The bus came along and she boarded it with her girl friend and I said, “See you later,” as if I was sending her a secret message and she smiled intimately (I thought) and I got her full name and particulars from Jackie and knew that I would call her up and ask her to go out. On a date. We had a lot of socials on the post and I went through the usual horrors of dancing schools and girl-boy birthday parties but I had never had a date before and didn’t even know what the hell we would do on a date but I didn’t worry about that kind of stuff. I was dealing with destiny here, kismet, fate. And the words of a thousand inane love songs suddenly made sense. Love will find a way. You are so beautiful to me.
I called her up, three nights before the seizure of the bus. As I dialed her number, my heart began to beat faster, just like the songs say. When I heard her voice, I melted. Went limp. I told her who I was. She said: “Who?” The word hung in the air like a bell tolling doom. I told her my name again, about meeting her in front of the Y, and she said, “Oh, yes,” as if she had just drawn my name from a file cabinet and was confirming my existence. We talked awhile and it was like pumping uphill on my bike. Because she left the talking to me. Oh, she was polite and commented on what I said—dropping in Yes or Gee or Huh like coins in a jukebox to keep the stuff coming—but absolutely volunteering no topics herself. I got desperate. I covered school, the weather, the schedule of activities at the Y, the comparison of summer events between Hallowell and the post, and finally ran out of gas. I was tired of the sound of my own voice but was afraid of stopping because I dreaded the terrible silence that was sure to follow. Finally, I asked her if she’d go to a movie with me. Another pause. And then: “Oh, I don’t think so.” Those devastating words and the boredom in her voice. She didn’t simply say no. I’d expected sorry at least or some other time (after all, she was supposed to be in love with me, wasn’t she?) but she merely said: “Oh, I don’t think so.” As if I’d asked her whether it was going to rain tomorrow. Why couldn’t she have lied and said: I’d love to but.… Instead she made me feel as though I wasn’t even a member of the human race.
I hung up after stammering around a bit, sounding like a fool, apologizing, for chrissakes, for having taken up her time and she didn’t say anything at all, but let me flounder and thrash around. And then it was over. Now the terrible part: I still loved her. Her face still haunted me. The world was suddenly a wasteland, cold and lonely, like the far side of the moon. And I thought: Hey, what’s going on here? Why is it that I love her and she doesn’t love me? The world was out of balance, out of kilter, tilted. I realized then why some love songs are sad. Picking up the pieces of my heart …
Three days later, I was still in ruins, without appetite, anticipating fifty years of this particular agony. When the telephone rang that morning, I rushed to it, thinking crazily that it might be Nettie Halversham, apologizing, ready to have me rush into her arms; it had been a case of mistaken identity, etc.
The caller was my father. Which was unusual. He never called from his office in Delta.
“Ben, are you okay?” he asked.
My God, I thought, he knows: about Nettie Halversham and my agony.
“Fine,” I said, the way you say fine even if the earth is crumbling under your feet.
And then he told me about the seizure of the bus. And the children.
What bus? What children?
And what did it have to do with me?
This bus: a yellow school bus carrying either sixteen or eighteen children (there was initial confusion about the actual number) from their various homes in Hallowell to a summer camp called Kris Kringle Kamp on the outskirts of town. The bus was hijacked by persons unknown, at least three in number, perhaps more. The bus was intercepted by the hijackers on Route 131 and driven to an old railroad bridge, no longer in use, in a wooded area on the Hallowell-Crenshaw line. A van was also involved in the hijacking and was now on the bridge as well, the van also in control of the hijackers.
The children were between the ages of five and six, preschool age, although some had attended kindergarten or nursery school.
The first communication from the hijackers came when a ten-year-old Hallowell boy bought a letter into the Hallowell police station. The boy was paid a dollar by a man to deliver the letter. The boy described the man as “old, about forty,” with dark everything: hair, clothes, mustache, glasses. The letter was addressed to Brigadier General Rufus L. Briggs, Inner Delta, Fort Delta, Massachusetts. There was a sentence typed on the envelope: Deliver this message within the hour—it is a matter of life or death.
This is the essence of what my father told me on the phone, although he was not in possession of all the details at the time. Because Fort Delta and children were involved, he was concerned about me. I told him I was fine and wanted to remind him that I was not, after all, five years old. However, I knew he meant well. I told him I’d been planning to play ball with Jackie Brenner on General Bradley Field. He told me to stay put; that, in fact, he would be sending someone over to watch the house. Meaning: to guard me.
“How about Mom?” I asked, alerted suddenly by the no-nonsense tone of his voice. My mother had left that morning to spend the day in Boston: shopping on Newbury Street in the morning and a matinee in the afternoon.
“I’m sending someone to Boston to track her down,” my father said. “Look, Ben, these precautions may seem as if I’m overreacting but I don’t want to take chances because …”
The because hung in the air, surrounded by silence. I hesitated to break that silence, although I knew what should follow the because. Because Fort Delta was involved and that probably meant the secret work my father was engaged in.
“But what do the hijackers want, Dad?”
“We don’t know yet, Ben. The only message they sent tells us to stand by for further instructions. That’s all I can tell you because that’s all I know.” I realized my father had never in his life told me that much before about anything. Oh, we talked together, of course, and discussed stuff like the chances of the Red Sox winning the pennant (high hopes in May, sad truth in September) and my marks at school and such, but never anything to do with him, either his work or how he felt about life in general, as if everything aside from baseball or my marks related to his secret duties.
“So stick close to home, Ben. In fact, stay in the house. I know this is tough, but we can’t take chances with people like this on the loose,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
Then I remembered something that had bothered me during the time we were talking. “Hey, Dad,” I said. “You said the message was addressed to General Rufus Briggs. I never heard of him. Who’s General Briggs?”
I heard his quick intake of breath and then a silence at the other end of the line. And I thought: My God, General Briggs is him, my father, his whatchamacallit, cover name, for chrissakes.
“I can’t say any more at the moment, Ben,” my father said. “Look, stay put. Someone will be over soon. And don’t worry about anything.”
I hung up, the telephone perspiring with my transferred sweat.
The bus, the kids, the hijackers, and my father using a cover name all these years at Delta. And: What was Inner Delta?
I realized I hadn’t thought of Nettie Halversham for at least three minutes. A kind of record for me that dismal day.
Funny. I can’t recall Nettie Halversham’s face.
Was it that long ago?
But time is weird, isn’t it? It plays funny games. Like this room. It seems as if I have been here forever. But it’s been only since last September, hasn’t it?
Hasn’t it?
To whom do I keep addressing these questions, as if I expected a phantom to sneak in here and answer when I’m not looking?
Speaking of time, it is now 11:15 and they are overdue.
My parents, I mean.
They said they would be here by eleven. Castle is a three-hour drive from Delta. Maybe they had a flat tire. Maybe they started late. Ma
ybe my father has changed his mind and will not come after all.
Maybe I hope he will not come.
Because then I will have sit across from him and look him in the eye. And I know I can’t do that. Not yet, not yet.
From where I sit typing, I can see across the quad to the space between Hunter Hall and Old Ivy through which visitors must pass on their way to the dorms or Daniel Webster Hall, where visitors are entertained by students in one of the parlors.
I keep looking up to watch for my mother and father. The snowball fight is over and the quad is deserted. The wind rises occasionally, breaking the covering of snow into soft white rags that fall haphazardly on the ground.
I am typing very slowly now, one word at a time, and between the words and even the letters (I never learned the touch system but must hunt and peck) I look up to wait for them to appear, for him to appear.
Hoping he does.
And hoping he doesn’t.
And feeling sometime that he’s already here in the room with me, watching and waiting.
My father, the phantom.
part
4
Miro hated the waiting. In the airline terminals, in the bus stations, in all the small stuffy rooms. Or that day in Detroit when they were trapped in the hotel lobby and waited nine hours, immobilized, without food or drink, a gun in his hand all that time so that after a while the gun seemed like a part of him, the way a sliver in the flesh can become a part of you, pulsing with pain. There was no pain here in the bus at least, although it was uncomfortable. The heat was beginning to gather, and the windows could not be opened, of course. The children were somewhat subdued but restless, crying out at times, the girl unable to control them in such moments. When the children quieted down, the girl sat in the driver’s seat, her hands clenching the steering wheel as she stared into space. The shock, no doubt.
Miro was glad that he had orders to follow and duties to perform. His first duty had been to apply the plastic sealer to the windows so that they could not be opened except with a great effort. Next, the taping. Miro had applied the masking tape to each window, allowing a thin slit to remain uncovered. In this way, they could look out of the narrow opening without exposing themselves. They would be able to watch the building some one thousand feet away across the chasm where, Artkin said, the soldiers and the police would establish their headquarters. They would also be able to watch the woods on both sides of the chasm for snipers.
Miro had done the taping swiftly and efficiently. The children were a nuisance as he worked. He had to step over them and between them, brushing their legs aside in order to reach the windows. The children looked up at him curiously but with a certain amount of indifference, as if they were watching a scene on television, something that did not affect them at all, something they could tune out if they wished. The effect of the drugs, Miro supposed. Or perhaps American children were already doped with television itself.
As he placed the tape on the last window, he felt a tug at his pants. He looked down. A small blond boy was looking up at him, smiling. The boy did not seem frightened of the mask. He had two missing teeth in the front of his mouth, and the gap in his teeth gave him a clown look. Miro continued to apply the tape and the boy kept tugging at his pant leg. Miro ignored him and hurried to finish the job.
The children were meaningless to Miro. They all looked the same to him: small human beings, without identity, strangers who did not arouse his interest or curiosity. He could make no connection with them. He had never played with children when he was growing up. His only companion had been his brother, Aniel. Aniel had been two years older than he. Neither of them had been children, really. They had scrounged for a living in the refugee camps, although it had been Aniel who had done most of the scrounging, an expert, drifting out into the steaming mornings among the thousands who came and went in the camps and returning later with scraps of food or sometimes clothing—an old jacket, shirts or socks—he had either begged or stolen. Once, Aniel had brought him a small wooden object. Orange. In the shape of an animal.
“What is it?” Miro had asked.
“A toy,” Aniel had replied.
The word held no meaning for Miro. He recognized the shape of the toy as an elephant. For some reason, the small object held his attention. He would pretend that the elephant was walking across the desert and that he was riding on it and bad men chased them. And then he awoke one morning and the elephant was gone. He and Aniel searched for it in vain. When Miro had fallen asleep in the abandoned shelter, the elephant had been standing near his face, on the dirt floor. Someone stole it in the night, Aniel had explained to Miro. One of the people with whom they shared the shelter for a while, perhaps.
Miro had accepted the explanation without complaint. Stealing was a way of life. But a dim knowledge took shape within him, just as the wooden object had taken on an animal shape. And the shape of the knowledge was this: Do not seek to own anything, do not try to make anything belong to you, do not look for pleasure in anything. It will be taken from you sooner or later just as you must take from other people.
The boy tugged again at Miro as he finished with the taping. Miro brushed his hand away and went toward the back of the bus. He walked softly, not wanting to stir the children. He did not want to become involved with them. He wanted to get involved with no one, the girl included. All he wanted to do was follow orders and complete this particular operation. The operation was a worry to him. He didn’t feel at ease. He was vaguely disturbed. And he wasn’t certain why he felt that way. Was it because Artkin was being secretive about much of it? Artkin who loved to review plans had gone only so far in his review and no further. He had told about the seizure of the bus and the killing of the driver and the drugging of the children and the locks to make the bus secure and even the taping, but nothing about what would happen next. Miro had dared not question Artkin—no one was so foolish as to do that. Artkin had merely said, “Once on the bridge, we wait. We must be patient. But our patience will be rewarded.”
Artkin was now in the van with Stroll and Antibbe. Is he outlining the plans to them and ignoring me? Miro asked himself, immediately ashamed of his jealousy. He had been jealous before, simply because he was always the youngest, the uninitiated. His killing of the driver today was supposed to have signified his manhood, his complete acceptance into the brotherhood of freedom soldiers. He looked down at the girl now with resentment. He also resented the dead child who lay here on the back seat, waiting for Artkin to decide what to do about him.
This is why Miro did not like waiting. It gave him too much time to think, to ponder, to wonder about things he should leave to Artkin. He wondered now about the girl, squinting his eyes to see her at the front of the bus. He had tried to engage her in conversation, attempting to follow Artkin’s orders, but she had been uncommunicative. Miro pondered what she was thinking. Did she suspect that she would die before this incident was over? Had she seen through Artkin’s lies, even though he lied so skillfully? A sudden thought struck Miro. Does Artkin lie to me as well? Have I also been taken in by his skill?
He shook his head as if he could get rid of such a terrible thought that way.
He looked out through one of the window slits. Outside, all was peaceful. The bus was high enough to see over the parapet at the edge of the bridge. The parapet would protect them when they passed from the bus to the van. The building across the chasm was still deserted, without movement. He searched for the glint of sniper rifles in the woods but saw only branches, heavy with summer leaves. A bird cried overhead; he did not recognize the sound. In his homeland beside the river, the old men said that turtle doves and larks circled in the air above the orange trees. He had seen no turtle doves in the United States. No orange trees, either, although Artkin said they grew in southern areas like Florida, where Miro had never gone.
Swiveling his eyes toward the sky again, Miro heard the sound of a helicopter, and his breath caught in excitement. The sound grew louder.
He felt the blood begin to pound in his veins, his heart beating rapidly. The helicopter’s motor throbbed violently now; it seemed to be on the roof of the bus itself, enveloping the entire bus in its sound.
The waiting was over at last.
Now it could begin.
When Kate heard the sound of helicopter, she had been sitting despondently in the driver’s seat, clutching the wheel uselessly, unable to face the children any longer and unwilling to look at the boy Miro. She knew she was doomed. She had known it the moment she saw them put on the masks. The knowledge had sickened her, causing her stomach to lurch with nausea. They had allowed her to see them unmasked. She could recognize them anywhere, identify them, point them out in police lineups, the way it happened on television cop shows. The children perhaps didn’t represent a threat to the hijackers; the testimony of five- and six-year-olds probably wouldn’t hold up in court. But Kate knew they couldn’t afford to let her go. Or let her live.
In an effort to escape the thoughts and the panic they brought, she had moved among the children, tousling hair, stroking cheeks tenderly, speaking to those who weren’t completely asleep. Most of the children were still in a kind of half stupor, languid, like limp rags. Now and then a child stirred or sat up, looking around inquiringly. A thin boy with freckles and electric-orange hair tugged at her sleeve. Yawning, he asked, “When are we getting to camp?”