by April Smith
Betsy was immediately thrown off. “If you mean by ‘the Christian spirit’ loving-kindness toward all living creatures, as well as your fellow man, then, yes, I do believe in it. I was raised Presbyterian—is that what you’re getting at?”
“Thank you, ma’am, you’ve answered the question. Are you a member of a labor union?”
Betsy stood and went to the window. The station wagon was just disappearing down the road.
“I hope they know where they’re going.”
She was stalling for time, running the traps in their questions through her head. What did they know? How did they know? She hadn’t thought of it for years, but in a blink she was back walking the picket line in front of Gimbels department store, on the edge of incendiary violence by scabs and cops. Worst of all was the fear of Hoover’s FBI, the hidden enemy with unlimited power.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Kusek, no need to be nervous. We’re just looking for information. There are no right or wrong answers.”
“Oh, I’m not nervous,” Betsy said, sitting back down. She realized that the groceries were still not put away. “It’s just a little unexpected to be thinking about these things, going back into the past all of a sudden.”
She clasped her damp hands together.
“Take your time,” Agent Wentworth said. “Surely you remember if you joined a labor union?”
“Yes, I did,” she said, showing her teeth. “Gimbels Local 2. It’s come back to me now, clear as a bell.”
—
Lance was waiting at the airstrip for his father’s plane to land. He’d taken Lois and Bandit for company, but they were tired of fetching sticks, so they all three sat on the ground. It was evening and the bugs were biting. Once in a while one of the dogs would jump up to catch a mosquito, but they always missed. Lance was starving. When he’d gotten home from school the FBI was there. They’d stayed a long time and supper was late.
He heard the drone of propellers first, then caught a flash of setting sun off the white body of the Piper Apache as it descended from the rose-colored sky. It seemed forever before his dad was on the ground and walking toward him, still wearing his dark blue Pierre business suit, carrying his overnight and briefcase. He was surprised to see Lance waiting.
“Hey, partner. How are you?”
“The FBI was here, Dad.”
“What the hell for?” Cal asked, alarmed.
“They wanted to talk to Mom. They showed me their guns! Guess what kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thirty-eight specials with a four-inch barrel.”
“Did they ask you questions?”
“No, just Mom. And by the way, Jo’s moving to New York.”
“Is that right?” asked Cal.
“She’s going to live with Aunt Marja and Uncle Leon.”
“Since when?”
“They decided.”
“Who?”
Lance shrugged. “Everyone, I guess. Uncle Scotty said I could ride Beethoven,” he said. “Are you listening, Dad? Beethoven is a bull. He’s a big white Holstein with a lot of kick. It’s hard even for Uncle Scotty to stay on him. He said if I go eight seconds on two practice steers, he’ll let me try. He’s my first uncut bull, Dad!”
Cal was thinking about trouble ahead in the house. This was not the time to get into the argument he always had with Lance about bull riding, possibly the most dangerous sport in the world. You’d think the cowboys who showed up in wheelchairs at the rodeo would convince him otherwise, but Lance was twelve years old and invincible, and not likely to grow out of it by the time they entered the back door, so Cal, feeling like a lousy father and promising himself to do better, took the short way out.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
17
They walked back from the airstrip to find Leon in the backyard looking at a newspaper. By habit he’d folded the paper into four longitudinal sections, the way you’d read it on a crowded subway car. Occasionally he rubbed his mustache with amusement or laughed out loud, pausing to take a measured sip from an icy martini he would then fastidiously replace on the flat arm of the weathered Adirondack chair.
“Howdy, stranger!” Leon called when Cal appeared with Lance.
A citronella candle to ward off the wasps that had come with the warmer weather had been placed by Betsy nearby. Cal scanned the eaves of the sleeping porch for nests. Just between the plane and the house he’d seen half a dozen odd jobs that needed doing for which, running for Senate, he didn’t have time.
“Hello, Leon.”
“We’ve had quite an interesting day,” Leon said cheerfully. “Starting off with a visit from the FBI!”
“I heard. What were they doing here?”
“I couldn’t tell you. They didn’t want us around so we went out to the A&J store, but they didn’t have The New York Times. All they had was the local paper, which is filled with fascinating stuff, like Hank is putting on a new roof, and Maude is visiting her mother who lives in Idaho. I tell you, everything you need to know is all right here,” he said mockingly, rattling the pages.
“How long did they stay? The FBI.”
“Oh, they left when we got back from the store. This is funny, though. I asked the sourpuss behind the counter how to get back on Route 24 and she says, ‘I don’t pay attention to road numbers.’ Don’t pay attention to road numbers? How does that broad get through life?”
Cal’s mind was absorbed by the puzzling behavior of the FBI. Although he’d prepped for a cross-examination, his interview in Pierre had been innocuous: puffball questions about his background as an attorney from a bored agent who was close to retirement and just going down the list. A couple of ringers about his patriotic ideals, but those were no surprise, and he answered easily. There’d been no hint that they were talking to Betsy at the same time, or reference to the interview she’d had in New York.
“I’ve got to get out of these clothes,” Cal said abruptly, following Lance into the house.
Leon heaved out of the chair, picking up the cocktail glass.
“I could use a fresh one. How about you, my boy?” he said, addressing his nephew.
“No, thanks,” Lance replied shortly.
“Loosen up, I’m only kidding,” his uncle said, tweaking his shoulder.
Cal was surprised that Marja was the one working at the stove. The kitchen was filled with the smells of onion, peppers, chili powder, and ground beef, which he recognized as Betsy’s special Western Hamburger Sauté. Jo was setting the table.
“Where’s your mom?” Cal asked.
“She’s lying down.”
“Is she sick?”
“Your wife is having a nervous breakdown,” Leon announced almost jovially as he entered the kitchen. “I told her all she needed was a drink, but she refused my medical advice.”
He opened the fridge and took out a mason jar filled with gin and a couple of kisses of vermouth.
“Can I get you one, Captain?”
Cal ignored the offer. “Would this have anything to do with the government agents being here?”
“All she said was that she wanted to rest,” Marja told him. She had a wooden spoon in one hand and a glass in the other. Cal realized she, too, was tipsy. “We saw two deer with the cutest little white tails!” she squealed.
“Dad,” said Jo, tugging his sleeve, “I’m moving to New York.”
“I did hear a rumor, but I don’t think I have the whole picture.”
“Why can’t I?” Jo asked, immediately hostile. “Aunt Marja and Uncle Leon think it’s a marvelous idea.”
“Just hold your horses. We’ll talk about it as a family.”
“What is this, the state legislature? Both houses have to agree?”
“Don’t be such a smarty-pants. I’m going to check on your mother,” he said, and carried his bags upstairs.
Leon patted Jo on the head for the second time that day, a gesture she was coming to dislike, as it made her feel like a puppy.
>
“Your father will come around. He’ll see the wisdom of it,” Leon assured her. He sniffed at the pan. “Don’t you get tired of beef every night? When you come to New York, we’ll take you to City Island for a lobster dinner,” he promised.
Jo shot a superior look at Lance, who was rummaging through the cookie drawer. “Too bad for you, baby face.”
“Big deal,” he mocked. “While you’re gone, I’m gonna ride Sprite.”
Jo’s expression turned to anguish and she flushed red. “No, you’re not!”
“I’m gonna run Sprite into the ground and never brush her or anything!” Lance taunted, becoming a gorilla, scratching his armpits and jumping up and down.
Furious, Jo socked him repeatedly. He socked her back and tried to pull her hair while she kicked his shins.
Marja cried out, “Le-on!”
Before Leon could rally, Lance gave everyone a big wet raspberry and stalked out, leaving a fart behind for good luck.
The hamburger sauté was more than done, but nobody was ready to eat. Marja and Leon took their drinks and settled in the living room, empty minds humming along in pleasant oblivion. Jo turned off the stove and joined them, sitting cross-legged on the floor. In the contrary emotions that pushed and pulled her teenage heart away from and to her parents, she still longed for the reassurance of a trusted adult who would always be on her side. Marja had opened that door, confessing her secrets as a confidante and equal, or so it seemed, which was enough for Jo to shift her allegiance with lightning speed to the new guardians of her future, who, after a couple of cocktails, were more than willing to take her into their boozy refuge.
“Why was my mom so upset before?” Jo asked. “Why’d she just stop making supper like that and go upstairs?”
“No reason to be upset if there’s nothing to hide,” Leon droned.
“What would she have to hide?”
Aunt Marja took off her shoes and stretched her legs out on an ottoman. “I’m sure your mother would rather the FBI didn’t know about the party.”
“What party?” Jo asked with a smirk. She was trying to picture her mother drunk. Her parents sometimes did get loaded with the Fletchers.
“It’s political,” Aunt Marja explained.
“What party?” Jo repeated, realizing she must have meant Democratic or Republican.
“The Communist Party.”
That was out of left field. “Oh.”
“Your mother was a member for a while.”
Leon blinked. His Cupid’s bow lips formed a downward frown. “That’s not the way she makes it appear.”
“For a while,” said Marja with an impatient sigh. “A short while. She was very young.”
“I’m not sure I like that,” Leon said.
“None of your beeswax,” his wife replied breezily.
“What’s the big deal?” asked Jo, looking up from the floor at her aunt.
“A long time ago your mom joined the Communist Party. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Then she quit. She didn’t like it, so she quit.”
“Communists?” Jo was puzzled. “Like in that movie?”
“Just forget it. Over and done.”
A small whirlwind was building inside Leon. Lies! Betrayal! Communist spies in his own family! When it broke he was almost shouting. “No wonder the FBI was here! She’s un-American and they know it! Now they’ll suspect all of us!”
“Oh, stop. It was nothing like that. You have no idea what Betsy went through. They were all striking against Gimbels department store and she got arrested—for no reason. Cal is the one who got her out of jail.”
“He’s a Red, too?”
“For God’s sake,” Marja said. “Calm down, Lee. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
—
Up in the bedroom, Betsy was lying on top of the red-and-blue Navajo blanket, hands clasped on her stomach, wondering if she was doomed to live and die in a room where the pattern on the curtains was cowboys and long-horned steers. The new, modern kitchen could have fit in a smart home in a cul-de-sac in suburban Maryland, but their boudoir still had plywood walls, a barrel for a nightstand, a bed frame standing two feet off the floor carved with Texas stars and lassos.
A decade ago the rope motif seemed thrillingly rugged, but at the moment she’d succumbed to Jo’s rebellion and Leon’s disdain, and was weary to the soul of all things western. The jumbled-up farmhouse reflected the unfinished business of their lives. What were the chances that the kids would grow up, inherit the place, and want to remain cattle ranchers? Or were they a soon-to-be senator’s family, bound for Washington, D.C.—home at last, back to the sophistication of the East Coast? Everything depended on the outcome of this election.
“How’d it go in the capital?” she asked when Cal came upstairs.
“Good news. I’m first in the polls among Democratic candidates. The Republicans are split, with Thaddeus Haynes trailing the incumbent by eighteen points.”
Betsy got up on an elbow and smoothed her hair. “That’s terrific! Verna and Fletch must be pleased.”
“ ‘There’s a new wind blowing in the South Dakota Democratic Party!’ That’s what they’re saying in the latest ads. Everyone is all revved up. Big plans for rallies and TV ads.”
“South Dakota Democrats are happy? That’s historic.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “We’re out to make history, baby!”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” Betsy said, smiling and stroking his cheek.
“Before I was hopeful. Now I’m optimistic. We’re going to build a strong grassroots base and go after the missile program.”
“Missiles?”
“Eisenhower’s announced a nuclear deterrence scheme using Minuteman missiles. They’re going to headquarter part of the operation at Ellsworth Air Force Base. Eventually we’ll have more bombs than the Russians.”
“South Dakota is going to attack Russia?”
“Could be.”
“Are you kidding?”
“They’re going to build a missile field with nuclear ICBMs. They call it mutually assured destruction—the idea is to avoid nuclear war by threatening nuclear war. It’s nuts, but the Russians have them, so we need them, too, I guess,” he added.
“Where are the missiles going?” Betsy asked.
“On private land.”
“Whose private land?”
“Well, a rancher can sell them two acres or the government can just take it, on the basis of national security. Then they come in and dig a big hole and build a concrete silo. But that’s not the end of it. Military personnel will be living in those silos twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with their fingers on the button.”
“You mean we’ll each have our own nuclear bomb station?” Betsy said, laughing incredulously.
“Not if I can help it, and I think a lot of ranchers are going to agree with me. I’m making it the centerpiece of my campaign. It’ll appeal to their independent spirit—keep the government out of our business and off our land.”
“Did you know that the FBI came by to clear me for security because you’re running?”
“Lance said. But they never told me anything up in Pierre.”
Betsy lay back on the pillows. “I bet they planned it that way. Both of us at the same time, so we couldn’t talk.”
“They’re not that smart.”
“Should we be worried?” Betsy wondered.
“What about?”
“I don’t trust the government,” she said simply.
“Baby, we have nothing to hide.”
Betsy nodded but tears had escaped her eyes.
“Hey, did those bastards rough you up in any way?”
“No, no. I don’t know what’s wrong with me! They couldn’t have been more polite.”
“Did they ask you about the party?”
Betsy shook her head. “It never came up,” she said emphatically.
�
�If it ever does come up, I want you to tell the truth. You were, you did, and then you left, just like lots of other idealistic kids at the time. But it sounds like they don’t know,” Cal mused.
“They can’t know, unless someone ratted me out,” said Betsy. “But why would they after all this time?”
“Put it out of your mind.”
“All right, darling,” she said, still distressed.
Cal looked closely at his wife. “What’s really bothering you?”
“Leon.” She sighed. “It makes me sick the way he ingratiated himself to the FBI. You should have seen that big phony. When Lance came home from school he sidled up to them and asked if they’d like to show his nephew their guns. I wasn’t particularly happy about Lance handling a police revolver, but never mind. Then Leon walked them to their car like they were all old buddies. ‘Got a long trip back? Well, great to meet you, keep up the good work!’ Like a goddamn Nazi collaborator.”
“Whoa! That’s saying something!”
“I love my sister, but he drives me crazy,” Betsy admitted. “He’s so rigid, and so far right, I don’t know how Marja stands it. He actually said Rapid City’s a good place to live because there aren’t any Negroes and Jews. I told him, ‘You’re cozying up with the enemy.’ He says, ‘What are you talking about? The FBI is there to defend our Constitution,’ or some malarkey, and I said, ‘They are not our friend. They are no friend of the labor movement and J. Edgar Hoover was a henchman for Joe McCarthy’s witch hunts,’ at which point he accused me of becoming hysterical, which I was not, I was quite calm. I only left the kitchen because I was about to cut his heart out with a potato peeler.”
Cal chuckled. “How much longer are they planning to stay?”
“Another week.” Betsy rolled her eyes at the same moment they heard angry voices from downstairs. “Or maybe less.”
—
When Cal and Betsy came down to the living room, Leon was standing in front of the fireplace, flushed in the face, drink in hand, in the midst of an argument.
“You never told me your sister was a Communist!”
Marja was so angry she could hardly pull her shoes back on. “Are you going to divorce me now or what?” she said.
“You hid her past! It was a deliberate lie!”
