Tomahawk (13 page)

Ken, who wore jeans and had a limp, showed him around before supper. The basement held a donated gas furnace, storage areas, and a chapel. The big old-fashioned kitchen smelled of soup and of the corn tortillas a stout woman was hammering out on a table. All six blackened burners were roaring on a commercial gas stove. The first floor held the dining room and living room but was also a playground for a carpetful of small children. Upstairs was a warren of smaller spaces, some of the doors hand-lettered with the names of the occupants. More children peeped out at him as he went by. Twenty-five people lived in the Dorothy Day House, Ken said, most of them homeless who for one reason or another the city authorities couldn't help.

Now he sat with them at the big dining table, mostly black or Latin women and small children, though there was one old man with long white hair and eyes locked on some other planet than this.

He felt confused. Ken, whose last name was Zinkowski, had told him the house belonged not to Plow shares but to an organization called the Catholic Workers.He'd asked Ken, “But who are the staff?”

'Zinkowski had smiled. “Staff?”

“The people who aren't homeless—like you—are they religious? Is this some sort of monastery?”

“We have friends in the religious community. Carl's a priest. And most of us are spiritually inclined. But, no, we're just whoever feels called. People come to try it out and look and experiment. Some leave after a while. One of our guests asked once who someone was. ‘She's visiting,' I said. ‘Isn't everybody in this house?' Carl said.” Ken had smiled. “And we're glad you can join us for supper. Come fcack whenever you like.”

Now he raised his eyes to the posters and artwork on the walls, FIN EL BLOQUERO DE CUBA. Wood-block prints of Jesus in a breadline, St. Joseph at work. Pictures of Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Albert Schweitzer, IT'S A SIN TO BUILD A NUCLEAR WEAPON, NO SPANKING ZONE. Sign-up sheets for laundry time and cooking duty.

“Enjoying yourself?” She leaned down, flushed, hand on his shoulder. “Look, I'm glad you came. We'll have time to talk later. Okay?”

He nodded and she vanished again. A small boy examined his uniform, then reached up to touch his ribbons. He remembered when Nan was this age, and he smiled at the boy.

“Are ‘ou a policeman?” the boy said, wide-eyed.

“No. No, I'm just a friend of Kerry's.”

“She knocked wi' a hammer on the bomber plane. To stop them making bad things for war.”

“Yeah. So she did. How about you? I don't guess you're going to be first in line to join the Green Berets, are you?” The boy stared, then burst into laughter.

A clatter of platters announced the meal. Black beans and rice, guacamole, a spicy sauce, hot tortillas. Kerry stood back, wiping her hands on a worn towel, then reaching out to stroke a child's close-cropped head. “Getting acquainted? Okay, I guess everything is under control for a few minutes…. Let's eat.” She sat down next to him. She'd changed out of the suit and skirt into jeans and a crewneck sweatshirt. She smelled of soap and baking. Her black hair waslwisted back over her shoulder.

“Pass the rice, please. You were probably figuring a different kind of date.”

“Well, you're right.” He reached for another tortilla. “Your buddy Deborah doesn't like uniforms.”

“She's been known to take things personally. But I figure we should be trying to reach the people in uniforms. After the guards arrested us at Griffiss, we had a very nice talk with them, Carl and I, while we were waiting for the police. For the most part, no one has ever talked to military people seriously about what they're participating in.”

“Well, I don't believe in what you're selling.”

He expected an argument, but she shrugged. “As long as you're satisfied you're right.”

“Carl—that's Haneghen, right?”

“Yes. He was my partner for the Rome action. Have you gotten to talk to him?”

He looked across the table at the man in the chambray shirt. Flanked by kids, he looked happy. Not like someone facing six to eight years. “Not really.”

“Relax. Look, don't let Deborah get to you. Okay?”

“All right,” he said.

Later, after she went back to the kitchen, Haneghen took the chair next to him. He had on heavy steel-toed boots, the kind shipyard workers wore. Close up, his close-cropped scalp, light blue eyes, and long, narrow head came across as either pedagogical or penal, but he extended his hand with a gentle expression. “Carl Hane-ghan. We met at the arraignment, right? Thanks for coming. We don't see a lot of military people on our side.”

“I'm not on your side.”

“Sorry, I made an assumption I had no right to make. Do I understand you to be visiting Kerry?”

“That's right.”

“What do you do, Dan?”

“Whatever they tell me to, Carl. How about you?”

Haneghan didn't seem to resent his answer, and Dan felt ashamed. He was getting defensive, and so far, the guy hadn't done or said anything to deserve it.

“What do I do? Mainly, work with people who need me. Occasionally, I paint.”

“Oh, an artist?”

“No. Houses, during the summer.”

“Somebody said you were a priest.”

“There's truth to that rumor. But I seem to be effectively excommunicated at the moment.”

“The Church didn't like your ‘actions'?”

“I look on civil disobedience as sacramental. The same as celebrating Mass, in a way. But you're right. Our movement is not exactly at one with the Vatican. Did you enjoy dinner? If you want to take your coat off, you can hang it over there. I don't think the kids will bother if.”

“Maybe I'll do that. Dinner was good, thanks. Any chance of a cup of coffee?”

“We don't use much coffee here. Or sugar. There are those who think it's acquiescing in an oppressive peasant economy. I could probably find you some tea.”

Dan told him no, that he was fine. He wanted to ask what these oppressed peasants were going to do for money if Americans didn't buy their coffee and sugar, but he figured they had an answer for that, too. Okay, pleasant conversation. “Uh, is this your first arraignment?”

“Oh, no. More like the eighth or ninth. And we have another trial coming up for a Pentagon action. Another fella from Jonah House and I, we poured blood on the River Entrance on the Feast of the Holy Innocents. The prosecutor wanted me held without bond. But O'Malley— he was the judge today, the one with the mustache—he's actually not as rough on us as he could be.”

“Have you done time?”

“Oh yeah. Two years at Allenwood, making furniture for Ed Meese's office. I wrote ‘Fuck you, Ed' in the varnish, where you pull the drawer out. Hope he got my message.”

“Good for you,” Dan said. He looked around. “Say, can I help clean up? Is that okay with everybody?”

Haneghen said that would be welcome, and Dan got up and went back into the kitchen. He offered to scrub the pans, and Kerry handed him the brush with a sigh of relief.

The kids disappeared after dinner, protesting that they weren't sleepy. There wasn't any television in evidence.
When all the pots and dishes were done and stacked, Kerry suggested they go for a walk. “A walk?” Dan said. “Outside? Is it safe?”

“I try not to let fear rule my life,” she said quietly. “We won't stay out long.”

They strolled along the steel fence that barred access to the grassy plain. She told him the building at the top of the hill was a Reconstruction-era home for veterans. “They come out in the summer and garden, the old soldiers, and we talk,” she said. Their breaths puffed out, drifting through the chain link as if it wasn't there. A silence, then she added, “So, I guess this wasn't what you expected.”

“You keep saying that. How did you get involved with this—with the group?”

“With Catholic Action, or with Plowshares?”

“I guess I'm still confused as to who is what.”

“Well, it's not that hard, just that the memberships overlap. I guess originally I was attracted to the lifestyle, the idea of helping people. Then I met Carl, and going to the action with him seemed like the right thing to do.

“See, I didn't plan to go in, not originally. Erica was supposed to be his partner, going through the wire. But at the last minute, she couldn't face the possibility of leaving her kids for so long—she's got two girls, eight and eleven—and going to prison for years…. None of us can say a word against her decision. The federal authorities are getting serious. The state courts will charge you with trespass and maybe property destruction, but the feds are hitting us with sabotage charges. A couple on the West Coast, they were tried four times. Two hung juries, a mistrial, and a conviction. They appealed from prison and their conviction was overturned, but now they're going back to court on a reduced charge. So that actually makes five.”

Dan's ear turned to the distant
pop-pop-pop
of gunfire, but she didn't remark on it, so he didn't, either. He turned his head slowly, checking out the shadowed housefronts. “Is that legal? I thought you couldn't be tried more than once.”

“I thought so, too, but they do it. Anyway, Carl was
ready to go alone. But it's better to have more than one person, in case anything happens, and it's better to have both sexes. So I went with him. Usually, there's a long process to prepare yourself—prayer and so forth. But I felt I was ready.”

“And now you're looking at prison time, too.”

“That's right.” She looked across the dark lawn. “And do you know … This is something I'm not sure I could say to them … but I'm not sure it's worth it. It felt great when I did it. I was scared, but once I was through that first fence, it was a total feeling of commitment and justice. I'm not
sorry.
I did it freely, to bear witness. But face-to-face with the cost, I don't want to pay it. Maybe I don't have the kind of commitment the others do—that Carl has, for example.”

Dan started to understand something he hadn't gotten there in the house. Why she'd wanted to be someone else on Halloween. The mask, the tights … maybe even her reaching out to him. “Ken was telling me how everyone at the house is a visitor. Only some visits last longer than others.”

“I guess so.”

“How long have you been there?”

‘Two years now.”

“Where are you from?”

“Massachusetts. West of Boston.”

“What do you do? Other than pour blood on airplanes?”

“Actually, that takes up very little of our time. Our vision at the house is two eyes and one face—resistance and hospitality. We only spend about two percent of our time doing antiwar work. I help out at a shelter and soup kitchen we run downtown.” She glanced at his ribbons. “And what do you do, in the Navy?”

“I'm a ship driver.” He gave it a beat, then added, “We call it surface line. I've spent most of my time in destroyers and frigates. One tour on a staff, in amphibious ships.”

“Ships that… crawl out of the water onto land?”

“You'd think so from the name, but actually they carry marines.”

“To intervene in other countries?”

“To preserve peace.”

“How do you preserve peace with a gun?”

“Ask any cop.” He was getting a little sick of the sanctimonious atmosphere. “Look, your friends and I don't seem to have much in common. I don't think a lot of the stuff they're spouting is very realistic. Or even true.”

“Your face made that plain. When you were talking to Ken, and Carl.”

“And Josh.”

“Josh?”

“The kid. He already thinks anybody in uniform's a trained killer.”

“Oh, you mean Joaquin. Well, aren't you?”

“Sure. But I only spend about two percent of my time actually sticking bayonets into babies.”

“I see. What ship are you driving now?”

“What?”

“You said you were a ship driver. What ship are you driving now?”

He'd hoped she wouldn't ask that, but here was the hardball, right in his face. He thought of just saying he worked in an office, but decided to save them both time. “I'm not assigned to a ship right now. I work in weapons development. I'm in charge of putting Tomahawk missiles aboard the battleships.”

She was silent for a few paces. He heard sirens now, far off, but getting closer. “Shall we head back?”

Without speaking, she wheeled and they retraced their steps. He kept watching the shadows, the empty pavement, the glitter of broken glass, the piles of uncollected trash. “What's the idea locating here? Right in the middle of the crime wave?”

“It's close to the poor.”

“It's that all right.”

“And we're poor, too. Carl can't hold a job.”

“Why not? He looks healthy.”

“He doesn't want to get into the tax trap. What's the good of opposing violence if you help pay for it?”

“Oh. Right.” He looked away, recognizing the inevitable. He wasn't going to get anywhere with this woman. He shouldn't
want
to get anywhere with her. But something
about the curve of her mouth, the sad expression of her shadowed eyes …

They climbed the porch steps. “Well,” he said. “Look, thanks, for dinner and all. But it's getting late. How do I get to Arlington from here? Can I call a cab?”

“They won't come here at night. There's a bus stop two blocks that way. Take the Number Two H bus back to the subway.” She didn't look at him, but added, “Before you go, let's sit on the swing.”

The old wooden glider creaked under their weight. He leaned back, warm in his bridge coat.

“How do you feel about this?” she murmured.

“About what?”

“Seeing me here. Where I live.”