The Number 7 (14 page)

“But I thought you—” I stammered, confused.

“Eh,” he shrugged, smiling. “I needed an excuse to see you.”

I felt my face grow hot as the blood rushed into my cheeks. Chris's eyes met mine across the table: the same brown eyes I'd cautioned myself to avoid.

“So we're good? To turn in the almanac on Friday?”

I swirled my finger on the rim of my mug, watching the steam slowly escape. Chris nodded and then stretched his arms behind his head. I couldn't help but notice his biceps, and I silently told myself not to stare.

“So when do
I
get invited over to bake cookies?” Chris laughed. I sensed the question was a veiled insult directed at Gabe and furrowed my brow.

“Sorry, Chris, my Christmas baking is done,” I lifted my mug and warily took a sip, careful not to burn myself.

He grinned, looking satisfied, and folded his arms. “You aren't like other girls,” he said out of the corner of his mouth while keeping his gaze fixed on me.

“Oh, come on,” I groaned and rolled my eyes.

“I wanna show you something. I've got an hour.” He checked his watch. The impulsiveness in his voice told me this idea was not preplanned.

“Are we leaving?” I asked; he was already holding my coat.

He untied the apron that hung around his waist, and we exited the coffee shop two steps at a time. He walked me around the front of an old diesel-chugging Volvo station wagon and opened the passenger-side door. The chivalrous gesture was unexpected from my holey-jeaned friend, and I felt a bit awkward as I climbed into the Swedish vehicle. The upholstery smelled faintly of citrus and incense, and I scrunched my nose in mild distaste.

Chris got into the front seat next to me and immediately started the engine, put the car into gear, and drove off before I could ask where we were going. Or why.

We drove west on Baltimore Pike, avoiding the Delaware state line. The heat was turned on the highest level at our feet, and Chris cracked the windows. The cold air enveloped my face, and it suddenly felt easier to breathe. The wind felt good blowing through my hair and on my skin, so when Chris looked over at me for unspoken consent, I nodded an “okay” and gripped the door handle a little tighter.

The mix of hot and cool air set my brain on fire. My mind started moving a million thoughts per second. I closed my eyes for clarity, and, like flashes, I caught glimpses of my young grandpa crouching next to an upturned bicycle, and I saw him getting up every morning and winding his prized pocket watch. It was like an old film reel with bursts of color and shadows. One thing was constant, however. My grandfather's eyes were noticeably different. They weren't the forlorn eyes from the photograph Dad had showed me. These eyes were full of adolescent happiness. Something had happened between these scenes I now witnessed and the photograph Dad had shown me. In that photo, something inside him was missing. And I felt in my heart a smoldering of ashes from something that once was bright and alive. I sensed I was close to understanding. But just when I felt I was going to fully grasp what Grandmother was trying to tell me, the car stopped.

I opened my eyes to find us sitting idly on the side of a very dark rural road. Chris cut the engine and turned out the headlights, and we were suddenly engulfed in darkness. Despite the eerie quiet, the strange surroundings, and my uncertain feelings about my companion, I felt safe. It was then that I noticed a large residence far off the road. A single porch light illuminated a three-story brick house framed by four white pillars. It sat down a long dirt driveway lined with hay bales and broken fence posts. The place was very big and very old.

“That house,” Chris leaned over me to point out the passenger-side window. His elbow brushed my collar. He seemed to notice and lingered a moment too long, his arm extended over me, our faces close together. “That house was part of the Underground Railroad. Harriet Tubman stopped there while leading seven slaves to freedom.” He paused to let me think about what he was saying.

“I'm big on civil liberties. That's why I love living here.” He was animated. “This place . . .” he pointed to the ground, “this is where it all happened. Our country's future was mapped here in the eighteenth century and then reshaped in the nineteenth. We're constantly walking among the great ghosts of American history.”

Ghosts
.

“I guess I never thought about it like that,” I admitted, breathless.

“That house, Allen Agnew's place and its history, is so important. Those people were so important. I mean, can you even imagine what it must have been like risking your life, with no guarantee any of it would pay off? It was all so damn self-sacrificing.”

I inhaled a breath of cold air. My senses seemed heightened. The hair on my arms stood up, I could smell Chris's aftershave, and I could hear all those familiar noises of the night: crickets, branches, and the wind. Slowly, Chris leaned over and grabbed my hand in both of his. He was even closer now. His breath hung heavily on my neck and the warmth of it made me quiver inside. He stared at me, wanting to say something, but I couldn't tell what.

Chris continued, unaware of the tingling effect his touch had on my skin. “I wonder, you know . . . what is it about someone that enables her to be so noble? Which part of her makeup, her framework, decides to risk living and breathing for someone else? Is it a loose screw or a secure bolt? And if it came down to it . . . which one do I have?” he whispered into my ear.

I hadn't expected Chris to be so passionate. I had always taken him to be mysterious and ambiguous. Maybe it was his defiant wardrobe or his long hair. Either way, I couldn't figure him out. Who was he really? His honesty caught me off guard. And I didn't know the right answers to his questions. In fact, I didn't have
any
answers, right or wrong. I sat speechless even though I wanted to say something meaningful. Leaning back and looking me over, he studied me from head to toe. I could tell he was thinking about kissing me. How far would he take this?

My thoughts were stuck on something he said. There was something familiar about the mention of nuts and bolts. But before I could compose my thoughts, Chris had dropped my hand, restarted the car, and was making a wide U-turn in the middle of the road. Our excursion had come to its end, and I was in need of the reprieve. I had to catch my breath.

Chris dropped me off at my house, even though his break was just ending and he'd be twenty minutes late back to work.

“Thanks for taking me there,” I said sincerely.

“I just wanted to properly introduce you to where you live. You're on the other side of the Mason-Dixon Line now, sweetheart.” He chuckled more to himself than to me.

I got out of the car and thanked him again, shutting the door behind me. He turned on his radio and increased the volume as he sped down October Hill Road, not waiting to see if I got into my house safely. From the curb, I paused before going inside. I watched Chris's brake lights glow in the distance and waited for the vibration from his radio to fade into silence. I shuddered in the cold night air, missing the heat from his dashboard.

Studying a large spider web in the corner ceiling of my bedroom, I thought about how Chris was more complex than I'd previously believed. Tonight, he'd shown me another layer of his persona. And he'd almost kissed me. I was certain of it. He'd come in so close. We'd been cheek to cheek. I'd felt his breathing and his warmth. He'd wanted to, and so did I. What had stopped him? What had stopped me?

I was pondering this when I heard a shrill ringing above me. My next call.

One night in early September 1939, when Gerhard was seventeen, an unwelcome visitor arrived at the Magnusson door. Gerhard was sitting, fingering a letter he'd received earlier in the day. He didn't hear the first knocks, and when his mother, Åsa, barked at him to answer, he couldn't take his eyes off the envelope.

He opened the door and immediately wished he hadn't. The smell of
brännvin
, vodka, hit his nose. There, leaning peculiarly against the doorframe, swayed his uncle Pontus.

“Does my father know you're here?” Gerhard remarked with a sigh.

“Come now, nephew!” Pontus smiled.

Gerhard felt queasy. The stench was overwhelming. Pontus stumbled forward and put his arm out for support, and Gerhard jumped in to keep his uncle from collapsing.
Just wait until Father gets here
, he thought.

“Where's that beautiful mother of yours?”

With her gray, wiry hair and curved, aging chin, Åsa rushed to the door and went after the drunk man with the wood handle of her straw broom. Gerhard stepped back to let her swing. The sight was quite amusing. When Leif returned from work, he spied an angry wife in one corner of his house and his bruised, sobering brother in the other. Åsa sat at the table aggressively rubbing ointment on her hands, glowering at the mound of flesh across the room, a cold cloth covering his right eye.

Gerhard sat distracted at the kitchen table staring again at the cream envelope. He didn't know what to make of it. Were its contents good or bad? He'd read the letter multiple times, but he was still unsure. More than that, he wanted to know what Lasse would think of it.

“Is dinner ready, Åsa?” Leif asked, refusing to yet acknowledge Pontus. He'd lived this scene before. They all had.

Åsa gestured toward the stove where the sausages lay black and crisp from neglect. Leif quietly nodded. Anna, Gerhard's sister and peacemaker, quickly grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and began transferring the little sausages to the dish. In her soft and placating voice, she asked Gerhard to fetch the mustard. He folded the envelope in half and stuck it into his breast pocket. It would have to wait until later.

The family sat for dinner as usual. Pontus sniffed noisily from his bench by the fire.

“Will you be joining us, Pontus?” Leif asked over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the tabletop.

Pontus found his feet, rubbed his palms together, and took a seat next to Lasse.

“
Tack, Bror
,” he thanked his brother. “And
tack så mycket
, Åsa, for this feast!” The man's stomach growled as he spied the food. He looked at his nephew and pointed to the jar of mustard. “
Ursäkta
, nephew, pass the
senap
?”

All watched as Lasse grabbed the jar and handed it to his uncle. Pontus forked a generous six sausages onto his plate as the rest of the family gaped.

“There you are, Gerhard,” he smiled, nervously, handing the meager contents of the bowl back to his nephew.

“I'm Lasse,” the twin answered, taking the bowl and placing a conservative three sausages onto his plate. “I'm the one with the beard.” Lasse scratched his face proudly in Gerhard's direction.

Pontus only grunted, two sausages stuffed into his mouth, as he stared across the table.

Leif folded his hands, placed his elbows softly on the table, and stared suspiciously at his brother. “So what brings you to Trelleborg?”

“I've come looking for work!” Pontus announced loudly. “I thought you could help.”

Åsa let out a sarcastic laugh.
Pontus Magnusson, the nomad, came looking for work?
The man traveled from sibling to sibling, overstaying his welcome, picking up odd jobs, and squandering his earnings on aquavit. Gerhard had always thought of Pontus as
blodigelen
, the bloodsucker, the leech.

“But what of Göteborg, Pontus?” Åsa inquired of his former home.

“Göteborg,” Pontus began, spitting bits of pork out of his mouth as he spoke, “has no work. Naturally, Leif, I thought you could help.”

“Naturally,” Leif lamented. “And where do you plan to stay?”

“Why, here with you!” Pontus slapped Lasse on the back, cheerfully. “And what with everyone talking exports—the Soviets in Poland, and Germany demanding more steel—surely, Trelleborg has
something
.”

Pontus batted his eyes around the table.

“We don't talk about those things here,” Leif informed him calmly.

“Well, Hitler may be the best thing to happen to Sweden since—”

“Pontus, I swear to God, if you're going to sleep under my roof, you are forbidden from speaking that name in my house!” Leif erupted and Pontus nearly fell out of his seat.

Gradually, Leif unclenched the fist he'd pounded on the tabletop.

“Once I earn enough, I'm headed for America.” Pontus unbuttoned his shirt and revealed a small satchel hanging around his neck. From the bag he produced a worn red ticket for the White Star Line. A one-way fare from Göteborg to Liverpool to Boston. He held the ticket to his nose and sniffed greedily.

“Where did you get that?” Lasse asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

“A friend of mine gave it to me,” Pontus shrugged, tenderly folding the ticket and replacing it around his neck. He winked at Gerhard across the table. Gerhard looked away, remembering the letter in his own pocket.

“And what will you do in America that you can't do here?” Leif inquired.

Pontus waved his brother off. “The details can wait.”

The meal continued. No one spoke. Gerhard opened his pocket watch wondering when he could steal away with Lasse. He needed to show him the letter. They needed to talk about its contents. Would he understand its implications?

“Gerhard, Agnes Landquist and I are going to the shore later. She was asking about you. You should come with us.” Lasse flashed Gerhard a mischievous, knowing glance before adding, “We're going swimming.”

A vision of Agnes Landquist, beautiful curves tightly wrapped in a white cotton swimsuit, flashed quickly in his mind. He hadn't seen Agnes in a long time. He wanted to go, but he was too afraid. He didn't want to compete with Lasse for her affection. He didn't want to lose.

“I have to go to the station,” Gerhard lied.