sharply. It was too bad. There were a hundred miles to go sitting next to a man who didn’t like him. When he put on a tape, Beethoven this time, he didn’t ask for Tom’s preference.

A neighbor from across the street was standing at the front door looking up and down the road when they arrived at the house. Mackenzie had barely stopped the car, when she ran to it, crying frantically, “Tom, Tom! Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t know. What’s the matter?”

“It’s Timmy. He’s awfully sick, the worst I’ve ever seen, worse than three years ago, remember Labor Day weekend when you had to rush him to the hospital? He couldn’t get his breath, and the pain in his chest was that bad, remember—”

Tom’s heart had begun to race. “Yes, yes. Where is he?”

“I called your father and he said it would take too long for him to come get him at home, so he asked me to take him to the hospital. And your father said he’d meet us in the emergency room.” The woman was almost sobbing. “Your mother left first thing this morning, I saw her leave but I don’t know where she went, she never stays away the whole day shopping! Oh, I wish I knew where she went!”

“Get back in the car, Tom,” Mackenzie said, for Tom had jumped out. “Come on, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

They rode for a few blocks, while Tom, turning away from Mackenzie, looked out of the side window. Mackenzie saw him gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing and all the color draining out of his face.

“This is a tough day for you. I’m really sorry, Tom,” Mackenzie said gently.

“Thank you.”

Suddenly Tom began to talk. “Three years ago, you heard, they didn’t think he would live. He was choking … God, if you’ve ever seen anybody trying to get air
 … He turns dark blue. All his life … He goes a few years, and we think it’s over … No, we don’t really think it, we know better.”

The terse words came rapidly as of their own volition, as if Tom couldn’t stop talking if he wanted to, Mackenzie thought.

“He’s such a good kid, they think he doesn’t know he’ll die young, but he does know … Sometimes I think, it’s funny, if he were a healthy kid, he’d have been a pest. What seventh-grader wants a kindergarten brother to be in his way all the time? But he’s been so sick, I’ve worried as far back as I can remember.”

This hardly seemed to be the same person who had so callously dismissed those other people only a few hours ago.

“My parents,” Tom said. “If Timmy dies this time—”

“It will be terrible,” Mackenzie said quietly, adding as they arrived at the hospital, “If there is any way I can help, Tom, please let me know. And I mean that.”

Tom dashed up the steps. Halfway to the entrance, he turned around to call, “Thank you for the ride. Thank you.”

Mackenzie drove slowly down the street, not quite sure where he was going. The entire drama was unrolling before his eyes, a repeat of that other boy’s life and death. Once more he saw a mother grieving and the despairing father walking up and down the room, up and down. This time, though, his picture was not of Margaret’s round cheeks wet with tears, but of Laura’s bowed, fair head. And he was intensely moved.

His desk at the office must be piled with correspondence after this whole day away, and to be prudent, he should really go back to it. On the other hand, the
local campaign headquarters was only a five-minute drive away. It would be prudent also to find out what was going on there. Yet he knew he had another reason, for had she not said something about helping with the campaign?
Fool
, he said aloud. So Mrs. Rice attracts you. Mrs. Rice is not one of the married women—what’s the percentage?—who play around. That, of course, is one of the reasons she is so alluring.
Fool
, he repeated, and stopped the car under the banner
MACKENZIE FOR THE SENATE
.

The front room was lively. Computers, telephones, and volunteers were working at full capacity. He walked about, questioning and greeting, while his eyes roved, seeking. Then, quite casually, he strolled toward the back room, the mail room, and pausing in the doorway, recognized her by her slender back and her hair, held this day by a loose, dark red silk bow.

Hearing him, she turned and smiled, saying gaily, “I’m as good as my word, you see. I’ve sent a thousand flyers out today.” Then, as if she had this moment recalled the occasion, anxiety wiped out the smile.

“How did it go?”

One calamity at a time is enough for her, he told himself. And so, evading the question, he replied, “Not too badly. But—” And again, as once before, there came to him that image of the deer raising its trustful gaze toward the place where the gun waited. “But they’re looking for you. Timmy isn’t feeling well. I drove Tom to the hospital. Your husband’s there. I really don’t know any more,” he said, while his heart sank.

At once, she swept up her purse and car keys, saying, “Thank you for taking Tom. How kind you are!”

“Are you sure you can drive?”

“Yes. You see, we always know this will come again. We’ve learned to plan how we’ll behave.” She spoke steadily.

“There’s no doubt in my mind about your behavior.”

“But I have to think of Bud and, especially of Tom. He’s had so much …” And now her voice did trail away.

Ralph followed her to the door and watched her out of sight. And he recalled the night, not long ago, when lying awake and allowing his mind to wander without aim, he had counted the times and estimated the minutes he had spent with her. They were very few, perhaps three hours’ worth all told. It was strange that they seemed like so many more.

   You entered the hospital at the side where ambulances came and went. You rushed through the bustle of the waiting room, crowded with white uniforms, bloody bandages, stretchers, and haggard relatives. As always, you felt a shock of surprise that all this commotion should produce so little noise. An ominous quiet, that was it. Waiting. Waiting. Afraid to make a sound. Half whispering, you inquire and are directed, as you knew you would be, to the curtained cubicle where the patient lies.