The Pieces We Keep (13 page)

F
or a full day since the soldier’s visit, the engraving on his necklace never left Audra’s mind. If she had conveyed even an ounce of coherence in her interview, it was only from rehearsing beforehand. How else could she have asserted her abilities to treat and nurture and solve when she was failing to do those for her son?

Desperate for a remedy, she was grateful Dr. Shaw had a last-minute cancellation. She left Jack in Tess’s care, so she could see the therapist alone. Their last appointment had done nothing to improve Jack’s nightmares. But the fact remained: At Dr. Shaw’s prompting, her son had spoken more in ten minutes than he had in ten months.

Perhaps the escalation of his dreams indicated they were closing in on the core of the issue. The same applied, Audra realized, when diagnosing the cause of physical pain; the most discomfort arose when pressing down on the ailing spot.

She certainly felt that discomfort now, if that was any sign.

At his desk, facing her chair, Dr. Shaw made notes from her update on Jack—about the German inscription and Sean Malloy. A connection still seemed ludicrous, but without a rational answer she was willing to consider anything.

Within reason.

Heater vents on the ceiling stirred the opened sunburst curtains. The windows served as frames for the Saturday morning grayness. In the play area, a tea set and doll clothes were strewn over the floor, remnants from a prior session.

Dr. Shaw pressed up his glasses. He crossed his ankles below his plaid pants and flipped through the pile of Jack’s drawings. Though the man had asked to review them again, he had yet to detail the purpose. He had yet to say much at all.

Every minute accrued a billable charge. Wasn’t he financially obligated to speak?

Finally, he exhaled, pen over his notepad. “So, Jack’s added nothing about all of this when you’ve asked him?”

“That’s right.”

“And that word you heard during his nightmares?”

“Himmel.”
A few times now he had repeated it in his sleep. While serving pancakes one morning she’d revisited the question. “He says he doesn’t know what it is or where it’s from. I also asked him again about the German adage, but says he doesn’t know that either.”

“And you believe he’s telling the truth?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure what to believe. The only thing I can figure out is he may have seen some things on TV, like you suggested.” During a visit with Robert and Meredith tomorrow, Audra planned to reiterate her request that they not subject Jack to military shows. Of course, she would ask them kindly and at the end, to avoid dampening the celebration of Jack’s eighth birthday.

Sadly, with the burdens her son carried, he already seemed much older.

“That still doesn’t explain everything else though,” she admitted. “Which is why I’m here.”

Dr. Shaw scribbled some more. He glanced up at her, then down, as if debating on expressing a thought. “How about ... birthmarks?”

“What about them?”

“Does he have any you’d describe as unusual?”

Although puzzled by the relevance, she scanned Jack’s body from memory. On the backside of his shoulder was a small hemangioma, a common enough mark. It was flat and smooth, and the majority of its red hue and strawberry shape had faded over time. Devon used to say it was proof they had originally picked Jack in a berry field and taken him home to make cobbler.

“Nothing unusual that I’ve seen,” she replied in truth.

Dr. Shaw nodded. “When he was younger, did he happen to have imaginary friends?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t remember.”

In a room set for the Mad Hatter, Audra was being lured down a rabbit hole. She’d had her fill of trudging through the dark without direction.

“Dr. Shaw, if you’re going somewhere with this, I’d appreciate if you could tell me.”

After a quiet moment, he closed Jack’s file. He walked toward the door in a distracted manner.

Audra started to wonder if clothing wasn’t his only indulgence that trended in the seventies.

But then he stopped at a shelf and slid out a book. “I know this might seem unconventional—and it’s not often I would suggest it. But with everything about Jack I’ve heard and observed, I think it would be worth taking a look.”

“What is it?” she said eagerly.

“An old professor of mine wrote this, based on interviews with literally thousands of children.” Dr. Shaw handed over a paperback titled
From Beyond.
Smudges of fingerprints tinged the glossy black cover. Its corners were curled from use. A sprinkling of stars implied a book of ... astrology.

Perfect. Just what Audra needed: a summary of Jack’s celestial traits. Combine that with his lucky numbers from a fortune cookie at Chow Bello, and their problems would be over.

“So you’re saying, you want me to read about children’s Zodiac signs?”

“Past lives, actually.”

Even better.

Now her son was—what? A German pilot who died in a crash during World War Two?

She came here for guidance, yes, but not the Ouija-board variety.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Shaw. But I don’t believe in reincarnation. Not any more than I believe in voodoo dolls or psychic hotlines.” She tried to give the book back, but he gently refused.

“What you or I believe isn’t important here. What matters is what Jack believes, and finding out why.”

The point was difficult to argue. Borrowing anything from the man, however, would guarantee another visit, and she strongly doubted she would return.

As though sensing this, he said, “If I don’t see you again, drop the book in the mail. But before then, for your son’s sake, please give it a try.”

T
he solution was clear. Vivian would start with a new outlook. Granted, she had no misconceptions when it came to her heart; part of her would always yearn for Isaak. So much so, she could not fathom loving so fiercely again. In fact, she flat-out refused to allow it. But that wouldn’t stop her from recovering at least a semblance of happiness. Life was too brief to waste.

Nothing had clarified the point more than the death of Mrs. Langtree’s son. The casualty of a training exercise, he hadn’t even left the States. He was supposed to be safe. But that word,
safe
—like innocence, according to Vivian’s father-did not apply to wartime.

She sat on her coverlet now and gazed about her room, at the walls painted buttery yellow. Since the addition of blackout curtains, the place resembled a hive. And Vivian felt the restlessness of a bee.

“I have an idea.” She tossed aside her magazine as Luanne came through the door. “We,” she declared, “are going out.”

“Out? You mean, tonight?”

“Not just tonight. Right this very minute.”

Luanne laughed, setting her toiletries down. “Then I hope it’s a pajama party.” She made an obvious point, with a pink scarf binding her hair and a robe on her small frame. Her evening soak in the claw-footed tub had cleansed her of powder and lipstick. In this state, she looked no older than the day she and Vivian met in home arts class. It was only from Luanne’s help, with sewing and cooking and diapering a doll, that Vivian had passed that tedious course.

“I suppose we do need to spiff ourselves up first,” Vivian said, noting her own work attire. She charged over to the closet and began to undress.

“What on earth’s gotten into you?” Luanne smiled from the vanity stool. She blotted lotion onto her hands. “I thought Fridays were your laundry nights.”

Sadly the remark was not an exaggeration.

Vivian deplored the thought of how dull she had become. “Not anymore,” she replied simply.

Weekends were hereby reserved for adventure. She was through eking out her days like a widow, cautious and passive and wallowing in grief. With Isaak’s necklace and letter forever stored away, she would behave as any spirited twenty-two-year-old should.

“Ooh, I’ve got it,” Vivian said. “How does roller-skating sound? It’s been ages since I’ve done that.”

“Sounds horribly painful. I’m awful on those things.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll do it together.” Vivian plucked out a peach skirt and modeled it over her slip.

“Even so, I really should stay in tonight. I need to finish packing.”

“Packing?” Vivian glanced up.

“For the morning train. Remember? I’m helping a friend in Poughkeepsie with a bond rally this weekend.” Luanne paused from applying lotion and sighed. “Have you truly forgotten?”

“Of course not,” Vivian tsked, although she had. Her mind had been much too preoccupied. “Tell you what. We’ll just catch the first half of a double feature. It’ll be good for us to get out, even for a little while, after being cooped up all week.”

The lingering bereavement in the switchboard room, despite Mrs. Langtree’s temporary leave, had made their workspace even more confining.

“Now,” Vivian said, riffling through blouses, “which outfit shall I grab for you?”

“I wish I could say yes, Viv. But with traveling, too, I’d be useless tomorrow.”

Orchestral notes of a drab classical tune reverberated through the hall. The landlady’s radio would be stuck on that station all evening.

Vivian had no choice.

“Okay. Dancing,” she said. “We can go dancing.”

Luanne slowed the rubbing of her elbows. “Mmm, that is tempting,” she cooed, and Vivian knew it was settled. “No. No, I really shouldn’t. I don’t want to show up looking like a hag tomorrow. Nobody will want to buy bonds from me.”

Vivian didn’t return her friend’s smile. She felt like a child finally permitted to swim, only to discover the pool had been drained.

Defeated, she dropped down on her bed. For certain, she would bring this up the next time Luanne begged her to go dancing at some servicemen’s club....

The thought jostled Vivian’s memory.

“The USO at Times Square,” she said, remembering.

“What about it?”

Vivian pictured the soldier from the cafe. He planned to hit the town tonight. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock. If she hurried, she might be able to catch him.

“You’re not going by yourself,” Luanne implored.

Vivian was already back at the closet. “Not to worry. I’m meeting someone.” After a few more hangers, she honed in on a cherry-red dress with tiny white polka dots. Flared and sleeveless, it would make a snazzy number for the jitterbug. The plunging neckline on its own would regain Isaak’s attention.

Ian, rather. Ian’s attention.

“And who is this someone?” Luanne demanded as Vivian wiggled into the fabric.

“Just a GI I met at the cafe. He’d asked me on a double date, but I turned him down. Anyway, he’s a dandy fellow.”

“Are you sure he still plans to be there?”

“Absolutely.” Because he had to be-so Vivian could make right by her mistake. She quickly brushed out her hair, pinned a white silk flower by her temple, and retouched her makeup. With the seams of her stockings reasonably straight, she buckled the straps of her shoes.

“I don’t know,” Luanne murmured. “Maybe I should go after all.” She untied her scarf, exposing a head of pinned curlers.

“Nonsense. You’re practically ready for bed.” Vivian dabbed her neck and wrists with her Californian Poppy perfume. “I can get along just fine. Don’t you fret.”

Luanne met her gaze in the mirror, clearly torn. “Please, be careful. And wake me when you get home, so I know you’re safe.”

“Yes, mother hen,” Vivian playfully agreed. Though if all went well, she would be frolicking away until dawn.

 

A dozen catcalls later, she felt the impact of her mistake.

Going to the club alone would have been just fine in her usual wear, but the brazen red dress invited more attention than Vivian had bargained for. The initial gawking of men was admittedly flattering, and she wove through the crowd with both chin and chest lifted. But as their gazes became like fingers, roaming up and down her body and hovering over her cleavage, she regretted not bringing her sweater.

I’ll hardly need one,
she had told Luanne before heading out the door.
I’ll be too warm from dancing all night.

Obviously, she hadn’t considered other benefits it offered.

“Hey, angel. How’s about cuttin’ a rug?” A sailor with a wide forehead and crooked teeth grabbed her hand.

“No, thank you,” she said, pulling away. “I’m here with somebody.”

After all this trouble, Ian Downing had better be here tonight.

She continued to scan the room. Fort Hamilton was a major embarkation center, and every serviceman awaiting deployment appeared to have congregated in this dance hall. Uniformed men outnumbered the dolled-up ladies tenfold. Cologne clung to the curtain of smoke. Through the haze, band members onstage tapped their keys and blew their horns while a woman at the microphone sang “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

“Sakes alive, ya sure are a looker.” She traced the comment to a red-haired marine with freckles spanning his nose.

“Sorry, I’m here with somebody,” she said, the response now a reflex.

“So am I,” he said. “Ain’t she a beaut?” He held up his date of a silver flask. “Care for a personal intro?”

She shook her head and turned away, and that’s when she spotted the private. In his starched khakis, Ian Downing stepped out from one of the room’s large white columns. He was speaking to a couple: his buddy with a steady, she guessed. Walt and ... Carol, was it? Even halfway across the room, Vivian recognized Ian’s sparkling white smile.

She adjusted her posture, conjuring the air of Jean Harlow. The starlet, even in a silk nightie, would feel sensual, not bare. As Vivian strode through the teeming area of tables and chairs, she prepared her explanation. How she had fibbed about a fiancé, leery of dating a stranger. How after careful thought, she had reconsidered his invite.

Vivian was ten feet away when a buxom blonde appeared. She brushed Ian’s nose with her finger and giggled. He leaned down, planting a kiss on her lips that implied it wasn’t the first. Then his friend pointed to the exit, and the two couples headed that way-directly toward Vivian.

She spun around, frantic, and veered to the right. Again she moved around the tables and chairs and returned inadvertently to the grinning marine.

“See that? Knew you’d change ya mind!”

A peek to the side confirmed Ian was gone. She felt ridiculous over her error, followed promptly by irritation. She was here to have fun. With or without a date, that’s precisely what she was going to do.

The marine swirled his flask around. “It ain’t gonna bite ya.”

Hard alcohol had never appealed to her, but if partaking meant shedding the title of a prude or old biddy, so be it. She accepted the container but held it low as she unscrewed the top. To her knowledge, the USO prohibited booze. She downed a hefty swig, igniting a blast of white heat. A Roman candle had exploded in her chest. Her lungs objected with a series of coughs.

“Better take it easy with that stuff.” She knew that voice-and it wasn’t the marine’s.

Vivian turned to find Luanne’s brother. In an Army uniform, Gene Sullivan stood with his arms folded, his buzzed black hair free of a hat. Running into him here seemed an odd coincidence, particularly since he disliked these places even more than Vivian did.

But then she realized: “Luanne sent you.” The sentence came out hoarse, no smoother than a croak.

“She thought you might need help getting home.”

“Yes, well-” She cleared her throat. “I appreciate the concern. But I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever suits you.”

The remark clashed with his manner. For he continued to stand there, eying the flask in her grip. This was his standard bearing-more of a subtle brooding than razor coolness. The only difference between now and in high school was his thickened jaw and broadened build, reinforcing his role as a protective brother. If permitted, he would likely even stay Stateside to keep watch over Luanne.

But Vivian was not his sister. Nor was she a damsel to be rescued.

“I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”

He nodded toward the band. “I’m just here to enjoy the music.”

She squared her body with his, irked by the challenge. After years of appeasing others at stiff formal functions, she deserved a single night without judgment. An evening without greetings, curtsies, or bows. No ankles crossed, head leveled, pinkies up, eyes down.

In a defiant toast Vivian raised the flask-presumably whiskey, undoubtedly cheap-and threw more gulps down her throat. These went down easier, only a series of low flames. She withheld her grimace, acutely aware of Gene’s scrutiny, and returned the drink to its owner.

“I believe I’m up for that dance now,” she said, hooking the marine’s arm.

Clearly unsure when he had asked, the man hesitated for a second before escorting her off. They found space among couples in the midst of the Lindy. In an effort to mimic, the marine twirled her in circles, not catching the beat, and flung her in haphazard patterns. Several times she had to apologize for stepping on other people’s toes. At one point, she suspected a different song had begun, though she couldn’t be sure of a thing. Faces were blurring and the room was spinning. Her stomach roiled with liquor.

“I need ... to stop,” she told her partner. But he continued to toss her about, oblivious to all but the tempo in his head. She struggled to break free, his grip holding tight. “Please,” she said louder. “I don’t feel well.”

Trumpets assaulted her ears and smoke polluted her lungs. Then, on a dime, the movement stopped. Gene had his hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke to him in a hush. The marine nodded and ventured away. Had Gene slid him a bribe, made an officer’s threat?

Vivian’s pride resented the intrusion. Unfortunately, with the sway of the room she found the need to clutch him for balance.

“Still wanna stick around?”

She shook her head, a bit too quick, and the whole place tilted at an angle.

“C’mon, twinkle toes.”

Her gaze, like her hands, didn’t budge from his forearm as she followed him through the mass. She stumbled once along the way, but Gene prevented her fall.

“The floor,” she said, “it was moving.”

“It does that sometimes.” She heard a smirk in his voice. Finally, they were outside. The night air was crisp and clear. Like drinking water in the Sahara, she couldn’t take in enough.

“So,” he said after a bit. “You well enough to walk?”

Salvaging her composure, she nodded without looking his way. She plodded beside him on her own, determined not to stagger. Headlights from passing cars stung the backs of her eyes. They were five blocks from the club-though who was she to keep count?-when a huge swish rolled through her belly. She stopped, hoping to still the motion. But it rolled again, with an added tide of nausea.

“I think I ... need ... to sit.” Just then, thank God in heaven, she spotted stairs to her right. She lowered onto the concrete steps, an apartment building above. The music still ricocheted in the caverns of her mind. Every note felt like a pebble adding weight she could not uphold. Her brain became a boulder. She needed to lay it down.

Her head was almost to the step when a hand netted her cheek.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not on that.” Gene flung something aside that clattered when it landed. A tin can? A metal lid?

“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”

She relaxed her neck and landed on a ... soft . . . surface. Not concrete. More like fabric. Trousers. Gene’s leg.