The Last Slider

Prologue

THE FABULOUS 40s

Ray Borelli, photographer, didn’t remember the war. The big one. He was only two when it ended. But whenever the subject came up, years later, he’d converse knowledgeably about buying red and blue war stamps, saving fat in tin cans and growing a Victory garden. None of which he’d ever done.

Ray even knew about the three Nazi saboteurs who’d been smuggled ashore by a U-boat on Long Island. And how they were rounded up a day later by the FBI at Dinty Moore’s in New York City after ordering—in fluent German—platters of sausage and foaming pitchers of beer.

These were some of the things his mom had talked about a lot while she still had a husband and while Ray still had a father.

America won the war, but Ray lost his dad because of it. Hardly heroic, however. Certainly not in the line of duty. U.S. Army Technician Fifth Class Vincente Borelli went over as part of a cleanup team and met a lady named Violet while in transit at an air field north of Leiston, England. He never came back to Bridgeport.

In lieu thereof, he sent a letter. …Louise honey, I’m really, really sorry and I’ve thought and thought about this…

After that, Ray’s mom talked of nothing else. That Limey floozie. Abandonment. Deception. Her sacrifices. Vinnie’s selfishness. Vinnie’s sins. Growing old.

These were what Ray heard every morning in the small two-bedroom apartment on Bridgeport’s east side. These were the topics of dinner conversation— and the subjects of prayers offered every night on dirty knees before going to bed and before being hugged and petted and stroked by his mother. Oh, God, in your infant (the Christ child, wondered Ray?) mercy, please amend Vincente for doing this to us. Some nights this plea was addressed to St. Gabriel. Other times it was St. Donato or St. Dominic.

Amend must be a terrible thing, the small, chubby black-haired boyguessed. Being locked in a dark, dusty closet. Falling into the pea-soup, scummy river that wormed behind their apartment. Getting caught forever in the sweaty arms of a sweet and sour fat lady like Momma’s sister Tessa. Or even getting smothered by his mother with the perfumed pillow that she rested her head on in his little bed. Whatever. It wasn’t what Ray wanted to happen to him.

His mother’s entire plan of revenge hinged around getting the Governor of Connecticut or maybe the War Department to arrest his father and amend him. Possibly, thought Ray, that meant putting him in jail for the rest of his life. Even worse, maybe. Cutting off a part of him. That part.

At the time, however, he didn’t care. He didn’t remember his father anyway, and gone were the pictures on the table in the corner with the statues and candles. He just stopped thinking about him.

So Ray grew up fatherless, and with a mother who clung much too closely to her child while trying to enlist Councilman Palladino, the mayor, the state and heavenly hierarchies to wreak vengeance on her adulterous spouse Vinnie.

One day when Ray was nine and having one of his headaches, his mother dressed him in his church clothes and took him on the New York, New Haven & Hartford to visit Marie, one of her old high school girl friends down in Mamaroneck. Marie’s Westchester County apartment was only a block from the railroad station.

While the two women sat in the kitchen, drinking Italian-Swiss Colony wine from tall, amber water glasses and comparing lipsticks—Golden Glamour Glow vs. Pink Magic Touch vs. Red Velvet Blush—Ray explored the neighborhood on his own. (Be very careful, my little man!)

Ray looked in all the nearby store windows on the way back to the station. He went into a diner and used a bathroom that smelled of peppermint and sweat. Then he walked the length of the station’s railway platform twice. After that he went down the gray, pitted concrete stairs—two at a time while holding the flaking, black pipe handrail—to the pedestrian tunnel that ran beneath the tracks. It smelled bad there, too, like the moldy locker rooms at school and at the YMCA. It was dark and clammy, the concrete walls chill and sweating even on this August mid-afternoon.

Ray walked slowly, peering ahead into a gloom broken only by the occasional cones of light from bulbs dangling above. He stopped below a poster advertising Brigadoon at the Zeigfield Theater. There were thick, black circles and triangles drawn on the costumed dancing ladies. It made him feel funny but he didn’t know why.

Something rattled against the wall at the other end of the tunnel. Then a stone skittered by him. Someone who looked like trouble was walking toward him. In the shadows Ray could see only a silhouette against the daylight. Whoever it was stopped and Ray turned and started walking quickly toward the stairs.

Hey, kid. Wait up!

Ray hesitated, then looked back to see a frail figure emerge into the circle of light from a hanging overhead bulb. A small, sharp-faced boy, uncut, dirty blond hair hanging in his eyes, was staring at him.

What school you go to?

St. Joseph’s Barnum Avenue.

Where the hell’s that?

Bridgeport. In Connecticut.

What grade you in?

Third. Uhh, fourth, now.

I’m in fifth. What the hell you doing here?

My mom’s visiting her friend.

Surr-rre she is. Want to see some torpedoes?

Torpedoes? Like in a submarine? I guess. Where are they?

The boy sneered. Duhhhhh. No, dummy. Train torpedoes. To warn trains to slow down. In case somethin’s wrong. They tie ‘em on the rails and the trains run over ‘em. You can hit ‘em with rocks and they go off. I know where there’s a whole bunch.

Ray followed the boy up the stairs, along the scarred asphalt platform next to the tracks and behind the old red brick station building. There were piles of thick, clotted orange sand, a stack of railroad ties, and an enormous green wagon with RAILWAY EXPRESS painted in yellow on the side. And a faded black wooden trunk with an open lock hanging from the hasp.

The boy stuck a chicken-wing elbow into Ray’s side and whispered out of the corner of his mouth. In that box over there. It’s never locked. Just walk by the first time. Make sure nobody’s watching. Then we’ll grab some.

There was no one in sight, but Ray felt his heartbeat quicken. He’d thought they were just going to look at them. His mom would spank him for sure if he got caught stealing. He didn’t even want any stupid torpedoes. His headache had returned and his legs felt numb. The heat was shimmering off the station platform and Ray had the same trouble breathing as he did when his mother took him to the Bridgeport city swimming pool. The boy was talking under his breath but he couldn’t understand him.

Then he heard the sound of the trunk lid dropping, a clipped, cracking noise that made Ray wonder if a torpedo had exploded, and they were both running. They scrambled up a steep, brown splintered stairway to the street and ran along the sidewalk.

Moments later, they were huddled together against a wire mesh fence behind a wooden bus shelter on a road that crossed high above the tracks. The boy was staring at Ray’s black dress shoes.

Chrissake, Crisco! You sound like a goddam machine gun in those things. Clap, clap. Here, look at these.

His soiled hands held three small gray metal objects, shaped like the little ravioli pillows Ray’s mom sometimes made for him. Strips of lead were wrapped around them.

What you do is hook these things around the sides of the track and let the train fire it off … The boy put them all down, picked up one and raised his bony right arm as if to throw it. Or just bounce it off the rocks down there and it’ll explode. Wake the goddam dead. Sometimes you have to throw ‘em twice.

Ray’s head was throbbing. I better go, he said. I got to get back to Connecticut with my mom.

The boy sneered. Hang on, pigeon shit. Hey, what the hell’s wrong with you? Look at you. You’re damn near crying. He tossed the torpedoes under the wire fencing behind them and then pulled the bottom of it up. He grabbed Ray’s hand and tugged.

G’wan. Get under. Chicken freaks like you we’d never have won the war.

Ray let himself be dragged under the fence, tearing his shirtsleeve and scraping one knee of his good trousers. The two boys were perched on a small flat rock shelf, littered with a soggy Sir Walter Raleigh cigarette pack and some glass shards of Royal Crown bottles. The shelf jutted out directly above the tracks. Their view below was broken only by thick, black power lines paralleling the shiny rails. They were shielded from sight by large clumps of sumac bushes on both sides of them.

The boy watched Ray. Neat place, right? I come here a lot and smoke. What’s your name, anyway? I’m Vinnie.

Tears sprang to Ray’s eyes. He looked away.

Ray Borelli. I really got to get out of here. My mom will be looking for me.

Vinnie put a torpedo in Ray’s hand. Here, Ray. We’ll wait for the next one and then we’ll bomb these things down at those rocks. That way somebody will think the train fired ‘em off.

He lay on his stomach, one hand clinging to the edge of the rock and leaned out over the ledge, chattering to himself. His feet were almost in Ray’s lap. Hear that? One’s coming. C’mere. Watch this.

Ray arched forward on his knees behind Vinnie. The sun glared in his eyes. His head really hurt. He could hear a distant rumbling behind him. He looked down at Vinnie’s sneakers. There were holes in the soles and the sides of both sneakers were torn. One shoelace was untied. There was a big V drawn in black ink on the back of each heel.

Ray put the torpedo down. He clenched his fists, open, shut, open, shut, open—he hesitated, then grabbed the back of Vinnie’s sneakers and shoved them with all his strength.

Vinnie cartwheeled out of sight, bouncing off the power cables. His scream was lost in the rhythmic roar of the freight as it rammed through the station. Ray knelt there a moment, then edged forward carefully and peered over.

One of the sneakers, a short, bright red stick jammed into it, lay on the rust-colored stones of the track bed next to a broken brown bottle. There were a lot of bloody rags scattered across the other shiny tracks and some things that looked like what he saw in Castelli’s Butcher Shop back home. Looking down on the fast-moving freight made Ray’s stomach queasy. He pulled himself back, wiggled under the fence and walked away.

Later that afternoon, Ray and his mom waited on the platform for their train back to Bridgeport. They watched the flashing red and blue beacons of the three New York State Police cars parked on the bridge. One of the policemen had a dog, his leash tied to the fence behind the bus shelter. Another was standing on the tracks, looking down.

I can’t imagine what they’re doing up there, said Ray’s mom, rubbing the back of his neck. Probably a car accident, somebody got hit or something. And they’re searching for evidence.

Probably, agreed Ray.

She reached down and rubbed him below his belt. "Did you wet again? No, I guess not.

Well, you’re just lucky there’s not a law against ruining nice clothes that your mother works so hard to keep clean and ironed. Sometimes you’re as ungrateful as your father was. After all I’ve done for you. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.

I’m really sorry, mom, said Ray. It was an accident.

Chapter 1

Ray Borelli, photographer, somehow survived his mother’s smothering, bewildering mix of suffocating surveillance and desperate affection, although his bedwetting continued into his early teens. Two weeks after graduating from East Bridgeport High School, Ray enlisted in the Marine Corps and shortly thereafter found himself on an overnight Atlantic Coast Line train headed for Yemassee, South Carolina.

While Ray and others sat watching from their seats, a fragment of the Connecticut recruits swaggered from car to car as the train sped south out of Penn Station and into the sultry summer night. From time to time they returned to swill cans of Carlings Black Label they had smuggled aboard. A buck-toothed, tall, gangly teenager named Dukovich led the small but rowdy band of duck-tailed misfits as they strutted loudly up and down the aisles in search of female companionship. Paying passengers regarded them with no small amount of annoyance, but the conductor just shrugged.

Soon after midnight, somewhere between Emporia, Virginia and Rocky Mount, North Carolina, Ray, who had been an undistinguished alternate on his high school’s wrestling team, rose from his seat and stood in the aisle until Dukovich and his small group of hangers-on reappeared.

As Dukovich lurched toward him, Ray held up a hand.

Let me explain something to you, Bugs Bunny. I’m tired and I have a goddam headache. So do all these other people you see here. In about five hours we’re going to be cleaning toilets and running our asses off. We’re sick of you. You and your asshole buddies sit down now.

Dukovich reached out to shove Ray aside, too stupid and too hyped to notice the slight tremble in Ray’s hand and the glint in his eyes.

It sounded like someone had thrown a pound of raw hamburger against a wall. Ray’s fist caught Dukovich between his nose and upper lip, sending him backwards across the armrest of a nearby seat, blood spurting from his mouth.

By the time three other recruits had pulled Ray off him, both of Dukovich’s eyes were swollen and his nose was a glistening red smear.

When the train hissed to a stop several hours later at the mist-shrouded station in Yemassee, one of the spit-and-polish, swagger-stick-snapping Drill Instructors who herded the boots off the train took one quick look at the battered and still bloody Dukovich and collared him.

Who decorated your ugly kisser, boy?

Dukovich slowly raised a finger at Ray. Ad hucker hair, he mumbled through puffed lips.

Don’t point, you shitbird! And it’s ‘SIR, that fucker there, SIR!’ the DI screamed, poking him in the stomach with his swagger stick. He looked at Ray. You know you could get court-martialed for this, you pissant?

Sir. He was making an asshole of himself and ticking off the passengers, sir. He just doesn’t get it, sir.

The DI regarded Borelli from a distance. Well, you hot-headed Yankee turd, I’ll decide what he gets and what he doesn’t. That’s because I’m his new mommy and his new daddy. And yours. You don’t fuckin’ breathe unless I tell you to. I’ll see you both at home. Your new home.

He turned to Dukovich. And you, get your ugly ass—God yes, you are ugly—to Sick Bay when we get there. You probably need some stitches. He turned back at Ray. You, you pompous little pimp, you are lower than whale shit on the ocean floor. Are you a wop? What’s your name?

Sir. Raymond Borelli, sir.

I thought so. Well, Pissant Raymond Borelli, your first port of call is the head. You’ll need a toothbrush and a bucket of sand. You’re going to have a shithouse field day.

Sir. Yes, sir.

One week after arriving at the Parris Island Depot, just before 10 PM lights out, Ray was summoned to the Drill Instructor’s Quonset hut. Do you love the Marine Corps, Borelli?

Sir, yes sir.

You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Borelli. How much do you love the Marine Corps?

Sir. With all my heart and soul, sir. More than I love Peggy Lee, sir.

So Borelli, you’ve been sneaking out to see Peggy? Well, that shit’s got to stop. Peggy’s my girl friend. Did you know that Borelli?

Sir. No sir.

Was your Daddy in the Marine Corps, Borelli?

Sir. No, sir. He was in the Army, sir.

A fucking doggie he was. Aren’t you ashamed of him, Borelli? Sir, you bet your….Sir. Yes sir.

All right, Borelli. You do sound ashamed. So we’re making you platoon leader. And the reason isn’t because you’re any more squared away than the rest of those pathetic excuses for human beings, but because you have that looney look in your eye. What do you think of that?

Ray’s heart sank. Sir. I’m very happy, sir.

Happy, hell. You need to keep those other shitbirds on their toes. One failed inspection and you’re gone. One fuckup and you’re out of a job. If you have to beat the shit out of somebody else, then do it. Claw his eyeballs out. But forget Dukovich. He’s not going to make it anyway. Remember, one bad scene and you’re our new turnkey. The guy who runs ahead to open the doors for the other shitbirds. Now get out of here.

Sir. Yes sir.

Tech Sgt. Wingate Baird, senior DI, shook his head and watched him leave. Hope we didn’t make a mistake. That boy’s a time bomb. Maybe Ward Eight. Keep an eye on him.

Meanwhile, back in Bridgeport, Ray’s mother was reading a letter she had just received from the Commander of the Parris Island Recruit Depot.

By this time, Major General Stennis wrote, you must be wondering just how is YOUR MARINE getting along. Is he getting his mail? Is he homesick? Is the training too hard for him? Is he enjoying the food? Is he learning new activities?

Ray’s mother sighed. She had yet to receive a letter from her son himself and had tried to call him at the base three times without success. Now this letter had her confused. They sounded very concerned about Ray’s happiness and health. Perhaps she shouldn’t have worried.

These, of course, were post-McKeon days at the Corps’ east coast recruit depot and the Commandant was making every effort to project a more humane image.

Just five years earlier, in April, 1956, junior drill instructor Staff Sgt. Matthew McKeon had corralled 74 men from his platoon late one night and marched them into a tidal stream called Ribbon Creek. Six had drowned and McKeon had been summoned to Court Martial for conducting an unauthorized and unnecessary march…into an area of hazard…which resulted in the deaths of six brother Marines and betrayed the trust reposed in him by his (McKeon’s) Country, his Corps, his lost comrades and the families of the dead.

Four months later, McKeon was found guilty of negligent homicide and drinking on duty. He was fined $270, given nine months confinement at hard labor as a Private and a Bad Conduct Discharge. On review, the Secretary of the Navy reduced the sentence to three months hard labor and reduction in rank.

Ray’s mother had never heard of Sgt. McKeon. But she was delighted when the postman delivered yet another letter from the Marine Corps, this one written by the Depot Chaplain.

Dear Friend, the Navy officer wrote, "The Marine recruit leads a busy life. Every hour of his day is carefully planned. He studies and practices an amazing number of subjects. Ten weeks of Marine training will change him in many ways.

It is our intention that your Marine should return to you not only a different man but a better one. That is why your Marine receives moral training as well among his activities…

Oh yeah. Down in coastal South Carolina, Ray was indeed involved in new activities. Among them was teaching his platoon the catchy little cadences for a number of new hymns from the Songs of Loyalty and Service While Learning How to Drill songbook:

(Verse)

"Your baby was there when you left, your right, couldn’t wait to get out of sight.

That gal of yours, she said good-bye, and jumped in bed with another guy. Wun Tu, Wun Tu

"Twelve more weeks and you’ll feel great, goin’ home in a packing crate.

Wun Tu, Wun Tu.

"I don’ know, but I been told, Eskimo nookie mighty cold

Wun Tu, Tripour ..."

It was hard for Ray and his New England shitbird platoon to sleep at night with all those dispiriting little ditties buzzing through their brains. Dave Dukovich, who would forever carry a small scar above his lip as the result of having annoyed Ray, was set back twice to other incoming platoons, then finally discharged and sent home to West Hartford with a six-year Reserve commitment.

When Ray and his fellow boots outposted from the island 12 weeks later, the flag carried by their guideon was topped by a skinny pennant waving like Spanish Moss in the rotting-vegetation, tidewater breeze and identifying them as Depot Honor Platoon.

No one who had seen Ray’s angry eyes and windmilling fists on the Atlantic Coast Line coach car had wanted to challenge his reputation as an enforcer. They were content to go along with his quiet encouragement and Ray was one of only three recruits to receive a PFC (Private First Class) chevron at graduation. It was to be his single distinguishing achievement in three otherwise unexceptional years in the Corps.

From Parris Island, Ray was shipped to Camp Lejeune, NC, where he was inexplicably given a temporary assignment as photographer for the Second Combat Service Group’s weekly newspaper, the Group Scoop. Using a Kodak Motormatic 35F provided by Special Services, Ray discovered he enjoyed the work and was good at it. He soon became a familiar face around the well-stocked Photo Lab at Mainside.

With just five months left before his release, in another classic military mis-shuffling of paperwork, Ray was sent to Norfolk to work as a prison tower guard at the Navy’s notorious Camp Allen, a Retraining Command.

Unhappy with his reassignment, he nursed his wounded feelings for a few months, then squeezed off several rounds from his M1 Garand rifle into the chow hall roof one night. All hell broke loose. Several prisoner-cooks—on their way at 3 AM to prepare breakfast—hit the deck in terror. Ray’s Sergeant of the Guard, whose favorite late-night trick was to hug the fence line and sneak up on inattentive tower guards without being challenged, turned and fled like a pursued felon back to the guard house when the shots erupted just a few yards away from him.

No one bought Ray’s story that it was an accident and within 24 hours he found himself working behind the enlisted men’s lunch counter.

With just 60 days of Ray’s service left, the Retraining Command’s brass didn’t pursue it. The guy’s got some kind of major grudge, the CO’s Adjutant told him.

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR REENLISTMENT was stamped on

Ray’s Personnel record and they pushed him out the door in the summer of ‘64, just months before the first units of combat Marines were sent to Viet Nam. A deduction of $1.10 was made from his flnal paycheck—restitution to the U.S. Government for the two rounds he’d fired from his M1.

The day he was discharged, Ray carried his seabag out to Route 17 in Portsmouth, Virginia and hitched a half-dozen rides, the last of which left him just a few blocks from his mother’s apartment in Bridgeport. Their late-night reunion was brief: boring to Ray and traumatic for his tearful mother.

Three days later Ray rolled away the maternal rock and resurrected himself to a studio apartment of his own in New Haven. For almost two years he worked for the Department of Motor Vehicles, snapping driver license portraits, then enrolled in the Rhode Island School of Photography. Several years of freelancing followed before he was offered a slot with Pratt & Whitney’s Photo Lab at its Middletown jet engine plant on the Connecticut River.

Chapter 2

From mid-October until late spring, chill winds, fog, freezing rain and snow are a given probability of life on the southeastern Connecticut coast. Most particularly in Fort Griswold Bay. It’s not Chamber of Commerce weather. Not the sort of environment to lure anyone who’s into creature comforts to contemplate a career there.

But it’s where New England Shipbuilding Corporation (NESCO) has done its business since the turn of the 20th century. And for three generations of workers from Connecticut, nearby Rhode Island and even Massachusetts, NESCO has traditionally been the ark and bedrock of financial stability.

For many thousands of families, employment at The Ship—so labeled in the local vernacular—pays the first and second mortgages, college tuitions and speeding tickets. It keeps the butchers, barbers and builders solvent. It buys the heating oil at $1.50 a gallon, as well as the Big Macs or occasional pair of pound-and-a-half lobsters from The Fish Farm on Fort Griswold Avenue.

And like NESCO’s customer—the elite U. S. Navy’s Silent Service members who prowl the ocean depths in the submarines built there—employees of New England Shipbuilding Corporation enjoy a mystique of their own. In the 1940s, locals considered it the greatest place in America to work. Sixty years later, outsiders view employment there as a mysterious and precarious occupation, but admittedly one more lucrative than others in the area.

In its 95 years of existence, the shipyard’s 125 sloping acres on Connecticut’s Thames River have been the site of two recorded births, at least four marriages, three baptisms, and multiple deaths by drowning, asphyxiation, electrocution, decapitation (one intentional), bludgeoning (also intentional), suicide (two, both by hanging), and other unnatural and natural causes. There have been uncounted assaults and arrests, reported and unreported rapes, and more waterfront romances (how better to deal with New England’s cold winter bite?) than have been chronicled in decades of TV soap operas.

Official company denials notwithstanding, a handful of FBI and other government investigative operatives have, from time to time, worked surreptitiously, albeit briefly, in blue-collar or white-collar slots while gathering information of one sort or another before quietly departing. Not long ago, a fugitive double-murderer from the Midwest was hired, granted a security clearance, and worked for several years as an outside painter before TV’s America’s Most Wanted program generated a dozen or more successfully incriminating calls from co-workers.

A locally notorious, all-sport, east coast betting hub for many years, the NESCO yard has also been the lucrative base of operations for a handful of workers doubling as small-time drug dealers. Other employees have been equally enterprising and illegal. One supervisor enlisted a number of saltwater angling subordinates to help him build a 40-foot yacht; the scheme was unearthed only a few days before the boat’s scheduled midnight launch.

Another opportunist stabled his 19-year-old co-worker girl friend on a warm, green-blanketed cot in the Crew’s Berthing area of a submarine under construction. She provided ten-minute (Get up or Get out), twenty five-dollar matinee quickies to blue-collar buddies. An unscheduled visit to the boat by a high-ranking naval officer nipped that commercial venture.

Still another worker wrapped himself tightly (too tightly as it turned out) in 30 feet of U.S. Government-Furnished-Equipment, high-grade, copper coil under his winter coat, then labored up the hill at quitting time—only to pass out at the south Security gate. (Another favorite trick for weekend do-it-yourselfers was to fill their lunchbox thermos bottles with Government-provided paint.)

In spite of its share of occasional human frailties, however, the workforce at The Ship has always done its job and done it better than its rivals. The company has enjoyed a well-earned reputation as a quality act in the eyes of the customer, the Washington power base and, most importantly, America’s enemies. And justifiably so. During the days when there were at least eight government and private yards building submarines, the Connecticut shipbuilder set the standards of excellence that other builders, both Navy and private, tried unsuccessfully to emulate.

Hard-hatted old-timers at The Ship have a programmed answer to visitors’ questions about quality: Don’t ask us. Ask the guys who drive these nukes. They’ll tell you that they’d rather go to sea in a NESCO boat. Every time. To bear witness, the company’s contributions to the U.S. Navy’s elite submarine force have been noted in the Congressional Record on a dozen or more occasions. Nine U.S. Presidents have visited the yard and eight First Ladies have broken bottles of champagne over the bows of submarines built there. And at one time or another, the government leaders of ten or more allied nations have toured the unclassified areas of the yard and later drunk Courvoisier-laced coffee or lemonized tea from the Sheffield silver service that the British government’s ambassador hand-delivered to NESCO after Germany and Japan capitulated.

At the height of World War II, when America’s Navy was stretched to its limits in epic, bloody battles in both the Atlantic and Pacific, The Ship was birthing submarines at an incredible rate—one every two weeks. More than a few slid down the launching ways by moonlight to catch the turn of the tide and make way for new construction.

Chapter 3

Congressman Bob Avery (D-CT) knew many, but not all of these things. During the 16 years that he’d represented the people of the Constitution State’s Second District, he’d learned a lot about The Ship, the people who ran it, and the people who did what he privately called the work-work there.

He knew, too, that if he hadn’t spent all those frosty mornings pumping hands at the gates way back when, he’d probably still be just another yellow page lawyer in Norwich, however prosperous. He was especially grateful for the backing he received from the NESCO voting block and he took every occasion to say so publicly. On the subject of supporting Avery’s candidacy, both The Ship’s labor unions and management had closed ranks—an event viewed as occurring with the frequency of a visit by Halley’s Comet.

Since being elected in 1988 at age 29, the slightly-built but dynamic, articulate Congressman had been fastidiously faithful to his conservative constituency at The Ship, voting with most of his party’s opponents for any arms package that included dollars for submarine construction or modernization. (His appointment in 1995 to fill a vacancy on the House Armed Services Committee was viewed as long overdue.)

On almost all other non-defense issues Avery voted the Democratic party line. But his tenacity in pursuit of the facts—and his willingness to go the extra mile for his Minority constituents—made him one of the most popular Representatives in the 109th Congress.

Even the chronically progressive New London Evening Log, long a throbbing thorn in the side of NESCO’s management, chose to ignore the Congressman’s undisguised camaraderie with those at the shipyard across the river whom the newspaper’s editorial writers otherwise tagged as profiteers or warmongers.

When the late-October, Friday morning call to Room 1501 in the Longworth Building came from the Chief of Naval Operations’ office, Avery was just punching into the Boston-based web site that dispensed hourly recorded reports and views of ski conditions in New England.

For the first time in several years, early snows had ski enthusiasts and lodge owners ecstatic. Gladys Dawson, the Congressman’s Appointments Secretary, had already booked him, his wife Catherine and their two children into the Trapp Family Lodge at Stowe over Thanksgiving.

It was to be Avery’s first break from a three-month string of 70-hour weeks that had left him little time for Catherine, 13-year-old Joann and Andrew, 5.

This vacation would come at a time when the bitterly contested Presidential election would finally be history. But at what price, mused Avery. Never before had such an acrimonious battle been waged on the huskings. The malevolence and rancor it had generated promised to linger for a long time.

In the Primary, Avery had supported his friend and fellow Connecticut politico, Senator Laurence Lorenz. By early February, however, the senator had withdrawn and Avery shifted his support, ostensibly at least, to the party’s front-runner, Jeremiah Frances Kerwin. He did not like the man and now, in just a few days, the voters would decide if the gaunt liberal from New England would replace Sam Stubbs, the feisty conservative incumbent from the Southwest.

Gladys knocked twice on his door and stuck her head in. Avery raised his head.

Sorry to interrupt, Congressman. CNO’s office on the line.

He nodded his head agreeably, turned from the computer, and punched the blinking light.

Congressman Avery.

There was pause, a click, and then the booming voice of Admiral Jack Holloway, Chief of Naval Operations.

Good morning, Bob. Everything under control over there? Or should I say, is anything under control over there? Ha, ha.

Well good morning to you, Admiral. Confidentially, my priority at the moment was getting the base and powder report from Stowe. We’re taking Joann and little Andy up there next week. His first time on skis. And I’ve got to get off this treadmill. We may have adjourned a month ago, but it’s been even worse with this election business. If anyone knows a better and cheaper way, I’d sure like to hear it. You and Eileen doing OK?

Couldn’t be better, Bob. Thanks. Well, don’t plan to be up in Vermont too long. There’s a little job we’d like you and Catherine to take on for us next summer.

Avery’s pulse quickened. Let’s see. How much does it pay?

As I recall, Bob, only a free lunch, a small gift for Catherine and a flute or two of champagne. But a wonderful weekend for you both.

Holloway paused to clear his throat. "Bob, I’ve got a hot one here. We’d like Catherine to sponsor our newest and best-ever attack submarine, the Mystic, at its launch next June. The 25th, to be specific. We’d also like you to head up the speaker’s program for the day. And, we won’t take ‘no’ for an answer."

Avery took a deep breath. Y-e-e-s-s!

Admiral, I thank you. This is well and truly an honor. Cathy will be absolutely delighted, I know. As I am. Damn near speechless, in fact. We accept with many thanks. Wonderful.

Great. We’ll be sending you a letter on it all, of course, but I wanted you to hear it from me first. Make sure that you didn’t have any major conflicts.

Admiral, believe me, I don’t have to check my calendar. There’s nothing on this mother earth that could get in the way of this one. Absolutely nothing.

"That’s good. You know, too, I’m sure, Bob, that this is a really significant event from where we sit. Now that her two sister ships have been canceled, and the rest of her class are still a little uncertain, you might say, the Mystic—hull number 800 by the way, could be the only one ever built in her class. And, forgive my saying so, it’s one that makes some of those earlier nukes look like a Model T. There’s also some history to be made here. Mystic will definitely be our last slider—last one to be launched down the sliding ways. Period."

"That’s news to me, Admiral. I’ve spent quite a bit of time over at The Ship—as you know—but I wasn’t aware Mystic would be the last to take the traditional slide. Seems to me one of the boats back in the mid-nineties was the last to do that. Wasn’t that the plan?"

"Sure enough. At the time we thought it would be—that was the last of the Los Angeles 688 class. Frankly, between you and me, the choice of ship’s sponsor left a helluva lot to be desired. Hell, we weren’t even given a choice. So plans have changed. Mystic will be the last. All the attack boats built after this, and there’s just no way of telling how many or when, will be floaters. Like the big missile boats. The boomers. You know how that goes. Christened while they’re floating in the graving docks. About as exciting as my golf score. But that’s what modular construction lets us do.

"Put ‘em together a slice at a time in the basin. Then just flood it. In fact, if Mystic had been just another attack boat, she’d probably have been a floater. But she’ll be one of a kind and we want to make it a big event."

Well, said Avery, We’re doubly honored. This is just terrific. We’ll be counting the days to this one. The kids will love it, too. Many thanks to your Navy, Admiral. OK to tell the family?

"You bet, Bob. But keep it tight everywhere else. Our PAO over here will be putting out a release after we exchange letters. Within the month, I’d say.

We’ll get the folks at The Ship cranked up on details. Your people will be hearing from them soon enough. There’s a sponsor’s dinner that the contractor throws Friday night—the night before. You know how that all plays out. And the luncheon afterwards.

I do, Admiral. Been to a few of those. Son of a gun, this will be a grand affair.

OK, make sure you two don’t break a leg up there in Vermont next week. Stay off those black-and-blue courses. And give me a call before the holidays. Eileen and I will be doing our grog-and-mistletoe thing and we’d like you two there. We’ll all be happy to get this damn election behind us.

No one more than I, Admiral. You both have a wonderful Thanksgiving. And thanks again.

Avery hung up the phone, jumped up and swung open his office door. "Hot damn, Gladys! What a town! Navy wants Cathy to christen a sub next summer. She’s going to purr! Not just any sub, the sub. Firrrrst-class!"

Gladys raised a wrinkled, fragile, liver-spotted fist in the air and pumped it. "The Mystic, right?"

"You got it. Our lonely Mystic. A class of her own. Well, probably. June twenty-five. Cath will be so high she’ll just walk across that river and swing that bottle. Joann and her pals will think this one is wizard. And Andy will finally get his chance to go on board one of those babies. I think I’ll save it for tomorrow. Maybe I can use it to do some dinner table negotiating."

This means you’ll probably be top billing on the speaker’s program, doesn’t it? That’s usually how it works.

"Right. We’ll have to put a lot of time in on this one. Letter to follow from CNO etcetera, etcetera. Where’s Trent? Oh, that’s the last sub to go down the sliding ways up there at The Ship, too, did you know that? Grease is the word.

So, big doings. Big doings. Gladys, do me a favor. Get with Trent and start a file on it. June 25th. Damn! This is a good day. Yes, sir!

For the two youngest members of Congressman Avery’s family, however, it was not turning out to be such a good day. Joann, 13, arrived home from the Stafford Middle School just as her mother was leaving for a four o’clock informal gathering of the Congressional Wives’ Club.

I’ll be back no later than 6:30, sweetie. Make sure you’ve got everything set up for your Halloween party tomorrow. Your father will be late as usual, eightish, so you can either get something out from the freezer or call out for a pizza for you and Andy. Just take some money out of the Little Orphan Avery fund, she said, nodding at the lidless china teapot where they stashed cash for just such an occasion.

We’ll probably do that, mom. I’m going to take Andy over and show him Gunbarrel Fence. I promised. We’ll go on our bikes.

The fence, made up of old rifle barrels dating back to the Revolutionary War and a popular visitor’s spot, was less than a mile from the Avery’s Dumbarton Oaks home in Georgetown.

Do you think you should? He hasn’t gone that far yet.

We’ll be careful. He can always use the practice.

For his fifth birthday in September, Andy had received a blue two-wheeler that was just a tad big for his 41 inches. Despite the fact that his feet would briefly lose the pedals on each rotation, that suited Andy just fine. With training wheels, the bike kept its balance and he could wait for his small feet to catch up with the spinning pedals. He had scrambled back up immediately from both of the two knee-scraping tumbles he had taken.

There were probably other spills no one had witnessed in the 50 or more miles that his dad laughingly calculated he must have already clocked on the horseshoe driveway in front of their roomy Tudor house.

The pair were only a few blocks short of their destination, when Joann spotted two boys, both wearing jeans, red woolen jackets and red caps, emerging to their left from the wooded area that marked the eastern boundary of Rock Creek Park. They were drop-kicking a pumpkin. Joann’s instincts told her to head back home, but her stubbornness prevailed.

Follow me, Andy, she said, angling her bike to the other side of the street. Let’s see how fast we can go.

Andy, who hadn’t yet seen the boys, took up the challenge cheerfully, his pudgy legs pumping furiously and his bike wobbling.

Joann glanced at the two. They had spotted Joann and Andy and were loping easily on a line to intercept them. They were laughing and tossing the pumpkin in the air.

Come on, Andy. Up on the sidewalk, she shouted back over her shoulder, hoping to gain some maneuvering room.

The curb was too high for Andy’s small bike and he bounced back from it, one training wheel collapsing. The bike slid along the gutter briefly, Andy’s leg caught under it, then stopped, throwing him on the sidewalk.

Joann braked, jumped off her bike while it was still moving and ran back.

She bent over him. There was a scratch across his forehead and his blue denims were ripped and covered with grease. The elbow of his jacket was torn and she could see blood spreading slowly across it.

My arm hurts, he said, biting his lip and tears welling in his brown eyes. The boys stood there a few feet away, grinning.

‘Nice ass, girlie."

Joann stood up, her ponytail flying, and whirled on them. You just shut up and get out of here. My father’s a United States Congressman and he’ll put you both in jail if you don’t get out of here.

Andy pulled his foot from under the bike and stood up, clutching his elbow and blood smearing his small hand.

Leave my sister alone!

One of them sneered and lunged at him, raising the nearly-shattered pumpkin above his head. Big mouth for a little mofo.

Joann heard a horn blowing and looked behind her. A car was backing out of one of the houses just down the street. Tires squealing, it headed in their direction, horn still blaring.

The boys hesitated, then broke for the woods. Tears flooded Joann’s eyes. You’re going to jail! she screamed after them. Jail!

You kids OK?

He was