Either way, Avery knew, a fifteen-megaton bomb like the one the US tested on Bikini would drop a lethal blanket of radioactivity over central Florida 40 miles wide and, depending on the wind, 220 miles long. Just last year, Khrushchev boasted the Soviets now had thirty- to fifty-megaton monsters in their arsenal—a bomb that big would sink the entire state.
At nine-thirteen, another southbound train rumbled by behind the station, the other side of Dr. Phillips’s packinghouse. Avery heard it, clocked its length at twenty-two minutes, but was unable to leave the pumps to walk to the corner and watch it go by.
Steve arrived at ten, providing Avery with his first chance to call the depot in Tampa and ask about the fill-up of his own underground tanks.
“I don’t know, Wes,” the dispatcher warned him. “Phone’s ringing off the hook here. We got all our tankers out on deliveries, but you’re—let’s see now—number twenty-seven on the list. Tomorrow afternoon, maybe? I’ll have to get back to you.”
Just after noon, Marjorie Cook wheeled into the parking space beside the office and got out, wallet in one hand, baby girl on her hip in the other. Both boys trailed behind her.
Avery was on his way out the door to return a customer’s Texaco card and get the credit slip signed. “Be right with you,” he told her.
Back in the office, he noticed her eyes were red-rimmed. “I’ve come to settle up,” she said, handing off the baby to J.J., the bigger of the two boys, “and also to serve notice.”
“What do you mean?” Avery had opened the cash register and was retrieving her gas bill.
Marjorie pushed back damp curls off her forehead with the palm of her hand. She was dressed sloppily for her, in a man’s plaid shirt and rolled-up jeans.
“Jimmy’s on a long haul to Nebraska. Called home long-distance Friday night. Said there’s all kinds of scary talk on his CB radio.”
The baby whimpered and waved her arms, wanting her mother. Marjorie handed over her keys instead, then, laying her wallet on the counter, fished a balled-up handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose. After that, the words boiled out in a rush.
“Said he wanted me to go to the U-Haul shop, rent a trailer, pack up the kids, and meet him at his daddy’s house in High Point, North Carolina. Wanted me on the road by Sunday night but, with the kids, I just couldn’t get everything done till today.” She stopped to collect a ragged breath and slipped the crushed handkerchief back into her pocket. “Said to tell you sorry for the short notice and all. But since we already paid first and last, you’ll be covered. And maybe”—her face flushed pink with the effort of asking—“if you get somebody before the end of next month, you’ll send us a refund?”
“You’re leaving for good?”
“With everything going on around here, Jimmy’s convinced we’ll be safer up there.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Avery told her gently. His eyes fell on the note in his hand, the words Ck. Rr. Shimmy he’d written on Friday. It now seemed like centuries ago. “U-Haul, you said?”
“Just a small one. Kids’ stuff mostly.” The cottage on Princeton was rented furnished.
Avery frowned. He needed this today like he needed a hole in his head. “Well, look here…The other day when you left, I saw a shimmy in your car’s rear end. See, I made a note.” He held it out. “Before you go hooking up a trailer, I better put it up on the rack and take a look.”
“On the rack?” Her voice wobbled, her eyes rounded in dismay. “I promised Jimmy we’d be on the road by noon.”
“Won’t take but a sec,” he assured her, concerned she might bolt. “You’ll be climbing mountains to get to High Point. A woman with three kids and a trailer doesn’t need car trouble on top of everything else. How ’bout some nice cold Cokes while you wait?”
Marjorie bit her lip. Then she sighed and nodded.
“Here, Lissie.” She took the child from J.J., handed over the keys to Avery, then sank slumped into the chair, the baby on her lap. “You boys sit here,” she ordered, pointing to the floor.
Avery got them Cokes out of the cooler. He gave the boys a small container of metal washers and suggested a game of tiddlywinks. Then he drove the wagon into the service bay and raised the rack, hoping for something simple, like rear tires out of alignment. But the alignment was fine.
The problem, he discovered, was worn rubber bushings in the rear suspension links that attached the axle to the frame. Steve manned the pumps while Avery wrenched off the pivot bolts, drove out the old bushings with an air chisel, then beat in the new ones with a ball-peen hammer. Mercifully, he was done in under an hour.
Marjorie looked up from the child fast asleep in her arms. “First time I’ve sat down in three days,” she whispered.
“Better here than alongside a mountain road,” Avery told her, mentally sidestepping the thought of what might have happened if he’d let her go. He added the cost of her prior gas bill and the parts, then announced, to wipe the worry off her face, “Labor’s on me.”
Marjorie rose, shifting the sleeping child from her lap to her shoulder. He was reminded of Charlotte at that age, a soft snuggling bundle fragrant with shampoo and Johnson’s baby powder.
“Thanks, Mr. A.” Marjorie opened her free arm, offering and inviting a hug. Avery was surprised by the strength of her grasp, the moist warmth as she drew him in and murmured, “You’ve always been just…swell.”
She held him tightly, then released him hastily, and it startled him to think he didn’t know when, or even if he’d see her again.
“God bless you,” she said, tearing up.
“You take care,” he told her lamely.
Outside, waving good-bye, he could still feel the imprint of mother and child against his chest, within his arms; and the scent of apples in Marjorie’s hair. How long had it been since he’d held Sarah and Charlotte in a single embrace like that? Years. How long with just Sarah alone?
From the beginning, Sarah had been subject to the occasional dark mood, the near-monthly headache. For years, she dismissed it as simply her hormones talking. Charlotte was two when they’d begun trying in earnest for another child. She was five when Sarah had her first miscarriage. Three more miscarriages after that (or was it four?—a couple happened so early on, it was hard to keep track) before the final disaster two years ago this month: the tubal pregnancy—of twins, though he and the doctor had kept that detail to themselves—that ended in her emergency hysterectomy. “I’ve been fixed? Just like a dog?” she’d raged at them and at the zipper-like scar, navel to pubis. Barren, she called herself now, a harsh, unforgiving term that reminded him of the worst of the windblown drought of his youth.
He’d waited patiently for her recovery, gently given her a wide berth and plenty of time. Her Nembutal helped get things back to normal, though she complained the pills made her feel stupid and foggy. Then last Tuesday night, something had gone amiss. He’d reached for her in the night and she’d refused him with a dejected “Oh, Wes, what’s the point?” What had he done to deserve that? He had no clue.
And now there were missiles in Cuba and God knows what else. And Sarah was off on a propaganda goose chase for Civil Defense. Had too much Nembutal addled her brain? They’d been warned it was habit-forming and she might need to switch. He considered giving Doc Mike a call, asking him to drop by. But the thought depressed him. And the gas bell continued to ring like the Salvation Army at Christmastime. And then the first of the convoys darkened the Trail out front, headed south to Miami and beyond.
—
STEVE HAD BROUGHT IN A SMALL, portable television to watch the President’s speech with Emilio last night. He’d left it on the desk, and at lunch they opted for checking breaking news over their usual game of chess. Customers, seeing the TV, got out of their cars and crowded the office to watch:
In New York, delegates to the Organization of American States voted their unanimous support for the navy’s quarantine (to cut off all Soviet military shipments to Cuba). Adlai Steven
son, America’s ambassador to the United Nations, delivered a fiery speech about the Russians’ premeditated deception, their flagrant violation of the UN Charter, “clearly a threat to this hemisphere and to…the whole world!” And in Havana, Castro was calling the quarantine “a total blockade” that he considered “an act of war and a violation of the Cuban people’s sovereign rights!”
Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara was pale and baggy-eyed when he announced that, per the President’s order, the US Navy’s quarantine of Cuban ports would commence at ten a.m. tomorrow. American ships would draw a line on the sea eight hundred miles off Cuba’s shore; no ship carrying military cargo would be allowed to pass.
Meanwhile, all afternoon, beneath a sky stunningly blue and clear, the long green convoys continued to roll past.
Avery and Steve and customers in their cars turned to watch the seemingly endless war parade with numbing dread. Were all those trucks—jeeps, eight-, ten-, and twelve-ton trucks, buses, transporters with semi-trailers—different groups converging on the Trail or one long, organized procession? Who knew?
Were the GIs—all so young, some smiling and waving back, others dismally downcast or fast asleep—bound for the big bases at Miami, Homestead, or Key West? Would they wind up on the beaches of Cuba or the backstreets of Berlin? Either way—Avery and Steve exchanged knowing looks—war would be a far worse experience than any of those boys could possibly imagine.
The sight of so many soldiers, vehicles, trailers hauling long cylindrical shapes barely camouflaged with green canvas—not to mention the trains rumbling behind the station on parallel tracks—was both shocking and sobering. Clearly, something potentially life and history changing was about to occur off Florida’s south tip.
Midafternoon, there was a break in the action at the pumps—most likely the result of the twenty-six-minute train crossing Princeton behind them and the convoy of green semis in front of them on the Trail. Emilio was late for work.
Steve grabbed two RC Colas and joined Avery at the curb. “Wanna bet he’s sittin’ in traffic other side of the tracks?”
“Probably so,” Avery replied, taking an icy swig. His eyes followed the passing tank strapped to a rolling flatbed, the boxcars filled with napalm cylinders piled, like cordwood, roof-high. “How’d he handle the speech last night?”
Steve scowled. “Not as surprised as I was.”
“He wasn’t?”
“Turns out a couple of the boys had heard stories from family still stuck on the island. Big trucks in the middle of the night. Corner fences run down by trailers too long to make tight turns.”
“So they knew something was up?”
Steve nodded. “I’d say he was more steamed than anything else.”
“Steamed?”
“ ‘Just when you think things are as bad as they can get,’ he said, ‘Castro goes and makes ’em worse.’ ”
“Oh, man.” Poor kid.
“Really worried about his parents and grandparents.”
“And his sister, the dancer?” Avery recalled. “Is she still there? Or did they send her here, too?” He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what it would take—how bad would things have to be?—for him and Sarah to send Charlotte away, alone to another country, dependent on the kindness of strangers. He couldn’t conceive of it.
“Didn’t mention her.” Steve turned to appraise the progress behind them on the Trail. “Can’t imagine all this hardware’s gonna help him feel any better.”
Avery cleared his throat. “Think we should talk to the priest about it?”
Steve shrugged, drew a bead on his soda bottle. “Can if you want to, Deacon.” As a rule, Steve steered clear of men of the cloth.
—
WITHIN MINUTES OF THE train’s passing, the priest’s Chevy pulled up and Emilio leaped out, worry creasing the space between his brows.
“It’s all right, son,” Avery called to him. “Got caught, right?”
Emilio nodded, cast a startled glance at the line of canvas-covered trucks on the Trail, then ran inside to change. Avery strode out, signaling the priest to stop.
“Sorry for the delay, Mr. Avery,” the priest called out the open window. “We were quite trapped—”
Avery waved off further explanation, leaned in. “Not a problem. But, look, uh…” As usual, he was at a loss for what to call the guy.
The priest chuckled. “Father is a Catholic term, Mr. Avery; doesn’t trip easily off the Protestant tongue. No need to dance an Irish jig around it. Please, if you prefer, call me Thomas.” He stuck out his hand.
Avery returned his grip. “Wes,” he said.
“How can I help you, Wes?”
Guy must be good at what he does, Avery thought. Somehow, in the brief pause between their handshake and his question, he’d sensed Avery’s intent. One moment those bright blue eyes were smiling, crinkling at the corners, the next they were soberly attentive, inviting whatever was to come.
“It’s not me, Thomas,” Avery said. “It’s Emilio. Steve says the speech last night really riled him.”
“All the boys, I’m afraid. It’s a double bind, you see? On one hand, they want the island liberated so they can go home. On the other, they’re terribly afraid for the family members still there.”
“I was wondering what we might do for him.”
“Indeed, Wes, you already have. The dance date with your daughter? It’s a bright spot, a bit of normal to look forward to. Thank you, and please thank your wife for your, uh, support. And Mr. Steve’s offer to buy him a new suit?” His eyes crinkled again. “Over-generous but also much appreciated.”
—
EMILIO WAS OUT AT THE PUMPS when Steve stopped for a smoke break. Avery watched his friend’s familiar ritual: the left-handed pat, slide, and shake out of the pack; his right-handed extraction, tap, and tip of a single cigarette onto his lip; the arc, flare, and click of his Zippo expertly tossed back into his shirt pocket; the hungry pull giving way to a satisfied stare.
“New suit, huh?”
“Well”—Steve rasped a gruff cough—“he needs one, don’t he? Figured you’re on the hook for a fancy dress or two.”
“Where you gonna take him?”
Steve squinted, blew a jet of smoke, and watched it fade. “Figured we’d go see Dahling.”
Avery grinned. “Well, that ought to cheer him up.”
Dahling was a popular local saleswoman in Belk-Lindsey’s men’s department. Nobody remembered her real name. But thanks to her curves, her Zsa Zsa Gabor–like accent, the way she called every man “Dahling,” her nickname was born. She could tell a man’s suit size on sight, and pick out the perfect tie “to match your eyes, Dahling!” In addition, she dyed her hair a different color every month to match the season. “Boring I’m not, Dahling!” This being October, it could as easily be pumpkin orange as ghostly white or pitch black, “depending on my mood when I sit in the chair.”
“When were you planning to go?”
Steve turned to eyeball the single customer in a dusty Studebaker wagon paying his bill. “What d’ya think?”
“Well, it’s Tuesday. Couple days for tailoring, if he needs it. You should probably go now.”
“Prob’ly should,” Steve agreed, grinding out the stub in the desk ashtray.
Avery smiled. A bit of normal, Thomas had said. Without even talking to the guy, Steve was giving Emilio exactly what the priest recommended.
Emilio, normally playful, came in subdued. He placed the cash in the register without comment, then stepped aside, staring blankly at the green trucks passing by out front.
Avery noted the dark circles under his eyes. “Tough night?” he asked.
The teenager turned, eyes drooped, shoulders stooped like a much older man. “Guys out at the camp…,” he began in a quiet voice. “How can I explain?” He drew a breath. “When we were kids, Cuba”—he pronounced it, as always, COO-ba—“Cuba was the queen of the Caribbean. The largest island and the mo
st successful, with the most modern cities, the most talented artists, the most beautiful hotels…”
“And women,” Steve added. “The most beautiful women.”
“Yes, of course,” Emilio agreed, with the flicker of a smile. “But then Fidel—” He turned to look for a place to spit. “Fidel rode out of the mountains with a white dove on his shoulder, calling himself a man of peace. Peace!” His pale eyes snapped angrily. “Overnight, our American friends were driven out and the Russians arrived to protect us from Yankee Imperialism! The thing is”—he looked out the window, remembering—“we all considered the Russians—with their World War Two airplanes and fifteen-year-old trucks—a joke. Those trucks were always breaking down. We’d see them parked by the side of the road for weeks, waiting for a part from Moscow. And now,” he said bitterly, “Fidel’s let them turn Cuba into their launching pad, the queen of the Caribbean nothing but dirt beneath their boots.” He scowled. “We were up half the night arguing.”
“ ’Bout what?” Steve asked.
“About whether we should all go down and join the army.”
“The army?” Steve recoiled, ripe with a navy man’s disgust.
“Or navy,” Emilio said hastily. “Or air force even,” he added with a nod toward Avery.
“What’d you decide?” Avery asked it quietly.
“Me?” Emilio shook his head. “I told them I didn’t dare. My mother went through hell to get me out of there. She’d kill me if I came back!”
Avery blew out a pent-up breath.
Steve jingled his keys with relief. “We’re thinking this’d be a good time to go see a lady about a suit.”
Avery reached over, punched the cash drawer open, pulled out the fiver that Emilio had just put in. “And bring back some Mister Donuts, would ya?”
Emilio flashed a grin, a glimmer of his usually sunny self. Although nothing in this country came close to Cuba’s pineapple pastelitos, the teenager insisted, Mister Donuts toasted-coconut-with-banana-cream-filling were the next best thing.
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