Project Reunion (32 page)

“Well done!” Pam said. “Suggestion three is the main one, Dee. Stop letting the future gang up on you. Do you remember, just one year ago, what we expected? Two years ago? We really don’t know what to expect next. I think that’s what makes us clingy. It’s just…unnerving. But if you like him, and he certainly likes you, couldn’t you just wait and see what happens? Enjoy what you can?”

“I have a farm.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The West Totoket civic association gave me a farm this weekend. I’m a farmer now.”

Pam cracked up laughing. “Oh! I’m sorry, Dee. Um, congratulations!” She kept laughing.

“Thank you,” I gritted out.

“Oh, while I’ve got you on the phone, Dee,” Pam added, “I thought it would be nice to have you and Emmett over for a Christmas party. We can do it whenever he’s free. I hope you’ll come!”

That actually stopped my breath a moment. I’d just been thinking that. That one of the problems with Emmett being away was that we could never do normal things like attend a Christmas party together. “Please,” I breathed. “That would be really nice, Pam. Thank you.”

“Good! I look forward to it. Any time!” Pam said. “And best of luck with that…farm thing. Talk to you soon, Dee.”

“It does make sense,” I told myself defensively, after we’d hung up. “I liked having a partner to farm with. And planting crops is a long-term commitment. What if Emmett won’t come home to my farm?”

Yeah, after Pam laughed at me, I had trouble buying it, too.

-o-

Emmett was vastly relieved that night when we spoke. He told me he’d been going nuts because I wasn’t telling him what was wrong. He was sure I was about to dump him. He’d even called Cam that day at lunchtime and grilled him about everything I’d said or done on Long Island. (I was gratified to hear that Cam told Emmett to ask me, not him.) If I hadn’t opened up to him tonight, Emmett was about to beg General Cullen for emergency leave to come home.

I finally admitted I was overwhelmed at the idea of farming the whole block by myself.

“Dee, darlin’?” he asked. “You can give it back. Just keep the three houses worth of garden, and give back the rest. Keep some chickens for the eggs.”

I blew out a long breath. “Wow. I was really bent out of shape, huh.”

“Uh-huh,” he confirmed. “Although. It’s still not that much land. Too much for intensive vegetables like you’ve been doing, sure. Too much work. But you could keep the whole other side of the street in hay for Cow and the goats. Grow simple cash crops in the rest. Corn. Beans. Squash. Just take your time, Dee. Think it through. Nobody needs to plant in December. Figure out how much work you can handle, divide by two, work from there.”

“They only gave me the land because I got high yields,” I worried.

“So? If you can’t produce, you give back half the block next year. More likely, half the gardeners take on more than they can handle. Bugs, disease, drought in July, flood in August. Next October, they’re begging to cut their land in half. And there you are, still producing eggs and milk like clockwork, plenty of food for yourself, and two out of three cash crops survived.”

I laughed softly. “I was thinking this was too much to do, without you here to help. And then you helped from there.”

“Darlin’… You take too much on. I think gardening is just a hobby for you. Could be wrong, but I think you’re too smart. Too curious. Too… I dunno. I could have been a farmer. I love the land, the livestock. But it wasn’t enough for me. Full time? I’d be bored out of my mind. You know?”

“I like working on Amenac, the PR interviews, the meshnet project,” I agreed. “I think you’re right. You know, I still feel guilty telling you my stupid problems.”

“Don’t. Ever,” Emmett said. “That’s the only way I can be home with you now. Escape the Apple Core’s problems for a few minutes. Be with you. I want to do what I’m doing. I’m having the time of my life. But God I miss you, darlin’.”

I snickered. “Pam Niedermeyer suggested phone sex. Actually she said we probably hadn’t been together long enough.”

“Uh-huh. Pam Niedermeyer is a troublemaker.”

“She invited us over for a Christmas party, whenever you’re free,” I said wistfully.

“What a great idea!” Emmett cried with enthusiasm. “Let’s do that! We could invite Cam and Dwayne too.”

“Invite them to Pam’s house? That’s a bit pushy even for you, Emmett.”

He just laughed.

I sighed. “Can you make it home before Christmas?”

“I’ll make time. Somehow.”

Chapter 25

Interesting fact: Amiri Baz won his second Pulitzer Prize for his reporting on Project Reunion.

“How do you feel, Colonel MacLaren?” the reporter Amiri Baz asked, on one of New Haven’s half dozen train platforms.

It was a brilliant sunny day out, 63 degrees with a strong breeze off the Sound. Probably set a new record high temperature for the day, but that was common.

The day of the mid-December Christmas trains had finally arrived. Small releases over the past couple of weeks had worked out the kinks. The Camp Jersey and Camp Upstate quarantines were intentionally kept one week behind, Camp Yankee taking the lead. The first mass release – over 80,000 refugees – was already barreling toward us from Port Chester New York, 50 miles west down the railway. Emmett and Amiri had arrived an hour ago on a smaller train, carrying the volunteers from Camp Yankee to run the transfer circus about to explode into New Haven Station.

Emmett snugged me to him around the waist. He said, “Uh… Come on, Amiri. You know I hate that question.” We laughed.

“That’s why I asked it first,” Amiri said. “Saves time editing.”

“How do I feel. Scared, terrified, nervous,” Emmett said, casting around. I believed him. His emotions were probably all over the map today. Mine, too.

“Proud,” he finally stumbled upon. “Honored. I’m just…overwhelmingly grateful to be here. Thankful to everyone who’s contributed to Project Reunion. The outpouring of love and generosity. In the armed forces. Throughout the Northeast and beyond. Today…is really Christmas for me.” He teared up. Well, I did too. He kissed my forehead and hugged me tighter.

“See? You survived the question,” Amiri teased him. “So what happens here today in New Haven?”

They took their time back-and-forth to get good video clips explaining that. Trains from New York couldn’t simply turn left at New Haven to head north to Massachusetts, Vermont, and New Hampshire. Most refugees would exit their first train and transfer at New Haven. The refugees actually bound for New Haven would arrive here last, after the traffic for points east and north cleared out. Likewise, refugees headed for Fairfield County and the New Canaan branch train line west of us, the ones with the least distance to travel, would leave Port Chester later still.

Emmett’s face lit up, and he said, “We have two very special groups on the first trains today.”

Santa and his elves thundered up the stairs and out onto the platform, jogging into position to meet the front cars. An empty train and more elves waited on another platform, accessible from here by taking the stairs down to an underground concourse below, that linked all the platforms. Santa was in full padded red suit. Most of the elves had to make do with a pointy red or green hat over combat fatigues.

“Christmas train from Port Chester arriving on track 10,” blared the loudspeakers. “Front half of the train to exit first, and transfer to North Pole on track 14. Repeat, North Pole Express on track 14.”

The Christmas train was immense. Every year on the New Haven line from New York, they used to run these monster trains, that overflowed the train platforms by several cars on either end, to handle the overflow holiday traffic. Beefy soldiers in camouflage blocked the train doors from inside, no doubt praying that the conductor kept their train doors closed until their cars were called to exit.

“Christmas train from Port Chester arriving on track 6,” blared the loudspeakers again, before the first train even came to a halt. “Front 10 cars to exit first on track 6, and transfer to Union Station main hall for ground transportation.”

Emmett grinned and led us to stand by the forward glassed-in stairwell on our platform, out of the traffic pattern but with a good view. The doors slid open for the front cars that fit on the platform. Emmett traded a relieved thumbs-up with the Marine guarding the closed train door a few feet away from us.

“Ho, ho, ho!” yelled Santa. “Who’s coming with me to the North Pole?”

Skinny kids, but no longer emaciated, began pouring out of the front train cars, accompanied by their volunteer chaperones. All ages, two through twelve. Each wore a winter coat, good shoes, hat and mittens in the springlike weather. They might have been horribly intimidated by all this, but not with the familiar Santa hamming it up and guiding their way.

“Where exactly is the North Pole?” asked Amiri Baz. “For our adult viewers.”

“Burlington, Vermont,” supplied Emmett. “The North Pole Express is an orphan train. Some of the more damaged children will continue on to Quebec. Most of these children came to us from Brooklyn. We announced the day we’d be accepting refugees. When we showed up, first responders in Brooklyn had rounded up all of the orphans, all the homeless children they could find. Told us to take them first. Passed them to us,” Emmett choked up. “Hand to hand, like a bucket brigade. They’ll be getting new families for Christmas.”

Emmett and I didn’t even try not to cry, as a river of children scampered down the stairs next to us. A couple elves stood in front of us, to firmly direct traffic down these stairs, instead of skipping around to the next stairwell. These kids had grown up with train and subway platforms, after all. We grinned and waved to them. The refugees still bottled up on the train waved beside us.

North Pole traffic slowed for the children who needed carrying or crutches or wheelchairs. Emmett jerked his head back to indicate the stairs behind us. “We need to move before the floodgates open.”

We headed down the still-empty opposite stairs. Below, burly elves sat on orange traffic-blocking sawhorses in the concourse, to defend the track 10 to 14 reserved North Pole transit zone. We turned the other way and rushed up the concourse for the escalators to the big Union Station hall.

Rushed as much as we could, that is, and politely. Beyond track 6, the concourse was full of mostly elderly, frail refugees moving the same direction we were. Lacking the magical resilience of childhood, the seniors were still emaciated after a month at Camp Yankee, open sores on their faces still struggling to heal.

When the escalators deposited us up and out, into the big hall, my eyes lit up. My old friend Jean-Claude Alarie stood on top of one of the station’s beautiful solid oak bench-islands, above the sea of confused elderly humanity.

I tugged on Emmett’s elbow and pointed, with a grin.

“What’s this?” Amiri asked. He and his camera crew were ever vigilant, hungry for the spontaneous shot.

“That’s our other special group,” Emmett explained. “Jean-Claude Alarie is with Doctors Without Borders. He travels with a gran caravan. The gran caravans have full amnesty today, to pick up new members. Elderly refugees only.”

“You actually know these outlaws?” Amiri asked.

Emmett tilted his head to yield the question to me. “Jean-Claude is a friend of mine,” I agreed. “Actually, Emmett met him the same night he met me,” I said sweetly.

“Uh-huh,” said Emmett, with a crooked smile.

“My knights in shining armor, come to save me and Amenac from Homeland Security.” I grinned unrepentant. “Jean-Claude’s caravan blew up the HomeSec building that night. I was surprisingly OK with that, at the time.”

Emmett cut in to provide a more politically prudent sound-bite. “Jean-Claude Alarie and his gran caravan stayed with us last winter in New Haven County. They solved some survivalist problems for us up toward Litchfield. They made a good peacekeeping force. They moved on in the spring. You have enough footage of us yet, Amiri?”

“Um… So you sorted all these refugees before they left Camp Yankee?” Amiri asked.

“Yes!” said Emmett. “The first weeks, we did a lot more sorting here in New Haven. That was too complicated to scale up. So now, yeah, they’re sorted before we load them onto the trains. And refugees may be held back or moved forward a week, to group them by where they’re going. Anything else?”

Jean-Claude and I were already waving to each other. I spotted DJ and Liddy too, with New Haven’s reception committee, come early to watch the circus.

“That’ll do, I think,” Baz agreed. “We want to interview the refugees and volunteers. Any more good photo opps with you, before you head back to the Core?”

Emmett grinned. “Not going back to the Core. I’m taking a few days leave. Surprise, darlin’!” I threw my arms around him in delight.

After a kiss, Emmett turned back to Amiri Baz. “I might visit the Totoket railroad station tonight. Peek in on the family reunions, and people picking up their new refugees. I’d like to see the other end of all this. But that’s in Amenac’s back yard. You want to film someplace else.”