It was a gray, foggy morning after a rainy night. The woods around East Berlin, Pennsylvania had grown thick in recent years, and the fog made it hard to see beyond the mouth of the dirt road that led off from the highway toward the little hamlet.
Joseph Mueller leaned forward from the rear of the old extended-cab truck and put his hand on the driver’s seat. “Ease off on the gas, Bobby.”
They bounced in their seats as the big truck descended onto the dirt road. The old suspension groaned. Then the steel trailer followed, raising a clatter as it rolled off the eroded concrete of the highway shoulder.
Bobby Denkenburg, a wiry youngster who had just been promoted to driver, shook his head. “We better hope there ain’t bandits this time. Anybody hiding in these woods sure knows we’re coming through with the shipment.”
Tyler Johnson, the third member of the shipment crew, grunted dismissively. Round-bodied and scruffy, he was reading a much-handled, pulp-paper comic book, his feet up on the passenger side of the dashboard.
Through the back seat window, Joseph watched the trees for activity. A few birds lifted, disturbed by the noise, and flapped off through the mist.
Their progress was slow. The dirt road was stony and winding, with several sharp turns. There was a squeal every time Bobby stepped on the truck’s spongy brake pedal. Rocks jolted them, and from time to time they sagged into pools of mud.
“Heard something from Jenny back in the Burg,” Bobby said. “She says they got some new trucks over in Harrisburg, like, never been driven.”
“There ain’t any new trucks,” Tyler said, shifting his short legs. “Least none worth driving. Nobody’s making steel worth shit, and all the machinists who knew how to put together an engine are long gone.”
Bobby waved a hand impatiently. “No, I mean they ain’t never been driven. Old stock, late twenty-teens, Jenny told me.”
Tyler’s interest was piqued. He sat up slightly in the passenger seat. “No shit? She’s probably lyin’, but damn, if she ain’t, I’d like to see one.”
“I’d like to drive one. Like, on one of these runs. We’re already golden boys to these poor-ass outliers. We show up in one of those Harrisburg trucks, all shiny and with those big old engines—they’ll think we’re God, man.”
“A lot of those teens trucks were hybrids, y’know. I’d sure like to get a look-see. Trouble is the software …”
The truck ran over a stone and bounced crazily. Bobby cursed. “Swanson should really get some of those trucks,” he said, struggling with the wheel. “The suspensions on these old rigs are shot.”
“We had a few of those hybrids, once,” Joseph said. “The company doesn’t want any more of them, right now. Too hard to repair, and too hard to fuel—they need better gas. But we’re gettin’ there.”
As if to answer Joseph, the truck splashed into a mud pool, spun its wheels, and nearly stalled. Tyler laughed loudly. “By the time we get there, won’t be no roads to drive on.”
The woods thinned and they passed several abandoned houses. Soon they came to a vacant intersection whose corners held a shuttered Starbucks, a Dunkin Donuts which had been smashed up and used as a storm shelter, a burned-out McDonalds, and a vacant lot strewn with graffiti-covered “coming soon” signs. The road through this desolation was paved, though; it felt like riding on silk after all the mud and rocks. Bobby cheered as he shifted above second for the first time in half an hour.
The truck and trailer rumbled between inhabited houses and tents as they approached the center of East Berlin. Joseph brushed off his suit and straightened the pin on his left lapel, the pin bearing the logo of the Swanson family company. People in hunting coats or patched parkas followed them down the thoroughfare.
They parked in front of the old Lutheran church and were soon surrounded by a crowd of all ages. Joseph looked out at the begrimed laborers, the wrinkled elders, and the eager, skinny kids, some of whom were carrying early-spring flowers and waving little canvas flags painted with the Swanson logo. Bobby set the brake and climbed out, looking cold but proud in his navy blazer. He opened the rear passenger door and stood aside respectfully.
“Hi folks,” Joseph shouted, stepping down from the truck. “Got some goods for you. Mr. Swanson sends his respects.”
The crowd cheered. A heavy, bearded, middle-aged man with a red face, who Joseph took to be the mayor, came up and shook Joseph’s hand. He bowed his head as he spoke. “Mr. Swanson sure is generous.”
“He’s the finest and fairest distributor in Southern Pennsylvania,” Joseph said. This was the ritual, although it had not yet been written in a book of law. “And we all hope his business’ll spread.”
“So we do,” the mayor answered gravely.
With the help of Tyler, who had finally gotten out of the cab, Bobby unloaded the supplies: tanks of gasoline, vehicle batteries, a crate of farming tools, some dented beer barrels, and, of course, a shipment of eggs. Though many of the outer towns had their own laying hens these days, this last had become a tradition of the Swanson company, which had once been the sole distributor of chicken eggs in most of the ancient state of Pennsylvania.
When everything was unloaded, the mayor called out and a number of young people pushing heavily-loaded wheelbarrows moved through the crowd toward the trailer. The barrows were stacked with farm produce, mostly sacks of grain or potatoes.
“We hope Mr. Swanson will accept these gifts,” the mayor said. “Now, we are saddened that we can’t offer more, being as it’s the end of winter. But we know he’s a generous soul.”
Joseph nodded seriously. “I believe he will. It was a hard winter for many.”
“It’s a cold day and a damp one,” the mayor said, wiping his nose. “You folks must be in need of a drink and a warm place to sit. Come join me at the Sudden Day before you head back to the Burg. Our treat.”
“Thanks, mayor, but we’re due back at the warehouse. The next shipment run, maybe.”
Bobby and Tyler muttered to each other. Joseph looked over his shoulder at them. Bobby looked disappointed, Tyler, almost murderous.
“On second thought, I’d say we can stay a little while. No doubt we’ll get more done later for having a nice break now.”
“That’s the spirit.” The mayor grinned and puffed out his chest. Behind Joseph there was a soft cheer. Together they walked to the tavern, as a soft, slushy rain began to fall.
The Sudden Day Tavern took up the first floor of an old gabled building with white brick walls, which were eroded and mold-streaked. Inside, a few people lounged around the big, low room, most of them clustered around a wood-burning stove which had been crudely installed: the chimney pipe passed through an overlarge hole which had been sealed over with duct tape. A few of the kerosene lamps on the tables were lit, and the bottles behind the bar glowed under a single, pale electric light.
“Afternoon, Beth,” the mayor called to the bartender. “This is Joseph Mueller and his retainers. Swanson’s men that just brought in our shipment. Bring us a round of hot cider, and some of that Scotch to mix, huh?”
The skinny girl behind the bar nodded. “Sure thing.”
“Mayor, I hope it’s you who’ll be drinking the Scotch,” Joseph said with a smile. “We don’t drink on the job, y’know. Company policy since way back.”
The faces of Joseph’s companions fell again.
“Come now,” said the mayor, seating himself at a round table. “A little bit of Scotch on a cold day never harmed anyone. You boys been out on that truck all day?”
“For sure,” Bobby said. Joseph, Bobby, and Tyler sat, Joseph facing the mayor across the table. “Me and Tyler, at least. We picked up Mr. Mueller ’round noon.”
Beth brought the mugs of hot cider and a small, dusty bottle of Scotch. The mayor unscrewed the cap and began to pour some into Joseph’s mug. Joseph raised his hand.
The mayor stopped. “Now, really, Mr. Mueller, what’s this about?”
“He’s old fashioned,” Tyler said.
“What it’s about is how we do things in Mr. Swanson’s company,” Joseph said, looking at Tyler, who was staring off in the direction of the bartender. “Nobody who was found to be drinking on the job was ever promoted, not once in the company’s whole history.”
“Surely that’s a tradition that’s more honored in the breach, as they say, Mr. Mueller,” the mayor said, chuckling.
Tyler butted in again. “Tradition? They ain’t enforced that rule since the ’30s. Hell, everybody in the company drinks. Joe here’s just stuck in the old days.”
“Cut it out, Tyler,” Joseph said, quietly but sternly. “Nobody wants to hear your opinions about company policy.”
Tyler subsided, glaring into his cider.
“Don’t be hard on Mr. Mueller,” the mayor said indulgently, smiling to cover the tense moment. “I’m the same way. I’ve been around a bit longer than you men, and I can’t say I’ve seen anything get any easier in my time. It helps to have something to believe in, some old traditions. Maybe being mayor doesn’t mean much when East Berlin’s town hall burned down 13 years ago and ain’t been rebuilt, but to me it’s a little thing that reminds me we can get back everything I had as a kid, if we just stick to the old ideas.”
Joseph nodded gravely. Tyler grabbed the bottle of Scotch and poured some into his cider, shaking his head. Bobby picked up the bottle furtively when Tyler was done.
Tyler took a big swig from his mug and set it down loudly. “Let me tell you, mayor,” he said. “That’s a lot of bullshit. I’m a machinist, right? At least I like to think so. My hobby. I look at some of the parts and tools they were making fifty, sixty years ago, and it sobers me up. We don’t know how it works. We don’t have the tools to make the parts, or the tools to make the tools. The stuff we can make is patched together from 70-year-old metal off somebody’s roof, and let me tell you that’s good material compared to the metal we know how to forge. We ain’t rebuilding! Or, if we are, it’s like we just started walking to the moon. We ain’t gonna live to see where it is we think we’re goin’.”
The mayor blanched.
“Johnson,” Joseph said, “go sit in the truck.”
Tyler glared, but started to get to his feet. He reached for his drink.
“Leave it.”
Tyler swaggered out, touching his baseball cap to Beth as he passed the bar.
“I’m sorry about that, mayor,” Joseph said. “I’ll have a little talk with our supervisor about Mr. Johnson, when we get back.”
“It’s alright. I hear that sort of thing, oh, two or three times a day from the folks around here. A lot of the these young people get a little learning and think, hey, I missed out on the good old days, so why should I bother? Most of my work is tellin’ ’em why.”
“It’s a poisonous attitude,” Joseph murmured. He took a drink from his mug, then, tasting whiskey, quickly set it down again. As he did, his eye caught movement at the window to his right. It was covered with plastic to help insulate the place, but the sheet was flapping free in the warmth from the stove. Through the panes Joseph saw Tyler’s scruffy face, peering in at him curiously. Now he withdrew with a wink and disappeared. Joseph, who had risen to his feet, sat down again, frowning.
“More trouble with your man, Mr. Mueller?” the mayor asked.
Joseph shook his head. “I expect it’s time we left.”
Bobby, who had been quietly drinking at an enormous rate, quickly swallowed the rest of his mug’s contents and looked nervously at his boss. The mayor rose, tossed some ancient bills on the table, and led the two men back out to the square. The icy drizzle had stopped, but a frigid wind had picked up and the puddles were already icing over. A few strong farmhands were putting the last of the town’s offerings on the trailer, tying them down with rough, handmade ropes. Tyler watched them, smoking a green cigar and leaning against the side of the truck.
Bobby made for the driver’s side, but Joseph put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll drive. You’ve had a bit to drink.”
Bobby’s narrow, fair face went taut. “Uh, sorry Mr. Mueller, I—”
Joseph patted his shoulder. “Be a little more careful, next time. Whatever Tyler says, Mr. Swanson takes drinking pretty seriously. OK?”
Bobby nodded and went around to the passenger side. Joseph got in behind the wheel and started the truck as Tyler lazily climbed in the back, his cigar still fuming. The mayor, rubbing his arms in the cold, walked to the driver’s side window and reached up to shake Joseph’s hand.
“Goodbye, Mr. Mueller. We hope Mr. Swanson’s business grows.”
“So we do, mayor.”
The mayor winked. “Keep at it. It’s men like you who’ll help us get the old days back.”
Joseph waved his hand in a gesture of modesty. “Maybe so. Take care of your town, mayor. You’ll have a town hall again, next time I’m here. I’m sure of it.”
The road through the woods was icing over quickly as they headed back to the Burg. Joseph had trouble handling the truck, which bounced and skidded as it rolled from rocky patches to dangerously smooth sheets of ice. The ride was so bad that they stopped near the highway to check the trailer. The homemade ropes were holding.
They made better time on the highway, though Joseph watched carefully for ice in the broken, decades-old concrete as he brought the truck up to speed. The clouds were dense overhead, and the fields and scraggly woods were a uniform gray-brown. Such was February in Swanson’s country. Nevertheless, the speed and sense of freedom from the open spaces eased Joseph’s nerves. He relaxed.
“It’s hard to believe that all this used to be part of one big country,” Joseph said, leaning back. “Way back, maybe 50 years, when Pennsylvania was really a state, they had guys who kept all the roads from here to Scranton smooth enough to skate on.”
“Damn,” Bobby said, shaking his head. He’d been listening with tipsy interest. “Roads all the way to Scranton. You could really drive in those days. But now it’s like the best we can do is patch things up between winters. The thing I hate about these runs is how you never know whether there’s still gonna be a road where you’re going. Guess that’s why there’s no track cars anymore.” He stared wistfully out of the passenger window. “You think we’ll build roads like that again, Mr. Mueller?”
Joseph nodded. “I believe we will, Bobby,” he said quietly. “Just takes time and hard work.”
Tyler, who had been sulking in the back seat, leaned forward and tapped Bobby’s shoulder with his tobacco-stained hand. “See how it works, Bobby? You can bullshit all day if it makes the boss happy, but tell it like it is and he’ll send you outside like a little kid.”
“Shut up, Tyler,” Bobby said vehemently. “You weren’t tellin’ the truth back there in the bar. You were just being a noisy son of a bitch.”
“So you say, Bobby boy. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s sittin’ around and watching guys jerk each other off tellin’ stories about old times. It’s a sorry sight. But what’s worse is them telling the same crap to kids who don’t know better. Corrupting the youth, you might call it.”
Bobby’s face turned bright red and Tyler laughed scornfully. Joseph turned in his seat and fixed Tyler with an angry stare. “Johnson, for the last time, shut your trap.”
Tyler spat between his feet, pulled out another cigar, and began nibbling at the end. In fury, Joseph lunged, grabbing for the cigar, his teeth locked and his breathing shallow. Tyler laughed; then, suddenly, his eyes went wide.
“Slow down, quick!” Bobby yelled.
Joseph hauled himself back into the driver’s seat—he was nearly halfway into the back of the cab—and grabbed the wheel in time to hit dense snow cover. They’d reached a bridge over another road; on the other side, a barricade blocked their lane. Joseph hit the brakes, willing the thin pads and rusted rotors to slow the truck down. He hoped it would come to a halt after fishtailing a little in the wet snow. Instead, the truck sailed forward, losing barely any speed.
“Christ,” Joseph muttered, struggling with the wheel. “Must be ice under there.”
The truck rushed across the bridge, the rear sliding around as the cab pulled to the left. In a daze, Joseph watched as the truck rammed broadside through the wooden barricade and careened down an embankment, rolling as it went. Joseph heard Bobby scream as the cab pitched over onto the passenger side. Then he was suspended by his seat belt, the ground suddenly above him. He blacked out.
Joseph woke up later that day at the Burg’s hospital. He learned that Tyler had come out of the crash with no injuries whatsoever, but Bobby was in intensive care with a broken back and internal bleeding. As for Joseph, he had a concussion and a fractured left wrist, but was otherwise fine. He was released after a few hours’ observation, with a cast and a small, precious bottle of aspirin.
Ed Kaminsky, Joseph’s supervisor and the man in charge of all of Swanson’s shipments, picked Joseph up from the hospital in a company truck. Ed was a plump, neat man in his forties who loved to talk. During the drive home, he gave Joseph the rest of the news. The truck they’d driven to East Berlin was irreparable and the grain they’d been carrying was ruined, scattered over twenty square yards of mud and undergrowth.
Joseph listened in silence, rubbing his aching head.
“One more bit of bad news, Joe,” Ed said. “There’s going to be a inquiry. You, Tyler, and Bobby are suspended—don’t worry, you’ll still get paid—until they figure out what happened. You’ll probably be hearing from a company arbiter as soon as Bobby’s better.”
“That’s no surprise, I guess. Do you know if—if Bobby’s gonna make it?”
Ed sighed. “Those doctors never say ‘die’, but sometimes you want a straight answer. My hunch is … no, he’s not.”
“Thanks, Ed.”
The news of Bobby’s death came the next day.
Two days after Bobby’s funeral, the inquiry was held at the Burg’s dilapidated courthouse. Joseph steeled himself for Tyler’s testimony, which he was sure would not be complimentary. But he wasn’t remotely prepared for the extent of Tyler’s malice, nor for the presence of Jeremy Swanson, himself, at the hearing. Joseph went home deeply shaken, to await the arbiter’s decision.
There was no news the next day, or the day after. On the morning of the third day after the hearing, Joseph put on his boots and hunting coat and went to. see Ed Kaminsky. It was a warm day for late February, with the hint of spring in the air. Rabbits and other small animals were out digging in the gardens of the Burg, and the people Joseph saw smiled at him with the instinctive good humor brought on by the sudden mildness of the weather. But Joseph, grim and distracted, hurried on toward the supervisor’s house on Cemetery Hill.
Ed was sitting on the porch when Joseph came up. The ranch house faced southeast, and Ed, in a pristine hunting coat and well-fitted flannel shirt, was looking out over the fields and hummocks of the ancient battlefield. The morning sun shone on his smooth, doughy face and round-lensed spectacles as he raised a hand to wave. Joseph returned his greeting and took a chair beside him.
“Nice day, ain’t it?” Ed said, stretching his legs. “I was just sittin’ out here tryin’ to remember what I learned in school about the old battle that happened here. Not much, as it turns out, other than it was between two big armies of the north and the south, and that the southern one got whipped.” He chuckled. “But don’t ask me who was in charge of ’em, or why it was they thought the Burg was so dang important.”
“It was a mighty battle,” Joseph said, patiently following Ed’s line of conversation. “All I remember is they told us there were men all the way from Florida fighting here on the Southern side, and that one of the Northern generals came from Maine.”
Ed whistled. “Can you imagine that? People travelin’ half the dang world to come here and fight.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to believe,” Joseph said. “It must have been for a great cause—though whose cause was whose I can’t remember, either.”
“Well, we can ask Dan Hansen down at the school, sometime,” Ed said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt. “But I don’t expect you came here to talk about ancient times, Joe. How’d the hearing go?”
Joseph sighed. “Not too good. Tyler Johnson told the arbiter that I got drunk while we were stopped in town, after dropping off that shipment in East Berlin. He said Bobby tried to stop me from driving.”
“That true?”
“Hell no, but that’s not half of it. He said I spoke against Mr. Swanson, and that I promised Bobby he’d get a new truck if I sided with him down the line, or something like that. He sat as near to me as you are and called me in so many words a traitor—with Mr. Swanson right there in the room with us, too!” Joseph’s voice had risen. He struggled to calm himself down.
Ed rubbed his smooth cheeks and shook his head, but said nothing, letting Joseph finish.
“Well, I managed to keep from hitting him, just barely. I told the arbiter what really happened. It’s not like it wasn’t my fault, Ed. When I was driving I got hot at Tyler and I stopped paying attention to the road, just for a few seconds. And Bobby died.” Joseph paused. “But it’s my word against Tyler’s, until the mayor gets here and backs me up.”
“Oh boy, the Hopkins guy in East Berlin?” Ed said, raising an eyebrow. “Might take him a bit. They’ve got flooded out bad.”
Joseph shrugged helplessly. “What else do you think I should do, Ed? I can’t sit around at home until they fire me. I’ve got to protect my name. Maybe you could, sort of, vouch for me, to the arbiter.”
“Now Joe,” Ed said, rubbing his cheeks again nervously, “you oughtn’t to ask me to interfere. The arbiters certainly know where to find me, if they want to ask me any questions.”
“OK, forget I asked,” Joseph said, a hint of frustration in his voice. “But maybe you could find a way to get me on a truck to East Berlin, to bring the mayor back here to tell the story—I mean, the real story, not that garbage that Tyler told the arbiter.”
“Let me show you something, Joe.” Ed rose and led Joseph inside the house, to a small room with a single window, a desk, and a filing cabinet. On one sun-bleached wall was hung a large map of southern Pennsylvania, well-handled, and water-damaged in places. Ed ran a plump finger along the route that linked East Berlin with the Burg.
“This whole stretch north of Abbottstown is in bad shape. These two little rivers here, Beaver and Conewago—they’re not so little any more, and the road between ’em is flooded for at least a mile. Nearly a dozen trees down, too, according to the last man who tried getting through.” He shrugged. “If you’ve got some good boots and you want to take a little walk, I might be able to get you on the shipment to Abbottstown. But you and the mayor’ll have to walk back to Abbottstown, then get back to the Burg by coach. This mayor a good enough friend of yours for that?”
Joseph shook his head sadly. “I can’t say that he is. And he’s no youngster, either. It might be more than he could handle.” He gazed at the old map. “You sure we can’t get a truck there? I know I’m not supposed to drive while I’m suspended, but I’m sure one of the other guys would do me a favor. That is, if you signed off on it.”
Ed sighed. “Can’t do it, Joe. We’ve got so few trucks now that we can’t risk ’em on anything other than the shipments. If it wasn’t a matter of company pride, I wouldn’t send a truck out of the Burg even if it was to bring me back three kegs of beer and a whole smoked ham. They ain’t exactly safe, anymore.”
Joseph winced and Ed looked apologetic. “Sorry, Joe; didn’t mean to remind you. Anyway … you’ve always said you’re a company man. I don’t suppose you’d ask us to send a truck into a flood zone on your own personal business.”
“I guess I wouldn’t.” Joseph was silent for a moment.
Ed sat down at the desk and put his hands together. “My advice to you, Joe, is to trust the company. OK? Whatever they decide, that’s the right thing.”
Joseph looked at the supervisor’s fine-woven, fitted flannel shirt and gold Swanson pin. “You know, Ed,” he said uncertainly, “it’s kind of easy for you to say that. You’ve done pretty well for yourself; at least, I never heard of you having any trouble at the company. I never heard somebody call you a drunk and a traitor out of spite or envy. It’s kind of tough to tell a guy to bear up under that kind of slander. No disrespect, sir,” he added quickly.
“Not at all, Joe.” Ed smiled indulgently and began toying with a Swanson-made pencil. “And I’ve seen my share of spite and envy. Don’t you get the idea that you’re the first one in Mr. Swanson’s company that’s been singled out by a subordinate.” He laughed. “But here’s the way I see it. All you’d do by hiking out to East Berlin to carry that mayor back here on piggyback is to show Mr. Swanson you don’t trust his arbiter. Oh, and that maybe you think your name is more important than Mayor Hopkins’s responsibilities to his town.”
Joseph started to protest and Ed held up a hand.
“Not that you believe any of these things, and not to say that East Berlin is so dang exciting that he couldn’t take an afternoon off. But you’ve gotta give some thought to how it looks, Joe.”
Joseph nodded. “I guess you’re right. I appreciate it, Ed.”
“Any time,” Ed said, getting to his feet and shaking hands. “I do hope it works out for the best. Remember, trust Mr. Swanson.”
Joseph passed another day of restless waiting. Late in the afternoon a Swanson courier, a girl barely in her teens, knocked on his door and handed him a sealed letter. It was brief and direct. He’d shown poor judgment and had driven recklessly, the arbiter wrote. He bore partial responsibility for Bobby’s death, and for the loss of the truck and shipment. By special request of Jeremy Swanson, Joseph’s punishment would be delivered at Swanson’s residence. He was to appear at the old mansion house the next morning.
Joseph tossed the letter on the kitchen table and set to work cleaning house. It was something useful he could do to keep his mind occupied.
The weather was damp, gray, and cold when Joseph boarded a coach to Mr. Swanson’s house. He road past the main plain of the old battlefield, which was now mostly pasture for the Burg’s sheep and goats, and got out in a misty wood just outside town. A path lead through the woods to a large, ancient house, which loomed like a black mountain through the tall, barren trees. The crunch of the gravel beneath Joseph’s boots sounded too loud in the solemn stillness of the woods.
Joseph rang the electric bell at the mansion’s front door and was admitted by a young man in a faded blue suit with silver Swanson pin. He was lead down a wainscoted hallway that smelled faintly of pine and cigars. Joseph marveled at the jets of warm, smokeless air that flowed from the vents set into the wood-tiled floor.
The man in the suit opened a door, and Joseph entered a large, electric-lit study, where Jeremy Swanson sat smoking a cigar beside a bay window. The small, middle-aged man with the mane of flowing, gray hair looked much as he had at the hearing: neatly but not ostentatiously attired, relaxed, but with an air of poise. Swanson stood, carefully placing the burning end of his cigar in a brass ashtray, and reached out to give Joseph’s hand a firm shake. He gestured to a second chair, where Joseph sat, waiting patiently for Swanson to begin.
“Well, Joseph,” he said, picking up his cigar again, “you’re here to receive our judgment. You’ve heard the arbiter’s decision, I trust?”
Joseph nodded.
“A man was killed, a truck was destroyed, and a shipment lost, all because of your poor judgment—with extenuating circumstances. What do you think about that?” He drew on his cigar quietly, watching Joseph.
Joseph took a breath and let it out slowly before speaking. “I accept the decision, sir,” he said finally.
“Are you sure, son? You aren’t a bit angry?”
“No, sir. It was a fair ruling—though I haven’t any right to that opinion. I made a mistake.” Joseph lowered his eyes. “And I mean to accept the consequences.”
“Yes, well, that’s an admirable sentiment,” Swanson said, a little impatiently. “But come now, you’re flesh and blood. You must have some feelings about what happened.”
“It’s a tragedy, of course. Bobby was a fine young man and a hard worker.”
“A fine young man who died because you’d had a few drinks and had a difference of opinions with Mr. Johnson.”
Joseph looked up quickly. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaken. I read the letter from the arbiter pretty carefully and it said I’d been reckless because I was distracted. Not drunk. There was not a word about alcohol in that letter.”
“But there was quite a bit about it at the hearing, as you no doubt remember. Mr. Johnson also suggested that you were expressing some opinions about the leadership of this company, before the unfortunate incident occurred.”
“It’s a lie!” Joseph burst out. His grip on the chair’s armrest had tightened. Swanson watched him with cold interest.
“I—I’m sorry to contradict you, sir,” Joseph continued deferentially. “After all, I only know what they saw fit to tell me. I know I’ve done wrong, anyway, and what I’d like to ask you for is a chance to—”
“A chance to clear your name?” Swanson smiled. “My arbiter says that your actions led to the death of a young man and the loss of a truck—and, if you’ll excuse my impiety, I don’t need to tell you how much harder it is for us to replace a truck these days than it is to replace an employee. That being the case, how would you characterize your chances with my company?”
“Not so good, sir.”
Swanson nodded. “Men have been fired for less. And attitudes are getting harder, I can tell you. A young woman in accounts left her family and the Burg altogether when we found she’d been skimming payments. Exile’s come back into fashion.”
“Would you order me to leave, sir?” Joseph asked faintly.
Swanson blew out a plume of smoke. “It was merely an example, Joseph. A sign of the times.”
“I don’t expect to drive a shipment ever again, sir. But I don’t want to leave the company.” Joseph’s voice regained some energy. “Let me mop out the loading docks and the bathrooms. I’ll take the jobs nobody else wants, if I can stay.”
Swanson looked at him dubiously. “You’d hardly establish yourself as a man to be trusted with lives and the company’s interest by mopping floors.”
“No, I suppose not, Mr. Swanson. But you have to get your name back by degrees.”
Swanson smiled and put down his cigar. “So you do, Joseph. So you do. And I mean to see you get a chance to earn your name back.”
“Sir?”
“I think you heard me, Joseph. I’m keeping you in shipments. Oh, you’ll be off driving duties for a good while, but I expect you’ll get back behind the wheel eventually. Desk duty is a sort of punishment, I’ll tell you, and that’s what you’ll be doing the next few months.”
“But the arbiter said—”
Swanson’s eyes looked stern. “The arbiter reports his decision to me, son, and then I decide what to do about it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“And, although you didn’t mention him, you might like to know that you won’t be seeing much of Tyler Johnson. The arbiter asked me to get a letter through to Mayor Hopkins, and I think we’ve got the real story of what happened while you were up there.”
Joseph was stunned. “Then, you know that I didn’t do any drinking there?”
Swanson nodded, smiling. “I suspected as much, and I was glad to see myself proved right.”
Joseph bowed his head. “I’m truly grateful, Mr. Swanson.”
“Alright, Joseph. I believe we’re done. Report to the shipment office as usual, Monday morning.”
Joseph rose and bowed. He turned to go, and had almost reached the door when Swanson spoke.
“Joseph, one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s hard to put your duties above your feelings, when somebody’s throwing mud on your good name. I know it very well. But it’s everything, son—do you understand? This world we’ve got here is built on loyalty.”
“I understand, Mr. Swanson. May your business spread.”
Swanson nodded, and the suited retainer led Joseph out.
The day was brightening as Joseph walked back along the gravel path to the post road. Where Joseph had before seen only the barren landscape of winter, he now noticed signs of spring: a patch of crocuses, sparrows pecking at the young grass, and the soft trickle of melting snow. Feeling new energy in his body, Joseph decided to walk the three miles home across the old battlefield.
Threading his way through a flock of sheep and climbing over several weathered stone walls, Joseph came to a smooth ridge and looked down across the wide, shallow valley through which the southeast road approached the Burg. The breeze had picked up, bringing with it the scent of fresh, wet soil and a hint of manure. In a few months the fields and gardens on either side of the road would be bursting with growth, bounty for the people of the Burg and—thanks to Swanson’s shipments—for the people beyond it. For a moment, he could see the Swanson company spreading out in all cardinal directions, spanning the woods and mountains and yoking a hundred square miles, perhaps—a bigger area than Joseph had traversed in his entire life—into a single polity. A word Joseph had learned in school, but never thought could be applied to any human community now in existence, came to mind: “empire.”
A coach and several rickshaws moved along the road, and then Joseph heard the roar of one of the primitive new motorcycle. Soon they’d be replaced by better and larger vehicles, perhaps, Joseph thought with a mix of hope and melancholy, by something on the plan of those ancient trucks that had been so dear to Bobby. With great, muscular haulers like those, Swanson’s domain could stretch all the way to Scranton, or even further. Loyalty and honor—they built this world, as Mr. Swanson had said. With those guides, the days of empire would come again to the ancient state of Pennsylvania.
Bathed in the warm late morning sun, Joseph continued on his way, laughing at his grandiose vision.