NOVEMBER 1972
“Thanks for the ride.” Russell tossed his duffel bag in the backseat and swung into the car. Through the windshield, Jack could see Margy’s ghostly outline in the window. He shifted into reverse and backed out of her drive.
“What did you do with your motorcycle?”
“Sold it.” Russell ran his hand over his face. “Gave the money to my mom.”
“Mmm. How’s she taking it?”
The boy flipped his hand open. “About as well as you’d expect. I’m not sure if she’s more upset over the idea I might kill someone, or over the idea I might get killed.”
“Seeing as how she became a peace activist after you got drafted, I suspect it’s the latter.”
Russell looked at him sideways. “You know I—” He paused.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
They drove out Old Route 100 in silence. They had had an early snow yesterday, dry and light, and the rolling fields were lapped with white in their hollows and along their stone walls. “Oh. I almost forgot. Happy birthday. One day late.”
Russell frowned. “Did my mom tell you?”
Jack snorted. “You forget I’ve known your mother since we were in grade school together. I was around when you were born.” He turned onto Route 9. “And your birth date was on your arrest sheet.” Jack didn’t need that to remember the day, but no need for the boy to know that.
“Thank you for writing that letter. To the recruiter. It made a big difference.”
“The army’s lucky to get you. Most young men are running the other way as fast as they can.” They crossed the war memorial bridge, and the town opened up around them. “You’re sure about this, right? It’s not just because…”
“Because I was a suspect in a murder?” Russell smiled in a way that made him look much older than his years. “Mom says as soon as somebody else gets into trouble, everybody will stop talking about me.”
“She’s got a point.” Jack rolled to a stop, then turned right onto Main.
“Maybe. Me, I think until you can actually prove I didn’t do it, there’ll always be people talking. Because I’m a baby killer, you know.”
“Cut that out.” Jack’s voice was sharp. “I’d take anyone to the curb who said that about you or any of the boys who’ve come back from Vietnam. I’m not going to let you say it about yourself.”
Russell rubbed his hands along his jeans. “Sorry.” He looked out the window as they passed the police station. “That’s not the real reason, anyway.”
Jack turned onto Church Street. The small park facing St. Alban’s was leafless, the bleak sunlight revealing how badly the gazebo at its center needed painting.
“Look around.” Russell waved his hand. “What’s my future? A job at the mill? Working for a dairy farmer? I’m sick of living in a place where the old folks still call me Erasmus Campbell’s great-grandson. That’s not normal.”
“He was a mighty colorful man.” Campbell had run off to fight in the Civil War at the age of fifteen, traveled throughout the young United States, and scandalized his hometown when he returned, married a much younger woman, and started producing little Campbells while in his fifties.
“Having kids when you’re old enough to be a grandfather isn’t colorful. It’s gross.”
They swung onto Route 57.
“I get that it’s different for your generation. My mom never wanted to be anywhere but Millers Kill. You were born here and you’ve lived here your whole life. People my age, we want to live.”
Natalie Epstein had wanted to live. Jack felt a stab of guilt, like a pinched nerve in the middle of his heart. He suspected he always would, when he thought of her. “I’m sorry your homecoming was so rough. That’s not what anyone wanted for you.”
Russell shrugged. “It was good to see my mom. Good to know she has a life here without me around. I love my mom, don’t get me wrong—”
“I understand.” Jack bumped the car over the old train tracks. “You worried she didn’t have anyone to take care of her, without you or your dad around.” He turned and cut through a half-built development, future housing for GE’s bright young men and their wives. Right now, it was a field of frozen mud and yawning foundations. “She’s a strong woman. Don’t worry about her.”
Russell nodded.
“So where are you headed?”
“From Glens Falls to New York, New York to Fort Bragg. Then I get my orders for Fort Leonard Wood.”
“Where’s that?”
“Missouri. It’s the army’s training ground for MPs.”
Jack jerked to a stop before a red light. “MPs. Military police.” He swiveled to face Russell.
The boy looked almost shy. “Yeah.”
“Huh. That’s … unexpected.” Someone honked behind him, and he almost reached for his magnetic emergency light. Instead, he depressed the gas and drove forward. “You didn’t exactly see the bright side of the profession this summer.”
“It was interesting. Looking at people, trying to figure them out. Putting pieces together.”
“Or not.” Jack’s voice was more sardonic than he had intended. He tried a lighter tone. “It’s not detective work at first, you know. It’ll be a whole lot of traffic patrols and checking IDs and escort duty.” He slowed down, then gave the car some juice as the light ahead changed to green. Shoppers were out in Glens Falls, bundled up against the cold.
“I know. I just like…” The boy paused. Jack could hear him turning words over in his head. “I like the purposefulness of it. It’s like being in the army. It’s real. It means something. And…” He paused again. “I like the idea of doing good.” He ducked his head. “Not like a goody-goody. I like the idea of doing something that matters. That can make things better and keep people safer.”
Jack pulled into the POLICE PARKING space in front of the bus station and turned off the car. They both got out. Russell retrieved his duffel from the backseat. They shook hands.
“Thanks, Chief Liddle. For everything.”
“Think of us when you get tired of army life. We could always use a smart young man like you.” Jack smiled a little. “Who wants to make things better.”