Quartet for the End of Time (6 page)

There was no hint in the words, or in the way that Douglas spoke them, as to whether what he'd told her made him happy or sad. Because of this, Sutton did not know how to respond; whether she herself should seem pleased or dismayed by the news. Before she had time to consider the matter any further, however—or say anything at all—Douglas had turned. For the first time, he looked at her directly.

If I tell you something, he said—his voice low and urgent now—will you promise— But here he paused, glancing quickly away. Will you promise, he began again (his voice softer and steadier now) not to tell; I mean (again, he looked at her; his blue eyes flashed) not another living soul?

Sutton nodded. Then, because he was not looking at her, and said nothing: Of course, she said.

It's … the Indian. John, Douglas said. He's—he's
murdered
a man. I saw it. We all did.

Color had begun to creep into his cheeks and now he shook his head, so that his hair fell like a shroud, and it was difficult to read his features.

Sutton could feel the beat of her own heart in her throat.

When? she said. Where?

Slowly, then, pausing often in order either to correct or further obscure the details, Douglas related what he could of the incident he now recalled. It had been the first evening he and Chet and his father, who had traveled together all the way from Beloit, Kansas, had ever laid eyes on the man. They'd been Washington-bound; had just stopped off in East St. Louis for something to drink and a meal. He had hardly noticed it at first, Douglas said; had no idea how the fight had begun. But he did see (they all did, he said) how it ended. The dead man's body carried away, in the arms of six men.

And John?

Gone. Fled first of anyone. Then the police came; we all fled. It wasn't 'til the next day we fell in with him—John. And Aida. By pure accident, see.

And had they been followed?

No, Douglas said. He supposed they had not. As far as he could tell, the Indian was in no danger now. And it had never been mentioned—
not once, so far as he knew—between them. What had happened that night. Everyone else, he supposed—his own father, even—had forgotten it had even occurred.

Somehow, though (Douglas said), he himself could not get the thing out of his mind.

S
HE CONFRONTED
A
LDEN THAT
evening.

John's a Red, she said. That's how come you go down to see him all the time.

She did not know how she knew this—and, in truth, was not absolutely sure that it was so, until the expression on Alden's face confirmed it.

Douglas, she told him. And Arthur. Chet, probably. They don't know he's Red—I'm sure of it. And I'd hate to think (her voice trembled with a sudden conviction she hadn't known, until that moment, she felt) that— she continued—in not knowing, they should be placed in any danger.

By now Alden had collected himself. What gave you this idea? he asked. What did you hear?

I don't need—Sutton snapped—to be told what I can just as well see for myself.

In any case, Alden said, they're better not to know.

Alden, Sutton said.
He's killed a man
. Douglas saw him—they all did. With their own eyes.

Douglas said that?

Silence.

Alden shook his head. You keep whatever you heard to yourself, he said. It may not be true, of course—but if it is … He paused. He must have had his reasons.

Reasons? Sutton asked. What reasons?

But Alden had already turned away.

W
ITH SCHOOL OUT,
S
UTTON WENT DOWN TO THE CAMPS WHENEVER SHE COULD—
even without Alden's company now. And nearly always when she went,
she walked with Douglas out to the far end of the camp where they could see it spread below them in its patchwork of reds and grays. She pressed him when she could: Had he noticed anything about the Indian's behavior that might be considered in any way … unusual? But Douglas was reluctant to speak of the Indian again. And, despite her fears, there was no sign that either Alden or the Indian, rarely seen together, were involved in anything beyond what had been officially sanctioned by Waters—or that their sympathies (never once, at least in her hearing, voiced out loud) threatened either Douglas, Arthur and Chet in particular—or, more broadly, the “all-American” intentions of the Bonus Army as a whole. Perhaps—Sutton considered—even Douglas's story about the Indian had been nothing more than—not a lie, exactly, but somehow a
stretching
of the truth. Some way of expressing his own abstract fears (young as he was, and so far away from home) through some concrete, easily transmittable form.

B
Y THAT TIME
—
THE BEGINNING
of June—twenty thousand veterans had arrived in Washington, or were on their way. Railroad workers added empty boxcars to trains in order to accommodate the steady stream of men who continued to arrive from every corner of the country, often with whole families in tow. Despite—or because of—persistent rumors of Communist infiltration into the camps, the city's residents opened their homes, and donated to the cause what little they could: food, clothing, even money when there was any to be had, and (the one thing of which, in those days, everyone seemed to have plenty) time. Volunteers flooded into Camp Marks to help distribute the food supplied by private donors like Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean. The Salvation Army set up a huge green tent, replete with a small lending library, and a letter-writing station where veterans were encouraged to write home or to the government. (The addresses of several congressmen, including Judge Kelly, were posted along the inside tent walls, along with the recommendation that each man might: “Write, and tell your story!”)

And always, there was music. Brass bands, and the “official” Bonus
Expeditionary Force orchestra played regularly, gathering massive crowds. But there was always an ad hoc band playing somewhere—on whatever instruments had been carried from home, or otherwise fashioned from the junk heap that continued to rise from the flats—though now at a diminishing angle. There was always somebody singing and stomping along to “My Bonus Lies Over the Ocean” or “God's Tomorrow Will Be Brighter than Today.”

But the exuberant optimism that abounded in the camps during those first weeks couldn't—and didn't—last. Despite the support they received, as the population grew it became increasingly difficult to keep everyone fed. Soon it was hunger more than anything else that the veterans felt—and shared with one another.

Accordingly, on the ninth of June, the police officer S. J. Marks, whom, like Glassford, everyone knew to be sympathetic to the veterans' cause (it was for him, indeed, the camp had been named), personally invited the men to return to wherever it was they had come from.

We've got trucks, Marks had roared—indicating the one in which he stood, and the others that, just then, were drawing up behind.

He waited several long seconds, but there was no reply. The veterans stared ahead, then, nervously, at one another. Finally, it was Marks himself who broke the silence. He cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the crowd.

I suspected as much, he shouted. And I don't blame you! I hope you stay and get your bonus!

O
N ANOTHER AFTERNOON NOT
long after that, a priest named Father James flew in from Pittsburgh. Sutton and Alden had just arrived with the remnants of their previous night's meal, and whatever else they could reasonably take from underneath the nose of Germaine, who—it was clear—was well past the beginning stages of noticing something. Unable to push their way through the crowd that had gathered, they never managed even a single glimpse of Father James—but they heard his message clearly. Everyone did.

Stick it out, boys! he yelled, his voice booming through a megaphone. Don't let them back you down!

Thousands of veterans were still on their way, he told them: their numbers would only grow. By the time the whole thing was over, the preacher promised them, the Bonus Army was sure to stand one million strong.

If they won't give you this little bonus, he roared, offered you because your wartime pay was less than common labor—well, then, turn them out of office! If they turn you away … go home and organize against them! Send men who want to look after
the people
, he shouted—not the five hundred millionaires who currently control our national wealth!

Around them, veterans screamed and cheered.

Will you promise me this? shouted Father James.

Everyone, including Alden, roared back in the affirmative.

Will you, Father James shouted—raising his voice, and his arms in their military dress skyward, and pumping a fist into the empty air—as God is each and every one of our witness, will you make this solemn promise to me today?

B
UT THAT SAME DAY
also brought a storm of leaflets distributed by presidential hopeful Norman Thomas. When finally Sutton and Alden managed to reach Chet and Arthur's camp, they heard about that. He was encouraging the veterans to abandon the fight, Arthur informed them crossly; to direct their efforts instead toward permanent government relief. “We address you not only as veterans of the World War but also as veterans of that larger and unending war against poverty,” the leaflets read. Chet, Arthur, and Douglas had spent the better part of the day collecting as many pamphlets as they could in order to burn them.

After all the progress we've made, Chet said, shaking his head.

John, who had just joined them and as yet had not said a word, coughed, then peered quizzically at Chet.

Progress? he said.

In his arms, Felicity slept peacefully. She was wearing a pretty white dress with blue stitching, which she had inherited from Mrs. Evalyn Walsh McLean.

What, I wonder, is that?

Chet snapped his head in the Indian's direction and swore softly.

We've got one hundred thousand men, he said. We could have a million. This thing is getting bigger, not smaller—that's progress, in my books. When it comes down to it, politics is just numbers, after all—and we got 'em.

Politics, John said calmly, is more than just numbers. Or at least—he paused—there's more than one way of adding them up. If we start counting, for example, how much money they have up there versus us down here, then what happens? And what about guns? Have you calculated ammunitions?

Again, Chet swore under his breath, but said nothing.

O
N THE WEEKENDS THE
tourists arrived carrying cameras and picnic baskets filled with food to be shared with the veterans. There was also an influx of journalists—each more eager than the last to report the “truth” about the camps and the Bonus Army. Sutton clipped the articles that were subsequently published, along with a corresponding rash of conflicting editorials and letters—organizing them together in an old school notebook she had allocated for the purpose. Sometimes she underlined her favorite quotations, such as the comment in
Survey
magazine by Gardner Jackson, who wrote that the veterans could be observed to practice “the first large-scale attempt to mimic Mahatma Gandhi's passive resistance.” Alden had laughed out loud at that. Imagine saying that to Waters! he'd said. He'd have you thrown out for a Red! Or Roy Wilkins's report for
Crisis
magazine, which described his surprise upon finding, in the camps, “black toes and white toes sticking out side by side from a ramshackle town of pup tents, packing crates, and tar-paper shacks.” In the Bonus Army, he wrote, unlike the one within which they had fought the war, “black men and white men lined up equally, and perspired in sick bays side by side.”

But not all Washingtonians were weekend picnickers or reporters for
Crisis
magazine, and soon, no matter where you stood, or from
which direction you looked at the thing, there could be no doubt any longer that (despite how many times Waters insisted on the “all-American” integrity of his army, or how many times cast-off suits were washed by his men) key factions of the BEF were now controlled by the Communists—who would (if no progress was made through more “legitimate” lines) soon control more. But still, even when pressed, Alden denied any involvement with the Red element. He was careful, however—Sutton noted—never to go as far as to disown their approach. Even when the problem spread to the city and ordinary citizens began to complain of being accosted by Reds on the street. Stopped as they exited grocery stores, and asked for donations—then berated if they insisted on taking any more than half of their own purchases home.

Mary Kelly herself had been accosted in this fashion one afternoon, arriving home some time later, stricken and pale. The Judge, ordinarily dismissive of his wife's “nervous” complaints, was enraged by the incident.

Now they're attacking decent women in the streets, he shouted that evening—at no one in particular, because Alden had not yet arrived. He paced the room with a heavy tread, his feet on the bare floorboards sounding louder and louder, as if building momentum toward some unknown end.

When Alden did finally arrive, his father greeted him with a roar.

Decent women in the street! he repeated. What will it be next?

At her husband's request, Mary recounted her story once more so that Alden could hear. Perhaps, the third time through, she was even beginning to enjoy it a little.

Well, said Alden, when the account was complete. Are you all right?

Yes!
the Judge shouted, before Mary herself could reply. She's all
right!

In that moment, it became clear—to Mary, as equally as to the rest— that the real issue had never been, for the Judge, Mary at all. Sutton saw this knowledge cross her mother's face: the brief moment in which she had seemed, once again, to have captured the Judge's attention had just
as quickly been stolen away, or had never existed at all. Her shoulders crumpled and she was wracked, suddenly, with violent sobs. No one went toward her to comfort her, so finally Sutton went herself, placing a hand tentatively on her mother's shoulder.