Amerikan Eagle

“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 domestic. Pretty big fucking blank check, if you know what I mean. That’s one of the reasons why our fair President got to keep control in Louisiana when he started out. He had the Guard in his pocket. Now we’re part of his shock troops. We do his dirty work wherever he wants us.”

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. The Boy Scout Handbook. His very own, and one that Toby liked to look through even though the boy was only old enough to be in the Cub Scouts. He opened the flyleaf, saw the little scrawl. Sam Miller. Troop 170. Portsmouth, N.H. Nearly twenty years ago.

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.

TONY.

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?”