Quartet for the End of Time (3 page)

It was difficult, however, to keep this in mind.

When the guard reached the far end of the room, and the men stood, twelve or fourteen in all, across the length of it, he stopped and pressed the short stick he carried against the first man's chest so that he stopped, and then all the men behind him, one after the other, stopped, too.

It was only then that she saw him. Toward the end of the line: Alden. And then, next to him—and now she wondered how she had failed to notice either one of them before—Arthur. His lip was cracked, she could see now, and there was a line of blood that ran from it to his chin, then spattered in a spray of lines across his torn white shirt. She looked around now for Douglas. For Chet, and John—imagining briefly that she might only have overlooked them somehow as she had, at first, overlooked both Arthur and Alden. But she did not see them there, and after all it would have been very difficult to miss the boy; let alone tall Chet, or the big Indian. That was good, she reminded herself. That they were not there meant, necessarily, they were somewhere else. But then, almost at once, the possibilities of where they might be if not immediately before her overwhelmed her, and she felt a sudden panic at all the possibilities that existed, both for them and everyone else. But that they existed, she reminded herself, was better than that they did not.

While she was lost in these thoughts, they had been joined by another man, who looked—she was struck by the resemblance almost immediately—very much like her father. They both had the same tall foreheads, closely cropped dark hair, gray at the edges, and were dressed smartly in dark suits, which fit snugly in exactly the same places. Perhaps because she was busy reflecting on this remarkable resemblance, it took several seconds before Sutton realized her father had been speaking to her—his voice followed by the nearly identical low bass of the second man.

Can you identify—the second man, who looked and sounded so very much like the first, was saying (and it was only then, with the sound of the second voice, that she recognized that the words had already been spoken). Now she heard what had been said not only once, but twice, and remembered the hat, which had lain, unluckily, between herself and her father earlier that day.

At first, though, she did not see the hat. She looked up and down the line again, her eye obstinately refusing to settle. But after several more moments, sensing the growing tension as her father, and the man who looked like her father, waited for her reply, she had no other choice, and saw that the hat that had perched incongruously on her father's desk that afternoon was now perched, just as incongruously, on the head of Arthur Sinclair.

It had, after all, been a very simple thing she'd agreed to. To point at a guilty man, wearing a hat, was not a lie, her father had said. And, after all, had she not taken everything she so far believed to be true on simple faith? How was this, then, any different? It had not occurred to Sutton, until that moment, to doubt that what her father had said was true.

Now her father had moved nearer; he had placed his hand firmly on her shoulder.

This was all a terrible mistake. Sutton looked at her father, about to speak—to alert him. She had never in her life seen Arthur wearing a hat, let alone this one. She was about to tell her father that—but then she stopped, realizing that she would then be required to inform her father, if not then, at some later point, how it was she had come to know this, or anything about the man at all. Detecting her alarm, the Judge looked at her sharply.

Is, he said (and again, with the word, she realized that it was being spoken for the second time), the man you
saw
—yesterday afternoon— any of these men that you
see now
,
before you
?

Sutton stared first at her father, then back at the line of men. Something shifted. The edges of the room seemed to dissolve, giving way to blankness. Her father had not let go of her shoulder and now his grip began to tighten.

Tell the truth, he warned, gritting the words between his teeth.

She shook her head. Not exactly in answer, but because she could think of nothing else to do. Her father's grip tightened reflexively. I will repeat the question a final time, he said. The man. You saw. And on which the report
you filed
is based. Is he among the men you see now, before you?

Look carefully, now, the man who looked like her father warned.

Look once more—carefully, her father said, his grip tightening still further on her arm.

Can you identify the man? the man who looked like her father said.

A further blankness descended. And in that blankness Sutton lifted her one free hand and pointed at the hat that had lain on the table, between herself and her father, earlier that day.

There, she said. In a voice hardly more than a whisper. There.

—

T
HE FIRST DAY
S
UTTON ACCOMPANIED
A
LDEN TO THE CAMPS, IT HAD
been pouring rain. They had got soaked through before they were even halfway there, and Alden bought a newspaper and gave Sutton half and took half for himself and they continued with half a newspaper each over their heads. By the time the camps came into view, the newspaper was soaked through and had bled black ink all over their hands. They walked down a rutted path that had sprung up between two rows of tents. The mud was so thick that, after a while, it was difficult for Sutton to keep pace. She had to hop a little in order to keep up with her brother whenever she slipped and lost a step.

Finally, they drew up in front of one of the tents, and—after giving her a quick glance so that she would know to follow—Alden ducked inside.

T
HE TENT WAS LARGER
than she had expected it to be. It was in fact, she saw now, two tents, which had been joined as one—the center marked by a makeshift table, constructed out of a slab door and two half barrels. Around this table, three men and a girl of roughly Sutton's own age were seated on overturned crates. One of the men, very tall, with a long sad face, waved them over. Another shifted in his seat, indicating a space on the bench where Sutton could join them. She sat down and only then realized that it wasn't a man at all she sat next to, but a boy—two or three years younger than herself, she guessed. His eyes, even in the dim tent, appeared very blue, and his light brown hair, which needed cutting, was
thin and soft-looking, like a child's. It fell a little in front of his eyes when he turned to look at her.

Douglas, he said.

Sutton nodded, and the boy looked away. It was not until then that she realized—when it seemed, suddenly, too late—she should have responded with her own name.

In the meantime, Alden had fallen into a heated discussion with the tall man with the long face, and another man Sutton understood at once to be Douglas's father. He had the same eyes and light brown hair—though the older man's had thinned, slightly, at the top. From time to time the girl joined in the conversation, but the boy—Douglas—did not. Several minutes passed this way before Alden paused, and—remembering himself— introduced Sutton to the rest. The man with the long face, whose name was Chet, nodded solemnly. Douglas's father's name was Arthur.

Pleased to meet you, he said.

The girl, Aida, leaned around to look at her.

Didn't you get her good and soaked, she said to Alden. Now Sutton could see she held a child in her arms. The girl saw her looking, and grinned.

Felicity, she said, indicating the child.

By then Alden had placed his heavy canvas bag in the middle of the table, and was extracting from it the remains of their own family's recent Sunday meal. Some fresh rolls, only a little squashed on top, a quarter of a roast, and some stewed potatoes, which he had left in their pot. The juice from the stew had leaked a little at the edges, and as Alden set it down it got on his fingers, which he licked clean. There was a jug of milk, too, and another loaf of bread and a thick slab of butter. All of this Alden took out, one item at a time—not slowly, exactly, but allowing time for a low murmur of approval to swell between each. When the bag had been emptied, everyone began at once to eat. Even the child, who had woken by then, eagerly accepted the little bites of bread and potato Aida offered her. Sutton saw now that the baby was dark like a Chinese, with slanted eyes.

Remember to save some for John, Arthur said, and everyone nodded
and kept eating, but after a while they slowed down and there was still a portion left in every bowl, and Chet nodded in approval and said, Good, there's more than enough, and Arthur put his hands contentedly on his sides. Then he reached for the jug of milk and took a long swallow of it before he passed it on to Douglas. Then Douglas took a swallow, and passed it to Aida, who passed it to Chet, and so on, and when there were only a few swallows left, it was placed in the middle of the table for the absent guest. Then everyone was quiet, and the rain, which had tapered to a drizzle during the meal, stopped, too, so that the only sounds from outside were of people talking and shouting in the near distance, and after a while even that began to seem far away.

Aida asked Sutton if she liked babies very much. Felicity didn't mind strangers, she said, if she'd like to take a turn and hold her. Sutton said yes, she liked babies, so Aida passed her over. The child was surprisingly heavy, but Sutton found she liked the weight, and felt proud to be holding her. Her slanted eyes were as black as Douglas's eyes were blue and the child regarded her with them steadily but did not cry, and after a while settled herself just as she had in Aida's arms, and Aida said, Sure, she likes you.

Then Alden and Chet and Arthur began to talk among themselves again. Arthur was hopeful an agreement between the self-proclaimed leader of the Bonus Army, Walter Waters, and the government, could still be reached. But Chet shook his head.

Naw, he said. Even Glassford's keeping his mouth shut now.

The city's police chief, Pelham Glassford, was a known sympathizer to the Bonus cause, and Sutton noticed that everyone—Arthur in particular—looked uncomfortable now, hearing him slighted.

It's true, Chet said. I don't believe when it comes down to it he'll have anything more than his own best interest in mind—and, well, why should he? You can't trust the one's already got what he needs to do the work for the ones who don't.

Arthur shook his head. Glassford knows he's got to play nice, sure, he said. That's just the way it
is
, Chet—and he knows it. We start playing rough—we're sure to lose. But if we're careful, see, play fair—

Chet slapped a hand on the table. Fair! he said.

Again, Arthur shook his head. For a moment he seemed about to say more—but then he didn't. Chet and Alden carried on without him, and no one interrupted for a while.

There simply isn't any more time, Alden was saying. If we don't get things settled and every man's bonus in hand by July, there won't be any way to get things moving again for six months or more. And wouldn't it—he paused slightly, looking around him at the assembled company, all of whom, he was pleased to notice, were listening intently—be a shame, he said, to waste the efforts of everyone, like yourselves, who've come so far, and from every state in the Union!

Washington's poised—he continued, his voice rising now, gaining confidence with every word—on the very brink, see. And that's not something you can just … set aside. Something you can pick up later. If something's going to change—he concluded, scanning the small company; meeting and, if briefly, each in turn, holding their eyes—
it's got to change now.

In his big overcoat, and in the company of full-grown men, Alden looked even smaller and slighter of frame than he was—almost like a child. His dark hair—which fell, like Douglas's, a little long in front— made his face, especially in the dim light, appear exceptionally pale. Their mother had often lamented the fact that it had been Alden, not Sutton, to inherit her own delicate skin, her slight frame. By contrast, Sutton had always been what her mother called “big-boned.” Her features, too, had been inherited, rather unfortunately, from her father rather than her mother's side: a pronounced chin, a broad nose, and a high forehead—unsuccessfully shortened by a thick fringe of practical, nearly colorless, hair. Though she was more than two full years younger than Alden, she had always been, or very nearly, his equal in size; growing up they had often been mistaken for the same age. Now, however— despite Alden's youthful appearance—she felt the difference in their ages acutely. His voice, Sutton realized with some surprise—as she listened, along with the Chet and Arthur and the rest, and Alden continued to speak—was a man's.

She had just been thinking this—Alden had just paused, taken a deep
breath, evidently aware of the impact his words had made—when the tent door was rolled back and an Indian stood framed in the entrance. An Indian so large that he blocked any light that might have otherwise entered, and made everything else—even Arthur and Chet, who a moment ago had seemed overlarge in their makeshift chairs—seem small by comparison. A shout went up, and everything else—Alden, and Alden's words, which had held them riveted only a short time before— were forgotten. But the Indian, oblivious, did not retreat. Instead, he ducked inside and began to make his way (no, there could be no doubt about it now, Sutton realized, a choking panic growing in her throat) directly toward her.

Before she could think of anything to do or to say, or find some way of protecting either herself or the child she still held in her arms, the Indian had knelt in front of her, smiled crookedly, and lifted the child from her grasp. And still, though a general commotion had erupted in the tent since the arrival of the Indian, no one said anything to him directly, or tried to stop him. The men, and Aida along with them, only continued to sit—chatting casually now among themselves—as the Indian, laughing, swung the child at a dangerous angle above his head.