Memorial Bridge

by James Carroll

  "The day the war ends finally, Cass"—this was a vow, as if sworn upon the Bible Randall Crocker had brought to their son—"you tell me what you want, and that is what we'll do."

  She pressed herself against him, gratefully holding on. She already knew what she would say. This place will do something awful to us if we stay. I want to go home, which is not Canaryville but anywhere we ourselves can shape what we become.

  Dillon wanted to bury his nostrils in that bright auburn hair, inhaling her scent. He wanted to blank his mind out with the feel of her satin nightgown bunched in his hands, of her naked breast against his, of her legs wrapping his hips.

  But he checked himself. Now his love for Cass precluded that expression of it. Was he a priest at last? Whatever in him had prompted the early choice of celibacy—would it haunt him forever? Had he leapt too quickly to this solution? Was he really doing this for her? But he was, of course he was. He had left the renunciations of the Church behind. This was not about renunciation, but love. Or was—

  Dillon cut short his rumination and simply moved away from her, stifling his impulse, but also shuddering at the prospect, whatever its cause, of a lifetime of such frustration. What will this do to us?

  He felt her reluctance to let him go, but also sensed it when her fingers lifted from his skin, then closed, without touching him, into fists.

  Eleven

  Two and a half years later, Dillon looked out the airplane as it angled down along the Potomac River, beginning its sharp descent above Chain Bridge, bringing him back to Washington. Directly below were the autumn reds and golds of the rolling wooded hills, Maryland on one side, Virginia on the other. From the air that landscape of colored leaves achieved a cushion-like suppleness on which Dillon had let his eyes rest unseeing for most of an hour. But when the plane banked and his gaze was drawn ahead to the gleaming city, he felt a jolt in his stomach akin to the sinking sensation of the swooping finish of the flight. He came alert.

  He saw the monument in the distance, the white needle shimmering in the late morning light. He glimpsed the rooflines of the marble enclave, the Archives, the Federal Triangle and the Capitol dome itself, before the wing came up to block his view of the city.

  Twisting with the river, the airplane banked and turned again, and now Dillon saw immediately below the tidy campus of Georgetown University, with its observatory and its playing fields, its old stone buildings squared around a quadrangle, its neatly lined tennis courts and its boat house on the river. But above all, the dark Gothic spire of the central building loomed like a black-robed missionary. Dillon was struck as never from the ground by the gritty solidity of that granite spire, how it contrasted with the pristine limestone and marble edifices that came once more into view just then as the plane wheeled. Georgetown slipped under the wing, disappearing, but not before it had reminded Dillon of what made him different here. He had had to leave Washington to understand what it had begun to do to him, and he sensed that a Jesuit dark tower on the margin of that clipped skyline, in contrast especially with the white Masonic monument at the center of it, was the perfect emblem of his former alienation. He had lived in this city as a professional outsider, after all, a man whose role had been not to affect persons and events but only to watch them. He did not know yet what circumstance had led to his being summoned back here now, but he knew he would never willingly become again what wartime Washington had once made him.

  The angle of the airplane's glide path did not become constant until it came to the point where the river finally straightened out to run like a highway toward Alexandria and the great bay beyond. But then, dropping into the last phase of its approach, the airplane seemed to pick up speed, and Dillon became all too aware of the water itself rising to meet him. He saw its currents swirling a range of blues and the whitecaps flecking the surface. He had not flown enough, certainly not into airports on the spits of rivers, to feel blasé.

  To take his mind off the hazard of landing, he stared across the river toward the imposing pillared dome of the Army War College at Fort McNair. Lining the open green in front of it was a long row of elegant brick mansions, generals' houses, from the backs of which tidy lawns sloped down to the walled bank of the river itself. A beautiful, enchanted place, Dillon thought, a realm of the army romance. It struck him that from the grounds of Lee's mansion at Arlington, their cemetery, to the Pentagon, to McNair and beyond, the military occupied the best land on the river. At the point where the Anacostia flowed into the Potomac—that junction had been the reason George Washington chose this spot for his city—half a dozen decommissioned submarines were gammed at the piers of the Anacostia Naval Station. Below that was Boiling Field, a broad stretch of grass and runways bordered by Quonset hangars and rows of whitewashed barracks buildings. Dozens of airplanes were lined up three deep on the infield between runways. Some of the planes had the protruding igloo-like gun turrets and double fin tails of the workhorse B-29s that had won the war.

  Even before he'd become aware of the land below, the plane jolted down, slamming the solid ground. The tires squealed as the pilot applied the brakes. The engines revved so furiously that Dillon braced himself. This is like landing on a damn aircraft carrier, he thought. A moment later it shamed him to realize that his hands were curled into fists, and, when he opened them, that his palms were wet.

  As he crossed through the main hall of the terminal building, the soaring art moderne room, with its rounded, streamlined surfaces, all chrome and polished stone and leather, struck Dillon as brand-new. In fact, it had been built before the war, and he had been through it a dozen times. It was less bustling, there were fewer uniforms, no slacks on women or bandanas informally knotted in their hair. He associated the smooth music of Glenn Miller with the airport, although piped-in music had never been a feature of the place. Dillon knew that Washington itself was no longer what it was when he had become so familiar with its shadows, yet he felt the old rush of adrenaline—the upbeat strain of "In the Mood"—as he crossed the slick terrazzo toward the baggage claim.

  However complicated his feelings about his time here—his resentment, for example, at how Washington had seemed in the end to have irreparably undercut his marriage—he was as keyed as ever to the electric charge in the air. Once having felt that voltage of power and action, of history, no man of Dillon's generation would arrive in Washington again without registering a momentary jolt of the pulse.

  "Mr. Dillon?" A man stepped into Dillon's path, cutting him off. His black suit and tie made Dillon think, Jesuit! But the man had raised his hand in half-salute. A chauffeur's cap was wedged between his arm and his side.

  Dillon knew he'd seen him before, but where?

  "I have retrieved your bag, sir. There was only the one, is that correct?"

  "You have my bag?"

  "Yes, sir. In the car. If you follow this way—"

  Dillon ignored the driver's gesture toward his briefcase. "Would you identify yourself?" Dillon's free hand, from habit, brushed his hip for the familiar feel of his pistol. If a stranger accosted him like this in Chicago, odds were he'd be some gangster's crank-hanger.

  "I'm Mr. Crocker's driver."

  "Mr. Crocker? Randall Crocker?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He's in New York."

  "No, sir. Mr. Crocker is here again."

  "Since when?"

  The chauffeur stared at Dillon impassively.

  "I saw you once, two years ago."

  "Yes, sir. At that church in Northeast."

  "You're with the War Department?"

  "No, sir. I work for Mr. Crocker personally."

  "Is he with the War Department again?"

  Once more the chauffeur pointedly declined to answer.

  "Is Mr. Crocker with you now, in the car?"

  "No, sir. I'm to bring you to him."

  Dillon shook his head. "My business isn't with Mr. Crocker. You're not bringing me to him unless he's waiting for me at FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania A
venue."

  Dillon was the agent-in-charge of the Chicago field office. He had been summoned here only late the night before by Tolson, Hoover's yoker. Tolson had refused to offer an explanation, and Dillon had no idea why the director wanted him. What he could not hear, what he could never later announce to Cass, was that he was being transferred back.

  "My instructions are to take you wherever you say, Mr. Dillon. Although Mr. Crocker is hoping you will begin by seeing him."

  Dillon wasn't due at headquarters for another hour. "Is Mr. Crocker at the Pentagon?"

  "No, he's at the Metropolitan Club." When Dillon did not react, the driver added, "Near Lafayette Square."

  "All right, let's go."

  Moments later Dillon was ensconced in the rear seat of the limousine, like an honest-to-God VIP. To his surprise, it seemed the most natural thing in the world, in that spacious, plush corner, to snap on the gooseneck reading lamp and open his briefcase as if to read stock reports instead of dope sheets on sleazy Chicago hizzoners, the graft ring of judges. But then he found the letter.

  He recognized her handwriting on the envelope, the single word "Sean." As he opened it, his fingers tore the paper clumsily.

  The letter was several pages long, her tight, perfect handscript, and what Dillon noted first with a sinking heart was the absence, at the top of page one, of any salutation. As he began to read his breathing slowed, a reflex of his discouragement. Moisture came once more to his palms.

  The phone was ringing, and though Cass had already gotten into bed, he wished that she would get up again to answer it.

  He was with Richard.

  It was after ten o'clock. For most of the hour he'd been home Dillon had been in the boy's closet-sized room, sitting in the rocking chair, his son against his chest. The child had been asleep most of that time, but Dillon did not want to break the spell. Richard was not quite a baby anymore, but the feel of that warm, packed body against his own was still the most soothing sensation in Sean's life; it was what he came home for.

  Finally he heard Cass at the phone in the next room, her voice muffled and short.

  Even before she appeared, a dark form in the doorway, her slim torso outlined through her nightgown by the hall light behind, he knew it was for him. He managed to get Richard into his crib without waking him. As he slipped past Cass where she'd remained in the threshold, she whispered, "It's long distance."

  Dillon winked. "You're still a switchboard gal, Cass." She seemed to flinch, as if there were something barbed in the remark. Inwardly he recoiled at her apparent readiness to take offense.

  At the phone, he stood with his back to her, but he was aware of her watching him. Half his brain clung to the image of his wife, her body outlined in the doorway, and the more frustrated he became with Tolson's refusal to explain the summons to Washington, the more Sean deflected his resentment back toward her, wishing to Christ she would not stand there monitoring him like a goddamned supervisor. Switchboard indeed.

  When at last he hung up the phone, he stood leaning over it for some moments, not wanting, for one thing, to turn back to her. He was waiting for her to go back to bed. That was how these incipient standoffs ended. Once the mysterious charge of their unhappiness crackled in the air between them, one or the other would leave the room.

  But not tonight. "What is it?" she asked.

  "Tolson, from Mr. Hoover's office." Sean inhaled deeply, half a sigh, drawing himself up, and he faced her. "I have to go to Washington."

  "When?"

  "In the morning, first thing."

  Neither spoke for a moment, then Cass said, "I'll help you pack. How long will you be there?"

  "I don't know, Cass," Dillon answered, but with that edge again. Facing her this way, with the room behind her dark, he could no longer see the outline of her body. Her nightgown was a modest, plain white cotton.

  "Don't resent my asking, Sean. I only meant, how many shirts will you need?"

  "And the answer is, I don't know. I don't know how long I'll be gone, and I don't know why they've sent for me. All right?"

  "There's no need to say that."

  "Say what?"

  "What isn't true. I wasn't asking you to explain yourself. You don't have to pretend your life is all a mystery to you, just because it is to me."

  "I'm not pretending," Sean said angrily, too loudly.

  Cass turned back to pull the door to Richard's room closed behind her.

  Even that made him angry, as if she were appointed to protect their son from his voice.

  She looked at him coldly. "It's how you lie to me, pretending you are as in the dark as I am."

  "Lie to you? Lie to you?"

  "Yes, lie."

  Sean refused to move. He refused to respond to her.

  "You don't like that word, do you? You are so honest, so pure." From her place by Richard's door, she was spitting words at him, unable to stop herself now that she had started. "But you are not honest with me."

  "What in the world are you talking about?"

  "You come and go from here as if you're a shoe salesman. You want me to believe that you are not in charge of your life, that you have bosses everywhere, that they tell you nothing, when the fact is, you are a boss. You know everything."

  "Not this time, I don't."

  "I don't believe you."

  "The truth is, even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. You are a Bureau wife, Cass. You should understand that."

  "I'm not talking about the Bureau, I'm talking about you. I don't expect anything from the Bureau, but from you I do. I expect you to love me. You're my husband!"

  "I do love you." Sean whipped around, away from her, heading for the small kitchen.

  "Don't walk away from this, Sean. For once stay here and talk to me."

  Slowly he faced her. "About that?"

  "That?" she mocked. "You mean the fact that you never touch me, never even kiss me hello and goodbye anymore? That?"

  "And there isn't a reason? Are you telling me there isn't a reason?"

  "For not kissing me goodbye in the morning? Yes, I'll tell you there's no reason for that. I won't get pregnant if you kiss me. Here's the lie, Sean—why you've withdrawn from me."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "The 'reason.' It isn't that you don't want to get me pregnant"—adding to her fury was that, all at once, her eyes were filling, then water was flowing onto her cheeks—"it's that you don't want me."

  "That is not true."

  "You don't want me because I don't dare get pregnant."

  "That is not true!"

  "Then why? Why?"

  "Cass, this is not the way to discuss these things. This is—"

  "We never discuss them. In all this time, we've never talked about it."

  "What is there to say, Cass? The situation is clear enough."

  "Not to me, it isn't."

  From his place in the middle of the room, he leaned toward her, lunging almost, pointing his arm at her. "You're the one who—" But abruptly as he'd started, he stopped.

  "Go ahead," she dared. "Say it. I'm the one who what?"

  He shook his head. "What is your complaint with me? I work hard. I bring the money home. I stay out of taverns. I'm faithful to you, even if—" Once more he stopped.

  "Even if what, Sean?"

  He backed up wearily to the bookcase. "You are out of order, Cass."

  "Out of order?" She began to close the distance between them. "What is this, a courtroom? What am I, a lawyer who hops out of her chair at the wrong time? I'll tell you, Sean, I am out of order, but like a telephone or a Frigidaire. Broken."

  "You hated it in Washington. And now you hate it here. There is no pleasing you."

  "What I hated, for your information, was being alone. I'm not alone here, that's true. But in relation to you, I am. And that's what's out of order, if you ask me. You have nothing to do with me."

  "I don't want to hurt you, Cass."

  "So you stay
away? If we weren't Catholics, forbidden to divorce, you'd have left already."

  Sean faced away from her. "We are Catholics," he said quietly, as if that summed up everything.

  "Don't blame it on that." She collapsed, sobbing, onto the couch, overtaken by the futility of this exchange.

  He listened to her weeping, unable to think of anything except, I didn't want to hurt you. Now that this awful laying bare had happened, he realized it was exactly what he'd have predicted. This was why he had instinctively avoided meeting her at this level, because it had to be hurtful.

  He started for the bedroom, but as he passed her he said, "I didn't want this. I didn't want you to be hurt."

  And, more furiously even than before, she snapped up at him, "What about you? Aren't you hurt?"

  Instead of answering—she was impossible!—he crossed into the bedroom, to pack. By the time she came into the room, he had undressed and turned the lights off and was under the covers on his side, facing away, apparently asleep. He was relieved when she did not join him.

  Instead, she went back into the living room, back to the couch. And then, when she could not sleep, to the dining room table where she wrote her letter.

  "I was just standing there in the doorway looking at you, feeling so angry that you can just go to sleep again, even after what happened. It is always like this, you walking away from what happens, and me being the one left awake all night, like punishment."

  Dillon raised his head from her letter with a sigh and looked out the window. How many times had he rolled away from her like that, pretending to be asleep, not asleep at all?

  "Maybe I deserve punishment," he read, then stopped again under the weight of his sadness, raising his eyes once more to watch the passing scene. The car was approaching the bird sanctuary, an inlet of the river halfway between the airport and the bridge. Unlike the rest of the tidy parkway, snaking all the way from Mount Vernon between bands of trimmed lawns and shrubs, the sanctuary had been left wild, a lush Virginia swamp which, with hanging vines knotted in the lace of willow and bamboo, moss like tropical icicles, always made Dillon think of bayous and everglades, the rot of the overgrown Deep South. He saw the skittering birds in and above the trees, and he thought of the birds from his world, the sparrows of the yards, the rot of urban scavengery.