by Scott Turow
There was not another soul around, not another voice, except for Sam's, and the birds', and the drone of planes approaching a country airfield ten or twenty miles away.
Argentina, he thought suddenly. Its cruel history, its fateful cycles of hope and repression, pained him like a crushing hold applied to a vital place; it was always that way. He seldom thought of any of this, and when he did, the memories filled him with an ardor, fresh as any lover's, for the United States.
There were cousins left down there who prospered generally, but had also suffered terribly; they wrote once a year, sending money, which Stern invested for them in bank accounts here.
"How old was he then?" Sonny asked of Jacobo. "'Seventeen years four months."
"How horrible. What happened?"
"One of those terrible tales of impulsive youth. He fell in with a Zionist crowd. Wealthy young Jewish people. My mother was thrilled at first by such impressive comradeship. When she' eventually realized how strong Jacobo's attachments were, it was too late to retrieve him.
This was in the midst of World War II. Argentina was supposedly neutral, but tilted toward the Axis, and these were politically dangerous views to hold. Jacobo decided that he would go to Palestine fight with Haganah. He could not be dissuaded. He knew, like everyone else, that he was dstined to be a hero. There were thirty of them. We went down to s them off and the boat truly looked as if it would sink before it left the harbor. My mother wept; she knew she would never see him again. And she did not. The Germans said the Allies had sunk the boat; the Allies blamed the Germans. Perhaps it was a storm. We never knew."
Here amid the acres, thinking of all of this, spewing of what was lost and so momentous, he saw his present life as vulnerable as a paper construction. In Sonny's company, there was, for whatever reason, less sadness. But it was like letting your finertips drift along the raised features of a relief-he could feel the textures and recognized again his deepest secret, that without Clara, with the children grown, he had been left with no fundamental alliance. He could sense the desperate struggle every day had been, doing what had been done before with a determined effort to give it no reflection. Far from the city and those routines, he was strongly under the influence of this heartyStates.
There were cousins left down there who prospered generally, but had also suffered terribly; they wrote once a year, sending money, which Stern invested for them in bank accounts here.
"How old was he then?" Sonny asked of Jacobo. "'Seventeen years four months."
"How horrible. What happened?"
"One of those terrible tales of impulsive youth. He fell in with a Zionist crowd. Wealthy young Jewish people. My mother was thrilled at first by such impressive comradeship. When she' eventually realized how strong Jacobo's attachments were, it was too late to retrieve him.
This was in the midst of World War II. Argentina was supposedly neutral, but tilted toward the Axis, and these were politically dangerous views to hold. Jacobo decided that he would go to Palestine fight with Haganah. He could not be dissuaded. He knew, like everyone else, that he was dstined to be a hero. There were thirty of them. We went down to s them off and the boat truly looked as if it would sink before it left the harbor. My mother wept; she knew she would never see him again. And she did not. The Germans said the Allies had sunk the boat; the Allies blamed the Germans. Perhaps it was a storm. We never knew."
Here amid the acres, thinking of all of this, spewing of what was lost and so momentous, he saw his present life as vulnerable as a paper construction. In Sonny's company, there was, for whatever reason, less sadness. But it was like letting your finertips drift along the raised features of a relief-he could feel the textures and recognized again his deepest secret, that without Clara, with the children grown, he had been left with no fundamental alliance. He could sense the desperate struggle every day had been, doing what had been done before with a determined effort to give it no reflection. Far from the city and those routines, he was strongly under the influence of this hearty outspoken young woman. The images were of things thriving, unfolding in the torrid early season heat, as if there was some fertile' spirit carried from her, like the scent of humus on the occasional spells of warm wind.
"Charlie's not that kind of magnetic personality. He believes in the lives of the poets. A higher essence. He doesn't want to live like everybody else. He's grim and silent and -if you ask his wife-deliberately difficult."
Stern, straddling the row, reared his head to smile at her.
He had moved on quite a distance from their starting point, stirring under the leaves and pulling, and Sonny just now was following him along, eating idly from her bucket. The fruit, baked by the sun, was-wild with fragrance and incredibly sweet, gliding and soft on the tongue.
"It's not all that funny. We tried to live together for ten years and it never worked. Somebody was always moving out."
"There was a change eventually, I take it."
"When I got sick. Charlie showed up at the hospital with a bunch of posies and begged me to marry him. Begged-and I hardly needed to be begged at that point." She had a few berries in her hand and she stepped over a row to drop them in Stern's bucket. She made a remark: the stooping killed her back. Across her forehead, the bandanna had been darkened by' sweat. Sam appeared at just that moment, as he had from time to time, holding aloft a huge berry. Both Stern and she took an instant to extol the prize. "He was very convincing. And you know how it is-it's a crisis, you think you're looking right to the center of things. I figured I loved Charlie, he loved me. The rest of it was detalia." She shook her head. "Nobody promises us we'll be happy, do they?"
"No," said Stern.
"No," she said. "Anyway, it was very complicated by then."
"I imagine," said Stern quietly. He saw that this Charlie was due some commendation, hav/lng the heart to beg for the hand of a woman whose life hung in the balance.
"Oh, it wasn't what you'd think." She seemed to be smiling.
"He was married," Sonny said. "I told you: there were details."
"Hmm." Stern took an instant, adjusting. "Sam's mother?"
"That's right. He married her after one of our breakups.
As I said, it's been an up-and-down relationship."
"Well you know the sayings," said Stern. "Which ones?"
"Many. 'True love never did mn smooth'?" Sonny shrugged.
The thought was not consoling, "How did you meet your wife?"
"Oh, that." Stern lifted a hand, prepared to consign the story to the ineffable, and then thought better of it, that it would be, in a word, unfair. "I worked for Clara's father.
He let me office space. One thing led to another."
"And what was not smooth?"
"Most everything. You can imagine the complications when a penniless immigrant falls in love with the boss's daughter"
"Her parents objected?"
Stern made a sound, still not quite able, even thirty years later, to withstand the recollection of the disruption.
"And they never accepted you?"
"On the contrary. After I married Clara, her father offered to take me into his practice. He was quite prominent. I lived in dread of him but envied his success, and was much too callow to refuse."
"So what happened?"
"We learned a bit about each other. Eventually, we had a serious disagreement."
"Over what? Can I ask?"
"Oh, this is a very embarrassing story," said Stern. He stood up to face her, adjusting the hat on his head. The rim was shot round with straw bands that had come loose and scratched his forehead when he moved. "One day my fatherin-law called me into his office and told me there was a file he wanted me to steal from the county courthouse. A divorce matter for an important client, in which the husband had managed to sue first. This was th'uy years ago, and the request was not quite as unthinkable as it might be today, but it remained a serious matter."
"You're kidding! And your relationship fell apart when you ref
used?"
"No, our relationship suffered when I did as he asked. We knew much too much about one another then. He knew how craven I was; I knew that he was corrupt. I suppose that having the courage to do that convinced me that I could walk out on Henry, too.." Stern glanced over to Klonsky. He had never told that story to another mortal soul, not even to Clara, whose loyalties, so early in their marriage, he could not fully depend on.
Sonny had now sat down with the bucket between her knees, her face bright with the heat, massaging her 1owe back. It seemed they had passed the point where he could shock her; if he went marauding naked down the rows, she would nod and accept it with the same placid smile as a further exchange of intimacies.
He bent again-the brightest berries were beneath the leaves, resting just above the straw beddings-but he remained under the charm of his own story. For a short time, his image of Henry with his braces and his white widow's peak was as clear as if.he were only a row or two over. He had been as brazen in this request as in so many other things, putting it to Stern right in front of the client, a -1ooking woman in a tight blond hairdo and a dark green suit. Stera had wondered a bit about Henry's relationship with her. It was well known that Henry was not a man of perfect virtue; but that question, like many others, went unanswered. 'Oh, don't look at me that way,' said Henry. 'This stuff is done all the time. I give Griffin McKenna one hundred dollars every Christmas to make sure no one does it on any of the bank's cases, and half the-goddamn files disappear anyway." But you have to sign for the file, Stern noted. 'Are they going to look at your dog tags? Write down a name. Jones.
Jablonsky, for Chrissake. Just make damn certain that you don't write down Mittler-or even Stern, for that matter." For some reason, this recollection seemed to have been edging up on him for days. Then he remembered: John. and Dixon. Amid the present amity, the thought was troubling and he immediately put it aside.
"He sounds like he was a pretty tough customer."
"Oh, he was. No question about that. I have not met many men tougher than Henry. He reminded me of certain policemen. In some ways, he seemed to be made of stone.
Resolute. This was how it was. Punkt."
"Did Clara like him?"
"Ah, well. Now that is another question." For a moment, he turned his attention to the plant; this picking,' hard on the back and thighs, was satisfying work, quickly rewarding, and tempting in its own way. He found a berry large as a small apple and showed it to her. "Clara had strong feelings for him. She sat by his bed weeping when he died.
At many other times, in earlier years, she reviled him, and probably in stronger terms than most children criticize or rebuke their parents."
"That sounds like my mother and me," said Sonny. A wind, most welcome, came up then and raised dust in a revenant form down the road. When he looked back to Sonny, she had her eyes closed and both hands placed over the full shape in her middle. He was afraid that she was in pain, but it became clear quickly that it was, instead, resolve which gripped her.
"God," she said. "God, I am going to do better." She Opened her eyes then and greeted him with a magnificent smile-happy to be here, to have survived it all, to swear her vows and to see him sharing this, their acre of common ground.
LATE in the afternoon, with Stern carrying all the buckets, the three of them returned from the straw, berry field. The wind had turned suddenly, fresh-ened by some northerly impulse. When they reached the cabin, Sonny sat heavily in a chair and laid the backs of her hands across her eyes.
Stern suggested she lie down.
"Would you mind?" she asked. "Just for a few minutes?
Then you can try to have that talk with me."
"Sam and I shall make do."
"You can wash the strawberries," she said. "Sam enjoys that. And Sam-check the hot tub. Make sure everything is okay."
The kitchen sink was joined unceremoniously to the rear wall, without any cabinetry to hide the plumbing. The boy stood on an old bentwood chair and insisted on holding each berry under the running tap.. Laconic when Stern arrived, he now went on with five-year-old officiousness, issuing an unbreaking string of commands.
"Don't take the green thing out till you eat them."
"I see."
"They get rotting.",
"I see."
"Then get them dry but don't squish them."
"Certainly not."
When the berries were bagged and refrigerated, Sam offered to show Stern his cave in the ravine. Stern called twice to Sonny but she did not respond and they. left the cabin quietly.
Sam's cave was in the hollowed trunk of an old oak. The boy had built a nest of sorts out of dried leaves and twigs and in an empty fliptop cigarette box had stored two or three plastic figures with gargoyle faces and muscular bodies of a resilient resin. Sam told Stern their names-each apparently was an important cartoon star-and spent quite some time heavily engaged in the staging of various interplanetary wars, which Stern observed from the safety of a resting place in the crotch of a birch tree about thirty feet away. Cowboys and Indians, the pastime of his children's early years, was now banned on political grounds.
Villains these days were alien species, and, rather than six-guns, firearms were lazer-mazers that evaporated all objects with a bright red beam. The game ended abruptly when the boy turned from his pieces.
"I'm hungry," he said.
"After all those strawberries?"
Sam tossed up his hands and repeated that he was hungry.
"I am sure Sonny will make you some dinner. Shall we see if she is awake?"
Inside the cabin, however, no one was stirring. Stern called to her softly and Sam added his voice at more telling volume. Stern hushed him and, after holding the boy back, crept alone to the small rear room where she lay uncovered on a narrow folding cot, still rosy with the heat but solidly asleep. Her hair was dark against her skin and one leg of her shorts had crept far up her thigh, showing some of the soft weight of pregnancy. Sonia Klonsky, his energetic antagonist, slept with the adorable soft innocence of a child, her pink mouth tenderly parted.
Briefly, Stern, without reflection, raised the back of his hand gently to her cheek.
When he turned, Sam was watching from the open doorway.
"I want to to be certain she is not sick," Stern whispered. at once.
But he felt his heart knocking and he heard an urgent note in his voice.
The boy, however, required no explanation.
"I'm hungry," he said again, somewhat pathetically. Stern raised a finger to his4ips and ushered Sam out, "Do you know how to make dinner?"
"What is it you wish, Sam?"
"Hot dog and potato chips."
"That may be within my range."
They ate two hot dogs apiece. Sam was a garrulous, free-flow talker except when he ate, an activity he undertook briefly but with great concentration. When he was done, he resumed conversation, relating, in response to questions, that he was five and a half, went to all-day kindergarten at the Brementon School, and could read, a/though he was not supposed to He was a remarkable child, full of a warm, seeking intelligence. That brightness lit him up like a candle and gave him a physical radiance which, in a person so young, amounted to beauty.
He considered Stern through a single squinted eye.
"What's your name again?"
"Sandy."
"Sandy, can I go in the hot tub after dinner?" 'J'You must ask Sonny, after she is up."
"I always go."
"Sam, not so loud. You will wake her."
As the light dwindled, Stern and Sam played Battleship.
Sam, most impressively, understood all the rules, although he treated them with occasional indifference. At one point, as Stern marked out the location of one of the boy's destroyers, he erased furiously on his page.
"Sam, I believe your ships must remain where you placed them."
"See, I was really going to put it somewhere else." He pointed to the page.
"I see," said
Stern.
"I really was."
"Very well." Peter, Stern recalled, had refused to obey the rules of any game until he was past ten. He cheated with' alarming guile and cried furiously whenever he lost, particularly to his father. After Sam's triumph in Battleship, they played a number of hands of Go Fish. Sam was a canny player, but was interested only in making books of picture cards. He did not care to hold ace through ten.
"I wanna go in the hot tub," he told Stern.
"When Sonny wakes up." Stern had checked on her again from the doorway only a few minutes before.
"I'll have to go to bed then."
"I see. What is it you do in the hot tub, Sam?" 'Look at the stars."
"Perhaps we can look at the stars, nonetheless."
"All right." He climbed down from his chair at once, ignoring the hand in play.
On the veranda, Stern found two splintered rockers and they sat side by side. The change of wind had pushed off the haze and the country sky was clear and magnificent. The air, after the heat of the day, was almost brisk. Sam had read a number of books about astronomy and at the ae of five spoke about "the heavens." He knew the names of a number of constellations and demanded that Stern orient him to each.
"Where' s Cassiopeia?"
Oh dear, thought Stern. Cassiopeia. He had not spent many evenings in his life studying the night skies. "Over there, I beFeve."
"That one?"
"Yes."
"Sort of blue?"
"Yes."