So now I knew. I knew what had happened to me. I had been recruited by Waterman to infiltrate the Homelanders. Because of my closeness to Sherman, because of Sherman’s conviction that I could be convinced to join him, because of my karate skills, because of my sure and certain commitment to American liberty, I had been a perfect candidate for the job. The rest I didn’t remember yet, but I could guess. I must’ve succeeded in my task. I infiltrated the Homelanders as planned. But somehow, it had gone wrong. I had been caught. Captured. I had been strapped to the metal chair in that white room and tortured. And in order to protect Waterman and his friends, I had set off the device in my mouth and swallowed the chemical that made me forget a year of my life.
It all made sense now. It all made sense at last.
I thought of myself in the dream again, standing at the center of the garden maze, talking to that murky figure. Who was he, I wondered? Was he Waterman? Or was he the other man, my other contact, the one Waylon was searching for, the man who could still identify me as an agent working for America?
I struggled to delve past the dream images, into my memory. But before I could give it much consideration, I was distracted by something: the smell of bacon and eggs coming out of Margaret’s kitchen. The house was small and the smells reached me full force and I suddenly realized, full force, just how incredibly hungry I was. I licked my lips as my mouth watered.
It was only then, as the smells brought me back to myself, that I realized someone was watching me.
Startled, I turned to the door. It was the boy-the boy from the photographs, the little boy who had come in with Margaret when they caught me inside their house- Margaret’s son. I had heard his name just before I collapsed. What was it?
“Larry,” I said aloud.
He was just outside the door, hiding behind the frame, fearfully peeking in around the edge of it. He was a little guy, his face thin and pale. He had dark circles under his eyes and a frowny, worried expression. When I spoke his name, he ducked back behind the door and out of sight. But after a moment, he peeked out at me again.
“Hey, Larry, how’s it going?” I said.
“Fine,” he murmured shyly.
I noticed he was clutching something in his fist.
“What’ve you got there?” I asked him. “You bring something to show me?”
He had. He opened his hand and held it out so I could see.
“Soldiers,” I said.
“Marines,” he corrected me.
“Marines, right. They’re the best, aren’t they?”
He nodded.
I remembered the photographs I’d seen in the living room. “Your dad’s a Marine, isn’t he?”
The boy nodded. “Only he got killed in Afghanistan.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s really sad. I’m sorry.”
“He’s in heaven now.”
“I hear Marines get to go to the head of the line up there.”
That made Larry smile. With a little more confidence, he said, “Because he was fighting for people to be free.” And then he added: “Like you are.”
Before I could react, Margaret’s voice came from the living room. “Hey there, you. Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?”
Now she came back into view. She was carrying a tray with my food on it. Larry gave the tray the eye.
“I’m hungry too,” he said.
“Well, we’re gonna eat just as soon as I feed our guest, all right?”
“How come he gets to have breakfast when it’s dinnertime?”
“Because he’s been sick.”
“I feel sick too,” said Larry.
“No, you don’t. Now get back in your room before I hang you by your toes and tickle your nose to make you sneeze upside down.”
“Yuck,” he said. “That’s disgusting.” He gave me a glance.
“See you, Larry,” I said.
He waved and shuffled away from the door.
She came in and handed me the tray to set down on my lap. Eggs, toast, hash brown potatoes. I was so hungry, I could barely get out a “Thank you” and say a silent grace before I tore into it. Margaret sat in the chair and watched me shovel the food into my mouth with a small smile on her lips.
“You say grace?” she asked me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All right. Well, it’s good to see you eat, that’s for sure.”
I answered with my mouth full. I could barely stop eating long enough to get the words out. “How long have I been here?”
“A night and a day. It’s getting toward evening again now.” She had a soft, kind voice. It was like her face: tired but somehow peaceful. She looked and sounded like a woman who was on a long, hard journey but knew she was headed for a good place.
“You have a nice son,” I said to her.
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
“Why did he say that? About me fighting for freedom.”
She only smiled.
“I guess I’ve been talking in my fever, huh?” I said.
She nodded slowly. “You have.”
I guess I should’ve been upset about that-you know, upset that I’d given myself away and all. But for some reason, it didn’t bother me. I knew instinctively that I could trust this woman. It wasn’t just that she’d protected me from Rose or taken care of me in my delirium or that her husband had been a Marine. It was partly all those things, I guess, but it was also just something about her, something about the way she was.
“Did I tell you everything?” I asked her.
“I guess. It was all pretty confused, but I guess you told me enough. It’s quite a story.”
“I’m only remembering it now myself.”
“So I gathered. They gave you something?”
“Some kind of chemical, yeah. It made me forget the last year.”
There was nothing left on my plate by this time but the yellow yolk of the eggs and a piece of toast. I mopped up the yolk with the toast and took a bite.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” I said.
“Swallow first. I can’t understand you.”
I worked the toast down. “I’m sorry about your husband.”
She didn’t answer right away. She nodded. After a moment, she leaned forward in her chair, putting her elbows on her knees and looking down at the floor. “It broke my heart,” she said. “He was the best man I ever knew or ever expect to know, and I miss him every day and our boy misses him.” She lifted her head and looked at me with a peculiar, intense look. “But now I’m going to tell you something about that. All right?”
“Yeah… sure,” I said.
“No, I mean, really. Look at me, Charlie.”
I looked at her, the last piece of bread lifted halfway to my lips.
She said: “A broken heart is not the worst thing in the world. And neither, when it comes to that, is death. You can’t get through a good, strong life without coming upon both of them one way or another, without looking them both straight in the eye. But if I could go back in time and protect myself from my broken heart by living my life in fear, by saying yes to every bully and slave driver who came along, by scuttling away from my duty and from my country and from the things I love and believe in, I wouldn’t do it, and my husband wouldn’t have done it, and he wouldn’t want me to do it. You understand what I’m telling you, Charlie?”
Still holding the toast, I half shook my head. I wasn’t sure I did understand.
“What I’m telling you is that your mama is going to be all right. You did what you had to do. And a woman who raised a boy like you is going to understand that one day and it’ll serve to heal her heart, trust me.”
Suddenly, tears sprang to my eyes. It happened so fast, it took me by surprise, and I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t stop it. Embarrassed, I set the toast down and wiped the tears away with my palm as quickly as I could. I was afraid if I didn’t, Margaret would come over to the bed and try to comfort me, and then I knew I would break down for real.