Amerikan Eagle (12 page)

A small black-and-white photo slipped out, a photo of Sam and his brother, Tony, in their Boy Scout uniforms, standing in front of their house. Sam was smiling at the camera, Tony was glum, no doubt at having to share the photo with his younger brother. Sam was struck again by how alike they looked. There were only two years’ difference between them, but in the right light and at the right distance, they could pass for twins. Brothers who really got along probably could have had fun with that as they grew up, confusing teachers and friends. Sam never remembered having any such fun with Tony.

He put the photo back and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

Secret messages to your troop mates. Danger. To alert your troop mates of danger, draw three lines in the dirt
.

Or pile three stones.

Or gather three bundles of grass.

He closed the handbook, put it back on the shelf, and went over to the rolltop desk where the checkbook and the utility bills were kept. He looked into one of the wooden cubbyholes and found the small collection of postcards, the newest one on top. The card was postmarked from last week. Like most places, Portsmouth got its mail delivered twice a day.

His address was handwritten in the center, and in the upper left was a preprinted return address:

He flipped the card over and reread the message.

There were three printed lines.

The postcards arrived once a month, with unerring regularity and with the same message. All outgoing and incoming mail at the camp was censored, of course. He rubbed the edge of the postcard and sat there in the darkness, hearing the frantic
tap-tap
from upstairs as Walter Tucker, former Harvard science professor, entered his fictional universes, a place where loyalty oaths and labor camps didn’t exist.

“Sam?” Sarah came in so quietly he hadn’t heard her. She was wearing a light blue robe, her hair tousled. “It’s late. How did the meeting go?”

“As well as could be expected. We were all drafted tonight.”

“Drafted? Into what?”

“Into the damn New Hampshire National Guard, that’s what.”

“How did that happen?”

A good question. How to explain that choking feeling in the smoky room, feeling desperately alone even in the midst of that crowd? “We all stood up like good little boys, raised our right hands, took an oath, and now I’m in the Guard. Along with practically every other able-bodied male in the city.”

Sarah sat down heavily on the ottoman. “And everyone went along? Nobody put up a fuss?”

“Sarah, your dad was there. Marshal Hanson was there. Hell, two of Long’s finest were sitting up front. It wasn’t a place for anyone to be brave.”

“Oh, Sam … And you’re not going to like this, either. We’re going to have a visitor tomorrow night. Sam, it’s just for the night and—”

He shoved Tony’s message back into the desk so hard the cardboard crumpled. “You heard what I said last night, right? No more. We’ve got Legionnaires in town, the Party and my boss know there’s an Underground Station here, and you want to keep shuttling people north? Sweet Jesus, Sarah, do I have to make it any clearer? I even went out on a limb today with Hanson, telling him I knew the station was shut down. Hell, what more do you want? Do you want to see me standing next to Brett O’Halloran, begging strangers to buy wooden toys?”

“No, I don’t want that.” Her voice was frigid. “I know you’re trying to protect me and Toby. But I told you there was one in the pipeline, and I couldn’t do anything about it—”

“Oh, come on—”

“What happened to that guy I knew back in high school? The one who kept on playing football even with a broken finger? Where did he go?”

“He grew up, Sarah, and got a whole bunch of responsibilities. Back then the worst thing would have been losing the finals. Now … Have you been to the hobo camp lately? Children barefoot in the mud? Moms and dads
starving so they can give their kids whatever food they can scrape together?”

“I’ve been to the camp. All of us at school have, with used clothes and some extra food. We do what we can, to fight back, and part of that is our little cot down in our basement. I’m sorry, Sam, he’s coming. The last one, I promise. It’s an emergency and—”

The choking feeling was back, as if he had no choice in anything. “Fine. Last one. An emergency. Whatever you say.”

“Sam, please, keep it down. Toby—”

“Sure. Don’t want to wake him. Okay, one more, tomorrow night. Who is he?”

She said, “I don’t know. Some famous singer named Paul. On the arrest lists for sedition. Usual nonsense. He’ll be here tomorrow night; I promise he’ll leave before dawn. You’ll never even know he’s here.”

He looked at his wife, his very smart and pretty wife who would sometimes have afternoon card sessions with fellow secretaries and teachers from the school—“the girls,” she called them—where they would talk and gossip about marriages and births but also about politics and Long and Stalin and Marx. Her face was impassive, and for a terrifying moment, he looked at her and it was like looking at the face of his boss, Harold Hanson, not having a clue what was going on behind those eyes.

Sam took a breath. “So this guy, this stranger, is important to you. To get him to Canada, to keep him out of jail, is important enough to you to endanger my job, our house, and our son. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were tight, and he braced for the inevitable blowup, but instead she
nodded and said, “Yes. He’s that important. And … I thank you. With him, we’re done. This Underground Railroad station is closed. I swear it to you.”

He waited for a heartbeat. Then he said, “How long have you known?”

“Sam?”

“This wasn’t a surprise sprung on you in the past few hours. So how long have you known?”

She hugged herself, seemed smaller. Her robe slipped open and he noted the long smoothness of her legs, felt a flash of desire despite his anger. “A … a few days. I told you about him being in the pipeline.”

“But you knew there was no way to stop it. And still you’ve kept it secret from me, haven’t you?”

“I … I was afraid you’d say no. So yes, I’m sorry. I kept it a secret.”

“I see. And you thought by letting me know now, in the middle of the night, that I couldn’t do anything but say yes.”

“Sam—”

“I’ve got to go out for an hour or so. Don’t wait up.”

“Why?” she asked, bewildered. “What’s going on?”

Sam didn’t look at her as he put his coat and hat on, reached for the door. “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s a secret.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later he was in his Packard, rumbling over a wooden bridge to Pierce Island, in Portsmouth Harbor. Earlier he had paid a quick visit to a truck stop on Route 1, just before one of the bridges going over into Maine. In the rearview mirror he could make out the
apartment building where he, Tony, Mom, and Dad had lived years back. The Packard’s headlights carved the small brush and trees out of the shadows. The steering wheel shook violently as he turned off the dirt road.

He left the engine running and the headlights on as he sat there. Three stones. Three bundles of grass. Nothing much to anyone else, but … it meant a lot to him. And to somebody else.

Sam switched off the engine and stepped out onto the dirt. Crickets chirped in the darkness. He folded his arms and sat against the Packard’s fender. Out before him stretched the harbor and the lights of the city and the shipyard. The island was a piece of city property that had never been developed. Over the years it had been a popular place during the day and night for a variety of people and purposes. In daylight it was a destination for fishermen, for the young boys who climbed the trees and played along the shore, for picnickers who managed to enjoy the view while ignoring the stench from the mudflats and marshes.

At night a different crew came in. Hoboes. Drunks. Men looking for satisfaction from other men, needing secrecy and darkness to do their illegal business. Sailors from the shipyard who didn’t have enough cash for a room but had enough money for a quick fumbling date in a grove of trees. Every now and then the city council would bestir themselves to ask the marshal to clean up the island, and sure enough, there would be a handful of arrests, enough to satisfy the
Portsmouth Herald
and the do-good civic groups.

There was a thumping sound coming from the shipyard.
Sam straightened and saw a shape by the dark trees. “You can come out,” he called. “I’m alone.”

The man stepped forward. Even in the darkness, Sam recognized the walk. Something in his chest seized up, and he was a rookie again instantly, facing his first arrest, a drunken punk from one of the harborside bars, wondering if he could do it, could actually make that leap from being a civilian to being a cop.

“Hello, Sam,” came the voice.

“Hello, Tony,” he answered, greeting his older brother: welder, illegal union organizer, and escaped prisoner from one of the scores of labor camps across these troubled forty-eight states.

State Party Headquarters

Concord, N.H
.

May 3, 1943

For Distribution List “A”

Following note was received through mail slot entrance of Party headquarters last night:

Dear Sirs,

My name is Cal Winslow and I am a public works employee at the city of Portsmouth. I wish to report that last night, during our Party meeting at the American Legion Hall, there was a time when it was requested of people there to submit three names on file cards for future investigation. I was assigned to help collect and assemble these cards.

What I wish to report is that one card listed the following names: Huey Long, Charles Lindbergh, Father Coughlin. As an employee of the
city, I used to work as a janitor at the police department. I recognized the handwriting on this card and am certain it belongs to Sam Miller, an inspector for the City. I wish to denounce him as a subversive.

C. Winslow

P.S. For more information, please contact me at home, not at work. Please also advise what reward I might receive. Thank you.

Tony came up next to him, and Sam noted the smell of sweat, of coal, of old clothes and bad meals and long travel along back roads and rails.

His brother held out a hand, and without hesitation, Sam took it and gave it a squeeze. The hand was rough from all of the outdoor work his brother had done in the camp. Sam reached into his coat pocket, took out a waxed-paper package he had gotten from the truck stop for twenty-five cents, and passed it over. Tony tore open the package greedily, started eating the roast beef and cheese sandwich. Sam let his older brother eat in silence. When he finished, Tony said, “God, that tasted good. Thanks,” and then sat down next to Sam on the Packard’s wide fender.

“You’re welcome.”

Tony wiped a hand across his mouth and Sam asked, “How long have you been out?”

“Just over a week.”

“You okay?”

“Stiff. Sore. Hope I never pick up an ax again for the rest of my life. And you?”

“Doing all right.”

“How’s Sarah? And my nephew?”

“Doing fine.”

“Good. Glad to hear that. You know … well, you get to feeling odd up there in the camps, wondering how family and friends are doing. All those months dragging by, every shitty day the same as the one before. And Sarah and Toby … good to know they’re doing well. Up there … means a lot to think about family.”

Sam said, “I know they worry about you.”

Tony crumpled the waxed paper and tossed it into the shadows. “Those food packages, they make a hell of a difference, even though the guards steal a third of everything. If it wasn’t for those packages, it’d be stale bread and potato soup every day.”

“Glad to hear the packages make a difference.”

“You know, where the camp was built, it’s gorgeous country. Would love to try hunting in those mountains one of these days, if things ever change. Christ, that’s another thing I miss, heading out into the woods for a quiet day of hunting.”

Sam remembered how Tony always seemed happier fishing or hunting than doing chores or being at school. “How long are you staying here?”

“Don’t know yet.”

Sam knew what he had to say next and was surprised at how it felt, like he was twelve again, trying to stand up to his older brother. “Then you should know this: You can’t stay long.”

“Why’s that?”

“You know why.”

“Enlighten me, little brother.”

Little brother
. “Tony, you’re a fugitive. You stay here,
you’re going to get picked up, sure as hell. Portsmouth’s the first place the Department of the Interior and the FBI will look. Once they publicize a reward on your head, there are damn few places for you to stay out of sight in this town.”