The War Chamber (2 page)

“Hello. Hello, in there. Anybody home?” Dorothy Nickerson's cheery voice echoes through a seemingly empty house. She steps inside the foyer and sets her luggage down, a nifty blue canvas case with a collage of stickers touting her travels from Maine to Spain, from Tangiers to “down under.”

“Where is everybody? It's 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning. Rise and shine, you lazy landlubbers. Old Dorothy's back,” she chimes, going from room to room. She jogs up the stairs, at once yelling “ouch” when her arthritic knee crackles. Peeking in each of the open bedroom doors, Dorothy concludes, “No Isaac. No Sally. No – Oh, David! Well, at least you're here.”

David's third-floor bedroom window in the century-old Nickerson family Victorian home gives him an unimpeded, almost aerial, view of the family cemetery. He has been staring at it pensively since sunrise, in between computer sessions of logging on and off the Internet. But the sensation of Dorothy swinging his door open wide catches David's attention, and he rises quickly from the window seat to greet her.

“Give me one of those Nickerson hugs, David.” Dorothy opens her arms wide and David gladly obliges.

“When did you get back? I though you were fishing off Baja?”

“Fishing I went and fishing I did. Caught so many marlin I thought my sloop would sink,” Dorothy gushes, signing with skill and speed. David laughs along with her.

“So where in the world is everyone?”

“Dad went to the office early this morning, and Sally spent the night with friends. A slumber party or some girl thing.”

“And you stayed home to straighten up your room, I see.” Dorothy peruses the disarray and gives David a critical glance. “This isn't like you. Usually, I can bounce a quarter on your bed, the sheets are so military neat and snug.”

“I'm engaging in a protest against arbitrarily-imposed regulations,” David jokes.

“Ha. Who imposed them? Certainly not your father. My baby brother hasn't picked up a sock or made a bed in his life without being nagged on.”

Dorothy's delicious laugh transforms her mock stern expression, reminding David of the sprightly Dorinda and her fortune-telling shenanigans.

“Well, let's get busy,” Dorothy rubs her hands together, actually relishing the task at hand. She and David start picking up his room and, when his bed is carefully made, Dorothy takes a coin from her pocket and tosses it. “Perfect,” she judges as the coin bounces snappily on the bed.

A sudden, crisp sea breeze entices Dorothy over to David's window. As she closes it, she studies the view earnestly. “Maybe,” Dorothy suggests, turning to David, “you would like to switch rooms with me. You know, defer to your old aunt and give her the ocean view?”

David shakes his head. He knows what she's up to. “Thanks, Aunt Dorothy, but moving my room so I can't see the cemetery won't change anything.”

“It might make you less withdrawn, and turn you back into alive and alert David Nickerson again.”

“You've noticed?”

“How could I not? You spend countless hours in your room. We had to all but drag you back to school this semester. And any mention of your mother sends you into some deep, dark corner somewhere.”

David is used to, even welcomes, his aunt's bluntness. She can open a window of his soul and peer inside like no one else can. He sits and swivels back and forth idly in his desk chair, but his mind is working overtime.

“How come,” David finally says, “when it looks like things are worked out, they're really not? I mean, they work out but it's never the way you hoped. The results always fall short of your expectations.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of reality.”

“That's funny, coming from you, the lady who believes in dreams no matter how pie-in-the-sky.”

“Still do. The bigger the dream, the better the results. Better to aim high and get only half of what you want than to shoot for only what you think is possible. Then, you could wind up with nothing.”

“You mean like Sally?”

“Yes. She may be hobbling around on crutches, but she's out of her wheelchair. That's sure something.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. I mean, she doesn't need an operation now, at least. She could still get better.”

“I believe in time she will,” Dorothy says with several slow nods of her head. “And so does Sally. But what's this got to do with your attitude, especially concerning your mother?”

David shrugs nonchalantly, but the rancor begins churning inside him again. “I don't know. I'm mad and I don't know who I'm mad at. It's not the accident, it's not Dad or God or fate anymore. I'm just mad.”

“It's not unusual to be angry at the person who died.”

“Mad at Mom? Why would I be? I loved her. I still love her.”

“And you miss her desperately, so you're angry at her for leaving you. I know. That's how I felt when your Uncle Will died. I actually hated him for being where he was - not with
me
- when he had his heart attack. I thought he killed himself deliberately, just to get back at me for always harping on him to take better care of himself. And on top of it all, I was all alone without a clue as to handle all his affairs. Angry? Boy, I was a case, all right.”

“So, how did you get over it?”

“I had to come to terms with a lot of things about myself, as well as about Will. I'm sure my reasons for anger were far different from yours. I lost my husband, a companion and a friend. You lost your mother, your connection to life, to who and what you are and what you can become. That's a deep void to fill, David.”

David runs a trembling hand through his sun-bleached hair. His aunt has struck a bone-chilling nerve.

“The hole is so deep I can't touch bottom. I never knew anybody who died before. I don't know how somebody can be here and then not be here. One minute alive the next just - nothing. It doesn't make sense.”

Dorothy takes a purposeful look around David's room. She walks to his dresser, then to his credenza, not finding what she is looking for.

“What's happened to your crystal collection? Did you give up on that, too?”

“Aw…I thought it was kind of juvenile. There's no magic in them. They're just rocks, like Dad says. Besides there's no scientific basis for any of it, not like my computer.”

Dorothy believes otherwise, recalling the circumstances that allowed her to discover the magical Singer crystal and bring it to David.

She had dug her shovel deep into the crusted earth for probably the thousandth time, not knowing exactly what she was looking for. She only knew, because a recurring dream had told her so, that she would one day unearth a sacred, coveted relic and bring it to its rightful owner. Just why she was chosen to do this was not clear. And who would be the owner was also a mystery.

Nevertheless, as the dream recounted, two men from a long-ago era buried the small wooden cask deep in the dirt in an uncharted location and then disappeared, as though they never existed. She, then, would dig in a place she did not recognize and uncover the powerful object.

It had taken 30 years of annual archeological digs in exotic and treacherous places to arrive at that moment. When her trowel hit a solid object, she knew she had found “it.” She brushed the soil off of the cask and opened it to reveal the contents.

What rested inside was unique only in its shape and size, for there were trillions of such minerals buried deep in the earth. Upon seeing it, the average person would not think twice about it. Nor would she, if she hadn't had the dream. But its true owner would know it on sight and believe in its powers, and make them his own.

Dorothy knew that David was the Singer's rightful owner because of his passionate reaction to it from the moment she placed it in his hands.

“It's incredible. Look at it, Aunt Dorothy. Its microstructure is so complex. But what really amazes me is its shape. It looks like a miniature ship. Here's the mast where the sail would go, and here's the bow, the stern and the rudder.”

But now, she treads softly on his fragile emotions, hoping to reawaken his fervor.

“Of course, they're just rocks. The magic, if you want to call it that, is in the person using the crystals, and the reason he's using them.”

“What if the person using them doesn't know what he's doing and screws up?” David's memory flashes to his encounter with Ishtar because of this very thing.
We reverse the dynamics of the situation,
Ishtar had said with unbridled optimism,
and correct the screw up.

Dorothy signs her answer with special emphasis on each symbol.

“Practice makes perfect, with crystals as with anything,” David reads aloud. “That's what Mom always said.”
If she were here, she'd be on me about it, too.

“She was right. You know, David, this could possibly be a way to start working out your resentment about your mother. Start using your crystals again.”

“What's that got to do with Mom?”

“You forget how she used to encourage you to pursue your interests, no matter how bizarre they may seem to others. There's always a reason why something grabs at you and pulls you in, she used to say. Why don't you tell her about it?”

David is stunned by his aunt's suggestion, but she was dead serious. “Talk to Mom? How could I do that?”
How could I have talked to Ishtar through a Moldavite? That was impossible, too.

“She's right outside your window, David. I'm sure you'll find a way to communicate. As for me, I'm going to unpack and soak in a hot bubble bath for the rest of my life. Or at least until dinnertime.” Dorothy “
Aah
's” at the comforting thought of it and leaves the room with David as deep in thought as when she arrived.

The warmth of summer still pervades along the coast even as September transforms expectantly into October. The melodic chirping of crickets filters through the open windows of the Port Avalon Town hall, while ceiling fans move, but do not cool, the balmy evening air.

In groups of two's and three's, the townspeople enter. Some try to cool themselves with hand-held bamboo fans, while others, resigned to the sticky humidity, blot perspiration from their faces with limp handkerchiefs. In moments, every seat is filled, including the extra chairs set up in the aisles to accommodate the overflow.

David anxiously awaits the dialog to come and positions himself to the side of the dais so he can face the audience as well as the members of the commission. He will only be able to read the lips of the people in the front rows but, with the help of his teacher Lucille McCormick, who will sign for him, David won't miss any remarks made from the back of the room.

Seated on the dais are Isaac and Janice Cole, president of Cole Shipping where Isaac is vice president. They both sit rigidly, anticipating the controversy soon to arise.

Mayor John Fiori leans over to the planning commissioner to clarify a clause in Cole Shipping's written proposal then stands at the lectern to begin the Town Meeting.

“Last time I saw this hall so packed, we were voting on whether or not to allow a pizza parlor on the wharf,” the Mayor quips, recalling years of sparse attendance.

A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. Tony Santori, owner of the Pizza Palace, laughs the heartiest. “But tonight, friends, we are here to decide on a matter far more important than how many restaurants and curio shops we need to attract tourists to Port Avalon. Tonight, we will be deciding on an issue that could change the face of our town and the course of our lives forever.

“Now, I beseech you to read the information in your packets carefully before coming to any bull-headed decisions.” The crowd chuckles again. “At this time, I'm going to turn the meeting over to Janice Cole, whom you all know and respect. She'll explain the situation in down to earth terms, and then we'll open it up to questions.”

David joins in the rousing applause for Janice Cole, who single-handedly took back the company her unscrupulous former boss Nathan Fischbacher had swindled from her parents. She saved Isaac's job as well as the jobs of all the company's employees, and became a close friend and ally. David welcomed the warm relationship between this lovely woman and his father who had been far too lonely since Billie died.

“Thank you, Mayor Fiori. And thank all of you for coming here tonight,” Janice says, nodding in welcome recognition to hand waves from the audience.

“We at Cole Shipping realize we could have made the decision to accept the government's contract behind closed doors.” Janice's voice is nervously hesitant at first, but takes on a more confident tone as she continues. “But this issue affects not only our company's standing on Wall Street, it affects the lives of you, our friends and neighbors. Port Avalon is a family town. We treasure our camaraderie, our traditional values, our willingness to support one another in good times and bad.”

“The bad times are a-comin',” someone calls out, half joking.

“The bad times are here,” another man injects soberly. Murmurs of agreement swell. Janice raises her hand to quiet them.

“I know you've been hit very hard. No one would like to see that change more than I.”

What people like most about Janice Cole is that her humility is sincere, despite her silver-spoon upbringing. But her strength under fire belies the almost delicate persona. Finishing School grace and a “don't mess with me” toughness. David has seen all facets of her and knows she must have given that Navy liaison a run for his money. He knows his dad did.

And now, David shifts in his seat excitedly, expecting that Janice will rally the townspeople to reject a government contract to build war ships. Instead, his stomach rolls in shock at the surprising content of her speech.

“Cole Shipping is a family business and I'd like to think we can share our good fortune with all of you and give you a hand when things are tough,” Janice begins. “This government contract will not only balance my company's ledger, it will pump new and badly needed financing into Port Avalon. It will substantially lessen the unemployment rolls, put some revenues into your cash registers, and some life back into the city again.”

David cringes at Janice's rhetoric, confused at her slant on the subject.
I thought she was against this thing, like Dad is.

“God knows we could use it.” Pete Townsend, a robust man with a voice to match, rises to his feet, flyer in hand. “It says here that Cole Shipping will use local citizens to fill any jobs required to fulfill the contract. Now, most of us are fishermen, construction, or merchants. We don't know anything about building military ships, especially these fancy computerized things.”

Janice nods, conceding this point. “Cole Shipping has a skilled team of designers and engineers, headed by Isaac Nickerson. But I feel certain that I can find positions for a lot of locals that would utilize your current skills and perhaps teach you new ones. I would exhaust that avenue before recruiting any outside help.”

This brings a few scattered comments of approval, but Jim Dancy throws a ringer into the discussion. “Is this something you have control over, Miss Cole? Or is it one of them 'negotiating points' government bureaucrats like to slip into a deal?”

Janice shifts uncomfortably on her feet then admits, “Yes, it's negotiable.”

“Which means,” Dancy adds sourly, facing the crowd, “that the government could force Cole Shipping to use outside labor, maybe even foreigners, to do the work.”

“That's not very likely.” Janice treads cautiously. “But that's one of the reasons we're here tonight - to discuss all the pros and cons before we decide.”

“There's a lot of us who won't benefit by a job with Cole Shipping.” This from Maggie Sturges, a plump and rosy-cheeked, but fiercely independent businesswoman. “We have businesses to run. How will this government contract help me keep my restaurant from going under, Janice?”

“If I get a new job, I'll buy all the sirloin steaks you can cook up, Maggie!” Joe Porter hollers over to her.

“You'd be better off with a few more chef's salads.” Always amiable, Joe pats his ample belly.

Janice joins in the audience laughter. Her expression says “Thank you for some much-needed comic relief.”

David wonders how many times Maggie Sturges has fed people in her little country-style cafe who were down on their luck. Now, Maggie is on the verge of bankruptcy herself. It is for people like Maggie that David suddenly feels the pangs of uncertainty about this issue. There's never any black and white, he realizes, but a lot of gray areas, especially where someone's livelihood is concerned.

Still, he wants to side with his father. This is not what Isaac's masterful designs are all about. Cutting royally through the ocean, their gigantic hulls filled to capacity with food and medicine and every manner of consumable goods, Cole Shipping's fleet of gleaming white, laser-powered cargo ships sustain life for people in developing nations around the globe.

“Seriously, Maggie,” Janice responds, “I know you're referring to tourism as well as local trade. This project would almost establish a new industry here. That's big news. And publicity will bring the curious to Port Avalon, as well as the military. They've all got to eat, Maggie. They'll need all the services we offer, too. There will be a domino effect. Everything will fall into place. More revenue, more profits, more tax money for schools and social services. Everyone will benefit from this project.”

David stares plaintively at his father, wondering how he can contain himself this long without speaking up. When someone in the crowd prematurely calls for a vote, David stiffens in his chair.
They can't go for this without hearing the other side of it! Say something, Dad. Please.

As though reading his son's mind, Isaac rises and in a few determined steps he is at the lectern. Yielding to Isaac's towering presence, Janice stands back to let him speak. When he does, it is with a steady, calm demeanor that commands attention.

“You all know me and my devotion to Port Avalon, to all of you, my friends and neighbors. I know the devastating effects another year of a stagnant economy would have for all of us. Janice Cole has honestly outlined the virtues of the Defense Department's contract, as she sees it. And yes, you have every right to consider it for the most important reason: your survival. Being a munitions contractor is like jumping on a gravy train: lots of government money, the security that comes with a steady paycheck, the stimulation of private business. That's what makes America strong. It's all a part of the American dream.”

The crowd is aroused now, whistling and stomping, cheering Isaac as though he was a favorite son campaigning for president.

“That's the up side,” Isaac shouts above the din. “But let me tell you the down side.” The cheers decrescendo.

“Think of our beautiful skyline filled, not with the proud white sails of fishing boats, or even the majestic masts of Cole Shipping's sleek cargo ships. But picture the skyline of Port Avalon with the ugly battleship gray of gun turrets, and the pollution of hazardous waste. Not to mention the traffic congestion and the threats to our health and safety.”

“We all know how you feel about war, Isaac, you a war vet and all.” Mike Bozen's voice looms loud, and all eyes turn toward him. He is a thoughtful man with a weather-worn complexion. “And your brother was my best friend before he got killed. But there's no chance of war now. God, we've been making peace with all our enemies left and right.”

“So, why build more battleships, Mike?”

“Well, it's important to have a strong defense…”

“We already have a strong defense,” Isaac counters. “The U.S. already has a hundred times more jets, guns, bombs, and ships than it needs.”

“Then why the heck is the Navy coming to us, Isaac?” “Because the cuts in military spending are forcing their shipyards to close, so they're covering their tails by turning to private industry. Now's the time to spend that

Defense Department money on ways to prevent war, on better communications between nations, on peace-keeping missions and global unity.”

“Yeah, to protect some ghetto Third World Nation that won't ever pay us back but sends all its refugees here for a free ride!” yells Jim Dancy.

“Jim, let's not use this as a forum to incite prejudice or to rile people up for a fight,” the Mayor interjects.

“I only want you to understand that proliferating instruments of war won't make us any safer,” Isaac continues, " and it won't save Port Avalon's economy. Not in the long run. Once the government has its ships, it will bail out and leave us behind to clean up the debris. We'll be up to our necks in retrofitted machinery, empty warehouses, and people with narrowly-defined skills with no place to apply them. The contract lasts only three years. We have to think of the future.”

Jim Dancy continues to goad. “What about today, Isaac? We have to feed our kids and pay our bills today, or there ain't gonna be any future.”

“There may not be any today either.” Bob Knoff, the city editor of the Port Avalon Tribune rushes up the aisle, waving some papers in the air. “Just pulled these off the wire. More Western civilians have been kidnapped and held hostage. The President is calling a special session of Congress and there's talk of sending troops in.”

A white hot flash of anxiety spreads through David's body as Miss McCormick signs rapidly and urgently. He and his father had discussed many times the ramifications of a renewed conflict in the Middle East.

“Just because of the oil? We don't need it, Dad. I mean, there are far more efficient forms of fuel we could develop right here.”

“You're right, David. But it's not that simple to divest ourselves of the oil and banking cartels that manipulate the world economy. It all hinges on stability in the Middle East and on our relations with the oil rich emirates there. Any threat to U.S. interests could justify sending in our troops.”

His father's remarks had been prophetic. The country had already experienced wars in the Gulf region and several smaller confrontations since then. Now, Isaac stood defiantly at the lectern trying desperately to influence his neighbors against the building of war ships in their own back yard.

'Under the circumstances, I recommend we put this to a referendum,” Mayor Fiori pronounces, taking back the meeting. “Balloting date is one week from tonight.”

Later, David and Isaac sit together in the den, Isaac deep in thought and David perusing the family photo album. Even in the small snapshots, David can see that his father's uniform was regulation crisp and tailored, his boots polished to a high sheen, his patriotism strong and unflagging.

The photos of David's mother portend another story. There she was, a youthful Billie Donovan, gaily swathed in the uniform of the iconic flower child: peasant skirt and blouse, soft moccasins, an Indian headband forming a halo around her shoulder length blonde hair. Appropriately, her right hand was raised in the two-finger sign of Peace. An unlikely couple, his mother and father, so diverse in their philosophies. What could have drawn them together? David couldn't figure.

“She'd sure give them a run for their money,” Isaac says.

“Mom would?”

“Your mother was quite a vocal opponent of war. It was hate at first sight for both of us.” Isaac smiles ironically at the memory. “But even at 17, she was a persuasive debater. She opened my eyes to a lot of things I didn't want to face.”

“What things exactly, Dad?”

“I despised all that anti-war rhetoric and America bashing before I left for combat duty. But when I got there and saw with my own eyes the incomprehensible brutality of it, her words kept haranguing at me. It was wrong to be there. Everywhere I looked I saw poor, starving kids scavenging through garbage cans for food; others with their bodies scarred, crippled and burned; young innocent faces with dead eyes, staring at me. Those are the faces I'll never forget. By the time I came home I was convinced: war may sometimes be unavoidable, but it's never justifiable.”