Amerika (18 page)

“Does Peter know you’re here?”

“No,” Amanda admitted.

Alethea glanced around. “Let’s go over here,” she said, leading Amanda to the far side of the room.

“I saw Devin yesterday,” Amanda explained. “We talked about Marion and his sons. He wanted to see them.”

“What good does that do?” Alethea snapped. “He doesn’t have the will or the resources.”

“There’s something you should know about Marion. What happened to her,” Amanda said. “She’s in Chicago. She’s done very well since then. She’s a magistrate and a member of the National Advisory Committee.”

“Party member and everything,” Alethea remarked. “Party
leader,”
Amanda corrected her. Alethea seemed impressed. “We saw her at the reception in Omaha,” Amanda continued. “I don’t know whether she was just opportunistic or perhaps had something to do with what happened to Devin.”

“She had something to do with . . . ?” Alethea wasn’t following Amanda very well.

“I don’t know. She seems very . . . well connected.” “The bitch,” Alethea snapped. “Was it true about her and the Russian general?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Anyway, she asked Peter to make sure Devin didn’t try to see her or the children. She’s afraid of him. She’s . . . she’s changed her name, and the boys’ names, back to Andrews.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this,” Alethea demanded. “Why don’t you tell Devin?” Amanda lowered her eyes. “Peter made me promise not to tell him.”

“Aha, the plot thickens,” Alethea said. “So you keep your promise by telling me instead.”

“I trust you’ll do what’s right,” Amanda said. “I know you love him.”

Aiethea stared at her a long moment. “After all these years
you
still love him.” Then, with an ironic smile, she said, “That’s a long time for a high-school crush.”

Amanda did not answer. The silence was finally broken when Alethea’s students called to her. Four of them held up a twenty-foot banner they had just painted:
we are the future,
it proclaimed.

“Gives you hope, doesn’t it?” Aiethea said bitterly.

Peter sat at his desk, thoughts short-circuiting his mind. He tried to calm the nervousness rising in the pit of his stomach, but each time he achieved a modicum of relief, he’d think about just one more issue in his life. He was swimming in enough self-pity to fill the Atlantic. There was the Russian, Denisov, seriously considering him for governor-general, and Amanda, distant lately, putting all of her energy into the Exiles, fearful of his impending appointment. And then, there was Jackie. He had had her reinstated in the dance company but she remained withdrawn, hostile, as if she blamed Peter for Justin’s disappearance. Ah yes— Justin. Peter hadn’t reported Justin’s absence to the SSU, although the law clearly required it. He also knew, intuitively perhaps, that Justin and his friends had hijacked the food truck. Justin the rebel, so much like Devin.

Thoughts of Devin sped through Peter’s mind, like a tape recorder on fast forward. When Devin had first appeared at his office, Peter could not contain his shock at the image that stood before him. Devin seemed a fragment of the man he used to be, brittle physically and emotionally, as if at any given moment he would break. Peter had driven Devin to the interrogation office, where all Exiles had to go before they were allowed to be reinstated into their respective county. The conversation consisted of idle chatter, and uncomfortable pauses. Devin wanted to know what had happened with the peacekeeping units—the army, navy, etc. Peter filled him in: “discharged or integrated with the national guard.” The ride was short; ten minutes, if that, but long enough for both men.

After arriving at the interrogation center, Peter had followed Helmut Gurtman to a control booth, from which he saw Devin placed on a high stool in the center of the room. What Peter witnessed was perhaps more painful for him than it was for Devin, an inhuman process he could still remember verbatim.

Peter talked to Devin as they drove away from the center, although he wasn’t at all sure that his old friend was listening.

“Look, Dev. Let me just say something, okay? Maybe it doesn’t make any difference, maybe it does. You know I was never very interested in politics. Even when we got back from ’Nam, it was always you who had the idea things should be different. I guess I’m just not visionary like you are. Now they’ve picked me to be a candidate for the whole area. God knows how; I’m not in the party or anything, but if I’m elected, I’m going to do it. I think the only way to get rid of them is to get ourselves together. I think we can make it as a people—even if it means giving up some of the idea of what we always thought we were. That’s where I am—we all still admire you and love you, man—you know?”

Sitting at his desk thinking about it weeks later, Peter still felt very self-conscious. His stomach squirmed at the memory.

As though materializing out of his dream, Devin Milford threw open the office doors and marched angrily toward Peter’s desk.

“My sons are in Chicago,” he said, fuming. “You knew it and didn’t tell me.”

“Who told you that?” Peter demanded. “Was it Amanda?”

“No.”

“Nobody else knew,” Peter pressed.

“It wasn’t
Am
anda. Dammit, what difference does it make? The point is I know where my sons are.”

Peter saw the fires rising in his old friend. He’d seen that passion before. In high-school sports, sometimes. In Vietnam, when he’d thought the war was right, then back home, when he’d decided it was wrong. He knew that once Devin made up his mind about something, there wasn’t much anyone could do to stop him.

“I’d like to help you, Devin,” he said. “Our friendship means a lot to me. But there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing you can do.”

“I’ve got to see my kids.”

Peter pushed a piece of paper across his desk. “Dev, have you read the parole stipulation?” he said gently. “One of the conditions is that you not see Marion or the boys. No calls, no letters, no visits, nothing.” Devin glanced at the paper, then crumpled it and threw it aside. “They’re my children. I have a right—” “You have no rights—that’s the point. Don’t you understand? You’re an Exile. What’s more, Marion is a powerful woman now and she’s determined that the ban will be enforced. If you try to leave here, to go to Chicago, to see those boys, you’ll be fighting the SSU, the Chicago police, PPP security, and God knows who else. They’d send you back to prison for good.”

Devin was perched on the edge of the wooden chair across from Peter’s desk. As if suddenly realizing the overwhelming odds he faced, he buried his face in his hands. “At least let me write them. Call them. Just so they’ll know I’m alive. That I care.”

Peter shook his head wearily. “Devin, she won’t allow it. All I can tell you is to be patient. Maybe things will change. I’ll talk to her, after things settle down. But for now it’s impossible.”

“Peter, I spent five years in darkness, and all that kept me alive was the memory of those boys.”

“I understand. But as a friend, the best advice I can give you is don’t get your hopes up. Devin, you may never see them again.”

Devin stood up. The fury was back in his eyes. “I’ll see my sons,” he told Peter calmly.

Chapter 8

Milford County was
up before dawn making ready for the Lincoln Day parade—almost everyone participated, one way or another.

For years, it had been the Fourth of July parade, but in the first years of the Transition that proud tradition died out, not by official decree but because people were afraid and dispirited. Then, as the new regime adopted Abe Lincoln as the spiritual father of the New America, and as the PPP extended its power to towns the size of Milford, the traditional Fourth of July celebration was replaced by an officially sponsored Lincoln Day parade.

At first people had tried to boycott the new event, but the PPP had ways of encouraging attendance— school clubs and sports teams, for example, had to participate or be disbanded—and in time the parade became popular again. At least parts of it were popular.

A
bright late-winter sun was rising over the town as bands and floats began to gather. Officials put flags and banners into piace, and workmen made last-minute repairs on the reviewing stand that stood on the courthouse lawn. The day was clear and cold as people streamed into town from miles around.

A few miles west of the bustling courthouse square, Devin Milford was asleep in his tent. Just after dawn, two all-terrain armored vehicles plunged across the creek outside of his camp, stopping a few feet away. Two SSU snowmobiles pulled up behind. Several soldiers jumped out of the carrier and tore open the flap to the tent. Devin was startled awake. The men reached inside and quickly dragged him to his feet. He shivered in the morning cold.

Helmut Gurtman stepped out of his vehicle and stood directly in front of Devin. “Where were you last night?”

Devin looked confused. “Here—what—”

“You’re under arrest,” Helmut said, and climbed back into his Rover.

The guards threw Devin in the back of the truck. It made a 180-degree turn, and sped away over a ridge, followed by the snowmobiles.

The Bradfords were up early, eating breakfast and trying to avoid the tensions that afflicted everyone except Scott. He was in his basketball warm-up suit, attacking a platter of scrambled eggs and toast. Jackie sat across the table, sipping weak tea, looking very unhappy.

“You guys look nice,” Amanda said, and looked at Peter. “You too.”

He was wearing dark wool pants, a tweed coat, plaid shirt, and black knit tie. That was about as formal as anyone got in Milford, white shirts being reserved for weddings and funerals.

“If we’re going to Omaha, we should have gone before this dorky parade,” Scott declared.

“Own up, you love it,” Jackie said. “All you jocks love it.”

Scott ignored her. “There’s this great coach there, used to play for the Bulls, Leon Henderson—he could really help me.”

“A little more work on the math could help you,” Amanda said.

“I think you should finish school and—”

“Mom, I want to play. Now’s the time; they’re giving white players a break. Sort of a quota system. We didn’t used to have a chance. But nobody wants to watch the game if it’s all black guys.”

“How can you possibly say that?” Amanda stared incredulously at her son, as if he were a total stranger. “You’ll just become part of that whole sports thing. Making people feel—I don’t know ...”

“Proud?” Peter said loudly.

She stared at her husband. “That’s not what happens. They use it like a pacifier—the ‘circus’ part of ‘bread and circuses.’”

Scott laughed and shook his head. “God, Mom, you’re weird, you
kn
ow? Bread and circuses. What’s that? Geez.”

“That’s when you give people what makes them feel good and distracts them from what’s really happening,” Jackie declared. “The Romans did it.”

Peter feigned surprise. “Who could’ve believed it? A kid actually learned something in school.”

Jacqueline made a face at him. He grinned, looking at Amanda, who was still quite upset. The phone rang. “It’s the red phone,” Amanda said matter-of-factly.

Peter nodded and walked into the other room.

“Hey, Mom, lighten up,” Scott said. “You take things too seriously, know what I mean? Look, I’ll be a big star and say, ‘Hi, Mom!’ when they show me on the Natnet.”

Amanda frowned. “FIS look forward to that.”

A few minutes later, Peter walked back into the kitchen, a strange look on his face. They all looked at
him
.

“That was Andrei Denisov. He called from Washington. Something’s up. I’m supposed to meet him in Chicago tomorrow.”

The tension of Peter’s words settled into the kitchen, bringing back a strained feeling to the Bradford clan.

Devin sat wearily on a high stool, an intense white light blazing into his eyes. He knew the technique all too well. The blinding light forced him to shut his eyes as a voice from the darkness demanded, “Eyes open.” '

He struggled to do so, remembering the agonizing pain of the jab to the kidneys that came to those who disobeyed.

“You say you were with the Exiles, listening to music, talking, past eleven. And you have witnesses,” Helmut Gurtman said, his voice filled with contempt. “Your witnesses may have lied, of course. Even if they have not, it is illegal for you to fraternize with the Exiles. You are aware that I could send you back to Fort Davis at a moment’s notice for violation of parole, are you not?”

Devin blinked into the light and said nothing. He was blind now; his world was white pain.

“Oh, does the light bother you? Remove it, Sergeant.”

The light snapped off. Devin continued to look forward.

“Actually, I bear you no ill will. In fact, there is a certain sympathy I feel with the Milfords, and you. Through your sister.”

Devin’s sight returned. He looked at Helmut, who met his look, expressionless.

“I know your sister quite well,” the German added.

It slowly dawned on Devin what Helmut meant. His face reddened.