Future Ship

The Freedom of Escaped Blood

24 The Freedom of Escaped Blood All i knew of Europe was a farm somewhere in upstate NewYork near Saratoga, a little place my uncle owned, an immigrant—someone from my mother’s side of the family, fleeing the Nazis in Austria. He worked for a bigAmerican oil company, the one with a galloping red Pegasus, emblem of winged transit, freedom of escaped blood. A big guy with a toothy grin, he loved to laugh, face flushed, eyes dull with fatigue, skin already wizened, as if old, battered from a boyhood spent herding cows. And his wife, my aunt, would stand dead center in her garden, arms chapped, hands caked with clay, to squint against the hard light flooding her rows—dusty spheres of lettuce, rhubarb stretching waxy, pink necks; pebbled sacks of cucumbers lolling in shade. They spoke in phlegmy, throat-rattling german, orders or endearments, i couldn’t tell, though it’s clear they loved each other, shared the rural pleasures of their farm— dirt-daubed, remote, a single country lane lost among maples and stone walls. You’d think they were hiding, tucked away like that. But my uncle must have driven to his job—a little warehouse in the village branded with the symbol of a red horse. one time, he played a game with me. While he sat sprawled in a wooden chair behind the house, i fired arrows into the air above his head—straight as i could— so they’d fall around him, coming closer with each shot. i was aghast, but he just laughed and urged me on, taking pleasure in my fear and the narrow margin 25 of his escapes. But that was years ago. Their world has vanished, sylvan acres gobbled up—all that sauerkraut and wurst, pickled onions packed in crocks, clean slices of potato steeped in brine. You don’t see that red horse much anymore.The sky’s clear over Europe. No bright warheads puncturing peace, no more flames that leapt a continent as though on wings, hooved and jubilant, spreading everywhere, then out. ...