Alethea was the first to speak. “Devin?”
“Such as he is,” he said. “Morning, Ali.”
She ran to him. Hesitating for a moment, she stood in front of him. “Devin, Devo . . . oh.” She threw her arms around him, then backed away, suddenly aware of how much she had aged. Her hands darted to her face in a shy gesture of protectiveness. “My God, I’m a mess. You shouldn’t see me before I’m quite ready for the world.”
He gazed at her wordlessly, feeling both love and confusion.
“Well, you don’t look so great either, now that I mention it,” she said. “Where ya been? A prison camp or something?”
“Or something.” He smiled. “You look good, Ali.” “I look like hell. Too much booze and sleeping around.” She tried to laugh. “You know me . . .”
He didn’t know her, not anymore, but he was starting to guess, and his face mirrored his concern.
“Hey, lighten up, it’s just a little homecoming joke. I’m still a simple schoolmarm. I teach the kiddies how Marx became the father of our country. Revisionist History 101, we call it.” She moved toward the stove. “How ’bout some coffee?”
“Sure. Please.”
She filled his cup. “It’s not real coffee, you know. But you must be used to it too.” He took the coffee and sat at the once-familiar big, old table. “Can you talk about it, Devin? Marion said it was a hospital, but after they took the farm we figured it must be jail.”
Devin nodded. “Southwest Texas. Fort Davis. I’m sorry about the farm.”
His voice broke, and she sat next to him.
“Ali, what are all those places down by the creek? The tents and trailers—”
“New owners,” she answered. “Reverse homesteading. Instead of taking unused land and making it productive, you take productive land and make it useless. I shouldn’t say that, some of the people are quite nice. They’re Exiles; internal exiles. Kind of the great leap backward. The advisory committees figure the country life and hard work down on the farm is good for the soul. Trouble is, they don’t know what they’re doing and the government made some mistakes in deciding what kind of troublemakers to send. You’ll get the rundown from Dad.” She started out the door, but popped back in, thinking better about her last comment. “Don’t expect much from him.”
“I know. Ward told me.”
She nodded. “If you want to go into town with me . . . Ward usually runs us in—gas for the cops, you know.”
Devin smiled and nodded.
She stared at him, then rushed back to the table to embrace Mm. “I’m glad you’re back, Dev. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” She let go of him and rushed from the room. Devin took a sip of coffee and looked around, suddenly feeling caged. As if he had nowhere to go, he walked through the door Alethea had just gone through, into the dining room, and started fdr the stairs. Hearing a footstep, he stepped back into the shadows of the hall and watched as Ms father came down, one slow step at a time. The old man was still ramrod-straight, but he had aged; his face was more lined, his shoulders stooped, and he moved tentatively, one hand clutching the banister. Devin stayed in the shadows, a grown-up child hiding from his father. As Will shuffled into the kitchen, Devin stole the opportunity and climbed quickly up the stairs. He rushed down the hall and into Ms old room. It was nearly bare now, with only a bed and desk. He sat on the bed, staring at the faded flowers of the wallpaper. The tiny bedroom, he realized, was almost exactly the size of the cell where he’d spent the past five years.
Chapter 6
Devin’s son Billy was home in Chicago on the morning his father arrived in Milford. As if telepathically connected, his thoughts were of Devin, as they had been ever since his mother told him of Dad’s release. Billy guessed that the only reason she told him was to explain why a cop was guarding their apartment. Otherwise he might never have known.
Billy knew no matter how mean or unfair, his mother loved him. She just didn’t understand him. She thought that because she didn’t love his father anymore, her sons shouldn’t either. His mother felt strongly that because she had changed her name back to Andrews, her sons should too. And she had sold all that to Caleb. He thought his father was a criminal, some kind of wild man who would come and carry him away.
Billy knew better. Caleb was only nine; he barely remembered their father. But Billy, at fourteen, had many memories of a tall, strong man who loved to laugh and romp with his sons, whose voice was low and gentle, but could bring a crowd to wild cheering. Billy remembered riding horses with his father at his grandfather’s farm in Nebraska, and playing in the surf at Cape Cod.
Most of all, he remembered when his father ran for president. Billy had gone to some of the rallies and his father would introduce him and say he wanted his sons to inherit a better America. People would shout and wave flags and sometimes even cry.
Billy didn’t know much about politics, but he knew that what Ms father stood for had been right, and that his father was a good, brave man. No matter what his mother said, no matter what they taught him in school, he knew that was the truth. He knew something more, and it was the most important thing he could know: he was like his father.
Early that morning, Billy had dug deep into his closet and brought out a long-hidden envelope full of pictures. Stilted poses of his father in battle fatigues in Vietnam. Shots of Devin being sworn in to the House of Representatives by a huge, white-haired man. A wedding picture, his mother looking beautiful in white lace. And pictures with the boys: father and sons at the beach, sailing, playing baseball, posing beside a Christmas tree. And finally, a folded newspaper clipping that showed his father struggling against the four policemen who were arresting him. After that, there had been nothing, nothing at all for five years, until this week when his mother said his father was free.
All at once, his door flew open and Billy jumped up, startled. His mother filled the doorway. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“How about knocking?” He started stuffing the pictures back into their envelope.
“What are those?” She ran toward him ami began to grab for the pictures. He turned away, protecting his treasures as she tugged at his arms. It was as though she were obsessed. He was barely stronger than she, but just as determined. After a moment, Marion gained control of herself. Billy retreated to a comer, clutching his memories.
“How long have you had those? And where did you get them?” Although she no longer grabbed for them, her voice was insistent.
“They’re mine. You don’t have any right to touch my stuff. He’s my father.”
“He’s destroyed his own life. Almost ruined ours. Now do you want him to finish the job?”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. All he did was fight against the Russians. Your damn Russian Mends.”
“Don’t say that! You don’t understand ...” As she trailed off, Billy suddenly saw Marion not as his mother, but as others, grown-ups, must see her.
But he pressed on. “I understand plenty. You’re not the boss of everything. I want to see my dad.”
“That’s out of the question.”
“You can’t stop me,” he said defiantly.
“Billy, you must understand. Your father committed crimes and was sent to prison. He has been released, but he’s an exile in another state. If he tries to come here, he’ll be arrested and sent back to jail.”
“Then I’ll go where he is. I want to five with him.” “That would be absurd. You’d have no privileges. No education. You’d be an Exile, like he is.”
“I don’t care.”
“We have a wonderful life now, Billy, which I have been able to create for us in spite of your father.” “That’s a laugh,” Billy said bitterly. “All you did was
screw some Russian general in Washington. You think I’m stupid. Everybody at school knows that.”
She shot forward, quick as a cat, and slapped him hard. Still clinging to his pictures, he ducked, trying to avoid another
blow.
Suddenly a third voice at the doorway shouted out, “Stop it, stop it!”
They turned and saw nine-year-old Caleb, tears rolling down his cheek.
“Caleb . . .” Marion said, simply stating the fact of him there in the door.
“Hi, Cay,” said Billy with a casual wave, an almost silly gesture of denial.
For a moment after that, nobody knew what to do. Then Marion straightened, and brushed away the tears of frustration and rage. Nothing was going the way she wanted it to.
Billy rushed past his brother. He still clung to the pictures. He stopped only to grab his coat; then he raced from the house.
Marion moved toward Caleb, knelt down, and held him in her arms.
“It’s all right, darling. Billy’s just upset. He doesn’t understand how wonderful our life is now. How bad it was before. You understand, don’t you, darling?” She let go of him, and Caleb nodded dutifully.
“You’re a good soldier.” She stood up, Caleb clutching her hand. “We’re going to be fine,” she said.
In the Bradford kitchen, standing in front of an open door, Peter tried to remain calm. His eyes flashed with anger as he stared out onto the driveway. Shining indirectly through a misty-clouded evening sky, the crescent moon cast just enough light for him to make out Justin.
“I told you you were not to see Jackie. After that business at school the other day—”
“I have to tell her something,” Justin interrupted urgently.
“I think you’ve told her enough already,” Peter said, adamant, and shut the door.
Peter walked to the dining-room table where Amanda sat watching him in silence. Jacqueline stood back from the table, furious. No one spoke. Their silence was interrupted by a knock on the door. Jackie started across the room.
“Jackie.”
She turned and glared at her father.
“If you’re going to make the Area Dance Company, you’re not going to have time for Mm.”
“You got me in if I promised not to see Justin? What was it, Daddy? A deal? Did you do it for me or to make sure you got what you wanted?”
From outside, the knocking started again. “Just a minute, Justin,” she shouted.
“I got you in because you deserved it. And I didn’t think you should be penalized for being my daughter,” Peter and Jackie were at a standoff. Amanda walked over to her husband and touched his arm gently. “What if they just sit in here and talk?” she said softly. “We can’t stop them from seeing each other.”
Peter looked from Ms wife to his daughter, furious but trapped. The logic of Amanda’s words was inescapable. He opened the door and stared coldly at Justin. “TMs is my home and Jacqueline is my daughter. You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he declared, and stormed out of the room.
Justin stood in the doorway, confused by the sudden burst of anger. “Hi, Justin,” Amanda said. “You’re letting the cold in. There’s some soda in the icebox.”
She walked out of the room, closing the hall door behind her.
Jackie walked over to him and kissed him. “You’re cold,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.
He stood stiffly. “What the hell is this? Your parents tell you everything you’ve got to do?”
“They’re my parents, Jus. Daddy’s just being a father.”
Jackie led him to the table, trying for levity. “C’mon. Take off your coat and stay awhile. We’ve got fifteen minutes. Whattaya say we make love?”
Justin didn’t smile. He remained standing. “My uncle came home.”
“That’s great.”
“He’s wasted. They blew him out. Maybe they even did a lobotomy or something. I don’t know.”
She walked over to him, feeling his pain, “Oh, Jus.” “I can’t hack this anymore,” he said. “This system. The way they twist people’s lives. I’ve got to fight back. Look, we tan go to the Rockies, or even Alaska. If I stay around here, the best I can hope for is some job as a laborer. The same for you—you said so yourself. This is our chance. If we wait, we’ll get sucked in, like everybody else.”
“I can’t go, Jus. Not now. They’ve reinstated me for the Area Dance Company.”
Justin stiffened, as if he’d been struck. “Screw the dance company! Your old man fixed it.”
“You said yourself I deserved it.”
“And you’re buyin’ it? They reject you and you’re sad, they tell you you’re good and you’re ready to buy into the whole goddamn scam?”
“I am good, Justin.”
“It isn’t about being good. It’s about being one of them.”
“I’ll spend my life being me, Justin. I can have a good life.”
“I thought you wanted me in your life. That’s what you said. Or have you forgotten so fast?”
She lowered her eyes. “I haven’t forgotten. How could I? I want you both. You and my dancing.”
“But you can’t have us both,” he said. “It’s two different lives. You have to choose.”
“Oh God, Justin. That’s what my father said.” “Well, for once he was right. Choose, Jackie. Me or them.”
The question, the ultimatum, put her in an emotional vise. But it was unfair to expect her to come with Mm.
“Justin, I love my dancing.” She could barely hear her own words.
“More than you love me?”
“No. But... I just can’t run off to Alaska. Maybe later. Maybe ...”
“Okay,” he said slowly. Then, his words coming faster and louder, “Good luck, Jackie. I hope you’re happy.”
He was out the door in an instant. Jackie froze, too proud to call after him, but when she heard the sputter of his motorcycle, she rushed out with an agonized cry.
Justin sat astride the bike, ramrod-stiff with awareness that the door had opened behind him. He turned and glared at her. She’d never seen that look, which she knew well, directed at her. It stung deeper than she thought anything could. “Justin,” she said softly.
They maintained their positions, waiting for each other to make another move. Finally, Justin jerked down his goggles and gunned the engine.
“I love you,” she cried, forgetting everything except the fact that he was going. But her words were drowned out by the thunder of his bike’s motor, and suddenly he really was gone.
The welcome-home dinner was Alethea’s idea, though she herself could not have said whether she conceived it on a generous, loving impulse, or as a cruelly ironic comment on the hostile band of strangers that the Milford family had become. She recruited Betty, Ward’s plump, good-natured wife, and the two of them spent the afternoon scrounging around for the ingredients for some of Devin’s favorite dishes: Irish stew, sweet potatoes, combread, and chocolate cake.
Alethea decorated the dining room. It was a formidable task, because even in better times, it had been, a dark, gloomy room, with heavy Victorian furniture, thick drapes that swallowed the light, and portraits of grim ancestors. Alethea had always thought, with those eyes on you, who could enjoy a meal. She put up red, white, and blue ribbons, and again she was scarcely aware whether her true intention was to honor her brother or in some sense make a mockery of the patriotic colors that had brought so much misfortune to them all. Above the sideboard, she hung a hand-lettered placard that said welcome home, dev, but even the printing, scrawled in her shaky hand, seemed ambivalent.
In all, the ambience fell far short of festive.
Will Milford, stem and silent at the head of the table, cast a pall over the evening. Ward gamely tried to keep conversation going, mostly with Alethea, whose spirits were kept afloat by a large glass of Scotch. She gulped from it frequently, knowing that each sip was a rebuke. Betty sat silent, worrying about Justin, who had not been seen all day, although she hardly expected him to show up for a family dinner. And Devin, the guest of honor, sat on the edge of his chair at the foot of the table, picking at his food. He had no appetite for food—it had taken him a few minutes to realize that they’d fixed the dishes h
e’d liked best—and not for conversation either. He was almost as silent as his father.
“First they took the farm and put the Exiles on it,” Ward was explaining to Devin, “then they took our house, then Alethea’s. We wound up with just this house and the fifty acres around it.”
“Isn’t it wonderful, to all live together under one roof the way our ancestors did,” Alethea quipped. “Talk about your nuclear family!”
“The Exiles are mostly helpless out here,” Ward continued. “Don’t know the first thing about taking care of themselves. Can’t dig a cesspool or a leach line. Damn near had to keep them from pissing in the streams.”
“They’re city people, but most of them are good folks,” Betty protested.
“If they’re so good, what’d they do to get themselves sent here?” Ward demanded.
“The same thing Devin did to get sent to prison,” Alethea retorted. “Standing up to the government.” “We’d do a hell of a lot better in this county without them,” Ward insisted. “Some of them steal grain from the elevators—that’s one reason we might not reach our quota this year.”
“Is it better to ship it to Russia? What do we get for it there?” Alethea demanded. “I’m sick of blaming the Exiles for every damn thing.”
The room became suddenly quiet. Finally, Betty said with forced cheerfulness, “I think it’s time for a surprise.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and in a moment returned carrying a cake.
Devin grinned, boyish again, in spite of everything, at the prospect of the sweet spongy dough and the chocolate icing that had been coaxed into delicate elf-curl points. Betty led the off-key singing. Welcome ho-ome to you, Welcome ho-ome to you, Welcome ho-ome Dear Devin, Welcome ho-ome to you.
The song broke off when Will lurched to his feet, banged the table, and stamped out of the room. In the hush that followed, Aiethea went to Devin and kissed hitn. “Well, almost everybody’s giad you’re home,” she said gently.
A hint of amusement danced in his eyes. “Three out of four ain’t bad,” he said. “Better than my last vote
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