After her time in Paris and Richmond—especially after her time in Paris—Anne Colleton found St. Matthews, South Carolina, much too small and confining. She did what she could to fight the feeling by making forays into Columbia and Charleston, but that helped only so much. She had to come back to the flat where she’d lived since Red Negroes almost killed her on the Marshlands plantation.
The Confederate government—or maybe it was the Freedom Party—had paid the rent on the flat while she was abroad. She hadn’t had to put her worldly goods into storage and then exhume them when she took up her life in St. Matthews again. That was something, anyhow. Something … but not enough.
In Paris, she’d haggled over alliances and foreign affairs in her fluent French. In St. Matthews, people talked about the weather and crops and what they’d heard on the wireless the night before. But for the talk about the wireless, Anne had grown up on such conversation. It seemed all the more stifling now.
When her brother came over to visit one warm, muggy afternoon in late May, she burst out, “If I hear one more word about tractors and combines and harvesters, the loudmouth who says that word is going to be awfully sorry.”
Tom Colleton shrugged. “Sorry, Sis,” he said. “That stuff is important here. It’s important all over the CSA.”
“It’s boring,” Anne replied with great sincerity. “All the yahoos bragging about the fancy equipment they’ve got … They don’t get that excited about the equipment in their drawers, for Christ’s sake.”
Her brother turned red. “You can’t talk like that around here,” he said, and then, before she could further scandalize him by asking why not, he went on, “Besides, tractors and such-like are important. You notice how many niggers have been coming through town lately?”
“I should say I have,” Anne answered. “One more reason to keep guns where I can get at them in a hurry.”
“Yeah, I know. Theft is up. That’s a problem,” Tom said. “But those niggers are sharecroppers who don’t have work any more because the machinery’s doing it instead of them. We don’t need nearly so many people tied down to the land as we did when the Great War started.”
Anne started to say, And so? Then she remembered that pushing hard for farm machinery was part of Featherston’s program.
Before she could remark on that, Tom said, “I don’t know what the towns’ll do if all the niggers from the countryside stream into them at once. Do you know? Does the president?”
“If he does, he isn’t telling me,” Anne said.
“No? Too bad. He’d make a lot of friends if he came out and said what he has in mind. This is liable to hurt him when elections come around this fall.”
That made Anne smile. She couldn’t help herself. “Do you think anything will get in the way of the Freedom Party at election time? Anything at all?”
Her brother’s face was a study in astonishment. “But there’ve always been elections,” he said.
“The Freedom Party is in.” Anne might have been an adult reproving a child’s naÏveté. “It’s going to stay in till it gets where it’s going and the Confederate States get where they’re going.”
“Christ!” Tom said. “I don’t think I much care for that.”
“Tom …” Now Anne spoke urgently, warning him against disaster. “Do you realize how big a chance you’re taking saying that even to me? If you say it to somebody else—and it could be somebody you trust—you’re liable to end up in more trouble than you’ve ever imagined.”
Tom Colleton started to say something else. Very visibly, he changed his mind. But he couldn’t let it go. He asked, “And you work with these people? You work for these people?” By the way he looked at her, he might have been seeing her for the first time.
But Anne didn’t hesitate before she nodded. “I sure do,” she said. “Because they’re going to take the CSA where I want us to go—right back up to the top.”
“I’d sooner—” Her brother caught himself again. His face twisted. “All right, Sis. I’ll shut up. If I talk too goddamn much, I’m liable to end up in a camp with a big P stenciled on the back of my shirt. Isn’t that right?”
She winced. “Not if you’re talking to me.”
“That isn’t what you said a minute ago.”
“I just wanted to remind you that you need to be careful. And you do.”
“Because if I’m not careful, I will end up in a camp.” That was statement, not question. Tom paused to light a cigarette. After a couple of long, angry puffs, he added, “If that’s where the Freedom Party is taking the country, to hell with me if I want to go along. Am I a nigger? Or am I a white man who can stand up on his hind legs and speak his mind if he wants to?”
“We’ve all got to give up something if we’re going to get revenge on the USA,” Anne said soothingly. “The Yankees put up with keeping quiet and doing what they were told and standing in line for rationed goods for thirty years so they could get even with us.”
The coal on that cigarette glowed a fierce, fiery red when Tom took another drag. Smoke fumed from him as he replied, “They didn’t give up elections, did they? They didn’t stop talking when they felt like talking. Even during the war, the Socialists were telling the Democrats to go to the devil. You should’ve heard some of the mouthy prisoners we caught up in Virginia.”
“Yes, they had elections,” Anne said. “They had them, but how much did they matter? From the the Second Mexican War up till they licked us in the Great War, the Democrats won every single time. So they had them. They kept people happy with them. But the elections didn’t really count. Maybe the Freedom Party will keep on doing that, so people will stay happy. I don’t know. The Whigs here did.”
“And when the Whigs lost, they got out of office and handed things over to Featherston, the way they were supposed to.” Tom stubbed out the cigarette, then lit another one. “If the Freedom Party loses, will it do the same?”
No, Anne thought. She decided she didn’t want to be that blunt, so she answered, “I don’t see the Freedom Party losing any time soon. People have work where they didn’t before. I was in Richmond for the Olympics. I saw what a hit they were. People are proud again. They want to vote Freedom.”
Before the war, Tom had been content, even eager, for her to do his thinking for him. He wasn’t any more. He was his own man now. Through the haze of tobacco smoke around him—he might have been putting up a smoke screen—he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
I know I didn’t. You weren’t supposed to notice. Anne said, “I don’t think the Freedom Party will lose an election for quite a while—not one that’s really important to it, anyway—except maybe in Louisiana, and that hardly counts.”
It still wasn’t a direct answer. It seemed to come close enough. Tom said, “All Featherston needs is a crown, like the one the Emperor of Mexico wears.”
“Think whatever you want,” Anne said wearily. “You care about your family, though. Be careful where you shoot off your mouth. Please.”
“Why? Don’t you have dear old Jake wrapped around your finger?”
Anne’s lips skinned back from her teeth in what was anything but a smile. At that, the question could have been worse; at least he’d asked about her finger and not some other part of her anatomy. She had to hide a small shiver as she answered, “Don’t be stupid, Tom. Anybody who’s ever tried to get Jake Featherston to do what he wants—or what she wants—has ended up either sorry or dead. And before you ask, I think it’s more luck than anything else that I’m still here.”
More than her words, she thought, her tone got through to Tom. His eyes, blue as her own, went wide. He blurted, “Sweet Jesus Christ, Anne, you’re scared to death of him!”
“Anybody who’s met him and who isn’t is a fool,” she said. “Standing up against him is like standing up to a hurricane. You can yell and scream and fight and carry on, but he’ll blow you over just the same.”
He laughed. She’d known he would, and she’d known why. Sure enough, he said, “That’s how people talk about you, you know.”
“Oh, yes.” She waved the words aside for now; she’d assess the hurt later. For the time being, she wanted to make sure she was understood: “But he’s … he’s serious about things. He’s serious all the time. And what he wants, happens. I don’t always know how it does, but it does. Think about it. The Whigs had run things here for as long as the Confederate States were a country. If they couldn’t stop Jake Featherston—and they damned well couldn’t—what can? Nothing. Nobody.”
Tom Colleton shook his head in disbelief. “You talk about him like he really is a hurricane. He’s just a man, Sis.”
Anne shook her head, too. “Oh, he’s a man, all right. He sleeps. He eats. He goes to the toilet.” That jerked a startled laugh out of her brother. She went on, “He’ll die one of these days. If that nigger had shot him at the Olympics, he’d’ve died right then. But as long as he’s alive, he’s not just a man. For a long time, I thought he was, too. So did a lot of people. Look what’s happened since. We were wrong, every single one of us.”
Another cigarette out of the pack. The scrape and flare of another match. The harsh stink of sulfur before the mellower smell of tobacco smoke. Tom blew a smoke ring up toward the ceiling, maybe to give himself time to think. He said, “I never reckoned anybody could make you talk like that.”
“Did you think I did?” she flared. “But Jake does make me talk that way. And you’d better be careful how you talk, too. If you do anything stupid, I can’t protect you. Have you got that? I can’t. Featherston and the stalwarts will do whatever they want. Oh, he might listen to me if I beg hard enough. He might. I’ve done some useful things for him, and he might throw me a bone. But I walked away from the Freedom Party once, remember? I thought he was finished, and I went back to the Whigs. He never forgets something like that. He might use you to pay me back, too. Don’t give him the chance. Please.”
Had she ever said please to him before? Oh, she’d said it. She must have. Everybody did, for politeness’ sake. But had she ever meant it the way she had twice in the past five minutes? She didn’t think so. Children meant please, especially when they got into trouble. Usually, grownups didn’t have to.
Her desperate urgency must have got through to her brother. He put out the latest cigarette—by now, the ashtray was full of butts—and got to his feet. “All right,” he said. “I’ll keep quiet. But it’s not for your sake. It’s for Bertha and the kids.”
“I don’t care why. Just do it,” Anne said. He left the flat without another word. She thought he’d slam the door, but he didn’t. The restraint was worse. It felt like a slap in the face. She wondered if they would ever have anything to say to each other again.
Lucien Galtier looked up at the sky. The sun was sliding down toward the northwest, but it wouldn’t set for a long time yet. When summer days came to the country by Rivière-du-Loup, they lasted. Long days meant short nights. He’d always thought that was good. It let him get more work done and spend more time with his family. Now … Now, suddenly, he wondered.
Oh, the work went on. He couldn’t imagine the work stopping altogether. If the work stopped, wasn’t that a sure sign he was dead? He could still do the work, too. He took a certain somber pride in that. True, he wasn’t young any more. But he was still strong. Thinking about that made him laugh.
He was walking back from weeding the potato plot, hoe on his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle, when an auto came up the track from the road toward his farmhouse. He picked up the pace, like a soldier going from ordinary march to double time. That machine belonged to the O’Doulls.
Sure enough, his son-in-law got out of the motorcar and stood there waiting for him. “A good day to you!” Galtier called to Dr. Leonard O’Doull. “And what brings you here?”
“What brings me here?” O’Doull patted the iron flank of the motorcar. “My automobile, what else?”
“Thank you so much.” Lucien unshouldered the hoe and made as if to swing it, like a soldier starting bayonet drill. “Let me ask the question another way, then: why have you come here?”
“Oh! Why?” What he meant might not have occurred to Dr. O’Doull before. Galtier didn’t believe that for a moment, but his son-in-law played the role of a suddenly enlightened one well. “I had some business at the hospital”—he pointed to the big building the U.S. Army had run up on Galtier’s land during the war—“and I thought I would stop by as long as I was so close.”
“Good. I’m glad you did. Come inside, if you like,. We can have a little something to drink, smoke a cigar—with an afternoon’s weeding behind me, I could use a cigar, and I could truly use a drink.”
His son-in-law laughed. “Motion carried by acclamation, without a dissenting voice.”
Lucien stowed the hoe in the barn. He and Leonard O’Doull went into the house through the door that led to the kitchen. Galtier knew the place wasn’t so clean and neat as it had been when Marie was alive. All he could do was hope she wouldn’t have been too displeased with the way he kept it up. He busied himself pouring a couple of glasses of applejack, and handed one to the American who’d married Nicole.
“Merci beaucoup.” Dr. O’Doull reached into a jacket pocket and took out two cigars. He gave one to Galtier. “Here you are. I delivered a baby boy yesterday. These are part of the reward from the father.”
“I thank you. I thank him. Come—let’s go into the front room.” When they’d sat down, when they had the cigars going, Lucien raised his glass of homemade Calvados. “Salut!” he said, and drank.
So did O’Doull. After a good swig, he whistled softly. “Son of a bitch,” he said in English, a tongue he used these days only when taken by surprise. He sipped again, more cautiously, and returned to French: “Potent stuff.”
“Yes, a strong batch,” Lucien agreed. Quality varied wildly from one jug to the next, as was only to be expected when people made the stuff in small stills with no tedious government regulations or even more tedious taxes. “Strong, but good. So … How wags your world?”
“Well enough, if I didn’t set fire to my liver there,” Leonard O’Doull replied. “For myself, for Nicole and little Lucien, all is well, as I hope it is for you.”
“As you say, well enough.” Galtier puffed on the cigar. He’d had better. Whoever the new father was, he was a cheapskate. He paused. “All is well for your family, you say, which is good. All is not so well somewhere else?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard that in the doctor’s voice, but thought he had.
And O’Doull nodded. “I am not nearly so sure I like the direction in which I see the world headed.”
Galtier tried to make sense of that. “What man ever does?”
“Non, mon beau-père, not like that,” O’Doull said. “Not the little thoughts that make a man wonder if he is all he should be. When I say the world, I mean … the world.” His expansive gesture not only took in the whole world, it nearly knocked over a lamp on the table next to the sofa where he sat. Maybe the applejack was hitting hard and fast. Maybe, too, he did have something big on his mind.
“And what of the world?” Lucien Galtier asked. “Most of it goes its way far from here. When I remember how things were when that was not so, I think this is not so bad. I can do without soldiers and bombs and such things on my doorstep. That ambulance driver I saw, poor fellow, wounded in his very manhood …” He shuddered and sipped again from his own drink.
“If you will recall, though, helping the wounded is why I first came to Quebec.” O’Doull picked up his glass. Instead of drinking, he stared at the pale yellow apple brandy. “I have been comfortable here for many years, forgetting the world and by the world forgot. But I fear one day I may have to go back to my proper craft, healing the wounded once more.”
“Here? In Quebec?” Lucien shook his head. “I do not believe it.”
“Nor I,” O’Doull replied with a sweet, sad smile. “But the world, poor thing, is wider than Quebec, and wilder, too, worse luck. And I am a doctor, and I am an American, and if my country should ever need me in another war—”
“God forbid!” Galtier broke in, and crossed himself.
“Yes. God forbid.” Leonard O’Doull nodded. “So the world said in 1914. But God did not forbid. And so, if He should happen to be watching a football match again …” Lucien laughed at the delicious blasphemy. His son-in-law was not in a laughing mood. O’Doull went on, “If that happens, how could I stay quiet here, attending to cases of measles and rheumatism? That would be a waste of everything for which I trained.”
The worst part of it was, what he said made sense to Galtier. Soberly—in spite of the applejack—the farmer said, “All I can tell you is, may this not come to pass.”
“Yes. May it not, indeed.” O’Doull knocked back the rest of his drink. After he got over the coughing fit that followed—the stuff was too strong for such cavalier treatment—he said, “Thank you for letting me share my darkness with you.”
“C’est rien,” Lucien replied. “And it is nothing because who but you saw my darkness not so long ago?” Who but you caused it? he thought. But that wasn’t fair, and he knew as much. O’Doull had only diagnosed the trouble Marie already had.
“Between the Action Française and the Freedom Party and the Silver Shirts in England, the world is a nastier place than it was ten years ago,” O’Doull said. “And in Russia, the Tsar seems to think the Jews cause all his problems, and no one seems to want to stay in Austria-Hungary except the Austrians and the Hungarians, and even the Hungarians are not so sure. And the Turks treat the Armenians as the Russians treat the Jews, and—”
“And you Americans hold down English-speaking Canada.” Galtier hadn’t expected to say that. It just popped out. He wondered if his son-in-law would be offended.
But Leonard O’Doull only nodded. “Yes. And that. Small next to some of the others, I believe, but no less real even so.” He got to his feet. “And now I had better leave. If you ask me to have another drink, I’ll say yes, and then I’ll be too drunk to go back to Rivière-du-Loup, and Nicole will be unhappy with me—and with you.” He gave a curiously old-fashioned bow, then made his way to the door, and to his motorcar.
Galtier wasn’t going anywhere that night. He made himself another drink, and poured it all down. Maybe it helped him go to sleep. After O’Doull’s dark fantasies, he needed all the help he could get.
When Sunday came, he drove into Rivière-du-Loup to hear Mass. As he’d got into the habit of doing the past few months, he stopped at Éloise Granche’s house to give her a ride into town. “Bonjour, Lucien,” she said as he opened the passenger-side door of the Chevrolet for her. “You look very handsome today.”
“I thank you … for not buying new spectacles any time lately,” he replied. She laughed. He went on, “Now, I do not need spectacles of any sort to know what a pretty woman I am lucky enough to have with me.”
“How you do go on,” she said, but indulgently.
When they got to the church, Éloise saw some lady friends and went to chat with them. Lucien sat in the bosom of his family. Nothing could have been more decorous. Nicole said, “How nice that you were able to bring Mme. Granche again.” Lucien nodded. The service started a moment later.
After taking communion, Galtier led Éloise Granche back to his auto. As they’d driven north, so they went south. When he stopped by the house, she said, “Would you care to come in for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you. I’d like that. I can’t stay long, though,” he replied.
They went inside. Everything was quiet and peaceful—and dark, for Éloise had no electricity. She turned. Lucien took her in his arms. A moment later, they were holding each other and kissing and murmuring endearments, for all the world as if they were a couple of youngsters discovering love for the very first time.
Laughing, exulting in his strength, Lucien lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom. “Be careful!” Éloise exclaimed. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He laughed some more. She said that every time. He hadn’t hurt himself yet, and didn’t seem likely to. And the soft feel of her made the way his heart pounded till he gently set her on the bed seem altogether worthwhile.
Before too long, his heart was pounding again, from an even more pleasurable exertion. “Oh, Lucien!” Éloise gasped, urging him on. Her nails dug into his back. “So sweet,” she murmured, eyes half closed. “So sweet.”
Afterwards, he gave her a kiss as he lay beside her. His heart was still drumming, harder than it would have when he was a younger man. He had more trouble catching his breath, too, than he would have when he and Marie were newlyweds.
“One of these days,” he said, “we should have Father Guillaume say the words over us.”
Women were supposed to be the ones who wanted such things, but Éloise shook her head, as she had several times before. “Not necessary,” she said. “Better if he doesn’t, in fact. It would only complicate matters with both our families. If we marry, it turns into a question of patrimonies. If we don’t, then this is … what it is, that’s all. I like it better this way.”
Lucien set a hand on his chest and mimed complete exhaustion. “I don’t think I could like it better than this,” he said. Éloise laughed again. They laughed a lot when they were alone together. Neither one of them had done much laughing for a long time before. And that, to Lucien, mattered almost as much as the other.
Cincinnatus Driver wasn’t an old man. No one—except his son, of course—could have accused him of being an old man. He was strong. His hair was—mostly—dark. He remained three years on the good side of fifty. None of that, though, had kept him from turning into a grandfather.
Karen Driver wiggled in his arms. He was getting used to holding a baby all over again. Karen weighed no more than a big cat, which is to say, nothing to speak of. He was getting used to the way she looked, too. Her skin was lighter than his, but not quite the coffee-with-cream color of Negroes with a fair amount of white blood. She had her mother’s narrow eyes with the folds of skin at the inner corners, too.
“She’s going to be beautiful,” Cincinnatus said. “She’s already beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Grace Driver said softly. Cincinnatus and Elizabeth had accepted her more readily than her folks accepted Achilles. The child helped and hurt at the same time. The Changs did love the baby, but Grace’s mother blamed her for not having a boy … among other things.
Karen stopped wiggling, screwed up her little face, and grunted. Cincinnatus laughed. He had no trouble remembering what that meant. He handed her to her mother. “She done made a mess in her drawers,” he said. He was just Karen’s granddad. He didn’t have to clean her up himself.
“I’ll take care of her,” Grace said, and changed the baby’s diaper.
Cincinnatus turned to his son. “How you doin’?” he asked.
“I’m all right,” Achilles answered, more of Iowa than of Kentucky in his accent. Cincinnatus knew his son would have said the same thing if he were living on the street and eating what he could fish out of garbage cans. Achilles had his own full measure of the family’s stubbornness. But he wasn’t on the street; he continued, “That clerking job of mine isn’t what you’d call exciting, but I can pay my bills. I won’t get rich, but I’m doing fine.”
“Good. That’s good.” Cincinnatus had been on his own when he was younger than Achilles was now, but he hadn’t had to worry about a family then. And a young black in Confederate Kentucky hadn’t had the hopes and dreams of one in U.S. Iowa. Cincinnatus had been brutally sure he wouldn’t, couldn’t, get very far ahead of the game. Achilles could aspire to more. He might not get it, but if he didn’t he’d have to blame himself as well as the system under which he lived. Down in the CSA, the system gave any Negro an easy excuse for failure.
“Let me have my grandbaby,” Elizabeth said, and reached for Karen. Elizabeth took to being a grandmother with none of the doubts about age and the like that troubled Cincinnatus. And Karen fascinated Amanda, who at fourteen was plenty old enough to help take care of her niece.
“How you doin’ with your folks these days?” Cincinnatus asked Grace.
Before she could answer, Achilles said, “Well, her daddy hasn’t called me a nigger, but he sure has come close.”
“I didn’t ask how you was doin’ with Mr. Chang,” Cincinnatus said sharply. “I asked how Grace was.”
“It is still hard,” she answered. “It is still very hard, like Achilles said. My father and especially my mother are not modern people. They think of China all the time. They don’t think we are all Americans. They don’t think we are all the same.”
Achilles stirred at that. “Pa doesn’t think we’re all the same, either. He thinks colored people are down at the bottom of the pile.”
“That ain’t so,” Cincinnatus said.
“The … heck it isn’t,” Achilles retorted.
“No.” Cincinnatus shook his head. “I never said that, and I don’t believe it. What I say is, white folks reckon black folks is on the bottom o’ the pile. An’ that’s the Lord’s truth. If you was old enough to recollect what it was like livin’ in Kentucky when it belonged to the Confederate States, you’d know it, too.”
“But we aren’t in the Confederate States any more,” Achilles pointed out.
“But white folks is still white folks.” That wasn’t Cincinnatus; it was Elizabeth. The two older people thought as one on this question. If anything, Elizabeth was more cautious about rocking the boat than her husband.
Grace’s smile was sad. She held up a hand to stop Achilles when he would have come back with a hot answer. That hand did stop him, too, as Cincinnatus noted with surprise and more than a little respect. She said, “My parents sound the same about this. But times have changed. If times hadn’t changed, would Achilles and I be together?”
“Times has changed—some,” Cincinnatus said. “They ain’t changed enough. You look at the black folks runnin’ away from the Confederate States. You look at how the USA don’t let ’em cross the border. President Hoover, President Smith, that don’t matter—it don’t change. The USA don’t want nothin’ to do with us, an’ that’s how come I say things ain’t changed enough.”
He waited to see how Grace would respond to that. She shrugged and said, “Maybe.” He wondered what that was supposed to mean. Probably that he hadn’t convinced her, but she was too polite to say so. She didn’t always come out and say what she thought. Cincinnatus had already noticed that.
He asked, “You going to visit your folks while you’re here? Only one flight up.”
Grace shook her head. “Not much point. They don’t want to see us.”
“Don’t they want to see their grandbaby?” Cincinnatus pointed to Karen.
His son answered: “I’m not Chinese. I’m just a spook.” His voice was harsh and cold.
“That’s not quite fair,” Grace said. “They wouldn’t like it if you were white, either.”
“Well, maybe not,” Achilles admitted. “They don’t quite hate me, the way I’ve seen some white men do. They can make themselves be polite. I even used to think they were pretty nice, till the two of us started getting serious. But they sure don’t want you to be married to me, and the baby hasn’t made ’em change their minds about that.”
His wife sighed. “I know. It’s sad. They came to America to find a better life than they could have had in China. They got one, too. But they’re still Chinese first and American afterwards.”
“We came here to Iowa to get a better life, too,” Cincinnatus said. “I’m glad I’m livin’ in the United States and not in the Confederate States no more—’specially nowadays. God help the poor niggers in the CSA nowadays.”
Achilles and Grace left a little later. Cincinnatus walked to the stairway with them, hoping they would change their mind and go upstairs to visit the Changs after all. But they didn’t. They went down to the street, carrying the baby with them. He sighed and went back to the apartment. Elizabeth’s raised eyebrows asked a question. Cincinnatus shook his head.
His wife sighed. “That’s so sad, they cut off from half their family. Don’t seem right. Don’t seem right at all. You ain’t got family, you ain’t got nothin’.”
“And the baby’s so cute,” Amanda said. “How can you not love a little baby?”
Cincinnatus smiled. “You love everybody, honey.” That was true. Amanda was a sweet-natured child. Because she liked almost everyone, she thought everybody should like everybody else. And if all the people in the world had been like her, everybody would have. Sooner or later, though, she would have to realize not everyone worked the way she did. Cincinnatus hoped she wouldn’t get hurt too badly finding that out.
Elizabeth said, “I reckon Grace’s folks love the baby, all right. The one they got trouble with is your brother.”
Not even Amanda believed everybody ought to love Achilles. She loved him, yes, but sometimes even she had to work at it. Especially when she was smaller, he’d sometimes made her life miserable, as an older brother was only too likely to do with a younger sister.
The next morning, Cincinnatus gulped an extra cup of coffee before he hit the road. He stopped on the way to the railroad yards to buy a copy of the Herald-Express. As usual, he read the paper in snatches at stop signs and traffic lights, and not for the front-page stories but for the ones on the inside pages, the stories the editors—and most people in Des Moines—didn’t think were so important.
Who in Des Moines, for instance, got excited about a page-three story whose headline said KENTUCKY STATE POLICE DISBANDED? Kentucky had rejoined the USA before Houston had, and had been much less troublesome. But the Freedom Party had done very well in the last elections there, and this was the result.
How many comfortable Iowans knew the Kentucky State Police might better have been called the Kentucky Secret Police? The Kentucky State Police had been the instrument the USA used to make sure the state stayed loyal to Philadelphia. Cincinnatus knew Luther Bliss, the head of the outfit, all too well. Just thinking of Bliss’ light brown eyes, the color of a hunting dog’s, was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. He’d spent a couple of years in prison on account of the Kentucky State Police.
And now they were disbanding? Cincinnatus whistled softly. “Do Jesus!” he muttered. “Who hold that state down?” And what would happen to their longtime head, who’d spent a generation stomping on everything the Freedom Party stood for? Would the new winners in Kentucky hang him from a lamp post?
Cincinnatus got his answer to that in the very next paragraph. State Police Chief Luther Bliss, the story said, is on a fact-finding trip to Pennsylvania, and was unavailable for comment. When Cincinnatus saw that, he chuckled grimly. Bliss was either lucky or—giving him credit no less real for being reluctant—sly to have escaped Kentucky when his foes grabbed hold of the reins.
President Smith is conferring with the Secretary of War and the Secretary of the Interior about the present situation in Kentucky, the story continued. A statement from Philadelphia is expected within the next few days.
Would the U.S. government send more troops to Kentucky to force the state to rescind what it had done? Or would it send enough soldiers to hold things down without the Kentucky State Police? The only thing Cincinnatus couldn’t imagine the administration doing was nothing. After all, Kentucky’s southern border was also the USA’s southern border these days.
Behind Cincinnatus, a horn blared. He jumped and put the truck in gear. He’d been reading and woolgathering while traffic piled up. He would have honked, too, if someone else did something like that.
He didn’t get to finish the story, then, till he stopped at another red light. When he did, ice ran through him, for the last sentence read, Governor Ruby Laffoon pledges to make good on a campaign promise to explore a plebiscite on whether Kentucky should belong to the United States or to the Confederate States.
“They can’t do that!” Cincinnatus exclaimed. He hoped they couldn’t, anyhow. His father and mother still lived in Covington. If the Stars and Bars replaced the Stars and Stripes … He shivered, though the day was warm and muggy, even so early in the morning. “Got to git them out o’ there.” For Negroes, what nightmare could be worse than returning to the CSA with the Freedom Party in the saddle?