Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
got used to it. And don’t you love that comeback? Nothing above the neck. I welcome excess! Quite a lady, and attractive too, though I met her only the once.”
“Your interest in slavery – did being Irish have anything to do with that?”
“Let me say, the British were very much a topic of conversation around the dinner table. I didn’t make the connection with how blacks are treated here, that came later.”
“Speaking of underdogs, you count the Jews as an oppressed people, surely.”
“Of course, though when they’re on top they seem to forget what it’s like with the boot on their neck.”
“Paul came to a similar conclusion.”
“And it made him unpopular in some quarters.”
“We’ll come back to that. I must say his Christ-killer remark is disturbing.”
“That’s a seven-year-old talking, Jonathan. Be patient, we’ll get to that, too.”
Over lunch I ask Jonathan a few questions. Turns out he hasn’t been altogether straight with me. He’s doing this piece for The New Yorker, all right, but he’s a free-lancer, not on staff as he led me to believe. Not that there’s anything wrong with free-lancers, but I am disappointed in him. “What else have you written?” I ask.
“Things for Esquire and Harper’s. Vanity Fair, the Times Sunday Magazine. A few years ago I did a big piece for Playboy on NBA teams signing kids out of high school. That made some waves. You see it?”
“I haven’t looked at Playboy in years,” I laugh. “Never could get past the pictures and after my interest peaked, so to speak, there was nothing left to hold me.”
“They’ve always had great articles and big-name fiction – Ian Fleming, Nabokov.”
“Sure, sure. And I know a really good bridge for sale. Anything else for The New Yorker?”
He shakes his head. “They have a staff guy who covers the same territory so I don’t hear from them that often. This article was my idea, I brought it to them.”
So, I think to myself, this is a very big deal for you, Jonathan Bernstein, though I won’t embarrass you by saying so. “How come you became a journalist?”
“It was my major at Columbia. I minored in History, you’ll be happy to hear.”
“You wouldn’t have known Hofstadter, you’re too young.”
“Jacques Barzun, I took courses from him.”
“Dick and I got together at conferences and the like. Well, I wish you well with the article. Whatever I can do,” I say, raising my glass which, by the way, was Poland Spring.
“You’ve already been a big help.”
That is true. He wouldn’t stand a chance without Paul’s letters and notebooks. With recent events, it has occurred to me other people might be wanting a look at them too, so I make a mental note to call Paul’s assistant – Susan, I think her name is – and ask her about the stuff in his office. I’ll need to go through that too.
“I went over my schedule last night,” Jonathan says, his brow furrowed. “This is going slower than I expected. You have Jennings set to record – right?”
“I told you I did.” I know Jonathan is under pressure but he is already starting to get on my nerves.
“By the way, do you still have the Times obit?”
“Of course. And a Globe and the Providence paper and our local rag though they didn’t have much. Why do you ask?”
“I must have misplaced my copy.”
This does not augur well, I am thinking, but I keep my mouth shut.
At six thirty we turn on the television. Near seven the tribute to Paul comes on. At the end the screen fills with Peter Jennings’ lean, handsome visage. “In coming days there will be other tributes and retrospectives on the life of our colleague, Paul Bernard. Tonight ABC was privileged to present this brief look at a giant in the news business and a close personal friend. For everyone at ABC News, I’m Peter Jennings. Good night.”
Jonathan looks puzzled. “Rewind to the ambush part,” he says. It’s essentially the same footage I taped that first night. I fast rewind then inch it ahead.
“I have ETVN’s tape too, if you want to see it.”
“I will, but there’s something odd here. Okay, stop it – there!” Jonathan gets to his feet and goes up to the television. “That’s the convoy,” he says, tapping the screen with his finger. “Three Humvees, an SUV, and Paul’s is the only one hit! Everything else is untouched! You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence!”
I spread my hands. I don’t know. I don’t disagree, but I don’t know.
“Somebody knew Paul was in that Humvee!” Jonathan’s eyes are bright.
“Maybe,” I say, “maybe not. More likely it was just bad timing.”
“That was no coincidence, Gus. Somebody targeted Paul. I’m going to find out who, and why.”
Good luck, I think to myself. Jonathan says shut it down which I do gladly. I have seen more than enough.
“Jennings said there’s nothing new on the attackers. I’d hate to be them if our guys ever catch up with them.”
“A chance in a million. It’s their turf. Turf beats technology every time.”
* * * * * * *
I WAS FIRST UP AS USUAL, 6:15 by my new watch. Dead to the world, Jim was rolled up in a blanket on my floor. He’d come in late, banging and grumbling about them giving his bedroom away. Every square foot of the living room was covered with relatives, my father slumped in his chair, Uncle Albert on the couch snoring, his legs draped over the end, his feet on a table. As a precaution Grandmother Kelley’s mother’s china lamp had been put on the floor. I opened the fridge and there it was – my ham. A forlorn carcass with a few scraps of meat. I stared longingly at the orange juice pitcher, the milk, the eggs. My stomach was complaining when my mother appeared, yawning and fussing with her hair. “So, you’re ready for your big day?”
“I’d rather have something to eat. Like Dad.” My father didn’t fast before he went to communion, something he called a working man’s exemption.
She filled the kettle. “May that be the worst cross you ever have to bear.”
“I suppose.” Something else had been bothering me. The year Catherine was born, when my parents remodeled the attic into bedrooms they added a tiny bathroom but mornings when the five of us were trying to get out it was a real squeeze. “How’ll we all get ready in time?” I asked.
She smiled, another one of her not-quite-a-smile smiles. “With your father’s relatives, bathing is not a high priority. Here,” she gestured toward the table, “sit a minute.” By now the kettle was whistling. She filled the coffee pot and put the lid on, the rest went into her antique teapot, the one with the little shamrocks.
“You’re such a good son...” she began, sitting down opposite me. The coffee was pinging into the metal pot. “...so good at school and never a bit of trouble.” What she really meant was, not like Jim. She stared at me, her lips pursed. When she was serious like this, she looked exactly like those pictures from her plays. “Tell me, do you believe the things they’re teaching you? I mean, do you really believe them?”
I was puzzled. What a strange question.
“If you had to walk to the end of the earth for your Faith, would you do it?” She paused, “well, would you?”
“I guess so,” I