The Little Words Mean the Most

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.