The Discovery, A Novel (10 page)

Ben sat in the driveway, thrumming his fingers on the dashboard, waiting for Claire to stick her head through the front door. Hopefully, to signal it was okay to come in. Darkness had nearly pushed the sunset from the sky. But with the light that remained, Ben could easily tell the house was magnificent. Most of the houses on this part of Ridgewood Avenue were like mansions.

Ben had seen homes this size in Germany, many of them confiscated from wealthy Jews, then turned into headquarters for high-ranking Nazi officers or used for special training missions. Like the estate house his team had been assigned near Brandenburg, out in the Prussian countryside. He remembered something his Abwehr commander had said as they sipped cognac in the living room: “Can you imagine . . . a
Jew
owning something like this? It’s almost obscene, an absolute waste!”

Claire’s house might actually be bigger than that one. It had two stories, a third if you included the attic. It was surrounded by ancient live oaks with moss hanging down from every limb. A wide porch wrapped across the front and down the right side. At the end of the driveway stood a garage larger than most of the homes on the beachside that Ben had been looking at to rent.

Whatever Claire’s father did, he did it well.

Ben thought about what he’d seen these past two months in terms of the American economy. He’d only spent time in the Daytona Beach area so far. Things could be much worse in other parts of the country. But he hadn’t observed much in the way of suffering or privation. Nothing close to the propaganda he’d heard about back in Germany. War posters were everywhere, challenging everyone to conserve and do their part. The new gasoline and food rationing policies were well under way.

But from what he’d seen and heard on the radio, Americans had much more than the mere necessities of life. Much more than German civilians, now at war for three years. Even the gasoline rationing had nothing to do with a shortage of oil. There was plenty of gas in America for ships, planes, tanks, and automobiles. But since the attack on Pearl Harbor, rubber was suddenly in short supply. America had imported 90 percent of it from what were now Japanese-held countries. The gas rationing was mostly about keeping all those rubber tires off the road.

People were certainly making sacrifices in their food choices. Pretty much everything was regulated. But no one seemed to mind. Everywhere he looked he saw Americans pulling together, cooperating eagerly, full of patriotic zeal. He’d felt it too. He loved this country, loved everything about it.

America had its own propaganda machinery in motion, but it was different here. And he knew what the difference was. Americans were being told to believe in things people should believe in. True things. In Germany, it was all lies. The German people were forced to follow, forced to comply, forced even to wear the smiles on their faces as they looked the other way. Forbidden to say what they thought, to challenge anything they didn’t agree with. Forbidden to even ask questions.

His parents had been lured into a trap. He’d been dragged along with them. And for this, they had paid the ultimate price.

Heil Hitler
.

He would never have to say those two words again.

Tap-tap-tap
. “Ben?”

He looked up, startled. Claire was right there outside his car window.

“Didn’t you see me? I was waving at you on the porch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Daydreaming again?”

He opened the car door. “I’m sorry. So what did your mother say?”

“She said, ‘Bring him in, I’d love to meet him. Dinner’s in ten minutes.’”

Claire started walking toward the house. Ben quickly caught up. He ducked suddenly at a loud noise overhead. He recognized the sound: radial-engine airplanes. On the U-boat, if you heard that, it was panic time. Everyone would scramble to get below. Bells would go off. Men would yell, “Alarm, alarm, alarm.”

Claire turned around. “It’s okay, Ben.”

He was embarrassed. “They’re so loud,” he said, trying to recover quickly. He looked up as four Dauntless dive-bombers flew past in formation, heading west.

“They’re probably heading to the Naval Air Base in Deland. My dad’s company just got a big contract there. He said we’ll be hearing a lot more of those planes from now on. Maybe he’ll tell you about it over dinner. At least, what he can. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.” He really was. He hadn’t eaten a home-cooked meal since . . . he couldn’t even remember when.

“Very nice to meet you, Ben.” They stood in a large foyer, just in front of the stairs. Claire’s mother took off a cooking mitt and reached out her hand. She wore a whitish apron over a floral dress.

“Great to meet you, Mrs. Richards.”

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Maybe five more minutes. Would you like to take a seat in the dining room or wait in the living room?”

“Either one,” Ben said.

“Well, here,” Claire said. She took his arm gently and led him to the dining room. “You sit here, Ben. Like some iced tea? Mom, do we have any left?”

“We do.”

“I’ll get it,” Claire said. “You sit tight.” She followed her mother into the kitchen.

“So-o-o-o,” her mother whispered. “What’s this we have here? Bringing Gary Cooper home to dinner?”

“Shhh,” Claire said. “He’ll hear you.”

“No he won’t.”

Claire opened the icebox and pulled out the glass pitcher of tea. “It’s really nothing. When the concert ended, the gang had to leave early and Ben offered to take me home.”

“I see.” Her mother smiled as she shoveled mashed potatoes from a pot to a serving dish. “So he has a car.”

“Listen, Mom, we just have a minute here.” Claire walked closer. “I need to tell you something. I’ll tell you more after he leaves, but I found out something you and Dad need to know about Ben.” Her mother’s expression changed, reflecting the concern in Claire’s tone of voice. “Ben’s parents were both killed in a bombing raid in London just a few months ago.”

Her mother gasped. “How terrible.” She looked toward the dining room but couldn’t see Ben from this angle.

“I just . . . well, I just wanted you to know, so you won’t be asking too many probing questions. It’s still very upsetting for him to talk about.”

“Well, of course, it would be.”

“I’m going to run upstairs and tell Dad.”

“That’s fine, dear.” She sighed, then looked again toward the dining room. “The poor thing.”

Claire hurried back to the table with Ben’s iced tea. “You sip on that, Ben. I’m going to run upstairs and see what’s keeping my father.”

“Thanks.” He took the tea from her hand. “I’m fine here.”

As Claire made it to the top of the steps, she saw her dad coming out of the bedroom. She motioned for him to back up into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” he whispered.

“Nothing, I just need to tell you something about Ben. I already told Mother.”

“Ben? So have you and Jim . . . are you and Ben . . .”

“Ben is just a friend. Now, shush, you need to hear this and we just have a second.” She told him about Ben’s parents.

“That’s so sad,” he said. “You read about these things, but—”

“Well, I’m telling you so you and Mother don’t ask too many questions. He told me this at the amusement park. When he did, he—”

“You went to the amusement park with him?”

“Oh no.” She just realized. “I left my stuffed bear and tiger in his car.”

“He got you stuffed animals? At the amusement park?”

“Dad, would you stop? It was nothing. We were just walking past the shooting gallery and—”

“Must be a good shot.”

“He is, now will you listen? Ben and I are just friends. I invited him home to dinner, because he’s all alone. And I felt bad for him when I found out about his parents. I knew if I didn’t tell you, you’d ask him all kinds of father questions.” Claire turned toward the stairs.

“I’ll behave,” he said. “But I don’t know what I’ll say to him now. Asking questions is my job.” He followed her.

She stopped at the first step and spun around. “You can still do your job. Just don’t ask questions about his family. You’ll be fine.”

Claire sat on a bench seat in front of her mirror and vanity, brushing her hair. It wasn’t that late, but she was tired. She’d already put on her nightgown and turned down the bed. On the nightstand was the latest Hercule Poirot mystery by Agatha Christie,
Murder in Retrospect
.

Claire loved a good mystery. But in books, not in her life.

She glanced down to her left at the box of stationery she’d bought at Woolworth’s right after Jim had shipped overseas. She’d picked it out especially for him. It had a nice pastel beach scene with a palm tree in the top right corner, to help him feel closer to home. She’d written him so often, the box was already half gone. But she decided she wasn’t writing him another letter until she received one back from him.

She glanced to her right, at the last letter she’d received, over two weeks ago. Setting the brush down, she picked it up. “Why won’t you write me?”

“What, dear?” Claire’s mother opened her door and poked her head inside. “Did you say something?”

Claire put the letter down and started brushing her hair again. “Just thinking out loud.”

Her mother stepped a little farther into the room. “I think your father really liked Ben.”

“Oh?” She pretended mild interest.

“Said some nice things about him after he left.”

“Really? Like what?” Claire turned to face her.

“I don’t know, just things like how well he listened, how articulate he was. He even talked about his sense of humor, that it was a good thing to see, in light of all he’s been through recently.”

“He really is easy to be with,” Claire said. So much more she wanted to say.

Her mother stepped closer, noticed Jim Burton’s letter on the vanity. “Are you starting to have second thoughts about Jim?”

Claire set the brush down hard. “Oh, Mother. I don’t know.” She wished she could will all this tension away. “Why won’t he write me more often?” She reached for his letter. “When I got this two weeks ago, I was so excited. I read it a half dozen times that day. Then I started reading it before bed every night, holding it like it was some kind of treasure.”

“But now you’ve met Ben. A piece of paper hardly compares to a real person.”

“It’s not just that, Mother. It’s what you said this morning on the porch. I was just making excuses for Jim, about why he doesn’t write more. I really believe he could if he wanted to, like Jack does with you and Brenda.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you, Claire. You know that.”

“I do, but . . . why doesn’t he
want
to write me more? I don’t understand. If you say you love someone—”

“Has Jim said that? Have you two said you loved each other?”

Claire thought a minute. “Not exactly. We kind of talked around it. But at the train station, he kissed me like someone in love. And when he does write, he says ‘Love, Jim’ at the end of his letters.”

“Does he say anything romantic in the letters themselves? How much he misses you, how he can’t stop thinking about you? How he wished he could hold you in his arms—”

“Mother!”

“What? Those are the kinds of things a man can’t help saying when he’s in love. Your father talked like that with me. He still does, whenever he goes on a long business trip.”

Claire sighed heavily and set the letter down. Jim’s letters never mentioned things like that. Tears began to form. Her mother bent down and hugged her. “I’m sorry. I hate to see you sad. But you know we just want what’s best for you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Is it possible Jim’s just not the romantic type?”

“It’s possible, I suppose.” She stood back up. “He’s crazy about you, you know. Ben, I mean.”

“No, he’s not. We’re just . . . friends.”

“Claire . . . you can’t see the way he looks at you? Even your father noticed it. A few minutes ago he said, ‘Does Claire realize how Ben feels about her?’”

“Really?”

“I think he may already be in love with you. If you’re not interested in him that way, you better be careful. After what he’s suffered with his parents dying, you don’t want to hurt him any more.”

“No, I don’t.”
Ben is in love with me?
The thought stirred instant excitement inside her, followed by a sense of dread. “Did it look like I was leading him on tonight? Did I seem flirty to you?”

“No, you were just being your fun, sweet self. But when a young man’s in love, he doesn’t need much encouragement. I’m just saying be careful.”

Claire turned to face the mirror again and talked to her mother through the reflection. “I’m so confused.”

“Dear, that’s common at this stage of life,” her mother said. “So you do have feelings for Ben? I thought so.”

“No, I . . . I don’t know. I’m not allowed to have feelings for Ben. I told Jim I’d wait for him. I don’t want to be one of those girls—I read about them all the time in my magazines—they get lonely and impatient and fall for the first guy who shows them a little interest. Meanwhile, the guy they promised to wait for is overseas in all kinds of danger, and the only hope he has is the girl waiting for him back home. I can’t do that to Jim.”

“Then . . . you better be careful when you’re around Ben.”

It was a pleasant experience overall.

But it had left Ben exhausted. Such a range of conflicting emotions, the tension of keeping them all in check: love for Claire, passion even, a desire to impress, fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of saying too much, fear of being asked the wrong thing.

He sat on the bed, his stomach full, for once, with good food. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, corn, fresh bread. Then Mrs. Richards brought out homemade apple pie. Ben lay back on the bed, looked up at the ceiling. Apple pie, with cinnamon.

This was the life he wanted.

To live in America, where he was born. And stay there. Meet a nice girl from a nice family. Go out on dates, fall in love. Get to know the girl’s nice family, let them get to know you. The real you. A few months later, have that big nervous talk with the father, ask his permission to marry his little girl. Get down on one knee, pull out a shiny ring.

That was the life he’d wanted. But he didn’t get that chance. It had been stolen.

Dad, why didn’t you listen to me? You never listened
.

Ben kicked his shoes to the floor. How could he possibly live a normal life from this point? Mr. and Mrs. Richards probably had a fond impression of him right now. Why wouldn’t they? They’d seen a nice young man at their dinner table. Polite and respectful. He smiled a lot, took an interest in their lives, answered their questions. Some of his answers were even true.

No, most of them were. But that was only because they were clearly being careful, not asking the kind of questions he’d expected to hear. Claire must have coached them, told them about his parents dying recently. But that was okay. It showed she cared for him.

She cared for him.

That thought made him smile. It was true, she did. He thought of the scene at the clock when she’d almost taken his hand. Then the dance. How she stayed after the gang left, just to be with him. The way she looked at him on the Ferris wheel, the tenderness in her touch when he’d talked about his parents. She didn’t love Jim Burton. Whatever she felt, it wasn’t love. But Ben knew she wasn’t free to express whatever feelings she had for him. Not now. She’d given her word to wait for Burton.

He had no idea how this could work, how they could ever be together. But he knew she cared for him. And that mattered.

Tonight, it mattered a lot.

He released a deep exhale then shifted in the bed, sliding up to rest his head on the pillow. He was too tired to even change out of his clothes. He reached up with one arm and turned off the lamp, laid back and closed his eyes.

Maybe he was too tired to think. He hoped so. Lately, reading was the only way he’d found to shut his mind down before bed. The only thing that kept him from reliving that night on the beach.

Tonight, he was too tired to read.