Amerika (29 page)

“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.”

“I’ve left him,” she blurted out.

Cliff drew in a deep breath. “You can’t just leave somebody like him,” he said evenly.

Kimberly spoke evenly, measuring her words. “I need a place to stay. I wanted to come to somebody I thought was a friend. Please don’t force me to—”

She stopped, not quite knowing where the thought would lead her. “Look. Worse things can come from not helping someone than from helping them.”

He looked at her strangely and slowly stepped aside. “Thank you,” she said, and walked into his apartment.

* * *

Within two days, Kimberly and Cliff were taking on some of the tics and habits of longtime roommates, effortlessly sliding past each other at the kitchen sink, unconsciously imitating one another’s gestures. Kimberly, formerly the main attraction, realized she was falling into a little-sister, tag-along role, but she didn’t fight it; there was too much comfort in it.

On the third night, Cliff took her to a crowded downtown cafe and led her into a dimly lit back room. Jeffrey was waiting there, seated at a small table. He didn’t rise or smile as she and Cliff sat down. She stared at him, his dark face partially illuminated by the candle that was on the table. She recognized him from his Natnet appearances as a reporter and suddenly realized that he was the man who had helped her home after the raid.

“This isn’t too smart,” Jeffrey said to Cliff. “Anybody recognize you?” He looked at Kimberly.

“I don’t think anybody’s looking for me.”

A smile played on his mouth, the candlelight shining in his dark eyes. “And I guess this is not the way your public is used to seeing you.”

She self-consciously touched her hair. “I guess I’m pretty much of a mess.”

“Let me put it this way,” he answered. “I used to think a pretty woman could never look bad.”

“You know just what to say to a girl.”

Jeffrey looked at Cliff. “This lady could be trouble.” “She’s a friend,” he said.

Jeffrey nodded and looked sharply at Kimberly. “You want to be a part of the resistance.”

She smiled softly. “Well, I think I have been, in a way.”

Jeffrey snorted skeptically. “Yeah?”

“I want to be involved,” she said with almost tangible determination.

“What is it you want to resist? You got something special in mind?”

“No, I don’t know.”

Cliff felt Kimberly struggling. “Kim hasn’t really thought it out intellectually,” he said protectively.

Jeffrey ignored him, staring hard at Kimberly. “You mean, you believe in capitalism instead of communism?”

“I don’t know very much about it.”

“As I see it, your life’s pretty good,” he said. “Things aren’t so bad that you’re desperate. Most people fight back when they can’t think of anything else. Or if there’s something personal. You want to get even with your boyfriend? Maybe bring him down a little, so he notices you a little more?”

She shook her head.

Jeffrey continued like a drill sergeant. “You ain’t been hurt, you don’t believe in anything—and you sure don’t understand anything. I liked you better when you were a dilettante doing outlaw cabaret because you felt iike it. Let me tell you something: the way you look here—if you get nothing for yourself, you got nothing for the resistance. You understand?”

He stood abruptly and moved for the door. Kimberly looked down, tears welling in her eyes. Cliff stared at the candlelight, embarrassed and intimidated. Jeffrey turned at the door.

“You want to be part of the resistance? You find out what you believe in, what really matters to you, not whether you’re a little uncomfortable, or scared and helpless. The best thing you could do for us is get back into bed with your Russian. That’s a great place for somebody who wants to help, but you’d better figure out what you really want before you start playin’ in real life.”

He left. Kimberly and Cliff looked at each other.

“I won’t go back,” she said. “I can’t.”

Alan Drummond sometimes told himself that everything being relative, he was doing pretty well. He was thrice-protected from the reality of his position: by his profession, by his sense of irony, and most of all by his thick black skin. To be a doctor was important, because it was not only the Exiles who needed his skills, but the entire town of Milford.

Irony helped too. “A gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.” Who said that? No matter; it described Alan’s condition: he knew the world was mad and he was pretty damn sure it was getting worse every day. If it was getting better, the improvements were still a secret in Nebraska.

And finally to be black was to know in your bones that white men had an infinite capacity for greed, stupidity, and evil; to expect the worst from the white race meant you would rarely be disappointed. He knew some good whites, but as a race they were definitely to be avoided.