Had she been a liar, a cheat, a thief? I don’t know. Had I completely misunderstood the little nudge she’d given Lana that day as the two girls raced for the train? Again, I don’t know. What children perceive and remember years later can be so different from what adults know… or think they know. Perhaps she’d already been doomed to live as she did after she left us, and to die as she did in that bleak, unlighted space. Or perhaps not. I couldn’t say. I knew only that for me, as for all parents, the art of controlling damage is one we practice in the dark.
THOMAS H. COOK is the international-award-winning author of more than thirty books. He has been nominated for the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Allan Poe Award eight times in five different categories, and his novel The Chatham School Affair won the Best Novel Award in 1996. He has twice won the Swedish Academy of Detection’s Martin Beck Award, the only novelist ever to have done so. His short story “Fatherhood” won the Herodotus Prize for best historical short story. His works have been translated into more than twenty languages.
THE DAY AFTER VICTORY by Brendan DuBois
It was seven a.m. in Times Square, New York, on Wednesday August 15, when Leon Foss slowly maneuvered the trash cart-with its huge wheels and two brooms-along the sidewalk near the intersection of Seventh Avenue and West Forty-Sixth Street, shaking his head at the sheer amount of trash that was facing him and the other street sweepers from the Department of Sanitation. He had on the usual “white angel” uniform of white slacks, jacket, and cap-which was stiff and felt new-and never had he seen so much trash. It was almost up to his knees.
Traffic moved slowly through the square-Packards, Oldsmobiles, old Ford trucks making deliveries-tossing up plumes of torn paper, tickertape, and newspapers that had been tossed around with such glee the day before, on V-J Day-Victory over Japan Day-the end of the war.
His eyes darted along the sidewalk, taking in the Rexall Drugstore, a bar, a restaurant, and a joint called Spike’s Place. It had dark windows and an unlit neon sign overhead, and a small alcove with a closed door.
A few pedestrians were moving along the cluttered sidewalks, but it seemed like most of New York was taking the day off after yesterday’s events, the biggest party since… well, since anyone could remember. And what a party, and he had missed every single second of it. Instead, he had listened to NBC Blue via his RCA radio in his third-floor walk-up in Washington Heights; he had no interest in catching the subway south to join the party. He had sat there in the tiny room, smoking a Chesterfield, listening to Truman’s flat Missouri twang go on and on, nothing like FDR’s cultured way of talking. Months after FDR’s death, he still missed That Man’s voice… As he had smoked that cigarette yesterday and listened, his phone rang.
“Leon?” had come a woman’s voice.
“Yes, Martha, it’s me,” he had said, speaking to his sister. In the background were sounds of machinery. Martha worked at a war plant out on Long Island. “How are you doing?”
“Taking a break, wondering how much longer I’ll have a job. Are you listening to the radio?”
“Yes.”
“It’s finally over, then, isn’t it.”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“Leon… you’re too old to keep at it. Let it go. It’s all over now. Please, stop working.”
“Martha, it was nice of you to call,” he had said. “Don’t be late going back to the assembly line, okay?”
And he had hung up and smoked the Chesterfield and listened to Truman some more.
Now he started with his morning’s work, taking the big broom, pulling stuff off the sidewalks so the larger street sweepers could pick it up. Paper, broken beer bottles, broken gin bottles, copies of the Daily News and other newspapers, with their EXTRA headlines. Sweep, sweep, sweep. More torn pieces of paper. A uniform cap for a Marine. He picked it up, looked inside the brim, saw a hasty scrawl of some kid’s name on a piece of cardboard stuck behind the plastic. He walked down the sidewalk a bit, carefully placed the hat on top of a blue and white mailbox, just in case the boy came back later to retrieve it.
Just in case.
Broom in hand, he went back to his cart to see another sanitation worker standing there, older, heavier, his white uniform stained. His face was covered with black bristle, and Leon figured that, in the rush to get to work this morning, he forgot to shave.
“Hey,” the worker said.
“Hey,” Leon said right back, and the worker said, “Christ, who the hell are you? You don’t belong here. I know all the regulars.”
Leon lowered his broom, went back to work. “Look around, Mac. More trash here than any other place in the world, and it’s gotta be cleaned up.” Sweep, sweep, sweep. “I usually work on Staten Island. Boss called me yesterday, said to get to Times Square this morning, and here I am.”
“Oh.” Then the guy leaned over and peered into Leon’s cart, and damn, Leon almost had a fit at that. But the guy leaned back without noticing anything and said, “Shit, you must have just started.”
“That’s right.”
The other sweeper started pushing his cart and stopped. His head rose to take in all the tall impressive buildings rising up from Times Square. “Greatest city in the world, ain’t it?”
“No argument here,” Leon said.
“Think about it. All those cities around the world, bombed, flattened, or occupied. London, Paris, Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo. Only one city didn’t get hit. Ours.” The man spat on the ground. “I spent a couple of years in Civil Defense. Got an armband and a white helmet. Did some drills about how to do first aid and put out incendiary bombs. Also knocked back a few beers. Christ, we was lucky. You know, I’m not much of a religious guy, but it makes you think God spared us, you know?”
“Good point,” Leon said, still working.
“All those lights back on, rationing ending, the boys coming back. My boy, too… he was stationed over in Belgium, and he’ll be back home soon. This place is gonna jump in the years ahead. Mark my words! Jump!”
Leon gave the guy a cool brush-off smile. “Yes. Jump.”
The worker shrugged, started pushing his cart. “See you around, bud.”
“You, too.”
And when Leon turned to keep on sweeping, there was a man standing in the alcove of Spike’s Place, smoking a cigarette.
Leon froze, and then he went back to work.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
More paper, more broken glass. There was a growling hum of a street sweeper at work on the other side of the square. Tickertape, some pages torn from a phone book. A woman’s pale pink brassiere. And then, a woman’s pale pink panties. A matching set? Maybe. He sure hoped they slipped off some pretty girl in a moment of delight and happiness that all the killing, wounding, and soldiers being made prisoner was over. That those long days of dreading the phone call, the knock on the door, the telegram delivery, the casualty lists in the newspapers, all those days were now, finally, behind you.
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
He paused in front of Spike’s Place, where the man was standing, still smoking a cigarette. He looked sharp, late twenties, early thirties, maybe. Nice shiny black shoes, dark gray slacks, and dark blue blazer. White shirt and a real snazzy tie, a snappy fedora. He looked at Leon and then looked away. Leon leaned on his broom. “Hey,” he said.