Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [90]
The road through Marin ran through brown hills. At the foot of the Waldo grade stood a new city of shacks near the frantic activity of the shipyards. Then up the hill and down into the tunnel and onto the Golden Gate Bridge. Over the bay, the city showed itself flirting through wisps of clouds streaming up the gate and the wind jarred the car about.
Now, past the toll gate into the city, they turned into Van Ness, which had been a gaudy auto row in peacetime ... on past the great brick structure of the New Saint Mary’s Church.
How small, how quiet everything looked. Houses, streets, all shrunk. But is not memory always larger than life?
Sean looked down the length of Market Street to the Ferry Building. A living sea of white-capped sailors told him there was still a war being fought. The rival Market Street and Municipal Street car lines staged one of their impromptu races on the four sets of tracks.
The light changed and they crossed into Mission Street, past the armory where Sean had held his first rifle.
“Drive down to Twenty-third Street, then make a right. My house is just before Guerrero.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver was given with a sudden feeling of equality. The major, obviously a VIP, lived in a neighborhood that wasn’t half as nice as his own in Cleveland.
Momma and Poppa stood on the rickety porch. Poppa was supported by a cane, which trembled in his palsied hand. The driver stopped, opened the door, saluted, and stood awkwardly as Sean’s mother ran to meet him and the old man hobbled down the three steps one at a time to join the circle of silent embracers.
At last when the tears were under control, Sean nodded to the driver that he was dismissed, and the three of them walked quietly toward the house.
In the grandeur of his office and quarters in Rombaden and Queen Mother’s Gate he had all but forgotten how very small and very tired the old house was. Large, overstuffed, mohair-covered furniture of a bygone age, the airless, lightless living room, drooping lace curtains, cracked window blinds. The ornate light fixture with crystal tear drops hung low in the center of the room over the round oak table, and Momma’s doilies covered every chair back and arm. The petit-point footstool before Poppa’s rocker ... all of it was the same, only more weary.
On the mantel, a bit removed from the cheap plaster statuette of the Virgin Mother, were photographs of the O’Sullivan brothers in uniform ... Private Liam ... Lieutenant Timothy ... and himself.
He saw the decay wrought from suffering borne by his parents. The last three years had aged them twenty. That big, raw-boned, broad-backed Irishman, Pat O’Sullivan, was a withered old shell.
“You look so tired,” Momma said.
“Just the plane ride, Momma. They don’t build those bombers for comfort.”
But it was more than that, Momma knew. All the youth had fled him.
“Now, before we get involved in Mother’s nonsense about how many meals you can eat and how many socks she can mend, tell us exactly how long you are able to stay?”
Poppa had intuition ... he knew. “I’m afraid only two days.”
“So soon!”
“I’m sorry, Momma. There will be a staff car picking me up day after tomorrow at ten in the morning.”
“But ... Sean ...”
“Now, Mother. We promised. None of that. This is an unexpected treat. We are grateful to have Sean for even this much.”
Pretty soon, Eileen O’Sullivan had assumed the role of a mother whose son had returned from the wars and she was in her kitchen cooking with vengeance. Sean and Patrick sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and trying to speak of all those things that had gone by in three years of his absence.
In his own home and with his parents Sean realized the cruelty and finality of Hansen’s wish. His parents had become ancient and weak from tragedy. It would put them in their graves to tell them he was leaving for perhaps the last time. And where was the justice of it? Oh, heavenly Christ! Where is the justice? Momma kept talking about how wonderful it was going to be to have Sean home to stay. Momma talked of little else.
Yes,