The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  “Shake a leg,” Zachary called to the girl who remained behind. “We’ll meet you on the sidewalk.”

  The man held the door open and then wordlessly followed the two kids outside.

  The chestnut-haired girl wiped the last of the whipped cream off her nose. “Why do you always do that?”

  “Why do you always let me?” replied the soda jerk.

  “I was taught not to answer questions with a question.”

  He nodded approvingly. “You were taught well. Because, Lucy, it always make you smile, and I don’t get to see that smile enough.”

  Lucy pushed her dish away. “Greenberg.”

  “Greenberg?”

  “He’s a Detroit Tiger. Plays first base, bats right…”

  “Yes, yes, I know who Hank Greenberg is. Your favorite? Why?”

  “He’s a Jew.”

  “You like Jewish baseball players?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But Greenberger told me that when he—”

  “Greenberger?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, as if he had just asked her if the moon was round. “He said I could call him that.”

  The man held up his hand. “You met Hank Greenberg?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I found out where the team was practicing and I asked if I could buy him a Coke.”

  The man shook his head, fascinated, and then held out his hand for her to continue.

  “He told me that when he was in the minor leagues, in Texas, no one wanted to play with him. Because he was Jewish. Called him terrible names. Said really mean things about his family.”

  “And?”

  “And he became the best player on that team. That shut them up. And they all wanted to play with him. And then he became the best player on the Tigers. Maybe in the whole American League.”

  “But what if he hadn’t been better than those other players? Would they have still wanted to play with him?”

  “You’re missing my point.”

  Missing her point? The eavesdropping Leavitt shook his head, amused. What was she, eleven now?

  “My apologies. What is your point, dear girl?”

  She crossed her arms, frowning at him.

  He held up his hand. “Yes, yes. I understand your point. You had a game yesterday, no?”

  “Yep.”

  “How many of those boys did you strike out?”

  She frowned. “Eight.”

  “Eight? That’s good, no?”

  “We lost. Three to two.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps you should catch up to your friends.”

  She stood up, wiping her hands with the napkin. “Mr. Wozniak?”

  “Yes?” he asked, as he began clearing their dishes.

  “Have you seen it yet?”

  He smiled. “No, not yet. But I have heard about the story. Do you have a favorite there as well? The Lion perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I know it’s not Dorothy.”

  “There’s a Wizard in the movie—”

  “Hence the name.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re interrupting again.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

  “Everyone believes the Wizard has special powers. The Lion wants the Wizard to give him courage, and the Tin Man wants a heart. The Wizard is a good man, but he doesn’t really have these powers. They just think he does. So when he said the Tin Man was getting a heart, the Tin Man believed him.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I am the Wizard?”

  A smile. Finally. “No such thing as wizards, Mr. Wozniak. I’m just saying you are a pretty good man.”

  He returned the smile. “I’ll watch the movie, if you wear a dress for a week.”

  “Not a chance,” she said, rising from the stool. The girl stood on her tip toes and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. She then turned and left the restaurant.

  “That’s an interesting one,” Leavitt called out from the end of the counter. The man turned toward him. He frowned, recognizing Leavitt immediately.

  “We don’t serve the likes of your kind here,” he said brusquely, using an exaggerated Brooklyn accent.

  Leavitt met his glare. “Commies?”

  “Red Sox fans.”

  The man’s face broadened into a smile, and he strode down the length of the counter, a bright twinkle in his eye.

  “Sam,” he said, extending his hand.

  Leavitt gripped it tightly. “Aleksy.”

  “Witamy w Malt Shoppe Sandy,” he said in his native tongue, sweeping the room with his arm.

  Leavitt sighed. He had guessed Aleksy would revert to the strange language. “Kim jest Sandy?” asked Leavitt, also in Polish.

  Wozniak chuckled. “I have no idea. But it’s her malt shoppe.”

  “I’d like…” Leavitt paused. "Si nous changions au français Il est plus facile pour moi à parler et à comprendre."

  “English is fine,” replied Wozniak. “But perhaps you can flatten that New England accent a bit? It’s murder on my ears. I was raised on the classical languages, you know.”

  Leavitt gestured to the half-filled restaurant. “What are you doing here, Aleksy?”

  Wozniak patted his belly. “Sofia says I’m getting soft, that I need to go out and work, get on my feet more. So I come here, serve children ice cream. A good job, no?”

  Leavitt shook his head. “She wants you to lose weight, and you go to work selling ice cream?”

  Wozniak held up a finger. “Remember what the Bible says. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Leavitt laughed. “But what about the Wizard?”

  “Ah, you heard. So how’s the job, Sam?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Have you given way to temptation yet?”

  Leavitt looked at him curiously. “Meaning?”

  “Last time we spoke. You talked about your last train, and how you were tempted to take a seat with the passengers.”

  “I said that?”

  Wozniak nodded.

  “Well, I do confess, that thought does cross my mind. I’ve got grandchildren there. Olivia is there. Someone has to teach those little ones how to fish.”

  “You have certainly earned it, old friend. So what keeps you here?”

  Leavitt mimicked an English accent. “The personal enrichment that comes from serving our fellow man.”

  “Bullcrap, as they would say out on your Western plains.”

  Leavitt chuckled. “I don’t know, Aleksy. This is my job. I do it well.”

  “Extraordinarily well. But you’ve been here forever, Sam. Know this, my friend. If you ever hear a calling to take a seat in the back of one of those trains, do it. We will manage here, I assure you.”

  “You mean that?”

  Wozniak nodded intently, making clear the sincerity of the offer. Leavitt stood and walked around to the other side of the counter. He leaned against it, next to Wozniak, and folded his arms.

  “Malcolm Kelsey.”

  Wozniak smiled. “Ah, Mr. Kelsey. Quite a subject. Impressions?”

  Leavitt rubbed his jaw in thought. “Based on his dossier, mostly what I had expected at first. When we met two years ago, he came across as bitter and mistrustful. He was a shattered man, no doubt, defeated and lacking purpose, except…he wasn’t. It is difficult to articulate. He has always wanted to be someone he wasn’t. A better husband, a better father, a better man. I came away thinking he might not be ready to give up on that yet.”

  “And now?”

  “He’s grown quite a bit under his new surroundings. He has adjusted well, though he remains distressed and somewhat withdrawn. Clearly doesn’t want to get close to anyone.”

  Wozniak paused. “Very clinical analysis. But tell me what you are not saying. What would I not see in that file you are holding? You can say it, Sam.”

  “Well, Socrates…”

  Wozniak grin
ned.

  “…during his entry interview, he was a bit…cantankerous.”

  “Cantankerous? I don’t know this word.”

  “He was an ass.”

  Wozniak chuckled. “That word I know. But you expected that.”

  “Yes. He was also hungry, come to think of it. But nothing else that struck me as extraordinarily out of place.”

  “So nothing anomalous about Mr. Kelsey except—”

  “Yes, except that. He remembers. Everything.”

  “It was nothing you had ever heard of before?”

  “It was nothing any of us had ever heard of before. Should I have?”

  Wozniak shook his head.

  “Then I suppose it was mere coincidence that Lucy was just here.”

  Wozniak remained silent.

  Leavitt decided to try a different tact. “Of course, we had to bring Mr. Kelsey’s situation to the Council’s attention.”

  “Of course. Their judgment?”

  “They consented to his request to return to his alternative path.”

  “Conditions?”

  “None.”

  “Any consequences stemming from his memory retention? Other than personal.”

  Leavitt shrugged. “We don’t know for certain yet. The Council understands that future disclosure is a distinct possibility, and one we cannot control.”

  “What do you think?”

  Leavitt pursed his lips. “Unlikely. I don’t see it.”

  “Case closed?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Yet you came to see me, Sam. It’s been some time since you’ve done that.”

  “My apologies, Aleksy. If every Guide paid you an occasional social call, these kids would never get their ice cream.”

  Wozniak smiled. “I can’t argue with that.” He looked at the thick file in Leavitt’s hand. “That would be Mr. Kelsey?”

  Leavitt held up the file and then placed it on the counter. “This is him. It’s eighty-three pages long. I read every page, every line.”

  “You have always been thorough. A first rate analyst.”

  “I am a first rate analyst. One of the best. I know this man, inside and out. Still, I missed it.”

  “Missed what?”

  Leavitt opened the file and leafed through several pages until he found what he was looking for. “Subject’s father deployed with the United States Marines to the Dominican Republic, 1924 through 1926. Subject resided with his mother in La Jolla, California with the exception of the summer months when he worked at his uncle’s property in Lubbock, Texas.”

  Leavitt closed the folder. “His uncle was a rancher, drove cattle to Oklahoma in July and August. Took the lad Kelsey with him every time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kelsey knew how to ride a horse. Probably carried a revolver as a kid and knew how to use one.”

  Wozniak nodded in confirmation. “His uncle gave him a Colt .45 Peacemaker for his sixteenth birthday. Welcome to Texas, I guess.”

  The two men looked at each other for a few moments.

  “What is happening here, Aleksy?”

  Wozniak remained quiet.

  “You are doing this. Why?”

  Wozniak removed the paper hat and leaned back against the counter next to Leavitt. “I need some space on this one, Sam.”

  “We have rules. You have rules.”

  “And I have honored those rules. Always.”

  “Not from where I stand. You are manipulating this man’s path. Why?”

  “Leave it alone, Sam.”

  “Leave him alone. Why are you doing this to him? He believes, Aleksy. No matter what I tell him, he has seen behind the curtain, as they would say in Lucy’s movie, and he believes his daughter is here. And she is. So, tell me, what have you set in motion?”

  “Come on, Sam. Do you think it was an accident this man was assigned to you?”

  Leavitt stared at Wozniak, taken aback. He studied the younger man carefully, searching for answers. But his face revealed nothing, just a warm smile, genuine as always. But there was something else there. Amusement? No, encouragement. Wozniak was encouraging him.

  They went back many years. They had been close once, even colleagues before the Council had selected Wozniak from relative obscurity. Leavitt remembered that time, seeing his younger friend filled with uncertainty and trepidation. Overwhelmed by the responsibilities the Council had sought to place in his hands. He confided his anxieties to Leavitt, who gave him assurances, telling Wozniak he had faith in his judgment and ability. They all did.

  It was no whitewash. He saw Wozniak’s selection as inevitable. Some questioned his limited experience, others labeled him a naive idealist unprepared to make the difficult transition and balance his responsibilities in their unique, required manner. Leavitt knew differently. He saw the spark in Wozniak, the spark he and the others did not have. He knew that Wozniak was an imperfect man and yet he knew it was the man’s imperfections that made him the consummate candidate.

  His imperfections.

  Leavitt looked up sharply. “Hiram Travers.”

  Wozniak’s smile broadened in approval. “Go on.”

  Leavitt flipped open the folder in his lap. He found the page he was looking for. “James Travers.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I know you. That’s a line you would never cross. So you’re testing him. Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  Wozniak placed a hand on his shoulder. “Feel like taking in a ballgame? There is someone we need to talk to.”

  CHAPTER 24

  March, 1865

  Camp Holt, New Jersey

  Ethan was exasperated and ready to snap. There were four buckets on the floor, and Ethan was prepared to kick every one of them across the room.

  They were full enough to cause a small flood in the office, each brimming with rainwater that continued to seep through the rafters high above. Droplets bounced off of Ethan’s shoulder as he stood before the prison warden, who was leisurely finishing the remains of his lunch.

  The prison’s administrative offices were badly decayed, built of wood that was now rotting and reeking of mold. Though the structure most likely dated back to New Jersey’s colonial days, the roof bravely held fast against the pummeling of the heavy storm. The vaulted ceiling produced an echo effect, creating a racket within the office that could likely be heard in New York City. Yet through the clamor Ethan could still hear the warden noisily chomping his corn. He finally finished the ear, sucking his fingers before wiping them off on his stained, unbuttoned tunic.

  Two orderlies hastily entered the office, brandishing empty buckets. With practiced choreography, they replaced the full buckets, spilling much of their contents as they shuffled past Kelsey at the door. Ethan could see Kelsey was having increasing difficulty masking the irritability on his face, and it had nothing to do with the water splashing on his boots.

  Ethan felt the same. They had stood there for ten minutes now without a word from their host, the warden hardly in a rush to address his visitors. Moses could have parted the Red Sea in this room and the man would have still been too preoccupied with his supper to notice.

  Ethan waited for the warden to put a chicken leg down, the man seemingly searching for every morsel of meat left on the bone. It wasn’t clear if he was simply gluttonous or toying with their patience. Ethan gave Kelsey another look. The sergeant was no longer making any pretense of restraint. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, unwilling to play the man’s petty game any longer.

  Ethan too had lost all forbearance.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Royston,” he announced again, shouting perhaps louder than necessary. “Sixth U.S. Cavalry.”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time, Colonel,” came the sharp response, as the warden reluctantly dropped the remnants of the bird on his plate.

  Robert Pressler was a portly—and slovenly—man judging by the condition of his uniform and the manner in which he ran his greasy fingers throug
h his beard. He wore the epaulets of a full colonel, one rank higher than Ethan, though Ethan couldn’t help but notice the uniform appeared ten years out of date. A cloth napkin was tucked into the top of his shirt, resting comfortably on the man’s considerable girth that flowed over his belt. He wore his graying hair flopped over one side of his head, and his untrimmed lamb chop whiskers failed to conceal the loose flesh around his jowls.

  “Sixth Cavalry, eh? I believe I have heard of your regiment.” Pressler tapped the folded newspaper that lay on his desk. “Fighting in that Wilderness place in Virginia?”

  “That was some time ago, Sir. We’ve been supporting the siege at Petersburg of late. General Grant has recently moved us to the rear for rest and refitting.”

  It was long overdue. The regiment had been decimated in nearly four years of war. Swollen with replacements in the aftermath of Fairfield nearly two years ago, they had begun the Wilderness campaign in central Virginia last summer with some six hundred men. They lost half that number in a matter of days. The 6th U.S. Cavalry was a battered and exhausted regiment, its stores depleted, and the nerves of even the most tested veterans had been strained. The only positive was the knowledge that much of the Confederate cavalry was in far worse condition, a desperate army, both men and horses on the verge of starvation.

  Ethan had balked, out of obligation, at the thirty-day furlough that he had been offered, insisting he remain in camp to oversee the replenishment of his regiment. But his superiors had prevailed on him to take the leave, as he knew and hoped they would. Ethan was a dedicated officer, but even he had reached his limit.

  Thirty days was an eternity to a soldier. Most would use the extended time to visit their homes and families. And though he knew his father was ailing, he had other business he was anxious to attend to.

  It had started a few months after Fairfield with the surprising summons he had received to meet with one of the cavalry corps’ most celebrated and eccentric commanders.

  The orderly had shown him into the general’s spacious tent. The man stood shirtless, examining his chin in the small mirror tacked to the tent pole while skillfully trimming his auburn mustache and beard with a straight razor. Ethan had heard much about George Custer and his Michiganders. He was young to be sure, even younger than Ethan. But none of them seemed youthful anymore, not after four years of this. And Custer looked every bit as worn as the rest of them.