Resurrection Day Page 13

  ‘How generous, to give back to the world the British Empire,’ Carl said dryly.

  Sandy said, ‘Don’t get me wrong, Carl. Most Brits are still divided about this approach. Some support it and others feel it’s unseemly, that we shouldn’t take advantage of such misery to muscle our way back into prominence. But what you mentioned the other night at the consulate, I know it sounded shocking but it’s partially true. These aid programs are not just done out of the goodness of our hearts. Some of us want influence and a partnership, no matter what the cost.’

  ‘Even when the cost is preventing people from starving to death?’ He realized he had spoken too sharply and was going to apologize when she lowered her eyes and said, ‘We can be a coldhearted people, Carl, but it takes a coldhearted people to create an empire.’

  ‘And how coldhearted are you, Sandy?’

  ‘My editor would say not enough.’

  A hardcover book on a nearby nightstand caught his eye and he picked it up and looked at both sides of the cover. The front was a stylized painting of the old White House and on the lawn was a fully armored knight, resting on a white horse, his lance held down as if he was exhausted. An American Camelot was the book’s title. On the rear was the photo of the author, Jack Hagopian, an American expatriate living in London and a former member of the Kennedy administration. Standing in front of the American Embassy at Grosvenor Square, he had a neatly trimmed beard and a serious expression, and was wearing a dungaree jacket.

  He hefted the book and said, ‘Customs give you any problems bringing this in?’

  ‘No, they didn’t, but then again, I didn’t bring it,’ she said, pouring fresh cups of coffee for the both of them. ‘Dougie Harris, the press attaché, gave it to me when we first met. Is it really banned?’

  He rubbed the smooth cover. ‘Let’s just say that bookstores that carry it have been known to have some windows broken. Have you read it?’

  ‘Most of it. I can hardly wait to finish it,’ she said, stirring cream and sugar into her cup. ‘It’s fascinating. It’s a “what if” book, what might have happened if there had been no Cuban War, and if JFK and Khrushchev worked out a deal to avoid a war.’

  He put the book down. ‘And what happens after the crisis is averted?’

  ‘Well, that’s what’s so fascinating,’ she said, balancing the coffee cup in her lap. ‘He suggests that JFK and Nikita were so scared about what almost happened that they started working together in secret to reduce tensions. JFK gets reelected for a second term, and instead of trying to fight communism, he gets disarmament talks under way. Nikita tries to soften things in Russia and give his people some economic freedom. Then the military in both countries finds out what’s going on and there’s a terrific row, since of course each side’s military doesn’t trust the other. There’s some spy-versus-spy stuff and it’s all pretty suspenseful, but there’s a real somber note, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  ‘This is where the real potboiler stuff happens,’ Sandy said. ‘Bobby Kennedy’s jealous of his older brother — typical—and he starts planning his own political career. He wants to become president, as well, and he also starts having an affair with Jackie Kennedy. And that’s as far as I’ve got.’

  He turned the book over in his hands again, and then gently placed it down on the table. ‘I was at his inauguration, you know, back in 1961.’

  ‘You were?’ she said, surprised. ‘As a guest?’

  He smiled sadly at the memory. ‘Hardly. I was part of the parade, in one of the Army units. It was cold, cold, cold. Jesus, I couldn’t believe Washington could get so cold and have so much snow. It’s a southern town, right between Maryland and Virginia, and a lot of the guys in my unit were shivering. But everything went off on time and Kennedy was up there, giving his speech, and we were in front of him, freezing our tails off.’

  Sandy said, ‘You see, you were a witness to history.’

  ‘So I was, so I was,’ he said. ‘He gave a great speech. All about a torch being passed to a new generation. Eisenhower was like someone’s grandfather, he was so old, and Kennedy was so young and vibrant. Full of energy and ideas. He promised great things, about bearing any price and burden, about defending freedom and fighting communism. Stuff about asking what you can do for your country.’

  ‘Inspiring, was it?’

  Oh, yes, he thought. Quite inspiring, right up to that certain October. ‘Oh, at the time, it was, though some of the older guys there, they voted for Nixon, and kept razzing JFK as he spoke. One guy said something like, “Hey, Jack, let’s see less profile and more courage.” The military’s a pretty conservative outfit. But there was ... oh, a spirit to the moment, Sandy, for us younger troops. It really sounded like we were all part of some new crusade. It felt good. You know, for a while, we believed we could do anything. Later, we even believed we could go to the moon.’

  He reached out and touched the book once more, a book about a fairy tale that still had a hold on people. ‘Of course, less than two years later, it was over. Most of the VIPs and justices and senators and representatives were dead, and that whole area, as far as the eye could see, was turned into black glass. Funny, isn’t it. If today I were to be dropped on the same spot where I was, back in ‘61, I’d be dead in less than a day.’

  She held her cup in both hands and looked off at the far wall. ‘I know this is all going to sound a bit strange, but bear with me.’

  ‘All right, I will.’

  ‘I’ve always envied Americans. Even . . . even with the war. There’s just something about you that is special. You always believe that you can do something, fix everything, go anywhere. You have this restless ... oh, I don’t know, this restless energy. Not optimism, mind you, but a relentless need to get things done. Even now.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many romantic newspaper articles about the new American spirit,’ he said, feeling again that touch of melancholy from Hyannisport. ‘The only spirit we have left is the one that tells us to feed and clothe ourselves, and stay out of trouble. That’s the kind of country we have now, and will probably have for years to come.’

  Sandy said quietly, ‘And what are you doing about it?’

  He almost laughed. ‘Me? One reporter? One guy?’

  ‘George Orwell was just one man. And look at how influential he was.’

  ‘Sure. But our fine Mr. Blair didn’t live under martial law or press censorship. No, what I’m doing is trying to make do, trying to write the stories I can get away with, and…’

  And find out about Merl Sawson, he almost said. Find out what I can about that old man with the taped-up boots who died violently and who came to me for help.

  She stretched again on the couch. ‘See, I told you that we had things in common. We’re both trying to write the stories of our times.’

  ‘Say again? You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Oh, I know I said earlier that I want to be a great writer. But I also detest secrets. I just don’t want to cover stories which say the PM said this today, or the Lord Mayor said that yesterday. I want to reveal what’s really happening behind closed doors, what’s being planned on military bases, and what’s being talked about in Geneva. Expose enough secrets, maybe we won’t have any more wars.’

  She smiled suddenly, bringing a grin to his own face. He knew it was unfair but he had never met a woman like this, not once during the past decade.

  ‘Good Lord, I’m beginning to sound like a socialist, aren’t I?’ Sandy said. ‘Daddy would pop an artery if he heard me. But what about you, Carl? Are you just a reporter or someone who finds out what’s really going on?’

  He thought for a moment, about a dead veteran in an empty apartment, bullets in the back of his head. ‘I’m still working on that.’

  ~ * ~

  They talked for a while longer and Sandy yawned twice. Carl excused himself and went into the bathroom, which was off of the bedroom. He washed his hands thoroughly, enjoying the feel of the hot wa
ter and the fresh soap on his skin. At his own apartment, hot water was sometimes sparse. He dried his hands on thick, fluffy white towels and went back into the suite. Sandy was stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, breathing slowly and regularly.

  Carl took it all in. The fine room with the view and the remains of a room service feast that could have paid his grocery bill for a month. On the couch, the most desirable woman he’d been with in a long time. It had been a grueling day, traveling through almost half of the state, but he would not have missed a second of it. Now, the day was coming to a close and the magic would be gone in just a very few seconds. Any other man might have woken her up and taken the night for whatever might happen, but he couldn’t do it. She would be gone in a couple of weeks and he refused to think about the ‘what ifs’ and ‘might have beens.’

  Instead, he was both grateful and irritated for what she had done to him these past few days. Irritated at once again being reminded that just an airline flight away there was a land with cheerful people and plenty of food and electricity. And grateful for what else she had done: she had shaken him up, she had made him think. He looked again at her peaceful form, imagined how that smooth skin would feel under his touch.

  Carl scribbled a note on a memo pad and walked out of Sandy’s room. He carefully closed the door behind him, gently so that it wouldn’t waken her, not knowing if he would ever see her again.

  ~ * ~

  It was 11 P.M. in East Boston and he knew he shouldn’t be doing what he was doing, but Sandy had pushed him. She had asked the question. Are you just a mindless reporter, or are you someone who digs and digs? On the way home he decided he would find that out, and so here he was.

  A jet grumbled overhead, making the approach to Logan. He got out of the Coronet and crossed the street, feeling lucky when the porch door opened at his touch. He knocked on the first floor apartment, the one that belonged to Andrew Townes, the old landlord, but there was no answer. Somewhere up the street a door slammed and a drunk hollered. ‘What about my cigarettes, you bastard…’ came the female voice.

  He went upstairs to the next landing, Merl Sawson’s place. The evidence stickers were still there and the door was firmly locked. He climbed up to the third floor, to the apartment of Troy Clemmons, and stopped, hand still on the banister. The door was open, the frame smashed and splintered.

  ‘Troy?’ he called out, and opened the door with his foot. The last time he had been in this apartment, it had been a mess. Now it was a disaster. The room was dimly lit from a streetlight across the way, and he went inside and closed the door behind him. He switched on a small table lamp and saw that the place had been tossed, even worse than Merl’s apartment downstairs. Clothes and furniture and dishes and books were piled in a jumbled and broken heap in the middle of the living room floor. He walked carefully through the kitchen and into the living room, then to the small bedroom. Not a soul was home.

  He stood in the living room. The antidraft posters had been ripped from the wall and tom to pieces. It looked like Troy had been on the receiving end of an Army raid, and if he was lucky, he had been away.

  Carl looked over at the windows. Like those of the apartment below, they opened onto a small, roofed porch. He thought for a bit longer, as two more jets made their way into Logan. When he heard the low sound of another approaching jet, he went over to the windows, opened them up, and climbed outside. It was cold and the jet noise was louder. He closed the window behind him, careful to leave a few inches open, and then looked over the railing. It could be done. Hell, back in the Army he’d have done it without a thought. Twice he had parachuted out of airplanes as part of his training.

  ‘But we’re just a tad older, now, aren’t we,’ he whispered, as he stepped over the porch railing and lowered himself to the porch below, the one belonging to Merl Sawson.

  And then he slipped.

  ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hung by his hands. He couldn’t see well and his feet windmilled below him, looking for something, anything to hold on to. He had an awful thought that he would fall and break a leg or his damn fool neck. How would he explain that to George Dooley back at the Globe? His legs hit something solid and he realized he was dangling lower than he thought. He lifted his feet up and got them on the railing below him. In a confusing few seconds he tumbled to the floor of the second-floor porch. He lay there, his chest aching, the breath knocked out of him. It had been a long time since he had used these particular Army skills, and it showed.

  The smart thing would have been to wrestle his way back up to Troy’s apartment and go home and sleep late, but there was that half smile of Sandy’s in his mind, the one that had poked and prodded at him. Just who are you, she had asked. And then there was that gaunt and scared look in Merl’s face when he had met the man. I have a story, he had said. Something important. Something historic. Something that will affect the future of this country. And a few weeks later, he was dead.

  He stood up and managed to get one of the windows open halfway before it stuck. He bent over and forced himself in and then there he was in the dead man’s apartment, sweaty and cold and breathing hard. The place still smelled of old things and old violences, and he walked gingerly through the living room and then into the kitchen, thinking about his advice to Merl’s landlord. Box everything up. It was obvious the landlord hadn’t listened to his advice, because the place still looked the same. Clothes and dishes were scattered across the floors and on top of the furniture. He turned a light on over the stove and, using a dish towel, blocked most of it so that it didn’t look obvious from the outside that someone was in the apartment.

  His breathing slowed. Well, hotshot, he thought. Now that we’re here, what do we do? He decided to go back to the living room. He sat on the floor and carefully went through Merl’s books and magazines, checking to see if anything—like a letter or some other personal note—was hidden in the pages. He was sure that the man’s mail was in a police storage locker with any other evidence, but he was hoping for a break. As he worked, he tried not to think too hard about what he was looking for. It made no sense. Anything remotely interesting had already been taken by the police. So why was he here?

  ‘Because,’ he whispered, standing up and wincing at the pain in his knees. Because something was going on. And the old man had come to him, had been ready to confide in him, had passed over that list of names. Carl owed him.

  The bedroom was next and he frowned as he went through the meager belongings. The bare mattress was on the bed, a large, rust-colored stain at the head. The bureaus revealed socks and underwear and T-shirts. The bedroom closet was musty and the floor was covered with boots, shoes, and sneakers without laces. He idly went through the clothes and spotted a worn New York Yankees baseball cap. He turned it over in his hand. Odd thing for a Red Sox fan to have. Carl was about to leave the closet when his fingers brushed something leathery. He pushed his hand through and touched it again. It felt like a garment bag. He reached in further, unhooked the bag, brought it out, and laid it on the mattress, being careful to avoid the bloodstains.

  The thin light from the kitchen was enough to illuminate the bag. He unzipped it and, without thinking, whistled in amazement. It was a class ‘A’ U.S. Army uniform with the emblems of a full colonel, a Combat Infantry Badge, and a couple dozen service ribbons. He undid the bag even more and saw a looped brassard hanging from one arm. Merl Sawson had been more than just a vet living off his pension. He had been places and done things. But what kind of places, and what kind of things?

  He rummaged through the pockets of the uniform and found a small envelope. He pulled it out and held it up to the light. It was made from heavy white stock and the handwriting on the outside, ‘Colonel Merl Sawson,’ was written in calligraphy. Inside the envelope was a stiff piece of vellum with the seal of the President of the United States embossed

  The President and Mrs. Kennedy

  request the pleasure of the company of

  Co
lonel Merl Sawson

  at dinner

  on Friday, September 19, 1962,

  at Eight o’clock

  Behind the invitation was a smaller card:

  On the occasion of

  the visit of

  His Excellency

  The Prime Minister of Canada

  Now he recognized the brassard looped over one arm. It was a piece of uniform that only a few soldiers could ever claim as their own. Colonel Merl Sawson had been a presidential aide in the White House.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Carl whispered.

  ~ * ~

  He didn’t think he’d find anything else. He was back in the kitchen, now hot and tired and thirsty, the ten-year-old invitation snuggled in his own coat pocket. He didn’t know who he was going to show it to, or why, but he had to have it. It was proof, proof that Merl was more than just a forgotten murdered vet. He reached into his coat pocket and rubbed at the envelope. The White House. Even though there was no such place, and whatever remained of the building had been vaporized years ago, there was still something weighty about those words.