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England didn't know why he had driven all the way to the sea.
It was 1962, the eve of the world's destruction. The national consciousness-entities had gathered in New York at the United Nations to work out, how, exactly, they might keep everyone from going up together in smoke. England sat in his seat through the proceedings and watched the current world hegemon and very likely architect of its annihilation, America, work the room, throwing an arm around this country’s shoulder, speaking in suggestive half-threats to that one, performing the whole repertoire of fraternal warmth with the oiled ease of a man who has never once doubted he is the protagonist.
“England, what’s your take?”
The spotlight sung to him.
He propped his chin on one hand, arranged his face into the expression of a man wrestling sincerely with a difficult question, raised the concerns his superiors and had prepared for him, performed a passable imitation of objectivity, gestured broadly at the theater of international sovereignty, and arrived at last at the neat, obedient conclusion: “On this matter, my country stands firmly with the United States.”
He curved his lips into a thin smile.
The spotlight returned to America’s hands. As the other national consciousness turned away, England felt the familiar drift of unfriendly attention. The kind that doesn’t bother to conceal itself. America’s lapdog. He could hear it as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud. He lowered his eyes and took a sip of the mineral water provided by the UN. As though any of you are different.
He stepped into the cool evening air after the session concluded. New York in late autumn made him think of a war more than two centuries past. It could have ended here, he thought — all of it. New York had not been unkind to him. It could have been the turning point that strangled everything in its cradle. If he had pressed the pursuit without hesitation. If two soft-hearted, catastrophically sentimental generals hadn’t undone it all.
He looked up at the towers rising against the sky. The sun hung low and extravagant between the skyscrapers, and people moved through the crosswalks below clutching fashionable plastic bags from department stores.
Click.
He retreated into his black Jaguar and turned the radio up loud.
“Khrushchev threatens nuclear retaliation. What should America do in response?”
He changed the station.
“Citizens stockpiling supplies. Billionaires constructing private bunkers.”
He changed it again.
“The government urges people to stay calm. Tomorrow will be better.”
England fished irritably in his breast pocket for his silver Zippo, and lifted a cigarette to his lips.
“FM 192.3 would suit you better,” said a voice from the backseat. A familiar, insufferable, relentlessly cheerful voice.
“And can you not smoke? It’s a very old-man habit, you know. I’m still in my puberty. What if my bones rot and I stop growing taller?”
“Then I’d trouble you to get out of this old man’s car.” England had long since stopped asking questions like how are you here or how did you get my keys. Half the world was America’s PlayStation. And this was New York.
“But I don’t want to.” America climbed over into the passenger seat, immediately adjusted it as far back as it would go, and pointed ahead through the windscreen. “Let’s go. We are missing the sunset.”
England weighed the question of whether to kick him out of the car, but his increasingly well-fed face and the muscles doing real violence to a perfectly good suit jacket eventually convinced him not to. He tuned the radio to FM 192.3 and pressed the accelerator.
Moon river, wider than a mile—
I’m crossing you in style some day—
Oh, dream maker, you heartbreaker—
Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way—
Audrey Hepburn’s voice settled softly into the narrow space of the car. He really does know how to dress things up, England thought. All that innocence and charm. When it was, in fact, his people threatening to end the world. The Upper East Side blurred and receded in the window. The unlit cigarette remained between his lips. He glanced sideways at America, who was, for once, quiet.
Two drifters, off to see the world—
There’s such a lot of world to see—
We’re after the same rainbow’s end—
Asleep. Head lolling to one side, mouth open, chest rising and falling, the last of the sunset falling across his face with what England could only interpret as favoritism.
By the time they reached the shore, the sunset had gone entirely. This was not England’s territory after all; he had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. And even if they managed to arrive earlier, the location was just entirely wrong for watching the sunset. What remained was the residual warmth of dusk, smudged against the approaching indigo of full night. America was still sleeping. England eased the car to a stop until the tired met the sand.
He unclipped his seatbelt and pushed his seat back. He looked at the roof of the car. Then he turned and looked at America. The engine was quiet now. The city noise was gone. Waves moved against the shore in long, even strokes, and the streetlamps had not yet come on. The cigarette in his mouth had gone entirely soft with moisture. He took out the Zippo one more time. A small flame bloomed in the darkness of the car and flickered in his eyes.
He reached over and lifted the glasses from America’s face. In the wavering light, the former hegemon studied the current one. Only at moments like this could England trace, with much effort, something that matched what he carried in memory. Human cells replaced themselves entirely every seven year; Theseus’s ship, moving forward at the cost of abandoning what it had been. Perhaps for immortal national entities, the rule of seven years was applied less strictly. But even allowing for leniency, two hundred years was more than enough time to erase any trace of the past. Nothing should remain. And yet.
Someone on the beach was setting off fireworks. The sound of a celebration, or a birth.
“Use them now,” a teen was saying to another, his arms full of fireworks, his voice cresting with excitement. “What if the world ends tomorrow? The explosion won’t be half as fun!”
England laughed. He leaned back and lit the cigarette with a lighter that had gone warm in his palm.
“Lucky for me that I’m no longer your guardian,” he said. “I could not have borne the responsibility of having raised the boy who destroys the world.”
He exhaled into the open window, into the evening air.
“You were sweet like a cupcake when you were small.” He glanced at America. No response. He let out a quiet breath and continued. “Terribly mischievous, of course. I should have seen the signs earlier. You were always far more trouble than Canada. I nearly broke a bone making toys for you.”
“I ought to have visited Canada more, really. Canada, cold as it was, and with that bearded nuisance always stirring up troubles for him. I was simply too fond of warmth. It was more convenient for the ship to dock at Virginia at Christmas. Back then I genuinely believed I would go on doing it. That I would always do it. Forever.”
He stopped. He drew on the cigarette. The red tip flared briefly, then faded. A cool breeze moved through the car. He held the cigarette between his lips and, with both hands free, took his suit jacket and draped it loosely across America.
“By forever, do you mean maintaining a schedule of seeing me precisely once a year?”
England could not get the lighter to work. He scrambled out of the Jaguar as though escaping something. He stood on the beach in the wind, thumb working the Zippo open and shut, simply unable to produce a flame. He had left the cigarette inside. He hoped it wouldn’t burn a hole in the seat. Or perhaps it should. Perhaps it should take the whole car with it. Let it explode. He watched the fireworks climbing into the night sky and for one brief moment wanted to tear the remaining ones from the boys’ arms and aim them straight at that awful automobile.
“You’re a fire hazard, you know.” America shut the door behind him and came after England across the sand. “What if you burned me alive?!”
“Then it’ll be my pleasure to accept the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“You want to see me gone that badly? You never used to.”
England stopped fighting with the lighter and turned around.
“When you were small,” he said, holding his hand at hip height, “you were this tall.”
“You didn’t talk back. You didn’t scheme against me. You didn’t make me promises of being good and then embarrass me in front of the entire world.”
America glared at him and balled his hands into fists. England’s jacket had fallen somewhere on the sand. Knuckles cracked.
Boom.
A firework split the sky. For a moment it illuminated their twisted faces.
“I’m leaving.” England turned toward his car.
“Wait —” America caught up in three strides and grabbed him by the shoulder. He raised his other hand, and as England was pulled around, America saw it. England flinching, eyes closing, a small reflexive motion of self-protection.
He let go. Stepped back. Pressed his lips together and said nothing further.
Click. Click.
The door didn’t move. England searched one trouser pocket, then the other, and at last said, flatly: “America. Do you have my keys?”
“…”
“…I was in a hurry when I got out.”
“…”
England felt something close to a laugh rising in spite of himself. He wanted to smash something. Even the car looked like it deserved it. This wretched left-hand-drive car. He kicked at the sand. It did nothing for him. Everything — all of it — was the fault of —
The cause of all problems crouched in the sand, a cascade of fireworks rising behind him, he tried to compress himself to just about level with England’s hip.
“England,” he murmured.
England took an uncertain step backward.
“Could you…” America lifted his face. For the first time in centuries, he was looking at England again. “Love me again?” he asked.
The largest firework had finished. The boys walked home carrying the spent casings, still wanting more. The beach held only shallow silver moonlight and the sound of the wind. England and America stood facing one another, at an uncomfortably close distance, each carrying his own world with him.
Sweat had soaked through England’s shirt. The wind hit it and he wanted to fold inward. The sea seemed to have gotten into his nose somehow. He wanted to leave, but the Thirteen Colonies he had summoned stood at his side, tears falling, holding his hand, grounding him. And then he saw the other America: in the spotlight, packaged as the face of justice, denouncing before the world everything that England represented.
How dare you?
How dare you swallow the world and still want more?
How dare you make such a demand and stand there as though it were your birthright?
“America,” England said, standing in the night wind. He enunciated each syllable with precision. “You have a remarkable amount of nerve.”
America wrapped his arms around his knees and exhaled. He lowered his head and stopped talking.
The moon, as oblivious to atmosphere as its American master, lifted itself slowly from the surface of the sea. England had missed the sunset entirely, but his car had happened to bring them precisely in time and place for the moonrise. Like an audience waiting for something to happen between Romeo and Juliet, the moon arranged for them the most extravagantly romantic stage it could manage.
In American films, America thought, a moment like this meant romance was inevitable.
He rose. He shed away the limit imposed by England, and grew back into himself. His hand moved tentatively to England’s face. His neck. The back of his head. The evening breeze passed through America’s body and carried his warmth toward England. England kept his eyes open, as though bringing the whole force of his will to bear against this cheap and sentimental cinema. As though saying: how dare? how dare you decide that you want a romantic scene and I must simply play along?
“Just pretend it’s for England’s sake,” America said quietly. “For your country.”
They kissed.
The car key turned up at last in the pocket of the jacket England had left on the sand. They moved through the highway in the dark. Streetlamps towered above them at even intervals, gazed at them with indifference. The car stopped in front of America’s apartment. America put his jacket on and reached for the door.
England took hold of his hand.
He turned his face away. A cigarette, half-finished, between his lips. In the blue cast of the moonlight his face looked somehow damp.
“Don’t let me hear you say anything like that again, America.”
You treat everything as though it weighs nothing. As though loving you were a choice I could make. You asked the question, and so I had to give an answer. But you asked knowing what the answer was, didn’t you? The only reason you could ask at all was because you knew. You knew. You wrapped yourself up like something small and pathetic, waiting for my mercy, as though you were genuinely uncertain. I won’t be fooled by that again. You asked as though I had options. As though I could reach for my feelings like a light switch. On. Off. On. Off. As though something that ugly in me could simply be switched on and off. You’ve already taken so much from me. And now you have the audacityto say that to me, and feel no shame about it? How dare you.
Don’t let me hear you say that again, America.
Please.