Amerika Read Free Page B

but all he could find was the double-talk that passed for news: talk about increased production and U.S.-Soviet trade and friendship. He changed the station and got John Philip Sousa. Flicking the dial once again, he was party to a Spanish language lesson.
    Switching off the radio, he circled the main square of Milford. In the center of the square was the county courthouse, a relic of the early part of the twentieth century. It was a massive red-brick building adorned with pillars and a dome. Even though he saw it almost every day, for some reason this morning it evoked in him the sort of thought he barely allowed himself anymore: the realization that America had once been a nation of high strivings and of grandeur.
    On the courthouse lawn stood the proud statue of a World War I soldier, and also the spacious gazebo that for years had served as the focal point for local ceremonies.
    Milford had been a bustling market town when the courthouse was built, a center of commerce for farmers. Soon thereafter, however, the community began a long, slow decline. First, in the 1920s, the new railroad line bypassed Milford. Later, during the 1960s, the new interstate highway also went elsewhere, taking with it the potential business and industry that might have spared Milford its economic malaise.
    However, if the town of Milford was considered an economic failure, it was a success in other ways. Its wide tree-lined streets were as uncrowded and inviting as they had been in the twenties, and its gracious old homes were as comfortable as they had ever been. The town had little crime, little poverty, and a genuine sense of community spirit.
    Peter passed several battered pickups, an ancient John Deere tractor, and a horse and wagon, as well as a couple of vintage cars. The primary mode of transportation in Milford, however, seemed to be bicycles, which far outnumbered all other vehicles combined. Self-consciously, Bradford nestled his jeep between the rows of bikes in front of the only lighted sign in the square:
    HERB ’N BETTY’S CAFE GOOD EATS
    The neon had long since given up trying to hit all the letters, and it wavered gamely in the gray morning light. Peter entered Herb ’n Betty’s, nodding to the assortment of farmers, truckers, and loafers who gathered there to play cards, gossip, and drink what passed for coffee. The walls were decorated with an elk head, stuffed ducks, and old basketball trophies; the tables were covered with stained, red-and-white-checked tablecloths. As Peter headed for his regular booth in the comer of the cafe, a farmer stopped him to complain about a long-delayed replacement part for his tractor. Another grizzled old-timer seized his arm, leaning into him conspiratorially to ask about the latest talk of guerrilla forces.
    “My wife’s sister told me her husband ran off and joined. He was one of them survivalist types. She said there was hundreds of ’em, living in caves in the Rockies.”
    “Can’t believe every rumor comes along—”
    “Yeah, but what if it’s true?”
    Peter shrugged. “Not a lot to do with us, I guess.” The farmer shook his head, reluctantly agreeing. Peter moved toward his booth. Before he had time to take off his coat and sit down, Betty, the timeless owner of the cafe, walked over with a cup of coffee. Betty was a local institution—ageless, shapeless, but seldom speechless. She wore a net over her graying mop of reddish-brown hair, and a sleeveless brown sweater over her white uniform.
    “What’ll it be, Peter?”
    “Aunt Jemima pancakes with Log Cabin maple syrup, maybe some little pork link sausages, two eggs over easy, and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.” “Yeah, me too.” She smiled at Peter, licking her lips as though she could taste the remembered favorites of the past. “Would you settle for soy cakes with some fresh molasses?”
    “Don’t I always?” Peter smiled.
    “If you want better, you’ll have to go out to the SSU barracks. I saw a