London Calling (14 page)

Father Thomas stammered, “Yes, I will,” and took off immediately toward his office.

Meanwhile, Mr. Manetti drove the bulldozer back along the roadway, veered to the right, and rolled slowly up the ramp of the truck. He hopped down and gestured to his son to join him. Then the two of them got into the cab and drove away without so much as a sideways glance.

I caught sight of Mom and Margaret in the crowd, and I ran over to them. Mom looked shocked, too, but Margaret looked elated. I watched her give Mom a gentle shove toward the parking lot, telling her, “Go on and start the car, Mom. Martin and I will be right behind you.” She waited until I was next to her to fulfill her own secret purpose. She walked over to Cal Livingstone with a look of great concern on her face. “Mr. Livingstone?”

Mr. Livingstone looked at her with annoyance. He didn’t speak, so Margaret continued, “I wanted to talk to you again about that entry. The one at the Millennium Encyclopedia? We are indeed doing an entry on General Henry M. Lowery. It will include some new primary source material that we recently uncovered—some memos copied by a woman named Daisy Traynor.”

Mr. Livingstone’s eyes bulged.

“The entry will, of course, be meticulously fact-checked and devoid of all prejudice. We
are
giving the General a new nickname, though. I thought I’d preview it for you today. Are you ready? It’s ‘Hitlerin’ Hank’ Lowery. How’s that sound?”

Margaret spun on her heel and walked off briskly before he could even react. I looked back at the Administration Building. Hank Lowery still had not emerged, but Father Thomas must have found him by now, along with the ruined Rembrandt. No doubt about it, it was time for the Conway family to leave All Souls. For good. I took off running after her.

We drove home in a wild and giddy mood. Mom articulated the feeling for all of us: “We’re free from that place now. And from all of those people.”

After a few miles, though, reality started to set in. Margaret asked Mom, “That was cool how you quit. But what are you going to do? Look for a job?”

“No. I don’t have to. I won’t have to for years if I manage my money right.”

Margaret and I exchanged a look. “What? What happened? You sound like you won the lottery.”

“No. No lottery. It’s my inheritance. Half of the house in Brookline is mine, and it’s worth a lot of money. I’ve directed Elizabeth to sell it.”

“You directed Aunt Elizabeth!” I sputtered. “How did that go?”

“Not well. But she has no choice, legally. Now the house is on the market, and it should sell for at least eight hundred thousand dollars, maybe more.”

“Whoa!”

“But what about Grandfather Mehan’s shrine?” Margaret asked. “Where’s that going to go?”

“Elizabeth is buying a condo in Boston, closer to the hospital. It’s only two bedrooms. But if she wants to turn one into your grandfather’s shrine, that’s up to her. Personally, I hope she doesn’t.” Mom looked in the mirror at me and concluded, “Enough is enough.”

At home in bed, I lay and thought for a long time about the events of that tumultuous day. Mom’s words echoed in my head:
Enough is enough.
Both Lowerys had gotten theirs. That was over, and it was, indeed, enough. I wouldn’t give much thought to either one of them ever again. Two items from my list had been accomplished.

But the third one loomed before me. It was a logical paradox—impossible to do; impossible not to do. I would need someone’s help to even attempt to accomplish it, someone who hadn’t been much help in my life up until now.

I would need Dad.

THE BASEMENT DWELLERS

During the following week, I put some of the steps of my complicated plan in place. Step one was to get Mom to allow me go to England with Dad. Margaret helped me out with that one. She supported my claims that I had talked to Mr. Wissler about an important research project, and I knew exactly what I was doing, and I would be all right. For my part, I made it clear that I was going no matter what, so Mom grudgingly agreed.

Step two was to call Dad. I timed the call for eleven a.m., just to make sure he was sober. He seemed really amazed to hear from me. “Martin? Is anything wrong? Is your mother okay?”

“Everybody’s okay. I do need your help, though.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Can the vacation manager take a vacation?”

“Sure.”

“When?”

“Whenever I want. As long as I don’t have an assignment.”

“Do you have one now?”

“No.”

“Do you have frequent-flyer miles?”

“About ten trillion. Why?”

“I need you to take me to England.”

“Where?”

“England. For three nights, more or less.”

After a long pause, he came back. “England. Uh, yeah, I have enough miles for that. Can you tell me why?”

“I can. I will. But not now. Okay? I’ll tell you on the way over.”

He finally answered, “Has your mother agreed to this?”

“Absolutely. Mom is on board.”

“She is? Well, what can I say then? It’ll be good to take in some of that British history. And it’ll be great to see you.”

“Can I come up there on the train?”

“Sure. Just call ahead. Either Uncle Bobby or I will pick you up at Penn Station, Newark. Okay?”

“Okay.”

By Tuesday morning, I was ready to go. I had packed enough clothes and stuff for three days. I included my tube of Brylcreem for luck. I also included a shirt that I had just purchased over the Internet. It was a vintage Arsenal football jersey, bright red with white sleeves. Then I went into the computer room, accessed my research files, and printed out everything I had ever learned about London and York, present and past.

I said goodbye to Mom and Margaret, promising to e-mail them and assuring them I would be back in a few days. Mom thought I was taking a trip related to one final independent study. She was right, as far as that went. Margaret knew that there was more to the trip, but she did not know exactly what. She gave me a bon voyage present, a small Sony voice recorder, explaining, “It’s what real interviewers use. It’ll make you look more official.”

I turned down an offer from Mom to drive me to the train station. I said that I preferred to walk, and she accepted that.

Things were clearly changing at home.

I left the house at four p.m., carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a large garbage bag in the other. Inside the bag was the Philco 20 Deluxe in its original box. I crossed Hightstown Road and walked through the train station parking lot. Then I climbed up the stairs to the train office, purchased my ticket, and stepped out onto the wooden platform to wait.

The first thing I saw was a short man in a blue suit standing and looking at me. He had on a red bow tie and wore wire-rimmed glasses. I said, “Mr. Wissler? Dave?”

“Hello, Martin. I hope this isn’t an unwelcome intrusion, but Margaret told me about your trip. I thought a letter from me might help open some doors.”

Mr. Wissler held out a piece of paper, so I set down my bags and took it. It was a very official-looking letter on Millennium Encyclopedia stationery. It said:

It was signed by David S. Wissler, and it was decorated with a red circle on the lower left that felt bumpy to the touch. He explained, “I added a raised seal to the paper. The British love raised seals. I think they invented them.”

I took the letter. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“That was quite the treasure trove that you left for me, Martin. A historian’s dream, really.”

“Like time travel?”

“Indeed. Let me tell you what I’ve done with it since Tuesday.” We each took hold of one of my bags and moved them to the side. “I brought Daisy Traynor’s materials over to Princeton to have them authenticated by experts. I know many of the historians there. They’ve already analyzed the chemical compositions of the ink and paper, with some very exciting results. Based on your discovery, I think we will be rewriting an entire chapter of World War Two history. We will certainly be redefining the role of General Henry M. Lowery.”

Suddenly I thought about Mom. “Do you think my grandfather’s name will be part of it?”

Mr. Wissler looked troubled. “Well, he won’t be in the encyclopedia entry. I can promise you that. But perhaps someone at the university will want to write a more in-depth book about what happened.” He paused and shook his head. “No. There’s no
perhaps
about it. This is explosive stuff. There will definitely be a book, or books, about General Lowery’s secret negotiations with Von Dirksen. And your grandfather, whether he was involved or not, is mentioned in some of the papers. Apparently he helped set up some of the message drops. I’m sorry. I understand that this may be embarrassing to your family.”

I spotted the train in the distance. “My grandfather’s holy shrine in Brookline was about to get dismantled anyway.” I grabbed a bag in each hand. “Enough was enough.”

Mr. Wissler nodded his agreement.

“Honestly, Mr. Wissler, my life would have been much easier if Martin Mehan had not been a hero.”

“I know what you mean. We have a few heroes in our family, on my side
and
on my wife’s.” He backed away as the train pulled in. “Good luck on your trip, Martin. And thank you again.”

Dad came through admirably, as he always did when he was not drinking. He and Uncle Bob met me at the train station. Dad handed me two tickets. “This is the best I could do. It’s coach class, I’m afraid.”

I assured him, “I don’t care about that.”

“We take off in about three hours. We fly all night and land at Gatwick in the morning.”

“Great.”

“Do you know what to do after that?”

“Yes. I have it all printed out. We take the Gatwick Express train to London, spend a few hours there, and then we take another train up to York.”

Dad smiled. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

My uncle Bob held out his hand, and I shook it. He said, “Good to see you again, Martin. It’s been too long.”

“Good to see you, too.”

Uncle Bob is a burly, hairy guy, with watery eyes. By habit, I suppose, he grabbed my suitcase. Then he asked, “What’s in the garbage bag?”

“It’s an antique radio. A Philco 20 Deluxe.”

“Cool. How valuable is it?”

“To me, it’s the most valuable thing on earth.”

“Wow. That’s pretty valuable. Is it going with you to England?”

“Yes.”

“Gatwick Airport?”

“Right. And then up to York. That’s where I’ll really need it, up in York.”

Uncle Bob thought for a moment. “York’s closer to Manchester Airport. Listen: If you really don’t need this until you get to York, I can have it delivered there directly. Then you won’t have to donkey it around.”

I looked at Dad. “I won’t need any of this stuff until we get to York. Not the radio; not anything in my suitcase. How about you?”

“We’re going to be in York the first night, right?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I won’t need anything, either.”

Uncle Bob made a note on an index card. “Then you’ll see all this stuff at your hotel. You got the address, Martin?”

I pulled out my sheaf of papers. “We’re staying at a bed-and-breakfast hotel called the Wayfarer. Here’s the information.” Uncle Bob copied it carefully. He told me, “I’ll walk these through security myself. I’ll put ‘Lost Luggage’ labels on them and the airline will treat them like gold. They’ll deliver them right to the door of your final destination, with their apologies.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bob.”

He smiled humbly. “It’s what I do.”

Dad suggested, “We have time for dinner, Bob. Come join us. The drinks are on me.”

Uncle Bob checked his watch. “Yeah, okay. I’ll join you for a little send-off. But no drinks. I gotta work the late shift.”

We had dinner at the National Steakhouse in the airport. They treated Dad, and all of us, like VIPs. Uncle Bob took great pains to assure me that my radio would arrive safely and in working order, which I really appreciated. I realized as we sat there that we all had something in common. We were the three basement dwellers. First Uncle Bob, with his depression; then Dad, with his drinking; then me, with my . . . what?

When Uncle Bob left to go to work, Dad pointed after him. “He’s a great guy. I didn’t know that until the past year or so. He’s turned out to be saner than anybody.”

“Good for him. How did he do that?”

“He finally got the right combination of medications.” Dad smiled. “I guess that’s all anybody needs.”

I understood what he meant. I wasn’t smiling about it. “You mean, your medication is liquor? And all you need is the right amount?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Did your dad drink like you?”

“He was much worse than me. He drank all the time. And he drank himself to death. Cirrhosis of the liver.” Dad concluded, “He was a major drunk, all right.”

“He was other things, too, though. You’ve told me that.”

“Sure. He was a veteran. He fought in World War Two.”

“That was something. He was a soldier?”

“He was a marine. Yeah. He expected Bob and me to join up, too.”

At that moment, I realized how little I knew about my father’s past. “And did you?”

“No. Bob did. He fought in Vietnam. That was a terrible stretch for all of us. Mom died while he was over there. Two weeks later, Dad checked in to the Veterans Hospital with cirrhosis. He had turned all yellow. He only had about three months left to live. He didn’t care if I joined up then or not, so I didn’t.” He looked at me intensely. “So I never became a marine, like your grandfather Conway, or a representative of the federal government, like your grandfather Mehan. I became an alcoholic restaurant manager instead.”

I looked back, just as intensely. “You once told me that you understood disgrace.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. At Christmas.”

“Okay.”

“What do you think makes one man a disgrace and another one a hero?”

“That’s a tough question. I don’t know. DNA? Fate? Good luck?”

“Do you want to find the answer to that question?”

Dad thought for a long moment. “I do.”

I told him, as seriously as I could, “So do I. I can’t promise anything, but maybe . . . something will happen to you on this trip. Maybe London is calling you, too.”

Dad and I settled into two of four seats in the center aisle of a Boeing 767. Fortunately, no one sat in the other two, so we got to spread out. I was determined to use every minute of this trip. As soon as we took off, I returned to my serious conversation with Dad, starting with “Do you believe in God?”

He answered. “Sure. I’m Catholic, Martin. Like you.”

“And do you believe in heaven and hell and purgatory?”

“Yeah, I suppose I believe in all that.”

“So what do you think happens when you die?”

He gestured weakly. “You go to one of those places that you just said. Why? What do you think happens?”

I leaned toward him. “I think they ask you one question at the end, on your day of reckoning. They ask you,
What did you do to help?”

“Yeah? And what are you supposed to say?”

“Well, you’d better have
something
to say, something better than ‘I made lots of money’ or ‘I had expensive cars’ or ‘I had lots of girls.’ ”

“Wait a minute. Who’s asking you this question?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s whoever sent Nana back that time. You know, the time when she died.”

Dad laughed; then he stopped. “Sorry. You’re serious?”

“I am. Tell me, did you make your nine First Fridays?”

He laughed again, but in a more subdued way. “Oh yes. When we first got married. Your mother made me do it.”

“I think that was a good idea. It was like taking out an insurance policy.”

“Yeah,” Dad agreed. “That’s true. What do you have to lose? Except nine Fridays.”

A flight attendant came by holding a bottle of liquor in each hand. She smiled at me, then at Dad. He muttered, “In a little bit.” The flight attendant moved on. “It’s a long flight, Martin. On a long flight, I usually have a few drinks to put me out. Is that all right with you?”

“I’ll make a deal with you, an agreement, like the ones you make with Mom. Here it is: I have a story to tell you. After I’m finished, you can drink all you like.”

“All right. That’s a deal. But it will only be a few drinks.”

Then, for the next hour, I told him the story of Jimmy Harker. The entire story, from the beginning. I told him about the Philco 20 Deluxe, from Grandfather Mehan’s office to the basement; I told him about Jimmy’s house in London; I told him about the terror of the bombings in 1940. I only left out one part, because somebody else had to hear that first. When I finished, he bowed his head and said, “Wow. That is some story.”

“Do you believe it?”

He closed his eyes and squeezed them. “I believe that you believe it.”

“That’s not good enough. Do you believe that it really happened?”

Reluctantly, he shook his head no.

“Then what do you think it was?”

“A dream?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe I’m crazy.”

“No.” Dad furrowed his brow. “Your grandmother Mehan had a real spiritual gift. We all laughed about it because we didn’t understand it. Maybe you have it, too.”

I considered the possibility of that. “Maybe.” I told him, “Whatever it turns out to be, I want to thank you for helping me get to England.”

Dad placed his hand on my elbow. “I can tell you’re serious about this, Martin, so I am, too. You just tell me what to do when we get there.”