The Train of Small Mercies (14 page)

“I don't pay attention to politics. I killed the enemy. That was my job. When you're shooting at gooks who are shooting at you, you're not thinking about anything else but how to survive. It's when you're not dodging mortar fire or tossing a hand grenade that you have a little time to think about what you're really doing there, and how badly you want to get home. And what you have to get home
to
. I mean, I've seen shit that most people can't possibly imagine.

“You know, I wasn't really recruited by schools, not really. I always thought I could have played college football, played for Loyola, or University of Delaware. On that level. But nothing like that worked out. And I wasn't exactly the college type, so . . . not like you. Not like Claire. So I'm working over at Jurrel's Garage, and my number comes up. I'm over there a year, then rolling into two years, and that's when I'm in Than Khe, and we're getting serious fire. And the next thing I know, my future as a one-legged pirate is totally secured. A few months later, I'm getting interviewed about life without a leg by the second-chair clarinet in band who wants to know what's it like, and what's next for me, the brave soldier whose life now is basically for shit.”

Roy could feel himself not blinking. He was not going to nod his head, as if he understood, and he wasn't going to offer a half-smile, which might say,
Well, it will be all right
. All he could do was let his gaze go to the grass between them and listen to the different ways they were breathing.

“So, you know, what the hell?” Jamie said at last. “Sure, if someone asks me if they should go fight for their country, go over there and just keep your fucking head down. But guys like you, you don't have to worry about that, do you? College guys—you guys are the real geniuses, with your deferments. Can't be touched. Unless you want to be one of those little war correspondents running around. But that's probably not your thing, either, is it?”

“No,” Roy said. “That wouldn't be for me.”

 

 

 

When the interview was over, Roy drank the lemonade that Mrs. West brought out for them, and made exaggerated little moans of enjoyment. The thing to do, he decided, was to pretend that the interview had gone splendidly, and with an eagerness that came close to being suspicious, he asked Jamie about his archery. Jamie agreed to demonstrate and maneuvered onto his barrel chair, stacking his arrows next to the wooden table Joe had built for him.

“I hope you all had a nice talk,” Ellie whispered to Roy. She had come out with the pretense of checking whether she should set a sprinkler to the dry lawn, and Roy was standing away from Jamie, giving him the space to set up.

“I think we did,” Roy said. “I'm still hoping to interview you and Mr. West, if that's okay.”

“You can certainly ask me questions,” she said, “but I have to warn you, I'm biased toward the subject.”

“Of course.”

“I don't know about Mr. West's availability today, though,” Ellie said. “I know he has some things he's trying to get done before the train comes past. So Jamie is going to show you his shooting, then. I think that's wonderful. Maybe that will make it into your article, how much he practices his archery. Did he tell you he wants to try to get into the
Guinness Book of World Records
someday? The record for most consecutive bull's-eyes is what he and Mr. West keep talking about.”

“He didn't mention that,” Roy said. “Maybe I could get him to tell me about that. That would be good for the story.”

“Of course, of course. Well, he'll tell you. Or if he's too modest, which he usually is, I'll get Mr. West to explain it to me, and then I can tell you.”

“Okay,” Roy said.

“Well, if he's going to show you his shooting, I'll get out of the way. That would make a good picture, by the way—Jamie with his bow. Not that you all won't have your own ideas. I'm just the mother.”

“Yes, ma'am. In fact, all our photographers are on assignment today, with the funeral train. I've got a camera in my car, and they asked me to see what I could do with it. So I'll see if he'll let me take his picture in a little while. And I like your idea, with the bow.”

Jamie began lining up his arrows.

“So,” Roy said, “we can maybe sit down in a little while, then.”

“Yes, good.” Ellie went over to Jamie and surveyed the worn targets as he put on his arm guard and tested his bowstring.

“Everything okay?” she asked in her innocent voice.

“Yep,” Jamie said.

She looked over at the train tracks. Ellie thought of Rose Kennedy then, and tried to imagine what she must be going through, the shock of the last few days, the loss of a second son to an assassin.
At least I have my Jamie,
she thought.
He'll never be quite the same, but at least I can still look at him. I can still listen to his voice. I can still tell him I love him.

T
he four boys sat on the ground, breathing heavily into the warm air, as Walt inspected a place on his arm where someone had stepped on him during the shooting melee. They listened to a small flock of magpies that was roosting in the trees above them, and Ty checked his watch again. If the train was on schedule, the wait was about over.

“My dad said he thinks someone is going to kill Sirhan Sirhan, just like they did Oswald,” Ty said. “He said the only difference was that Bobby Kennedy was
about
to be president, but that basically it's almost as bad. He said he thought Bobby Kennedy would have been a better president than John Kennedy because he was tougher.”

“My dad said he was going to vote for him,” Daniel said proudly. He tried to recall what else his father had said, but his mind was blank.

“Hey, my mom liked him,” Walt said, “but my dad said Bobby Kennedy had everything handed to him his whole life.”

“Why did he do it, anyway?” Daniel said. “Why did he kill him?”

“They don't know,” Ty said. “Not really.” Michael was looking down at the ground, following an ant. The others looked at him, and then at one another. Walt shrugged.

“Michael, what did your dad think about Kennedy?” Ty said. Walt and Daniel looked at Ty in vague disbelief, and then turned to Michael. Michael shook his head without looking up.

“I don't know,” he said. “We never talked about that kind of stuff. He wasn't shot yet when I was with him.”

“Hey, so what did you guys do together all that time?” Walt said. “What were you doing in Michigan, anyway?”

Michael lifted his head and considered Walt's red face. “My dad rented a cabin there, by a lake,” he said. “This little log cabin. It was small, but it was made of these giant logs.”

“Cool,” Ty said.

“We fished a lot,” Michael said. “And he showed me how to prepare the fish, how to cut their heads off and take off the scales with a paring knife. And a couple of times he let me shoot his pistol at some tin cans. Have you guys ever shot a real gun before?”

The boys said they hadn't. “Not a real one,” Daniel said.

“He's not talking about squirt guns, doofus,” Ty said.

Daniel said, “Duuuh.”

“They're loud,” Michael said, “and it knocks your arm way back when you fire.” He then demonstrated, his arm soaring over his head.

The three boys tried to imagine.

“Did you know everyone thought you were dead at first?” Daniel said.

“Shut up,” Ty said.

Michael watched one of the magpies fly to a lower branch. “No.”

“Hey, only in the beginning,” Walt said. “Then your mom figured it out, I guess.”

Ty looked at Walt and rolled his eyes.

“We knew you'd come back,” Daniel said.

S
o you're a college boy, then,” Big Brass said.

Lionel said he was.

Big Brass nodded, though this was not an indication of his approval. He poured himself a half-cup of Coke and took a glance out the window, where he caught sight of factory workers leaning out the windows of a building the color of gums.

They were standing behind one of the vents, the air cool and pleasing on the back of their necks, and when it suddenly cut off, both men turned around, as if the vent would explain.

“That ain't good,” Big Brass said, and within a minute they could feel the car warming up.

Lionel was getting used to the rumble under his feet, the sudden thrust that threatened his balance at any moment. Big Brass had been watching him, and after Lionel reached for the soft-paneled wall to steady himself, he told him, “Always be connected to something. If I'm not pouring a drink, my hand is holding on to this little surface right here.” He indicated that Lionel should look at his hand. “If I'm pouring a drink and I need to steady the cup, I'm moving my feet a little wider apart. If you keep them together too close, it's easier to fall. Your weight's not distributed. The wide stance is your friend on this train, always.”

Lionel had been taking the subway his whole life, but he showed the older man how he would do it from now on, his feet apart in a way that felt unnatural. Big Brass took his time before responding. “That'll work,” he said.

A man with a press badge leaned over to order a hot dog, and Lionel watched Big Brass lift one of the wieners, pinch it into a bun, and then close it into a small convection oven underneath. He then wrapped it in tinfoil and dropped it into a cardboard box. “That's hot, sir, so do be careful,” Big Brass said, and the man put his coins on the counter, grinning and unwrapping it to apply ketchup.

Big Brass began to tell Lionel a few things he should know about the temperamental convection oven when another train soared past—a distance in between that felt like mere inches. The force of the other train's speed sent a little quake through the snack car, and Lionel gripped the edge of the counter.

“Huh. I'm surprised they're not holding trains until we pass,” Big Brass said. “Seems like that's what they ought to do.” It took him a moment to remember what instruction he was giving when their train ground to a dramatic slowdown, so much so that the tip jar traveled the length of the counter.

Lionel looked to the older man for an explanation, but Big Brass wasn't ready to speculate. He crouched down and looked outside, as several of the passengers had thought to do as well. But what he saw offered no clues.

“Something's going on,” he said. “Where was that we just passed through? Was that the Elizabeth station?”

Lionel hadn't noticed.

“Yeah, that was Elizabeth,” Big Brass said. “But something's wrong to slow the train down like this. We were cooking at sixty miles an hour, thereabouts.” He waited, taking a calculation as only a man who had ridden trains his whole life could. “This, this is twenty-two miles an hour right now. Something is most definitely
afoot
.”

M
iriam had wandered out to the backyard, feigning interest in Jamie's shooting. Roy was standing a few feet away from Jamie as he aimed his bow, and she could hear Jamie talking in a low voice. He was most likely talking about his technique—his release and follow-through. She watched Roy as he wrote in his notebook, and stepped closer to them. When Jamie released another arrow—this one hitting just to the right of the yellow circle, she called out, “How's the interview with Robin Hood going?”

Roy turned, already smiling politely. She was older-looking than he was prepared for—for some reason he had clung to the image of the girl in pigtails and braces from the picture in the hallway. Miriam was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a loose madras top that revealed her narrow shoulders. Her hair was clipped by a yellow barrette, and she had a mischievous smile that Roy didn't see in Jamie or her mother. She could have easily passed for a sorority girl, he thought—a Maryland Tri-Delta, or Alpha Delta Pi. When Roy realized that Jamie wasn't going to make the introductions, he told her his name and stepped over to shake her hand, which made her giggle.

“So are you raking him over the coals yet?” she said.

Roy laughed uneasily. “Oh, I don't know about that. Your brother's pretty tough.”

“I guess,” she said, walking over to the back of Jamie's chair. “But there are ways of making him talk.” She ran her hand through his hair once. She never liked how the high-and-tight had looked on him, but she was sorry now not to feel the prickly sensation of it. “So am I in the way of official business?”

“Ask Edward R. Murrow here,” Jamie said.

“He's just showing me his shooting,” Roy said, “which, of course, is highly impressive. Do you shoot, too?”

“I shoot my mouth off,” she said. “But I don't shoot arrows. So you went to Burton. You would have been a senior when I was a freshman, but I don't remember seeing you. Do you remember me?”

“I don't know that we ever met,” Roy said.

“Murphy was a close friend of Claire's,” Jamie said, aiming his bow once more.

“Oh wow, Claire the Fair. So you and Jamie were friends, then?”

“We didn't actually hang out together too much,” Roy said quickly.

Jamie made a sound in his throat, but Roy pretended not to notice.

“Huh,” Miriam said. She could see that Jamie was in a mood—irritated, remote. She figured it to be an awkward situation for Roy, and she was surprised to feel more softhearted to him than to her brother. She could see that Roy was someone Jamie wouldn't like—mannerly, physically unimposing, perhaps a little too brainy.