After the First Death (25 page)

“My father died. With my mother. Long ago. When a mine exploded,” Miro insisted, but there was doubt in his voice now.

“But you didn’t see them die. Somebody told your brother and your brother told you.”

Artkin his father? He could not acknowledge that truth, if it were truth. Because there was a worm crawling in his heart, a worm that said he had been responsible for Artkin’s death. He had betrayed Artkin, had reached for the girl instead of warning him of the approaching soldiers on the bridge. He had chosen the girl and his own safety over Artkin, Artkin who had been everything to him and now even his father.

A cry rose out of him, from the depths of his being, a cry that went beyond sorrow and pain and anguish, flowing from the body as blood must flow from a wound. The sound enveloped Kate so that she became part of his cry. He lifted his face from hers. His head
thrown back, he wailed at the air the way an animal mortally wounded must announce its final desperate moments.

Kate cradled him, moving one free arm to embrace him. His wailing formed a word now as it rose from the hiding place, bursting out of the enclosure.
Aaaarrttkinnnnnnn!
Rising and then dying in the air, lingering as only a faint echo in the ears. Kate rocked him gently, the way she had rocked the children on the bus, crooning softly, a song without a tune, words without meaning, but sounds to bring him comfort and solace. She closed her eyes, enfolding him, enclosing him with her body, with her warmth and her breath, her sweat and her urine.

When he squeezed the trigger, the bullet smashed her heart, and she was dead within seconds.

When Kate Forrester was nine years old, she almost choked to death. A chunk of meat caught in her throat. For one terrible moment, she was stiff with terror, her throat jammed with the meat, unable to move, her breath cut off so swiftly and completely between inhale and exhale that she could not even gasp, but could only try to rise to her feet, eyes bulging, mouth frozen open. She could not move, could not utter a sound, was paralyzed, silent, and thought: I am dying and nobody knows although they’re here at the table with me, my mother and father. And then at the moment when suffocation threatened, and the room began to grow dim and far away, the lodged meat somehow, miraculously, loosened. And she coughed and retched, and the meat came up into her mouth, freeing her, unlocking her bones and muscles, allowing the air to rush into her lungs, and she was instantly bathed in a cool perspiration that glistened on her skin. With the breath came a
sense of reprieve, the sweet knowledge that she was not going to die after all, she was going to live. Life, the act of being alive and able to draw breath, was suddenly unbearably beautiful, like music within her. She was safe. Safe. But not this time.

This time, everything had stopped the way a watch stops, and the pain was her body and her body was the pain and she knew exactly what had happened and was going to happen. The gun had gone off. She was caught again between inhale and exhale. The pain … wow … breath-caught dying mommy and daddy I can’t breathe and nobody to tell me if I was bra …

part
11

Hello, Dad.

Ben, you’re here. You’re back.

Yes, I’m here. You’ve been looking for me, haven’t you?

For so long, Ben.

How long, Dad? Weeks? Months?

Too long, much too long.

But I was always here. Didn’t you know that, Dad?

Sometimes I thought you were.

You just didn’t look long enough or deep enough.

I tried, Ben.

Did you try hard enough?

I did everything I could, Ben.

Did you really want to bring me back?

Yes, of course.

Maybe you were fooling yourself. Or fooling me. Or is there a difference?

Don’t play games, Ben.

I’m not playing games, Dad. I’m just wondering if you really wanted to bring me back. I came back before.

But I didn’t know.

Yes, you knew. Look at the papers there, near the typewriter. You see? That was me.

But I didn’t see you. I only saw the papers.

I had to leave, but now I’m back again.

And I’m glad, Ben, glad.

Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?

You don’t have to tell me, Ben.

Because you already know, don’t you?

Don’t say that, Ben.

I want you to say it.

Say what?

Where I’ve been. Where I’ve come back from.

But I can’t say it.

Yes, you can.

I don’t want to say it.

Too bad, too bad. It took so long to bring me back. All that time. All that time staring out the window and all that time awake at night when even the pills didn’t put you to sleep. All that time and now you don’t want to say it.

I can’t say it.

Yes, you can. Try, at least.

Why should I?

Because you owe me that much. Now tell me where I’ve come from.

All right, then.

From where?

Me. From me.

Where in you?

Deep inside.

So deep it was hard to bring me back, wasn’t it?

Yes, it was hard.

But now I’m here, aren’t I?

Please go back, Ben. Go back.

But I just got here. And it took so long, so long to bring me back. But now I’m here. And you’re here. At last.

Go back, Ben.

But why should I go back when you tried so hard to bring me here?

Because I’m tired, Ben. So tired.

Why did you want to bring me back, Dad?

You know why, Ben. You know.

Do I?

Yes.

But tell me. I want to hear you say it.

I wanted to ask you to forgive me. For what I did to you. On the bridge.

And what did you do?

I was serving my country. I am a patriot, Ben. I did it for my country. Not for myself.

I know you did it for your country, Dad. But I’m your son.

And I love you.

But tell me what you did for your country.

I sent you to the bridge. To the van. It was a vital situation and you were the choice.

Why me, Dad? Why not someone else?

Because I knew you better than anyone else. I knew what would happen at the bridge, what you’d do.

And what would I do, Dad?

I already told you. At the hospital. Remember?

Yes, but tell me again. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?

I went to the hospital to visit you. You had been unconscious since the attack on the bridge. The bullet had pierced your arm, penetrated your chest. We, your mother and I, visited every day. And then one day you emerged from the coma. We were alone you and I. You
spilled on your cheeks. I bent close to you. I had never loved you as much as at that moment. You started to speak. You said you were sorry. Sorry that you had told them about the attack. The attack at nine thirty. You said you were sorry you had let me down, let your country down, had not been brave enough. I took you in my arms. I told you that you should not be sorry, that you had been brave. As brave as you were able to be. Nobody, not even your country, could ask for more. I said that you were supposed to tell them that the attack would come at nine thirty. It had been planned that way. You were selected for that purpose. We needed someone who would tell them what they wanted to hear. The telephone call while you were in my office was planned. So was the desk pad and the time I wrote down for you to see. We wanted you to hear the telephone conversation about special forces. To see the time on the pad. So that you could tell them and so that they would believe you. So that we could attack earlier. Take them by surprise and save the children.

But what about me?

We didn’t anticipate that they would not release you. We didn’t anticipate that Artkin would have time to shoot you. It was computerized as a minimum risk.

I don’t mean that.

What do you mean?

I mean: what about me? To find out that I not only betrayed my country but had been expected to do it. To find out that I was expected to act as a coward, unable to take a little pain.

It was a lot of pain. More than we computed. A lot of others would have cracked.

But I was the one who cracked. I was expected to crack. Whether the pain was bad or not, you knew I’d crack. You counted on me being a coward.

Not a coward.

What was I then?

Vulnerable.

A coward.

Susceptible.

A coward.

You were serving your country. Serving it in your way just as I was serving it in mine.

Is a country worth that much, Dad? How could I have gone through life knowing what I had done? Knowing that my cowardice had served my country. Where did that leave me, Dad?

I’m sorry, Ben. I was sorry as soon as I told you. As soon as I saw your face and realized what I had done. I thought: I’ll make it up to you. If it takes months, years. I’ll earn your forgiveness.

And then I died.

Oh, Ben.

Another bridge, another day.

I tried to stop you, Ben.

But you were too late, weren’t you?

I failed you. Again.

But I couldn’t have gone on living anyway, could I?

No.

And you buried me.

Yes.

Twice.

Yes.

Once in the ground, in the military cemetery at Fort Delta. And again inside of you. Buried me deep inside of you.

Yes. I tried to forget, to escape.

But you keep bringing me back.

I know. To tell you I’m sorry, to ask your forgiveness.

Then why not ask me?

Because I’m afraid.

Afraid of what?

It’s hard for me to say it.

Let me say it for you. You’re afraid that I won’t forgive you.

Yes.

That’s why you keep bringing me back and then making me go.

Yes.

Then let me say it.

Will you?

Yes. I’ll say it. I forgive you.

Thank you, Ben.

See? I said it. Now you won’t have to send me back again. Now I can stay.

But I think you should go, Ben.

I like it here. It’s nice. It’s like your old prep school, Castleton, isn’t it? And the doctor. Doesn’t he remind you of Dean Albertson? You told me all about him. How he talked so much, always rambling on.

I think you ought to go now, Ben.

And the others. Your old friends, Martingale and Donateli. They’re still here, aren’t they? In your yearbook.
Knights and Dayze.

I want you to go, Ben.

And Nettie Halversham. We’re all mixed up about her, aren’t we? I told you about her, didn’t I? Or did you overhear me talking about her? Is she mine or yours? Did you know a girl like her once?

Please, Ben, stop.

No. I don’t think I’ll stop. And I won’t leave, either. You once said, “Put yourself in my place, Ben.” Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing, Dad.

You can’t.

Why can’t I?

Because you can’t stay.

Oh yes I can.

You cannot.

But I like it here.

You must go.

I think I’ll stay.

I order you to go.

Tell you what, Dad.

What?

You go.

I must stay.

That’s it. You go.

No, I can’t go.

Why not?

I won’t go.

Yes, you will.

Please, Ben.

You brought me here but that doesn’t mean you can send me away. You brought me back before and made me leave. But this time I’m staying.

No, you can’t. You mustn’t.

This time you’re going. Not me.

I can’t.

Yes, you can.

I won’t.

Yes, you will.

No.

You’d better go now, Dad.

No …

You can’t stay any longer.

Please …

I’m here to stay.

No …

Good-bye, Dad.

part
12