Part 20 (1/2)

Chester poured his gla.s.s full of whiskey again. He didn't like to think about things that might have been, either. Most of them were worse than the way things had really turned out. Some of them still made him wake up sweating in the night, even though the war had been over for two and a half years. He drank. If he got numb, he wouldn't have to think about them.

His mother got herself another drink, too. He raised an eyebrow at that; she didn't usually take a second gla.s.s. Maybe she had things she didn't want to think about, too. Maybe he'd given her some of those things. All at once, he felt ashamed.

”I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

His father got up and clapped him on the shoulder. ”You'll make a man yet,” he said. ”I think that's the first time I ever heard you say you were sorry and sound like you meant it. Kids say it, too, but they don't say it the same way. 'I'm sorry.'” Stephen Douglas Martin did a good imitation of a nine-year-old apologizing lest something worse happen to him.

Sue said, ”Here's hoping we don't need to say we're sorry at all-well, not much-next year.”

”I'll drink to that,” Chester said, and he did.

Every time he looked at the clock on the mantel, it got a bit later. He found that pretty funny, which was a sign he'd taken a little too much whiskey on board. He'd have a headache in the morning. He was glad he wouldn't have to go in to the steel mill. That would have made his head want to fall off.

A few minutes before midnight, firecrackers started going off. They alarmed Chester; they made him think of gunfire. They alarmed all the dogs in the neighborhood, too. Along with bangs and pops, Toledo ushered in 1920 with a chorus of canine howls and frantic barks and yips.

”Happy New Year!” Chester said when both hands on the clock stood straight up. ”Happy New Year!” He wondered if it would be. Then he wondered something else, something perhaps not altogether unrelated: who would be running for president?

Arthur McGregor stood in front of the stove in the kitchen, soaking in warmth as a flower soaked in sunlight. He had no idea why he thought of flowers: they weren't likely to appear in a Manitoba January. He turned so he'd cook on all sides.

Maude said, ”When you came inside, you had frost on your eyebrows.”

”I believe it,” he answered. ”If I wore a mustache, I'd have icicles hanging down from it, too. It's that kind of day. But if I don't get out there and take care of the stock, who's going to do it, eh?”

His wife's mouth tightened. Alexander should have been there to help. But Alexander was gone, except in the picture on the wall. McGregor moved away from the stove for a moment to go over and slip an arm around Maude. Her mouth fell open in surprise. Neither of them was greatly given to open displays of affection.

”I'm not doing as much as I should,” he said discontentedly.

”You hush,” Maude told him. ”You've done plenty. You don't need to worry about not doing more. If you want it to be enough, it can be enough.”

”But I don't,” he said. ”I have to do this, don't you see? I have to-and I can't.” Of themselves, his hands folded into fists of frustration.

Maude set a consoling hand on his shoulder. ”You went up to Winnipeg, Arthur. You looked around. And then you came home and said the thing couldn't be done.” That was as close as she would come to talking out loud about his bombs. ”If it can't be done, it can't, that's all.”

”d.a.m.n the Yanks!” he said fiercely. ”They keep too many soldiers around Custer's headquarters, and around the house he's stolen, too.” the Yanks!” he said fiercely. ”They keep too many soldiers around Custer's headquarters, and around the house he's stolen, too.”

Looking back on it, blowing up Major Hannebrink had been fairly easy. The Yanks' euphoria at winning the war had helped; everyone in Rosenfeld that night had been celebrating as if joy would turn illegal the second the sun came up again. And Hannebrink was only a major, and not nearly so valuable to the Americans as their commander for all of Canada.

They knew General Custer would make a target for Canadians, as Archduke Franz Ferdinand had made a target for the Serbs. A Serb bomber had killed Franz Ferdinand and touched off the Great War. The Americans didn't intend to let Custer go the same way. They kept swarms of soldiers around him. McGregor had had no chance whatever to plant a bomb anyplace where it might do any good.

He might have flung one into Custer's motorcar, as the Serbs had flung one into Franz Ferdinand's carriage. The Serbian nationalist who flung his bomb had been shot dead a moment later. McGregor wanted to live. Even killing Custer was not revenge enough to satisfy him. He wanted more later, if he ever got the chance.

”Maybe he'll come down here to Rosenfeld again,” Maude said.

She sounded consoling, the way she did when one of the girls was sad after breaking a toy. McGregor was sad-and furious, too-because he couldn't break his toy. If you looked at that the right way, it was grimly funny.

”Not likely,” he said. ”It isn't much of a town, when you get right down to it.” He scowled. ”There's just no chance for a man working by himself.”

Maude asked the question that had stymied him over and over again: ”Who can you trust?”

”n.o.body.” That was the answer he always reached. ”Too many people up here have their hands in the Yanks' pockets. Too many people spy on their neighbors. Too many people would just as soon turn into Yanks-and you can't always tell who they are, not till you find out the hard way you can't.”

His wife nodded. ”I don't know what you can do, then, except get on with things here.”

”I don't, either.” McGregor felt like a lone wolf looking to pull down the biggest bull moose in an enormous herd. That was, when you thought about it, a crazy thing to want to do. Part of him knew as much. No: all of him knew as much. It was just that most of him didn't care. Slowly, he said, ”The trouble is, there are too many hours in the day in the middle of winter-too much time to sit around and think.”

Farm work was harder and made a man keep longer hours than any town job. There were times, especially around the harvest, when he wished he could stay awake for a couple of weeks at a stretch so as not to waste any precious time. When snow lay deep on the ground, though, what a man could do diminished. After he tended the stock and made repairs around the house and barn, what was left but coming inside and sitting around and brooding?

Maude had an answer: ”You might help me with some of my ch.o.r.es. They don't go away when the weather gets cold. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.”

He stared at her. Did she think he was going to put on an ap.r.o.n and do women's work? If she did, she had another think coming. He intended to let her know as much, too, in great detail.

Then he saw her eyes sparkle. He'd drawn in his breath for an angry shout. He let it out in a gust of laughter instead. ”You're a devil,” he said. ”You really are. You had me going there.”

”I hope so,” his wife answered. ”It's good to see you smile, Arthur. I haven't seen it often enough, not since-” She stopped. No one in the family had smiled much since Alexander got shot. Gamely, she went on, ”We can't stay gloomy all the time. Life is too short for that. In spite of everything, life is too short for that.”

”I suppose not,” he said, nowhere near sure he supposed anything of the sort. To keep from having to decide whether he did or not, he pointed toward the ceiling. ”What are the girls doing?”

”As much schoolwork as they can, I hope,” Maude said. ”If it doesn't snow again, they ought to be able to start going again tomorrow or the day after. They want to go back.” A smile twisted only one corner of her mouth. ”I hope they can. I won't be sorry to have them out of the house for a while. They've been snapping at each other a lot the past few days.”

”I've noticed.” McGregor ruefully shook his head. ”I can still heat up Mary's backside, but that doesn't work with Julia any more.” His older daughter was a woman, which still bemused him. ”Have to talk sense to her, and sometimes she doesn't want to listen to sense.”

”And where do you figure she gets that?” his wife murmured. He pretended not to hear. Knowing when not to hear struck him as not the least important part of a happy marriage.

What he did say was, ”Fix me up a cup of tea, will you? I think I've warmed up enough so that it won't turn into a lump of ice in my belly now.”

He was sipping it when Julia came downstairs dramatically rolling her eyes and demanded, ”Who will do something about my nuisance of a little sister?”

McGregor laughed again-twice in one morning. ”You remind me of Henry II saying 'Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?'-and that was the end of Thomas a Becket,” he said.

Julia looked so angry, he thought for a moment she wanted someone to rid her of Mary. But she was angry about something else: ”They don't teach the history of England in school any more, except how the mother country was so wicked, the Americans had to have a revolution to get away.”

”I'm not surprised,” McGregor said. ”I'm not happy, mind you, but I'm not surprised. The Yanks are doing everything they can to make us the same as they are, and they try to pretend they invented everything they borrowed from the mother country. The less youngsters know about England, the easier it is for the Americans to get away with their lies.”

”That's right.” Julia seemed about to burst into tears. ”And there's nothing we can do about it, either, is there?”

Hearing that, McGregor knew he would have to try again to bomb General Custer. Maybe Custer's death would spark an uprising throughout Canada. Even if it didn't, it would remind his countrymen that they had a country of their own, that they weren't Yanks who happened to live in a cold climate and speak with a slightly strange accent.

And, with her fury against the United States, Julia had forgotten to be furious at her little sister. Or so McGregor thought, till Julia said, ”And Mary keeps humming in my ear until it drives me to distraction. She's being annoying on purpose.”

”If you'd been born a boy, you'd know how to take care of that,” McGregor said. ”You'd tell her to stop. If she didn't, you'd wallop her. If you want to go back upstairs and pretend you're a boy for a bit, that's all right with me.”

Julia went, the light of battle in her eyes. A few minutes later, McGregor heard a thump. He waited for Mary to come down and complain about what a beast Julia was being. Nothing of the sort happened. There were several more thumps, interspersed with shouts and a couple of thuds, as of one body, or perhaps two, suddenly landing on the floor.

He chuckled. ”That sounds cheery, doesn't it?”

”I hope they don't hurt each other,” Maude said worriedly. ”Julia's bigger, but I don't think Mary knows how to quit.”