The Little Words Mean the Most

Next Thursday, September 26, the Financial Outlook for Nonprofits in the US Changes

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You know that, right? I'm old-ish. Sim One, too.

 

do U fret?

 

it's not about U anymore

Belfast 1940

 

one more time Chapter 40

 

An olive US Army sedan idled in front of the Belfast brig.

         Major Burke stood full height at the sprung front-seat passenger door. Corporal Loud shoved the prisoner nearer. "We're going for a ride," Burke told ex-Sergeant Scanlon.

         Burke was six-two, Scanlon five-eight. Three months earlier they'd have stood together as rough equals in pride.

         Not now. Scanlon was broken, inarticulate; cuffed, hands behind. And judged hell-bound by every known standard of decent society and his own sacred Roman Catholic church. He had killed his own. He'd killed men who'd trusted him to be what he appeared to be: a reliable superior in good standing. That betrayal had no fix; he knew it in the pit of his belly, to the ends of his empty toes: he was dying from the extremities in. His toes were gone. His fingertips felt dead. He knew he deserved whatever came next: bad, worse, unimaginable. He'd sinned: not venial, either. This was mortal, the strong stuff. He'd forfeited heaven. Like a bulb, he'd screwed himself into hell, by his own free will and actions. Scanlon didn't expect to be rescued.

         Corporal Loud hung off one of Scanlon's elbows, steering. Major Burke announced to them both: "I'm driving."

         Loud folded the disgraced ex-sergeant into the front-side passenger seat. The corporal got in behind, his pistol pressed through the flimsy seat against Scanlon's back. Corporal Loud then leaned over Scanlon's shoulder, saying nothing; just a sack of disgrace dumped exactly where it belonged.

         Major Burke pulled away from the curb.

         "Today, sergeant," he announced to his front-seat prisoner, "I am going to show you the exact route you will drive when we send you packing back to the IRA."

         Burke waited. Nothing from Scanlon.

         "The exact route. Pay attention, fuck motherfuck head. We can't protect you if you vary from this route." Burke glanced to his right. There was no obvious acknowledgement. "I'll be naming landmarks as we go," Burke shouted. "Pay some fucking attention."

         Jimmy answered then, "Yes, sir." He'd wised up enough about something; staring out the window, head swaying with the car. No more than a dab human at best. Jimmy's response was close to a whisper.

         Burke told him: "It's just one big loop, OK? Keep it simple."

         "Sir." Jimmy's entire contribution.

 

The road out of Belfast threaded between low hills, past empty fields. They passed a sign for Larne, the ferry port for Scotland. "Ignore that," Burke said. Ordered. "You'll come back that way. Lots later, when we're winding up."

         Major Burke watched for the next sign.

         When it came: "Here? Head for Antrim" — Jimmy nodded — "then straight north to Ballymena."

 

Antrim was no distance at all. They were there in twenty minutes, driving past whitewashed merchants and finding the turn.

         Burke glanced at Scanlon. "I bet you'd like to say some things to your man back in Boston right now." Scanlon turned his head away. He wanted to ignore everything, to wallow, to take his eternal punishment as soon as possible. "Father Mike, right? We'll be talking to him," Burke promised. "G-men will want a word with your good priest." Burke asked pointedly as an afterthought, "You know those IRA bastards consort with Hitler's boys?"

         Waited. No response.

         "Or maybe you don't exactly know what consort means, sergeant."

         "I know, sir."

         Burke approved. "Good Catholic education. I am not surprised. Those Boston nuns don’t stand for any of your nonsense, so I hear. I went to Catholic school, too." Burke chuckled companionably.

 

This wasn't accidental. Burke was Philadelphia. Scanlon was Boston. But trust grew out of common ground; any shared experience. Catholic school was fertile. Maybe, maybe, maybe. No matter where you attended, you smelled the same sour soap; the same obsessively polished floors, as if wood were eternal; the same dizzying hard work; the same iron-clad interpretation of acceptable behavior and gaudy sins.

         There was a culture of discipline inside Catholic schools the U.S. Army could only envy. Burke knew he shared that with Scanlon. Burke knew that could be a bond maybe. Worth a try.

 

"You are," Burke told Scanlon, "what we in Army Intelligence call a dupe. You know what 'dupe' means? It's kind of a technical term. Don't want to rush you."

         Scanlon didn't answer.

         The major laughed loudly; happy with the response. Jimmy Scanlon was exactly his kind of jackass.

         Fifteen minutes later, they reached Ballymena. They took the turn for Glenariff. "This route takes you through the mountains to the coast. I figure this is where they'll hit you."

         Scanlon: Hit you?

         Amos instantly had regrets: don't, he warned himself, undermine the victim just yet.

         People want to live forever — even the cynical, even sacrificial lambs, even suicides, even those gilded in mortal sin: everyone wants to live forever! Ain't that odd. It was why Major Burke held so little to heart. Humans were unpredictable. He believed in Claire; she was rock solid. But traitors like Scanlon sometimes saw themselves as immortal gods.

         Meaning just that fools grew like weeds.

Sim One and i drew a pahtee

 

Ashley. meditating in France on the open top floor. Photo by Amy Montali.

 

 

dunno

 

 

Chapter 40

 

 

 

 

In front of the Belfast brig idled an olive sedan. It was new from Detroit, so not too loud.

         Major Burke stood full height at the sprung front door. A guard shoved the prisoner nearer. "We're going for a ride," Burke told ex-Sergeant Scanlon, who lacked six inches. One had eaten well. One had grown up in an orphanage.

         Didn't matter. Scanlon was broken, inarticulate; cuffed, hands behind. And terminally judged hell-bound by every known standard of decent society: he had killed his own. Ex-sergeant Scanlon had killed friends and equals and those who had trusted him. That was unfixable; he knew that. He was ready. Scanlon didn't expect to be rescued. At best he might try a pointless redemption gesture; whatever the authorities offered, Brit or American.

 

Corporal Loud hung off one of ex-sergeant Scanlon's elbows, steering his prisoner. The major announced to them both: "I'm driving." He wasn't inviting comment. A moment later Burke muttered, "Right, then." Seeing that the steering wheel had been switched, left to right; at least, for vehicles smaller than a good-sized truck.

         oh fuck

         Major Burke: Maybe this was the US Army's best chance of winning a savage war this early, minus experience: bitsy details: Which countries drove on which side?

 

While Major Burke figured out who was driving, Corporal Loud went around and folded the disgraced ex-sergeant into the front-side passenger seat. Corporal Loud got in behind, with his pistol pressed through the flimsy seat against the ex-sergeant's back. Corporal Loud then leaned over ex-sergeant Scanlon's shoulder, saying nothing, like a sack of shame dumped exactly where it belonged.

         Major Burke pulled away from the curb. "Today, sergeant," he announced to his front-seat passenger, "I am going to show you the exact route you will drive when we send you packing back to the IRA." Burke waited. "You'll want to pay attention. Because we can't protect you if you vary from this route." Burke glanced to his left. There was no acknowledgement. "I'll be naming landmarks as we go," Burke said. "Pay some fucking attention."

         Jimmy answered, "Yes, sir." He'd wised up. Staring out the window, head swaying with the car. It was no more than a dab of human at best; Jimmy's response was close to a whisper.

         Burke told him: "It's just one big loop, OK? Keep it simple."

         "Sir." Jimmy's entire contribution.

 

The road out of Belfast threaded between low hills, past empty fields. They passed a sign for Larne, the ferry port for Scotland. "Ignore that," Burke ordered. "You'll come back that way. But that's lots later, when we're winding up." Amos watched for the next sign. "Here? Head for Antrim" — Jimmy nodded, maybe no clue — "then straight north to Ballymena."

 

Antrim was no distance at all. They were there in twenty minutes, driving past whitewashed merchants and finding the turn.

         Burke at the wheel glanced at Scanlon. "I bet you'd like to say some things to your man back in Boston." Scanlon swiveled his head away, wanting to ignore everything. "Father Mike, right? We'll be talking to him," Burke promised. "G-men will want a word with your good priest." Burke asked pointedly as an afterthought, "You know those IRA bastards consort with Hitler's boys?"

         Waited. No response.

         "Or maybe you don't exactly know what consort means, sergeant."

         "I know, sir."

         Burke approved. "Good Catholic education. I am not surprised. Those Boston nuns don’t stand for any of your nonsense, so I hear. I went to Catholic school, too, you know."

         This wasn't accidental. Burke was Philadelphia. Scanlon was Boston. But trust grew out of common ground; any shared experience. Catholic school was ideal. No matter where you attended, you smelled the same plain soap; the same obsessively polished floors, as if wood were eternal; the same dizzying hard work; the same iron-clad interpretation of acceptable behavior and gaudy sins. There was a culture of discipline inside Catholic schools the U.S. Army could only envy.

         Burke knew he shared that with Scanlon. Burke knew that could be a bond maybe, saying nothing else worked.

 

"You are," Burke told Scanlon, "what we in Army Intelligence call a dupe. You know what that means? It's a technical term."

         Scanlon didn't answer. The major laughed, happy with the response. Jimmy Scanlon was exactly his kind of jackass. He'd deliver a very quick victory for Burke.

         Fifteen minutes later, they reached Ballymena. They took the turn for Glenariff. "This route takes you through the mountains to the coast. I figure this is where they'll hit you."

         Scanlon: Hit you?

         Amos instantly had regrets: don't, he warned himself, undermine the victim just yet.

         People want to live forever — even the cynical, even sacrificial lambs, even suicides: everyone wants to live forever! Ain't that odd. It was why Major Burke held so little to heart. Humans were unpredictable. He believed in Claire; she was rock solid. But traitors like Scanlon sometimes saw themselves as immortal gods.

         Meaning just that fools grew like weeds.

Belfast 1942 CHAPTER 39 rewrite AGAIN

 

 

Chapter 39 [another try]

 

 

As she stared, her family's dining room held just one uncomfortable memory for Claire: from the night of her 21st birthday celebration, seven years earlier.

         There they were in their intimacy and warmth: she, ma and da, all three of them enjoying slices of sponge cake cut out from beneath 21 now-smoking candles. (Claire's wish remained unrevealed.)

         And she had felt just old enough to tease her father a bit.

         Claire aimed at nothing weighty; no revolt nor rebellion. She was happy was all, with her slice of cake and two healthy parents she'd have forever. So she'd announced to the room, with some grandeur, "Tonight I greet you both for the first time as your equal, as an adult member of this wonderful family."

         Claire had grinned with cleverness.

 

Her father stood up suddenly. Frost draped the room.

         He marched down the table to Claire's side. He grabbed her emptied dessert plate from the table and held it aloft in the perpetual gloom of their rowhouse. Cake crumbs, like misjudgments, fell silently to the carpet.

 

"Yours?" he'd asked her harshly, bringing his distorted face in close; Jack Stiles' hot breath had basked her cheeks like an opened oven. Claire was confused and panicked. "Is this yours?" he shouted again, shaking the dessert plate high in the air above her. "By law? Is this yours?" His voice was odd, almost a shriek.

         "Yes," Claire had guessed.

         At which point he'd reared backwards, as if to smash the dessert plate across her skull. Claire's mother lunged from her chair to save the good china. "Don't!" he'd commanded them both.

         He'd turned his furious face toward Claire's.

         And she'd stared back, alarmed beyond thinking. "Father, what did I say?" Weeping now: panicked fountains of tears, her mouth a small delicate hopeless hole. She'd angered him and didn't know why. Irrational pain blinded her.

         "You are twenty-one as of today," Mr. Stiles agreed. "Law and custom might call you an adult.

         "But not in this house. Not in my house. While you live here," he threw out his other hand to make his point, "under this roof, my roof, you are still a child. My child." He glanced provocatively at his wife. "My child." Though Mr. Stiles had a smile hiding and ready, if Claire proved compliant. Censure needn't be cruel. Give her something.

         That night, seven years earlier, Claire had instantly complied; mortified and repentant and glad and craving her father's respect. And seven years earlier, Jack Stiles saw he'd made his point. So he relaxed a fraction; adding a quiet postscript, since there was Jesus thank you nothing more really to say; he'd laid down his law. They now knew his law. "You will obey my house rules. I know that, Claire," he allowed. "And there will be no further discussion.

         "From you," meaning his daughter.

         "Or from you," meaning Mrs. Stiles.

         He handed his wife the dessert plate he'd lofted, saying as he departed, "The pleasure of your birthday, Claire. I mean that."

         He'd then pinched his trousers straight and headed for his overcoat; to spend an evening at the pub with his fellows.

         Da. A daughter's doused birthday celebration was no great loss, she being female after all; the pub would loudly second that notion.

         Her da left contented, knowing the future and its uncertainties were within normal conventional his neighborhood reason and his grasp. It was inscribed on the Queen's stick of state: A man's home was his castle. And all within it served him.

         God's law: foremost.

         Nature's law: just as good.

         His law: home = castle = survival.

 

That had been her birthday, seven years before.

         Tonight would be different, she vowed. Tensing yeah.

         But tonight she wasn't alone. Tonight she had Amos on/by her side. Amos was a good man, a willing man, a strong man, a dependable man. He was a serious man. a real man not a placeholder

         On her side tonight, too, yes, she WAS 28. She was headed for a burdensome spinsterhood in a cramped household.

         Claire flexed her fists, felt her gloves tighten defiantly over her knuckles. Da knew this as well as anyone.

         So? Tonight, da. Tonight I'm not 21. Tonight I am a true adult with a decision to share, not to debate.

         Tonight calendar 1942 Claire would speak her piece.

 

She'd eaten nothing beforehand. Fights went better on an empty stomach, she'd decided. Sure, her da would eat; so maybe he'd be sedated, wouldn't that be grand?

 

And thank God for Amos. Soon-to-be-spouse, spirit, support, champion, mature, successful, from the conquering army, an officer, well-spoken, attached to her, desiring her, loving her. Right? Well, she wouldn't be talking to her parents all that intimately, no.

 

Or she could easily instantly become a child again: 21 and desperately compliant. This was never going to be easy. She knew that. Then that ridiculous scene in the library's garden with Amos: that wore her to a dull nub. But here she was, standing still in her family's tight dining room. She would soon say to her parents, as written out on some pages of loose script, "I am engaged to marry Major Amos Burke as soon as that is possible. With your consent or blessing ... or not, I regret to say." She'd rehearsed inserting a wide sigh here.

         That's what she'd say.

         She'd tried it a hundred times by now.

         What had President Roosevelt called such an occasion? "A date which would live in infamy," the radio crackled. Bless you, Lord Jesus: a day like that. In her da's view, it would be total infamy. Infamy. Infamy. Infamy!

 

This is what would happen next. She would watch her pig-headed father summon from his attic of family injustice an inconsolable wrath.

         Then he would of course cast Claire like some soiled abhorrent rag into the deepest pit of Protestant hell.

         Claire had only to remember: it wasn't his life to live.

         She'd stick to the schedule. Telling her parents was a tick box. When she was done in this forgettable dining room, she'd immediately move on to her next better thing: checking into a career women's hotel until the happy day.

         Her happy day. Claire brought Amos to mind, his hands and lips on certain things. Claire ran the odds: a future together, woman and husband, satisfied man and satisfied wife. It tantalized her like placer gold. She lived with her parents inside grim, damp, insular Belfast. From there, a future as Mrs. Burke looked glorious!

         Take me to another world. I am willing. I am ready. I am worthy.

         A child, then a daughter, then an aging maid, Claire had made up her mind. You had to, as an adult, right?

         Do something.

         See what happens. Live with the consequences.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 41 opens

 

Chapter 41

 

 

 

So far her plan had worked; enough, anyway. Nothing much had happened; so maybe nothing much would. No flare-ups. No tantrums. No dictates. No thundering dismissals. Nothing. Typical Sunday mid-afternoon meal. So far Claire was optimistic.

         They sat in their customary spots.

         It was an archetypal depiction of the British commoner's most cherished principle: every man's home is his castle. Da occupied his higher-than-yours throne, at one end of a solemn table. Ma was at his right; his instant helpmeet. Claire was at her assigned position, at the lower end of the table. She looked, as she did every Sunday, into the measuring eyes of Jack Stiles: father, master, judge and patriarch (though starting to age around the edges, she saw today).

         Claire was supremely comfortable where she sat. Happy, actually. For two score years, this chair in this darkened room had been her assigned spot, her place; since she'd descended from the high chair, trading in babyhood for person-hood. And for all those years, she'd stared at Jack Stiles, having thoughts.

         Unless of course relatives came by to visit.

         Then she was banished to the table's bottom rung: father at the peak, then distinguished guests, mother midway, then other guests, then everyone's children swirling somewhere underfoot. Then Claire; maybe off to the side, with her plate in her lap. No matter. Family protocol. Nothing to rise up in arms about. There was a lot of that in any family, she knew.

 

This Sunday she was just happy to be small and insignificant and full of unsuspected powers.

         She knew the world saw her — a young woman no longer all that fresh — as a dubious commodity.

         Name and classification: Claire, female, age so-and-so, spinster so far. No viable offers on the table. Virgin? Assumed. Hopes to marry? No idea; she didn't get out much. Disappointment might be her family's burden. God's will was God's will. She had a certain fixed value in society's warehouse; that value was falling fast.

         Before them, the table beckoned.

         Food steamed.

         There was real butter, a luxury Mrs. Stiles against odds somehow managed to unearth week after week (no one asked how). In the unlighted parlor adjacent, the radio was off. No music during meals, her father believed. Meals were for thanks. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite our wanton human persistent ineptitude and moral decay.

         We did not deserve.

         Yet YOU have provided, oh Lord.

         Radio music might come later on Sunday, optionally; a lot depended on her da's mood and the uplift injected by a good dessert.

 

"The potatoes, if you would, Mrs. Stiles."

         She would. The potatoes made their usual circuit, through him and on. And then the mashed turnips. And then the meat, today a heavenly roast, ruddy as an Englishman's rump. Again: not, not, not a bare-naked thought Jack Stiles would share with his wife. Sulfur forbid.

         A good roast made Jack inexplicably happy. And carefree in his thoughts. Everything was ersatz now in this time of war. Ersatz coffee. Ersatz fats. Ersatz meats that came from god knew how many unsuspected places on God knew what kinds of animals, if even they were animals. Not tonight, though. Tonight was a thick, impressive, bountiful, juicy, recognizable English roast beef, sound and solid. A day for celebration. And appreciation. A day for gravy, too. "Thank you, Mrs. Stiles. It looks perfectly delicious."

         Claire said, "It does, Ma. It's grand!"

         "Would you like more, dear?" her mother implored. "You took almost nothing."

         "I'm fine."

         "Does Claire look thin to you, Jack?" Mrs. Stiles.

         He angled his head toward his daughter. Noticing her for the first time? He said, "You do look thin, kitten." He called her kitten when he expected her to like him; an old thing between them. "All the girls look thin these days," he then announced. Mrs. Stiles nodded, as expected. "Sure," he said. "There's not enough to eat, you know."

         "It's healthier," Mrs. Stiles insisted. "Not having all you want."

         Jack Stiles wasn't quite settled. He considered his wife's reasonable sentiment from several angles. It wasn't past him to tell her she'd said something incredibly stupid. "Aye," he said finally, though. "'Tis,"

         The meal proceeded. Claire watched her father. Watched his fork heave another full load between his creased lips. Watched his sketchily shaved cheeks stretch to accommodate another helping. Saw the excess decorate a corner of his mouth; yellow-orange turnip this time. He lifted his napkin and smiled at his daughter.

         "Da, I've got something to say." Claire heard the words burst out of her.

Our house is perfect for Shakespearean plays: Sim One's backyard, today

 

look left from the 2nd-floor guest bedroom

look right toward the "work garden"

Weekend in Indianapolis, with Bloomerang and Sergeant/Shang

 

Hosted by Jay and Christie Love at their incredibly welcoming home. With a Friday night picnic at Conner Prairie for an open-air disco concert and gourmet picnic. Saturday pool party at the house: a kid-boree. Simone swims!

How chapter 41 ends

 

 

 

"No." He shut his eyes. Preparatory. "No!" His complete, total, utter, incontrovertible, inarguable rejection slammed down final as a fist; he kept his hands to himself, though. Ever the gentleman, despite his rights.    "You are wrong, Claire." His declaration; his exclusive Magna Charta. "This is not it."

         She recoiled. Asked herself, Could Catholics be any worse?

         There was more from her father. He was flying now. And collapsing, too, though a little dangerous still: like sparks from a burning field going unwanted places. Almost extinguished. Be watchful.

         "Not at all!" Mr. Stiles hook his head violently. "He didn't ask my approval. You did not ask my blessing." Ask was obviously important. "And so? No, Claire: this will not happen. You will not marry him. My final word." He paused. Daughter and mother stared back at him exhausted, without much interest left. "Which is the final word," he concluded. Well, there's the truth. For the moment.

 

"I'm asking now, Da," Claire demanded in seconds; just as rigidly. "Your approval?" She grimaced. "Your blessing? Can you do that?" Leaning in. "How can you not want me married?" she said, wide nostrils and all. That was the only question in her arsenal really; she was wilting.

         "You think that will make you happy?" her father insisted; he sensed weakness. "Ask your mother." He turned on his wife. "Did marriage," he argued, "make you happy? Tell her."

         Why not? Martha decided.

         "Yes, Jack, it did," surprising him as much as her. "Not this very moment. But yes." She stared at him. "I have Claire. I have you. I have my place in the world. Yes. Marriage did that. It's not all bone china and carriage rides, I'll grant you, Mr. Jack Stiles. Husbands take work. Though you less than others; for all your bluster and stubborn opinions. Marriage changed everything. It changed my life. It will change Claire's life. It makes something of a person. It's what adults are meant for."

         Jack's lips pursed. He made a noise, a wondering "Hmmmh," while his head nodded.

         He was startled plainly. He'd never asked his wife about their marriage or what she thought of it. And he'd just heard. He was surprised to hear that it pleased her. It pleased him very much quietly.

 

Claire sat stiff as an Egyptian pharaoh. Mrs. Stiles lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know," Stiles said, mostly to himself. Claire tried a bite of food. It had no flavor.

         "He should still ask me," her father said.

         "He will," Claire agreed in a rush. "With pleasure. He will."

         Then, why not, she couldn't hold back. Joy flushed through her.

         She jumped from her chair and grabbed her father's shoulders. She kissed him on the forehead, her aging auburn hair tickling both sides of his face; an intimacy they had not shared since she'd been a child shooed to bed.

         Then she pulled her mother into her arms.

         Suddenly Claire was famished.