that it actually was.” He stared off into space for several more seconds. “That man saved the world, Sylvia. That one man.”
Then, without warning, he jumped to attention and looked at his watch. “Time to call it a night.”
I longed for him to come home with me, longed to hold him, love him, have him hold me, love me, longed for him to let me in. “One more drink?” I said.
He shook his head. “Tomorrow’s Good Friday.” He stood up and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “The vigil starts early in the morning.”
I gulped down the rest of my wine, so drunk I could hardly walk, much less do anything else, and went home. Alone. Norton didn’t answer my question about his military service that night, and I never asked it again.
##
At six o’clock the next morning we met in front of the sign that said “Headquarters of Nectaral: Worldwide Heating and Cooling Systems.” No mention of cluster bombs or guidance systems for first-strike nukes and cruise missiles. No mention of Nectaral being the biggest military contractor in our state. Over a hundred protesters were already huddled together on the sidewalk, bundled up in wool and shivering against a biting early morning wind. Some wore religious attire, their somber Good Friday mood blending with the muted colors of the two- and three-story homes in the historic neighborhood that circled the corporate compound.
The gate to Nectaral Plaza opened onto an immaculately groomed park shaded by large trees. Benches were strategically placed around a profusion of flower gardens for visitors who, unless informed, would never suspect, from such beautiful surroundings, that they were sitting in the belly of an agent of death.
Martin Lind, director of the Peace and Justice Coalition, shook all our hands and thanked us for coming. Martin had told us once that when he was in the army, some guys shouted “Jew boy” at him and then beat him with a duffel bag filled with rocks. I couldn’t help but wonder if Norton had witnessed something like that when he was in the military, if that explained his strange non-answer to my question last night.
Martin’s deep, booming voice cut through the morning chill. “Even after years of protesting, the monster inside these walls keeps growing and growing. Which is why we have moved from protest to resistance. So . . . how many of you are willing to risk arrest this morning?”
Many of those gathered were in affinity groups, support systems for people planning to commit civil disobedience in orchestrated situations such as this. They had been trained in nonviolent behaviors, strategies, and tactics. Half of the group raised their hands in response to Martin’s question, but this time I wasn’t one of them. After the police moved in, Norton and I planned to leave and spend the rest of the day together.
Martin smiled at all the raised hands. “My dear friend Meridel Le Sueur says you can’t live in this century and be for anything that is true and just without going to jail occasionally.”
“So do you think they’re going to arrest us today, Martin,” someone asked.
“I met with Bigger yesterday, and he didn’t tell me how they planned to respond to our action today. Maybe they don’t know yet themselves.”
Another voice rose up from the back of the crowd. “Who’s Bigger?”
“Thomas Bigger is the CEO of the Nectaral Corporation.”
Norton let out a snort and commented out of the side of his mouth, “Yeah, the charitable guy who adopted two orphans during the Vietnam War.” He snorted again. “Their parents were probably killed by his cluster bombs.”
Jim, who was in an affinity group with Norton and me, stepped to the front of the crowd. He had a wooden crucifix strapped on his back to which a replica of a nuclear missile had been nailed. In silence, we formed a single line behind him and with slow, laborious steps walked toward the main administrative building in the middle of the plaza. A soft and mournful soprano voice rose from the line. Were you there when they crucified my Lord? I knew the Easter hymn well from the church I was raised in. I tried to sing along, but a lump in my throat blocked the words.
At the entrance to the building, people who were willing to risk arrest formed a circle and fell to their knees. The rest of us stood behind them like a choir surrounding a sacred altar. Father Keagan, pastor of the Monrow City Episcopal Church, taped a five-foot photograph of little children on the double glass doors and then knelt in prayer before it. As I stared at it, the faces of the children in the picture became the faces of the many children I had been unable to save. Markus, a student of mine in the Bronx who had disappeared in 1968 and had never been found. Jamie, a child stolen from the reservation and lost in the foster care system. The words from an old Sunday school song rang in my ears. Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.
Rhona, Char, and Anita, three biological sisters who were also Catholic Worker House nuns, stepped forward, each of them holding a vial of red liquid, their own blood, which they lifted up and presented like Communion wine.
Oh, o-o-oh, oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
The three sisters splashed their blood onto the images of the children. At that point I broke away from Norton, joined the inner circle, and fell to my knees.
Were you there when they nailed him to the cross? Yes, I was there. I had been hypnotized once for past-life regression and remembered a former life as a Roman soldier, on the wrong side. I didn’t know if that was true or not, of course, only that it felt like it was.
A dozen policemen in black jackets appeared, one of them with a megaphone. “You are on private property. If you do not leave immediately, you will be arrested.” Soon three officers stepped into the circle, and they started to confront each resister one by one.
“Ma’am,” one of them said when it was my turn, “do you know that you are on private property?”
I looked at him. Unable to answer.
“Ma’am, you have one more chance to leave or you will be arrested.”
When I didn’t move, one officer grabbed my arms, another one my legs. My body went limp. I closed my eyes and saw the blood-splattered photo of the children as the officers bound my hands behind my back with plastic cuffs and then lifted me from the ground, carried me away, and tossed me onto a bench in a police van. Just before the door closed, Norton was thrown onto the bench across from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I promised we’d spend the day together.”
He winked. “We are together.”
At the station, we were separated though, men and women held in different cells. At dusk a judge released us on our own recognizance pending trial, and Norton and I went to our bar. This time we sat side by side in our booth, hip against hip, shoulder touching shoulder, hands brushing hands. When the waitress appeared with my usual glass of wine and his usual can of beer, we both shook our heads.
“Gin and tonic,” we said in unison. We hadn’t even consulted each other first.
Norton laughed. “I do believe we have become one person.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it. I knew I should pull away but I didn’t. He took both of my hands in his and looked at me for a long time, his eyes reflecting the same longing that was in mine. Then he kissed the tips of my fingers and tenderly caressed them one by
