Uncle Antoine's Funeral - Chapters 47 through 54

Chapter 47

Saturday May 16, 1931

It was a bright, warm morning. Pierre stood in the backyard wearing a straw hat, a sleeveless undershirt, gloves, trousers and work boots; he was looking down the gentle slope to the alley at the back of the yard. The yard had been transformed into a vegetable garden. The first crop, peas, carrots, cabbage, leaf lettuce, radishes and onions, took up half the yard. It was well on its way, and would be ready for harvesting soon. The ground in the other half of the yard had been turned and hoed in preparation for the second planting, tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, watermelons.

Antoine stepped out of the kitchen door and waved to his father. “Hi, Pops.” He was wearing his best pair of trousers, braces, a dress shirt and a flat cap. Pierre smiled and nodded. As soon as Antoine turned his back to walk out to the street, Pierre’s face fell into a grim stare. What a damn dirty trick, he thought.

When Antoine and Jimmy had first started working on the garden in March, Antoine had cajoled and bullied Pierre out of his bed and into the backyard. Antoine had brought a stool and set it where Pierre could watch them. On the second day, Antoine asked Pierre to fetch the spade and a little later to hand him a trowel. When they finished for the day, he asked Pierre to help carry the tools to the shed. As time went by, Antoine asked him to take on bigger tasks like levering a large rock out of the soil. Soon he was involved in every aspect of the garden, from forcing seedlings to planting to weeding to pest control.

In early April Jimmy’s school activities started to mount up, baseball practice and games, planning the senior dance, term papers, studying for finals. And, of course, he needed time for his various girlfriends. Antoine had insisted that Jimmy should enjoy his last two months of high school. Jimmy dropped out of gardening.

Then, in the first week of May, Goodyear had called Antoine back to the plant three days a week. With his second job taking up two days a week, Antoine didn’t have as much time to devote to the garden, either.

Sometimes when Pierre looked at the maturing pants, he felt a faint echo of pride. But mostly, it galled Pierre that Antoine had tricked him into working in the garden and then dumped the entire load on him. Your time is coming, boy.

He turned back to the plants and continued weeding and picking pests off the plants. He enjoyed crushing the bugs.

Gramps Martini came into the yard trundling a wheelbarrow full of leaf compost. He parked the wheelbarrow next to another pile of compost and two bags of commercial fertilizer. He shook his head at the fertilizer and incomprehensibly explained that he preferred horse manure and bemoaned the rise of the automobile. Pierre didn’t understand a word and had given up trying. 

Gramps had gardened for over fifty years and taken it upon himself to educate the novices in the neighborhood like the Trombleys. It didn’t matter that his pupils didn’t understand him; he mostly taught by doing. Gramps showed Pierre how to spread the compost and fertilizer over broken soil and demonstrated how to work in the amendments and break up the large clods of dirt using a hoe and a bow rake. He stayed for about a half an hour until he was sure Pierre had the hang of it, then left to tutor his next student.

Antoine got off the streetcar at Summit and walked a half block south to the Ackerman Building. He climbed up to the third floor and let himself into the offices of Peal, Wilkens and Sweeney. He found the box containing his work just inside the door and was delighted to see that it contained at least six hours of work. He picked up the box full of financial documentation, took it to a bookkeeper’s desk, and set about verifying the math and journal entries.

During his time as an office boy, there had been occasions when there was nothing for him to do. He spent that time watching the bookkeepers working the adding machines. A machine that could add and subtract fascinated him; it seemed like a kind of thinking machine. He itched to touch them, and during a lunch break he tried one out. The machine seemed to be made for him; his fingers seemed to know where the keys were. For the next three days he watched the bookkeepers more closely and practiced on one of the machines at lunchtime. On the third day, Mr. Terrel Sweeney, the son of an original partner, walked through the bookkeepers’ work area and saw Antione punching away at one of the adding machines.

“Hey, what’s-your-name, Antoine! What are you doing there?”

Antoine stood up, his heart racing. “Nothing, Mr. Sweeney. Just learning to use the adding machine.”

“That machine is expensive; you shouldn’t be playing with it.”

“Sorry, sir.” Antoine started to walk away.

“What a minute, that machine needs to be cleared.”

“Yes, sorry.” Antoine stepped back to the machine; Sweeney reached the desk at the same time. Antoine pressed the clear and print key and pulled the crank.

“What are these numbers?”

“It’s a column of numbers that Mr. Henry added together earlier today. I wanted to see if I could get the same answer.”

Sweeney compared Antoine’s tape to Dillon Henry’s; they were identical. “Hey, that’s not bad,” said Sweeney. “Let’s try another one.”

Sweeney opened the journal to a different column of numbers. Antoine sat down at the desk, put his left index finger under the number at the top of the column, and started to press the keys on the machine.

“Whoa,” said Sweeney, “you’re not looking at the machine.”

“Is that wrong?”

“Maybe not.”

At first Antoine pushed the keys slowly and carefully, but then he got the rhythm and started to go faster. The machine made sounds as he pressed the keys: chunk, chunk, chunk, chunk; he glanced at the keyboard to verify that he had put the number into the machine correctly; then he pulled the crank: ka-chunk! And so on down the column. At the end, he pushed the print and clear key and pulled the crank. Antoine was disappointed to see that his total did not match Henry’s.

“I must have made a mistake,” said Antoine.

Sweeney checked both and found a discrepancy in one number between the two tapes, then checked that number in the journal.

“No,” said Sweeney, “it was Mr. Henry’s mistake.”

“Oh, no.” Antoine’s cheeks reddened.

“Don’t worry, Antoine, everybody makes mistakes.” He looked at Antoine thoughtfully. “I think, for the time being, you should leave the adding machines alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

But in late March, when the income tax work slowed down, Mr. Sweeney put him in a vacant office and he practiced with an adding machine for a couple of days. Then Mr. Sweeney had him check the bookkeepers’ calculations, and Antoine found a handful of mistakes the first day.

The bookkeepers and some of the more junior accountants didn’t like it. When he was called back to the plant, Antoine asked to work nights and weekends. Everybody was happier with that arrangement.

After an hour of punching numbers into the adding machine, he looked up at the row of windows on the east side of the office and the dust motes dancing in the sunshine. He breathed in the smell of leather-bound journals and ledgers and musty paper so reminiscent of a library. He reveled in the solitude.

The door to the office opened quietly and crashed closed. Antoine cried “Whoa!” and leapt to his feet only to find Mr. Sweeney striding into the room.

“Did I startle you, Antoine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry, but maybe you shouldn’t sit with your back to the door.”

He shrugged. “I like looking out the window and seeing the weather.”

“Well, suit yourself.” Sweeney pulled up the neighboring desk chair, sat down and gestured for Antoine to do the same. “I came in to have a little chat with you”

“Oh,” said Antoine, disappointment in his voice. “You’re letting me go, then.”

“What? No! What makes you think that?”

“I haven’t found any calculation mistakes in almost a month. It seems pretty pointless.”

“Antoine, everybody in the office is a little more careful now because somebody ‘s watching. It's a small price to pay to make sure things are being done right.”

“Oh.” Antoine smiled. “You mean me.”

“Yes, you.” Sweeney cleared his throat. “Now, I want to talk to you about this note you sent to Mr. Saunders. The one about the Johansson Brothers. How did you spot the structural issue in their accounts? Have you been taking an accounting class? Reading a book, maybe?”

“Um, no. While doing this,” he gestured to ledgers and tapes, “I saw a kind of pattern to how the numbers moved from one journal to another and then to the ledgers. Then I noticed that Johansson's cash receipts journal had this fluke thing where its summary was a debit rather than credit. But that number didn’t show up anywhere else. I was curious about it, so I sent that note to Mr. Saunders. Was that wrong?”

“Oh, no. Whenever you find something odd like that, you should let the Account Manager know. But, it’s damned embarrassing. We’ll have to tell the client, of course. And we’ll have to figure out what to do on the occasion when there is a debit summary. Not as simple as posting it as a debit to the ledger, apparently. But that’s not your kettle of fish.”

Antoine nodded; Sweeney picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser end on the desk. “You know, you keep surprising me. We’ve underestimated you right along. With a little effort and maybe some class work, you could easily be a bookkeeper here. But, more important, I think you have the talent to be a really excellent accountant.”

“Don’t you have to go to college to be an accountant? Didn’t you go to college?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I have to tell you, Mr. Sweeney, I’m not very good at school. I barely made it through high school and couldn’t wait to get out. I’m much better out in the world where I can see how things work and how they apply in real life. As far as bookkeeper goes…” he looked around the room. “I see you have six desks but only four bookkeepers. How many bookkeepers did you have before the crash?”

“Seven full time, one part time. We had five accountants, and we were busting at the seams. Now, as you can see, it’s pretty roomy.”

“Just to be clear, you’re not offering me a bookkeeper job?”

“No.”

“I feel safer with two jobs than with one, anyway. I’m the only breadwinner in my family right now. I can lose one of these jobs and we’ll get by for a little while, until I find something else.”

“This downturn won’t last forever. I just want you to think about the future.”

“I am thinking about the future, Mr. Sweeney. My brother starts college in the fall. Maybe he will be an accountant, I don’t know. But I have to be there to help him get through it. We can’t afford to take chances.”

“Let’s talk again when the economy picks up.”

Antoine nodded. “Sure, I’d like that.”

Chapter 48

Sunday May 3, 1970

 Billy went through the mess line to pick up his box lunch, which contained a ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of chips, an apple and a chocolate chip cookie.  On the way out of the tent he picked up a bottle of coke. He looked around and saw about a hundred guardsmen sitting in the stands eating their lunches.

He walked up into the stands intending to join the others, but, on impulse, decided to climb to the top of the stadium. This was not an inconsequential decision. It was just over hundred steps to the top at a thirty-degree slope; he was winded when he got to the top. He turned and looked down at the field.

The Rubber Bowl had been built in 1940 by a New Deal jobs program. It was the largest football stadium in Akron, holding a little over 35,000 fans. The stadium was horseshoe-shaped with the open end pointing to the northwest. Billy was standing at the very top of the westernmost tip.

Two-thirds of the field was covered by the four-man tents that housed three companies of National Guard. The rest of the field held the mess and admin tents. 

He looked out over the stadium wall and saw his troop’s armored personnel vehicles parked in one of the lots along with the trucks used to transport the two infantry companies. Billy sat down with his back to the stadium wall and ate his lunch.

His platoon hadn’t gotten back to the Rubber Bowl until two o’clock in the morning; once in his bunk, Billy had trouble falling asleep. It seemed that he’d just dropped off when reveille sounded at six. Fucking stupid army, he thought. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

He was startled by a sharp voice and snapped awake. “Huh?”

“I said, look alive, Perkins!”

“Oh, Sergeant Wilcox.”

Wilcox stepped up to the wall and looked out of the stadium. “Hey, there’s an airport right here.”

Billy got up and stood next to his sergeant. “Yeah, that’s Akron Fulton International Airport.”

“International? That dinky thing?”

“Oh, yeah. No commercial flights, but it has customs and immigration for the big shots at Goodyear and Firestone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I grew up about three miles that way.” Billy waved his hand to the southwest.

Wilcox’s eyes followed Billy’s motion, and exclaimed, “Holy shit, what’s that?” He was looking at an enormous black building, shaped a little like a giant Quonset hut.

“That’s the Goodyear blimp hangar. Not it’s real name, I don’t think, but that’s what everybody calls it.”

“So, they store the blimps in there?”

“Yeah, and build ‘em. That building is so big that it has its own weather.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“It rains inside, a couple times a year, maybe.”

“I’ll be damned! Never heard that before.”

“And you see the road down there next to the stadium? That’s where they hold the Soap Box Derby every year.”

“Wow! All this stuff is just right here.”

“Yep.”

Wilcox turned to look at Billy. “So, what country club does your family belong to?”

“What makes you think we belong to a country club?”

“Come on, Perkins. You got trust-fund baby written all over your ass. And let me tell you, you ain’t fooling nobody about why you’re in the Guard. Guess I can’t really blame you, though. I wouldn’t wish Vietnam on my worst enemy.”

“You been?”

“Oh, yeah. Did tours ’66 and’68.” He didn’t mention that he was supposed to go for another in ’70, but he signed up for six years in the National Guard and the army discharged him.

“Combat’s bad, huh?”

“Naw. It’s not being able to tell which gooks are friendly and which ain’t. That and the weather and the jungle.”

“Oh.”

“I guess you missed out on the jungle, but you didn’t count on fighting commies twenty miles from home, I bet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Who do you think is stirring up all this trouble at Kent? What the fuck do you think we’re doing here? Why do you think they’re giving us live ammo?”

Chapter 49

Thursday July 16, 1931

 The day had been heavily overcast, muggy and brutally hot. There’d been distant thunder throughout the afternoon and evening. Coming home late from his accounting job, the people on the street looked waterlogged, rumpled, limp, exhausted. An older man in a suit and tie sat down across from Antoine on the streetcar. His eyes closed and his head jiggled and nodded with every bump of the car. Sweat poured out from under his fedora and rolled down his forehead, the furrows of his brow, his cheeks, around his prominent, purple-pink lips. The perspiration collected in great drops at the tip of his bulbous nose and his prominent chin; drops of sweat fell onto his tie with every jolt.

The house was dark; everybody was in bed except Jimmy, who played baseball and basketball all day and ran with his friends until late at night. Antoine turned on the small light next to his bed and the oscillating fan on the dresser. He stripped down to his shorts and undershirt, pulled back the bedspread and laid down on the sheets. They felt deliciously cool for about ten seconds. He pulled out his latest car parts catalog and lost himself in carburetors, alternators, chrome trim and hubcaps.

His light was out, but he was still awake when Jimmy came in after midnight smelling of beer. Jimmy undressed for bed and seemed to be asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Some indefinite time passed. He was just approaching the edges of sleep when a weight dropped onto his bed. He opened his eyes with a start. It was his father.

“You okay, Pops?” Antoine said quietly.

“Everything’s fine, Isaac.” Pierre’s voice was also quiet, but that didn’t mask his rage.

“Papa, it’s Antoine.”

“I know who you are. You’re the one plotting against me.”

“What are you talking about, Papa?”

“You want to take my place. You want to be in charge.”

“That’s not true. You’ve been sick. Don’t you remember? You couldn’t get out of bed.”

“I was tired, is all. Just tired.”

“Tired from what?”

“From… from… Working in the garden, that’s what. Doing your grunt work.”

Antoine shook his head. “The garden helped you, Papa. It gave you something to do. Until you start building houses again.”

“I am not your drudge.” There was a flash of lightning and Antoine saw a kitchen knife in his father’s hand. The thunder rolled over them in waves.

“No, of course not.” Now there was fear in Antoine’s voice.

“And I won’t let you make me one. It’s not in God’s plan.”

“Did God send you, Papa? Are you Abraham?”

“I… I… don’t know.”

“But you do know, Papa. You know that Abraham didn’t kill Isaac.”

“Only because God sent an angel to stop him!”

“What’s going on?” asked a sleepy voice from across the room. Pierre and Antoine looked at each other. Pierre was wide-eyed.

“Papa and I are having a private talk, that’s all.” Antoine took the knife from his father’s hand. “Would you mind going out and lying on the sofa?”

“Alright,” said Jimmy numbly and stumbled out the door.

The moments dragged out. “Oh, Antoine,” said Pierre at last. “I’m sorry.” He buried his face in his son’s chest and Antoine embraced him. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” His voice was muffled. “My son, my son. I love you.”

“I know. Papa, I know.” Which was more surprising? The knife or his father’s hand or last three words? Antoine patted Pierre’s back.

“Papa, you’re making me hot. Would you please sit up?”

Pierre pushed himself up and pulled up his undershirt to wipe his face.

“I’m sorry, Antoine.”

“Did you work in the garden today? In the afternoon?”

Pierre nodded.

“It was very hot and humid. Heat can make people do funny things.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You need to be more careful. And we need to get you some help. I’ll talk to Jimmy about it tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“After church on Sunday, why don’t we take the family to see the new Marx Brothers movie? Monkey something.”

“Monkey Business!”

“Yes, Monkey Business. It’ll be nice to sit in an air-conditioned theater for a couple of hours, won’t it?”

“It will! But can we afford it?”

“Yes, I think so.” Antoine affectionately patted Pierre on the back. “Now, I’m working at the plant tomorrow, and I need to get some rest.”

“Oh, alright.” He got up.

“I think it’s a little cooler in here, Papa. You could sleep in Jimmy’s bed if you like.”

“No, I think I’ll go back to my own bed. Goodnight, Antoine.”

“Goodnight, Papa.”

Antoine startled awake late the next morning. Heat lightning? he wondered. He put on his trousers and walked around the house looking for Jimmy. Not finding him, Antoine stepped out the kitchen door, and saw his brother and father working in the garden. He heard Jimmy’s voice and his father responded with laughter. Antoine smiled and went back in the house.

He made a baloney sandwich and poured a glass of milk. Before he could finish, Jimmy walked into the kitchen.

“Morning,” said Antoine.

“Morning,” Jimmy got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water from the faucet. He sat down at the table, knee to knee with Antoine. “What was that with Pops last night?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, nothing. He was letting me know how upset and frustrated he is.” Jimmy gave him a disbelieving look. “How come you’re working in the garden?”

“He asked me to.”

“He did?”

“Look, Antoine, I know I’ve been selfish, running off and doing whatever I want all the time. I was so busy with school and the dance and graduation. When that stuff was over, I didn’t stop to think that I could be more help around here.”

“Well, I’m not sure he needs help so much as company. I heard you make him laugh; that was wonderful.”

Jimmy drained the glass of water and wiped his mouth. “Are you sure he’s not…”

“Not what?”

“Dangerous. To you, I mean.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

Antoine smiled and reached over to put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Because, my darling brother, last night an angel intervened.”

“You must be mistaking me for somebody else.”

“Maybe, but what’s important is what Pops thinks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for work.”

Chapter 50

Thursday September 24, 1931

 Professor Armstrong Davis looked over his half-moon reading glasses as Jimmy stalked into his tiny office. The professor was middle-aged with a thick, unruly mustache and salt and pepper hair. He was rangy and gave the impression of wiry strength.

“Ah, Mr. Trombley! Good afternoon.”

He flipped a three-page paper onto the professor’s desk. It was titled “The Battle Tours: A turning point in history.” There was a prominent C+ in red ink at the top of the page.

“Ah, come to argue with me about the grade?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve come to find out what’s wrong with my paper.”

Professor Davis waved at the paper. “No doubt this is the sort of claptrap your high school teachers heaped with praise.” Jimmy tried to hide his surprise; it was, in fact, a paper he had written as a senior in high school. “Tell me, Mr. Trombley, did you hear that I was an easy grader? Did you think that you could hand in this sort of work and walk away with an A? Come, come, Mr. Trombley. I know my reputation.”

“Yes.”

“Ah, an honest man. I have completed the quest of Diogenes.”

“Who?”

The professor wrote the name on Jimmy’s paper. “Look it up.”

Jimmy was exasperated. “I saw the papers of the fellas around me; their papers all had comments. You give me this grade with no explanation. I want to know what’s wrong with it!”

“Well, let me see. The handwriting is impeccable. The words are all spelled correctly and lined up in complete sentences. It cogently argues a point of view espoused by Edward Gibbon in the eighteenth century and parroted by European historians ever since. If this paper had been turned in by your friend, oh, what’s his name? The lout that falls asleep in class?”

“Bernie Smith?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith. If he’d handed in this paper, I’d have given him a B+ or maybe an A-.” Jimmy looked confused. “Clearly, the problem with this paper, Mr. Trombley, is you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. This paper is beneath you. It’s lazy. Maybe it’s unreasonable to expect an eighteen-year-old boy to be more perceptive than Kurth, Delbruck, and Oman, but, damn it, I hate to see a good mind going to waste.”

“What?”

“Your thesis is that Charles Martel stemmed the tide of the Muslim horde at the Battle of Tours and saved Christian Europe, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose there was no tide.” 

“No tide?”

“There were in fact other Muslim sorties into France after the Battle of Tours. At some point they just stopped. Why was that?”

“Well, maybe…”

“No guesses, Mr. Trombley. Theories, of course, but they must be based on fact.”

“Then, well, I don’t know.”

“Excellent!” Professor Davis smiled at Jimmy for the first time. “I have a proposal for you. I was prepared to give you a B on this paper, if you came and fought for it. You can take that B right now and we’ll say no more about it. However, B’s will be about the best you can expect from now on.”

“That’s not much of a proposition.”

“Or you can go to work and improve this paper with some historical facts. And I’ll grade that paper on its merits.”

“How long do I have?”

“A week.”

Jimmy mulled it over. “Can you give me a little direction? I’m not really sure where to start.”

“You want a hint.”

“Yes. Please.”

“Alright. Where did the Muslims come from?”

“I know where they came from; they came from Spain.”

“Spain?”

“Well, what shall I call it? Hispania?”

“Are you saying the Muslims were native to Hispania?”

“No, of course not.” Professor Davis made no further comment. “So, you want me to look at this from the Muslim point of view?” It was a startling idea.

“You have your hint, Mr. Trombley. What’s your choice?”

“I’ll rewrite the paper.”

“Good. I’ll see you in a week.”

Thursday October 1, 1931

“Come in, Mr. Trombley, come in.” Jimmy placed his rewritten paper on Davis’ desk. “I’ll read this later, but why don’t you have a seat and tell me what you found.”

Jimmy smiled and sat down. “It starts with Visigoths three hundred years before the Battle of Tours. They were a German tribe and allies of the Western Roman Empire.”

“You mean they were Foederati.”

“Yes, That’s the Latin term. The Roman government resettled them in southwest Gaul early in the 5th century. But as the Empire collapsed, the Visigoths turned on the Romans, took Hispania by force and established the Kingdom of the Goths.

“At about the same time the Muslim Caliph based in Damascus conquered all of North Africa, from Egypt to the Atlantic coast and converted the native populations to Islam. So, at that moment in history, the Muslims and Visigoths faced each other across the Pillars of Hercules, what we now call the Strait of Gibraltar.

“In the middle of the 7th century, the Kingdom of the Goths fell into disarray. There were violent disputes over the royal succession, and in the early 8th century it began to break up. In 711, As part of a plan to reunite the kingdom and take the throne, the Visigoth Count of Ceuta made an alliance with Tariq ibn Zayid, a Muslim general. The count hired a fleet to ferry him and his Berber army across the strait.

“And the Muslims did reunite the Kingdom, just for not the Count. After landing near Gibraltar and establishing a beachhead, they were joined by a large force of Arabs and Berbers. Even though they were heavily outnumbered, Muslims defeated the Visigoths and took possession of Hispania in 718. And that’s how Muslims expanded their empire into Europe, and the answer to your question about where they came from.”

“And what about Tours? It’s a hell of a lot closer to Paris than Spain. It was an invasion, right?”

“Maybe not. There’s evidence the Muslim army was just in France to punish Duke Odo. Odo ruled the Aquitaine, a French province just north of Spain on the Atlantic coast. Odo had been raiding into northwestern Hispania, and the Muslim governor sent an army into the Aquitaine to put a stop to it. They routed Odo’s army near Bordeaux, and he retreated north with the Muslims in pursuit. When he got to Paris, he enlisted the help of his long-time rival, Charles Martel. And the rest, as they say, is history. After Tours the Muslims retreated in good order back to Hispania.”

“So, it wasn’t an invasion.”

“If it was an invasion, why didn’t they enter France from the Mediterranean coast? It would have been easier to supply an invasion from Hispania and North Africa.”

“So, your premise is that,” said Davis, ticking off points on his fingers, “chaos in the Roman Empire allowed the Visigoths to occupy Hispania, chaos in the Kingdom of the Goths allowed the Muslims to take Hispania from the Visigoths, and the Muslims were just in France to deal with Odo.”

“Something like that.”

“So, no tide, then!”

“Oh, I don’t know. If the Muslim forces had met the kind of resistance in France that they’d met in Hispania, maybe there’d be more Arabic than Latin in the language we’re speaking right now.”

“Ha! So, you want it both ways.”

“No, I just think there’s something glorious about stemming a tide, and I’m reluctant to take that away from my French ancestors.”

Davis smiled and said grudgingly, “Not bad, not bad at all.” He took out his grade book and a pen, wrote briefly, and turned the book so Jimmy could see it. He had scratched out the C+ and replaced it with an A. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jimmy started to stand.

“There are a couple other things I’d like to talk to you about, if you have time.”

Jimmy sat back down. “I have to be at work in forty-five minutes.”

“Work?”

“I have the dinner shift at the cafeteria.”

“Ah. Well, that should be plenty of time.” He took a manila folder from the top drawer of his desk and showed it to Jimmy. “Your university file. Not much in it yet: your high school transcript, application to the university, application essay, applications for scholarships, declaration of major, first semester class schedule.” Held up his university application. “This says your religious affiliation is Presbyterian.”

“Yes.”

“Not Catholic?”

“No, my family have been Protestants for over 400 years. Since before leaving France. That’s the story anyway.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt it?”

“No, but I have no way to prove it, either.”

“You’ve declared a dual major: Business and French.”

“Yes.”

“I see that you are taking French 3 this semester. How did you arrange that?”

“I had a chat with the three French instructors early in the summer. We spoke French, I read French, I wrote French, I translated French to English and English to French. They offered to put me in French 4, but I thought French 3 was enough of a jump.”

In halting French, Davis asked, “Where did you learn so very good French?”

Jimmy responded in French. “My mother spoke French with me every day from infancy until I was five-years-old. That’s when she passed away. My stepmother is from Montreal, and we took delight in each other’s French. It’s what we speak in private. Or when we want to keep something just between ourselves. This drives my father mad.”

Going back to English, Davis said, “I should imagine you speak the language better than your teachers.”

“No, the new department head is from France. I hear she married a doughboy. I expect to learn quite a lot from her. Things I don’t get because I didn’t grow up in France.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“I think so.”

“Do you read French literature? Flaubert, Hugo, Baudelaire for example.”

“No, not really. Baudelaire is quite beyond me. Not much on poetry even in English. I’ve read English Translations of Dumas’ books and then The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo in the original.”

“That must have been a shock.”

Jimmy grinned. “There were definitely some words in there that I didn’t hear from my stepmother.”

“So, French is just another easy ‘A’.”

“No, not at all. I admit that French 3 is easier than I expected, but it’s really a way to get credit for something I already do well. I expect it to get harder; there’s some Baudelaire and Valery in the curriculum, I believe.”

Davis leafed through the pages in Jimmy’s file. “Why business?”

“I’m the first member of my family to go to college. My father put money aside from the time I was small. Even though most of that was wiped out last year, my father and brother have sacrificed, and continue to sacrifice, to make it happen. They think business makes the most sense.”

“Business is a broad subject. What are you thinking of concentrating on?”

“My brother suggested accounting.”

“Accounting!” Davis shook his head.

“What’s wrong with accounting?”

“Somehow I can’t imagine the swashbuckling all-state basketball player and defender of French glory in a grubby little office balancing the books.”

“I wasn’t that swashbuckling. I was only honorable mention.” Davis wasn’t winning any points with Jimmy; the honorable mention still rankled.

“From what I hear, you’re pretty damn clever with the ball in your hands.” Jimmy shrugged. “So, your mind’s made up. You’re going to make partner in a big accounting firm?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to be, but business is where the money is.”

“Not at the moment, it’s not.”

“Then I guess it’s fortunate I won’t graduate until ’35.”

“I wouldn’t count on the bust being over by then. It’s two years since the Crash, and the market is still going down.”

“Okay, you’re older and wiser,” said Jimmy with a hint of sarcasm, “you tell me. What career should I aim for? Who will be able to employ me in 1935?”

“Are you aware that French is the international language of diplomacy?”

Jimmy laughed. “So, you’re saying I should become a diplomat.”

“In a way, yes. I think you should set your sights on the Foreign Service.”

“The what?”

“The Foreign Service is part of the State Department. Its officers staff US embassies and consulates around the world. Ambassadorships are still handed out as political plums sometimes, but more and more are going to men who have come up through the Service.” Davis saw a light in Jimmy’s eyes. “That appeals to you?”

“I’ve always dreamt of traveling and living overseas, but the idea just seems absurd.”

“That’s why you continue to study French?”

“Yes,” admitted Jimmy.

“French is a very good language for a Foreign Service career. French is the lingua franca throughout Africa, Southeast Asia, and parts of the Caribbean. So, quite aside from its diplomatic uses, they are many areas of world where it is the dominate language.”

“How do you know so much about the Foreign Service?”

“I used to be a Foreign Service Officer. I hope to be one again someday, just not very soon.”

“What do you mean ‘not very soon’?’”

“I took an indefinite leave of absence three years ago. My mother is ill. So, you can understand why I’m not anxious to return to my former livelihood. Fortunately, I have many connections from my time in the Service, and I was able to land this sinecure.” Davis gestured to his office.

“Your mother has been ill for three years?”

“Physically, she’s hale and hearty. It’s up here,” he tapped his forehead, “where her difficulty lies. Some days she’s right as rain, and others… she can’t find her way around the house.”

“Professor Davis, I’m sorry. That’s heartbreaking.”

“Yes, well, at my age you expect your parents to begin failing. At least I didn’t lose her when I was five.”

“To be honest, I don’t remember my birth mother, except for a snatch of speaking French with her on the day she died. Fortunately, my stepmother is wonderful.”

Davis’ vision turned inward and Jimmy sat in silence, waiting for him to return.

After an appropriate interval, Jimmy said, “The Foreign Service?”

“Ah, yes.” Davis sighed and smiled. “I’m not on the payroll, but I’m still in touch. I’ve been on the lookout for young men that might qualify. You’re the first one I’ve found.”

“It’s difficult to get in, then?”

“Yes, especially now with the economy in shambles. And there’s a hiring bias toward Ivy League candidates. Then there’s the Foreign Service Officer Test, which is difficult.”

“Oh.”

“Feeling daunted already?”

“I’m not sure how I’d stack up against the Ivy League.”

“Well, let’s pretend we’re accountants, shall we? And ‘stack up’ your credits and debits.”

“Okay?”

“On the credit side: you’re a good-looking, clear-eyed, dashing, athletic young man. You’re a brilliant student with an exemplary high school record. You’re ambitious and, if you put in the work, will no doubt graduate from college with honors. Most importantly, you’re fluent in French.”

“Yes, but that degree will be from the University of Akron.”

“A debit to be sure.”

“I’m a working-class kid from east Akron.”

“And if that was your entire balance sheet, I doubt you’d make it in, even if you passed the exam.”

“Then, then, what the hell? This whole thing is pointless.”

“Suppose you spent a year at the Sorbonne?”

Jimmy stood up, unable to contain his anger. “Are you taunting me? Or are you out of your mind? The Sorbonne?!”

Davis was unfazed. “I am the son of a man who owned a hardware store. A small business man has more status than a laborer, for sure. But the difference is immaterial to a Harvard Brahmin. I went to Western Reserve College. A better school than the University of Akron, no doubt. But it’s a distinction without a difference to a Yalie Bonesman. And yet I had a twenty-five-year career as a Foreign Service Officer, stationed in places like Berne and Berlin. How did I manage that? Keep in mind, this was before the exam and the Foreign Service was even more of a good-old-boys club than it is today.”

“Okay. How did you?”

“I was recruited as an undergraduate; I was mentored and guided and helped. I took a master’s in German history at Princeton. On scholarship. If I had spoken French as well as you do, I might have gone to the Sorbonne instead. Like my position here and my master’s degree from Princeton, these things can be arranged.”

“Then you’re recruiting me?”

“Let’s say I’m exploring the possibility.”

“What does a Foreign Service Officer even do?”

“Well, we assist Americans in distress, we further American business interests, we implement low level American foreign policy. Process visas for foreign nationals, for example. A lot of it, especially for low level officers, can be pretty tedious. But that’s all a part of learning the ropes, and pretty common in any career.” Davis looked pointedly at Jimmy. “Then there’s a whole range of extracurricular activities.”

“Extracurricular activities?”

“Let’s say you were posted to the Port of Algiers, which is directly across the Mediterranean from France. It’s a French Protectorate, and a French speaking region. You might be asked to track the commercial and military ships entering and exiting the port.”

“Isn’t that spying?”

“No, that’s intelligence gathering. Spying is something else entirely.”

“So, the Foreign Service doesn’t spy on other countries?”

“I didn’t say that. Unlike the other great powers, the US government has no dedicated intelligence service.”

“Really?”

“Every time there’s a war, we regrow the capability from scratch. However, we need that capability just as much in peacetime, if not more. The Secretary of State recently dismantled our cryptographic service. The blockhead was overheard to say ‘Gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail.’ As if other governments are populated by gentlemen. As if ours is. Ridiculous! So, the Foreign Service bumps along in its own amateurish way.”

“Are you saying you were a spy?”

“Oh, no. Though I’ve known an officer or two who might have been. While I believe the US needs a permanent, professional intelligence agency, it should not be part of the Foreign Service. It corrupts our primary mission.”

“Which is?”

“To represent our government, our citizens and our business interests in the most positive and energetic way possible. We’re not Boy Scouts, we’re not out there to make friends or to play nice. Make no mistake, we’re competing with the Brits, the French, the Germans and the Russians. Most especially the Russians. But skulking in the shadows makes it hard to be an honest broker.”

Jimmy frowned.

“Is there a problem?”

“No. It sounds exciting. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

“I’m not sure what my brother’s going to think.”

“Your brother? Surely your parents have more to say about it than your brother.”

“My father, like your mother, has problems up here,” Jimmy tapped his own forehead. “Ever since he lost his job. My brother’s the head of the family now.”

“Hmm, hmm. Well, no need to make any decisions now.” He opened his top desk drawer again. “Here are some pamphlets on the Service and career paths. If your brother needs to check my bona fides or talk this over with me, I’ll be available for that. In the meantime, give it some thought.”

“I will.” Jimmy stood, knowing he’d have trouble thinking about anything else.

“By the way, do you box?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

“Well, not to worry. We’ll fix that. See you in class tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Jimmy left the office feeling like he knew how Arthur felt when he pulled the sword from the stone.

Chapter 51

Saturday October 31, 1931

 It was a clear, crisp autumn day. Nelson stood on the field taking in his surroundings. The leaves were just past their peak of color, red, yellow and orange turning to brown. Some leaves had already fallen and a few skittered across the field in the moderate, westerly breeze. There was already the smell of burning leaves in the air.

To his right were the Barberton High School bleachers, to the left the much smaller visitors’ bleachers. Looking north was the scoreboard which said there were just under seven minutes to play in the third quarter, and the visitors led Barberton 21 to 3.

Nelson was grinning wolfishly; he’d never had so much fun playing football.

Just then the kickoff went over his head to restart play after Barberton’s first score of the day, a twenty-yard field goal. Then Nelson was busy running down field and blocking his assigned men. Abner Williams, as usual, ran out of bounds to avoid being tackled, but had taken the ball back all the way to the West High forty-one-yard line.

Walking to the huddle, Nelson could see Calvin Riperton staring daggers at him. Calvin was Nelson’s opposite number, playing center and nose guard for Barberton. He was a year older, an inch taller, twenty pounds heavier than Nelson, and the best player on the Barberton squad. There were college scouts in the stands watching him play.

West High’s coach, Robert Tilman, had designed the game plan around handling Riperton. It was Nelson’s job to take Riperton in whatever direction he chose to go until he was out of the play. Then the rest of the team adjusted. On offense they went wherever Riperton wasn’t; on defense they filled in the gap he left behind.

It took West seven plays to drive down to the Barberton twenty-three-yard line. It was third down and West needed two yards to get a first down. Nelson snapped the ball to Abner, and Riperton fired out to bullrush through him. As he had been coached, Nelson dived at Riperton’s knees for a cut block. Riperton then attempted to jump over him. Nelson stood up and caught Riperton with a shoulder pad to the groin. Nelson stood over Riperton and laughed in spite of himself, and trotted back to the huddle.

Abner said, “Hoss, you hadn’t oughta be laughing at that boy. He was already mad as a hornet.”

“I know, but he just looked so funny squirming on the ground there. Besides the madder he gets, the stupider he’ll play.” Nelson was unaware that he was bleeding from his left nostril and the ridge of his nose. Leather helmets, which had no face mask, did not protect a player’s face.

On the next snap Riperton stood straight up and took a step back. Nelson charged out to block him and the West left halfback, Billy Riggs, cut behind him and streaked for the goal. Riperton ignored Riggs and grabbed Nelson by the shoulder pads. The next thing Nelson knew he was at the bottom of a pile of players. When the players had peeled off the pile, Nelson did not get up.

Abner bent over him. “Is it your knee, Hoss?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because it weren’t no accident. The big boy, the nose guard, held you up, and the end hit you in the knee. On purpose, like.”

“Oh.”

“I told you, you shouldn’ta riled him up.”

“You did.”

The team doctor and Coach Tilman joined Abner. “How are you doing, McLaughlin?”

“It my knee, coach.”

The doctor pushed the pant leg up over the knee and examined it. He shrugged and said, “Let’s get him up on his feet and see if he can put any weight on it.”

Three of them pulled him up and he tried to stand on his left leg. “No, no! That hurts.”

“Do you want the stretcher?” asked the coach.

Nelson put his left arm around Abner’s shoulder and his right around the coach’s. “Just get me to the bench.”

Monday November 2, 1931

Nelson was in a ward in Akron Children’s Hospital. He was sitting up in bed and his injured knee was elevated on a pile of pillows. He was irritated because the bed was too short for him. When he laid down, his right foot stuck out three inches past the end of bed. One of the nurses had told him that it was the longest bed they had.

Also, he was bored. If he were at home, he could listen to the radio, read a magazine or book, talk to his mother or Agnes, play a board game or cards with Les and Genie, and visit with friends.

All there was to do here was to listen to the coughs and groans of the other children in the ward, the futile attempts of parents to entertain their offspring, the hushed conferences between doctors and concerned adults.

The day wore on and the light from the window faded; by late afternoon it was almost dark out. He must have fallen asleep because a hand on his shoulder awakened him.

“Hi, slugger!” said a warm contralto.

“Betty! What are you doing here?” Betty Wheeler was tall and fair with eyes even bluer than Nelson’s.

“I thought you could use some cheering up.”

“No, I mean, they wouldn’t let Genie come to see me and she’s older than you.”

“Well, I don’t know. I came to the hospital with your mom and dad. The doctor said I could come up and visit while they talked.”

“Well, I’m really glad to see you.”

She looked around, and seeing that no one was paying attention, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and promptly turned pink. “Do you mind if I sit?” she asked, gesturing to the chair next his bed.

“Just move it over there where I can see you.” Betty moved the chair and sat. She was wearing a white and grey checked wool dress with large white and gray alternating ornamental buttons down the front. She had her hair up in a French twist. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you!” she said in a demure voice, scrunching her shoulders, fingertips on her crossed knees, head turned down and to the left, looking at him from under her eyelashes. She’d seen that in a movie and been practicing it at home in her mirror. Nelson was completely flummoxed. After a moment of awkward silence, Betty asked him, “Does it hurt very much?”

“What?” He asked.

“Your knee, silly.”

“Oh, that. No, it feels okay as long as I don’t move it.”

“And there you are in that tiny bed. It looks so uncomfortable.”

“It is. Especially at night. My feet get cold.”

“Poor baby.” She got up and covered his exposed foot, and then moved to the head of the bed and fluffed his pillows, giving him a good look at her small, but adequate bust. He could smell soap and toilet water. She sat down and smiled up at him.

“Betty, I’m sorry, but I’m confused. Why are you here?”

“I already told you.”

“I know what you said, and, believe me, I’m about as cheered up as I get. But I want to know why you wanted to come here. Why did you think to cheer me up?”

“Well, if I am going to bring your school assignments and help you with your homework and sit and talk to you and help nurse you back to health, I think we should make it official.”

“Official?”

“That we’re dating.”

“What are you talking about? You got out with a lot of guys.”

She looked away and turned pink again, “Can’t put all your eggs in one basket, you know.”

Nelson’s brain was in a jumble; he couldn’t think what he should say.

“Nelson, don’t you want me to help you with your homework?”

“Oh, more than anything!”

“Don’t you want to date me?”

“Yes, more than anything!”

She stood, looked around, kissed him briefly on the lips, and sat down smiling. Nelson felt dizzy; he laid his head back and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Just trying to catch my breath.”

“Yeah, me too. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking we won’t be going to many dances.”

“Oh, we’ll still go. I’m not giving up dancing just because you can’t.”

“Well, okay, but you can’t dance with the same boy more than once.”

“Deal.” She put out her hand. “Let’s shake on it.”

“Let’s kiss on it.”

“Don’t get carried away, buster.” They turned their heads at the sound of the ward doors swinging open. “Here come the cops anyway.”

Earl and Laura McLaughlin and Dr. Jenkins came up to the bed. Laura put her fingers through her son’s hair. “How are you doing, Nellie?”

“Not too bad, Mom.”

She smiled at Betty and both young people blushed.

Dr. Jenkins said, “Now, young lady, Miss… Miss…”

“Wheeler,” said Betty.

“Yes, Miss Wheeler. Will you excuse us, please?”

Nelson said, “She can stay.”

“No, she can’t,” said Jenkins. “I am going to examine your knee, and we’ll need some privacy. Besides, this is a family conference.” He turned to Betty. “You can wait in the hall.”

Betty stood and said, “See you later, slugger.”

“Come and see me before you leave?”

“Of course.”

Jenkins pulled back the blanket and sheet, propped up the knee a little more and removed the wrap. It was swollen twice its size and black and blue. He gently manipulated Nelson’s knee and asked him to move it himself. It all hurt.

“Well, that’s a pretty bad injury you have there, young man. The x-rays were negative, so there are no broken bones. But there is almost certainly ligament damage, possibly cartilage damage, too. There’s no way to tell until we go in and take a look.”

“Surgery, then.” Nelson was not surprised.

The doctor nodded. “But, if you were my son, I wouldn’t trust this knee to any surgeon in Akron, not even me. However, there’s a man at the Cleveland Clinic, Dr. Schaeffer, that’s doing remarkable work on knees. I telephoned him earlier this afternoon and he’s agreed to take the case. He won’t want to see you until the swelling has gone down. Maybe three weeks.”

“You mean, I’m going to be here for another three more weeks?” Nelson was alarmed. The food alone might kill him.

“No, of course not. I’m sending you home today. I think you'll be much more comfortable at home, don’t you? Besides, your father’s a physician and you have your mother and housekeeper to take care of you.” He resisted glancing toward the hall. “I think there will be plenty of folks helping take care of you.”

“Wow, that’s great!”

“Now, do you have any questions for me?”

“Yes. When will I be able to get back to football and basketball?”

“As far as football goes, you played your last down on Saturday. That knee will never be stable enough to stand up to the pounding it will take on the football field.”

Nelson looked up at his father and saw tears clouding his glasses. Nelson wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his gown, and suddenly he was glad that Betty had gone out into the hall.

“As far as basketball goes, there’s a chance you might play again. If you are very lucky. If the surgery goes well. If you work very hard at your recovery, a year from now you might be getting ready for your senior year of basketball. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it, there is going to be a lot of pain and hard work between now and then.” He patted Nelson on the shoulder. “Your mother has some clean clothes for you. When you’re dressed, we’ll get a wheelchair up here for you and get you on your way home. Alright?”

Nelson nodded.

“Good luck to you, Nelson. Come back and see me when you’re up and around.”

“I will, doctor.”

His mother laid the clothes on the bed.

“I’ll help you dress before Betty comes back,” said his father.

Then Nelson realized that he was going to sit next Betty on the way home and suddenly things didn’t seem quite so bad.

Chapter 52

Sunday May 3, 1970

Just about the time Billy Perkins and Sergeant Wilcox were having their tête-à-tête atop of the Rubber Bowl, Stephen Bogdanovic got into his car and drove east out of Kent, through Ravenna, and, after forty-five-minutes, arrived in Warren Ohio. The telephone company had replaced most booths with the less expensive open air pay phones, but he was lucky to find a booth just off the highway outside a Marathon station. He parked his car and took a pocketful of change with him into the booth. He took out a small notebook and dialed a number from the first page.

An operator came on the line and said, “A dollar thirty for the first three minutes, please.” Stephen deposited the coins, the operator said, “Thank you.”, and the phone began to ring.

“Hello.”

Stephen said, “If there is no God…”

“…Everything is permitted.” The voice had a hint of an Eastern European accent. “Phone number?”

Stephen read out the string of numbers on the dial. The other man hung up the phone. Stephen hung up his phone with his left thumb and pretended to continue a conversation. Minutes passed; he jumped when the phone rang.

“Stephen?” said the other man.

“Yes.”

“Bosses asked me to say, firm is very pleased with outcome of latest project.”

“Thank you.”

“They think you deserve promotion and special training.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Good. Finish term; then come to New York. We will send ticket. Book room at Westside YMCA under name Gary Jackson.”

“The Y?”

“Is temporary. Besides, is beautiful area, and easy subway ride from Headquarters. We want to make sure you are, ah, unencumbered.”

“Alright. Finish semester, Gary Jackson, Westside YMCA.”

“Yes. Will contact you after you get to New York. Do tourist things. Be patient.”

“I will.”

The other man hung up.

Stephen got back in his car and started to search for a second booth. After cruising the downtown streets for fifteen minutes, he parked at a Mobil station and walked into the office.

“Do you know where I can find a phone booth?” he asked the fat, grease-covered man behind the desk.

He pointed at the wall across from him. “Payphone’s right there, partner.”

“Yeah, I’m breaking up with my girlfriend. Don’t really want to do that in public.”

An old man called from the back office, “What about Spanky’s?”

“What about it?”

“They got that fancy wood booth in the back.”

“That’s right,” said the fat man turning back to Stephen. “They got this 1930s thing going on, if you know what I mean.” 

“Where is this place?”

“Here, I’ll show you on the map.” He stood up and turned to the map of Warren on the wall behind him. “We’re right here on Northwest Boulevard. Take that to Parkman Road and turn left. Spanky’s is here on the right just before you get to the river.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. You let the girl down easy, now.”

“I’ll try.”

Stephen found the restaurant, went in, sat at a table and ordered a cheeseburger. Then he got up and went to the phone booth. He sat down on the cushioned seat and closed the door. The light at the top of the booth came on.

“Cool,” he said to himself.

He opened the notebook to the last page and dialed that number.

An operator came on the line and said, “A dollar fifteen for the first three minutes, please.” Stephen deposited the coins, the operator said, “Thank you.”, and the phone began to ring.

“This is the Major.”

“Bluebird has a message for Special Agent Friday.”

“You’re recording.”

“I’m in. Flying to New York at the end of May or early June. Staying at the Westside YMCA as Gary Jackson. They will contact me there as soon as they’re sure I am not being followed. End of message.”

Stephen hung up the phone.

Chapter 53

Thursday March 17, 1932

 Antoine answered the front door to find Thomas Bogdanovic standing on the stoop.

“Oh, Thank God you’re here!” said Thomas. “I was afraid you’d be at the plant!”

“No, I’m on furlough.”

“Grab your coat and come with me!”

“What’s wrong, Thomas? What are you doing in Akron?”

“There’s no time. I’ll tell you in the car.” He motioned to his automobile which was idling unattended at the curb.

“Okay.”

Sarah came out of the kitchen. “Who’s at the door?” she asked.

“Thomas Bogdanovic. Some kind of emergency.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call if I’m going to be late.”

Antoine bolted out of the house and hurried to the car. Thomas screeched away from the curb before Antione could close the car door.

“What’s going on?”

“Frankie beat Lada half to death.”

“Oh, no!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where are we going?”

“The hospital. The doctor says she needs another surgery. But she won’t let them do it until she sees you.”

“Oh, but Thomas, I can’t see Lada.”

“Why not?”

“I promised Frankie.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Come to think of it, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

Thomas glanced at Antoine out the side of his eyes. “You don’t have to worry about Frankie.”

“Why? Do the police have him? I’m not sure that makes him any less dangerous.”

“No, the police don’t have him. He took his filthy money and got out of town. His gang, including Uncle Ilarion, is as surprised as anybody.”

“Where’d he go?”

“New York, Chicago, Timbuctoo? Who knows? I don’t care as long as he stays away from us.”

“Amen to that.”

“Now, please! I need to concentrate on my driving.”

The traffic lights flashed by in the early evening gloom, and then the street lights came on. Thomas parked the car, and they hurried into the hospital, down a dimly lit corridor, up three flights of stairs, and down another hallway. They found the Bogdanovices, Ilarion, Nicolina, Gavrilo, Pavle, and, of course Mila, standing in a haze of cigarette smoke. There were also two orderlies with a gurney.

“Antoine!” said Mila. The men looked at him with grim, suspicious faces.

“Madame Mila, I’m so…”

“We can talk later.” She motioned toward the door. “If she’s asleep, wake her.”

Antoine nodded. He quietly opened and closed the door behind him. He could see that she was asleep. He walked softly to the bed and looked down at her. Her left eye and cheek were black and blue; her right arm was outside the covers, her wrist in a cast. Even so, she still was the most beautiful human being he’d ever seen.

He pulled the chair up to the bed, sat and touched her shoulder gently. Her eyes fluttered; she turned her head and smiled.

“Antoine, you’re here,” she whispered.

“Yes. Thomas came to get me.”

“It is wonderful to see you.”

“It’s wonderful to see you, too. Except… Except… Are you in much pain?”

“No, they shot me full of morphine. That’s why I was asleep.” Antoine’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, don’t cry, Antoine.” She reached out with her right hand and brushed his cheek. “Can’t you see that I’m happy? Happy for the first time in a long time.”

“Because I’m here?”

“Well, in a way. It’s because you can be here. It’s what that means. It means I’ve won. It means I’m free. Whatever happens now, I’m free.” Antoine couldn’t think of anything to say. “Antoine, do you remember the day we met?”

“Of, course. It’s often the last thing I think about at night. Especially, when I’ve had a bad day. I know it’s a really bad day when it doesn’t help.”

“Oh, I wish I’d known that.” She looked up at the ceiling and wiped her own cheek. “When I saw you walk into the backyard with Tomislav, I thought, What a funny looking little man. And when you went to wash the dishes, I was flabbergasted. I just had to see it and I spied on you from the porch. The little stranac washing dishes. Do you know the word stranac?”

“You told me before. It means foreigner.”

“Yes, foreigner. And I can tell you it’s not a nice word. Anyway, watching you at the sink was like seeing a carnival act, like a fire eater. Then you had a private talk with Mama, and I thought, What is going on here? I just had to see you close up for myself. So, I hung around the top of the stairs, and when you came out of Mama’s office, I stepped into the hall. And I saw you. I saw inside you, and I saw that you were pure. That you would never do anything to hurt me.”

“Lada, that’s not true. I sold you out to Frankie. I helped put you here.”

“Darling, you don’t understand. Frankie was never going to let me see you. No matter what. I was so happy when I found out that he gave you the money. I felt like I’d saved you. It was the last time I was happy until now. There was nothing you could have done. Frankie was a golem.”

“A golem?”

“A monster.”

Antoine laid his head face down on the bed. “Then you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, stroking his head. “Now, there’s one more thing. The thing I asked you here to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you please hold me and kiss me? On the lips.” He nodded and stood. “Gently,” she warned him.

“Yes.” He slid his right arm carefully under her shoulders, hugged her tenderly, and kissed her awkwardly as their tears mingled on her cheeks.

“I love you, Antoine.”

“I love you, Lada.”

“Now I’m ready. Tell them to come.”

He stumbled to the door; the orderlies rushed in and moments later brought her out on the gurney. They rolled her smoothly down the hall; Antoine and the Bogdanovices followed.

They were milling around the surgical waiting room, when Mila took his arm and said quietly, “We can talk now.”

“I’m sorry, Mila, but I have to let my mother know where I am first. I’ll be back shortly. Do you know where there’s a pay phone?”

“No, I don’t.”

He turned to the others and asked. “Does anybody know where there’s a pay phone?”

“I do,” said Thomas. “I’ll take you.” Then he turned and said something quietly in Serbian to Pavle.

Thomas led Antoine down the stairs to the ground floor and down a long corridor to a pay phone just outside the cafeteria. Antoine patted his pockets and said, “Oh, dear!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Thomas.

“We left the house in such a hurry I forgot to bring any money.” Thomas fished the change out his right pocket and handed him a nickel. “Thanks.” Antoine stepped into the booth and dialed home.

Sarah answered the phone. “Hello.”

“Maman, it’s Antoine.”

“Where are you?”

“Akron General Hospital. You remember my friend Lada?”

“Of course.”

“Well, she’s badly injured. Thomas came to fetch me because she wanted to talk to me.”

“Oh, no. Is she going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. She’s in surgery now. So, I am going to wait around here with her family.”

“There’s dinner in the fridge whenever you get home.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Take care.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

Antoine hung up the phone, turned to Thomas and sighed.

“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“But shouldn’t we…”

“Pavle knows where we are and this might be my last chance to talk to you alone.”

“Alright.”

They sat down with their steaming mugs at a table near the door.

“How’ve you been, Antoine?”

Antoine shrugged, “Okay, I guess. How about you?”

“Okay. How’s your family?”

“We’re getting by. I work at the plant off and on, and I have a part time job at an accounting firm. We’re getting ready to plant our second garden. We eat, we pay the bills. We’re lucky enough to have a little bit of a nest egg. But it’s precarious. So hard to know what’s coming next.”

“Yes.”

“How about you? How’s Mary Alice?”

“She’s good! Pregnant with our second child.”

“Congratulations! I heard that you had a son.”

“Yeah, he’s a little terror. He’ll be two by the time the second one comes, so I hope he settles down a little.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“No, probably not.”

“So, how did you happen to be in Akron when all this happened?”

“It’s not a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m on temporary leave.”

“Oh, no!”

“It’s alright. It’s fine. The project is going well; they seem to like my work. They’re expanding the lab and recruiting more staff. So, they gave us some time off. I’ll be going back by the end of April.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yes, we’re fine. When they gave me the leave, there was no reason to stay in Delaware, and Mary Alice wanted to spend time with her folks. Get some help with the little terror, if you ask me. So, we loaded up the car and headed west.” Thomas stopped and bowed his head. “The day after arriving in Cuyahoga Falls, I drove down to Akron to see my mother and sister, only Lada wasn’t there. It turns out nobody had seen Lada since Christmas.”

“Christmas!”

“It took quite a while for me to get that out of them. They talked to her on the phone some, but they’re pretty sure there was always somebody listening in. Lada had become very evasive about seeing them. These changes happened gradually until they just didn’t see her any more, and, you know, everybody in the family depended on Frankie’s good will. Except me.

“So, I called her, told her I wanted to see her. She said, ‘That’s not a very good idea.’ ‘Why’s that?’ I asked. She said, ‘I’m sick today.’ I said, ‘How about next week?’ She said, ‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick that day, too,’ and hung up. I got in my car and drove to their house. It’s a mansion out in Fairlawn, with a gate and a wall. There were armed goons at the gate and they wouldn’t let me in. So, I went to the cops.”

“You did? But…”

“My family doesn’t go to the cops? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Well, yeah.”

“I’m legit, Antione. I never did a shady thing in my life. If some people in my family have to suffer for my sister’s safety, so be it!” Thomas’ tone was heated.

“Okay. I understand.” Thomas continued to fume. “What did the cops say?”

“They said that Frankie hadn’t broken any laws. I said, ‘You mean it’s legal for a man to keep his wife locked up in his house?’ They said ‘She has to swear out a complaint.’ I said, ‘That’s crazy. He’ll just beat her harder.’ They said, ‘Our hands are tied.’ So, then I went to see a lawyer.”

“What did he say.”

“After he found out who the husband was, he said, ‘I can’t help you.’ I said, “Then who can?’ He reluctantly sent me to another lawyer, Dudley Cranston. When Cranston heard who the husband was, he got a little excited. Frankie must have crossed him at some point. He said, ‘The most I can do is bring a nuisance lawsuit. But, Mr. Bogdanovic, I can be one hell of a nuisance.’ And I said, ‘Let’s do it.’

“Well, you know Frankie. He has eyes and ears everywhere and he must have gotten wind of what I was doing. Two weeks ago, Lada called Mama and said she’s too sick at the moment, but she can come to the house for dinner in a week. I think she had to wait for the bruises to heal, but to be fair, Mama said she sounded like she had a cold. She came to dinner, without Frankie, thank God, and we had a wonderful evening. She said she was going to church with us on Sunday and that she’d meet us at the house.

“But she didn’t show. I called her. No answer. I drove there with Uncle Gav and Pavle, spoiling for a fight. But, when we arrived, there were no goons, and the gate was open. We searched the house and found her in her bed, beaten to within an inch of her life.”

“This was five days ago?”

“Yes.”

“She’s been like this for five days?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“We rushed her to the hospital. We donated blood. They gave her transfusions and took her into surgery. By Monday evening she came out of the coma; Tuesday evening the nurses were feeding her Jell-O. Wednesday afternoon she was sitting up in bed. And she asked to see you.”

“Me?”

“More like she insisted on it. Uncle Gav and Uncle Ilarion put their foot down. Lada was a married woman. No men and especially no non-Serbian men…”

“You mean stranac, don’t you?”

“How do you know that word?”

“Lada used it.”

“Ah! At any rate, no marriageable men of any sort. It didn’t matter that Frankie had deserted her. It didn’t matter that he beat her regularly. Those are a husband’s prerogative. She was still married to him and he had rights.

“But Lada would not give up. She said that she’d just got rid of one jailer and she wasn’t going to take on two more. Everyone was in an uproar. Then something happened last night, the doctors aren’t sure what. Maybe she just turned over in her sleep. She started to bleed inside again.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes. She wouldn’t let them take her to surgery until she talked to you. We fought and fought. We fought with her and with each other. In the end I just went and got you.” He made a sound that Antoine realized was a bitter laugh.

“What?”

“The only person who could have given them permission to operate, other than Lada, was Frankie.”

Pavle appeared at the door. “Come quickly, the doctor wants to talk to us.”

They hurried up to the waiting room and got there just as the doctor walked in. He was still in his blood-stained surgical gown. He looked over the group in the waiting room and said, “This is a conference for the family members of Lada Bogdanovic.”

Ilarion and Gavrilo turned to look at Antoine, but Thomas spoke forcefully, “We’re all family here. Please, go ahead, Doctor.”

“Very well.” The doctor went to where Mila was sitting and pulled up a chair. He took her hand and said, “Mrs. Bogdanovic, I’m afraid I have to tell you that your daughter has passed.”

Pent up tears and cries of grief burst from the group. Antoine sat down and put his face in his hands.

The doctor waited a few moments before continuing. “There was really nothing I could do. She died very shortly after we started surgery.”

“We… we could have given more blood,” offered Mila.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if we couldn’t stop the bleeding. If only I could have gotten her into surgery earlier.”

Mila had cried so many tears over the last few days, she seemed all cried out. She looked tiredly at the floor and mumbled to the doctor. “I know you did your best.”

A tall, gangly, bald man in a brown sportscoat and a blue bow tie walked into the waiting area. The doctor stood and took the man aside; they spoke quietly and walked back to Mila.

“Mrs. Bogdanovic, this is Rev. Thurman. He’s the hospital chaplain. If you’ll excuse me, I have some patients to check on. I will leave you in his hands.”

Rev. Thurman took the doctor’s vacated chair. He looked up at the tear-streaked faces around him. “Is this your family, Mrs. Bogdanovic?”

“Yes. My sister- and brothers-in-law and my sons.”

He examined a paper in his hand, “I understand your daughter, Lada, has passed?”

“Yes.”

“According to this she was only 23.”

“Yes.” Then Mila did begin to weep again.

He reached out a hand to pat her arm. “It’s always heartbreaking when a young person dies, no matter the circumstances.”

Mila blew her nose. “Yes.”

“Shall we offer a prayer for her soul? It can be a silent prayer if you like.”

“Yes, thank you.” She wiped her eyes. “A silent prayer, please.”

He stood, and so did Mila. He bowed his head and said, “Let us pray.” They were silent for a few moments. Rev. Thurman said “Amen”. The family echoed him.

“Now, Mrs. Bogdanovic, which church do you attend?”

“Saint Michael the Archangel Serbian Orthodox Church.”

“Of course. I will contact Father Grgur and we will make the arrangements. But when you feel up to it, there are some papers that need to be signed.

Thomas said, “I’ll take care of it, Mama.”

“No, No, it’s my job. Nica, would you please come with me?” Nicolina lifted her face from her handkerchief and nodded. “Thomas, please make sure everybody gets back to the house.” She turned to Antoine. “Antoine, I would very much like to speak with you. Will you please go back to the house with the rest of the family and wait for me there?”

“Of course, Mila, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.”

Antoine sat by himself in Mila’s backyard on a metal lawn chair. It was almost midnight, but time meant nothing to him. Oddly, time seemed both to stand still and to race by.

In the back of his mind, he heard the backdoor open and close, footsteps on the porch, down the stairs and much more quietly on the grass.

“Antoine.” It was Thomas. “How are you doing?”

“Numb. I’m numb.”

“Yes.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Damn, it’s cold.”

“I guess it is.”

“Mama is free now. She would like to speak to you, if you’re willing. She’s in her office.”

Antoine snorted.

“What?” asked Thomas.

“Full circle.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke to her in her office the first time I was here.”

“You did? I’d forgotten that.”

Antoine stood and looked at Thomas. “How are you doing?”

“I guess I’m numb, too.”

Thomas led him into the house. The warm air was like fire on Antoine’s hands and face. Thomas took his coat. He climbed the stairs and knocked on her office door.

He heard her muffled voice say something like, “Come in.” She was coming out from behind her desk with her arms extended. They embraced at the center of the room and somehow her arms reminded him of his mother’s arms. Antoine thought he’d already cried a lifetime of tears, but, as new ones rolled down his cheeks, he realized there was a salty sea yet to cross.

Mila took a hanky from a pile on the desk and dried his face. He took it and blew his nose loudly. She sat down in one of the guest chairs and invited him to sit in the other; there they sat, knee to knee, equals, at least in grief.

“I’m so sorry, Mila.”

“For what, Antoine?”

“I don’t know. I just feel responsible.”

Mila shook her head. “We all conspired against Lada, she as much as any of us. From the time she was thirteen she was searching for a way out of the trap she was in.”

“What trap?”

“The trap every beautiful, talented woman finds herself in. The world has no use for such women. Sometimes one or the other, but never both. I think she saw you as a way out.”

“But I had nothing to offer her.”

“That’s not true. I think you were her only real friend. Men lusted after her and women envied her. Not a fertile ground for friendship.” Mila sighed. “I am far more to blame than you. I am going to have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.”

“But I thought you were against the marriage.”

“I was. I fought it like a banshee. But our children and old people were going to be on the street. She came to me and pretended that she was attracted to Frankie and wanted to marry him.” She dabbed her eyes. “She didn’t fool me for a second. She despised him. She was the consecrated lamb.”

Antoine nodded. “She asked me to save her from Frankie. I can’t imagine how she thought I would do that.”

“I knew he was a bad man. I knew she would be miserable. I knew he would beat her. I never dreamed he’d kill her.”

“Lada said he was a golem.”

“Ah, the golem.”

“That means something to you?”

“Yes. In Scranton, Goran made friends with an outcast Jew that wandered into town. He told everybody who would listen that he was a golem. He was truly a terrible man. Eventually they hanged him for killing prostitutes. If he had stopped at one or two, they probably would have let it go.” She sighed. “I looked up the word ‘golem’. It’s a monster in human form made from mud and black magic. It has no soul. Ranko Dragovic made that outcast Jew look like a cartoon character.”

“Ranko?”

“That’s Frankie’s real name.”

“Oh.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“I don’t know, some of it didn’t make much sense. I think it was the morphine.”

“Please tell me anyway.”

“Well, let’s see. She said she was happy. She said my being there meant she was free. Free from Frankie, I guess. Free from family, too, maybe. I don’t know. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. What else?”

“I asked her forgiveness. She said there was nothing to forgive, there was nothing I could do against the golem. That he would never let me see her no matter what I did. She was glad he gave me the money.”

“What else?”

“She asked me to kiss her and she told me she loved me.”

“Did you kiss her?”

Antoine nodded.

“And tell her you loved her?”

Antoine began to cry again. “It felt like she was saying goodbye.”

“I’m sure it did.” Mila reached out and put a hand on his knee. “Antoine, look at me. Were you Lada’s lover?”

“No, Mila, I swear. That was our one and only kiss. Well, she kissed me one other time.”

Mila sat back and sighed. “That’s too bad. Lada’s gone from this world forever. It would have been a comfort if she’d had a little joy while she was here.” She looked at Antoine with kindness and pity. “You’re a good man, Antoine. It’s too bad you couldn’t have been her husband.”

“Oh, I would have been a terrible husband for Lada.” Antoine covered his mouth fearing he’d said too much.

“Why is that?” Antoine said nothing. “Is it because she was Orthodox? Because your family wouldn’t approve?”

“No, I don’t care about that.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve never told a soul, living or dead.”

“It’s a secret, then?”

He nodded.

“What is it?”

He shook his head.

“Sometimes it is bad to keep a secret inside. It can gnaw at you. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?” He stayed mute. “If I tell you a secret, something no one else knows, will you tell me your secret? A secret for a secret?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Alright. I will tell you my secret, and, after I’m done, you can decide if you want to tell me yours. Yes?”

Antoine hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

Mila took a deep breath. “My husband, Goran, was not Lada’s father.”

“What?”

“It’s true. In 1906 I had this one customer; her husband sometimes came to the shop to pick up her packages. This man was Macedonian, tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed and very handsome. One time I invited him into the storeroom with my eyes. That was the first of many times I went with him, and each time I made sure to have relations with Goran, just in case. Eventually I got pregnant. The whole time I prayed that it was the Macedonian’s child. As soon as Lada was born, I knew. The older she got the more sure I became. She was sweet and beautiful, just like my Macedonian. I used to laugh inside when somebody called her a Serb princess. As it turns out, she wasn’t Serbian at all.”

“But she was half Serbian.”

“No, Antoine, in the old country all that matters is the male line. If a woman was raped by a Bosnian soldier, she was considered defiled and it was up to the male family members to take care of it.”

“Take care of it?”

“They killed her.”

“Dear God!”

“If they did that to an innocent young girl taken against her will, just think what they would do to me.” The silence between them grew. “So, that’s my secret, Antoine.” She took a cigarette out of a pack on her desk. “Will you keep it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Now, Antoine, will you tell me your secret?”

He started and stopped and looked away and said haltingly. “I don’t feel about women the way other men do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t burn to touch them and kiss them and make babies with them. Like the Macedonian did with you.”

“Then… you like men.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, some men feel about men… the way most men feel about women.”

“They do? Why is that?”

“I don’t know, Antoine. They just do.”

“I had no idea.”

“Are you saying you don’t like men or women?”

“Yes, No.” Antoine shook his head. “I mean I have no idea how all this, this stuff works. And I don’t want to know. It all seems so absurd and grotesque.”

“Then what do you like?”

“I don’t feel the need to… to merge. But the closest thing, I guess, would be cars.”

“But, Antoine, you don’t even own a car.”

“I don’t want some broken-down, old Model T. I want something sleek and beautiful. I want an automobile that would make Lada proud.” They stared at each other for a heartbeat. “So, Mila, will you keep my secret.”

Mila nodded. “Yes, Antoine, I will.”

Chapter 54

Monday April 4, 1932

 Antoine walked from the streetcar stop to Kay’s Luncheonette carrying a canvas bag. The day was mild for early April, and he was dressed in dungarees, a long-sleeved, button-up shirt, a light jacket and his old flat cap. He put the bag down in front of the boarded-up window, took out a thermos and placed it on the exterior window ledge. He placed two mugs and small containers of sugar and cream next to the thermos. He put a spoon in his shirt pocket and sat down on the ledge to wait.

Minutes later a well-maintained Model T pulled up to the curb, and a middle-aged man in a sports coat and fedora got out of the car.

“Professor Davis?” said Antoine.

“Yes.”

Antoine offered him his hand. “Antoine Trombley.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Trombley.”

“Please, call me Antoine.”

“I’m Army.”

“Pardon?”

“Army. It’s short for my first name, Armstrong.”

“Ah.” Antoine nodded, “Army, then.”

Davis nodded in return, “Antoine.” He looked up at the building. “What is this?”

“A diner.”

“It appears to be closed.”

“It is. Which is appropriate because it’s also a kind of a tomb.”

“A tomb?”

“Yes. I used to meet a very dear friend here. She just passed away and it’s comforting think that her spirit might be resting here.”

Antoine took a moment to compose himself. The funeral rituals of the Serbian Orthodox Church had been exhausting, especially since he didn’t understand the language. He still felt the crushing weight of all the grief and tears, and, like almost everybody in the church, he had reason to feel responsible and guilty. At that moment Antoine hoped to never see the Bogdanovices again.

Antoine continued. “My friend dreamed of a life that her family and community wouldn’t let her have. A life where she could make her own choices. In the end it killed her.”

“And now you’re in that position with Jimmy.”

“Yes.” Antoine turned his head to look at the front door. “Her spirit, this place gives him an advantage.”

“The home court advantage, you might say.”

Antoine smiled wanly. “Yes. But don’t think it’s a foregone conclusion. It still has to make sense for the family.”

“Fair enough.”

“I invited you for coffee.” He gestured to the thermos. “Would you care for a cup?”

Davis smiled. “Yes, please.” They sat on the ledge.

Antoine poured two steaming mugs. “Cream or sugar?”

“A little sugar, please.”

Antoine handed him the spoon from his pocket and the container of sugar.

“Let me ask you this,” said Davis. “What are your expectations for Jimmy?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, your family has sacrificed for years so that Jimmy could go to college. What’s the goal? For him to get rich and support the family in luxury?”

“No, of course not.” Antoine thought for a moment. “I’m not an educated man, I’m never going to be any more than I am today: a factory worker struggling to take care of his parents and siblings. It would be nice to have some help with that. But really the goal has been to raise up the next generation of Trombleys. My brother’s and sister’s children.”

“Not your children?”

“That’s beginning to look more and more unlikely.”

Davis took a sip of his coffee. “Not bad. A good honest cup of joe.”

“Thanks.” Antoine took a sip of his own coffee. “Tell me about the, what is it, the Foreign Service?”

“Yes, the Foreign Service. Didn’t Jimmy tell you?”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

“We are the diplomatic representatives of the US government in foreign countries. From the Ambassador down to the greenest Foreign Service Officer. We staff the embassies and consulates. We assist Americans abroad and local citizens that want to visit the United States. And other duties, of course.”

“Like intelligence work.”

“Well, I might have oversold that a little. Most of it is just gathering widely-held public knowledge; what you might call gossip. But the only way you can get it is to be there on the ground. There’s very little real spy craft involved. It’s rare for a junior Foreign Service Officer to come to the attention of the ghosts.”

“The ghosts?”

“That’s what my friends and I call them. Officially, the Service disapproves of their activities. Unofficially, they have powerful friends in high places. But, even so, they try very hard to remain invisible.” Davis took another sip of his coffee. “But you must have other questions.”

Antoine nodded. “Yes, I do. Why would the Foreign Service be interested in Jimmy?”

“Ever seen a raw diamond?”

“No.”

“Well, Antoine, they’re nothing like what you’d see in the Crown Jewels. Most look like gray or brown oddly-shaped pebbles. It takes a good eye to spot them. By the time Jimmy finishes his year at university in France, he’ll be a rough-cut gem. The Service will be delighted to have him and to polish off the rough edges.”

“If he is a raw diamond, as you call him, why does he need you or the Foreign Service?”

“Right now, I’m the only one that sees his potential. He’s going to need my guidance to get the most out of the pitiful resources at Akron. And he’s going to need the help of people I know. People who can provide grant money for overseas study, help him prepare for the Foreign Service Officer Test, prepare him for the interviews, write recommendations, and guide his career once the Service accepts him.”

“I don’t know, Professor Davis…”

“Army.”

“Army,” Antoine nodded. “It all sounds so unlikely to me, like a fairytale. I mean, my God, the Sorbonne.”

“Well, maybe it won’t be the Sorbonne. Maybe it will be Université de Paris, which, for Jimmy’s purposes, would be just as good. I mentioned the Sorbonne to spark his imagination.”

“You certainly did that. He’s been over the moon.”

Davis smiled and nodded. “Is that how he reacted when you suggested he should consider accounting?”

“No,” admitted Antoine.

“Jimmy says you have a part time job at an accounting firm. Think about the folks you work with. How would Jimmy fit in with them?”

Antoine considered the accountants at Peal, Wilkens and Sweeney. “It’s just a drab, little firm in Akron, Ohio. What else would you expect?”

“I’ve known dozens of accountants. That’s how they like things, drab, ordinary, predictable. Force Jimmy into accounting and you’ll crush his spirit.”

“Surely there are other jobs in business that would suit him better.”

“Oh, no doubt, but how would he find it without a mentor like me? Especially with the economy the way it is.”

“This can’t last forever.”

“I know a couple of Ivy League economists, and they’re very pessimistic. Even the conservative ones are praying for the Democrats and Roosevelt to win in the fall.”

“I have to admit, I’m pretty pessimistic myself.” Antoine took a sip from his cup. “Can you guarantee that Jimmy will get into the Foreign Service?”

“No, there are no guarantees. Only good bets, bad bets, and worse bets.”

“Which kind of bet is this?”

“That’s hard to say, but I will say this: I think it’s his best bet.”

“And you think the Foreign Service will be good for Jimmy?”

“I do. It’s a great fit, like a hand in a glove. I have known hundreds of Foreign Service Officers, and many, especially ones that got in before there was a test, aren’t worth the bullet it would take to put them out of their misery. Jimmy will navigate the service like a salmon swimming upstream.”

“Don’t salmon die once they spawn?”

“Ah, yes,” Davis smiled. “Perhaps not the most apt metaphor.”

“What kind of living do Foreign Service Officers make?”

“The pay grades are a matter of public record and I’ll see that you receive a copy. But I can give you a couple of examples. My last posting was Vice Consul in Mannheim, Germany, and I took a pay cut when I came to the University of Akron as an associate professor. A first year Foreign Service Officer makes a good deal more than a new bookkeeper or a junior accountant. But, theoretically at least, a business person’s potential income is unlimited, whereas nobody joins the Foreign Service to get rich.

“It’s a respectable, professional career. In the middle grades one can afford to marry, to raise and educate children. I don’t want to mislead you, though. Advancement can be painfully slow. It took me over twenty years to get my first Vice Consul post in the backwater of Ulm.”

“Where’s Ulm?”

“In Germany. My principal second language is German. But Jimmy’s language is French; there are many more opportunities for a fluent French speaker.”

“Yes, he mentioned that. Would you like more coffee?”

“A half cup, if you please.” Davis held up his cup and Antoine poured. “Thanks.” Davis returned his cup to the ledge and added a little sugar. “After spending some time with you and Jimmy, I get the impression that the Trombleys are men of their word.”

“I like to think so.”

“There are a couple things I’d like to tell you that I’d prefer you not pass on to Jimmy.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

Davis nodded. “The world is full of temptation, is it not?”

“Indeed.”

“It is therefore important to begin an adventure with a pure heart. It’s a kind of armor.”

“You’re saying there is corruption in the Foreign Service?”

“Will you agree not to share this part of our conversation with Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“The Foreign Service exists in the world and is made up of human beings, so yes, there is some corruption. It’s possible, maybe likely, that Jimmy will be offered something of value for preferential treatment.”

“I don’t think Jimmy would do that.”

“Perhaps not. But you must remember that a significant number of Foreign Service Officers come from the Ivy league. A recent issue of the American Foreign Service Journal estimated that 11% of officers are Harvard grads. Many have what is euphemistically called ‘private means’. That is, family money. For them the salary is a mere bagatelle and they live quite lavishly. It can be very discouraging.”

“I see.”

“But, like you, I don’t expect Jimmy to be corrupted by unethical offers. No, there will most certainly be completely ethical opportunities that will be much more rewarding.”

“Such as?”

“One of the primary tasks of a Foreign Service Officer is promoting American business. As such he will learn the lay of land in all the countries where he serves; he will make lots of contacts with local businesses, with American businesses, with British, French and German businesses. If he is any good at that part of the job, it’s likely he will receive lucrative offers of employment from that quarter.”

“Tell me again why Jimmy shouldn’t know this.”

“If he goes into this thinking of the Service as a means to an end, I don’t want him and I won’t help him.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Ah, well, I want you to know that the Service is not a dead end. If he works hard and trains for the Service, it will not limit his options. In fact, it will open a whole new world of opportunities.”

Antoine mulled that over. “Is there anything else?”

“No, unless you have more questions, I think that’s about it.”

Antoine stood and paced back and forth in front of Davis. Davis poured himself more coffee and sat patiently drinking it. Finally, Antoine stopped at the door and rattled it, knowing it wouldn’t open. He put his forehead and right palm on the pane.

“What are you thinking?” asked Davis.

“My heart tells me this is a risky choice. But the ghost,” Antoine looked up at the name still painted on the front door window. “The ghost says, ‘You have to let go. You have to let him make his own choices and his own mistakes.’”

“So, who wins? Your heart or the ghost?”

“It’s close. But that’s why we played it here. Jimmy wins. He makes the call.”

“In that case I do have one more thing. It wouldn’t have mattered if the decision had gone the other way. We have a small apartment over the garage. I would like Jimmy to come and live there starting at the beginning of fall term.”

“We don’t have money for rent.”

“Oh, no. It would be rent free. The fact is I need some help with my mother. Did Jimmy tell you she’s ill?”

“Yes. He said dementia.”

“There’s a housekeeper during the day, but it’s getting to the point where I can’t leave her alone in the evening. Having Jimmy there would give me a little freedom, which would be priceless. As luck would have it, it’s easy walking distance to the University. And Jimmy needs to have practice living on his own before he goes to Europe. Of course, it would facilitate working together.”

“I’ve made enough big decisions for one day. Would it be alright if I left this one for another time?”

“Of course. I haven’t said a word to Jimmy about it. It’s completely your choice.”

Antoine held out his hand. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

“Army,” Davis corrected and took his hand.

Antoine nodded, “Army.”

END OF PART 1