there’ll be something for you to do. We all pull together and we’ll do just fine.” He went through the quick and formal phase of dismissing the meeting, and by then Sam was out of his chair, joining everyone else to crowd out the rear door.
It seemed there was one more bit of business left undone. Two Long’s Legionnaires were blocking the door, holding up their hands.
“Jus’ hold on a second there, fellas,” the one on the left said. “We got somethin’ special for y’all.”
The other Legionnaire reached under his leather jacket. There was a slight gasp from someone, wondering what was going on as the man’s hand slipped in, and Sam watched, the hand came out, holding a—
A paper sack.
The tall young man jiggled the paper sack, held it out. “As you leave, boys, take one, okay? Gonna be a nice way to find out who our friends are up here.”
The first man up put a hand into the paper sack, came out with a flash of metal. Sean whispered, “Oh, crap, look at that,” and Sam saw “that” was a Confederate-flag pin. The two Legionnaires grinned.
“Welcome aboard,” the one on the left said.
With the flag pin in his hand, Sam rushed out of the meeting hall, his stomach sick, his head aching. He stood on the sidewalk, sucking in the cool air.
“Can you believe this?” Sean demanded, holding the pin up. “Just like Russia, just like Germany. Show your loyalty to nation and party by wearing a bloody pin.” He dropped his pin in an open drain grate. Sam, without even hesitating, did the same thing. It felt good, hearing the clink as the pin fell into the shadows.
“And another thing,” Sean raged. “Did you hear the oath we just took? It’s not the foreign enemies I’m worried about. It’s the other half. The
Sam knew exactly what Sean meant. The National Guard was a trained reserve to help out the army overseas during a war, but more and more, it was used for other things. Breaking strikes in the big industrial cities in Pennsylvania and Illinois and Michigan. Burning down hobo encampments when they got too large outside of New York and Los Angeles and Chicago. Shooting at mobs when the relief money ran out in Seattle and Miami and Detroit. And now he and the others in that smoky hall were part of it.
“Christ, Sam.” Sean’s voice was harsh with anger. “What’s going to happen to us?”
“Damned if I know,” Sam said, moving away, wanting to get away from the hall, to get away from Teddy, to get away from the Party and everything else.
Just to get away.
But when he got to his Packard, he was brought back to ground very quickly.
As he opened the door, the overhead dome lit the front seat, and there, lined up in a row, lay three bound grass stalks. He froze. He started to crumple them but then gently placed the stalks back in the car, got in, started up the big engine, and motored home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sarah and Toby were both asleep, Sarah with the radio on low, Toby snoring, cuddled tight against his pillow. Out there was the Party, out there were the hoboes, out there armies and air forces and navies were grappling in the dark, men and women and children blown up, shot, drowned, burned…
Here it was peace. Inside this little frame house in this old port city, here was peace. A peace built on illusions, based on him doing his job, keeping his head down, not getting involved, and so far, the illusions were working.
But for how long?
He walked into the living room to the small bookcase. Among the books was a well-worn thick paperback with a faded green cover.
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:
IROQUOIS LABOR CAMP
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR
FORT DRUM, N.Y.
He flipped the card over and reread the message.
There were three printed lines.
AM DOING WELL.
WORK IS FINE.
YOUR FOOD PACKAGES MOST WELCOME.
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
“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?”
