Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve always fancied that one of these days, I’d leave the Times and do my own writing, become a George Orwell for my generation. You’ve read him?’

  Damn it, why was the woman irritating him so? Did she think every book here was burned in ‘62? ‘Yes, I’ve read some of Mr. Blair’s works.’

  ‘Who—oh, of course. George Orwell was his pseudonym. Yes, and that’s what I want to do. Write about the class system, about the government and what we’re doing for the people, write about the push for a new empire. I want to write a book that affects me as much as one of his did.’

  ‘You mean 1984?’ he asked. ‘Planning to write a sequel in the next decade?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not that one, though I did love it. No, I’m thinking about another one, Homage to Catalonia.’

  ‘His book about the Spanish Civil War. Let me guess, a ‘Homage to America”?’

  Sandy crossed her arms. ‘You promised not to laugh.’

  ‘I didn’t. A smile isn’t a laugh.’

  ‘If you say so. Well, that’s what I want to do, and I know that these few weeks in America aren’t enough. I want to come back and spend a lot more time here, go from coast to coast. I want to tell the story of what happened here and what’s going to happen in the future, and Carl, believe me, I’m going to do it. In less than 250 pages, Orwell wrote the best book ever about the Spanish Civil War, and I intend to do the same for this place. I won’t be scribbling in notebooks like these for the rest of my life, and I imagine you won’t either.’

  He put his hands in his pockets. The wind had picked up. ‘Don’t bet on it.’

  She stepped closer. ‘All journalists have a book inside of them. Are you telling me you haven’t?’

  ‘I’m not telling you a damn thing, that’s what,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Miss Price, I’ll remind you that I’m a fellow newspaper worker. Not an interviewee.’

  She shook her head at that and wrote something in her pad. ‘I checked some old magazine and newspaper files. It seems that this place burned down shortly after the war.’

  He kept his hands in his pockets, staring out at the rubble. ‘Yes, just a few days after the armistice. The fire department took its time getting here, and by the time they arrived, it was over. No one knew who set it. Soon people had a lot of other more important things to worry about, like fallout and getting enough food, and here it sits. Year after year there’s a debate on what to do with the land and year after year, the debate remains unsettled.’

  ‘Doesn’t a Kennedy brother still own the land? Edward? The one who wanted to be a senator?’

  ‘Teddy?’ Carl asked. ‘After the war Teddy managed to get back over to Ireland. He’s there now with a few remaining family advisers and his own family, in an old castle on some land that he purchased. That’s all we know over here. You probably know more about him than I do. He’s a nonperson in this country.’

  She folded her arms. ‘There was a story about him on the BBC last autumn. A story about the last surviving member of America’s royal family, and it was all rumors and gossip and a blurry picture of him, sailing on the Irish Sea. Speaking of books, supposedly he’s writing his own about his brothers, trying to exonerate them of starting the war. But he’s apparently been working on it for the past ten years. No one knows for sure.’

  Carl kicked at some cracked flagstone. ‘Well, there’s one thing for sure. He won’t be coming back.’

  ‘Hmmm. Does that please you? What do you think about the Kennedys?’

  He opened his mouth and just as quickly shut it. He looked around. ‘Thanks for another quick lesson in reminding me you’re from overseas. That’s a subject that’s not talked about much. There’s even a phrase, “as hard to find as a Kennedy.” A lot of people who shared his last name changed it after the war. Some people still think JFK was a mass murderer in line with Stalin and Hitler.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

  He looked at the rubble. Ten years ago, he couldn’t have gotten within a hundred yards of this point, no matter how he had felt about the man. ‘Like I said, there are those who think JFK is roasting merrily in Hell with Hitler and Stalin. Then there are the others, the small minority who feel that Hitler and Stalin were dictators, that JFK was freely elected by Americans who also freely chose a Congress that passed defense budgets and who built up a system that allowed a nuclear war to erupt over an island in the Caribbean. This small minority also feels it’s unfair to scapegoat one man, one family, over hundreds of decisions and choices the American people made with their voices and their votes.’

  ‘I take it you belong to this small minority?’

  He kicked at a stone. ‘The advantage of being in a small minority is that it never gets crowded, and I do like that.’

  Sandy nodded and Carl was pleased to see her finally shiver. ‘How about a quick walk around the house and we find some tea to warm us up?’ she said.

  ‘Tea? What’s that?’

  She made a face and he joined her, walking through the knee-high grass, staying near the wire fence. The wind seemed to moan as it went through the rubble, and waves lapped against the rotting wood of the docks. He remembered, too, but his memory was black-and-white footage from television programs. The Kennedy compound. Handsome men and women, playing touch football on the wide lawns. The newly elected president taking his sailboat out on the gray Atlantic. Beautiful Jackie and then the kids, Caroline and John-John. All happy, all secure, all part of what passed for royalty in this country. And now all gone, all burned away.

  They were nearing a corner of the large house when Sandy spotted the graffiti. ‘Carl, that’s the third or fourth time I’ve seen that. What does it mean?’

  Before them someone had left a sign, black crayon hastily scrawled on a piece of creased cardboard. HE LIVES. Carl stood quiet for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you, Sandy, but please don’t use me as a source. Just say you heard it from a taxi driver or something.’

  Sandy looked over at him, her face troubled. ‘All right, I suppose I can do that. But would you tell me why?’

  He rubbed his fingers together in his pockets, feeling lint roll under his fingers. ‘Because it’s a touchy subject, that’s why. It’s like living in a house that has a nutty aunt in the basement, or having a father who is doing jail time for bank embezzlement. Everyone knows it’s going on, but no one writes about it, and no one talks about it.’

  ‘Talks about what?’

  He gestured to the sign. ‘About that. There’s a cult in this country, as weird as it sounds. No one knows how many people belong to the cult or what they’re up to. It drives the cops, what’s left of the FBI, and the military crazy. You see the graffiti almost everywhere, there are leaflets that get passed out and even billboards that are defaced, one day to the next. Occasionally even a black radio transmission. And they just say the same thing. He lives.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  Again, that reflex, of looking around to see who might be listening to him. ‘Kennedy. President John F. Kennedy, to be exact.’

  Her face was mottled white from both the shock and the cold wind. ‘President Kennedy? Alive? But he died in the bombing, didn’t he?’

  ‘Of course he did,’ he said, surprised at how sharp his voice sounded. ‘Of course. The last official word, after the invasion went sour and the Cuban missiles were fired, was that he and the First Family were being evacuated from Washington, and that they never made it. Some say he panicked and refused to leave the Oval Office. DC was hit before their helicopter could even lift off from the South Lawn, and Johnson’s helicopter crashed and burned on the way to a retreat area in Virginia. At least with Johnson, there was a body and dental records. No one’s claiming that he’s still alive. But there are people who believe that JFK managed to escape, that he was badly injured, and that he’s holed up somewhere.’

  ‘And what’s he been doing these past ten years?’ she asked.


  ‘Oh, supposedly he’s been biding his time, gaining his strength, before revealing himself as the true savior of the country. He’ll cashier General Curtis and end martial law, and bring us back into the world community of nations, so forth and so on.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘There’s a similar myth in England, that King Arthur is still in some sort of stasis, ready to emerge and save England.’ She laughed. ‘My father said it was all bosh, that if the story was true, King Arthur would have come out in ‘45.’

  ‘To fight the war? It was almost over then.’

  ‘No, to prevent Labour being elected.’ She laughed again and said, ‘You mentioned something earlier, about black radio. What’s that?’

  ‘Black radio,’ he said. ‘Also known as pirate radio or clandestine radio. Unofficial radio stations that pop up every now and then. One particular station comes up for a few minutes every few months, and there’s a voice on that station, claiming to be Kennedy.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘A couple of years ago, somebody at the Globe gave me the frequencies that this pirate radio station uses. Every now and then, I manage to catch a broadcast.’

  ‘And does it sound like him?’

  ‘Of course, but that doesn’t mean anything. About half the people in this state can do a fair JFK impersonation, and that doesn’t count the true believers. You see, not only does this particular cult believe that JFK is still alive, they believe the war wasn’t his fault. They believe it was accidental, or that a nuclear exchange with the Russians was inevitable, and that JFK did his best. They still believe he lives, and they won’t give up.’

  She swayed for a moment, as a particularly strong gust of wind came across the waters. ‘And that’s what you believe, Carl, isn’t it? That the war wasn’t JFK’s fault?’

  He tried to sink his head into his coat collar. Damn this woman, for bringing up things he tried not to think about, ideas that he had hoped were safely buried and hidden away.

  ‘I believe I’m getting hungry, and I believe I’m almost freezing.’

  ‘Oh, you poor dear,’ she said. ‘Drive us back to my hotel and I’ll treat you to dinner.’

  ‘You or the Times?’

  She patted his cheek. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  He turned and went with her, holding her elbow as another strong gust of wind came up, flattening the grass and causing a piece of wood to fall among the rubble. Carl looked back and was surprised at what he saw: the cardboard sign, still there, flapping in the breeze.

  He lives.

  ~ * ~

  EIGHT

  Back in Boston, as they approached the hotel’s entrance, a man skulked out from the shadows. He was wearing baggy pants, shoes wrapped in newspaper, and a knee-length coat. He held both of his hands out to them, his skin bubbly and twisted, and he whispered, ‘A buck for a rad vet, lady? A buck for a vet who’s been kissed by a nuke?’

  Sandy reached for her purse but Carl stepped in front of her and said sharply, ‘Forget it, pal. Go peddle it somewhere else,’ and he ushered her through the revolving doors. She was silent as they went through the lobby. In the elevator, she punched at the keys and turned to him, eyes glaring.

  ‘So it’s true,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That all of you have got used to the pain, the suffering. It’s just part of the landscape, a landscape you can ignore.’

  He stared up at the ascending lights. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Damn it, why did you overreact? It’s not your bloody money.’

  The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Carl looked over at her. ‘Is it permissible to say something in this interrogation, or should I just go back to the lobby?’

  She folded her arms. ‘Go on, say what you will’

  ‘You can give your money to whoever you want,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t think you’d want to give your money to a fake.’

  ‘A fake? That wreck of a man was a fake?’

  The doors started to close and he punched the open button. ‘Sure. Mixture of glue, flour, and food coloring, and you’ve got fake flash burns. Hang out at the best hotels and scare the out-of-towners. For those who enjoy such activities, you can make a fairly decent wage.’

  ‘And how did you know those burns were faked?’

  His voice was even. ‘Because I know what the real ones look like.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry, Carl. I didn’t mean to react in that way. It’s just...’

  ‘I know,’ he said, punching the elevator button again. ‘Everything is so different here, you’re from out of town, no one ever tells you anything.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop taking it out on the lift,’ she said, grabbing at his arm. ‘Come on, let’s have a proper drink before dinner.’

  She led him down the hallway and unlocked the door to her room. He tried not to let his jaw drop as he followed her in. She had a two-room suite, with couches, work area, kitchenette, bath, and a bed the size of a lifeboat. Sandy moved to the mini-bar and said, ‘Beer sound all right? Budweiser?’

  ‘Is it cold?’

  She tossed him a bottle. ‘Yes, but I don’t see why you Yanks have to freeze it so. You can’t even taste the stuff.’

  ‘Tell me again, didn’t the British conquer the world, looking for a good restaurant?’

  That brought a large smile to her face and she said, ‘Ha-ha. Very good. Here,’ she said, throwing over a large, leather-bound volume. ‘Room service menu. While I’m in the bathroom, you choose what you want.’

  ‘Your tab or the Times’s?’

  ‘Will we discuss current affairs over dinner?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Her eyes were bright. ‘Then the Thunderer will take care of us, I imagine.’

  ‘Hooray for a free press,’ Carl said.

  ‘Yes, hooray indeed.’

  He looked through the menu and decided it had been a very long time since he had had a baked stuffed lobster.

  Hooray for expense accounts, he thought, opening the Budweiser.

  ~ * ~

  She had the rack of lamb and he had the baked stuffed lobster, and dessert was another visit from room service with dishes of ice cream and coffee. By then they had moved to the couch and Sandy had cleared away a pile of newspapers, magazines, and a few paperback books from Britain. One was called Challenge of a New Empire. Another was Avoiding the American Error. A third was The Quality of Their Character: How America Failed Itself.

  His face flushed with anger. ‘What’s this? A little light reading about the barbarians you’ve been forced to visit?’

  Sandy took the books from his hands, put them on the floor. ‘Nobody forced me to come over here,’ she said defensively. ‘I volunteered, because I knew this was going to be important, the story of a lifetime. You know as well as I do that any decent journalist has to use all sources of information, even ones that are repellent.’

  ‘These sources seem to be a bit biased.’

  ‘They do,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately... well, there are a number of people in the U.K., influential people, who take some measure of pleasure over your troubles. They see America as an upstart, a cowboy or rogue nation that almost destroyed civilization because of a president’s ego. They get a kick out of what happened here, at your comeuppance. I assure you, Carl, I don’t.’

  ‘An impolite person might mention some imperfections of your own nation,’ Carl said, remembering something from a couple of weeks ago. ‘Like a quiet little scandal here in town. One of your retired generals, found dead in a hotel room with a prostitute that had OD’d.’

  She turned her face away for a moment. ‘No one says we’re perfect, Carl. And every so often, whether it’s the general or some randy Member of Parliament with a fondness for teenage boys, we get reminded of it.’

  He picked up one of her books from the floor. Challenge of a New Empire. ‘Mind telling me what this one’s about?’

  She stretc
hed on the couch, and for a moment her white sweater pulled up, revealing a brief expanse of midriff. He tried not to stare. ‘Well. The state of Great Britain from one woman’s perspective. Before the Cuban War, we didn’t count anymore. It was the U.S. and the Russians. Then the Cuban War ended and NATO collapsed. In some people’s minds, it was almost liberating when it became clear that the younger and wealthier brother was gone, and it was our turn to be number one again.’

  ‘Problem with being number one is that you make a big, fat target for people who are number two or number three.’

  ‘True, but the PM and Parliament didn’t see it that way, in ‘62. With Germany reunited and allied with France, trying to keep order in Eastern Europe, we went back to our old stomping grounds. We went back to India and East and West Pakistan, to help them deal with the refugees and fallout. Australia and New Zealand loved having the Royal Navy in the neighborhood, to keep away Asian refugees in boats and junks. We built up our forces in Hong Kong and Ceylon. Canada welcomed us back with open arms, and we started our aid program with you.’