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“What?” January cried, and bounced to his feet. “You’re kidding!”

  “No. They flew to Kokura, but found it covered by clouds. It was the same over Nagasaki and Hiroshima, so they flew back to Kokura and tried to drop the bomb using radar to guide it, but apparently there was a—a genuine equipment failure this time, and the bomb fell on an island.”

  January was hopping up and down, mouth hanging open, “So we n-never—”

  “We never dropped an atom bomb on a Japanese city. That’s right.” Getty grinned. “And get this—I heard this from my superior—they sent a message to the Japanese government telling them that the two explosions were warnings, and that if they didn’t surrender by September first we would drop bombs on Kyoto and Tokyo, and then wherever else we had to. Word is that the Emperor went to Hiroshima to survey the damage, and when he saw it he ordered the Cabinet to surrender. So . . .”

  “So it worked,” January said. He hopped around, “It worked, it worked!”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like I said it would!” he cried, and hopping before the priest he laughed.

  Getty was jumping around a little too, and the sight of the priest bouncing was too much for January. He sat on his cot and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “So—” he sobered quickly. “So Truman’s going to shoot me anyway, eh?”

  “Yes,” the priest said unhappily. “I guess that’s right.”

  This time January’s laugh was bitter. “He’s a bastard, all right. And proud of being a bastard, which makes it worse.” He shook his head. “If Roosevelt had lived . . .”

  “It would have been different,” Getty finished. “Yes. Maybe so. But he didn’t.” He sat beside January. “Cigarette?” He held out a pack, and January noticed the white wartime wrapper. He frowned.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Oh well. That’s all right.” January took one of the Lucky Strikes, lit up. “That’s awfully good news.” He breathed out. “I never believed Truman would pardon me anyway, so mostly you’ve brought good news. Ha. They missed. You have no idea how much better that makes me feel.”

  “I think I do.”

  January smoked the cigarette.

  “ . . . So I’m a good American after all. I am a good American,” he insisted, “no matter what Truman says.”

  “Yes,” Getty replied, and coughed. “You’re better than Truman any day.”

  “Better watch what you say, Father.” He looked into the eyes behind the glasses, and the expression he saw there gave him pause. Since the drop every look directed at him had been filled with contempt. He’d seen it so often during the court-martial that he’d learned to stop looking; and now he had to teach himself to see again. The priest looked at him as if he were . . . as if he were some kind of hero. That wasn’t exactly right. But seeing it . . .

  January would not live to see the years that followed, so he would never know what came of his action. He had given up casting his mind forward and imagining possibilities, because there was no point to it. His planning was ended. In any case he would not have been able to imagine the course of the post-war years. That the world would quickly become an armed camp pitched on the edge of atomic war, he might have predicted. But he never would have guessed that so many people would join a January Society. He would never know of the effect the Society had on Dewey during the Korean crisis, never know of the Society’s successful campaign for the test ban treaty, and never learn that thanks in part to the Society and its allies, a treaty would be signed by the great powers that would reduce the number of atomic bombs year by year, until there were none left.

  Frank January would never know any of that. But in that moment on his cot looking into the eyes of young Patrick Getty, he guessed an inkling of it—he felt, just for an instant, the impact on history.

  And with that he relaxed. In his last week everyone who met him carried away the same impression, that of a calm, quiet man, angry at Truman and others, but in a withdrawn, matter-of-fact way. Patrick Getty, a strong force in the January Society ever after, said January was talkative for some time after he learned of the missed attack on Kokura. Then he became quieter and quieter, as the day approached. On the morning that they woke him at dawn to march him out to a hastily constructed execution shed, his MPs shook his hand. The priest was with him as he smoked a final cigarette, and they prepared to put the hood over his head. January looked at him calmly. “They load one of the guns with a blank cartridge, right?”

  “Yes,” Getty said.

  “So each man in the squad can imagine he may not have shot me?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  A tight, unhumorous smile was January’s last expression. He threw down the cigarette, ground it out, poked the priest in the arm. “But I know.” Then the mask slipped back into place for good, making the hood redundant, and with a firm step January went to the wall. One might have said he was at peace.

  Nicholas A. DiChario

  A prolific writer of short fiction, Nicholas A. DiChario has published more than two dozen stories in the past decade. His short fiction, some of it written in collaboration with Mike Resnick, has appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Starshore, and Science Fiction Age, and been anthologized in The Ultimate Alien, Universe Three, Witch Fantastic, Christmas Ghosts, and numerous other anthologies. DiChario’s special interest in alternate history is on display in his contributions to Alternate Tyrants, Alternate Warriors, and The Way It Wasn’t. “The Winterberry,” which appeared in the anthology Alternate Kennedys, was selected for inclusion in the Writers of the Future series.

  THE WINTERBERRY

  * * *

  Nicholas A. DiChario

  MAY, 1971

  IT WAS UNCLE TEDDY who taught me how to read and write. I think it took a long time but I’m not sure. I heard him arguing with Mother about it one night a few years ago when I wasn’t supposed to be out of my room, but I was very excited with the next day being my birthday and I couldn’t sleep.

  “He can do it,” Uncle Teddy had said.

  And Mother said, “He doesn’t care whether he reads or writes. It’s you who cares. Why do you torture yourself? Let him be.”

  “He’s fifty-four years old,” Uncle Teddy said.

  “Let him be!” Mother sounded very angry.

  I listened to Uncle Teddy walk across the room. “If you feel that way,” he said, “why didn’t you just let him die?”

  There was a long silence before Mother said, “I don’t know,” and another long silence after that.

  Something in their voices frightened me so I returned to my room. I became very ill, and for several weeks Dr. Armbruster came to see me every day but he wouldn’t let anyone else come in because he said I was too weak to have visitors.

  But sometime after, when I was much better, Uncle Teddy came to visit and he brought a picture book with him which made me remember his talk with Mother. I’m glad Uncle Teddy got his way because now I read and write a lot even though I throw most of my writing away. I hide some of it though and keep it just for myself, and it’s not because I’m being sneaky, it’s more because some of the things I write are my own personal secrets and I don’t want to tell anyone, just like people don’t want to tell me things sometimes when I ask them questions.

  DECEMBER, 1977

  I am very excited about Christmas almost being here. I am looking forward to Uncle Teddy’s stay because he always has something fun in mind. Yesterday after he arrived he walked me through the house and showed me all of the decorations—wreaths and flowers and a huge Christmas tree near the front hall, strung with tinsel and candles. He brought with him several boxes full of gifts, all shapes and sizes, wrapped in bright colors—red and green and blue and silver with bows and ribbons—and I knew they were all for me because he put them under my tree upstairs.

  Our house is very large. Mother calls it a mansion. She doesn’t allow me to go anywhere except the room on my floor. She says I have e
verything I need right here.

  That’s why sometimes at night I’ll walk around when everything is dark and everyone is asleep or in their rooms for the night. I don’t think I’m being sneaky, it’s just that I am very curious and if I ask about things no one tells me what I want to know. I’ve come to know this house very well. There are many hidden passageways behind the walls and I know them all by heart. I will hear things every once in a while that mother would not like me to hear.

  There was a big happening in the house last night and the servants were very busy, although it did not look to be a planned thing because everyone appeared disorganized and Mother didn’t come to lock me in my room.

  I went through one of my passageways that led to the main entrance of the house and I peeked through a tiny opening in the wall and saw a very beautiful woman with dark hair standing inside the door. She was so beautiful that I held my breath. It must have been very cold outside because she was wearing a long black winter coat and there were flakes of snow on her hair. When she spoke, it was the most soft and delicate voice I had ever heard. She said, “Merry Christmas.”

  I wanted to stay and watch the woman forever but I knew that Mother would be up to check on me so I ran back to my room and pretended to be asleep. Mother came in and kissed my head and said, “Sleep well, child,” like she did every night. I listened very closely for a long time hoping to hear the voice of the woman again, but next thing I knew it was morning, and she was gone.

  OCTOBER, 1982

  I heard Mother and Dr. Armbruster arguing yesterday. They were just talking pleasantly for a while and I was listening in my passageway to the low, pleasant sound of their voices. The doctor was saying things I did not understand about sickness and diets and so on, when all of a sudden he said, “But John is doing fine,” and Mother just about exploded with anger.

  “His name is not John, do you understand me? Don’t you ever call him by that name again! John is dead! My John is dead!” I had never heard Mother get so angry except for that one time with Uncle Teddy. She made the doctor leave right away and told him he could be replaced, but I hoped that she wouldn’t do that because I sort of liked Dr. Armbruster.

  I don’t know who John is, but I felt very bad for Mother. I had never really thought about my own name before. Uncle Teddy and everyone calls me Sonny because it’s short for Sonny Boy, and that’s good enough for me. But it made me wonder how someone could get a name like John. Uncle Teddy was probably named after a teddy bear. Mother was just Mother.

  MAY, 1987

  Today was a very special day. It was my seventieth birthday. Uncle Teddy came to visit and I was very excited because I hadn’t seen him in such a long time. We had a big cake and a lot of food and we played checkers for an hour. Then Uncle Teddy took me outside for a walk!

  I’ll never forget it as long as I live. I think Mother was not happy about it because she did not want to let me go at first, but Uncle Teddy talked her into it and we went outside surrounded by men in black suits and ties and shoes. Uncle Teddy asked me if I minded if his friends went with us, and of course I didn’t care. They came to my party and they had a right to have fun. In fact, I told them that if they smiled more they might have a nicer time all around, but Uncle Teddy said they were usually very serious people and were happy that way.

  It was a sunny day. The wind blew in my face and stung my eyes at first, but it felt good. Uncle Teddy took me all around the yard and into the garden where I smelled the roses and touched the bushes and the vines. I listened to the birds calling and the insects buzzing. I never dreamed they would sound so loud and so near.

  I touched the winterberry hollies which were very special to me because I could always see their bright red berries from my window, even during the cold cold winters.

  After a short time I caught a chill and had to go inside, and I was weak for the rest of the day. But I didn’t care—I had such fun! I’ll always remember it.

  AUGUST, 1996

  One night I entered a storage room through my passageway where there were a lot of tools and brooms and rags and buckets and things. I rummaged around in the dark and my hands found a flashlight. I thought this would be a wonderful thing to have so I took it with me hoping that no one would miss it. Now I can sit in bed at night and read and write as long as I like and not have to worry about someone seeing my light.

  I have not seen Mother in a very long time. I wondered if she was angry with me even though I didn’t think she knew about my passageways or my late-night writing. Mother would have yelled at me if she knew.

  I’ve been seeing more and more of Uncle Teddy, so I asked him about Mother today and he said that she went away on a very long trip and I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

  I asked him how long that might be and he said not long, he said soon we’d all be seeing her and then maybe we’d find out whether we did the right thing, whether the choices we’d made over the years had been the proper ones. He looked very sad when he said this, and then he said, “I think there is such a place, Sonny Boy, a place where we learn why everything is the way it is.”

  I asked him if Dr. Armbruster had gone with Mother since I hadn’t seen him in so long and I was seeing Dr. Morelande almost every day now, and Uncle Teddy told me yes.

  I thought about how lucky Mother was to visit this place, a place where every time you asked a question you got an answer, and I could not blame her if she didn’t want to come back for a while. I told Uncle Teddy so, and he seemed to cheer up. We played cards for the rest of the afternoon.

  MAY, 1997

  Today was my eightieth birthday. I have been very sick and I was afraid that I might not be able to have my party, but Dr. Morelande said it was OK so we had cake and games with Uncle Teddy and I had a very nice time even though I had to stay in bed.

  It was after my party that I had a scare. I was very weak, and I probably should have just gone to sleep, but being so excited all day and not being allowed to get up, I turned restless after dark, so I decided to take a short walk through my passageways.

  I followed a path that led to the back of a closet in Uncle Teddy’s room, and I saw some light coming through the darkness so I went up to it. That’s all I was going to do—peek and go away—until I saw Uncle Teddy crying. I’d never seen Uncle Teddy cry before. He was in bed. He had a large, green book on his lap, and every so often he would turn a page and cry some more.

  I watched him for a while, waiting for him to be all right, but he didn’t stop crying and I couldn’t stand to watch him any longer, so I did a foolish thing and I entered his room through the closet.

  “Sonny Boy,” he said, “what are you doing here?”

  I thought he might be angry with me so I wanted to say that I saw him crying, and that I only wanted to help him and be a friend, but before I could say anything he said, “So you know about the passages,” and he didn’t seem to be upset at all.

  “Come over here, Sonny,” he said.

  I went and sat on the edge of his bed. He was looking at a photo album. Mother had shown me some photo albums years ago, and I thought they were interesting and we had a lot of fun even though I didn’t recognize any of the faces. I don’t ever remember crying over them. But Uncle Teddy’s album was different. There were newspaper pictures, and headlines, and articles.

  Uncle Teddy was looking at a picture of a man and a woman. The man seemed very serious-looking, and his right hand was raised like an Indian chief’s, but he had on a suit and tie and no headdress. The man’s eyes were closed.

  The woman had short black hair with long bangs, and she was looking down.

  And then all of a sudden I just about screamed. I knew that woman. I remembered her from . . . from somewhere.

  Uncle Teddy said, “You know her, don’t you? Think, Sonny Boy, think very hard. What do you remember?”

  I did think very hard, and then I remembered where I had seen her. She was the beautiful black-haired woman I had seen at Christmastime i
n the main entrance of the house years ago.

  But then there was more. As I looked at the woman in the picture something very strange came into my head. I had a passing thought of this same woman in a pretty white gown, with a white veil over her face. It was just a piece of a thought that I could not keep in my mind for very long, but I’ll never forget it. I reached out and touched the picture.

  “Always grand,” Uncle Teddy said. “She was wearing a very dignified, raspberry-colored suit that day.”

  But that’s not what I had seen. I had seen the white gown. I had seen something that happened before my room and my house and my passageways and Mother and Uncle Teddy. Was there anything before them? Yes, I think there was. It was more than a passing thought—it was a memory.

  “Was I married, Uncle Teddy?” I asked him.

  He smiled. “Yes, you were. You proposed to her by telegram, you know, from Paris.”

  I thought this was interesting, but nothing more than that. Uncle Teddy started to cry again.

  “Please, don’t cry,” I said.

  He held my hand then. “I’m sorry we couldn’t tell her you were alive. We couldn’t tell your children, not anyone, not even Father because we couldn’t be sure of his reaction. Mother was adamant about that. No one could know. Just Bobby and Mother and myself—and the doctors, of course. Now there’s just me.

  “It was for the good of the country. Those were critical times. The eyes of the world were watching us. We could not afford hesitancy. We felt you would have wanted it that way. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t, but I nodded anyway to stop Uncle Teddy from crying. He was clutching my arm very hard.

  He traced the newspaper picture with his finger. “She was a strong woman, Sonny Boy. You would have been proud of her. I remember her standing right next to Lyndon, solid as a rock, little more than an hour after you were pronounced dead.”

  I was very confused about Uncle Teddy calling me dead, and about what the woman in the picture had to do with any of it, so I closed the book and placed it on the floor. I remembered what Mother used to do to make me feel better, so I thought that maybe the same thing might help Uncle Teddy feel better too.