Catch You Later, Traitor

by Avi

  So for the first time I tried to think what I had done. And gradually, very gradually—just the way it worked in the stories—I came to know who the informer was.

  “Jeez Louise,” I said, like Al Depaco did. It actually made sense. All of it.

  I had figured it out.

  But what was I going to do about it?

  Doughnut.

  The following Wednesday, June 27, was a really hot day for the end of June. Dad came home late. I knew where he’d been even though we had never talked about his brother since that night after the movie. Right after he showed up we all sat down to dinner. No one was talking. Everyone seemed glum, especially Dad.

  “What is it, honey?” Ma asked him. “Something at the college?”

  He looked at her. “Someone I know is very ill. I was just thinking about him.” He sent her an eye message.

  We all stopped eating.

  Bobby said, “Who is it?”

  “A fellow by the name of Nelson Kasper. Nobody you know.”

  Bobby stared at his plate.

  Ma put a hand to her throat. “How is he doing?”

  “Very poorly,” said Dad.

  After dinner, Dad went to his office. Ma joined him briefly, then went to the radio room to listen to some classical music and work on her photo scrapbooks.

  Bobby got on the phone.

  I went to my room and picked up my Detective Magazine. In the table of contents were stories titled “Goodbye Forever” and “You Only Live Once.” I decided to read one called “The Red Silk Scarf.”

  “Pete . . .”

  I opened my eyes. I had fallen asleep reading. Dad was bending over me. “Pete,” he whispered again. “I need you.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Don’t wake Bobby.”

  I was already dressed. Dad was waiting in the hallway. Ma was there in her bathrobe. She gave Dad a hug, then me. “Thanks for helping Dad,” she said into my ear.

  “What’s happening?” I said, befuddled.

  “Dad will tell you.”

  “What is it?” I asked as Dad and I waited for the elevator.

  “My brother,” Dad said. “Got a call from the nursing home. I need to be there. Come on.”

  “Is he dying?”

  Dad nodded.

  “What time is it?”

  “About two thirty.”

  Dad and I stepped out of our building. The air was humid, thick as cotton. A taxi was waiting. We climbed in and Dad told the driver where to go. The taxi sped through the deserted streets, the red and green stoplights looking like last year’s Christmas decorations.

  I said, “Why did you want me to come?”

  “I don’t want to get your ma involved. She’s never seen Frank, and the less she knows about him the better. And Bobby doesn’t know anything.”

  I thought, Yes he does.

  Dad said, “I might need some help and you’re the only other person who knows about him.”

  As we went over the Brooklyn Bridge, I peeked out the rear window. A car was behind us, but I told myself it didn’t matter. Instead, I tried to think what my dad was thinking. Was he glad or sorry Frank was dying? Was he blaming himself? Was he happy I was with him, or was I only there because Dad couldn’t ask anyone else?

  We reached the nursing home and got out of the cab. A high, solitary lamp lit the deserted street. A street-washing truck must have just gone by, because the pavement glistened with blackness. The only other light came from inside the glass doors of the nursing home.

  Dad found a call button by the doorway and pushed it. In moments, the door opened a couple of inches. A woman looked out. She was wearing a white jacket and had a stethoscope around her neck and a clipboard in one hand. From the clipboard dangled a stubby yellow pencil on a string.

  “Mr. Collison?”

  “Yes, thanks for calling me, Dr. Porter.”

  The doctor pushed the door open.

  As we walked in, Dad asked, “How is he?”

  “As I told you on the phone,” she said, “Mr. Kasper’s condition has seriously worsened. Just come this way.” As she started down the hall, I heard the door lock click behind us.

  My dad started to follow, only to stop. He looked at me. “Do you want to come or wait here?” He turned to the doctor. “My son.”

  The doctor said, “Your decision.”

  Dad shifted back to me.

  “I’ll come.”

  “Fine.”

  As we walked down the hallway, the doctor said to Dad, “I know you’re Mr. Kasper’s custodian. What exactly is your relationship to him?”

  “He’s my war buddy.”

  “It’s hard to believe he’s as young as you told us.”

  “A very hard life,” said Dad.

  “Mr. Collison,” said the doctor. “I wanted to ask . . . I had instructions to call you if your friend’s health turned critical. Which, of course, I’ve done. Earlier this evening there was a request from someone who told us that he was Mr. Kasper’s relative.”

  Dad halted. “Who was it?”

  The doctor checked her clipboard. “A Mr. Smith.”

  Dad looked at me. I knew his thought: The FBI.

  Dad said, “Did you call him?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “Best not call,” said Dad. “Not yet.”

  “As you wish,” said the doctor.

  The doctor opened the door and stepped away. Dad started in, but paused to look a question at me. I nodded. He made a small movement with his head. I followed him inside.

  There was enough light to see Uncle Frank lying under a white blanket. Nothing about him looked like family. His eyes were closed, his mouth partly open. He had no teeth. Over his chest, which barely moved, lay one clawlike hand, with cracked fingernails. How could someone so young look so old?

  Dad went up to the bed and bent over. “Frank,” he said, “it’s me, Denny. I’m with you.” There was no response. Dad kissed his brother’s forehead. When Dad stood up again, he was holding his brother’s hand.

  I crept closer. Hardly knowing what to think, or feel, I tried guessing what Dad felt. He’d told me that Frank had always listened to him. Was he sorry now for telling Frank to go away? Had he missed him all these years? Are you still a brother if your brother disappears? Not knowing what else to do, I took Dad’s other hand.

  I don’t know how long we were standing there when I realized the doctor was beside us.

  She whispered, “You were just in time. I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  Dad let out a long, low breath, gazed at his brother, and kissed him on his forehead again. When he straightened up, he said, “I’m glad he’s at peace.”

  I gazed at the man on the bed. I’d never seen death before, not for real. Even as I looked at it, it didn’t make sense.

  Dad, his voice quiet and controlled, told me he had some arrangements to make, and asked me to wait for him in the lobby. As I walked back, the hallway seemed to have become a lot longer.

  The lobby was deserted, like an empty shell you might find on a beach, just bigger. I sat on the couch and tried to make sense of what I had seen, of what had happened. Dad had lost his brother for a second time. I’d lost an uncle I never had.

  As I sat there, I gazed at the picture of the mountains, wondering if the moon looked like that. Bobby wanted to go to the moon. Did he really want to go there, or did he just want to get away from us? Would I lose my brother?

  I tried to grasp how I felt about Bobby. Did he really hate our family? Me? I worried that if I told Dad what Bobby had done, Dad would get angry and Bobby would disappear—like Frank. It would be my fault. I didn’t like Bobby, but I didn’t want him to go. Maybe someday we could be friends. But the only way that could happen was if I kept what he did a secret.

  Next thing I knew Dad was waking me with a shoulder shake. I looked up at him. He was carrying a small bundle and a checkerboard. I looked at the bundle.
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  He said, “The few things my brother owned. This is it.” He sat down next to me. He seemed worn out.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I had a better word.

  “Thanks. Poor Frank. What a short, miserable life.” Dad rubbed his mustache. “And death doesn’t explain itself, does it? Glad I was able to help at the end . . . a little.”

  I said, “Was he in that Soviet prison a long time?”

  Dad nodded. “Do you know what he said was the hardest part?”

  “What?”

  “Knowing who he was and finding ways to be true to himself somewhere, inside. Even if you’re not in prison, staying true to your own thoughts is hard.” Dad was silent for a moment and then he said, “Let me tell you, Pal, grown-ups lose their freedom a lot. And they don’t have to be in prison.”

  I remembered how, just a short time ago, I felt like I’d stopped being a kid. Sitting there, I wanted to be one again.

  I said, “Did you call Ma?”

  He nodded.

  “Going to tell Bobby?”

  “I will. Sometime.”

  “The rest of your family?”

  “Same.” He yawned. “In a couple of weeks there will be another family gathering.”

  “We have to go?”

  He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them. “Hey, Pal, families are like ghosts. You may not believe in them but they haunt you anyway.”

  “Who do you think that ‘Mr. Smith’ was?”

  He said, “I’m hoping it no longer matters. Frank doesn’t have to pretend anymore.” He closed his eyes. Rubbed them.

  “One good thing,” he said. “That hearing, the committee investigation, it’s July fourteenth.”

  “Why is that good?”

  “Because if they ask me about Frank, it no longer matters.”

  “Dad . . . What’s going to happen?”

  He shrugged.

  I looked up at him and said, “I’m glad you’re my father.”

  “Thanks, Pal,” he said. He reached out and squeezed my hand, then drifted into his own thoughts.

  After a moment he said, “Hey, do me a favor and see if there are any cabs out there.”

  I got up and pushed open one of the doors. I stepped onto the sidewalk. The early-morning light was thin and drowsy, as if the day were having trouble getting up. I didn’t see any taxis. What I did see, parked just down the street, was the gray Chevy.

  39

  I spun around and pulled at the nursing home door. It was locked. When I pressed my face against the pebbled glass, I couldn’t see through. I was about to ring the bell, but I looked down the street again. The Chevy was just sitting there. The face behind the windshield was dim, but I had no doubt it was the informer. I wanted to be sure.

  I walked down the street, expecting the car to drive off.

  When I reached the car, the driver-side window was open. Sitting there, just as I expected, was Uncle Chris. Bobby had been talking to him, and Chris had been telling the FBI what he said.

  As I stood there looking at him, it was hard to know which I felt more, satisfaction that I’d solved the case, or hatred for him.

  Chris said, “My brother die?”

  I shook my head.

  His voice a little embarrassed, he said, “Bobby called me. Said Tom was dying.”

  I said, “It wasn’t Tom. It was an army friend of my father’s. Nelson Kasper. From the state of Washington.” I turned back toward the nursing home.

  Uncle Chris came halfway out of his car. “Come on, Pete. Who was he?”

  I kept walking.

  When I reached the nursing home, I banged on the door. As I did, the black Ford pulled up to the curb. Ewing jumped out. “Hey, Pete! Hold it!”

  I rang the bell. “Dad!” I called. “Come quick!”

  Dad started to come out. I blocked his way and pushed him back. Soon as I got in, I yanked the door shut behind me.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  The doorbell rang. I grabbed Dad’s arm, getting him to move toward the hallway. “We gotta go this way,” I said.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Just come.” I was dragging him.

  The bell kept ringing.

  Dad said, “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

  “Tell you when we get there.”

  As I hurried him down the hallway, the doctor scooted by, heading toward the front door.

  At the far end of the hall was that door marked EXIT. I pushed it open.

  “Come on,” I said to Dad, yanking at him.

  “Pete . . .”

  “Please!”

  We went down the short flight of steps, where I shoved open the door to the outside. We were in the alley.

  “Where are we?” said Dad.

  “Behind the nursing home. This way.” I was still hauling on him.

  “Will you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Later.”

  We got to the street and kept going. After a couple of blocks, we turned east, where I knew I’d find a subway.

  Dad halted. “Pete, I need you to tell me what this is all about.”

  If I told him about Chris, I would have had to tell him about Bobby. But I wasn’t Sam Spade. I couldn’t turn him in. All I said was, “Ewing was out front.”

  “The FBI? Are you serious? Do they know about my brother?”

  “Not sure.”

  Dad was silent for a few moments. “Okay,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s go home.”

  The Giants celebrated the Fourth of July by playing Brooklyn a doubleheader and losing both games. But on July 10, there was this story in the Times that I read and reread:

  DASHIELL HAMMETT JAILED IN RED BAIT INQUIRY

  Dashiell Hammett, author of “The Maltese Falcon” and “The Thin Man,” and chairman of an organization calling itself the Civil Rights Congress, which is designated by the attorney general as a Communist subversive front, was convicted yesterday of criminal contempt for refusing to divulge the names of those in his organization. Sentenced to six months in jail, he was taken to the Federal House of Detention.

  Dad had told us he would refuse to give names. Did that mean he would go to jail, too?

  40

  On July 14, Dad’s hearing was held in the Foley Square Courthouse in lower Manhattan. It was a gigantic building, with massive four-story columns in front. To me it looked like the Brooklyn Borough Hall’s big brother.

  Dad had given Bobby and me the choice to come or not. But he said, “It would be nice to have my family with me.” We went.

  We got there early morning—Dad, Ma, Bobby, Dad’s lawyer, Mr. Miller, and me. Morning, but already so hot, it made sitting home in the fridge a cool thought. All types of people were going in and out of the courthouse while a small army of cops and security guards were hanging around, pistols on their belts.

  We stepped into a gigantic circular lobby, three levels high. All round the high ceilings were paintings of people. Dad pointed up and said, “The great lawgivers of the world.” The only faces I recognized were Washington’s and Lincoln’s.

  Ma said, “Your dad and I got our marriage license here. Cost three dollars.”

  Dad grinned. “A bargain.”

  Dad’s lawyer led us to a large room whose walls were covered with wood panels. Up front was a long table covered with a green cloth. Some padded chairs stood behind it. An American flag as well as the flags of New York State and the City were on poles. On the wall was a clock with Roman numerals. Facing the long table was a smaller table, with two folding chairs behind it. What the room had, mostly, was silence. But it felt powerful. I felt small.

  Someone was placing pitchers of iced water on the tables, along with glasses. Behind the smaller table were rows of chairs, half of them full. Bobby whispered that some of the occupants were newspaper reporters. We sat there, too.

  A little after nine o’clock, a few official-looking people—suits too big f
or them—came in and sat down at that long table. One of the men banged a gavel on a block of wood and said, “I think we can begin. The subcommittee will be in order. My name is Chairman Kierman.”

  He seemed dignified and sure of himself.

  Mr. Kierman read from some papers. “This committee is continuing a series of hearings respecting the counterattack by the Communist conspiracy in the United States against part of our government’s programs, the work of the congressional committee to expose the Communist operations.”

  He went on and on, never looking up. I tried to make sense of what he was saying. That wasn’t easy, because he spoke for about forty-five minutes about how Communists were working to undermine the United States, and how it was all directed by Soviet rulers, particularly Stalin. He said that Communists had snuck into various organizations, local governments, even schools, and that they were all eager to overthrow the country.

  Scary stuff, it reminded me of what Mr. Donavan used to say. I kept telling myself Dad had nothing to do with it.

  The chairman called someone’s name. Two men went up to the small table and sat down.

  The chairman said, “Will you raise your right hand. Do you swear the testimony you are about to give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  One of the guys said, “I do.” The other man must have been his lawyer.

  “Please identify yourself by name, residence, and occupation,” said the chairman.

  “My name is Abner Brown. I live at Four Sixty East Thirty-seventh Street, New York City, New York. As to my occupation, I decline to answer on the ground that this committee has no authority to conduct this inquiry and is violating my rights under the First Amendment and my privileges under the Fifth Amendment not to be a witness against myself.”

  “Just a minute,” said the chairman. “What trouble do you think you would get into if you stated your occupation?”

  “I decline to answer that for the reasons I just stated.”

  “Are you ashamed of your occupation?”

  The guy leaned over and talked to his lawyer. Then he said, “Not at all.”

  “Then state it,” the chairman pushed.

  “I decline for the reasons I just stated, sir,” said the man.