Tin Soldier: a short story (2 page)

He knew it
never bothered Abby.  She’d just think of it as an investment that might pay
off in a few months or a few years.

Rick
understood that kind of patience.  He just didn’t have it for Abby’s
customers.  In an effort to keep himself sane and quiet, Rick picked up one of
the other tin soldiers from the tabletop.

“Put that
down!”  The old man had turned his full attention on Rick in the split second
it took him to lift the toy.

Rick froze,
partly in surprise at the harshness and superiority in the old man’s tone, and
partly to keep from lashing back.  Rick took a deep breath and began to
silently count.

One... two...

“Mr. Jenkins,”
Abby said softly.

The old man
ignored her.  “I said, put that down!”

Three...
four...

Jenkins launched
into a tirade.  He sounded like a government ad.  “Typical of the poor.  Lazy,
stupid freeloaders.  Don’t know a damn thing about responsibility.”

Rick was
acutely aware he was the only one in the room with a gene tattoo between his
eyebrows.  It wasn’t a bad one -- only a “50K” tattoo.  The worst indicator in
Rick’s gene code was hypertension.  Jenkins and Abby were rich enough to bypass
getting tattooed.  They’d already proven their worth.

Five... six...
Rick moved in slow motion.  With all the care he could muster, Rick set the tin
soldier back on the tabletop.

The old man
slapped Rick’s hand.  “Thank God for genetic identification.  The last thing we
need is for poor people to contribute their lousy genes to the pool.  This
country was founded by risk takers, not bums.”

Seven...
eight...

“Rick,” Abby
said smoothly and evenly.  “Would you please show the Wellington set to Mr.
Jenkins?”

Rick exhaled
silently.  No matter how bad things got, he could always count on Abby to come
through for him.  He knelt next to the case he’d carried into the old man’s
shop.  Rick took his time removing the small, polished wood box from the larger
case.  Even though he’d turned his back on the old man, Rick could easily hear
the awe in his voice.

“Wellington?” 
Jenkins said to Abby.  “The Duke of Wellington?”

Abby’s tone
was smooth and disinterested.  “Rick knows more about the set than I do.  He’s
my Wellington expert.”

It wasn’t
true.  Not entirely.  Abby had tutored Rick then pointed him toward the best
research materials available.  Even if Rick did know slightly more about the
Wellington set than Abby, it was because she’d made it so.

When Rick
turned toward the table with the wooden box in hand, Jenkins looked at him in
eager anticipation.  Abby slid over to make room for Rick to sit next to her.

Rick sat down
gingerly.  He felt like an impostor.   Abby was the expert in Americana, not
Rick.  He was nothing more than a chauffeur and a walking sperm bank.  Any
other woman would have treated him like a servant or gigolo, at best.  But Abby
had picked a choice antique and helped Rick get his feet wet.  If Rick could
believe her, it looked like she was game for teaching him how to swim.

Rick’s voice
cracked with nervous tension when he spoke.  “The Duke of Wellington got these
from his pops for his birthday.  The kid was only 8, but somehow he got himself
obsessed with the wars over here in America.”

Don’t blow it,
you idiot, Rick thought.  You can do this.  Don’t screw up.

As Rick
talked, he removed each soldier from the felt-lined box.  He arranged them
slowly and carefully on the tabletop, just the way Abby had shown him.  Each
was a different rank from the Revolutionary War.  In a few minutes, Rick would
describe the differences between the corporal and sergeant and soldier, as well
as describe the poise-and-cock-firelock positions.  “When the Duke died last
January, he knew none of his kin wanted....”  No.  That wasn’t the right word. 
“He knew none of his kin appreciated his soldiers.  He wanted them to be in
good hands, so he made his estate sell them to Ms. Rippetoe.”

Rick counted
to six, just as Abby had practiced with him.

Rick looked as
pointedly as he could muster at the old man. “You do know about Abby--Ms.
Rippetoe’s connection to Valley Forge.”

Suddenly, Mr.
Jenkins was flustered.  He turned to Abby with fluttering hope.  “You have
connections?”

Connections
were the rage.  They opened doors for jobs, club memberships, and special
privileges.  Then there was the boom in genealogy research and American
collectibles and antiques.  There were three ways of proving you’d made it to
the world:  having a child, having connections, or collecting pricey
Americana.  One of the above guaranteed prestige.  Three out of three
guaranteed a life where dreams come true.

Rick voice
grew stronger.  “There were 12 Rippetoes--all of them brothers--at Valley Forge
with George Washington.  Ms. Rippetoe had another relative, Lawrence Connor,
who came here from Dublin as an indentured servant.  After he worked off his
debt, he turned soldier.  He fought side by side with the Rippetoes.  Nine of
the Rippetoes died at Valley Forge. About a hundred years later, one of Connor’s
kin married into Abby’s clan.”

Jenkins gazed
at Abby in complete awe.  “Good God, woman.  You had two ancestors at Valley
Forge?”

Abby smiled
gently.  “I grew up in poverty.  Isn’t that ironic?  But my parents always told
me if I worked hard and learned as much as I could, anything was possible.”

Rick froze
with the last tin soldier in hand.  Abby had never told him about her past.  He
wondered if she was making it up to get a dig in at the old man.

Abby’s smile
was open and warm.  She looked the old man directly in the eyes.

Jenkins
grinned.  “That’s the kind of American spirit I’m talking about!”

Rick placed
the last tin soldier on the tabletop.

Jenkins
shifted back to the soldiers.  “How much do you want for the set?”

###

They walked
toward the hovercraft, parked in the small lot across the street from the old
man’s shop.

When Rick
opened the door for Abby, she doubled over and threw up on the pavement.

Rick frowned. 
She hadn’t said anything about feeling sick.

When Abby was
done, she straightened up, then climbed into the hovercraft.  “Let’s go.”

Rick stored
the case containing the few things they hadn’t sold in back.  As he hopped into
the driver’s seat, he saw Abby look away.  Something was wrong.  “What’s going
on?”  Rick said.

When she
finally spoke, it was so quiet he could barely hear her.  “I’m pregnant.”

###

Rick felt
frozen in time.  All his planning.  All these years.  It was finally paying
off.  For the first time in his life, Rick was getting a taste of what it felt
like for a dream to come true.

But Abby was
crying.

“I don’t get
it,” Rick said.  “It’s what you want.  What everybody wants.  Why the
waterworks?”

Abby kept
looking away.  “I found out three weeks ago.”

Now Rick was
confused.  “Three weeks?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

Abby wiped her
face dry with her hands.  “Because I like you.  I like what we’ve been doing. 
I don’t want to stop.”

Rick wasn’t
surprised she liked the sex.  What did surprise him was how easily the words
popped out of his mouth.  “We don’t have to stop.”

“It’s my
fault,” Abby said.  “It’s just been so long since anyone touched me... but that’s
an excuse.  I should have been honest with you, and I wasn’t.  I’m sorry.”

Rick laughed
it off.  “I already told you, we don’t have to stop.  What’s the problem?”

Rick never
felt guilty when he was in bed with Abby.  He never felt like he was cheating
on Shelly--not really.

But now, he
suddenly felt like a cheat.  Like he was committing adultery, even though he
wasn’t married to Shelly, not yet.

Finally, Abby
looked at him.  Rick hoped none of the guilt showed on his face.

“Let’s go
home,” she said.

Rick drove the
hovercraft up into the air, focusing his attention on traffic.

“I want you to
tell me as much as you can about your family.”

Rick merged up
and into the flow of traffic.  “What?  Why?  We went through it already.  There’s
nothing else to tell.”

“Please, trust
me, Rick,” Abby said.  “Tracing ancestors is my specialty.  Let me do it for
you.”

In that
moment, Rick felt something he’d never felt with Shelly.  In fact, it was
something he’d never felt at all.  It was feeling like where he was and what he
was doing was exactly what he wanted.  But that didn’t make any sense.

He was servant
to a woman.  That made him less than a man.  Abby was rich.  Abby had
prestige.  Abby had power.

Rick had
nothing.

Rick laughed
it off.  “Why?  You think I can make something of myself, like you did?”

When Abby didn’t
answer, Rick took a quick glance at her.  She was staring at him intently.  “If
I can do it,” she said.  “You can do it.”

“What if we
got married?” Rick said impulsively.

It was crazy. 
It wasn’t what he’d planned, and it would mean giving Shelly up.  Somehow, it
didn’t feel like a sacrifice.

Long seconds
passed before Abby answered.  “I wish I could.  I only have enough money to
support the baby and me.  There’s not enough to support you and your family.”

Of course.  By
law, marriage required all immediate family members to live within the same
means.

“What if we
just lived together?”

“It’s the same
problem,” Abby said.  “If I hire a live-in servant, by law I have to let his
family move in.  I’m sorry, Rick.  My home isn’t big enough to hold eight more
people, much less feed and clothe them.”

“Right,” Rick
said, burying his frustration.  “It was stupid ... I don’t know why I brought
it up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rick said
nothing in response, even though Abby sounded as if she really meant it.

He knew what
he wanted, and nothing would stop him from getting it.

###

August 29

The toy seller’s
market was set up in an old office complex in Hartford, Connecticut.  Dealers
from London to New Delhi set up shop in cubicles, and buyers crowded through
the narrow aisles.

Rick was just
returning from the vending machines when he heard Abby call his name through
the crowd.  She’d insisted on staying longer than they’d planned -- and Rick
had memorized doctor’s orders.  At six months, Abby was already looking at the
possibility of bed rest before her due date.

“Rick!”

As he rounded
a corner, he saw her face glowing with a joy he’d never seen in her before.  He
opened a bottle of purified water and handed it to her.

She showed him
the tin soldier.

“Look!” Abby
said.  “He’s a Minuteman!  Look at the detail -- the three-cornered hat, the
musket, his waistcoat...”

As Abby took
the bottle of water, she shoved the tin soldier into Rick’s hand.  Obediently,
Rick examined the toy, not sure what he was supposed to be looking for.  “So?”

“He’s your
ancestor,” Abby said.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,”
Abby said.  “I traced a branch on your mother’s side.  Finneas Brown fell in
love with a woman, but then he left to join his cousins and fight in the war. 
While he was gone, she had his baby.  Once the war was over, he married her. 
They had five more children.”

“That’s
impossible,” Rick said.  He reached for a nearby wall to steady himself.  He
clung to the tin soldier with the other hand.  “The government--”

“I know,” Abby
said.  “The government does a preliminary trace of every citizen’s roots.  What
most people don’t know is it’s a very shallow trace.”

Rick held on
even more tightly to the soldier.

Abby took a
swig of water.  “Your ancestor was the first-born child of Finneas Brown, his
only child born out of wedlock. Sometimes bastard children can be a bit more
difficult to find in the kinds of records the government searches.”

Rick felt as
if his whole world was beginning to change, but he didn’t understand what it
meant.  Not yet.  “Why?”

Abby shouted
above the noisy din of the dealers and buyers surrounding them.  Everyone was
looking for a bargain.  “If we can prove your roots go back to the Revolution,
I can register you legally as the father.”

Rick sank
against the wall.  It was beyond anything he could have imagined.  More than
anything he could have hoped for.

“If I die,”
Abby said, “I want you to raise our child.  If you inherit both a child and
money from me, the government waives the obligation toward your family
members.  You can help them if you want, but most of the money will be in a
trust fund, so no one can take it away from you.”