A Place We Knew Well

by Susan Carol McCarthy

  Aware of his instinct to shield Charlotte from his own concerns, not to mention CBS anchor Charles Collingwood’s comments—how could his analysis be anything but dire?—Avery snapped off the television.

  “They’re going to invade Cuba, aren’t they?” Charlotte’s arms were crossed in front of her chest. Her face was very pale.

  “I hope not.”

  “Dad, twenty-four troop carrier squadrons? Where else would they be going?”

  “Look, kiddo…” He stopped, at a loss how to comfort her.

  “I’m not a kid anymore, Dad.” She said it sharply. “Emilio says one of the guys got a call through to his parents in Havana. They’ve been expecting the marines for months….”

  Months? Not days or weeks, but months? So…who started this mess anyway? Did Khrushchev put the missiles in Cuba so he could intimidate us? Or did all our military exercises this past spring and summer convince him that we were about to attack them?

  “…Castro’s ordered everyone on high alert, ready to fight,” Charlotte was saying. “ ‘Fatherland or death,’ he’s telling them.”

  Avery had a painful mental picture: Somewhere in Washington, a fiery, black-browed Curtis LeMay was insisting, “There are no civilians in Cuba, either!” If LeMay had his way…

  Charlotte was staring at him and, without warning, burst into tears.

  He stepped forward to comfort her, and she crumpled against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and sobbing into his shirt. “There, there, Kitten,” he whispered, holding her as he had when she was little, gently patting her back. “All right now, you’re all right.”

  After a long while, she withdrew from him, blotting her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “The thing is, Da-addy…,” she said quietly.

  Her quivering break on the word Daddy (she hadn’t called him that in years) tore his heart.

  “I don’t understand why all this is hap-pening….” She waved her hand at the television, the room, the whole wide world. “And why now? I-I don’t want to die. Not now…just when I’m starting to live!”

  Nobody’s dying, he wanted to say but didn’t. They were both beyond his usual Happy Pappy sugarcoating. Instead, he tried to remember what they’d been talking about before, to pick up the thread before she’d lost it.

  “So you found Emilio? At the church?” he asked her, lamely. “What was he doing there?”

  Charlotte’s eyes hung on him a second too long before she answered, “All the guys from the camp are there, handing out coffee and doughnuts to the crowd.”

  “There’s a crowd? In the middle of the afternoon?”

  “It’s a madhouse, Dad.” Avery winced internally at the word. “The pews are packed with people praying, and there are long lines waiting for the priests to hear their confessions. While I was there, one woman with a brand-new baby was on her knees, hysterical, insisting somebody christen it immediately, so the poor thing wouldn’t wind up in limbo. What the heck is limbo anyway?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “They’re handing out flyers, too. Eight Simple Air Raid Rules. I left ours in the truck. And”—she fished a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket, and handed it to him—“Father Tom asked you to please call him at this number between four and four-fifteen. And…oh, jeez.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to jump in the shower. Emilio’s picking me up at five-thirty.”

  “Five-thirty? I thought the dance starts at seven-thirty.”

  “He’s taking me to dinner first.” She flashed the first smile he’d seen from her all day. “We have reservations at The Villa Rosa.”

  In that instant, the screen of mental horrors that had been rolling like newsreel through the back of Avery’s mind went blank. He stared at Charlotte and saw, in her smiling eyes, in the wispy, rainy-day curls framing her lovely face, the little girl who’d always loved The Villa Rosa, who requested it for special holidays and birthdays, and insisted that the restaurant’s red-and-white checked tablecloths, its dripping candles in straw-covered Chianti bottles, its tinny Italian accordion music reminded her exactly of her favorite scene in the movie when Lady and the Tramp shared their first bowl of spaghetti together.

  In the midst of all the craziness surrounding them, Charlotte was about to have the date she’d dreamed of for years.

  And why not? he thought. With all these two have been through the past few days, why not?

  “Gotta go,” she said, turning on her heel, bounding gracefully out of the room, leaving Avery despairing: Where did the years, and that little girl, go?

  —

  “SAINT CHARLES CHURCH, this is Debbie.”

  “Thomas O’Meara, please.”

  “Father Tom? One moment.”

  “Hello?”

  “Thomas? It’s Wes Avery.”

  “Wes…I was, uh…pleased to meet your daughter today…Lovely girl.”

  “Thank you. She said you asked me to call?”

  “Uh, yes…Well, look, it’s an unusual request, but these are unusual times…perhaps you’ll understand?”

  Avery waited. He couldn’t imagine what the priest wanted. But he hoped it wasn’t gas. Not even the pope himself could get a fill-up today.

  “The monsignor has decided…with everything going on, or about to go on…best not leave our boys, our Cuban boys, out at the camp tonight. They’re all deeply concerned…as you can imagine…about their families in Cuba. Monsignor thinks they’re better…safer…in a family setting. We have parishioners but…Well, I wondered…with Emilio’s plans tonight, if he might stay with you? Only for the night, mind you…we’ll need him back for nine a.m. Mass…Until or unless…well…”

  The man was frazzled. But if I’d spent hours in a two-person box—with endless lines of people coming in to confess their darkest secrets and deepest fears—I guess I’d be frazzled, too.

  “Or, if it’s inconvenient…Perhaps Mr. Steve? You two have been…”

  “Of course, send him over.”

  It made sense, didn’t it? That, after the dance, Emilio should stay here. By the look of things, Charlotte wouldn’t mind. And Sarah…well, according to Martell, Sarah was out for the night, right? And by the time she woke up tomorrow, Emilio would be long gone to church. Assuming—there was no denying the possibility—there was a tomorrow.

  Within seconds after he’d hung up, the phone rang, startling him. Was it the priest calling back? He picked it up after the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “So I guess I’ll see you in the gym.”

  Kitty. “You got my message?”

  “About the game? Yes. But I drove by the school just now. Sign out front says the dance is still on.”

  Avery felt the jab of her suspicion that he’d deliberately tried to derail her. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure myself when—”

  “Right,” she said, obviously not buying it. “I’ll see you there.” She hung up.

  Avery stood in the empty kitchen, staring at the now dead receiver in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. Bakelite, he remembered, fingering the molded black plastic. Same stuff the Brits used to make hand grenades during The War. Number 69 Bakelite Grenade, he thought, recalling the young paratrooper who’d showed him one, its surprisingly light heft. “Only problem…” the young man had warned him, returning the grenade to its hook, “…if you’re the least bit careless, you’ll blow your own head off.”

  —

  EMILIO ARRIVED PROMPTLY AT five with his suit bag, a small duffel, and the white sheet from The Admiral’s backseat in hand.

  “Mr. A, thank you so much. It’s just been…” The boy’s face betrayed his shaky hold on his emotions.

  “No problem.” Avery waved off the need for further explanation. He tossed the sheet onto the bench beside the door, and ushered Emilio into the guest room that was also the family “shelter.” Emilio’s eyes widened at the spartan metal bunks, the floor-to-ceiling racks of food and supplies, and (to Avery’s mind) the tomb-like
gloom of the place.

  “You can change in here,” Avery told him, “but I think you’ll sleep more comfortably on the sofa in the living room.”

  Twenty minutes later, the youth emerged much more composed—shaved, combed, polished, and sharply handsome in his dark suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie.

  Charlotte swept into the living room at five-thirty and stunned both of them into silence. Not because her garnet-red gown set off her pale skin and pearls, her dark eyes and curls to perfection—though the overall effect was stunning. It was, for Avery, because at that moment her shy-but-head-held-high elegance, eyes bright with anticipation, cheeks pink with excitement, reminded him—exactly—of Sarah on the platform of the Tuscaloosa train station awaiting his arrival. Charlotte was, at this moment, every inch Sarah’s daughter. His heart ached at the realization that Sarah wasn’t beside him to see it.

  The only jarring note, to him, was the one long white glove she wore, its twin held loosely in her hand.

  Charlotte creased her brow. “Mom’s asleep and I can’t decide. Gloves?” she asked, showing him and Emilio one side, the side with the glove on. “Or not?” she said, pivoting to show the other long slim arm, delicate wrist, and pale, perfectly polished fingers.

  Emilio, who’d shot to his feet when she entered, grinned. “Either way works for me.”

  “I think not,” Avery decreed firmly. “You’re perfect without them.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” She removed the glove, setting both aside on the bench beside the door, gliding over to kiss him on the cheek. “Are we ready?” she asked Emilio, who immediately, proudly, offered up his arm.

  “I’ll see you in the gym,” Avery told them, and saw her eyes cloud with concern for her mother. “No, no. Doc Mike’s coming by to keep an eye out,” he assured her in their code.

  “Good.” She favored him with a dazzling, relieved smile that set his father’s heart swelling to button-popping proportions. “See you there.”

  The rain had stopped. Avery watched Emilio escort her to the passenger’s side of The Admiral, open the door, and tuck her in as though she were made of spun glass.

  “Take care,” he called, and Emilio waved. Of course, he would take care. But it comforted Avery to say the words.

  —

  PEERING INTO THE FRIGIDAIRE’S open freezer compartment, he recalled Lilly’s comment at the station—“If this is our Last Supper, I definitely want a steak!” He quirked a corner of his mouth in a rueful grin and pulled out the brown-and-red TV dinner box labeled SALISBURY STEAK.

  Ain’t the House of Beef’s porterhouse (which would have been his preference), but it’ll have to do.

  He checked the instructions, set the oven, removed the foil-covered aluminum tray from its box, slid it into the heat, and set the timer for twenty-five minutes.

  One eye on the clock—he was counting down to the six o’clock news—he washed and put away the dishes from lunch, set up a TV tray with knife, fork, and napkin, and poured himself a glass of sweet tea.

  At five fifty-nine, he sat down with his steaming tray on his lap, expecting the Saturday stand-in for his weekday favorites, Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. The opening chords—bomp-bomp, bomp-bomp, bomp-bomp, BOMP-bomp—of “a special Weekend Edition of The Huntley-Brinkley report” were a surprise, as was the appearance of Huntley, circles puddling darker than ever under his eyes, in New York and Brinkley, wary as always, in Washington.

  Clearly, the news was bad and getting worse.

  “President Kennedy has revealed that Premier Khrushchev offered an acceptable solution for the Cuban crisis and then pulled away from it.”

  Why would he do that?

  “In a letter to the Soviet leader tonight,” Brinkley continued, “President Kennedy called on him to stand by an offer made in a private communication last night to remove Soviet missiles from Cuba under United Nations supervision.

  “At the same time, the President brushed aside a subsequent proposal from Premier Khrushchev this morning offering to eliminate Soviet missile bases in Cuba if the United States would remove its missile bases in Turkey.”

  So Khushchev’s trying the old bait-and-switch? Now the bastard wants the trade, their missiles for ours?

  “In an effort to persuade Mr. Khrushchev to revert to his previous offer, the President said that if he would agree to remove the weapons from Cuba under inspection, the United States would halt the blockade and give assurances against an invasion of Cuba.”

  And they’re stuck with Castro forever?

  Huntley, always the heavy, weighed in. “But even as the White House was trying to retrieve a situation that earlier began to look promising, officials said the crisis was escalating. Several events seemed to bear out their fears:

  “In Cuba, a United States U-2 reconnaissance aircraft was reported missing while attempting to observe what was happening at the Soviet missile bases there. And another United States plane was fired upon, apparently by Cubans and not by the Russians.

  “Also, the Castro Government appeared to be taking a much more belligerent attitude than the Soviet Government, possibly in fear that it was being sold out by Moscow. It announced that its forces intended to oppose the United States reconnaissance planes.

  “At the Pentagon, the Defense Department threatened retaliation if United States planes were fired on.”

  Avery set his tray aside, his appetite vanished. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped between them, ear cocked to his own thoughts. It was his chess player’s pose, struck when evaluating next moves.

  The broadcast ended with their ritual exchange of good night.

  “Good luck,” Avery muttered, switching them off, returning to his doleful thoughts.

  What was it Steve read in the New York paper? Only three ways to get those missiles out of Cuba: Invade and take ’em out. Blockade and starve ’em out. Or sit down with the Soviets and trade ’em out?

  Obviously, Khrushchev wanted the trade.

  Obviously, he and Castro knew the Pentagon was gearing up to invade. And both of them seemed itching for the fight, ready to start things on their own if need be.

  But where was JFK on all this? Stalling for time, it appeared; hoping to make the best move possible—that was obvious.

  Avery found himself wondering if Khrushchev and Kennedy were chess players. And, if so, which parts of the game were their strengths? Every player had a strong and a weak spot. Steve’s strength, for instance, was his opening gambit, and middle transition; Avery’s was his endgame.

  And Khrushchev’s? Kennedy’s? Contemplating the global game played out over the past week, Avery had the dizzying realization that they’d reached every chess player’s worst nightmare: zugzwang.

  Zugzwang, the endgame perfected by Persian chess masters over a thousand years ago, occurred when every move left is “bad” and whichever player has the next move will, as a result of his move, lose.

  In the thermonuclear-charged game between Khrushchev and Kennedy, having reached zugzwang, the only question left to answer was: Whose turn is it? Was it Kennedy’s, due to Khrushchev’s downing of the U-2? Or was it Khrushchev’s because of some secret move on Kennedy’s part?

  Avery stood up, to counter the burn of bile in his gut, and went into the kitchen to dispose of his dinner. The gravy had coagulated into gray gunk, and the green-beans-and-carrots medley had the look of melted wax. If this was indeed his Last Supper, he’d just as soon go hungry.

  Besides, Martell would be here soon and he needed to get ready.

  In their bedroom, Avery left off the light so as not to wake Sarah and padded softly through the darkened room. He gathered his suit and shoes from the closet. He stripped and stepped into the shower, and adjusted the stream to as hot as he could stand it. With palms on either side of the showerhead, he leaned in, bowed his head beneath the flow, and let the heat massage the tightness in his neck and shoulders and cascade warmth down his back, buttocks, calves, and heels. Eyes clos
ed, he could feel the centrifugal force of things spiraling out of control—the world, like Sarah, hanging by a thread—so he opened them, anchoring himself within the shower’s careful grid of gray and green tiles.

  With a dripping forefinger, he traced the grout around one square tile. Careful. If ever a word summed up a man, a life, careful was his. It had been his priority and his watchword: “Take care,” he’d told his customers, his wife, and his daughter every day for as long as he could remember. But in the past handful of days, he’d discovered the joke: All the care in a man’s world can’t protect him, or his family, or anyone from the greater perils outside his control. At this point—perhaps at any point?—careful didn’t count, and control was the punch line in the big joke. It all boiled down to—what? Luck of the draw? Your spot on the giant chessboard? Despite the hot water, Avery shivered. He wrenched off the flow and toweled himself off, shoulders high and tight.

  What are the chances, he asked the grim eyes in the mirror, that Kennedy, the young sailor, or Khrushchev, the crafty old farmer, isn’t making his final move now, at this moment, and we are all about to lose everything?

  Perversely, the voice inside his head jeered: Is there a Russian word for global FUBAR? And by the way, what in the world are you going to tell Kitty to head off her own personal endgame against Charlotte?

  —

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Avery found himself helping his doctor’s sturdy wife into his truck.

  “Take your time,” Martell told them, one eye already on the television, intent on turning on the game.

  “They really should have canceled this thing, don’t you think?” Nancy Martell complained, shifting Charlotte’s forgotten flyer from the church, Eight Simple Air Raid Rules, into the space on the seat between them.

  “Tough call,” Avery replied, thinking how disappointed Charlotte and Emilio would be if they had.

  In the crepe-paper-draped gym, he scanned the early arrivals for Kitty, and for Charlotte and Emilio—no dice—and allowed himself to be pressed into service transporting ice and opening juice cans for the red-and-white-draped punch bowls.