A Place We Knew Well

by Susan Carol McCarthy

  “And Charlotte found a replacement?”

  “She did. Leo was thrilled.”

  “I bet he was.” Avery felt pride swell his chest. He wished Old Pa had lived to know Charlotte, to see the kindness that was so like his in her.

  With suddenly watery eyes, he checked the time. One o’clock already and no word yet from Sarah? Was it possible she was still in bed? He considered calling her but resisted, not wanting to disturb her.

  By two, however, with still no word from her, he told Steve he needed to run home for a few minutes, “make sure she’s okay.”

  The kitchen was exactly as Avery had left it, coffee mug in the sink, note on the counter. No sign that Sarah had been up.

  Gently, he opened the door to the shelter and, in the shadows, saw that she was in the same position as the night before: toes up, one pale forearm folded wing-like across her face. He padded closer, holding his breath in an effort to hear hers.

  Nothing.

  He was just about to reach out and touch her when she murmured, “I’m okay.”

  “Glad to hear it,” he said softly, exhaling relief.

  “Just tired is all.”

  “Catching up on your sleep?”

  “Too tired to sleep.”

  “Want me to call Doc Mike, have him drop by on his way home?”

  “No,” she whispered, stiffening with resistance.

  “Wouldn’t want you to miss the parade tomorrow. Anything I can do?”

  “While ago, I got up for the bathroom. Charlotte called. She forgot her baton for practice, needs it dropped off at the band room.”

  “Before school’s out?” Avery eyed the bedside clock. He’d have to hurry.

  “Yes.”

  What would she have done if I hadn’t come home? he wondered. It wasn’t like Sarah to miss a commitment.

  “I better get going then,” he told her. “Baton in her room?”

  “Prob’ly.”

  “Back at six. Seven at the latest.”

  Wearily, her lips formed the words Thank you, without a sound.

  —

  WHEELING INTO THE SCHOOL’S side driveway, Avery pulled up to the curb nearest the band room. Through the open windows, he heard them tuning up the Eagles fight song for tonight’s homecoming bonfire by the lake. (Aptly named, the Edgewater campus was wedged between waterfront homes on Lake Silver’s northeast shore.)

  He parked, grabbed Charlotte’s baton, and strode toward the band room at the back of the school auditorium.

  Despite the band music, the rest of the campus appeared quiet and calm. Normal was the word in Avery’s head when a sudden loud crash—the heavy thud of metal smashing metal, shattering glass—sent him running. A second crash was accompanied by loud cries and yelling. By the time he rounded the corner of the Admin Building, he was holding Charlotte’s twirling baton like a club.

  Myriad explanations—a car wreck, a riot, some sort of uprising or vandalism—came to mind. But none of these came close to the scene that he confronted.

  A behemoth red-jerseyed lineman, surrounded by several brawny teammates, swiveled his hips, hauled a long-handled sledgehammer high over his head, then slammed it down, clobbering the front fender of an old clunker—a ’47 Ford coupe spray-painted orange and black, the colors of Winter Park High, homecoming’s opposing team. Off to one side, two cheerleaders whooped beside a Key Club sign inviting students to SMASH THE WILDCATS!!! 10 CENTS A WHACK, 3 FOR A QUARTER.

  Avery came to a standstill, his heart hammering. Thanks to the lineman’s hit, the coupe’s curved grille, which had always reminded him of a friendly face, was now pinched into a permanent grimace.

  He turned and wiped one sweaty palm then the other on his pant leg and retraced his path to the open band room door.

  Band director Charles Beauchamp stood up front on the podium while his students packed up their sheet music, instruments, and schoolbooks in anticipation of the final bell.

  “Ah, Mr. Avery,” Beauchamp hailed, and looked behind him as if expecting someone else. “But where is Mrs. Avery?”

  “Home resting,” Avery replied.

  The bell rang. “Beware the thundering herd,” Beauchamp warned, nudging Avery inside his office as a crush of students rushed past, flailing a band’s worth of cumbersome black instrument cases.

  Beauchamp stood at the door reminding the kids: “See you tonight. Concert positions. Six forty-five sharp.”

  Watching Beauchamp, Avery thought the man’s longish flop of hair, fine animated features, and dramatic gestures were all a bit over the top. But of course, he heard Sarah’s voice inside his head, he’s a musical genius!

  “Hey, Mr. A, is that Charlotte’s baton?” Charlotte’s friend Brenda called. “I’ll take it. We’re meeting on the field.”

  “Thanks,” Avery said, handing it over.

  “See ya tonight, Mr. Bo!”

  After they were gone in a swirl of skirts and ponytails, Beauchamp turned to Avery, beaming. “It’s a banner year for the band, Mr. Avery. A banner year!”

  Avery had heard that Beauchamp was busting his director’s buttons over the fact that this year’s Homecoming Court, normally dominated by cheerleaders, included two of the band’s majorettes—Charlotte, of course, and squad captain Barbara Everly.

  “Majorettes triumphant!” Beauchamp was saying. “This could be our best homecoming ever. Assuming”—his eyes flickered concern—“there is one.”

  “Well…,” Avery replied, eager to be on his way.

  “Before you go…” Beauchamp riffled through the mess on his desk. “Last week, Mrs. Avery and I were discussing contraltos. Turns out the great Sigrid Onégin is a mutual favorite.” He located a record album and held it reverently against his chest. “Do you know her?”

  Avery eyed the red operatic album cover—Prima Voce?—then shook his head. Although Sarah often played classical recordings at home, and there were some he enjoyed, his tastes ran more to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, and the Grand Ole Opry.

  “Too bad,” Beauchamp said, handing it over. “Dame Onégin’s version of Bach’s ‘Erbarme dich’? Sublime! The woman had a three-octave range,” he enthused, “and her trills? Phenomenal!”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Sarah,” Avery said awkwardly.

  “No need, I put in a note,” Beauchamp said, smiling.

  Without the din of the kids, Beauchamp’s office had grown uncomfortably quiet. Avery palmed the album and got the heck out of there.

  Driving back to the station, he felt again the widening gap between himself and others. Here, in the heart of town, things seemed calm, eerily so. People waved, smiled, and called out a friendly “Afternoon, Wes!,” as they might on any ordinary day.

  Insulated from the convoys on the Trail, the massive shipments rolling by on the rails, and local news sanitized by the Sentinel, were they unaware, untroubled by the events unfolding before his very eyes? Or were they hiding their fears same as he was?

  The past week’s day-by-day revelations, the constant hydraulic shifts from shock and disbelief to dread and outright dismay—plus his nagging guilt over the whole Kitty thing—were becoming corrosive. Trepidation bubbled up in his gut like ground crude.

  Am I overreacting?

  But hadn’t he learned, at the tender age of ten, that life could turn on a dime? Or, in his father’s case, the failure of a six-cent extension screw?

  Throughout the war, he’d carried the two pieces of the broken screw in a leather pouch in his pocket: a reminder that a single moment’s carelessness could alter everything. He’d forgotten that he’d shown it to Kitty all those years ago; but had been pleased that she remembered. And he wished he’d talked to her more about the larger picture.

  As an army nurse, had she seen, as he had in the air force, that the actions of their own forces could be as dangerous as any enemy’s? That within every massive military operation, there was the inevitable FUBAR—somebody’s screwup that sent things Fucked Up Beyond All Recovery. I
t was so prevalent in the navy, Steve said once, that they had their own term: BOHICO, for Bend Over, Here It Comes. Whatever its name, Avery couldn’t escape the feeling that disaster was out there, waiting to happen. Kitty must have felt it, too. Or why else would she be here?

  The sun, missing for two days, had finally managed to burn a hole through the steel-gray cloud cover. The sky—what he could see of it anyway—was chicken-wired by dozens of feathering contrails from the constant maneuvers out of McCoy.

  Wasn’t that crisscrossed patch of blue proof that he wasn’t overreacting? He hadn’t imagined those jet trails, or the U-2s, or the convoys, or the barely camouflaged flatcars, or DefCon Two! Others might be ignorant or oblivious, but Avery could see with certainty that the US military was in full readiness to make the ultimate FUBAR—war with the Soviets—a reality. Surely, somebody somewhere was considering alternatives?

  Hungry for news, he dialed on the truck radio. A report in progress said something about US ambassador Adlai Stevenson and a special session of the United Nations Security Council in New York. Feeling the catch of some distant gear urging him on, Avery gunned the truck toward the station.

  —

  STEVE HAD MOVED THE TELEVISION out of the office and onto the workbench in his service bay. He stood watching, one leg up on a rung of the work stool, bent elbow atop bent knee. His eyes flickered from the screen to Avery. He made a face, ripe with disgust.

  “What’d I miss?” Avery asked.

  “Buncha Russian horseshit.”

  On television, America’s Adlai Stevenson abruptly set down his earphones, swept off his glasses, and shot the Soviet representative an angry glare. His voice, when he spoke, rang out with simmering indignation.

  “I want to say to you, Mr. Zorin, that I don’t have your talent for obfuscation, for distortion, for confusing language, and for doubletalk. And I must confess to you that I’m glad I don’t.”

  Steve’s look queried Avery. “He just call that suckbag a liar?”

  “Yup.”

  Stevenson continued. “But if I understood what you said, you said that my position had changed, that today I was defensive because we didn’t have the evidence to prove our assertions that your Government had installed long-range missiles in Cuba. Well, let me say something to you, Mr. Ambassador—we do have the evidence. We have it, and it’s clear and incontrovertible. And let me say something else—those weapons must be taken out of Cuba.”

  “Damn straight,” Steve agreed.

  At the double ding of the gas bell, both men turned to check the pumps. It was Father Thomas, driving through to deliver Emilio. He waved from behind the wheel as Emilio sprinted in.

  Steve stood up, offered Emilio the stool.

  Emilio hesitated, torn between the desire to watch and the need to change into his uniform.

  “Sit,” Avery said. “This is important.”

  Stevenson had quickened his pace. “…while we’re asking questions, let me ask you”—he jabbed a finger in Zorin’s direction—“why your Government—your Foreign Minister—deliberately, cynically deceived us about the nuclear build-up in Cuba.

  “The other day, Mr. Zorin, I remind you that you didn’t deny the existence of these weapons. Instead, we heard that they had suddenly become defensive weapons. But today—again, if I heard you correctly—you now say they don’t exist, or that we haven’t proved they exist?

  “All right, sir. Let me ask you one simple question: Do you, Ambassador Zorin, deny that the USSR has placed and is placing medium- and intermediate-range missiles and sites in Cuba? Yes or no?”

  Avery heard Emilio’s quick intake of breath. He felt his own anger rise at Zorin’s infuriating grin, his dramatic fumbling for his earphones.

  Stevenson bore in like an auger. “Don’t wait for the translation. Yes or no?”

  The council chambers erupted in nervous laughter. Zorin grasped his microphone, yammering in Russian. A translator spoke over him: “I am not in an American courtroom, sir, and therefore I do not wish to answer a question that is put to me in the fashion in which a prosecutor does. In due course, sir, you will have your reply. Do not worry.”

  Avery felt Stevenson’s fury. “You are in the court of world opinion right now and you can answer yes or no. You have denied that they exist. I want to know if you—if this—if I’ve understood you correctly.”

  Zorin grumbled in Russian, his tone chiding. Tense seconds later, the translator explained, “Sir, will you please continue your statement. You will have your answer in due course.”

  The Security Council chairman intervened, “Mr. Stevenson, would you continue your statement, please? You will receive the answer in due course.”

  Avery held his breath. Don’t let this SOB off the hook!

  Stevenson reared back. “I am prepared to wait for my answer until hell freezes over, if that’s your decision! And I’m also prepared to present the evidence in this room!”

  “Yes!” Steve hissed, punching his fist into his open palm.

  Emilio frowned, looked to Avery. “Hell freezes over? What does that mean?”

  “As long as it takes,” Avery translated.

  On screen, Stevenson signaled an aide, who produced two large easels and a stack of poster-boarded photographs.

  “…in view of his statements and the statements of the Soviet Government,” Stevenson was saying, “…denying the existence or any intention of installing such weapons in Cuba, I am going to make a portion of the evidence available right now.”

  The gas bell, the arrival of a gray Renault, made Emilio jump.

  “Stay,” Steve ordered. “I’ll get ’em,” he added, striding out.

  “The first of these exhibits,” Stevenson continued, “shows an area north of the village of Candelaria, near San Cristóbal…”

  “San Cristóbal!” Emilio shot to his feet.

  “…The first photograph shows the area in late August 1962. It was then, if you can see from where you are sitting, only a peaceful countryside.”

  “My grandfather’s farm!” Emilio exclaimed, pointing to the top left of the picture. But just then, the camera zoomed in and shifted right. The teenager turned to Avery, wild-eyed, then snapped back to Stevenson’s explanation.

  “The second photograph shows the same area one day last week. A few tents and vehicles had come into the area, new spur roads had appeared, the main road had been improved. The third photograph, taken only twenty-four hours later, shows facilities for a medium-range missile battalion installed. There are tents for four or five hundred men. At the end of the new spur road, there are seven 1,000-mile missile trailers. There are four launcher-erector mechanisms for placing these missiles in erect firing position. This missile is a mobile weapon, which can be moved rapidly from one place to another. It is identical with the 1,000-mile missiles which have been displayed in Moscow parades. All of this, I remind you, took place in twenty-four hours.

  “The second exhibit shows three successive photographic enlargements of another missile base of the same type in the area of San Cristóbal. These enlarged photographs clearly show six of these missiles on trailers and three erectors.”

  Abruptly, Emilio slumped back down onto the stool.

  Avery searched for something to say—some word of comfort, an expression of hope or confidence—but his mind was blank. He reached out and laid a steadying hand on the youth’s shoulder. Together they watched in silence as Stevenson moved through the rest of his exhibits. There were an unlucky thirteen Soviet sites in Cuba. So far.

  “We now know the facts, and so do you, sir, and we are ready to talk about them. Our job here is not to score debating points. Our job, Mr. Zorin, is to save the peace. And if you are ready to try, we are.”

  Emilio, Avery noticed, had sweated through the white shirt of his school uniform. The boy rose unsteadily to his feet, his face ashen. “I’ll change now,” he said, his voice ragged with emotion.

  At the bench, Steve was packing up to go. He tur
ned to Avery, moved his mouth around his thoughts, but said nothing. Avery understood. Neither one of them had believed that Stevenson had it in him. But the old man had acquitted himself superbly.

  Hope, like a spidery filament, hung in the air between them, too fragile for words.

  —

  THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON, business was brisk.

  “More work means less time to think,” Emilio said stoically. Still, the worry rimming his eyes and the weighted slope of his slim shoulders belied his words.

  Out front, Avery queried longtime customer Clyde Williams, “You hear Stevenson at the UN?”

  “Pretty good job, considerin’ Adlai’s an appeaser from way back,” Williams pronounced. “Castro ain’t nothin’ but a Minnie the Moocher, and an ungrateful one at that! And Khrushchev needs to learn you don’t play possum with the US of A. All this pussyfootin’ around. If we know where they’ve got those missiles, I say, Bombs away! Let’s go get ’em! Then send in the marines to mop up. It’d be all-over-but-the-shoutin’ by middle of next week.”

  “But…” Avery was dumbstruck. He felt himself flush red. “What about the local Cubans? The ones who are still there, stuck with Castro’s boot on their neck? And what if our bombers miss one of the sites and one of their missiles gets through? What then?”

  Williams narrowed his eyes. “FUBAR,” he said softly. His look was that of a man who’d calculated the risks and judged them acceptable. Avery resisted the sudden, savage urge to put a fist upside Williams’s fat, idiotic head.

  He was still mulling over the exchange, wondering how many others in high and low places felt the same way Williams did, when the phone next to the register rang.

  “Orange Town Texaco. Wes speaking.”

  “Dad?”

  “Hey, kiddo. What’s up? Why are you whispering?”

  “You think Mom’s all right?”

  Avery bowed his head and softened his tone. “She still in bed?”

  “Yeah. Says she’s too tired to get up. How can she be tired when she’s been in bed all day?”