Amerika (13 page)

Devin was silent a moment. “If it had been my choice, I wouldn’t have come back.”

“Yeah. Well, just so you know what you’re walkin’ into.”

Ward pulled back onto the road and the truck was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

The sun rode the horizon as they drove up the poplar-lined driveway to the Milford house. Devin was shocked to see its broken windows and peeling paint. Like all of us, he’d remembered his childhood home as grander than it really was. During the period of his imprisonment, the once-stately Milford homestead had grown in his imagination to plantation-home proportions, with columns, porticoes, deep and richly shadowed porches. What he saw instead was a modest farmhouse giving off a whiff of rotted beams and no longer quite straight on its foundation. He said nothing.

“I’ll just drop you,” Ward said. “I’ve got to make a run into town. The deputy gets the dawn patrol.”

“No problem,” Devin said.

Devin stood before the old Victorian farmhouse but did not enter. Instead, he walked across a stream, which ran, uneven and lovely, through the field. He scooped his hand into a small eddy around a large cluster of rocks and, with the first simple pleasure he had known for years, brought the frigid liquid to his lips. He took in the precious landscape, the farmland lying in winter calm. He turned from the bank and crossed the field to a small cemetery, standing alone in the middle of the field, silhouetted against the gold-red sky. Rows of simple markers stood erect, sheltered beneath an ancient oak where four generations of

Milfords lay. This spot had always seemed sacred to Devin. He wondered if he still had the moral fiber to think of it, or of anything, as holy.

He walked. His steps were guided not by conscious thought, but by a bone-deep recollection of the contours of the land, the textures of fields and stream banks underfoot. The sun rose and grew warm even through the winter chill. The light changed from lavender to rose to gold to white, and still Devin found himself wandering. If not content, then at least he was free of the constraint that had barred his movements for so long.

He stopped abruptly on the crest of an elm-graced hill, thunderstruck by the sight of the exile camp scattered above the creek bed. In front of some of the tents, small fires burned in oil drums and smoke curled from little stacks protruding, crooked, from the lean-tos. The sounds of people awakening drifted across the field to him: a child’s cry, someone’s hacking cough. Not quite ready to face this new reality, he turned and walked back toward the house.

There was a light in the kitchen now. Devin found Alethea, wearing an old brown robe and lacing her coffee with Scotch. He could not repress a wince at the sight of her—his little sister, whom he still remembered as a pink-cheeked, bubbly girl, sitting there now with the sallow complexion and sunken eyes of an alcoholic, defeated by fife.

Alethea was the first to speak. “Devin?”

“Such as he is,” he said. “Morning, Ali.”

She ran to him. Hesitating for a moment, she stood in front of him. “Devin, Devo . . . oh.” She threw her arms around him, then backed away, suddenly aware of how much she had aged. Her hands darted to her face in a shy gesture of protectiveness. “My God, I’m a mess. You shouldn’t see me before I’m quite ready for the world.”

He gazed at her wordlessly, feeling both love and confusion.

“Well, you don’t look so great either, now that I mention it,” she said. “Where ya been? A prison camp or something?”

“Or something.” He smiled. “You look good, Ali.” “I look like hell. Too much booze and sleeping around.” She tried to laugh. “You know me . . .”

He didn’t know her, not anymore, but he was starting to guess, and his face mirrored his concern.

“Hey, lighten up, it’s just a little homecoming joke. I’m still a simple schoolmarm. I teach the kiddies how Marx became the father of our country. Revisionist History 101, we call it.” She moved toward the stove. “How ’bout some coffee?”

“Sure. Please.”

She filled his cup. “It’s not real coffee, you know. But you must be used to it too.” He took the coffee and sat at the once-familiar big, old table. “Can you talk about it, Devin? Marion said it was a hospital, but after they took the farm we figured it must be jail.”

Devin nodded. “Southwest Texas. Fort Davis. I’m sorry about the farm.”

His voice broke, and she sat next to
him
.

“Ali, what are all those places down by the creek? The tents and trailers—”

“New owners,” she answered. “Reverse homesteading. Instead of taking unused land and making it productive, you take productive land and make it useless. I shouldn’t say that, some of the people are quite nice. They’re Exiles; internal exiles. Kind of the great leap backward. The advisory committees figure the country life and hard work down on the farm is good for the soul. Trouble is, they don’t know what they’re doing and the government made some mistakes in deciding what kind of troublemakers to send. You’ll get the rundown from Dad.” She started out the door, but popped back in, thinking better about her last comment. “Don’t expect much from him.”

“I know. Ward told me.”

She nodded. “If you want to go into town with me . . . Ward usually runs us in—gas for the cops, you know.”

Devin smiled and nodded.

She stared at him, then rushed back to the table to embrace Mm. “I’m glad you’re back, Dev. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” She let go of him and rushed from the room. Devin took a sip of coffee and looked around, suddenly feeling caged. As if he had nowhere to go, he walked through the door Alethea had just gone through, into the dining room, and started fdr the stairs. Hearing a footstep, he stepped back into the shadows of the hall and watched as Ms father came down, one slow step at a time. The old man was still ramrod-straight, but he had aged; his face was more lined, his shoulders stooped, and he moved tentatively, one hand clutching the banister. Devin stayed in the shadows, a grown-up child hiding from his father. As Will shuffled into the kitchen, Devin stole the opportunity and climbed quickly up the stairs. He rushed down the hall and into Ms old room. It was nearly bare now, with only a bed and desk. He sat on the bed, staring at the faded flowers of the wallpaper. The tiny bedroom, he realized, was almost exactly the size of the cell where he’d spent the past five years.

Chapter 6

Devin’s son Billy
was home in Chicago on the morning his father arrived in Milford. As if telepathically connected, his thoughts were of Devin, as they had been ever since his mother told him of Dad’s release. Billy guessed that the only reason she told him was to explain why a cop was guarding their apartment. Otherwise he might never have known.

Billy knew no matter how mean or unfair, his mother loved him. She just didn’t understand him. She thought that because she didn’t love his father anymore, her sons shouldn’t either. His mother felt strongly that because she had changed her name back to Andrews, her sons should too. And she had sold all that to Caleb. He thought his father was a criminal, some kind of wild man who would come and carry him away.

Billy knew better. Caleb was only nine; he barely remembered their father. But Billy, at fourteen, had many memories of a tall, strong man who loved to laugh and romp with his sons, whose voice was low and gentle, but could bring a crowd to wild cheering. Billy remembered riding horses with his father at his grandfather’s farm in Nebraska, and playing in the surf at Cape Cod.

Most of all, he remembered when his father ran for president. Billy had gone to some of the rallies and his father would introduce him and say he wanted his sons to inherit a better America. People would shout and wave flags and sometimes even cry.

Billy didn’t know much about politics, but he knew that what Ms father stood for had been right, and that his father was a good, brave man. No matter what his mother said, no matter what they taught him in school, he knew that was the truth. He knew something more, and it was the most important thing he could know: he was like his father.

Early that morning, Billy had dug deep into his closet and brought out a long-hidden envelope full of pictures. Stilted poses of his father in battle fatigues in Vietnam. Shots of Devin being sworn in to the House of Representatives by a huge, white-haired man. A wedding picture, his mother looking beautiful in white lace. And pictures with the boys: father and sons at the beach, sailing, playing baseball, posing beside a Christmas tree. And finally, a folded newspaper clipping that showed his father struggling against the four policemen who were arresting him. After that, there had been nothing, nothing at all for five years, until this week when his mother said his father was free.

All at once, his door flew open and Billy jumped up, startled. His mother filled the doorway. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“How about knocking?” He started stu
ffing
the pictures back into their envelope.

“What
are
those?” She ran toward him ami began to grab for the pictures. He turned away, protecting his treasures as she tugged at his arms. It was as though she were obsessed. He was barely stronger than she, but just as determined. After a moment, Marion gained control of herself. Billy retreated to a comer, clutching his memories.

“How long have you had those? And where did you get them?” Although she no longer grabbed for them, her voice was insistent.

“They’re mine. You don’t have any right to touch my stuff. He’s
my
father.”

“He’s destroyed his own life. Almost ruined ours. Now do you want him to finish the job?”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. All he did was fight against the Russians.
Your
damn Russian Mends.”

“Don’t say that! You don’t understand ...” As she trailed off, Billy suddenly saw Marion not as his mother, but as others, grown-ups, must see her.

But he pressed on. “I understand plenty. You’re not the boss of everything. I want to see my dad.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“You can’t stop me,” he said defiantly.

“Billy, you must understand. Your father committed crimes and was sent to prison. He has been released, but he’s an exile in another state. If he tries to come here, he’ll be arrested and sent back to jail.”

“Then I’ll go where he is. I want to five with him.” “That would be absurd. You’d have no privileges. No education. You’d be an Exile, like he is.”

“I don’t care.”

“We have a wonderful life now, Billy, which I have been able to create for us in spite of your father.” “That’s a laugh,” Billy said bitterly. “All you did was

screw some Russian general in Washington. You think I’m stupid. Everybody at school knows that.”

She shot forward, quick as a cat, and slapped him hard. Still clinging to his pictures, he ducked, trying to avoid another blow.

Suddenly a third voice at the doorway shouted out, “Stop it, stop it!”

They turned and saw nine-year-old Caleb, tears rolling down his cheek.

“Caleb . . .” Marion said, simply stating the fact of him there in the door.

“Hi, Cay,” said Billy with a casual wave, an almost silly gesture of denial.

For a moment after that, nobody knew what to do. Then Marion straightened, and brushed away the tears of frustration and rage. Nothing was going the way she wanted it to.

Billy rushed past his brother. He still clung to the pictures. He stopped only to grab his coat; then he raced from the house.

Marion moved toward Caleb, knelt down, and held him in her arms.

“It’s all right, darling. Billy’s just upset. He doesn’t understand how wonderful our life is now. How bad it was before. You understand, don’t you, darling?” She let go of him, and Caleb nodded dutifully.

“You’re a good soldier.” She stood up, Caleb clutching her hand. “We’re going to be fine,” she said.

In the Bradford kitchen, standing in front of an open door, Peter tried to remain calm. His eyes flashed with anger as he stared out onto the driveway. Shining indirectly through a misty-clouded evening sky, the crescent moon cast just enough light for him to make out Justin.

“I told you you were not to see Jackie. After that business at school the other day—”

“I have to tell her something,” Justin interrupted urgently.

“I think you’ve told her enough already,” Peter said, adamant, and shut the door.

Peter walked to the dining-room table where Amanda sat watching him in silence. Jacqueline stood back from the table, furious. No one spoke. Their silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. Jackie started across the room.

“Jackie.”

She turned and glared at her father.

“If you’re going to make the Area Dance Company, you’re not going to have time for Mm.”

“You got me in if I promised not to see Justin? What was it, Daddy? A deal? Did you do it for me or to make sure you got what you wanted?”

From outside, the knocking started again. “Just a minute, Justin,” she shouted.

“I got you in because you deserved it. And I didn’t think you should be penalized for being my daughter,” Peter and Jackie were at a standoff. Amanda walked over to her husband and touched his arm gently. “What if they just sit in here and talk?” she said softly. “We can’t stop them from seeing each other.”