The Pieces We Keep (11 page)

 

C
ontrary to Tess’s concern, Audra actually appreciated being put on leave. It had only been two days, but already she was able to focus more on Jack. She just wished quality time together would solve everything, eliminating appointments like these, where his actions and words would be scrutinized.

After school, while driving here, she had kept her explanation simple. “Your school counselor, Dr. Shaw, works at another office part of the week. We thought you might like to check it out. And he’s a great listener. You can talk to him about anything you feel like.”

Thankfully, little about the room resembled the office of a therapist. At least not the grief-counseling type Audra had endured. There were large picture windows with curtains covered in sunbursts. The love seat beneath her was purple and tucked, with a whimsical curve. Children’s decor dominated the space: a wall of painted handprints, colorful kites strung above toy bins, a kitchen play set, and a supermarket stand. If not for the framed diplomas over the desk in the corner, the place could easily be mistaken for a kindergarten classroom.

“Here, let me show you what that does,” Dr. Shaw said to Jack. Down on the carpet, the man with swooped bangs and geek-chic glasses pushed a button on the robot in Jack’s hands. Lights on the helmet frantically blinked and an automated voice declared the world safe from Veter Man.

At long last, the therapist was interacting with his patient, demonstrating the tiniest speck of earning his fee. Aside from a genial greeting, he had spent their whole session in silence, playing with toys himself. Audra was starting to question the
Talk
portion of his tagline.

“Do you like Transformers?” he asked.

Jack shrugged a shoulder and set the robot down. His interest shifted to a plastic apple and a fake carton of eggs. When Dr. Shaw asked about his favorite foods, Jack moved on to a train carrying circus animals and clowns. He used his cast to knock over the elephant and a trio of brown monkeys.

The man just watched, quiet once again. Audra imagined him scribbling on a mental steno pad.
Shows signs of aggression. Possible attention deficit disorder.

“Jack actually loves animals,” she interjected. “And he’s great at concentrating on one thing at a time—when it’s a place he’s used to.”

Dr. Shaw replied with a splayed palm and smile:
Your son’s doing fine.

Audra sat back on the couch and recrossed her legs. Surely the man would base his evaluation on observations from school, not a single hour in an unfamiliar room. Plus, over the phone she had provided other details that could help: the festival scare, the car ride after, and the vividly violent dreams.

Although the old joke about hiring a psychic seemed applicable here—
No need to say much if they’re good at their jobs
—she’d share just about anything to achieve a solution, with Dr. Shaw in particular. His input at school could put the principal at ease.

Assuming, of course, this all went well and the plan didn’t backfire.

“You know, Jack,” he said, “when you first got here, I saw you brought along your toy plane.”

Jack recoiled slightly. His hand covered the lump in his jacket pocket.

“Since you like old bombers, I think I’ve got something you’d enjoy.” He dug through a plastic tub, capturing Jack’s interest, and retrieved a dark-green aircraft. About a foot long, it was missing one of four propellers. “See that? It’s a B-seventeen from World War Two. Like the ones you like to draw.”

Jack mumbled something.

“What’s that you say?”

Jack repeated himself more clearly. “This one’s a B-twenty-four. The Liberator.”

“Hmm ... you sure about that?” Dr. Shaw flipped the plane over to examine its parts. Something told Audra he already knew the answer. “Is there a big difference between them?”

He nodded, though he didn’t look up.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“B-twenty-fours are faster and can go farther away. For a longer time too. And they can hold, like, three more tons.”

“Wow. That sounds like a better plane all around.”

“It can’t go as high though. Not with a combat load. It’s got the same horsepower as the Fortress, but the altitude ceiling’s lower. ’Cause of the Davis wing. And it’s heavier too, so the Liberator has to fly faster to take off....”

Audra stared with breath held. Though it was wonderful to hear Jack ramble on again about anything, his advanced knowledge of warplanes left her baffled. Yes, he had model planes in his bedroom, but he’d never described any in such detail.

Jack stopped and tilted his head at the bin. He pulled out a metallic gray object, the body of another bomber. Maybe a ship. He studied it for a long moment, running his fingers over the lines and bumps. A revelation darkened his eyes. With great intensity, he began foraging through the pile of pieces. He assembled two parts together, then added another and another.

“Is that a submarine you got there?” Dr. Shaw asked.

“U-boat.” Jack spoke absently, in deep concentration.

“Oh, sure. Hitler used them in the Atlantic. To fight America’s Navy, right?”

“Not this one.”

“No?”

“This one carried spies.”

“I see. And where did those spies go?”

“New York,” Jack said. “And Florida.”

Audra wrestled down the urge to intervene. She just hoped Dr. Shaw was trying to extract the root of the issue and not feed into an obsession, one clearly formed thanks to Devon’s father. Where else would a seven-year-old have learned all of this?

“Florida doesn’t seem like a very spy-like place to go.” If Dr. Shaw found this amusing, he managed to suppress any sign of it. “Those Germans must’ve had a tough time, landing there without getting caught. Seems like they would’ve stood out.”

“It’s because they weren’t just German,” Jack said.

“Is that so? What were they, then?”

Jack’s hands halted as he pondered this. For the first time since his arrival, he looked straight at Dr. Shaw. “Americans.”

A series of beeps shot from Audra’s purse. She’d set the timer on her phone for exactly an hour, and was now glad she had. She had heard more than enough to confirm the source of the problem. “Time to go, buddy. Let’s put the toys back.”

Jack rose right away but showed reluctance in placing the sub in the box.

“You can keep that one if you’d like,” Dr. Shaw said. “Another child left it here years ago. I’ve got too many toys as it is.”

Audra didn’t see how encouraging Jack with a war souvenir could be productive. If anything, she needed to distract him with another hobby. One glance at Jack’s smile, however, and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. “Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.” Dr. Shaw came to his feet and said to Jack, “And thank you for sharing all those stories. Glad you set me straight about the B-seventeen.”

He nodded before Audra ushered him toward the door.

“Hey, Jack, I forgot to ask,” Dr. Shaw said. “How do you know so much about the war anyway?”

Jack turned with a crinkled nose, presenting his answer as the most obvious in the world.

“Because I was there.”

 

T
he mystery continued to swell with time. It had been well over two years, and still Isaak’s disappearance trailed Vivian like a shadow. Her telegrams and letters produced no response. She fared no better with calls to his dorm. She had even tried Professor Klein, who she was told had evacuated at the start of the war. She liked to think Isaak had followed him, that in the safety of the English countryside they were biding their time until peace returned.

Most days, though, she simply regretted boarding that train. Whether staying in London would have reunited her with Isaak she would never know, but at least the distance dividing them would not have been so vast.

After arriving in New Hampshire, her mother had instantly melded into the social realm of her youth. Vivian soon learned that Luanne Sullivan, an old school friend from DC, had relocated to Brooklyn. The girl was receiving room and board in addition to pay for working on a switchboard. The fact that the company was still hiring had struck Vivian as a sign. New York. That’s where Isaak would go once he made it to the States.

So that’s precisely where Vivian went.

The company’s boardinghouse was a lovely brownstone in the center of Park Slope, an affluent section of the borough. Naturally, this reduced her mother’s objections, though Vivian would have settled for a shack. Location was all that mattered. Her bags were barely unpacked when she began diligent rounds of Isaak’s favorite spots: the shopping strips of Manhattan, the carriages of Central Park, the window displays at Macy’s. But with the passing of time and escalation of the war—America, too, had joined the fray-her efforts waned with her hopes.

The single place she sustained any faith was at Brooklyn’s Cafe Labrec.

Once more now she sat in its courtyard. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee, wishing her feelings would dissolve as easily. If only coming here were not so tempting. Near impossible to avoid, it was a short walk from her residence, enabling these morning visits before the chartered bus to work. Truthfully, even her job as an operator at Fort Hamilton served as a potential link to Isaak. Catching snippets of military discussions meant uncensored updates on the European Theatre. Which, more often than not, left her in a grievous mood.

Isaak could not have better described Hitler’s greed and thirst for power. In June of 1941, he double-crossed even Stalin by funneling 3 million Nazi soldiers into the Soviet Union, and his offensives continued. Across the English Channel, his ruthless bombing raids-the Blitz, they called it-placed all Londoners in danger. Vivian’s father remained among them, despite the option to come home. Never was diplomacy more in need, he claimed in periodic letters; his wired messages assured her of his safety. Still, she kept him in her prayers, the same as she did for Isaak.

Perhaps this, above all, was the cafe’s true appeal. It had become like a church, a sanctuary she frequented in search of peace, and answers.

Had Isaak’s plans gone awry with the black market and his mother? Was he imprisoned in Munich thereafter? Had he been injured in a raid? Did he return to London and stay to help? Did he join the RAF and take to the skies?

Had he simply changed his mind?

Every Wednesday morning, her usual wrought-iron table served as a personal pew. She relished this semi-cove, thanks to a stone wall behind her and, to her side, a pot of tall, vibrant flowers. Tucked away, she could be left to her thoughts, sometimes her tears. But always she found comfort in the fragrance of blossoms and freshly baked dough, accompanied by Isaak’s words.

She fingered her blouse where the charm dangled beneath. On occasion she would pull the letter from her jewelry box, but merely to touch his scrawled words, not for fear of forgetting them. They were forever imprinted in her heart. Helplessly savoring them now, she continued to block out the city, until a man’s voice cut in.

“I said, ‘Sure is a swell day, isn’t it?’ ”

Vivian raised her eyes and discovered the question was directed at her. An Army private, roughly her age, smiled from the next table.

“Yes,” she said with a glance at the sky. The sun was elbowing its way through the clouds. “I suppose it is.” She gave him a cordial look, her standard for these situations, then conveyed disinterest by flipping through her issue of
McCall’s.

“I’m Ian Downing, by the way.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed his outstretched hand. Since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, military enlistment had spread like a virus. The service in itself was an honorable one, but not the common expectation that all dames lost their marbles over a starched and pressed uniform.

Don’t be rude, Vivian. Accept his hand, Vivian.
She heard her mother’s prodding. A lifetime of drilled decorum was difficult to expunge.

Vivian obliged the greeting but promptly returned to her magazine.

“Mind if I ask your name?” He either couldn’t take a hint or chose to ignore it. “Course, I could always figure it out for myself.” He tapped his pointed chin as if crafting syllables customized for her face. “It’s ... Alma. No, no-Bessie.” He cocked his head. “Cordelia?”

Marvelous. He was going to scroll through the entire alphabet.

“Hmm ... Irene maybe.” Another tap. “Mildred?”

“Vivian,” she said, bringing this to an end.

“I knew it!” He snapped his fingers and beamed. “That was definitely my next guess.”

An eye roll would have been much deserved-did she really look like a Mildred?—yet the fellow exaggerated such surety Vivian couldn’t help but laugh.

She shook her head at him. “You do realize this is a pitiful approach, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a shrug. “But if it made you smile, it was worth coming off like a heel.”

Vivian would have taken this for the continuation of a practiced pickup if not for the sincerity in his voice, the kind gleam in his greenish-brown eyes. Maybe he didn’t deserve the coldest of shoulders. Besides, they were seated at separate tables, affording a buffer of comfort.

“Food sure is great here, don’t you think?” He lifted the Danish from his small plate and took a generous bite.

“I enjoy it.”

“So, Vivian,” he said, after swallowing, “you from this area?” The pastry had stamped him with a yellow mustache that flitted when he spoke. “Or are you just in the Big Apple visiting?”

She tried to keep a straight face, yet found it impossible. “You have ... some crumbs. Right here.” She brushed her own lip to illustrate.

He snatched his napkin and cleaned off the flakes. “Better?”

She nodded.

His eyes lowered, as if shielded by embarrassment. She was only trying to help but somehow wound up the one who felt like a heel. And now she was stuck, forced to soften a conversation she had hoped to avert.

“I ... take it you’re stationed in the area,” she said.

“Just across the river, at Fort Dix.” He wiped his chin to be thorough and wadded the napkin. “Lucked out actually. I’m from Michigan-that’s where my whole family is, back in Flint-but I got some friends from around here. It was nice to already know people in such a big city.”

“Sure. I know how that can be.”

He crossed his legs, confidence returning. Beneath his dark, close-cropped hair, he had a pleasing oval face and the kind of smile any dentist would gladly take credit for.

“You know,” he said, “my buddy Walt and I, we were planning to hit the town Friday. Maybe go to the USO over by Times Square. His girl, Carol, is wild about swing bands.”

“Oh?” She knew of the place, mainly from her roommate, who welcomed any opportunity to dance. Vivian had yet to go, despite Luanne’s urgings; an evening of laundering socks had more appeal than a hall packed with servicemen in heat.

“How ’bout it?” he asked.

“How about ... ?”

“Golly, you sure don’t make it easy on a guy, do ya?” he teased. “About going out with me? Making it a double date?”

How dim-witted of her. Of course. A date.

They were strangers, though.

As she mulled it over, a flutter formed in her stomach. She barely recognized the sensation. Could she really accept? He seemed like a keen fellow. Luanne might even be willing to come, for both safety and decency.

Vivian straightened in her chair, invigorated by the offer, just as Isaak’s image barged into her thoughts, and with it a feeling of betrayal.

“I—I can’t.”

“All right,” Ian said. “Then how about Saturday?”

She shook her head.

“Sunday?”

“I’d love to, but ... I’m engaged.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realize.” Ian glanced toward her hands resting on the table. Too late she recalled the absence of a ring. She curled her fingers under, yet already it was clear: He viewed the decline as a brush-off.

“Well, I’d say he’s one lucky man.”

She sought a way to explain. The engagement wasn’t formal, but a promise had been made, without expiration.

Ian rose from his chair. “Guess I better shove off. Hate to sit around goldbricking all day.” He gave her a smaller version of his perfect white smile and tossed a crinkled dollar next to his plate. “It was real nice talking to you, Vivian.”

“Likewise.”

When he started away, she focused on her magazine to avoid watching him leave.

Her beloved sanctuary suddenly felt isolated rather than secluded.

“Bonjour, chérie.”
The manager of the cafe seemed to magically appear. He wore his signature gray vest, loose on his aging frame, and a pin-striped bow tie. “You are enjoying your coffee, yes?”

“It’s splendid. Thank you, Mr. Bisset.”

He began to clear the soldier’s table, his usual waitress out with a cold. “You have the day off, I see.”

With the way she was feeling, she wished that were so. “Not today,” she said, before it dawned on her why he would assume as much. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, criminy! I’ll never make the bus.” With operators to deliver to two other locations, the chartered bus waited for no single person.

Vivian gathered her belongings and jumped to her feet before remembering she hadn’t paid. She fumbled through her purse for change.

“Allez, allez.”
He waved her off. “You pay me next time.”

She would not have agreed, but her stodgy supervisor deemed tardiness a cardinal sin. Vivian’s last infraction had induced the firmest of warnings. She thanked Mr. Bisset with a peck to the cheek, inducing a chuckle.

“I won’t forget!” she called out, and scurried toward the street.

Block after block every taxi was taken. Up ahead the streetcar dinged. She sprinted in a flourish, propelled by benefits she refused to lose. Beyond wartime scoops, her job allowed her financial independence, a counterargument to her mother’s matrimonial crusade-not to say the woman didn’t supply plenty of other reasons her daughter required a husband.

Vivian still had her special savings, of course, stored in the back of her closet. But she had sworn not to squander those funds on anything mundane. They were for her and Isaak, their excursions from coast to coast, the honeymoon she had envisioned too many times to count.

In the event that would ever happen....

Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back and picked up her pace, as if ample speed could outrun her doubts.