Front Lines. Майкл Грант

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СКАЧАТЬ He should be in school, that boy. He can’t be much older than twelve. Maybe this is an early delivery before heading off to school. Maybe . . .

      Tam Richlin takes the envelope. It’s buff-colored, thin paper. He hesitates, turning the envelope as if he can’t find the right way around. He licks his lips, and Rio’s unease deepens.

      “What is it?” Her voice wobbles.

      “Thank you,” Mr Richlin says. The delivery boy touches the brim of his cap and speeds back to his bicycle, relief showing in the quickness of his step.

      “What is it?” Rio asks again.

      Mr Richlin licks his lips again, takes a deep breath. Suddenly urgent, he tears the envelope open and draws out the sheet. He stares at it. Just that, just stares, and Rio knows.

      After a terrible long silence in which the world stops turning and the birds stop singing and the breeze does not blow, she reaches for it and takes it from his nerveless fingers. The words are all in capital letters.

       THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR DAUGHTER RACHEL RICHLIN . . .

      Rio makes a small, whimpering sound. She looks at her father. He sags against the door jamb, head bowed. She sees him in profile only, a dark outline of a man looking at nothing.

       . . . YOUR DAUGHTER RACHEL RICHLIN WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HER DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HER COUNTRY.

      “Tam? Rio?”

      Rio turns guilty eyes already glittering wet to her mother. Her mother sees the telegram and the expression on her husband’s face and the way he slumps there like every ounce of strength is gone from him. She falls to her knees, falls like she’s been shot, like the muscles in her legs have just quit all at once.

      “No, it’s . . . ,” she says. “No, it’s, no. No. No. No, no, no, no. Not my baby, not my baby, not my baby, please no, please no.” It starts off denial, ends up pleading.

      Rio runs to her mother, kneels beside her, puts her arms around her mother’s shoulders—though what she wants is for her mother to comfort her, tell her that it’s a joke or a mistake or a simple impossibility. Her mother is shaking. Saying No, no, not my baby, please, please, over and over again, as if saying it will make it true, as if it’s a magic spell to ward off the wave of pain coming her way.

      Tam Richlin leans there with head bowed and says nothing. His fists clench then relax as if he simply lacks the strength to go on. But he says nothing. Nothing, no sound, as his wife, who howls in plain misery, howls into the hollow of her surviving daughter’s neck.

      Tam Richlin says, “I best go open the shop.” And with that he is gone.

      Rio moves her mother to the sofa, physically having to take her mother’s heaving shoulders and lift. Rio goes to the kitchen to make tea, because isn’t that what people do at moments like this? Don’t they make tea? As the water heats, she sets out the good silver tea service, focusing for as long as she can on the placement of the elements: the pot, the sugar bowl, the little, slightly mismatched cream pitcher, all of it clattering because her fingers are clumsy. It feels right, somehow, using the good silver, the silver that only comes out for Christmas, baptisms, rare occasions when some important person comes calling, and when sisters die. The person you used to gossip with, quarrel with, share clothing with, learn from . . . The person you wanted to be like when you grew up. This day could not be marked with tea from a chipped old china teapot.

      “I just see her in that cold, gray water,” Millie Richlin says. Tears spill from her eyes, and she makes no attempt to wipe them away. “I just want to . . .” Her arms reach for what is no longer there and close around air. “But she’s with Jesus now. She’s in the loving arms of Jesus.”

       Where was Jesus when the Japanese bombs fell straight and true?

      Rio is not ready for the comfort of religion. Anger fills her. “Dirty Japs,” she mutters. “Rotten, dirty Japs. Rachel wasn’t even on a battleship, it was a . . .” She realizes she doesn’t know what kind of ship Rachel was on, the censors forbade that kind of information. All she knows is that Rachel reassured her she was in no danger. I’m just on a big old tub no one would waste a torpedo on. “Dirty Japs. Dirty Japs, why did they start this war? Why did . . .”

      “She was always so . . .”

      “I’d kill them myself if I could, the dirty . . .”

      “. . . good with the chores and so helpful, and so . . .”

      “. . . Japs. Them and the Krauts both.”

      “. . . cheerful. She must have . . .” She grabbed Rio’s arm. “Why did she go? Why did she enlist?”

      “Because she’s brave,” Rio snaps. Now the tears come fast. “She’s brave, and she wants to do her part.” She will not use past tense for her sister. Rachel is brave, not was. Is.

      Her mother looks at her in alarm. “No, Rio, no.”

      “Rachel did her part, and now she’s . . .”

      Not that word. Not yet.

      “I sit here with my stupid algebra homework.” Rio kicks at the leg of the coffee table. The tea set rattles.

      “You stop that right now, Rio. I’ve lost . . . I won’t . . . I couldn’t stand it. I would lose my mind. And your father . . .” Desperation in that voice, hopelessness, fear, and it all feeds Rio’s anger.

      Rio glances at the door through which her father disappeared. No one has closed it. The street outside is cruelly bright, a gorgeous Northern California morning with palms riding high and lavender flowers threatening to cover the sidewalk.

      Rio’s father will have reached the feed store by now. He will have unlocked the door and turned the Closed sign around to Open. Being a man, that’s what he’s doing, being a man who does not cry because men do not cry. Crying is reserved for women.

      Rio’s gaze goes to the small vertical window beside the door where the service flag hangs, a red-and-white rectangle with a single blue star sewn onto the side facing the street. There are those flags all up and down the block. All over Gedwell Falls. All over California, and all over America. They show that the family has a member in service. Some houses bear flags with two or three such stars.

      At the beginning of the war there were only blue stars, and it was an honor, a matter of pride, but now in many towns around the country some of those blue stars are being removed and replaced by gold ones.

      A gold star hanging in your window means a family member has made the ultimate sacrifice. That’s the phrase, the approved phrase, ultimate sacrifice. Rachel’s gold star will be the first in Gedwell Falls.

      Rio wonders how it is done. Who switches the blue star for gold? Does the government send you a new flag? How very kind of them. Will her mother have to do the sewing herself ? Will she have to go to the sewing store to get the star herself, God forbid, to get the right color thread and to ask the clerk . . .

      If Rio is drafted the flag will bear a gold star and a blue.

       Don’t think СКАЧАТЬ