Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

But that wasn’t a pressing problem—it was Calyxa who was foremost on my mind. I had written her several letters from the hospital in St. John’s , and even telegraphed her once, but she hadn’t responded, and I feared the worst.

I made my way from the docks to the luxurious brown-stone house of Emily Baines Comstock, where I had left Calyxa in the care of Julian’s mother. It was heartening to see that familiar building, apparently unchanged, bathed in the glow of a Manhattan dusk, as sturdy a habitation as it had ever been, with lantern light glinting sweetly at the curtained windows.

But as I approached the walk a soldier stepped out of the shadows and raised his hand. “No admittance, sir,” he said.

That was astonishing; and I was outraged, as soon as I was sure I had understood the man correctly. “Get out of my way. That’s an order,” I added, since my Colonel’s stripes were intact and plainly visible.

The soldier blanched but didn’t stand down. He was a young man, probably a fresh draftee, a lease-boy hauled out of some southern Estate, judging by the accent in his voice. “Sorry, Colonel, but I have my orders—very strict—no one to be admitted without authorization.”

“My wife is in this house, or was, or ought to be—what under heaven are you doing here?”

“Preventing exit or entry, sir.”

“By what authority?”

“Writ of Ecclesiastical Quarantine.”

“That’s a mouthful! What’s it signify?”

“Don’t precisely know, sir,” the soldier confessed. “I’m new at this.”

“Well, where do these orders emanate from?”

“My superior officer down at the Fifth Avenue headquarters, most directly; but I think it has something to do with the Dominion. ‘Ecclesiastical’ means ‘church,’ don’t it?”

“I expect it does… Who is inside, that you’re guarding so adamantly?”

“Only a couple of women.”

My heart beat twice, but I pretended to keep aloof. “Your dangerous prisoners are women?”

“I deliver food parcels to them now and again… women, sir, yes, sir, a young one and an old one. I don’t know anything about their crimes. They don’t seem hateful, or especially dangerous, though they’re a little short-tempered now and then, especially the younger female—she hardly speaks but it bites.”

“They’re in there now?”

“Yes, sir; but as I said, no admittance.”

I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I shouted Calyxa’s name, at the greatest volume I could muster.

The guard cringed, and I saw his hand stray to the pistol on his hip. “I don’t think that’s allowed, sir!”

“Do your orders say anything about preventing a uniformed officer from shouting in the street?”

“I guess they don’t, specifically, but—”

“Then, specifically, follow your orders as they were written—guard the door, if you have to, but don’t improvise, and don’t pay any attention to what’s going on the sidewalk; the sidewalks of New York are not your kingdom right at the moment.”

“Sir,” the young man said, blushing; but he didn’t contradict me, and I called out Calyxa’s name several more times, until the head of my beloved wife at last appeared at an upstairs window.

I could hardly contain my happiness at the sight of her. How often I had imagined seeing her again, during the long Goose Bay Campaign! Calyxa’s form, recalled in the interlude between waking and sleep, had become a deity to which I inclined as predictably as any Mohammedan to Mecca. Framed in the upstairs window of Mrs. Comstock’s stone house she looked at least as lovely as any of my visions of her, though a little more impatient, which was not surprising.

I called out her name once more, just to feel the throb of it in my throat.

“Yes, it’s me,” she called back.

“I’m home from the war!”

“I see that! Can’t you come in?”

“There’s a guard on the door!”

“Well, that’s the problem!” Calyxa turned away for a moment, then reappeared. “Mrs. Comstock is here also, though she doesn’t like to shout at the window—she sends her regards.”

“Why are you locked up? Is it the trouble with the Dominion you wrote to me about?”

“It’s too long a story to bellow into the street, but Deacon Hollingshead is in back of it.”

“Julian won’t let this go on!”

“I hope he hears about it quickly, then.”

The soldier on guard, during this exchange, peered at me with a frank curiosity, his jaw agape. I didn’t enjoy his close attention. I wanted to ask Calyxa about our child—I wanted to proclaim my love for her—but the draftee’s blunt stare, and the public circumstances in general, made me feel awkward about it. “Calyxa!” I called out. “I have to tell you—my affectionate feelings are not diminished—”

“Can’t hear you!”

“Undiminished! Affection! Mine, for you!”

“Please don’t waste time, Adam!”

She left her place at the window.

I turned to the guard, my cheeks burning. “Are you enjoying the show, soldier?”

But he was immune to irony, or had been raised somewhere outside its orbit. “Yes, sir,” he said, “thank you for asking. It’s quite a distraction. This is tedious work, as a rule.”

“I’m sure it is. You look cold. Wouldn’t you rather go someplace warm, take a meal perhaps, this close to Christmas?”

“I surely would; but my relief isn’t due for two hours.”

“Why don’t I relieve you? I know I can’t go inside—that would violate regulations—but I believe a ranking officer can assume an enlisted man’s duties for a short period of time, as a kindness on a cold December night.”

“Thank you, Colonel, but that dodge won’t work. I can’t afford to eat at my own expense. I haven’t been paid since last month, with the turbulence in the government and all.”

“There’s a place around the corner that serves beef tongue and lozenged pork, piping hot. Here,” I said, pulling a pair of Comstock dollars out of my pocket and pressing them into his palm, “go on, enjoy yourself, and Merry Christmas to you.”

The recruit looked at the money with wide eyes, then clapped the coins into the pocket of his duffel coat. “I suppose I could leave the ladies in your custody for an hour or so—no more than that, though.”

“I appreciate it, and I’ll make sure they’re safe when you get back.”

Delicacy prevents me from recounting every detail of my reunion with Calyxa, but it was a warm and at times tearful meeting, and I made many demonstrations of my affection, and perceived with amazement and a melting pride the way her feminine form had softened and enlarged. Mrs. Comstock watched these displays with uncomplaining indulgence, until our intimacies began to embarrass her; then she said, “There are important subjects we need to discuss, Adam Hazzard, unless you mean to carry Calyxa off to the bridal chamber instantaneously.”

I might have liked very much to do just that; but I submitted to the implied suggestion, and left off kissing my wife for a time.

“I’ve bribed the guard away,” I said. “We can escape now, if you like.”

“If it were a matter of bribery,” said Mrs. Comstock, “we would have been away long ago—but where do you imagine we would go? We’re not criminals, and I at least don’t propose to behave like one.”

“This is confusing to me,” I confessed. “I’m less than two hours off the boat from Newfoundland , and I’ve had no answer to the letters I sent.”

“They didn’t arrive, or were turned back. And Julian is here as well?”

“That’s what the ringing of the city bells was all about. He was carried off to the Executive Palace to be inaugurated, or whatever they do with new Presidents.”