Becoming Lin

by Tricia Dower

  Carl pulls her aside after the meeting and tells her he’s sure Leroi is FBI. “He knows too much about the Minutemen. And who wears dress shoes with a tie-dyed T-shirt?”

  Driving home Ron says, “I want you out of the Project. No more meetings or protests.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the Project. Nobody else got a letter.”

  “I don’t care. As head of the household, I’m responsible for our family’s safety.”

  “What of our goal to plant ideas about peace in Tavis that’ll grow for the rest of his life?” Ron came up with those words and they’ve given her a sense of mission as a mother.

  “There’s plenty of time for that. He’s not even a year old. If his mother’s murdered…” His voice breaks.

  She reaches over and touches his arm. “Where’s your faith God will protect me?” She means it to be reassuring but he stiffens, drives the rest of the way in silence. At home in bed, he says, “Nothing is worth your life,” before turning his back to her and pretending to sleep.

  As for her faith, she believes God sprinkled any magic dust set aside for her when he let her escape Eldon Jukes. Despite that, the word please beats in her heart until she’s safely inside the parsonage each day. It’s for Tavis, not herself, she begs to stay alive.

  She takes over nursery duty Sunday mornings, not trusting anyone else to watch Tavis, even though it means missing Ron’s sermons. He attends the Honeywell Project meetings “for the two of us.” She passes a month or two in a state of hyper-vigilance, waiting for the Minutemen to act, almost willing them to. Any unfamiliar sound turns her to stone. She has frantic, incomplete nightmares in which the church and parsonage are dynamited to smithereens. In still-dark morning her eyes burn. She finds it hard to concentrate during the day, drifts helplessly into daydreams about dying. Artie phones often to let her ramble or weep. At some point the fear coating the inside of her mouth turns to anger. This must be what it’s like for blacks, knowing violence fueled by hate can lurk around any corner, like a stranger in a car. She should thank God for the chance to walk even the tiniest bit in their shoes but she doesn’t. The anger is like a cherry pit stuck in her throat until it dissolves into indifference—relief from delusionary moments she fears are her last, moments in which Eldon Jukes is her assassin.

  26

  Wed, Nov 19/69

  Helen & Carl are back from DC. Half a million showed up. You should’ve been there, Helen said, it was like Woodstock except for the bitter cold, one big love-in, everybody singing. It burns her bacon, as she puts it, that R made me drop out of the movement. If Carl did that she’d tell him to get stuffed. But she isn’t responsible for a child & wingnuts haven’t threatened to kill her.

  What good are the protests anyway? The war goes on in darker & bloodier ways. It’s all over the news that US troops slaughtered hundreds of unarmed villagers last year, even babies. The gov’t covered it up until now. Babies, for God’s sake. R says I should leave the radio & TV off, stop reading the paper & enjoy some peace for a while. He needs my full attention at church.

  It’s a crazy time for sure w/Thanksgiving & the Crafty Gals Bazaar coming up. I’m also trying to learn “A la Nanita Nana” in Spanish w/the choir for Christmas. The collection plate will be fuller if all goes well. Artie’s flock plans to join us on Christmas Eve again. That means we get to open the accordion wall between the sanctuary & the hall & feel like a grown-up church. R has invited him to guest preach but Artie doesn’t want to be responsible. You destroy it 1st w/your truth, he said, & I’ll show up with a dustpan. The thought of destroying anything offends R. Artie has agreed to play “Greensleeves” on guitar. I look forward to that more than I should.

  When the news gets too much for me, I hug T so tight he whimpers. I’m working on his hand-eye coordination at the moment, teaching him to throw & catch a foam ball. If he misses, he says oh dear which comes out oh do. Is any child cuter? He knows 60 words, including wet & poop. I’ve got him in diapers so thick he walks like a bowlegged cowboy. Grace says if I don’t start potty training him, I’ll end up being his servant. Dr. Spock says most kids are ready between 2 & 2-1/2. Mother says I was trained at 9 months. According to Freud, start too late, you get anal-expulsive. Too early, anal-retentive. That would be me: stringent, orderly, rigid & obsessive. Thank you, Betty Wise.

  27

  Tues, Dec 2/69

  We watched the 1st draft lottery on TV last nite. They had the gall to open it w/a prayer. Numbered slips of paper in plastic capsules like cluster bomblets determined who’d get drafted. A Congressman pulled the 1st one from a deep glass jar: 258. That corresponds to Sept 14. All guys born on that day between 1944 & 1950 will get called up next year. Imagine thousands of Sept fourteeners across the country feeling kicked in the gut, their wives or mothers too stunned to cry. Tavis’s birthdate was the 13th drawn. They’re not drafting 17-month-olds yet but my heart stopped for a sec. The whole scene was coldly businesslike. There should have been women in black, weeping & wailing, &, on a big screen, footage of guys stepping on landmines, babies getting shot, villages burning.

  28

  Tues, Apr 28/70

  A blessed moment of quiet. T and R have gone “nigh-nigh.” R rolled home tonite on a sweaty high, jacked up like he is after he aces a sermon. Must’ve been 3,000 there, he said, lord knows where they came from, praise God you weren’t one of them. He swooped up T & crushed us both in a hug against his grimy marshal’s shirt. T held his nose, said, Daddy needs a bath. Another complete sentence!

  R said cops showed up in gas masks after some loony tunes rushed Honeywell’s glass doors & smashed them open. A shirtless guy threw a Nat’l Liberation Front flag thru the doors, shattering more glass. Others threw beer bottles. All broke Marv’s 11th Commandment: no violence. R said some of the rowdies were known radicals. Marv didn’t recognize the others. Carl, naturally, claimed they were FBI plants. I wanted to know if Artie was ok but I ask about him too often. Marv ordered R & the other marshals to form a line facing the cops who’d covered their badges w/tape, presumably so they could get rough & not be ID’d. R was ready to take a beating, said he felt as scared as he did on the Freedom Ride. But it’s addictive you know, he said, that feeling of solidarity. I wanted to say I don’t know anymore, thanks to you. Why is it OK for you to take risks & leave me w/T asking where’s Daddy, all day? I didn’t, of course. My mind can stir up a rage of biblical proportions when I’m alone but my cowardice is epic.

  29

  Mon, May 4/70

  Didn’t think my country could do any more to shock me. Nearly midnight & I can’t sleep, can’t stop thinking. How can the night sky look so beautiful after a day like this?

  At 12:25 p.m., as Lin puts Tavis down for a nap, Ohio National Guardsmen fire off sixty-seven live rounds from M1 rifles in thirteen seconds into a crowd of Kent State students protesting the bombing of Cambodia. Four students die, nine more are wounded. Carl phones to say, “Turn the radio on,” his tone abrupt. “Call me back after.” The radio is on the kitchen counter, next to the toaster. She sits in the breakfast nook and listens to recorded sounds that don’t make sense at first: gunfire, screams, the ambulance sirens that follow. “Unbelievable, baby,” a witness says to a reporter. “Murder. Not an accident.” He claims he heard an officer give the order to fire. Suddenly cold and dizzy, Lin hugs herself and lowers her head to the table.

  The radio reports the campus has been in turmoil since Nixon announced the bombing four days ago. That the mayor of Kent declared a state of emergency after a few merchants said they’d received threats their shops might be damaged if they didn’t put “Out of Cambodia” signs in their windows. That the governor summoned the Guard after students protesting the presence of military on campus burned the ROTC building. That he called them “the worst type of people.”

  She lifts her head from the table and holds it in her hands, recalls an incident the St. Olaf
student paper reported in March. Volunteers from the draft info center she’d helped design and a group called Youth Against Fascism set up tables on either side of the two Marine recruiters, urging students to sign a petition against having “pimps for the military” on campus. They placed a trashcan in front of the Marines’ table for students to deposit “The Marine Corps Builds Men” brochures. The Marines wisely decided to de-escalate the situation and leave, but hotheads chased after them shouting, “Out demons, out!” Somebody else threw a glass of water on them. Rude. Unnecessary. How easily the situation could’ve turned tragic.

  She’s too shaken to call Carl right away, phones Ron in his church office and asks in a trembling voice if he’s heard. He hasn’t, is in the parsonage minutes later. While Tavis naps, they cling to each other on the couch and watch surreal images on TV: guardsmen with gas masks and bayonets, a sergeant rolling the body of a dead student over with his boot. When she eventually calls Carl, he says, “You can bet the FBI was involved; they’ll stop at nothing to silence us. They probably burned the ROTC building themselves for an excuse to bring in the National Guard. There’s got to be a way to find out for sure they’re suppressing dissent, a way to get hard evidence.”

  Tues, May 5/70

  The deaths were all the talk this morning at prayer breakfast. Nixon was in the NY Times saying it was the protesters’ fault. Like it’s okay to use bullets on kids armed only w/rocks & empty tear gas canisters, okay to kill your own. Alice Hemstad wondered how young people w/so many advantages could cause trouble over something happening so far away. Joyce Strunk said what did they expect, they burned the ROTC building, for pity’s sake. When Mindy DeForest said the Nat’l Guard should’ve killed them all, I picked up T & walked out.

  Artie phoned to say somebody’s organizing a rally in the Cities on the 9th. I told him I’d be there. R said it could get ugly, we can’t count on 1st Amendment protection anymore. I’ll represent us so you can be here w/Tavis. I said you stay home w/him. He said you’re being unreasonable. I said I’m starting to believe you sent those letters to keep me at home. If one comes after the 9th, I’ll be sure. I apologized right away but he shook his head as if to say, see what I have to put up with & stomped off to church to pray for me. This morning he seemed to have forgiven me, said you weren’t yourself. It’s true. I’m not anyone I ever imagined I’d be. He’s found me a ride w/the Schroeders, who’ve promised to look after me, said he’s looking forward to Daddy/Son Day. I’ll leave something safe to feed T, who had a major meltdown yesterday because he couldn’t get the last Spaghetti-O on his spoon.

  Three days later, two hundred construction workers, wearing overalls and hardhats, pummel and kick students protesting the war, wounding seventy. They storm City Hall and force officials to raise the flag back to full from half-staff-mourning for Kent State. A worker, speaking anonymously, says the union paid them to do it. The union wants the war, the defense contracts. It sickens Lin to hear witnesses say the police stood by, didn’t try to stop the attack.

  By some miracle Lin and the Schroeders find Artie among the thousands gathered at the Mall on the university grounds as the sky mizzles down on them. He’s carrying a sign that says Love is a Hell of a Lot of Work. The air is wild with the psychedelic sounds of a rock band. It doesn’t get ugly, as Ron warned it might. In fact, she finds it all so beautiful: the Mall writhing with people, the heat of their bodies, perfume and BO blending into one heady smell, young guys with bushy mustaches, in white T-shirts and jeans, colorful bands around their long hair, black women with Afros, somebody done up as the Grim Reaper.

  The governor and others speak from the auditorium steps before the throng moves out and hijacks University Avenue. They become one throbbing wave of movement to the batabatabata of a police helicopter overhead. There’s a frightening moment when a wall of people presses against her, stealing her breath. She loses her balance and falls forward. Artie holds her up as they make their way to the capitol building in St. Paul. It looms over them with Renaissance majesty. The rain disappears and the gilded chariot and horses at the base of the dome spangle in the sun. “There must be twenty thousand here,” Artie says, his voice full of awe, his face lit from within. She fears she would go anywhere with him if he asked.

  30

  Fri, May 15/70

  It’s open season on students. 2 more killed yesterday, 12 injured, at Jackson State when 100 or so black students protested Cambodia. Cops, not Nat’l Guard, this time. One of the dead guys has a son 4 months younger than T. I’ve lost my appetite. Find it hard to even look at food.

  31

  Mon, Nov 9/70

  Helen & Carl are moving. Can’t tell you where, Helen said when she phoned this AM. Just wanted to say not to worry if you don’t hear from us. Gonna miss my Tavis fix. Give my little buddy a sloppy kiss for me, ok? She hung up before I could tell her he left a big deposit in the potty yesterday (he calls it the garbage can) & said wanna show Helen. I called right back but she didn’t answer. R said she probably wasn’t using their phone since Carl’s sure it’s bugged. I’m scared for them & hurt they don’t trust us enough to say where they’re going. R thinks it may be best we don’t know. He said Carl was antsy at the last Honeywell meeting, cracking his knuckles more than usual, saying this ain’t enough, man.

  She’s been ironing shirts in front of the fire and watching the car’s steady approach, the black of it stark against the snowy landscape. Langley Funeral Home about a new death?

  She switches off the iron, ready to welcome a Langley brother into the warmth. But two men she doesn’t recognize emerge in black suits, white shirts and skinny black ties. No overcoats, no hats. She takes a calming breath and answers their knock. A gust of wind threatens to rip the door off its hinges. The cold slices through her thin red sweater.

  The men flash FBI badges. The shorter one with the buzz cut and bushy black eyebrows says, “Linda Brunson?”

  “Yes?” Only Mother and Daddy still call her Linda.

  “Mind answering a few questions?”

  “What about?”

  “Carl Berglund.”

  Her last cup of coffee backs up into her throat. “Is he okay?” Not a peep from Carl and Helen since they left four months ago.

  “That’s what we came to ask you.”

  “Sorry, did you give me your name?”

  “Romano. My partner is Agent McWilliams.”

  McWilliams isn’t looking her way. She follows his gaze to an elm where dozens of stubby-tailed starlings huddle on icy branches, dark against a swollen, gray sky. Invasive spooks.

  “I don’t know where Carl is.”

  McWilliams turns his skeletal face from the starlings. “I find that hard to believe. Best man at your wedding? He and the missus rolling up here often in their disaster of a vehicle?”

  “How do you know that?”

  He shrugs.

  Romano attempts a smile. “May we come in?”

  “No” shoots out of her like spit. “I’ll grab my coat.” She closes and locks the door before the men can object, leans against it for a moment, her insides wobbling like a flat tire. How long can she stay here before they shoot the lock off? Her brain issues robotic instructions. Slip on coat. Step into loafers. Lift house key off hook. Lock door behind you.

  She grips the cold iron railing and slowly descends the steps. The air stabs her lungs like a million icy needles.

  McWilliams stands, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. A tight funnel of smoke pours from Romano’s mouth. He takes a sharp drag, throws his cigarette to the frozen ground and crushes it with a shiny black wingtip. “We need to find Mr. Berglund,” he says. “Do you have an address? Phone number?”

  “I don’t.” She roots around in her pockets for gloves. Tugs them on.

  The wind whips McWilliams’s tie over his shoulder. He yanks it down, says, “Oh, come on” in a sarcas
tic tone.

  Romano coughs. “Does Mr. Berglund have friends or family out East?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Her cheeks and feet are numb already.

  McWilliams again. “What kind of guy is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would he break the law?”

  “I don’t know.” How easily she lies. The starlings take flight with the sudden snap of sheets caught in a squall.

  “Has he ever met with anyone sympathetic to Communism?”

  “I have no idea.” She thinks of a few people in the Honeywell Project.

  McWilliams moves closer, fixes frosty blue eyes on her. “Where were you and your husband Monday night?”

  “Why?”

  “We’re investigating espionage, Mrs. Brunson. I suggest you answer.”

  Her legs nearly buckle. She was in fourth grade when Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were convicted of espionage, strapped into a wooden chair and jolted to death, leaving two young sons. She struggles to call up Monday night from her muddled brain. Ron was to have met with the finance committee but they wanted to listen to the Ali-Frazier fight on the radio. She and Ron don’t approve of boxing. These men likely relish its brutality. She’s taking too much time to answer. “At home,” she says.

  “We’d like to confirm that with the good reverend.”

  “Do you have a card? I can ask him to phone you.”

  Romano steps toward the church, his shoes crunching gravel. “Will we find him in here?”

  “No.”

  McWilliams says, “Is he in Pennsylvania?”

  The absurdity of the question makes her smile, helps her find her backbone. “No. He’s not in Maine or Texas either.”