Nothing has changed much, Russell thought as the cab cruised down the streets of his hometown. The stores were the same, as well as the people, kids running along the sidewalks, old people in the park, the postman making his rounds. So why, he wondered, did he not feel at home here in Bement anymore? Why did he not feel a part of this small American town, one of its simple, ordinary citizens?
“The Bulldogs are last in their division,” the cabby said. He laughed. “Some things never change.”
But some things do, Russell said to himself, though he didn’t know how he’d changed. He knew only that Bement, Illinois, was no longer the whole world to him. Once, he could not have imagined leaving it. Now he could not imagine returning to it. Once it had comprised his universe. Now it seemed so small he had to squint to see it.
The cab pulled over to the curb, and Russell reached for his wallet.
“This one’s on me, Russell,” the cabby said. He smiled admiringly. “We’re all real proud of you.”
The cab pulled away and Russell stared at the house he’d lived in all his life. It was a plain, wood-frame house with a broad porch and a well-tended lawn. A 1931 Model A Ford rested in the driveway, recently washed and polished, made ready for his return.
He walked over to the car and touched it softly, as if its metal frame were flesh.
A dog rushed toward him, wagging its long, bushy tail. He knelt down and drew it roughly into his arms. “Hello, Champ.”
Then she was suddenly there, his mother, her gray hair shining in the bright sunlight. He saw that worry had done more than time to age her.
“Mom,” he said, taking her into his arms.
“Russell,” she said in a tone of wonder, as if still unable to convince herself that what she saw was true, that her son had actually returned to Bement safe and sound.
He glanced toward the porch where his father stood, peering down at him, still a big man, though he seemed smaller than before.
“You’re still in one piece, I see,” Mr. Keys said.
Russell stiffened slightly, like a boy called to attention. “Yes, sir, I am.”
They stared at each other briefly. Russell could see a surge of feeling in his father’s eyes, along with how very hard it was for him to control it.
“How do you like her?” his father said, nodding to the car as he came down the steps.
“She looks beautiful.”
“Had to hide her from a couple of scrap drives,” Mr. Keys added. “Kind of unpatriotic, I guess, but we did our bit in… other ways.”
The “other way” was himself, Russell knew, and in that instant he grasped the terrible toll the war had taken on his parents, their long nights of worry, of not knowing where their son was, or even if he were still alive.
“Your father spent the last four days washing that old heap,” his mother said.
Russell wanted to draw his father into his arms, wanted to hold him tight and sob like a little boy, release all the fear and dread that had accumulated within him during the war, simply let it flow out of him and pool at his feet and finally seep into the ground like a wash of black bile.
Instead he said, “Thanks, Pop.”
“We did it like you asked, Russ,” his mother told him. “We didn’t say a word to Kate.”
Kate.
Russell imagined her as he’d last seen her, a young woman with a bright, happy face, proof positive of love at first sight.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“At the bank,” his mother answered. She seemed to see the longing in his eyes. “Go,” she said, with a gentle push. “She can’t wait to see you.”
Kate was busy at her desk when Russell entered the bank, her back to him as she spoke into the phone.
“Miss,” Russell began, making only a slight attempt to disguise his voice.
She wagged her finger for him to wait a moment.
“Miss,” Russell repeated insistently. “Who do I see about getting one of those GI loans?”
She froze, and he knew that she’d recognized his voice. She whirled around and pulled him into her arms.
“Oh, Russell,” she said. Her eyes glistened and her voice broke, and she squeezed him with such force that for a moment he thought he might lose his breath.
That night, as they sat together on the front porch, he gave her the ring he’d bought on the Champs-Elysees.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
He knew that this was true, that the ring really was the most beautiful thing Kate had ever seen. He could still see the shine in her eyes later that night as he unpacked his duffel bag and made ready for bed. He peered around his old room, trying to reacquaint himself with the model cars he’d built as a boy, the Bulldogs pennant, all the things that had meant so much to him before he’d left for war, but which now, despite all his effort to reclaim them, seemed little more than artifacts of a vanished life.
He went to bed a few minutes later, still trying to snuggle into his old life, but the war returned to him in all its dreadful fury. He heard the roar of the planes, exploding bombs, the screams of the wounded, saw the earth torn and gashed, bleeding like a man. Each time he closed his eyes, some new vision returned to him, so that after a time he walked out of the house, down the porch steps and out into the yard. The night was clear and crisp, but it did not soothe him. He could feel nothing but the fever of war. He was like a piece of tangled steel, he thought, like a gutted plane-something torn away that could never be replaced.
The model A beckoned to him, reminding him of his days before the war, how proud he’d been of his small achievements, his victories on the ball field, feats that now seemed small, himself curiously incomplete, like a man who’d been given a mission he had not yet accomplished, a man waiting to be summoned, commanded… taken.
He walked to the car and got in. This had been his vehicle, he thought. He gripped the wheel and pressed his foot down on the accelerator. This had been his vehicle, but he no longer had the key to it, a way to make it go. He looked out into the night, the surrounding darkness, and felt utterly lost to his next move.
Then, without willing it, he screamed.
Chapter Two
Captain Owen Crawford stood in the vast gray hangar, his body dwarfed by the huge B-29 that loomed behind him. He was surrounded by various personnel, all of them young and eager. He knew with customary self-confidence that they hung on his every word, but there were two young officers who’d particularly caught his notice. Howard Bowen and Marty Erickson were clearly the most impressed with him. They were eager to please, and because of that they would be easy to mold. Perfect, Owen thought, sizing them up instantly, two young men who’d carry out his orders without a moment’s hesitation.
“The war was not won by superior manpower,” he began. “It wasn’t won by strategy.” He waited a beat, aware that this only heightened the anticipation of the people he addressed. “It was won by secrets.” He lifted his head slightly, his chin thrust out boldly. “When the Enola Gay dropped its payload on Hiroshima, only one hundred and seven men in the entire world knew what that specific payload was.” The assembled officers remained utterly silent. He’d focused them on the matter at hand instantly, and in doing that, he felt the power of his own voice and manner, the effortless way he gave off an authority and sense of command that was far beyond his actual rank. “That is the secret that won the war.” He settled his gaze on the two young intelligence officers he’d already noticed. They were staring at him with rapt attention. “As members of the Army Intelligence Corps, your job is to keep secrets. Doing that job well is what determines the course of history.” He let these last words sink in, then glanced at his watch and smiled. “And now, gentlemen, I must leave you. Dismissed.”