Good Evening Mr. and Mrs. America, and All the Ships at Sea

by Richard Bausch

  “’Bye,” Emma said pleasantly. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Such pals,” Alice said over her.

  “Congratulations,” Albert said.

  At last, Marshall and Alice headed toward K Street and the bus to Arlington. He looked back once and saw that the other two were standing a little apart, Emma facing the street and Albert looking away. They did not even look like a couple.

  At the stop on K Street, Alice said, “I hope everything’s all right with them.”

  There was a screeching of tires somewhere off in the confusion and bustle of the city, and Marshall thought of Mrs. D’Allessandro.

  Their bus came, and they got on. They held hands until her stop. She rang the bell, then turned and kissed him. “I’d love to see you tomorrow, but I have to help my father get ready for this, um, party.” She smiled. The garish light of the inside of the bus discolored her skin and gave it a blotchy look. She shouldered her purse, and made her way, lurching, to the rear exit. Braced there, she looked across the heads of the other passengers and made a kissing motion with her lips.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, Mr. Atwater came to dinner. A slight, pear-shaped man with a small, violet mouth and a feminine, dimpled chin, a little potbelly, and bowed legs, he had a way of walking that made you think of penguins. It wasn’t quite a waddle, but there was something fussy about it, almost mincing. He wore brown gabardine slacks with white socks, and his button-down shirt was a strange, off shade of yellow. Marshall could not imagine what his mother saw in Mr. Atwater, whose pants legs often rode up on his calves, showing droopy socks and white ankles with blue, forking veins in them, and whose strangely doll-like mouth was set in a permanent smirk. Loretta seemed not to have noticed these very glaring details about him and, in fact, seemed at times to enjoy his company. Though on occasion she also appeared simply to be humoring him for the company he provided.

  Over the months, Marshall had become accustomed to having him at the periphery of life with his mother. But he was faintly surprised to see them sitting together on the couch in the living room when he arrived home from work.

  “Hi,” his mother said, almost meekly.

  “The hero returns from the field of conflict,” said Mr. Atwater. He was not possessed of the sort of cleverness that made for badinage. He wore glasses, bifocals, which magnified his eyes and gave him a look of being perpetually startled. The eyes were the color of river water—deep green, like that, without facets or shades of any other hue. Marshall had always felt, in a detached sort of way, without malice, that there was something ferretlike about him.

  “Have a seat,” Loretta said.

  They were watching the news—Mitchell Brightman was talking about the FBI’s ongoing investigation of the murders of the three Civil Rights workers in Mississippi.

  “We’re having roast,” Loretta said. “It’s almost done.”

  “Quiet,” said Mr. Atwater.

  Loretta had set up three TV trays. Marshall saw this, but excused himself and went into his room, closing the door. In a moment, his mother knocked and entered. “Sweet pea,” she said. “Don’t be unsociable.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Will you come out and sit with us?”

  “I thought you might want to be alone,” he said, feeling crowded.

  “No.” She stood there, waiting.

  In the small living room, Mr. Atwater had put his feet up on the coffee table and was smoking a cigarette. He stared at the television. “They’ll never get a guilty verdict,” he said about the Mississippi story. “Even if they get to the bottom of it and arrest some folks. Not in a million years. Not so it’ll stick. Not the way things are down there.”

  “I think the whole thing is dreadful,” said Loretta. “When you can’t even trust the law itself not to kill you.”

  “It’s complicated, L’retta. These riots, you know—the trouble in places like Harlem and Philadelphia last summer. That kind of thing gets people wondering.”

  “Those three boys weren’t rioting, Clark.”

  “Yes, but now—the way the folks in Mississippi see it, it’s a bunch of outside agitators. Some people are saying they got what was coming to them.”

  “I know you don’t mean that.”

  Atwater took a long, satisfied draw on his cigarette, then talked the smoke out. “Oh, I’m not saying it. Of course I don’t mean it for myself. I’m just saying a lot of people feel that way, though. That’s all. Whole country’s crazy, and that’s the truth.”

  “I think it’s terrible,” Loretta said. “These poor Negroes don’t even hit back.”

  “Some’d say it’s stupid not to.” Mr. Atwater took another draw on the cigarette, then sighed loudly and adjusted his weight, recrossing his legs at the ankles. “It’s a battle, though. And, in fact, a strategy. That tactic goes all the way back to Tolstoy, and Thoreau.”

  “I’m going to have some tea,” Loretta said. “Anyone want some tea?”

  “Not me.” Mr. Atwater appeared proud of it. He looked at Marshall. “How ’bout you, cowboy?”

  “No,” Marshall said.

  “How’s the radio career coming?”

  “Oh,” Loretta said, heading into the kitchen. “Didn’t I tell you? Walter’s not really interested in a radio career anymore.” She opened the refrigerator.

  “No?” Atwater watched as the young man moved to the other side of the room and sat down. His mother had set a cup for tea, and a glass, on the TV tray. She walked over and filled the glass with milk, then went back toward the kitchen.

  “He’s thinking about a career in politics.”

  “That so.” Atwater sat up and put his feet on the floor. He held his cigarette between his index finger and thumb, with his hand turned toward his chest as though he wanted to keep the smoke from drifting away from his body. Then, looking at Marshall above the frames of his glasses, he put his head down and drew on the cigarette again. “A politician, huh?” It was as if something sly had passed between them. “You’ve got a slight drawback, son.”

  Loretta was in the kitchen, making her tea. “What?” she called.

  “I was talking to the boy, here.”

  Mr. Atwater sat smoking, watching Marshall, who took a magazine from the rack by his chair and opened it on his lap. Here was a photograph of President Johnson waving to an enormous crowd of people in the stormy weather of some campaign stop. Farmland stretched far beyond him, roofed by rough-edged dark clouds. “Know what your drawback is?”

  Marshall said, “No, sir.” He took a drink of the milk.

  “You have to be a millionaire to run for office.”

  Marshall shook his head.

  “Sure you do.” Atwater stared at him. “You think this is a free country?”

  “No, sir. Not completely. Not for everybody.”

  “You’re talking about the colored people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, and you’re a very idealistic young fellow, I can see that all right. Those are fine sentiments. They’re true. True, indeed. Some people have it rough.”

  “It’s not just sentiment, sir. It’s the facts.”

  “And I’ll bet you’re going to change things. I’d be willing to bet on your generation.”

  “I’d like to try. I think we should all try, don’t you?”

  “Admirable.” Mr. Atwater crushed his cigarette out. “You underscore my faith in the youth of America,” he said.

  Marshall was silent.

  “L’retta, what’re you putting in the tea?”

  “Galliano,” she called. “Want some?”

  “No thanks. How much of it are you having?”

  “Just a little.”

  Marshall turned the pages of the magazine.

  “First thing to learn,” said Mr. Atwater, “is that this is not by any stretch of the imagination a free country.” He spoke almost jauntily, lighting another cigarette, and smiling. “Hasn’t been for a long time. And I’m not just talking about ni
—about colored people.”

  Marshall felt abruptly as if he had come upon the older man performing some privy act. It was exactly the same feeling. He had an image of Atwater standing with a pointer in front of a classroom, teaching social studies and civics.

  “No,” Atwater went on, “it’s not the—the colored people I’m talking about. Because God knows they do have it rough in the South. Hell, all over, when you really look at it. The thing is, we’re not all that much better off when it comes to life, liberty, and the pursuit, you know? There’s income tax, social security tax, state tax, and property tax—it’s all mandatory, it all goes overseas to help foreigners, and it’s aimed at controlling things and people.”

  Loretta came into the room with her tea. She set it down on her TV tray and took her place next to Mr. Atwater.

  “Then there’s the draft, of course. And the welfare business, and everything you’ve got to do to own anything—you see what I’m getting at?”

  “Let’s not talk about politics,” said Loretta. “It never leads anywhere.”

  Mr. Atwater went on as though he had not heard her. He was still addressing Marshall. “What sort of politics were you thinking you might like to get into, son?”

  “I don’t know. Politics.”

  “You must have some idea—ward politician? City councilman? Mayor? A legislature sort? Board of supervisors? Congress?”

  “He wants to be president,” Loretta said, sipping the tea. Marshall, who had told her nothing of his secret hopes, was for the moment too astonished to speak.

  “President,” said Mr. Atwater. “President of what?”

  “I never said that,” the boy managed.

  “President of these United States?”

  “I never said that.”

  “Well,” his mother said. “But of course that’s what you want. You wouldn’t want to be one of these congressmen or senators. Why go into it if you aren’t going to aim for the top? Besides, Alice said you told her as much.”

  “You’ve talked to Alice?”

  “She called again today to invite me to her party. She was very nice.”

  Mr. Atwater laughed. “That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. President of these United States.” He laughed again.

  Marshall felt that the laugh was at his expense. He put the magazine back in its place and stood.

  “Where’re you going?” said Mr. Atwater. “Boy, you can’t leave us now. Not after a revelation like this. Sit down, sit down, come on. Finish your milk. We got a roast coming.”

  Marshall’s mother gave him a pleading look, and he sat down.

  “There,” Mr. Atwater said, rubbing his hands together. “President, huh? Am I correct in assuming you mean the president of these United States?”

  “Of course,” Loretta said.

  Mr. Atwater considered a moment. “Let’s see—when will you be eligible? I’d like to live to see this, and I think I might just be able to manage it.” He was straining to control his own amusement. “What party will you join?”

  “We’re Democrats, here,” said Loretta.

  “Please,” said Marshall. “I never said I wanted anything more than to be in politics—and that was just maybe—”

  “Oh, but your mother’s exactly right. You ought to aim for the top.”

  “I don’t have any plans like that,” the boy lied.

  Mr. Atwater went on. “You’ll have to get through some dangers, of course—there’s some chance of war. I’m sorry to say it out so plainly, Loretta, but the way things are set up in the world, there’s always a chance of a detour for us men. It can actually be an advantage, though, for a presidential candidate—having a good war record. Kennedy had PT 109, remember. And since we’ve got wars breaking out all the time all around, there might be an opportunity before you know it. And these days you never know when the situation at home will get down to shooting. You don’t have any plans to head south, do you? You’re not going to be a big Civil Rightser, I hope? Not like those boys—that Chaney and the others. That sort of thing makes nice newspaper copy but it won’t get you the votes you need. And you can’t get elected if you’re buried in an earthen dam in Mississippi, right? But you have to start establishing your record right now, of course. And then you’ve simply got to find a way to make a whole lot of money—millions, kiddo. Millions.”

  “That’s not so,” Loretta said. “Plenty of people…” She stopped. She seemed to have lost the train of the discussion.

  “I never said I was going to run for president,” Marshall told them.

  Mr. Atwater blew smoke at the ceiling. “I knew he was a kid outlined for something special, L’retta. I could’ve predicted it. When I had him in civics, I could see it. Born to be a leader of men—that’s what I said to myself.”

  Loretta had stood, and was moving into the kitchen to tend to the dinner. He watched her go, then turned to Marshall and smiled. “Then there’s this little difficulty in Southeast Asia.”

  Marshall nodded.

  “What would you do about it—if you were president.”

  “I’d…” He halted. He had almost said something about a measured response. But that was the phrase President Johnson had used.

  “Take your time,” Atwater said, smiling at him.

  “I’d do about what the president did, I think.”

  “Good answer,” Atwater said. “Made me glad to be part of a powerful nation that could decide a thing like that. They try that funny stuff on the high seas with us, so we sting them good, and now they’ll think twice about messing with us. Made me proud when we bombed the little bastards. It make you proud?”

  “Yes,” Marshall admitted. He had felt exactly as Atwater described it, and the knowledge of this troubled him.

  Mr. Atwater said, “Sure it did. You’re an American.”

  Marshall felt the other man’s blank stare. Atwater seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Sure it did.”

  “I have to mash the potatoes,” Loretta said from the kitchen. “Bring me a cigarette, will you, somebody?”

  Marshall took it in to her. She grasped his wrist and murmured, “Be nice,” then smiled, leaned over, and kissed his cheek.

  In the other room, Atwater was waiting. He stared for a few awkward seconds, then ran the flat of his hands across his scalp and sighed. “Of course, all that pride is nice, but if I know my history, that little situation’s gonna be a lot worse soon enough. A lot worse. Yes, sir, this could be a land war in Asia. And we were warned about them, you know? I think it was Ike, warned about them. And there’s all that unstable mess in the Congo. I’d say you better get yourself in college and stay there, if you can. Trade school just won’t do. You know what I mean?”

  “I’m supposed to start college,” Marshall said rather pointlessly. The other man was crushing out the second cigarette, talking on as though no answer had been given.

  “And, of course, if it’s not in Asia or Africa, it’ll be in the Middle East, or even Europe again. Probably it’ll be in Africa, though. The Congo. Or Algeria, or maybe the Middle East. There’s lots of places, of course. The pattern seems to be every twenty years, see, and it’s been twenty years.”

  “I’m not afraid to fight for my country,” Marshall said to him.

  Atwater nodded, and the magnified green of his eyes seemed to shift a tiny increment. “Admirable,” he said. “I feel that way, too. But one life to lay down for my country.”

  “I swear,” said Loretta from the kitchen. “Can’t you boys ever talk about anything else?”

  This was embarrassing, since they had never spoken about anything of the kind until now. Mr. Atwater shook his head a little, then gave Marshall a look that invited a collusion between them about her, as if she were the object of a joke they shared.

  “When Walter filled out the forms to register for the draft, he wrote that he’d be proud to serve his country.”

  “Ask not what your country can do for you,” Mr. Atwater said, smil
ing out of one side of his mouth. “Right?”

  Marshall said, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I mean, I think it’s admirable.”

  “Well,” Loretta said, “I know women have stood for it and were brave and all that, but I don’t know that I want to give up a child to the state, for any reason.”

  “You might not be able to help yourself,” Mr. Atwater said. “When the time comes.”

  “I’m not a child,” Marshall said.

  “Of course you’re not.”

  Loretta brought their plates in and put them on the trays. She had sliced the roast beef, and put carrots and mashed potatoes and biscuits on the plates. She refilled Marshall’s milk glass, and poured ice water for Mr. Atwater, who sat forward and breathed in the aromas rising from his plate, making a big show about how hungry he was and how good everything looked. Then they were eating quietly in front of the television, with its small, washed-out, snowy screen. The news was still on—local weather. Marshall saw that his mother was growing uneasy. She kept glancing at Atwater, as if to monitor his reaction to the food or to the company. When her eye caught her son’s, she frowned, and seemed to be trying to signal him.

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. Atwater asked.

  “Lord, no,” she said, laughing nervously. “I think I’ll have more tea.”

  When she was in the kitchen again, Atwater said, “She likes her tea.”

  Marshall nodded, in spite of himself.

  “Likes what she puts in it, too, doesn’t she?”

  Loretta came back, and sat down, taking some time to arrange herself. She sipped the tea and then wiped her lips gingerly with the napkin. “There.”

  “Didn’t you hear me say I wanted some?” Mr. Atwater said.

  “Oh, no. Forgive me.” She rose, seemed faintly hesitant, then made her way back into the kitchen.

  Atwater returned Marshall’s look with placid calm. “Did you say something?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s on your mind, son?”

  “Nothing.”

  Loretta came back with the bottle of Galliano and the tea.

  “I’d like mine with ice in it,” Atwater said.