Amerikan Eagle

From the next floor up, there was a sharp whistle, and then the humming of the printing plant seemed to slow. Ike asked, “What was the other thing that changed your mind?”

“The other thing is that I had a couple of buddies go through Amtorg and get jobs at the Ford plant being built at Nizhny Novgorod, the one called the Gorky Plant. They went there and disappeared. Never to be heard from again. Crap like that, I wasn’t going to chance it. So here I am. And bud, I’ll follow orders and get the job done. Don’t you worry.”

Ralph spoke up. “Can we save the debating society for later? We got work to do.” He picked up his camera. “By the bye, I saw your brother last week.”

Not wanting to bring his brother into the conversation, he said, “Big deal. Let’s get this done.”

Ralph reached down to the open bag, pulled out a shirt and necktie. “Put these on, and then we’ll start. Amateurs… hah, we’ll see about that.”

Ike said to the photographer, “You, then. Why are you helping, eh?”

Ralph stopped and then rubbed the roll of newsprint next to him. “There was a time when this wasn’t rationed by the government. When we had a free press. When we could write what we wanted, print any photos we wanted. Sure would like to see that again.”

He stepped over, took the shirt and tie from Ralph. “I’m sure two out of three of us here would agree.” At that, Ike suddenly laughed, and then so did Ralph, and seeing the dark humor in it, he joined in as well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The next morning Sarah was cheerful and smiling, fixing him and Toby bacon and eggs—a weekday splurge—and Sam ate well, even though he had a headache from not sleeping well. At one point, when Toby was busy drowning his scrambled eggs in ketchup, Sarah leaned in to Sam and said, “Like I said last night, I do love you so.” Her lips brushed his ear.

Even with his headache, he smiled up at her, feeling relieved as it came to him: no more overnight guests, no more Railroad, and by God, if they kept their heads down, all might just be all right.

“And I do love you back, even though you keep giving my clothing away to strangers.”

That brought a laugh from her and a snicker from Toby. He took Toby to school, as Sarah once again had to visit her sick aunt. Sam took Toby’s hand as they walked out to the shed where the Packard was parked.

“I’m sorry for being a brat last night, Dad,” Toby said suddenly. “Sometimes… sometimes I just get mad. Like at school. When the other guys call you a rat. It just happens. Mom understands. I really, really wish you did, too.”

Something caught in Sam’s throat. It was times like these that his boy reminded him most of Tony. “Just be a better boy, all right? At least for your mother.”

“Dad? Have you ever arrested a spy?”

“A spy? No, never have. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

Sam was going to say something and stopped. “Toby, where did you get that pin?”

His son rubbed at the Confederate-flag pin on his coat lapel. “I got it at school yesterday. Some kids were passing them around.”

“I see,” he said. “Did they tell you what that flag means?”

“It’s the flag from the South. And the President likes this flag, so it’s like a club, you know? Next week a couple of guys are coming at recess, and everyone who wears the pin will get free ice cream. Isn’t that neat?”

Sam said, “Give me the pin, Toby.”

“Ah, Dad, c’mon….”

“I’ll tell you later what the pin means, okay? And if there’s ice cream that day, I’ll make it up to you.”

Toby’s face turned sour, but he undid the pin and passed it over. Sam pocketed it and opened the door to the Packard, and Toby clambered sulkily up onto the big front seat, holding his dark green book bag. “Mom said something about you this morning when she came in to wake me up.”

“Really? What was that?”

Toby looked so small in the wide front seat. “She said that Daddy was a good man, no matter what other people said.”

Sam shifted into first. “Thanks for telling me, Toby. And for that, you get ice cream no matter what.”

When they reached the Spring Street School, Sam pulled to the curb and let Toby out. He sat there, watching his serious little boy walk to the old brick building, as though entering a place that had been his work site for decades. Sam thought about what kind of world Toby was inheriting, a place where the dwindling number of free men and women were under brutal assault, day after long damn day, all over the world. At the grocery store nearby, the owner hadn’t done such a good job of whitewashing the graffiti from the other day. The letters that said DOWN WITH LONG and the hammer and sickle were still faintly visible, as if the idea or protest just wouldn’t go away.

He reached for the gearshift. Woolgathering. Time to get to work.

And then a flash of color caught his eye.

Yellow.

He moved in the seat, saw a car make its way up the street.

A yellow Rambler.

Just like that railroad guy had noted from the other day. The car that had made the train slow down the night the body was discovered.

Coincidence or part of a plan?