Free The Fury of Rachel Monette by Peter Abrahams Page A

means.”
    The means they went by was Jack Bernstein’s silver Cadillac, Jack driving, Rachel in front and Monette in back.
    As they drove home Rachel saw that the whole town seemed to be shaking off its winter lethargy. People were shoveling the remaining snow off their lawns and onto the streets, and then poking doubtfully at the brown grass with various tools. She heard the sound of a baseball smacking into the deep pocket of a well-oiled glove. Baseball had been Dan’s favorite sport. She would try to keep away from thoughts like that.
    â€œWhat is the boy’s name?” Monette asked from the back seat.
    â€œAdam,” she told him.
    â€œThat’s a good name. I like biblical names.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Jack Bernstein, twisting to look at Monette. “The Bible’s full of them. Both testaments,” he added. Rachel guessed that her father associated the name Xavier with Christianity but was not certain where it came from.
    There was a quiet buzz and Rachel’s father reached for the telephone receiver that hung below the dashboard.
    â€œHello.” He listened for a few moments. “Listen, I can’t talk to you now. I don’t … No insurance? They must be crazy. Look. I’ll call you tonight. Where will you be?” He put his fingers over the mouthpiece. “Rachie sweetheart, could you take down a number for me? There’s paper and pencils in the glove compartment.” She wrote down the number that he gave to her. It reminded her of her childhood. Jack Bernstein replaced the receiver and turned again to the back seat.
    â€œI’m in frozen fish,” he said. “It never stops.”
    â€œThat’s interesting,” Monette replied. “I don’t know very much about it.”
    â€œWhat line of work are you in, Mr. Monette, if I may ask?”
    â€œI am retired,” Monette said. “Before I was in the army.”
    â€œDan told me Mr. Monette was with the Free French in North Africa,” Rachel explained to her father.
    â€œIs that so?” Jack Bernstein said. “You fought the Desert Fox?”
    â€œIn a very minor capacity.”
    â€œDid you see any action?”
    â€œI was with General LeClerc,” Monette said quietly.
    â€œYou’re kidding. Were you part of that march from Lake Chad?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDon’t tell me. January of forty-three. Am I right?”
    â€œYes.”
    Jack Bernstein shook his head in wonder at his own power of memory. “I know that stuff backwards and forwards. God knows I had plenty of time for reading the papers in those days.” He glanced in the rearview mirror to see if Monette was paying attention. “I’m a navy man myself. Just for the war, of course. I volunteered for sub chaser duty, hoping to blow a few Nazis out of the water, but it didn’t work out that way. I spent most of the war in Honolulu. The worst thing that happened to me was a bad case of athlete’s foot. Spent a week in the hospital. That’s the military for you. I guess it’s the same all over.” In the back Monette said nothing.
    They were almost home when Rachel felt him lean forward and grip the top of the seat back.
    â€œWould it be possible to make a slight alteration in plan?” he asked.
    â€œOf course,” she said.
    â€œThat is very kind. I would like very much to see something of my son’s surroundings. You know that I last saw him when he was six years old. I really know little about him as an adult, how he lived and worked. Naturally his book has been much talked about at home, but that kind of thing is so … impersonal. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    Rachel turned to look at him. He seemed very intense and serious. “I think I do, Mr. Monette. What would you like us to do?”
    He thought. “Perhaps he had an office that I could see?”
    â€œOf course. Would you like to go there