The Little Words Mean the Most

Dear Make-Believe Prezidente Dump...

 

Asking for a friend

And kinda asking for the future

Can we retire your #?

You're 45, right?

Can we retire that # as if it never happened?

Not sure American history deserves you at the table

Or even in the For Dummies overview

alongside Washington

Franklin

Jefferson

Adams

Hamilton

Lincoln

both Roosevelts

Truman

Eisenhower

Kennedy

Carter

Reagan

Obama

Oh, heck: even Nixon had some moves

I hope a 3-year-old paints your official portrait

 

Chapter 44: The opening

 

 

Father Pearse sat through Scanlon's pitch. Then the priest answered; kindly, with swelling compassion for deaths on both sides; with com-pletely sincere truth, yet necessary centuries of duplicity: "I'll let you know of course, Jimmy." The priest paused solemnly. This was big. "Quick as I can, Jimmy." Firm eye contact. "Slán." Goodbye in Irish; slawn to Yank ears.

Meaning at this point, yeah: Goodbye; and get the fuck from my sight, as if you never existed.
That special Slán. That Jimmy-just-became-a-problem-in-Belfast Slán. The same ageless housekeeper who'd soothed Sergeant Scanlon at the vestry door before and out again; she'd murmured it, too: Slán. Had a cleaning cloth wrapped around her right hand. Slán. A cleaning cloth wrapped around her dry, transparent right hand last time, too; Jimmy re-called. Like a uniform she wore.
Slán, she told Jimmy meekly as he left. Her standard sentiment. Wiping spots away meekly. All she could do. Then he was on the street.

In another part of Belfast, secure, behind gleaming untested rolls of barbed wire, Major Burke had a new worry about his mousetrap: Do they even do Sunday drives in Northern Ireland, given all the rationing? Would this work? Was Jimmy already a dead man? And did Burke care about that part of the plan? The quick answer was no; not at all. That was the quick answer.

 

 

Chapter 43 one more time, the opening

 

U.S. Army Major Amos Burke had two things firmly in hand.

         Yes, he'd marry his amazing Claire. That was #1. Together they'd make a miraculous family back in the States, with kids; soon as fascism was dead as a daisy.

         Yes, #2: Major Burke would nail those IRA murderers who'd had the cheek to ambush a U.S. Army convoy, with no respect for the innocent lads who'd been on board. Engineers like Burke were surprisingly good at detective work. Crime had a logic, if you knew how to look. And he had a plan, with an easily envisioned end: he'd watch those same Mick fuckers swing by the neck, on virgin blond rope thick as cable. And call that forever a fine day's work.

         Memorandum to the IRA, typed in triplicate: two carbons, three sheets of onionskin. The problem with making enemies is, you never knew what kind of beast you'll stir.

celebrating Marilyn, Mary Kay, Paul & Detroit; miss you as soon as wheels up

 

as we leave by plane

Chapter 43

 

U.S. Army Major Amos Burke had two things firmly in hand; firmly in mind; under some firm control. For the moment.

         A.

         He'd marry Claire. Together they would make a miraculous family, once fascism was dead as a daisy. A first baby. Another. Then a third. A fourth? Maybe even a fifth! Twins happened. Two good parents; many good kids.

         B: that other thing.

------

Over the next few weeks U.S. Army Major Burke would nail those IRA fuckers who'd killed his replacement troops. He'd look those Paddys in the eye. He'd watch them swing for pointless murders in the midst of a real war. And call it a good day's work; proud of his crime detection. He'd nail them. Like Sherlock Holmes before him; or Bat Man, 1939.

         Faced by any normal devil, Burke knew exactly what to do. Engineers could be unusually good at detective work. Crimes like this had a logic.

------

For the umpteenth time, Burke thought his plan through, step by step by step. The trap was simple.

         First, disgraced Sergeant Jimmy Scanlon tells his wicked, two-timing Belfast priest, that he, Scanlon, will deliver plastic explosives by car to another base on such a such a day, at such a such a time.

         That was the promise. Simple enough.

         There was more: the guarantee. This, Jimmy would insist to the priest, was his last, final contribution to a cause that had betrayed him personally so his best option now was, what fuck! to hide forever? "Thank you for nothing! Where am I going to be safe now? Nowhere, thanks to you fucking clumsy fuckers!"

         And one last thing: this one last thing, rammed home like a fist to your breastbone: Jimmy had nothing more to offer after this, prior obligations to Father Mike be damned and fucked and shit and that's it. Take it or leave it, you utter incompetent Catholic fucks! I'm finding a cave after this. Maybe I'll survive. Which I doubt. Which I don't expect. Thanks to your Biblical stupidity. YES, fuckers: I owe one more favor to Father Mike, for old times' sake. But that is all you fucks get from me. Just that one more, for Father Mike. Then I vanish best I can. Live to a hundred. No one even knows my name.

------

That was Jimmy's speech as it stood. Burke knew they'd be cautious, paranoid, skeptical: IRA fucks. "They're professionals."

         Burke expected the IRA to act timid after their last disaster: an airplane, a car crash, plenty of death and zero gain on the ledger. On the other hand, they'd want to recoup; get their hero-large hard-on back in their meaty, intimidating hand. IRA bosses had been thoroughly sodomized, Amos figured. Uncomfortable feeling, getting it up your backside, from every official direction.

         They'd want to DO something. Pavlov: stimulus/response.

         They'd act.

------

Maybe they'd be especially ready to hear promising news. So right about then, Jimmy would say calmly: This is the new stuff.

         New?

         The rumored explosive. The sought-after explosive; already legendary. More powerful than an asteroid, maybe not quite as powerful as the sun: that stuff. "Do not try to over-sell this," Burke warned Scanlon. "They'll sell themselves, if you just shut up."

Chapter 42 continues

 

         Before the three of 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 asking how).

         In the unlighted parlor adjacent, the radio was off. No music during meals, her father believed. Meals were for thanks to a providing Almighty. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite 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, the skin brown as a saddle and ruddy inside as an Englishman's cheeks. Everything was ersatz now. 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, recognizably English roast beef, sound and solid. A day for general celebration. And appreciation. A day for gravy, too.

         "Thank you, Mrs. Stiles." Jack said with undisguised appreciation. "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. "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 sure. He considered his wife's idea from several angles. It wasn't past him to tell her she'd said something incredibly stupid. "Aye," he said finally. "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 a morsel 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. All right, that was over and done with. Until that very second, she wasn't real sure she was going to speak. Words stuck in her gut like a punch interrupted. Then, Lord have mercy, she spoke. Her rehearsed words jumped out, beyond her control; no going back. She said something. Squeaked something. Something.

------

Claire's father was about to ask for the saltcellar, as he did almost every meal; no offense to the cook: he just liked savory.

         But this once, no saltcellar advanced his way.

         Instead, in the gloom, Mrs. Stiles stared at her daughter, smiling with encouragement. Claire had her courage up. Everything about her was STS: Something To Say.

------

Mr. Jack Stiles wondered right away: ambush? He thought no speech begun that way — his obedient daughter calling him "Da" in that brave, almost fierce, tone — was likely something he'd want to hear.

         He flicked a look at his wife, then at Claire. Then he smiled. Was this a conspiracy in my very own castle? Jack would na put it past them; his women had tried that sort of thing before. He'd say NO. They'd say WHAT IF. But his decisions were for their own good. Somebody with a sound mind had to look out for them. And Jack Stiles was Eveready in that department: just like the battery.

         "Martha, did you hear? Kitten has something she cares to say." Something, sure, he did not care to hear. And for which he would, in his persistent awkwardness regarding female surprises, have no reasonable response.

------

Mrs. Stiles looked up agreeably and threw a quick smile in Claire's direction. "What is it, dear? Speak up. We're all ears."

         She smiled at her husband, too. Because, Martha believed, he needed the encouragement. Jack Stiles was an orphan. He kept that private. But Martha knew that at some unreachable level he would always be lonely, abandoned; it couldn't be helped. And she knew from deep personal experience: Jack could get terribly lost when his emotions came out of the cupboard. Jack Stiles was an official, a small one. There was honor in that, being attached to the government; he wore that honor sufficiently well.

         Then Martha sensed movement and knew the worst was coming.

------

"I've made a decision," Claire declared, a trifle brightly. "And just this week."

         "You've made a decision," Jack nodded. He made a face of mulish consideration, as if he'd suddenly changed his mind. "A decision." Hmmm, his face pretended. "On your own. That's nice, Claire." He smiled cold approval. "Was it, pray, a big decision for you, kitten?" A threadbare pause. "Or maybe more a little thing?"

         Claire was ahead of him. "You're not going to like it, Da," she said steadfastly.

         "Yet," he said, "you made this decision anyway. On your own."

         "It was time," Claire said. "I won't get this chance again."

         "What is it?" Three poisoned, punctuated words. Don't expect approval, his tone bannered. Nor mercy. She hadn't consulted him and so.

         "A man wants to marry me," Claire said. "Major Burke. You met him."

        "The Yank," Mr. Stiles snorted. "That was damn fast. He saw something he liked." Leaning toward her. "An easy Irish lass maybe."

         "Hssss, Mr. Stiles," whispered his wife. "Language."

         "He's a soldier," Jack upbraided his wife. "He's passing through. You know what a woman means to his kind."

         "You're calling me a whore, Da?" Claire countered. "Major Amos Burke asked me to marry him. He asked me to become his wife. He's a widower and lonely. And I've accepted. Because I'm lonely, too." She stopped — politely but panting — to give her father a chance. "That's it," she said at last, hoping against all expectation this would be the end of it. Her life; not her da's.

------

"No."

         He shut his eyes. Preparatory.

         "No!" His complete, total, exclaimed, utter, incontrovertible, don't please argue rejection slammed down final as a fist. He kept his hands to himself, though. That was him: ever the gentleman, despite his rights. "You are wrong, Claire." The king had spoken. "This is not it." Claire recoiled. In passing, she wondered: Could Catholics be any worse? There was more from her father, turned out. He was flying now. And collapsing. Dangerous: sparks from a burning field falling unwanted, unsafe places. Extinguish them. Be watchful. "Not at all!" Mr. Stiles shook his head violently. "The Yank didn't ask my approval, as is my right, as your father and lord. And you did not ask my blessing, as your father and lord." Glare was served. "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 in him or the meal or the future.

         "Which is the final word," he concluded; his truth.

------

It didn't last long. Seconds later, Claire demanded just as bone-rigidly, "I'm asking now, Da. Right now. For your approval." She grimaced. "For your blessing." Leaning in. "Can you do that small thing?" she asked, and then flared, "How can you not want me married?"

         That was the only question in her arsenal really.

         She was wilting.

------

Mr. Jack Stiles sensed weakness. "You think marriage makes you happy? Ask your mother." He turned on his wife, triumphant. "Did marriage make you happy, Martha? Ever? Really? Tell her the perfect truth, Martha, as you know it." His wife decided: Why not?

         "Yes, Jack, it did," surprising him as much as her. "Not this very moment, honestly. 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. Good husbands take some work; though you less than others, for all your bluster and stubborn opinions.

         "Marriage changed everything. The commitment changed everything. Being part of a couple changed everything. Changed me. Changed my life. As 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. 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. Which pleased him very much.

------

Claire sat stiff as an Egyptian idol, the kind displayed without comment in a museum. Mrs. Stiles lifted an eyebrow. "I don't know," she said, mostly to herself. Claire tried a bite of food. It had no flavor.

         "Still, he should ask me," her father offered.

         "He will," Claire rushed to conform. "With pleasure. He will." Mrs. Stiles nodded like a peacock. Why not, she couldn't hold back; because joy flushed through her underneath. Claire jumped from her chair and grabbed her father's shoulders. She kissed him on the forehead, her spring-loaded 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.

Chapter 42

 

Maybe the plan had worked.

         Daughter Claire dragged in deep, noisy, reassuring breaths; through a sharp, Northern Irish nose; white as bleached flour. She was alert, as unique circumstances required. On the other hand: to date, nothing much had happened. Maybe nothing would. No flare-ups. Tantrums. Dictates. No thundering dismissals from Da. Nothing; life goes on. Claire would fork down her typical Sunday afternoon Belfast meal. They'd all sit in their customary spots: small Da in his higher-than-yours throne, at one end of a solemn table. Ma seated to his right: the instant helpmeet. Claire seated in her usual place; at the lower, lowest, end of the table.

         As it had been for 28 years.

Claire looked, as she did each Sunday these many Sundays into the measuring eyes of Jack Stiles: father, master, patriarch, judge. And starting to show his age, she saw today; around the eyes, in the neck. Tiny eels.

         Won't talk about that at all. Claire sat comfortably. Happy. For two-score years, this small chair in this darkened room had been her assigned spot. This was 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. He saw her. She saw him. Unless, of course, relatives came by to visit. Then Claire was banished to the dining-room table's lowest social rung: distinguished guests, mother midway; then other guests; then everyone's children swirling somewhere underfoot, feeding at small, set-aside tables serving only vegetables.

Chapter 40: revisited

 

That had been her birthday, seven years before. She swore tonight would be different. Tense, sure; but tonight she wasn't alone. Tonight she had Amos squarely on her side. On her side. Amos was a good man, a willing man, a strong man, a dependable man, very dependable, supremely dependable. A serious man, a capable man, an older man. A man her da would respect. Or accede to anyway.

         Another thing on her side this time?

         She was at this moment 28 years of age. And clearly, unless fate intervened, Claire was headed for a burdensome spinsterhood in a cramped household with an outdoor WC. She 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 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.