Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

‘Some people would say he likes being consul of Boston, and that the other consuls and the ambassador in this country like having their noses in our business, day in and day out, helping run their former colony. And that being in charge of a big chunk of our relief efforts means influence and power, and people who have influence and power hate giving it up. That’s what some people would say.’

  The mayor’s jowly face was bright red and, unlike the consul, he read from a much-folded piece of paper. His scuffed dark brown shoes were almost obscured by his too-long trousers, the bottoms of which dragged along the stage.

  The mayor began, ‘While your forefathers two hundred years ago may not have been loved in this great country and in this city, it’s now true that their descendants have now won the true battle for the city of Boston, the battle for its citizens’ hearts.’

  The woman reporter—damn it, he still couldn’t make out her name tag—said, ‘That’s quite a cynical point of view. What’s your opinion?’

  Mercifully, the mayor was to the point: ‘And I am honored to accept this great gift from our cousins across the Atlantic, and I wish you to bring back to your Queen and your Parliament and Prime Minister Heath, our deepest gratitude.’

  More applause, and Carl said, ‘You can have my opinion, but only if I learn your name.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, and turned. Her name tag read, Sandra Price, The Times. ‘But only my mother and great-aunt call me Sandra. Everyone else calls me Sandy.’

  ‘Carl Landry, Boston Globe.’ He shook her outstretched hand. ‘I didn’t know the Times had a Boston bureau set up.’

  ‘Oh, we don’t,’ she said, talking louder as the applause continued. ‘I’m here on a special assignment.’

  ‘And what’s that? Following around the mayor of Boston?’

  Sandy smiled. ‘Hardly. No, I’m here doing a story on the tenth anniversary.’

  ‘Oh.’ No reason to ask what tenth anniversary. ‘Well, good luck to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Now, then, you promised me your opinion. Now that you know my name, please go on.’

  He looked at her closely, for some reason remembering an old cache of prewar fashion magazines that he had found in his apartment’s closet when he moved in. He had spent an evening flipping through the damp and musty pages, looking at the photographs of the models. The American women then were well fed and smiling, their skin flawless, and there had been a sense of energy and eagerness about them, as if they knew they could do anything they wanted. Those American women hadn’t worried about running out of food, or having their children fall sick from poor diet or radiation exposure, or finding out that their husbands were sterile. The few fashion magazines being published today emphasized how to create your own makeup from food dyes, and how to check that ‘perfect mate’s’ background to make sure he hadn’t spent time in a contaminated area.

  Sandy looked like she belonged in the pages and the world of those prewar magazines, and he at once both envied and resented her. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a woman so healthy and attractive.

  ‘My opinion,’ he started slowly. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s healthy to have a relationship based on one party being a giver and the other party being a recipient. It builds up resentment on both sides, and resentment can lead to conflict.’

  ‘Conflict?’

  He remembered that overheard conversation at the Globe cafeteria between the two pressmen, about troop transports in Canada. ‘Sure, conflict. Maybe it’s time for the givers to stop giving, and let the other party make it on their own.’

  ‘But we’re just trying to build you up, make you a partner again.’

  He smiled at her. ‘A true partner, or a junior partner?’

  She smiled back. ‘That surely is not for either us to say right now, is it?’

  She gently touched his elbow. ‘I’m not usually so forward, but would you like to come to a consulate party, later on? After all these people leave, there’s going to be a little private swank upstairs. Consider it my thanks for your help, and for your opinion.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the newsroom, write up this story for tomorrow’s edition.’

  Again, that smile. ‘Oh, we’ll still be here when you’ve done that. I’ll leave your name at the door. Deal, Mr. Landry?’

  ‘Deal.’

  He looked at his notebook. It was mostly blank. During the entire speechmaking he had hardly taken a single note. He saw the slim and elegant, well-dressed figure of Sandy Price trying to move through the mass of people around the consul, and he smiled as he saw the delicate woman use her elbows and a well-placed twist to get in front of the crowd.

  ~ * ~

  The newsroom was practically deserted. Before he got to work, he checked his mailbox. Empty. Grace had said it would take a few days to get back to him on the list he had given her, but still, it was worth checking. Maybe tomorrow, but then again, maybe never. He hammered quickly at the typewriter, bringing back from memory the quotes and details of the night’s events, doing his best to block out the smell, sights, and sounds of Sandy Price. As he gathered up his sheets to bring it up to the city desk—a weekend editor whose name he always forgot was on duty tonight—a copy boy came by and said, ‘Bring those up for you, Carl?’

  ‘Sure, Sam,’ he said, carefully straightening out the four pages and handing them over. Sam Burnett was a bit older than Carl, dressed in jeans and a heavy blue T-shirt. He wore a Red Sox cap every day of the week. He was one of the brightest and most personable of the copy boys, and the oldest, though only in chronological age. His mental age was about fifteen.

  ‘How’s things,’ Carl continued, getting up from his desk and grabbing his tweed coat.

  ‘Oh, not too bad. I’ve been listening to the World Series on my mom’s radio and I still can’t believe the Sox lost it to the Tigers this year.’

  ‘Who are you rooting for? Cincinnati?’

  Sam frowned. ‘Oh, I’m rooting for Detroit. I can’t stand the National League.’

  ‘Maybe next year, right?’

  Sam nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sure, next year, Carl. You bet. See you later, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Sam scampered through the maze of desks and chairs on his way up to the city desk. As he watched Sam head out of the newsroom Carl had a grim fantasy; what if he brought Sam back with him to the British consulate and had Sandy interview him for her anniversary story. He wondered if she could keep up the proper British facade, the politeness and sincerity, if she came face to face with this particular veteran, this particular story. Ten years ago Sam had been a navigator aboard an Air Force B-52, directing the bomber to its target. Carl didn’t know the details, but he could guess at what happened and how Sam had ended up here, in this veteran-reserved job, working as a copy boy, fetching coffee and sandwiches for the reporters and editors, always the same age, year in and year out.

  Because who could blame Sam for wanting to be fifteen again, after helping his crewmates incinerate over a million human beings?

  ~ * ~

  SIX

  When Carl returned tO the consulate he was directed to a crowded meeting room on the second floor, a quarter of the size of the downstairs ballroom. Most of the people were British and he was glad that Major Devane wasn’t there. Having the oversight editor so close would have put a damper on the rest of the evening. Even still, he felt odd and out of place as the well-dressed men and women eyed him as he made his way over to Sandy. He had never been with so many British people before, and he had the unsettling feeling that he was some sort of exotic creature on exhibit. He could guess at what they were thinking, and it didn’t please him: here he was, the American male, responsible for death and terror in the old Soviet Union, in Cuba, and a half dozen other countries whose only crime was that they were in the fallout path of American-made nuclear weapons.

  There was music from a stereo system set up by the bar, and some of the younger consulate s
taff—the men in mod suits with large lapels and wide neckties, and the women sporting short skirts and large hairdos — danced in one corner. Their smiles, too, were wide and their complexions were clean. He wondered if any one of them had tried to live, week after week, month after month, under food rationing and without any steady electricity.

  ‘So glad you came,’ Sandy said. ‘Did you make your deadline?’

  ‘With ten minutes to spare.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘That music,’ Carl said. ‘What is it? I’ve never heard it before.’

  Sandy said, ‘Something French. Called disco. Care for some fresh air? It’s getting too smoky in here.’

  ‘Lead on,’ Carl said. ‘After all, this is your home turf.’

  Another smile. ‘Oh, it’s not home, just a little part of Britain.’

  She took him to the far wall, where a set of tall French doors led out to a balcony. She partially closed the doors behind her, cutting off most of the sounds of music and conversation. Carl could make out some of the night lights of Boston in the distance and a small, enclosed park below them.

  ‘Oh, that’s better,’ she said, rubbing at her bare arms. ‘All that smoke-smoke and yak-yak gets to you after a while, even if you are supposed to be a reporter and listening to what these people are saying.’

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘I’m fine at the moment,’ she said. ‘Right now I’m far too hot and it feels good to be outside.’ She turned to him. ‘So, Carl Landry, how long have you been at the marvelous Globe?‘

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘And what did you do before then?’

  ‘Worked for Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Uncle ... oh, I get it. In the services, then?’

  ‘The Army. And after that, I was lucky enough to get on the Globe. And you, Sandy? How long have you been with the Thunderer?’

  Even in the semidarkness, he noted her smile. ‘Nicely done. Didn’t know the Times nickname had crossed the Atlantic.’

  ‘Lots of things make it across besides blankets and corned beef.’

  ‘Yes. Well, the condensed version of the dull life of Sandra Pittwood Price. Grew up in London, an only child. Went to a ghastly public school—which you call a private school over here—and then I went to Oxford and spent an incredible amount of time learning about our glorious literary history, from Shakespeare to Milton. Truth be told, I had more fan with American writers, like Twain and London and Kerouac.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘Oh, I had a great time, but I could hardly wait to go down. Oxford is pleasant but also dusty and ancient. Sometimes it’s too full of itself and I wanted to get out and start writing in the real world. Daddy, he works in Whitehall, pulled a string or two and here I am, at the Times and now in your neck of the woods. Tell me, do you always cover such affairs as our consulate’s little bash?’

  ‘Nope,’ he said, leaning back against the black iron railing. ‘I’m a city beat reporter. Go wherever my editor sends me, whether it’s a traffic accident, fire, or police story.’

  ‘And why did your editor send you here tonight?’

  Carl smiled, enjoying the give-and-take with this beautiful young woman. ‘He was punishing me.’

  ‘What? Punishing you? Whatever for?’

  ‘Because I’m stubborn, and because sometimes I don’t do what my editor tells me to do.’

  She laughed at that. ‘Then editors are the same, no matter what side of the Atlantic they live on. My editor feels that he can send me to the States for a week, and I’ll have a five-part series right away. Fool. He has no idea what it’s like over here.’

  That sparked his curiosity. ‘Tell me, what is it like, over here?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Your impression,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just curious what you think.’

  She seemed equally curious, but for different reasons. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’

  ‘Absolutely serious. You’re the first overseas reporter I’ve ever talked to. I’d like to know what kind of impressions you’ve gotten.’

  Sandy rubbed at her arms again. ‘Well, this is a first, me being interviewed by another reporter. First impressions. I always wanted to come to America, even after the war. I’m fascinated with your history, your cowboys, your rock-and-roll music. But I must admit, our newspapers make everything seem foul over here. I was half expecting to see rubble and starving people in the streets when I arrived. I was glad to see they’ve got it wrong, at least in Boston. The city seems small, with twisty streets and avenues, but on the other hand, it’s quite busy, as though everyone is trying to get ahead. Please don’t be offended, but I’m amazed at how dirty the streets and the pavements are.’

  ‘No offense taken,’ Carl said, feeling a temptation to help her rub her cold arms. ‘When it’s a struggle to feed a city every day, clean streets sometimes come last. What else?’

  ‘Well, everyone I’ve talked to has been quite polite, though not very forthcoming. I haven’t had much success with any in-depth research. Sometimes, they just want to know things about me. Like what sort of food I eat, how our health system works, stuff like that. Are the streets safe, compared to Boston. Most don’t believe me when I say our policemen don’t carry guns.’

  He found himself looking at her, again and again, and he forced himself not to stare. That was a problem, since she was so attractive. ‘What other kind of impressions have you picked up?’

  ‘Not much more than that, since I’ve not been here long. The highlight so far has been a day trip to Philadelphia. My editor wanted some nonsense about the new capital, and I managed to wangle a fifteen-minute interview with President Romney.’

  Carl was impressed. Old George wasn’t known for his one-on-one interviews with the domestic press. ‘That’s quite an accomplishment. What was it like?’

  ‘Pretty mundane, really,’ she admitted. ‘We were in an office, like any other building in downtown Philadelphia, except for the Army and the Secret Service agents everywhere. He seemed a nice enough man but he was much more interested in talking about the construction of the new White House, and whenever I asked specific questions, he answered in vague terms, though ever so politely. What did he think of the Franco-German alliance? European affairs belong to the Europeans, he says with that grandfather smile of his. And what about Japan’s growing influence in the Pacific? As with Europe, Asia can concern itself with Asia, he says. We have much work ahead of us and we need to focus on our own pressing problems, he says. And I ask, what do you say to those who claim General Ramsey Curtis still exerts undue influence in the nation’s affairs?’

  Carl felt his hands grip the balcony railing even tighter. ‘I’m surprised his people didn’t toss you out of his office at that one.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, I could tell they thought I was being awfully presumptuous, but he just chuckled and said that General Curtis was a retired and trusted adviser, one among many, and that this country owed him a debt of gratitude for his service during the Cuban War. I felt like he wanted to pat me on the head, and that was that. His chief of staff dragged me out so the President could get his picture taken with Miss California or some damn thing, and in another thirty minutes I was on a plane back to Boston.’

  ‘Sounds like quite the trip.’

  ‘Oh, one I’m sure you’ve been on before.’

  He felt a slightly churlish feeling of embarrassment. ‘No, in fact I haven’t. Since I’ve been with the Globe, I’ve never been out of New England. Gas is rationed and all other travel’s just too expensive. I don’t cover politics or recovery, so I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even talked to anyone outside of New England. You need at least a week to schedule a long-distance telephone call.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. But to tell you the truth, Carl, you didn’t miss much. Just a very busy city with too many people and offices. Besides that boring non-interview, the only real highlight
of the trip was the flight back. I actually saw one of the New York craters. Eerie.’

  Almost reflexively he looked around, to see if anyone was listening. ‘Then the pilot must have been off course, to have gotten that close. Sandy, you’ve done more stuff in the past few days than the best guy we have on the Globe staff.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, moving closer to him. ‘Too bad my editor won’t believe me, even if I do use you as a character reference.’

  ‘The crater,’ he said, enjoying the sensation of her coming closer. Trying to get warm, he wondered, or just getting closer for closer’s sake? ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Not much,’ she answered. ‘I was coming out of the loo. People on the right-hand side were whispering among themselves, and pointing out of the windows. I looked out and could barely make out the buildings in Manhattan. Then to the east, there was a wide, flat spot. Dark gray, as if one of the craters of the moon had been picked up and dropped down here. We passed it and then I noticed this well-dressed man sitting next to the window I was looking out of. He had his fists clenched up to his face, and he was weeping, really sobbing, but completely silent. Then the pilot came on and said something about our estimated arrival time, the weather in Boston, and reminded us that some National Security Act of some date forbids aerial photography. Then he thanked us for flying Pan Am. Eerie, quite eerie.’