Alfred is in Chicago when the news hits the stands. France Doomed! Britain Next! Reads the headline. He pays the news stand clerk the three cents and takes a paper. He goes to sit on a bench, tucks one argyle ankle over his suit pants. There is a photo of defeated men awash in the waves when the photo was taken as it is in the grey newsprint.
Another title, English Prepared to Fight Alone. Like fuck his father is alone. Matt is there, right at his hip. Right where Mattās always been.
They quote Churchill again.
We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in Godās good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.
Right. Dear Lord Fatherās empire. Alfred almost rolls his eyes. Like the world has ever wanted to fight on his Fatherās behalf. But, thereās always Matt. Matt who has always bled on the whim of others. Alfred wants to curse him, wants to push him away with the rest of the world. France and England and Germany and Russia and the rest of the world can go right to hell. He wants to damn Matthew to the same fate as their Father. Hell, part of him wishes Arthur would fall right on his ass and be forced to beg for his life. But Matt isnāt the loyal son because Arthur has broken any spine he ever had. Heās the loyal son because he has always chosen to be. Alfred knows him well enough to know that. Ā
Below, another headline. Allies Look to America in Zero Hour. That isnāt news. That he already knows from the stack of his brotherās letters that sit unopened on his front table. He already knows what they say. What Matt is desperate enough to ask for but Arthur is too proud to beg for. He knows Matt has been writing them since at least the invasion of France began, hasnāt stopped writing or fighting.
Without reading a word, he knows. Because each one, without exception, is stamped with the desperate red fingerprints of a man who has no time to write unless he is waiting for his bleeding to slow and his new wounds to close.
He puts the newspaper down. Watches the street of his second city. In a wide alley up the way, teenage boys play baseball. A mail plane flies overhead. He isnāt ready to wear a bomber jacket and ID tags on Europeās behalf again. He isnāt ready to bring down the New Worldās wrath once more. He sits back, thinks of how best to throw the life-saver to his drowning family. Thereās plenty of money and equipment to be had. Heāll keep them goingā¦Ā Ā
ā¦until, in Godās good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.
He can feel every American soul inside of him. All 132 million hearts beat in his chest. He wonāt sacrifice one more of them for his wayward father. Matt will have to do. Matt, with his 11 million, will have to do.Ā
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