Spencerville

Mansion, which housed the Society of the Cincinnati, and he imagined that its members had the same sort of experience as its Roman namesake, Cincinnatus. This, he thought, was the ideal, Roman or American, this was the essence of an agrarian republic: The call to arms came, the citizen militia were formed, the enemy was met and defeated, and everyone went home.
    But that was not what happened in America after 1945, and for the last half century, war had become a way of life. This was the Washington he’d recently left: a city trying to cope with, and minimize, the effects of victory.
    Keith closed the door of the cabinet and said, “It’s finished.” He opened the other wardrobe and unpacked the two handmade Italian suits he’d decided to hold on to. He hung up his tuxedo and smiled at the incongruity of the thing in this setting, then hung a few items of casual clothing, making a mental note to stop at Kmart for jeans and plaid shirts.
    To continue the Roman theme, he reflected, like Caesar, he’d burned his bridges behind him, but he wasn’t certain that the future included this farm. It depended on who Keith Landry had become.
    In his mind, he still thought of himself as a farm boy, despite college, travel, custom-made suits, proficiency in foreign languages, and proficiency with exotic weapons and exotic women. Whether he was in Paris, London, Moscow, or Baghdad, he still imagined there was a residue of hayseed in his hair. Probably, however, this was not true; perhaps what he had become was who he was. And if that was true, he was in the wrong place. But he’d give Spencerville some time, and if he started enjoying trout fishing and church socials, the VFW Hall and small talk at the hardware store, then he’d stick around. If not… well, he could never go back to Washington. He’d spent over half his professional life on the road, and maybe that’s where he belonged: everywhere and nowhere.
    Keith noticed that the bed was made with fresh linen and a quilt blanket, compliments of Aunt Betty, and he realized that she remembered this was his room, and she hadn’t upgraded him to the master bedroom. This had been his father’s room as a boy, and his father’s before him, so Aunt Betty probably figured he should sleep there until he grew up. He smiled.
    Keith walked downstairs into the big country kitchen. The round table could seat ten: family, farmhands, and any kid who stopped by for a meal. Keith opened the refrigerator and saw it had been stocked with basic necessities, except beer. Many of the rural people around here were teetotalers, and the county, while not dry, wasn’t awash in alcohol either. Keith, on his rare visits, had found this quaint, but as a resident, it might be a problem. Then again, this might be the least of his problems.
    He went into the living room, removed a bottle of Scotch from one of his boxes, returned to the kitchen, and made himself a Scotch and water in a blue plastic glass that made the drink look green.
    He sat at the big round table, in his chair, and looked around at the empty places. Aside from his mother and father and Paul and Barbara, there had been Uncle Ned, his father’s younger brother, who used to sit opposite Keith, and Keith could still see his uncle at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, eating quietly, tired after a long day of farm work. Ned was a farmer through and through, a serious but not humorless man, a son of the soil who wanted only to marry, raise children, raise crops, fix broken things, and do a little fishing on Sunday, usually with his nephews, and someday with his yet-to-be-born sons.
    Keith was about ten when Uncle Ned was drafted into the Army, and he remembered his uncle coming home one day in his uniform. A few weeks later, Ned left for the Korean War and never returned. They’d sent his things home, and they were stored in the attic. Keith had gone through the trunk when he was a boy and had even put on the olive drab uniform once.
    A forgotten war, a forgotten man, a forgotten sacrifice. Keith recalled that his father had cried when they got the news, but oddly, Ned’s name was never mentioned again.
    Perhaps, Keith thought, the last man to die in World War II had made the last meaningful sacrifice; since then, it was all politics and power freaks playing with people’s lives and families. Perhaps now, he thought, we’re starting to figure it out. He looked at Uncle Ned’s place, empty now for over forty years, and belatedly,