A Place We Knew Well (27 page)

“I'll see you in the gym,” Avery told them, and saw her eyes cloud with concern for her mother. “No, no. Doc Mike's coming by to keep an eye out,” he assured her in their code.

“Good.” She favored him with a dazzling, relieved smile that set his father's heart swelling to button-popping proportions. “See you there.”

The rain had stopped. Avery watched Emilio escort her to the passenger's side of The Admiral, open the door, and tuck her in as though she were made of spun glass.

“Take care,” he called, and Emilio waved. Of course, he would take care. But it comforted Avery to say the words.

P
EERING INTO THE
F
RIGIDAIRE'S
open freezer compartment, he recalled Lilly's comment at the station—“If this is our Last Supper, I definitely want a steak!” He quirked a corner of his mouth in a rueful grin and pulled out the brown-and-red TV dinner box labeled
SALISBURY STEAK
.

Ain't the House of Beef's porterhouse (which would have been his preference), but it'll have to do.

He checked the instructions, set the oven, removed the foil-covered aluminum tray from its box, slid it into the heat, and set the timer for twenty-five minutes.

One eye on the clock—he was counting down to the six o'clock news—he washed and put away the dishes from lunch, set up a TV tray with knife, fork, and napkin, and poured himself a glass of sweet tea.

At five fifty-nine, he sat down with his steaming tray on his lap, expecting the Saturday stand-in for his weekday favorites, Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. The opening chords—
bomp-bomp, bomp-bomp, bomp-bomp, BOMP-bomp
—of “a special Weekend Edition of
The Huntley-Brinkley report
” were a surprise, as was the appearance of Huntley, circles puddling darker than ever under his eyes, in New York and Brinkley, wary as always, in Washington.

Clearly, the news was bad and getting worse.

“President Kennedy has revealed that Premier Khrushchev offered an acceptable solution for the Cuban crisis and then pulled away from it.”

Why would he do that?

“In a letter to the Soviet leader tonight,”
Brinkley continued,
“President Kennedy called on him to stand by an offer made in a private communication last night to remove Soviet missiles from Cuba under United Nations supervision.

“At the same time, the President brushed aside a subsequent proposal from Premier Khrushchev this morning offering to eliminate Soviet missile bases in Cuba if the United States would remove its missile bases in Turkey.”

So Khushchev's trying the old bait-and-switch? Now the bastard wants the trade, their missiles for ours?

“In an effort to persuade Mr. Khrushchev to revert to his previous offer, the President said that if he would agree to remove the weapons from Cuba under inspection, the United States would halt the blockade and give assurances against an invasion of Cuba.”

And they're stuck with Castro forever?

Huntley, always the heavy, weighed in.
“But even as the White House was trying to retrieve a situation that earlier began to look promising, officials said the crisis was escalating. Several events seemed to bear out their fears:

“In Cuba, a United States U-2 reconnaissance aircraft was reported missing while attempting to observe what was happening at the Soviet missile bases there. And another United States plane was fired upon, apparently by Cubans and not by the Russians.

“Also, the Castro Government appeared to be taking a much more belligerent attitude than the Soviet Government, possibly in fear that it was being sold out by Moscow. It announced that its forces intended to oppose the United States reconnaissance planes.

“At the Pentagon, the Defense Department threatened retaliation if United States planes were fired on.”

Avery set his tray aside, his appetite vanished. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped between them, ear cocked to his own thoughts. It was his chess player's pose, struck when evaluating next moves.

The broadcast ended with their ritual exchange of good night.

“Good luck,” Avery muttered, switching them off, returning to his doleful thoughts.

What was it Steve read in the New York paper? Only three ways to get those missiles out of Cuba: Invade and take 'em out. Blockade and starve 'em out. Or sit down with the Soviets and trade 'em out?

Obviously, Khrushchev wanted the trade.

Obviously, he and Castro knew the Pentagon was gearing up to invade. And both of them seemed itching for the fight, ready to start things on their own if need be.

But where was JFK on all this? Stalling for time, it appeared; hoping to make the best move possible—that was obvious.

Avery found himself wondering if Khrushchev and Kennedy were chess players. And, if so, which parts of the game were their strengths? Every player had a strong and a weak spot. Steve's strength, for instance, was his opening gambit, and middle transition; Avery's was his endgame.

And Khrushchev's? Kennedy's? Contemplating the global game played out over the past week, Avery had the dizzying realization that they'd reached every chess player's worst nightmare:
zugzwang.

Zugzwang, the endgame perfected by Persian chess masters over a thousand years ago, occurred when every move left is “bad” and whichever player has the next move will, as a result of his move, lose.

In the thermonuclear-charged game between Khrushchev and Kennedy, having reached zugzwang, the only question left to answer was:
Whose turn is it?
Was it Kennedy's, due to Khrushchev's downing of the U-2? Or was it Khrushchev's because of some secret move on Kennedy's part?

Avery stood up, to counter the burn of bile in his gut, and went into the kitchen to dispose of his dinner. The gravy had coagulated into gray gunk, and the green-beans-and-carrots medley had the look of melted wax. If this was indeed his Last Supper, he'd just as soon go hungry.

Besides, Martell would be here soon and he needed to get ready.

In their bedroom, Avery left off the light so as not to wake Sarah and padded softly through the darkened room. He gathered his suit and shoes from the closet. He stripped and stepped into the shower, and adjusted the stream to as hot as he could stand it. With palms on either side of the showerhead, he leaned in, bowed his head beneath the flow, and let the heat massage the tightness in his neck and shoulders and cascade warmth down his back, buttocks, calves, and heels. Eyes closed, he could feel the centrifugal force of things spiraling out of control—the world, like Sarah, hanging by a thread—so he opened them, anchoring himself within the shower's careful grid of gray and green tiles.

With a dripping forefinger, he traced the grout around one square tile.
Careful.
If ever a word summed up a man, a life,
careful
was his. It had been his priority and his watchword: “Take care,” he'd told his customers, his wife, and his daughter every day for as long as he could remember. But in the past handful of days, he'd discovered the joke: All the care in a man's world can't protect him, or his family, or anyone from the greater perils outside his control. At this point—perhaps at any point?—careful didn't count, and control was the punch line in the big joke. It all boiled down to—what? Luck of the draw? Your spot on the giant chessboard? Despite the hot water, Avery shivered. He wrenched off the flow and toweled himself off, shoulders high and tight.

What are the chances, he asked the grim eyes in the mirror, that Kennedy, the young sailor, or Khrushchev, the crafty old farmer, isn't making his final move now, at this moment, and we are all about to lose everything?

Perversely, the voice inside his head jeered: Is there a Russian word for global FUBAR? And by the way, what in the world are you going to tell Kitty to head off her own personal endgame against Charlotte?

H
ALF AN HOUR LATER,
Avery found himself helping his doctor's sturdy wife into his truck.

“Take your time,” Martell told them, one eye already on the television, intent on turning on the game.

“They really should have canceled this thing, don't you think?” Nancy Martell complained, shifting Charlotte's forgotten flyer from the church,
Eight Simple Air Raid Rules,
into the space on the seat between them.

“Tough call,” Avery replied, thinking how disappointed Charlotte and Emilio would be if they had.

In the crepe-paper-draped gym, he scanned the early arrivals for Kitty, and for Charlotte and Emilio—no dice—and allowed himself to be pressed into service transporting ice and opening juice cans for the red-and-white-draped punch bowls.

Just after seven-thirty, Avery saw Charlotte and Emilio come through the door; saw the chaperone direct Charlotte to the girls' locker room to join the others backstage preparing for their grand entrance; saw Emilio step away and hesitantly seek a place to wait for her. The place was starting to fill with students dressed for dancing. The band, five guys sporting identical ducktails, tight pants, and dark sunglasses who called themselves the Shades, was tuning up with the theme from the TV show
Bonanza.

Avery was weaving through the onlookers milling around the edges, his eyes on the door, when a woman stepped deliberately in his path. A flowered silk scarf covered her hair and wrapped around her neck in the style that Grace Kelly made famous. A black raincoat concealed her clothing, and her face was dominated by a pair of large, black, rather thick cat-eye glasses. But there was no mistaking the scent of spiced roses, or the single pearl in the hollow of her throat.

“Hello, Kitty,” he said quietly.

“Nice to see you, Wes. Sarah still under the weather?” Her tone dripped sarcasm.

Before he could find the right words, another voice, vaguely familiar, called out to both of them: “Well, hail, hail, the gang's all here!”

Avery turned to acknowledge it and felt the spread of alarm at the sight of Lilly's florid face and, behind her, Steve's squint asking the obvious question,
What's
she
doin' here?

“Curiosity killed the cat, they say,” Kitty said, sizing up the situation instantly and slipping into Realtor mode. “But I don't buy that, do you? When I met Wes the other day, I was so taken by his affection for his daughter, I couldn't help but wonder whether or not she won. These little traditions are what make a community great, don't you think? And America, too, for that matter. And of course, a great school like this is nothing but
good
for property values.”

Lilly listened to Kitty's entire spiel open-mouthed, then, self-consciously, closed her trap. Steve, who'd stood nodding in pleasant enough agreement, turned questioning eyes back to Avery.

Avery was still struggling to recover. “Surprised to see you two here,” he said, tossing the ball into Steve's court.

Steve took a hasty look around, then stepped closer and said softy, “Lilly's been called back to work tomorrow. All the hospitals on the coast are on red alert, ready to receive the wounded after the invasion.” He shot Avery a long, level look. “We came to tell Leo I need to pick up The Admiral out at the camp, first thing tomorrow mornin'.”

Avery absorbed this news—somehow worse than any other he'd heard today—and felt trapped inside a still, airless space, its edges a blur of clueless, carefree teenagers.

“The camp…,” he said, swallowing hard, “…is closed. The priests have farmed out the boys to local families. Emilio's with us tonight. You can come by the house instead.”

“There you are!” And suddenly, there Emilio was—where had he been?—grinning relief. “And Mr. Steve! Hello!”

“Leo, this is Miss Lilly,” Steve told him, disconcerted.

“Hello, Emilio.” Kitty offered him an elegant hand. “I'm Kitty, friend of the family.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the principal announced from in front of the band, “please join me in welcoming Edgewater High's Class of 1963 Homecoming Court!”

On cue, the lights in the gym dimmed. The Shades attempted some sort of ceremonial march. The theater teacher turned spotlights on the boys and girls entering two by two as the principal announced their names.

To Avery, the whole scene felt increasingly surreal. There was his Charlotte, a radiant jewel, the three pretty blondes, and lovely Barbara Everly parading into the gym on the arms of their handsome escorts.

Meanwhile, somewhere not far south, tens of thousands of paratroopers, fighter pilots, seamen, marines, and infantrymen stood ready, waiting at this very moment for the command to go to war.

Greg Lund, captain of the football team, emerged—he and his teammates had the privilege of the final vote—with two cheerleaders. One carried five bouquets, four small and one large spray of red roses for the winner. The other held the two crowns for the night's king and queen.

Somewhere in Washington, someone was calculating the expected casualties and wounded. And, armed with those numbers, someone else was issuing alerts to who-knew-how-many hospitals to have beds and bandages and operating rooms ready for them.

Even though the commander in chief was actively pursuing peace, the giant machine of war was out there, idling, ready at an instant's notice to roll. Once started, it would be near impossible to stop. Not until it had reached the awful end, which with today's powerful weapons would be the annihilation of everything.

The couples stood in a spotlit semicircle. Kitty had moved to Avery's outer elbow, away from the others. As the Shades' drummer whipped up the crowd with a suspenseful drumroll, and Lund took the first small bouquet of white roses and walked dramatically toward one of the blondes, then zigzagged to another, Kitty leaned in. She whispered, “What do you know about him?”