Amerika

by Brauna E. Pouns

  “You might say that,” Devin replied.

  “What’ll we do? Blow up stuff?”

  “There are a lot of ways to resist.”

  “Well, what’s the plan?”

  The two men grinned at the boy’s bluntness.

  “I thought we’d start by getting your brother,” Devin said.

  Billy thought about that, unsure what he should say. “The thing is,” he ventured, “he won’t want to come like I did. Mom’s got him real scared.”

  “Of me?”

  “Yeah. It’s like you’re some evil person who’ll hurt us.”

  Devin’s face reflected his bewilderment. He’d never imagined that one of his own sons could fear him.

  “Plus, he’s real gung-ho on the Lincoln Brigade stuff. He heads it up.”

  Devin was thinking hard, trying to decide. How could he rescue a boy who didn’t want to be rescued, who didn’t remember his father the way he, Devin, remembered his son? “How does your mom feel about that?”

  “You gotta be kidding. She’s like the head of the local party and all that. She’s really heavy into it.”

  Clayton said, “You’ll have to decide soon. If you wait, it’ll be too late.”

  Devin, lost in his own thoughts, stammered, “What?”

  “In a little while they’ll look for Billy and set off the

  alarm.”

  “They can’t know it’s me,” Devin said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Clayton answered. “They may interpret it as a terrorist act against your wife. Or a kidnapping for ransom. Whatever, they’ll take it seriously. It isn’t going to be a situation where a kid’s a little late after school.”

  Devin gazed into space. “Maybe I should forget it. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Maybe you owe him a chance at least to meet his father,” Clayton said. “To see the truth, face-to-face. To make up his own mind.”

  Devin wrestled with that possibility. It was not the danger he feared, not the police, but the horror of confronting a son who hated him.

  He asked Billy, “Will you help me?”

  Billy hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I can show you the best way to do it,” he said. “When his school lets out, there’s a lot of confusion. That’s the time.” Devin nodded his agreement. Clayton produced a pencil and paper and Billy drew them a map of the school. He marked the door from which Caleb came out, as well as the place where the police escort waited for him.

  It could be done, Devin thought. At least a meeting, a chance to talk. A memory to leave with the boy, for the years ahead.

  It was only noon. They had at least two hours to wait. Devin thought the noisy, smelly garage was becoming oppressive.

  “Fm going to take Billy out for a walk,” he said. “You want to come?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Clayton replied.

  “Oh hell, there’s a park out there, beside the river, and a lot of people wandering around. Nobody’ll notice us. Dammit, Clay, you can’t spend all your life being afraid.”

  Clayton shrugged. “Okay, just be careful.”

  They crossed a street and entered a shabby, rundown park. Wrigley Field loomed a few blocks to the south, and across the park Lake Michigan sparkled in the midday sun. They took a bench that faced the lake. At first Devin didn’t know what to say. After all these years of dreaming, the reality of the boy left him speechless.

  “What do you want to do?” Billy asked. “I mean, when we leave Chicago?”

  “I’m not sure,” Devin admitted. “I’d like to go back to Nebraska. I guess that’s my home now. Your grandfather, your aunt and uncle—things have been hard and they could use my help. But I don’t know if the . . . the authorities will let you live with me there. If not, I don’t know.”

  “Could we go to Alaska and join the resistance?”

  “That’d be a last resort,” Devin said. “I don’t see what they’re accomplishing. I’d rather just live underground in some city. Change our names; I’d get a job and you could go to school, and try to live a normal life. Maybe, someday, your mother will agree to let you five with me, openly, if we convince her that’s what you want. Maybe, someday, you’ll want to go back with her . .

  “No!”

  “It’s always possible, Billy. It’d be an easier fife. The decision is yours.”

  “What she wants isn’t what I want,” Billy said. “The thing is, we don’t know what may happen. We don’t know how much time we have. You have to learn to look at time differently, to look at the people you love differently. That’s what I learned in prison. Some people have a lifetime together and some people only have an hour or a week or a month. But an hour can be more than a year, a week can be more than a lifetime. Time is what you make of it. You can waste a lifetime or you can make a single afternoon precious.”

  Devin watched the gulls soar over the lake. He wondered if any of this made sense to a boy of fourteen. A few hard-won truths were all he had left to give. He looked at Billy, whose gaze had never left his face.

  “It’s like when someone is dead or . . . away. The relationship changes, but you don’t stop loving them. When I was in prison, I loved you more than ever before. Sometimes I would think of you—of you and Caleb-—all' night long. It was sort of like praying, I guess, except it was just the three of us. I told you how much I loved you and I told you what kind of boys . . . men ... I wanted you to be and I told you I’d survive and see you again. Believing that, and believing you still loved me, was what kept me alive. Literally. You kept me alive.”

  Billy took his father’s hand. “I heard you,” he said. “I could feel you ... in the night. Like when you used to come in and kiss me good night and we’d talk until I got sleepy. You weren’t really there but I pretended you were and it was just the same. I talked to you and prayed that you heard me.”

  “I did,” Devin said.

  They sat in silence for a time. Devin wondered how tragic it was that the message had not gotten through to his other son, that Caleb had been turned against him. Perhaps it was because he was younger, he thought, or perhaps it was simply in the genes. Kids were different —you learned that fast, as a parent—and probably Caleb was a great kid who just happened to be more like his mother. He guessed he could see a little of it now, looking back to when Caleb was just two or three, but it was hard to judge a child at that age.

  “Dad, can I ask you a question?”

  Devin turned and looked into Billy’s somber, open face. “There’s nothing you can’t ask me,” he said.

  “Tell me about you and Mom. I mean, what was it like when you were young? Did you love each other? What was she like then? I just . . . sometimes I don’t understand what happened.”

  Devin smiled. Sometimes he didn’t understand what had happened either.

  “Your mother was a beautiful, wonderful, brilliant woman,” he said. “And I loved her very much. Whatever happens, son, remember that.”

  Billy had attended Caleb’s elementary school and he knew it as well as his own. He showed Clayton where to park the step-van and led Devin through the azaleas to a window that looked into the school auditorium.

  The auditorium was packed with students and parents. Onstage, a choir was singing a song called “Heartland, Our Heartland.”

  “It’s new,” Billy explained. “Part of the big Heartland push they started a couple of weeks ago. It’s like we’re supposed to forget Nebraska and Illinois and even the U.S.A., and just love dear Heartland. Forget that.”

  Devin listened for a moment. The song’s words were mundane at best, and offensive if you understood their intent, and yet the sweet young voices gave them an innocence and beauty that was beyond criticism. How very shrewd they are, he thought bitterly.

  When the choir finished the song, a slender, intense boy with sandy-blond hair stepped to the microphone. Even before Billy spoke, Devin felt a chill.

  “That’s Caleb,” Billy said.

  Devin gazed at hi
s younger son in wonder. The boy was slender and angelic, and yet there was something stiff and mechanical about him.

  “I warn you, he believes all their crap,” Billy whispered.

  “We are the voice of a new generation,” Caleb began, in a monotone. “The destructive ways of the past are gone. We will replace them with our vision of the future. The party will lead us to the new age.

  “We are grateful to our Soviet brothers for saving the world from destruction,” Caleb continued. “And we can now join them in a world of socialist brotherhood.”

  Devin turned away. Billy squeezed his arm. “It’s not really his fault. Between Mom and the teachers, he never knew any different.”

  Devin nodded. “I know. He’s a believer, like I was. We just latched on to different things.”

  When Caleb finished his speech there was a roar of approval from the audience. A band played “The Internationale,” and everyone began to file out of the auditorium.

  “This is it,” Billy said. “You know where to go?”

  “I know,” Devin said. “Will you be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Billy was waiting when Caleb came out of the school. Across the street he could see Sergeant Moran, the officer assigned to bringing Caleb home, with his partner. Caleb emerged with some other boys, but when he saw Billy he broke free and joined him.

  “What’re you doing here?” he asked nervously. “You get out early?”

  “Yeah. How’d the program go?”

  “Great. I almost got the whole thing memorized.” “That’s swell. C’mere.”

  He grabbed Caleb’s arm and steered him around to the side of the building.

  “Where’re we going?” the younger boy asked.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “But the officers, they’ll—”

  “Don’t worry. This won’t take a minute.”

  They were around at the side now, with bushes between them and the street.

  “Listen, Cay, all that stuff Mom told us about Dad. How crazy and dangerous he is, you know?”

  Caleb stiffened. “Yeah ...”

  “Hey, it’s not true. Honest.”

  Caleb backed away. “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Look, I don’t want you to be scared . .

  Billy still had Caleb by the arm. But Caleb tried to pull away. In that moment Devin stepped around the comer of the building. He stopped a few feet from the boys and squatted down.

  “Caleb,” he said softly.

  “It’s okay, honest,” Billy said.

  Caleb, clearly terrified, began to struggle. “Dammit, don’t be so stupid,” Billy said, and held him tight.

  Devin was afraid to move. But time was precious. “It’s all right, son. No one’s going to hurt you,” he said. “I just want to talk to you. To say hello.”

  Caleb quit struggling and stared fearfully at the man before him. “You’re really my father?” he said. “Yes.”

  “You’re old.”

  Devin had to smile. “I’ve had a hard life,” he said. “They said you were crazy.”

  “The Russians say a lot of things. Do I seem crazy?” “What do you want?”

  “Just to see you. Say hello. Talk.”

  Devin slowly stood and moved a step closer. Caleb seemed frozen. Devin put out his hand, and after a long pause, his son took it. Then, quickly, as if he might be contaminated, Caleb broke off the handshake.

  It was Billy, first, who sensed that something was wrong. He turned and saw the two policemen looking for Caleb, walking toward the school. The policemen started up the school’s front steps. The father and sons were frozen. Caleb took a deep, sharp breath. Devin’s eyes pleaded with him, but the boy’s eyes were as cold as his mother’s sometimes were.

  “Help me!” he cried. “Here, help!”

  The policemen raced around the comer of the building and stopped, facing them from fifty feet away. Caleb struggled to break free from Billy.

  “It’s my father,” he screamed. “It’s him.”

  The policemen drew their guns. Devin swept Caleb up into his arms, where the boy kicked and fought furiously.

  “Let him go, Milford,” Sergeant Moran shouted. “Nobody has to get hurt.”

  Devin realized that Caleb was a shield, protecting him for an instant from the uncertain policemen.

  “Just let him walk over here,” Moran said.

  Devin ignored them and spoke instead to his son.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he said. “Just calm down. It’s okay.”

  Caleb did calm a little. Billy, standing behind them, said, “Don’t give him up. They’ll shoot you.”

  Devin spoke again to his younger son. “I want you to know that I love you. No matter what they tell you. I’ll always love you.”

  Caleb nodded tentatively. Devin lowered him slowly. “No matter what they tell you,” he repeated, and let go of his son.

  Caleb ran toward the two policemen.

  “Shoot him,” he cried. “Kill him!”

  The officers knelt and aimed, but Caleb, running blindly toward them, was in the line of fire.

  “Put your hands on your head and turn around, or we’ll fire,” Moran called.

  “Go to hell,” Devin said bitterly.

  Moran had raised his gun when Billy stepped in front of his father. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, head high, defiant.

  “Dammit, Billy, get out of the way,” Moran yelled. “Go to hell,” Billy said proudly.

  Moran turned to the patrolman who was with him and said, “Take Caleb to the car and get some backup.” Then, to Devin, he said, “Don’t risk the boy’s safety. You don’t stand a chance.”

  Devin stood firm; there was nowhere to go, and that fact was becoming more and more clear to Devin. “We can’t both make it,” he whispered to Billy. “I’m staying with you,” Billy whispered, a quaver in his voice.

  “Stay with me in spirit, Billy. The only way to do that is to let me divert these guys long enough for you to reach the truck. You can’t hesitate. This is our chance to resist.”

  “What about you?” the boy asked. “They’ll put you back in prison . . . I’ll never see you again.”

  Devin hugged his son. Moran was inching forward, but still thirty feet away.

  “I can take whatever happens, as long as I know you’re okay,” Devin said. “Tell Clayton to take you to Milford. They’ll hide you there. They’re your people.” Billy was sobbing now. Moran slipped forward. “Give us a minute, Sergeant,” Devin said.

  Moran stopped, figuring time was on his side. “Come on, Billy. Be a big guy ... I need you ... I need you to know you’re strong.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “I love you.” Then Devin turned to Moran and said, loudly, “We’re coming up to you.” He paused. “I’m giving up.”

  “Put your hands up, Milford,” Moran commanded. He was twenty feet away now and sure he could shoot without hitting the boy.

  “When'the moment comes,” Devin whispered to his son, “run for the truck and—no matter what happens —don’t look back.”

  Billy nodded stiffly.

  “Hands on top of your head,” Moran said. “Turn around. Walk backward slowly.”

  Devin did as he said. Billy walked beside him. When they were only a few feet from the sergeant, Moran reached for his handcuffs. Devin heard them rattle. “Now,” he said.

  Billy bolted. Moran turned toward him and in that instant, Devin threw himself against the officer and knocked the gun from his grasp. The two men struggled as the boy ran, their knees and elbows rasping on the sidewalk, each trying to push the other aside and reach the weapon.

  Billy was out of sight now.

  Moran grunted; Devin hissed. Rolling backward across the policeman’s legs, Devin gave a desperate lunge, thinking he could finally reach the revolver. But it was gone.

  Devin looked up and found the revolver pointed at his face. It was in the hands
of a boy in the white shirt and red tie of the Lincoln Brigade.

  Devin froze. The boy’s hands trembled and Devin knew that had he charged, the student wouldn’t have a chance. He was about Billy’s age, Devin guessed. Devin raised his hands slowly above his head.

  “Good work, son. I’ll take the gun now,” said Moran.

  The officer, breathing heavily, took out his handcuffs and smacked Devin hard across the face with them.

  Kimberly sat on the sofa, her face sallow, her eyes lifeless, oblivious to the incessant ringing of the phone. Finally it stopped and the room once again became deafeningly quiet. She felt enraged by the police raid and further angered by their stubborn refusal to arrest her. After many days and sleepless nights of introspection, Kimberly realized that she had to leave Andrei. Her anger wasn’t political, but personal; she felt betrayed. She had wanted desperately to reach Andrei in Washington and tell him just exactly what she thought, but that was not possible. Her calls were still not being put through. She resigned herself to the fact that ultimately it didn’t matter—her actions would speak for her.

  She got up from the couch, grabbed a coat from the closet, and took a taxi to the south side of Chicago. She knocked on the door of a shabby apartment which she knew belonged to Cliff, a rather limited and introverted gay actor in her troupe. She, as the “star,” had done favors for Cliff, and felt he owed her.

  He opened the door and stared incredulously at Kimberly, who stood before him with a tentative smile. “Hi, Cliff.”

  “What’s up, Kim?” he said, making no move to invite her in.

  “Can 1 come in?”

  “I don’t know,” he said timidly. “Look, Kim, I feel really lousy, but you know what the problem is—” “Sleeping with a Russian isn’t contagious,” she snapped.

  “The hell it isn’t. You can catch it by having been in the same play—especially an outlaw play.”

  Kimberly’s eyes softened. “Please, I don’t have any place to go.”

  “Go home, back to your apartment.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do. Do you? If you were desperate—”

  “Somehow I’ve never seen you as helpless. At least compared to the rest of us.”