The Little Words Mean the Most

How chapter 40 ends

 

 

 

 

"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.

 

 

 

 

 

An entire chapter, mind: Chapter 40

 

Chapter 40

In front of the Belfast brig idled an olive sedan; new so not too loud. Major Burke stood full height at the sprung front door. "We're going for a ride," he told ex-Sergeant Scanlon, six inches shorter, when they were close.

         Didn't matter.

         Scanlon was clearly broken; cuffed, hands behind. Unrecoverable; judged hellbound by any standard of decent society. He'd killed his own. His friends and equals and just like him. That was unfixable; he knew that. He was prepared for that. He 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 Scanlon's elbows.

         The major announced to them both, heading that way: "I'm driving." Then corrected himself, "Right." He'd headed toward the wrong side of the sedan. In Belfast the steering wheel was on the other side. At the same time Loud folded the disgraced ex-sergeant into the front-side passenger seat and got in behind. Then Loud leaned over the prisoner's shoulder saying nothing, like a sack of shame dumped exactly where it belonged.

         Major Burke pulled away.

         "Today, sergeant," he announced, "I am going to show you the exact route you will drive when we send you packing back to the IRA. You'll want to pay attention. Because we can't protect you if you vary from this route."

         Burke glanced over; no acknowledgement. "I'll be naming landmarks as we go. Pay some fucking attention," he finished harshly. Jimmy answered, "Yes, sir." Jimmy the ex-sergeant stared out the window, head swaying with the car. It was a dab of human at best; his response was close to a whisper.

         Burke told Jimmy: "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. You'll come back that way. That's later. Head for Antrim, 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? 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; out of 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 that 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 exactly?"

         Scanlon didn't answer. The major laughed, happy with the response.

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

         Hit you? Burke of course and obviously meant kill you. Amos instantly regretted the inference: don't, he stabbed, undermine the victim quite 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 would see themselves as immortal gods. Meaning fools grew like weeds.

Belfast 1942 CHAPTER 39 rewrite

 

Chapter 39

 

The dining room held one particular memory for Claire; seven years earlier, the night of her 21st birthday celebration.

         She, her ma and da, the three of them alone in their dark row house, enjoying sponge cake with 21 candles. And Claire had felt just old enough to tease her father a bit. She aimed at nothing weighty; no revolt nor rebellion. She was happy was all, with her slice of cake and two healthy parents.

         She'd announced to the room, "Tonight I greet you both for the first time as your equal, as an adult member of this family."

         Claire had grinned with cleverness.

         But then her father stood up suddenly and loudly and marched down the table to her side. Where he grabbed her emptied dessert plate and held it aloft. Crumbs fell silently to the carpet.

         "Yours?" he'd asked her, bringing his distorted face in close. His hot breath basked her cheeks.

         She was confused.

         "Is this yours, Claire?" he asked, shaking the plate in the air. "By law?"

         "Yes," she'd guessed.

         He balked, as if his next move would be to smash the 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 plateless hand for good measure, "under this roof, my roof, you are still a child. My child." He glanced provocatively at his wife. "My child." He'd a smile hiding and ready, though, if Claire proved compliant. Censure needn't be cruel. Give her something.

         And that night she'd instantly complied; mortified and repentant.

         Jack Stiles saw he'd made his point. 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.

         Roughly he handed to his wife the dessert plate he'd wielded.

         Said as he left, "The pleasure of your birthday, Claire. I mean that." He'd pinched his trousers straight and headed for his overcoat; to spend an evening at the pub with his fellows. A daughter's doused birthday celebration was no great loss, she being female after all; the pub would loudly second that notion. So her da left contented, knowing the future and its uncertainties were within reason and his grasp. A man's home was his castle. And all within it served him. God's law. Nature's law. His law.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 39, page 1

 

Chapter 39

 

Today was supposed to be Claire's day with her da. That was never going easy, she knew that. Then the scene in the library's garden with Amos, that wore her to a dull nub.

 

Even so, at this evening's meal, she would force her say with her father. This would be her day to get it done and make her announcement. She would say, "I am engaged to marry Major Amos Burke as soon as that is possible. With your blessing or not, I regret to convey."

 

Tonight would be that day. It would predictably devastate Claire and her parents. What had President Roosevelt called it? "A date which would live in infamy," the radio crackled. A day like that. She'd watch her pig-headed da summon his inconsolable wrath. Then he would of course cast her like some soiled rag into the deepest pit of Protestant hell.

         Even so, she'd stick to the schedule. It wasn't his life to live. Her announcement was just a chore; when she finished, she'd move on. Because Amos awaited. Their future together, woman and husband, man and wife; it awaited. And from the perspective of grim, damp, insular Belfast, that future 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? Do something. See what happens. Live with the consequences.

 

It would be easy, too; after tonight. Da would thunder of course; like a conductor's downbeat; like some train rumbling by.

         She'd wait for it to pass. It might be awhile.

         He'd condemn her for eternity, all eternity (like all was different from eternity) ... to some vague Protestant hell ... because she intended to marry a Yank; the man was bad enough as an outlander. And worse? The whole neighborhood would know he was Catholic ... an old widower from Boston and beyond the pale; so second-hand goods and so much less than you, Claire, deserved. Do you understand, my love? Burke was one of them. Not one of us. They'd left. They'd abandoned Mother Ireland when the food got thin: yet stayed by foul and hidden oath sworn to their puppet-master in Rome.

         Oh, spare me your views, Father. Maybe Claire could enlist her ma as ally. Sure, if you could fight a war with feather dusters, Ma would definitely be the soldier for it.

         She didn't smile. Claire knew dismissal was unfair. Her ma had made plenty of ways and means with Jack Stiles, the silly old prig. Martha Stiles had got on in life reasonably fine and dandy.

         Maybe not this one time, Claire wondered. Da would protect Claire, his maiden daughter, as he saw it. He'd protect his blood line, because you kept it pure as you could; blood and lineage mattered.

        Just saying: Claire was on her own, glad in fact to be just that. She knew verbatim what her da would say: I'll be damned if you'll cross me, daughter! He knew that if he rose to a certain volume, she would quit. That was the game: her heart's choice versus da's loud faith; so far. This time she rooted for herself. She rooted for him, too: there was plenty of love and understanding from her. She adored her da, stiff-necked and all. Respected him for his steadfastness and that special calm that comes from convictions. For all that and more, Claire honored and admired Jack and Martha.

         But she was here, in her future. And they were not.

 

 

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 41, page 1

 

Chapter 41

 

So far Claire's plan had worked. The family sat in their customary spots. Da: in his throne. Ma: on his right; the instant helpmeet. Before them, the table beckoned. Food steamed. There was real butter, a luxury Mrs. Stiles managed to unearth week after week (no one asked how). In the unlighted parlor next door, the radio was off. There was never music during meals, at her father's command.

         Meals were for thanks. Prayer. Gratitude. You righteously and rightfully and right-mindedly worshipped the plenty our (not their) God provided ... despite our persistent ineptitude and moral decay. Radio music might come later, optionally.

 

We did not deserve. Yet YOU have provided, oh Lord.

 

"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 a bare-naked thought he would share with his wife.

         A good roast made him 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 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."

         "It does, Ma," Claire said.

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

         "I'm fine."

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 37 whole thing

 

Chapter 37

 

Over their meal at Mr. Peet's Saturday evening, Claire and Amos had quickly agreed to marry, seeing the sense of it. They'd also made their first joint decision: to wait a week to let things settle for both of them; to start adjusting, start planning the switch from private individuals to intimate couple. Claire was still a physical virgin. She'd never slept with anything other than dolls. Amos was already a widower, a decade older. Taking a week to sort things straight seemed reasonable and responsible.

         And yet he couldn't wait a week. It was Thursday, five days later. And he sped toward the library where she volunteered with her mother on Thursday, to catch a glimpse of her, a brow, a cheek, her posture.

 

The library was open.

         And doing a land-office business, he noticed. The heavy doors were never still.

         He had a simple objective: he wanted to memorize every detail of her face. He hadn't focused enough on her nose last time. Or her ears, which had these damask folds and a tender look.

 

"I didn't expect to see you here."

         They were the first unrehearsed words out of Claire's mouth. She scowled, too; turning his momentum inside out.

         This was definitely not how he'd expected things to go. In Burke's version, she'd rushed toward him, kissed him with abandon. Who cared who saw! All the lost sunrays of Ireland flitting across her cheeks. Where roses blushed and died.

         He lifted his eyes.

         Above them was the grimy vestibule ceiling of the library's entrance, knurled plaster and smokers' gold.

         "What's wrong?" he begged.

         She stared a moment, a guileless stare saying, You're not that stupid. "Nothing's wrong," she said finally. Except you're rushing a delicate matter. And I'm not quite ready for this, not yet.

 

Burke's instincts had been right. An annoying advisor in his brain had insisted repeatedly: a visit too soon would be a mistake. It would break their first covenant. Don't go. Burke of course had gone. Now he longed for any kind of neutral ground.

         "Are you busy?" he ventured.

         "Of course I'm busy, Amos. Look at this library. It's a madhouse. It's not just men who work, you know." That was a point she wished to make early in their relationship. She saw him flinch. Which was fitting! in Claire's view; so she relented just a bit. "You surprised me," she allowed. "We said a week."

         "I couldn't wait," Amos answered plainly.

         "That's sweet." Though her tone suggested less.

         "Can you go for tea now?" he pressed.

         "I can't." Her answer was firm, automatic, policy driven.

         "For a few minutes," he pleaded.

         "I can't, Amos." Even firmer; the girl gone from her voice. He was talking to an adult, she wanted him to know.

         "You mean you won't," he corrected her. It was movie dialogue, he realized. He said, she said. Stop.

         They were still in the vestibule. Patrons swung the library's doors open every few seconds, admitting cold April air and Belfast grit. Claire wore a light gray cardigan and looked sturdy enough. Amos was in his winter overcoat. He looked almost fragile or felt so, anyway.

         "I can't," she said again, sighing cordially to show her disappointment.

         "Not for a few minutes? For tea? We have things to discuss. Don't we have things?"

         "Absolutely true," Claire agreed. "But I can't."

         "I put everything aside to come by," he insisted.

         "The war's on hold, is it?" she rolled her brows. "Good. People could use a break."

         "Please, Claire."

         She stared; not fuming, just curious. "The garden then. For a few minutes only."

 

They slipped out into the library's garden. Two lady volunteers in heavy coats knelt on cushions, doing something in the dirt. Small trees, just halfway to full leaf, softened the sooty brick walls. The trees had multiple, twining trunks, kettle-black. Grim Belfast must have the world's finest collection of grays and blacks. Against that backdrop, Claire's beeswax-polished mahogany hair was glory; against dour brick, her hair burst into fire. To him, she was an Irish goddess. He had a death grip on her hand.

         "You're squeezing too hard," his goddess murmured.

         He instantly dropped her hand with a hushed apology.

         They continued walking together, in fast, crunching steps on the pea stone path, toward the back of the library's garden, where an uninviting granite bench curled under a benefactor's bust. The face revealed nothing interesting. The name carved beneath wasn't familiar. The perfect witness: a silent stranger.

         She waited. Finally: "You don't have anything to say?"

         "I just wanted to see you," Amos whispered. "I missed you." That indeed was the sum of his argument. It had seemed sufficient when he'd bolted his office. And innocent enough. Yet it was turning into something of an abduction, given her reluctance.

         She poked his shoulder. "This week," she said sharply, much louder than anything they'd said before; both gardeners looked up a moment, wondering. Claire hissed, "This week is not about you, Amos." She pushed him away hard, which surprised them both. "I do not belong to you yet. There'll be plenty of time for that after."

         Amos decided to sit. Insulted, he supposed; it was hard to care or know. The bench was appropriately cold and hard, reflecting Claire's mood exactly. He looked up and she was already rising, returning toward the library.

         He jumped up. "Claire," he begged, "you're not leaving yet?"

         "I am that."

         They both raised their voices. The gardeners leaned back on their heels and frankly stared. In the sky, nothing. On the damp ground, pea stones snapped beneath his leather soles as he sprinted to catch up. A bird let loose with a call. Some sort of distress. Or ringing up its mate.

         "One week, man," she declared, exploding finally. "Then I am yours. Forever. Remember I said this, when you're tired of me." She turned to the volunteers. "Sorry, ladies."

         "I'd like to know what's happening," Amos pleaded.

         Claire plucked at her lips. "We're at war," she said. "Da and me. It's top secret. Just like yours. And plenty at stake, I can tell you. You and me, that sort of thing." More sarcasm; even her sarcasm melted his heart.

         She kept walking. His fingers dug through her thin cardigan and snatched her arm. She stopped and pulled once against him. It was like a battleship tugging against a concrete mole: nothing moved.

         "Let go, Amos. Let me go."

         "I'm not hurting you," he said.

         "You're not hurting me physically, Amos. It's undignified."

         He stared at his hand above her elbow and released her.

         She said, "You shouldn't have come here. Do your own business, whatever that is. And let me do mine. He's my father that's going to fake the broken heart. I don't need your help for that. I don't want him any more humiliated than he already is."

         So that was it, Burke suddenly saw. She hadn't told her parents. The marriage would delight her ma. It would crush her da like a rockslide off heaven's face. Daughter Claire had no God-given right to be happy because this marriage would destroy her family.

         Eventually she'd be happy, maybe.

         Not yet.

         Not now; that was for sure.

         Every word hurt; everything she'd heard. Whatever Amos said. Simple wasn't reasonable nor plausible nor any future she trusted.

 

 

 

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 11, page 1

 

Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

It was early. But not for the army.

 

Mist clogged the air, heavy as a veil. Not rain exactly. Not full-throated oxygen either. Hope I'm half-amphibian. Darwin said we came from the sea: that was good enough for Major Burke. Military intelligence was facts and information and sources, with careful applications of imagination. Darwin was just about perfect. What a team that would be: Darwin and Burke. A corner of his mouth twitched up for an instant.

 

On one side of the courtyard was a small British honor guard in vivid colors. They stood still as they could.

       The exact same number of American Army soldiers stood at attention on the other side of the courtyard: in mirror-chrome helmets; white braided trim; gaiters; tall polished paratroop boots, tightly tied; beaded with dew.

       A little taller, too, Burke thought maybe. Were Americans eating better during the Great Depression?

       He was proud of what he saw, both sides. The Yanks didn't report to him. But they looked the part. The rain going down their necks; yet they took it like sunshine.

       And fuckin' green as snap peas, he knew. So, gentlemen, please make this handover ceremony fast. Because we need all the time we can get! Because without more training these proud-standing idiots and morons and high school dropouts will die in seconds as soon as they confront anything more challenging than a salute. Burke knew the reports. Real combat wasn't kind or forgiving. They were lucky all they had to deal with was Northern Ireland.

 

A few civil officials under umbrellas huddled across the courtyard in

 

 

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 10, page 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

 

 

The airplane trembled to a stop.

       Dead: a flying umbrella with a big box compartment for humans and an engine that would take them aloft.

       Major Burke left the Lysander on the grass field. He walked unsteadily toward his staff car; heard its engine mumbling, knew his flying unsteadiness would end soon.

       Burke's assigned, civilian driver, Mr. Allen, humble and semi-prosperous resident (husband, father, family man) of Northern Ireland, obedient subject of King George VI, waited with the car.

       Which gleamed. Thank you, Mr. Allen, Burke thought. But was a well-polished car a good sign or a bad sign? he wondered idly; spies were supposed to wonder about everything in front of their eyes.

       Course, if Burke were some kind of spy or Allen was for that matter, both of them clung to a low rung, below notice less scapegoats were required. Relaxing, really.

 

Still. Trying to make a good first impression for your own reasons, Mr. Allen? Burke just couldn't beat the habit. His trained brain asked suspicious questions all the time, of everyone. He said, "They search your trunk at the gate, Mr. Allen?"

       "They did, Major."

       "My apologies I guess. I tell them to do that. They weren't searching systematically enough. They're learning. We're not going to run short of enemies."

       "Ha!" Brian Allen showed all his teeth.

       It wasn't a total set. It had the basics for a steak. Major Burke's apology seemed to suit Mr. Allen very well; seemed. Maybe Mr. Allen was just glad to hear someone explain something frankly for a change. In a world war, secrets bloomed like pimples.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 9, page 1

 

Chapter 9

 

Other eyes joined the narrowing hunt. British Army eyes. A swamp of local police there, too; slapping clubs into palms, like that would make a meal. The Army would want the police to wade in first. And take whatever bruising wasn't cerebral. Belfast police liked to go first. BURST some MELONS. To kill every Catholic in a single night was probably wishful thinking. BUT. Think bigger. If you can imagine it, you can make it happen, right?

Like tonight's bank job, ain't that somethin'? Sean settled back. Maybe this would work out.

Police patrols pressed invisibly up each alley, flushing out watchers.

But this IRA operation didn't have watchers apparently. That was a mistake. Things just got better.

Over a street, at the front, an officer whispered, dog low, yet piercing enough to launch movement three blocks away: "Positions!"

Troops boiled into the square.

Sean slammed his face against the glass. "Jesus!" He raced for the back, to the other lookout. "They're surrounding us! Get out!"

Instantly, the man was up and gone; without so much as a question, leaving Sean alone. "I have to tell 'em," Sean vowed, though it seemed dangerous and probably foolish.

He flew downstairs, where three men were cleaning cash out of the vault. "There's an army out front!" he warned them. "I never seen so many."

The three men turned and ran down a hall, around a corner, hustling into a small staircase below ground. They threw the lock silently and cracked the door. Nothing in front of them. It was good and foggy now.

Belfast 1942 ~ Chapter 36, page 1 * [ * > * in progress * < * ] *

 

Chapter 36

 

 

 

 

Heaney had escaped traps more than once. Had his undeserved successes, too.

         Heaney had come to see his life since childhood as a tapestry, woven of many threads: caution, instinct, fear, doubt, ancestors, belief, dumb luck, false scares, fate, faith, values, and a fairy-dust sprinkling of trust (not too much).

         He trusted Jones, for instance, because he knew his weaknesses. And he had to trust Ryan for now. They sure needed the help. The lad had passed his tests so far.

         Major Amos Burke, U.S. Army, was something else. Burke was a thread stuck out from Heaney's tapestry. He'd learned over his decades of surviving: when you see a thread sticking out, pull it. See where it goes. The Pinkertons called it a lead.

         Heaney knew just this about just that: a ripped poster and a faked phone call soon revealed that Major Amos Burke was the U.S. Army's point man in Northern Ireland regarding a very recent attempted hijacking of small arms. Which made the IRA — namely, Heaney, here in Northern Ireland — Burke's ultimate prey, given time and good hunting.

         Heaney knew: he'd have to reverse those roles, if he could.

         To begin: he had to learn all he could about the man. So he sent Ryan, in a car driven by Jones, who complained all the way about wasting his time, to find Major Burke in Belfast and trail him; watch what he did, build up a biography, learn his patterns, find a weakness and report back. So they could compromise him, then destroy him; as policy and survival demanded.

 

Ryan: every generation kicked fallen leaves off the road.