Free Revolution Number 9 by Peter Abrahams Page A

trying to pull a fast one.”
    “Bizarre,” said Buzz.
    “But that’s the way they work,” said Uncle Sam.
    Emily turned again to Charlie: “You never told me about all this family.”
    Charlie started to say something, but Uncle Sam interrupted. “He’s a bad boy. Now aren’t you, Charlie? Admit it.”
    Charlie looked at him. “Do you really think that, Uncle Sam?” Emily heard the sarcasm in his voice, wondered why he didn’t treat his uncle more politely. But she knew nothing of his family, nothing of his relationship with Uncle Sam. She did know Charlie, and knew he must have reasons.
    “No, no, no,” said Uncle Sam. “I don’t really think that. Just getting in the old needle. Wasn’t I, Buzz?”
    Buzz was draining the last of his beer. “What?” he said.
    Uncle Sam sighed. Then he rubbed his hands together, as though trying to generate momentum. “Well,” he said, “we’d best be going.” He rose. Buzz rose. Charlie rose.
    And Emily. “Now?” she said.
    Uncle Sam took her hand again. His was hot this time, and dry. “We won’t keep him long,” he told her. “Promise.”
    It was happening quickly. The whole day had been like that. Everyone moved toward the door. “Charlie, shouldn’t you pack something? He said a few days.”
    “Not to worry,” said Uncle Sam. “If it takes that long, Charlie can pick up new things.” He chuckled. “A whole wardrobe, if he wants.”
    But Charlie didn’t care about wardrobes; he wasn’t materialistic. That was one of the things she liked about him. Now it occurred to her that maybe she was confusing cause and effect; maybe he lived simply not for philosophical reasons, but because of an inability to make money. And now that money was in the offing, he was off, as if he hadn’t been living the life of his choice. But that was speculation, supported by nothing; and it wasn’t him.
    Buzz opened the door and went out. Uncle Sam followed. A black limo was parked across the street, with a driver at the wheel. Buzz got in the back. Uncle Sam waited on the lawn. In the doorway, Emily turned to Charlie. She looked up into Charlie’s eyes. He shied away from her gaze, stepped forward, took her in his arms. He squeezed hard.
    “I’ve thought of a name, Charlie.”
    “For who?”
    “The baby. Who else?”
    He made a funny movement, almost a shudder.
    “Zachary,” she said. “If it’s a boy.”
    Charlie squeezed her a little harder.
    “Do you like it?”
    “Yeah,” he said, a little hoarsely, as though something was caught in his throat. “I do.”
    She squeezed him back. “Don’t be too long, Charlie.”
    “I won’t.”
    They kissed. She felt his lips, his face, the strength of his arms around her. And then he was gone, across the lawn, across the street, and into the back of the limo with his Uncle Sam. They were invisible behind the blackened windows. The limo pulled away from the curb, purred down the street, turned the corner, and disappeared.
    Charlie. Her special, perfect man. And now he was rich too. She’d been off base. He was being responsible, she was being sentimental. Honeymoon: a lovely old word that had lost its meaning, like a glyph in some jungle.
    Emily went back inside and closed the door. She separated the sleeping bags and was rolling them up when the washer buzzed, signaling the end of the cycle. She went into the laundry cubicle off the kitchen and began transferring wet clothes into the dryer. There were some of her things, some of Charlie’s; and the pants with the green whales on them, left behind by Buzz. As she was putting Buzz’s pants in the dryer, she felt something in one of the pockets and took it out.
    It was an empty envelope, on Yale Alumni Society stationery. The ink had blurred, but the address was still legible:
    Mr. B. W. Svenson
227A Charles St.
Boston, Mass. 02114
    Emily dropped it in the trash.

9
    N uncio liked being the bearer of good news and always delivered it to his clients on the phone. Bad