And if a new war does start, and if your boat goes to the bottom, is that what you want them to remember you for? he wondered. Had the same question ever occurred to his father? Probably not. But then, his father hadn't known anything about a big war before he found himself in the middle of the biggest one of all time. People living in the USA nowadays didn't have that excuse.
Neither did people living in the CSA. The Great War had hurt them even worse. They, or at least Jake Featherston, seemed ready-hell, seemed eager- for another round. George wondered why.
He found an answer, too, the same way as he'd found an answer when he thought about his old man. The Confederates lost. That means they want revenge. The USA had lost two wars in a row to the CSA. That had made people here twice as serious about getting their own back. Now, after a win, people here thought everything was square. South of the border, they didn't.
Will there ever be an end? Will both sides ever be satisfied at the same time? He thought that one over, too. Unlike the other questions, it didn't have an answer that leaped into sight.
No Confederate submersible or commerce raider challenged the Sweet Sue. No dive bomber dropped explosives on her from the sky. She sailed back into Boston harbor as if pulling fish from the sea were the hardest, most dangerous thing to do men had ever invented. In peacetime, it came close. Peacetime, though, felt like summertime. Even as you enjoyed it, you knew it wouldn't last.
When the Sweet Sue tied up at T Wharf, the first officer made the best deal he could with the buyers. Normally, George would have stuck around to find out how good the deal was. His own share of the pie depended on how big a pie he was looking at. Today, though, he drew fifty dollars against whatever the total would be and headed for the apartment where he spent rather less time than he did at sea.
He had to get past all the harborside attractions that tried to separate fishermen from their money and make them forget about their wives. Football games and raucous music blared from wireless sets in saloons. A drunk reeled out of a tavern. He almost ran into George. "Easy, pal," George said, and dodged.
Music with more of a thump and pound to it, music played by real live musicians, poured out of strip joints. Hearing that kind of music made you think about the girls who'd dance to it, and about what they would-or wouldn't-be wearing. You could get drinks in those joints, too, but they'd cost twice as much.
If you didn't want to drink, if you didn't want to watch, if you wanted to get down to business… A swarthy, tired-looking woman about George's age leaned out of a second-story window and beckoned to him. She wasn't wearing anything from the waist up. Her breasts drooped. They seemed tired, too. She tried to sound alluring when she called, "How about it, big boy?"
George kept walking. The whore swore at him. Even her curses sounded tired.
His block of flats stood only a couple of streets farther on. He hurried to it. Unlike the one where he'd lived with his mother, it had an elevator. Most of the time, he took that as proof he'd come up in the world. When he stepped into the lobby now, though, the cage was empty. The car was on some upper floor. He didn't have the patience to wait for it. He went up four flights of stairs, taking them two at a time till his knees got tired.
The key to his apartment was brass. A good thing, too; with all the time he spent out on the ocean, an iron key would have rusted on the chain. He put the key in the lock and turned it.
Connie's startled voice came from the kitchen: "Who's there?" And then, realizing only one person besides her had a key, she went on, "Is that you, George?"
"Well, it's not the tooth fairy and it's not the Easter Bunny and it's not Santa Claus," he answered.
She came rocketing out of the kitchen and into his arms. He squeezed her till she squeaked. She felt wonderful. He didn't stop to think that he'd been at sea so long, the Wicked Witch of the North would have felt good to him. He kissed her. Things might have-no, things would have-gone straight on from there if Bill and Pat hadn't charged him and tried tackling him in ways that would have got flags thrown on any gridiron in the country. Fortunately, they weren't big enough to do any serious damage.
"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" they squealed. If they went on after that, it was in voices only dogs could hear.
He let go of Connie and hugged the boys. They were also good to come home to, in a different way. His wife asked, "How long will you be here this time?"
"Don't know. Didn't hang around to find out," he said. "I just drew part of my pay and headed on over here. When they want me again, they'll come after me."
"Well, at least they won't have to scour the saloons to find you," Connie said. "Some of those people…"
George didn't say anything to that. He just tried to look virtuous. He didn't know how good a job he did. For one thing, he intended to take a drink or three while he had the chance. For another, Connie's father had seen the inside of a tavern and the bottom of a glass more than a few times in his day.
But George didn't want to think about that right this minute, either. He asked, "How are things here?"
"Pretty good," Connie answered. "They've been good boys. They haven't tried to pull the ears off the cat or flush the Sears, Roebuck catalogue down the toilet." They had committed the felony with the catalogue, one crumpled page and then more than one crumpled page at a time, till a flood and two spankings resulted. They hadn't messed with the cat's ears, at least not where their parents could catch them. But then Whiskers, unlike the hapless catalogue, could take care of himself.
The cat strolled up to see what the commotion was about. He gave George a leisurely glance, then yawned, showing needle teeth. Oh, it's you, he might have said. He remembered George between trips just well enough to tolerate being petted. And, of course, George smelled of fish, which made him interesting.
"How was the run?" Connie did her best not to sound anxious. Her best could have been better. If the run wasn't good, things got tight. She had to make ends meet on whatever George brought home.
"Pretty good. We brought back a lot of tuna," he answered. "Only question now is how much it'll bring."
"News hasn't been good," Connie said, and he nodded. She went on, "That might drive prices up."
"Maybe. I can hope." He sniffed. "What smells good?"
"I was stewing a chicken," she told him. "We were going to have it for two nights, maybe three, but who cares? I've got to show you I'm a better cook than the Cookie, don't I?"
"You're a lot cuter than Davey, anyhow," he said, which made her squawk. He went on, "I just hope Bill and Pat get sleepy pretty soon." Both boys let out indignant howls. If he'd listened to them, he would have believed they would never fall asleep again. Fortunately, he knew better.
Connie turned red. "My father used to say things like that when he came home from a fishing run."
"So did mine," George said. "I never understood why till not very long ago. I don't remember much about my pa, but that sticks in my mind."
"How come, Daddy?" Bill asked.
"I don't know. It just does," George answered. "It's the sort of thing a fisherman would say, that's for sure." Bill asked why again. George didn't say, not in words. He kissed Connie again instead. As far as he was concerned, that was the best answer he could give.
Jefferson Pinkard looked around at his kingdom and found it… not so good. He turned to Mercer Scott, the guard chief at Camp Dependable. "For Chris-sake, Mercer," he said, "what the hell are we gonna do when those goddamn sons of bitches in Richmond send us another shipment of niggers? This camp'll go boom, on account of there just ain't no room for any more spooks in here. Do they care? Do they give a shit? Don't make me laugh."