Amerikan Eagle

Sarah got up from the couch and came to him, a blue lace apron tied around her tan dress and slim waist. Her dark hair was cut in the over-the-eye look of Veronica Lake. Sarah one time said she thought she looked like the Hollywood actress, and in certain lights, her head tilted a certain way, Sam would agree. He had met her in high school, the oldest story in romance magazines and movie serials, she the head cheerleader, he the star quarterback.

Now he was a cop and she was still at school, a secretary for the school superintendent, and they were among the lucky ones in town, to have reasonably safe jobs.

A quick dry kiss on the lips and she asked, “Was it what they said when they called you? A dead man by the tracks?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, thinking of what he had to say in the next few moments, wondering how that pretty face in front of him would respond to the news. “One dead man. No ID. A real mystery.”

“How did he die?” she asked.

“Don’t know yet,” he replied absently, still working through what had to be done. “Doc Saunders will probably let me know tomorrow.”

Sarah said, “Sounds interesting. And Sam, I just saw in the paper, Montgomery Ward’s has a sale on, men’s dress shirts for a dollar forty-four apiece. Do you want me to pick you up a couple next time I’m downtown? With your promotion, you’ve got to have more than just two.”

“Yeah, I guess… Look, we’ve got to talk.”

He took her hand and led her back to the couch. He sat his surprised wife down and looked around, then turned up the radio’s volume. The thumping joy of some bigband orchestra grew louder, the trumpet piercing. Harry James, playing “I’ve Heard that Song Before.” He leaned over to her and said, “It has to stop, Sarah. Now.”

Her eyes widened. “What has to stop?”

His chest was tight, so tight it hurt. “The Underground Railroad. It has to stop now. Tonight. This instant. And we’ve got to empty out the basement of any evidence.”

His hand was still in hers, and her fingers felt cold. “What’s wrong? Who found out?”

“Damned if I know how, but the Party knows there’s a station operating here in the city. Marshal Hanson asked me to keep an eye open for any evidence. Pretty damn ironic, right?”

“Sam, this could be a good thing. You could pretend that you couldn’t find anything, the heat would be off, and—”

“No. Not going to happen, Sarah. It’s one thing to look the other way when you and your friends set the station up in our basement. But I can’t jeopardize my job, or you and Toby, by going along with a cover-up. It’s not going to happen. Promise me the station shuts down. Tonight.”

She withdrew her hand gently. “I promise we’ll talk about it. All right? That’s all I can do right now.” Her cheeks were flushed.

“Sarah, please. It’s been a hell of a long day.”

She stood and reached over to snap the radio off. “I’m sorry to say, but your day’s not over yet.”

In the silence that followed, he didn’t want to argue any more about the Underground Railroad. Sam didn’t know how much the Party suspected, but he did know the Party had amazing wiretapping abilities when they had the desire, and lately, they’d had plenty of desire. “How’s that?” He tried to keep his voice even.

“Your ham loaf and potatoes are ready, but you need to talk to Toby first.”

“Don’t tell me we’ve got another call from his principal.”

“No, nothing like that. He just wants you to say good night to him. And Sam—he wants to know if he can get rid of the rubber sheet. He’s terribly upset about wetting the bed last week.”

“All right. I’ll talk to him.”

“And there’s Walter, Sam—”

“Damn,” he said. “What now?”

She rolled her eyes in the direction of the ceiling. “Said his sink is clogged. Wants to know if you can fix it before you go to bed.”

“A clogged sink? Again? Can’t the man fix a damn clogged sink?”

“He used to be a science professor at Harvard. How smart can he be?”

“I don’t know. He’s living with us because you’re friends, so you tell me.”

“Please,” she said. “Can we not get into that now? He’s paying us rent, we need the money, and he needs his sink unclogged. Can we just leave it at that, Sam?”

He recalled what he had said to the snide young cop about knowing things. “Yeah, I guess so. Okay, Sarah—Toby first, dinner second, and Walter third.”

Her mood changed suddenly; Sarah smiled at him, a welcome sight after their talk about the Railroad. “Care to think of a fourth, Inspector Miller?”

“I certainly do, Mrs. Miller, and look forward to it.”

She slapped his rump and pushed him away. “Only if you get your boy to sleep and play plumber. So get to it. And Sam… we’ll talk about the other thing later. Promise.”

* * *

He went through the kitchen and past a new Frigidaire refrigerator, an anniversary gift from his father-in-law. He hated receiving something so extravagant from a man he despised, but Sarah loved getting rid of the icebox and the never-ending task of emptying the floor drain pan, so that had been that.