Resurrection Day Page 6

  He had also had some half-formed inklings of being a writer but both Mom and Dad had laughed at the idea. Get some real-world life before you try any of that, they had said. Sarah shook her head at his joining the Army and said, ‘You’re too linear, Carl. That’s your biggest fault. You don’t see the shadings, the story behind the story.’ And getting ready to take a bus into Boston, so he could take a train to boot camp, he had said, ‘And what’s your biggest fault, little sister?’ She had said, smiling faintly, ‘My fault is that I want to change the world, and I want to do it tomorrow.’

  Someone cleared his throat. He looked up. It was Jack Burns, dressed in an orange shirt and blue jeans.

  Carl said, ‘You look like you’re off to another one of your hippie concerts. Or a whorehouse on the South Shore.’

  ‘Matter of fact, I am,’ he said. ‘Going to a concert, that is. But mind if I have a seat?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Jack dragged a chair over and sat down. ‘Sorry you had a bad time of it with George. But it’s not his fault. George is a bit of a goof but he’s all right as newspaper editors go.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. What isn’t his fault?’

  Jack looked around and then looked back and continued, his voice lower. ‘I mean the fuss over your story. The one that didn’t run.’

  It seemed to Carl like the entire newsroom had gone quiet, and that the only thing that existed was the few feet of space around his desk. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Your homicide story. It got spiked because of oversight.’

  Carl stared at Jack. ‘George told me he held it because of space.’

  ‘Jesus, which potato truck did you fall out of?’ Jack rolled his eyes in the direction of Cullen Devane’s office. ‘They always say a story gets killed because of space. Our efficient censor read the story and it got a spike through its heart like a goddam vampire.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  Jack winked. ‘Let’s say people owe me favors. I get comp tickets to quite a number of concerts, and for those I don’t attend, I like to spread the wealth. A friend in composing, um, he and I were having a drink at the Sod last night after you left and he told me that your story was on its way to being typeset when the word came down to pull it. From the good major himself.’

  Carl realized that his own voice was as low as Jack’s. ‘And do you know why?’

  ‘Do you think people would last long at this newspaper if they ask too many questions of the oversight editor? You should go down to the library and see Grace. Read the particulars of the Martial Law Declaration in ‘62 and National Emergency Declaration back in ‘63.’

  ‘Jack, I’ve read them both. Who here hasn’t?’

  ‘Then read them again, my friend. Check out the subparagraph on press oversight. Our dear major has this newspaper by its short hairs, and his brothers have similar holds on every newspaper, magazine, and radio and television station in this glowing land of ours.’

  Carl spared a glance at Devane’s office. The door was closed. ‘Funny. This is the first time one of my stories has been spiked by oversight.’

  Jack patted him on the arm. ‘Well, congratulations on losing your cherry. I’ve lost track of the times my stuffs been spiked—usually it’s over reprinting some half-literate rocker’s lyrics for a review, when they’re deemed obscene or seditious.’

  Carl looked again at the closed door. ‘Maybe I should meet up with the oversight editor, see what’s going on.’

  The other man shook his head. ‘You know that’s not smart, Carl. Just let it be.’

  ‘Any guess on why my story got spiked?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Could have been anything. Maybe the dead vet was a personal friend of someone in the Northeast Military District and the word came down to spare the family and friends. Or, most likely, someone from the Boston police asked Devane to hold it as a personal favor; there are so many homicides this year, maybe the cops are trying to tone down the coverage. Then, of course, there’s the least likely explanation.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He smiled, leaned forward. ‘Maybe it was spiked because of what they always say—for reasons of national security.’

  ~ * ~

  After a quick cafeteria lunch he was back at his desk, thinking about his spiked story. Who would care about a retired vet, killed in his home in East Boston? It didn’t make sense.

  But someone connected with oversight sure as hell cared. He picked up a copy of the day’s Globe and searched through the first section, looking for the ‘Bleep You’ box. In the first years after the war, every newspaper and magazine had a little box explaining that it was being published under emergency censorship conditions. Eventually it became known as the ‘Bleep You’ box, and eventually most newspapers and magazines dropped it. Censorship—or oversight as it was politely called — became as much a part of newspapers as paper and ink, and no one bothered reporting on that every day.

  Except for a handful of what passed as liberal newspapers—the Globe, the Los Angeles Times, and the reconstituted New York Times, published these past eight years from Albany. There. Today in the Globe it was on page six:

  To our readers: The stories appearing in today’s Boston Globe have been cleared by the U.S. Army under the provisions of the Martial Law Declaration of 1962 and the National Emergency Declaration of 1963.

  In the ranks of protest, it wasn’t much, but there it was.

  He looked up from his desk. The door to Major Devane’s office was open and he was striding across the newsroom, heading to the news desks. Everyone in the room, except Carl, suddenly found their attention focused on their phones or typewriters. But Carl watched the confident way he walked and handled himself, and his utter ease at talking to the editors, deciding on his own which stories would live, which stories would die. Carl thought about getting up and grabbing that man by the arm, to demand an explanation.

  Instead, he grabbed his notebook and coat, and left.

  Not much of a protest either, but he would see what he could do.

  ~ * ~

  Merl Sawson’s landlord didn’t want to talk, but Carl wormed his way into Andrew Townes’s apartment by using the old ‘can I use your bathroom?’ trick and found himself standing in the clean kitchen, notebook in his back pants pocket, trying to memorize everything Andrew was saying. The landlord was dressed in gray slacks and an old black sweater with leather patches on the elbows and looked about twenty pounds underweight. His eyes shifted constantly, like he was expecting the police to come barreling through the door at any moment, to arrest him for the seditious crime of talking to a newspaper reporter. As he spoke he had the odd habit of touching his gray-black hair every few moments, as if afraid of looking untidy.

  ‘I’m telling you, I don’t think I should be talking to you, that’s all,’ Townes said.

  ‘Why not?’ Carl asked. ‘I’m just looking for some information on your neighbor for a story. What’s the harm in that?’

  Townes looked cross. ‘That’s what you told me yesterday. And when I looked in the paper there was no story.’

  ‘Space problems,’ Carl said. ‘Happens all the time. That’s what happened to my story on Merl Sawson. They didn’t have room.’ Which was true, if one listened to George the metro editor and not Jack the music critic.

  ‘Still,’ Townes hesitated. ‘One does hear things ... Look. Will you be using my name?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘And when we’re done, you’ll leave me alone?’

  ‘Until it comes time to renew your Globe subscription, you’ll never see me again.’

  Townes was quick. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  So much for humor. ‘It’s a joke, that’s all. Mr. Townes, tell me what you know about Merl. How long had he been living here?’

  ‘He moved in about four years ago. I’ve been here since ‘64, and I was looking to rent out the middle floor. The previous tenants moved out to Washington State, and Merl came
in and I took him on right away. I could have rented to some college students, but... they get tiring after a while.’ Townes looked up at the ceiling, his eyes glaring. ‘When Mister Clemmons moves out, I can tell you it’ll be a long time before I rent to another student again.’

  ‘And are you keeping an eye on his dog?’

  ‘Merl’s dog? No, the dog died some weeks ago. Old age, I think. Poor Merl was quite broken up about it. Couldn’t talk about his dog afterwards without weeping.’

  ‘Oh. Well, did he have friends, visitors, relatives?’

  Townes slowly rubbed his hands together. ‘He made mention once of a sister in Detroit. That’s it. And I know he was a widower, from the war, I believe.’

  ‘And he was a veteran, right? Did you know what branch of the service?’

  ‘Army, though he never really discussed it much.’ Townes leaned against the sink. ‘Funny thing is, I didn’t know till a couple of years after he moved in that he was a veteran.’

  ‘He didn’t use his veteran’s preference when applying for the apartment?’

  ‘Nope, not at all. I asked him later about that and he said something about how he felt better doing things on his own.’

  ‘And you said he never talked much about his service years?’

  ‘Oh, we played cribbage some nights and I asked him off and on. About the most he ever said was that he kept track of some important papers, that’s all. Paper and ink. And then he’d just change the subject. Once, though, after a couple of beers, he said that he fought from behind a desk and except for one dreadful mistake, he had done a damn fine job. Later, he said he shouldn’t have even told me that, and asked me never to repeat it. Though I suppose it doesn’t matter much now.’

  Carl wished he had his notebook out but he didn’t want to spook Townes. Once a source started talking, you started milking, and you never let up, as much as you could.

  Carl asked, ‘Did he ever mention a friend of his, a man named Caz?’

  ‘No, not at all. Look, we never talked much about anything, except for the weather and the price of food and the Red Sox. He was a great fan of the Red Sox. We were just a couple of old guys with a lot of time on our hands. In fact, I can only once remember him mentioning anything about politics.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Townes’s eyes blinked a few times and he touched his hair again. ‘You promise never to use my name, right? Oh, lord, I should have kept my mouth shut.’

  ‘Mr. Townes, just this once and then I’ll leave. All right?’

  He moved away from the sink. ‘Last year, when meat rationing was ended, I got a nice piece of flank steak and I asked Merl down for dinner. We watched the news as we ate and there was a segment showing General Curtis getting an award from some veterans group. I said something about the general looking good for his age, and Merl said, why not. He has no heart or soul, so why shouldn’t he look good for his age. And that was that.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘Nothing more,’ he said firmly. ‘And now you really must leave.’

  There wasn’t much more he could do. Carl headed for the door, Townes right behind him, and as Carl reached the end of the hallway Townes said, almost shyly, ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure,’ Carl said. ‘What is it?’

  Townes glanced up again. ‘His belongings. Do you think the police will come for them?’

  Carl found he felt sorry for the old man. ‘No, I’m afraid not, Mr. Townes. You should just... well, after a while, you could take what you want and box up the rest, see if his sister or any other relative shows up.’

  Townes’s face seemed to darken. ‘I see. Yes, I suppose that makes sense. You know, this house once belonged to my mother and father. When I moved out of here I swore I would never come back to East Boston. I worked for TransAmerica Bank in New York City as an auditor, until the war. Then I and everyone else in that bank was out of a job and I came back here and waited. And waited, and waited. My parents, you see, were on vacation in Florida that October. They never came back, and after a year I boxed up their things and put them in the basement.’

  Townes gave a quick, barking laugh that was not humorous. ‘Lucky for me, there’s room in the basement for additional boxes. Ever think of that, Mr. Landry? All the tens of millions of boxes out there, holding personal possessions of people who don’t exist anymore. That would be a hell of a day, if this country decided to hold a gigantic yard sale. Think of all those dusty boxes, being opened up after ten Years!’ Carl realized that although earlier he had wanted into this apartment in the worst way, now he couldn’t get out of it fast enough.

  ~ * ~

  He parked in the alleyway behind his apartment building, tired and hungry and knowing he hadn’t gotten much out of his visit with Townes, except for a queasy feeling that had settled into his chest. The fact Merl didn’t talk much about his Army days was no big deal. Neither did Carl, unless forced. And as far as Carl knew, he was sure that a great number of people—though probably not a majority—didn’t particularly like General Ramsey ‘The Rammer’ Curtis. As for his own opinion, well, it depended on the day of the week. Sometimes he could see Curtis for what he really was, a puppet master, pulling the strings of the President and the senators and the congressmen. Other times, he remembered the general right after the war started, and how he managed to end it before too much death came to the country. Either way, whatever he thought didn’t make much difference.

  From the shadows behind a dumpster came a squeaking noise, and he turned and saw a man, dressed in a sweatshirt, an old Army fatigue coat, tattered pants, and knee-high rubber boots, carefully maneuvering a full shopping cart down the brick-paved alley. It was Two-Tone, the homeless person on the block. Everyone called him Two-Tone, but Carl found that he could not say it to his face, not to a fellow vet. He had found out the man’s real first name—William—and that was what he used. As he got closer Carl said, ‘Evening, William, everything pretty quiet here tonight?’

  ‘Well, it seems to be, though no one ever knows.’ Two-Tone wheeled the shopping cart closer. He was smiling as he reached Carl, his eyes wandering aimlessly around, as if he couldn’t stand to stare at any one thing for more than a few seconds. The right side of his face was bearded, the black hair streaked with gray. The other side of his face was a furrowed mass of burn scars. Tonight, he had on a black wool watch cap over his head, but in the summer, with the watch cap off, the same was true of his skull: half bald with burn tissue, half filled with hair. Two-Tone’s left hand was also withered and scarred. He had been in Cuba in ‘62, and was one of the few survivors from the invasion that Carl had ever met.

  Carl gave him two quarters. ‘Sure appreciate you keeping an eye on things.’

  The quarters were pocketed with a friendly nod, the eyes still moving. ‘My old Army training, Carl. Always keep an eye on the terrain.’

  ‘And what’s the terrain telling you tonight?’

  Two-Tone looked about for a second and said in a loud whisper, ‘There’s trouble afoot, that much I can tell you.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘Official-looking, that’s what. Some men were here today, poking around the block. Checking things out.’

  ‘Probably just city workers. Tax assessors, building inspectors, that sort of thing.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, they were too well dressed. And too determined in their work. Not like guys on the city clock. I thought at first they were looking for me, so I hid for a while.’

  ‘And why would they be looking for you, William?’

  The cart was wheeled closer. ‘They want to know where my shelter is.’

  ‘They do, do they?’

  ‘Sure they do.’ Two-Tone gave him a conspiratorial look. ‘It’s near here, about ten minutes or so. That’s how much warning we’d get, if there’s another war. Ten minutes and I’m deep and safe and buried when the warheads come. I won’t be caught out in the open again.’

  Carl tri
ed to be polite. ‘You don’t think there’s going to be another war, do you? It’s been ten years since Cuba. A lot of things have changed.’

  ‘Ole mother Russia is a big place, Carl. Just you see. There’s hidden forces there, hidden arsenals, and one of these days, some of those Reds are going to get their revenge. You wait and see. You believe me, don’t you, Carl?’

  He thought of mother Russia, that destroyed and shattered country, where starvation and madness still reigned, and the only people who had a chance to live were those who could make it to a UN refugee camp along the borders of the old country. No more industry, no more large cities, no more government. Just tribes of people, trying to survive in muddy villages that could have existed in the Middle Ages, a decade after an entity called SAC—the Strategic Air Command—had obliterated their nation from the earth.