He stopped abruptly on the crest of an elm-graced hill, thunderstruck by the sight of the exile camp scattered above the creek bed. In front of some of the tents, small fires burned in oil drums and smoke curled from little stacks protruding, crooked, from the lean-tos. The sounds of people awakening drifted across the field to him: a child’s cry, someone’s hacking cough. Not quite ready to face this new reality, he turned and walked back toward the house.
There was a light in the kitchen now. Devin found Alethea, wearing an old brown robe and lacing her coffee with Scotch. He could not repress a wince at the sight of her—his little sister, whom he still remembered as a pink-cheeked, bubbly girl, sitting there now with the sallow complexion and sunken eyes of an alcoholic, defeated by fife.
Alethea was the first to speak. “Devin?”
“Such as he is,” he said. “Morning, Ali.”
She ran to him. Hesitating for a moment, she stood in front of him. “Devin, Devo… oh.” She threw her arms around him, then backed away, suddenly aware of how much she had aged. Her hands darted to her face in a shy gesture of protectiveness. “My God, I’m a mess. You shouldn’t see me before I’m quite ready for the world.”
He gazed at her wordlessly, feeling both love and confusion.
“Well, you don’t look so great either, now that I mention it,” she said. “Where ya been? A prison camp or something?”
“Or something.” He smiled. “You look good, Ali.”
“I look like hell. Too much booze and sleeping around.” She tried to laugh. “You know me…”
He didn’t know her, not anymore, but he was starting to guess, and his face mirrored his concern.
“Hey, lighten up, it’s just a little homecoming joke. I’m still a simple schoolmarm. I teach the kiddies how Marx became the father of our country. Revisionist History 101, we call it.” She moved toward the stove. “How ’bout some coffee?”
“Sure. Please.”
She filled his cup. “It’s not real coffee, you know. But you must be used to it too.” He took the coffee and sat at the once-familiar big, old table. “Can you talk about it, Devin? Marion said it was a hospital, but after they took the farm we figured it must be jail.”
Devin nodded. “Southwest Texas. Fort Davis. I’m sorry about the farm.”
His voice broke, and she sat next to him.
“Ali, what are all those places down by the creek? The tents and trailers—”
“New owners,” she answered. “Reverse homesteading. Instead of taking unused land and making it productive, you take productive land and make it useless. I shouldn’t say that, some of the people are quite nice. They’re Exiles; internal exiles. Kind of the great leap backward. The advisory committees figure the country life and hard work down on the farm is good for the soul. Trouble is, they don’t know what they’re doing and the government made some mistakes in deciding what kind of troublemakers to send. You’ll get the rundown from Dad.” She started out the door, but popped back in, thinking better about her last comment. “Don’t expect much from him.”
“I know. Ward told me.”
She nodded. “If you want to go into town with me… Ward usually runs us in—gas for the cops, you know.”
Devin smiled and nodded.
She stared at him, then rushed back to the table to embrace Mm. “I’m glad you’re back, Dev. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” She let go of him and rushed from the room. Devin took a sip of coffee and looked around, suddenly feeling caged. As if he had nowhere to go, he walked through the door Alethea had just gone through, into the dining room, and started for the stairs. Hearing a footstep, he stepped back into the shadows of the hall and watched as his father came down, one slow step at a time. The old man was still ramrod-straight, but he had aged; his face was more lined, his shoulders stooped, and he moved tentatively, one hand clutching the banister. Devin stayed in the shadows, a grown-up child hiding from his father. As Will shuffled into the kitchen, Devin stole the opportunity and climbed quickly up the stairs. He rushed down the hall and into his old room. It was nearly bare now, with only a bed and desk. He sat on the bed, staring at the faded flowers of the wallpaper. The tiny bedroom, he realized, was almost exactly the size of the cell where he’d spent the past five years.
Chapter 6
Devin’s son Billy was home in Chicago on the morning his father arrived in Milford. As if telepathically connected, his thoughts were of Devin, as they had been ever since his mother told him of Dad’s release. Billy guessed that the only reason she told him was to explain why a cop was guarding their apartment. Otherwise he might never have known.
Billy knew no matter how mean or unfair, his mother loved him. She just didn’t understand him. She thought that because she didn’t love his father anymore, her sons shouldn’t either. His mother felt strongly that because she had changed her name back to Andrews, her sons should too. And she had sold all that to Caleb. He thought his father was a criminal, some kind of wild man who would come and carry him away.
Billy knew better. Caleb was only nine; he barely remembered their father. But Billy, at fourteen, had many memories of a tall, strong man who loved to laugh and romp with his sons, whose voice was low and gentle, but could bring a crowd to wild cheering. Billy remembered riding horses with his father at his grandfather’s farm in Nebraska, and playing in the surf at Cape Cod.
Most of all, he remembered when his father ran for president. Billy had gone to some of the rallies and his father would introduce him and say he wanted his sons to inherit a better America. People would shout and wave flags and sometimes even cry.
Billy didn’t know much about politics, but he knew that what his father stood for had been right, and that his father was a good, brave man. No matter what his mother said, no matter what they taught him in school, he knew that was the truth. He knew something more, and it was the most important thing he could know: he was like his father.
Early that morning, Billy had dug deep into his closet and brought out a long-hidden envelope full of pictures. Stilted poses of his father in battle fatigues in Vietnam. Shots of Devin being sworn in to the House of Representatives by a huge, white-haired man. A wedding picture, his mother looking beautiful in white lace. And pictures with the boys: father and sons at the beach, sailing, playing baseball, posing beside a Christmas tree. And finally, a folded newspaper clipping that showed his father struggling against the four policemen who were arresting him. After that, there had been nothing, nothing at all for five years, until this week when his mother said his father was free.
All at once, his door flew open and Billy jumped up, startled. His mother filled the doorway. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“How about knocking?” He started stuffing the pictures back into their envelope.
“What are those?” She ran toward him and began to grab for the pictures. He turned away, protecting his treasures as she tugged at his arms. It was as though she were obsessed. He was barely stronger than she, but just as determined. After a moment, Marion gained control of herself. Billy retreated to a comer, clutching his memories.
“How long have you had those? And where did you get them?” Although she no longer grabbed for them, her voice was insistent.
“They’re mine. You don’t have any right to touch my stuff. He’s my father.”
“He’s destroyed his own life. Almost ruined ours. Now do you want him to finish the job?”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about. All he did was fight against the Russians. Your damn Russian Mends.”