Part 54 (1/2)

She shrugged now. ”I probably would have. But I meant what I did say.”

”Who was on the telephone?” he asked.

”A man named Edward C.L. Wiggins,” Anne replied. ”He wanted money from us for the Freedom Party.”

Tom frowned. ”Those people don't take no for an answer, do they?”

”They never have,” Anne said. ”It's their greatest strength-and their greatest weakness.”

”Did you find out why he travels with a herd of initials?” her brother asked. She shook her head. Tom went on, ”What did you tell him?”

”No, of course,” Anne answered. ”The way things are now, I'd sooner cozy up to a cottonmouth than to Jake Featherston.”

”Don't blame you a bit,” Tom Colleton said. ”He's an impressive man in a lot of ways, but...” He shook his head. ”He puts me in mind of a time bomb, wound up and waiting to go off. And when he does, I don't think it'll be pretty.”

”There were times when I thought he had all the answers,” Anne said. ”And there were times when I thought he was a little bit crazy. And there were times when I thought both those things at once. Those were the ones that scared me.”

”Scared me, too,” Tom agreed, ”and we don't scare easy.”

”No. We'd be dead by now if we did,” Anne said, and Tom nodded. She eyed him. ”And speaking of looking pretty, you're fancier than you need to be for staying around here. Is that a necktie?” She thought its gaudy stripes of crimson and gold excessive, but declined to criticize.

Her brother nodded again. ”Sure is. Bought it from what's-his-name, the Jew tailor. And I'm going to pay a call on Bertha Talmadge in a little while.”

Before the war, Anne would have discouraged such a call-with a bludgeon, if necessary. The Muncies, Bertha's parents, were grocers, and their daughter no fit match for a planter's son. These days...Well, grocers never starved. And Bertha Talmadge, though a widow whose husband, like so many others, had died in the trenches, was reasonably young, reasonably pretty, reasonably bright.

Anne nodded approval. ”Have a nice time. You should find yourself a wife, settle down, have yourself some children.”

He didn't get angry at her, as he would have before the war. In fact, he nodded again himself. ”You're right. I should. And, as a matter of fact, so should you.”

”That's different,” Anne said quickly.

”How?”

Because he was her brother, she told him: ”Because my husband would want to try to run everything, because that's what men do. And odds are he wouldn't be as good at it as I am. That's why.”

”And even if he was, you wouldn't admit it,” Tom said.

That was also true. Anne Colleton, however, had not the slightest intention of admitting it. Giving her brother her most enigmatic smile, she went back to the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal.

Fright showed on her mother's careworn face. Maude McGregor touched the sleeve of her woolen blouse to show Mary she still wore mourning black. ”You be careful,” she said. ”If anything happened to you after Alexander and Arthur, I don't think I could bear it.”

She didn't tell Mary not to pursue vengeance against the Americans occupying Canada. Plainly, she knew better. That would have been telling the sun not to rise, the snow not to fall. Ever since the Americans arrested her older brother during the war on a charge of sabotage, lined him up against a wall, and shot him, she'd hated them with an altogether unchildlike ferocity.

”Of course I'll be careful,” she said now, as if she were the adult and her mother the worried, fussy child. ”Pa was careful. He just...wasn't lucky at the end. He should have got that...blamed General Custer.” However much she hated Americans, she wasn't allowed to curse at the supper table.

Her older sister nodded. ”Who would have thought Custer would be waiting for Father to throw that bomb and be ready to throw it back?” Julia said. ”That was was bad luck, nothing else but.” She sighed. She hadn't only lost her father. Arthur McGregor's failure had also cost her an engagement; the Culligans had decided it just wasn't safe to join their son, Ted, to a bomber's family. bad luck, nothing else but.” She sighed. She hadn't only lost her father. Arthur McGregor's failure had also cost her an engagement; the Culligans had decided it just wasn't safe to join their son, Ted, to a bomber's family.

”Part of it was,” their mother said. ”Mary, would you please pa.s.s the b.u.t.ter?” Mayhem and manners lived together under the McGregors' roof.

”Here you are, Ma,” Mary said, and her mother b.u.t.tered her mashed potatoes. Mary went on, ”What do you mean, part of it was bad luck? It all all was!” was!”

Her mother shook her head. ”No, only part. The Americans suspected your father. They came sniffing around here all the time, remember. If they hadn't suspected, Custer wouldn't have been ready to...to do what he did.”

What he'd done by throwing the bomb back had blown Arthur McGregor to red rags; the family could have buried him in a jam tin. No one still alive wanted to think about that. ”I'll be careful,” Mary said again. She brushed a wisp of auburn hair back from her face in a gesture her mother might have made. Maude McGregor had reddish hair, too. Julia was darker, as her father had been.

Maude McGregor said, ”I just thank G.o.d you're only thirteen, and not likely to get into too much mischief for a while. You know the Yankees will keep an eye on us forever, on account of what the menfolks in our family did.”

”Alexander never did anything!” Mary said hotly.

”They thought he did, and that was all that mattered to them,” her mother answered. ”Your father never would have done any of the things he he did if that hadn't happened-and we'd all be here together.” She stared down at the heavy white earthenware plate in front of her. did if that hadn't happened-and we'd all be here together.” She stared down at the heavy white earthenware plate in front of her.

”I'm sorry, Mother.” Seeing her mother unhappy could still tear Mary to pieces inside. But she wasted little time amending that: ”I'm sorry I made you unhappy.” She wasn't sorry she wanted revenge on the Americans. Nothing could make her sorry about that.

”We've been through too much. I don't want us to have to go through any more,” her mother said. Maude McGregor quickly brought her napkin up to her face. Pretending to wipe her mouth, she dabbed at her eyes instead. She tried not to let her children catch her crying. Sometimes, try as she would, she failed.

Mary said, ”Canada's been through too much. There isn't even a Canada any more. That's what the Americans say, anyhow. If they say it loud enough and often enough, lots of people will start believing it. But I won't.”