Amerikan Eagle

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.

PART TWO

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.

CHAPTER TWELVE

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.”