The Pieces We Keep (14 page)

The position was too intimate, even for a non-prude, non-biddy. But her limp form refused to shift, both too heavy and too comfortable. Vivian decided she would sleep here, until her bare arm caught a shiver.

“You leave a coat back there?” he asked.

She tried to shake her head, unsure if she succeeded.

After a moment, Gene patted her upper arm. The tentative gesture transitioned into short yet gentle strokes. The heat of his skin contrasted against the coolness of her own. She let her eyelids drop, lulled for an instant back in time, back to when Isaak, too, had soothed her in such a way. She had missed this more than she realized-not just Isaak’s presence, but the sheer wonder of being touched.

Vivian released a shuddered breath. With it came flashes of her behavior. What a spectacle she must have been. She curled her hands beneath her chin, her knees up to her chest. How foolish she was acting, and long before tonight.

“I just wanted to forget,” she whispered, wholly wishing that she could.

Gene’s hand paused on her arm, and for a second she expected a reply-a mock, a chiding, a suggestion they continue home. But he simply resumed his strokes, and for the first time in years she didn’t feel so alone.

A
udra flipped her pillow to its cool side, and a shiver ran down her neck. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The digital screen glowed like a taunt: 1:22
A.M
.

She rotated the clock on her bedside stand to make it face the wall. Through the gap in the doorway, left open so she could hear Jack when needed, the night-light shone in yellow. It sliced a beam down the middle of her bed, dividing the vacant half and “hers.”

She pondered potential sleep aids: hot bath, warm milk, a book. No doubt, thanks to Dr. Shaw, the discussion about a book today was the source of her insomnia.

Finally giving up, she kicked off the comforter. If she wasn’t going to rest anyway, she might as well be entertained by the author’s preposterous theories. Who knew? Maybe she would learn the Queen of Sheba had come back as a poodle. Worst case, the text would be dry enough to knock her right out.

In the living room, she clicked on a lamp. She plopped onto the couch with the book.

“Beyond what? Sanity?” She bit off the sneer, told herself to keep an open mind, to stop being so cranky. She was reading this for Jack, to gain even a dash of helpful insight.

Starting at the beginning, she skimmed the introduction. Memories from reincarnation, it stated, typically faded by age six or seven.

The tidbit punched a small but distinct hole in Dr. Shaw’s theory.

Still, she forged on to the first account, in which a five-year-old Ukrainian boy often rambled about needing to practice for a large performance. He played no instrument, didn’t dance or sing. But during a visit to his aunt’s, having never touched a piano, he sat down at her Wurlitzer and poured out the
Moonlight Sonata.

Supposedly.

In Prague, a young boy suffered from a phobia of blades. If even a small butter knife was set out for dinner, he would break into wild hysterics. Eventually, he described being murdered in another life. He cited the birthmark on his rib cage as the place where he’d been stabbed. A transcendental scar. On a similar note, several other kids described having phantom pains, indicative of wounds that had ended their previous lives.

The next chapter featured an Australian girl with asthma. After recovering from a severe attack, she recalled being strangled in an alley. She named specific landmarks, all verifiable yet absent from modern maps.

A couple in India spoke about their daughter and her claims of being a courier in the French Revolution. They chalked it up to imagination until she suddenly spurted phrases in antiquated French.

The stories went on and on, testaments to another realm. Effects of tragic deaths sometimes carried over, they said, while other souls sought closure to unfinished business.

Before Audra knew it, she had sped through half the pages. She couldn’t deny goose bumps had risen from each similarity to Jack—birthmarks, phobias, and foreign speech. But how much was lore? Were they tales created just to sell a book, or to draw attention to families starved for the spotlight? That’s not to say nuggets of truth weren’t there. Even the
National Enquirer
based many articles on fact before distorting or exaggerating to craft alluring headlines.

But Audra had no interest in those. She had come to revere the provable. What she could hear, smell, and touch were the nuts and bolts of her world. In fact, with decent effort, she could derive explanations for every factor of Jack’s case. Except for one.

His knowledge of the engraving.

Odds were low that she and the soldier had both misheard the phrase. She should have studied the necklace closer to properly investigate. The more she learned, the more she could eliminate. And that elimination, she decided, would lead her to the actual cause.

Audra moved over to the kitchen table. She opened her laptop and launched an online search. This time she would be more thorough.

Using anything Jack had mentioned, she entered a series of keywords. They led to a wide range of sites: historical time lines, military tributes, veterans’ memoirs, memorabilia collections, World War Two reenactments, and more.

She had no idea there were so many people these days who enjoyed dressing up as Nazi officers, accessorized with authentic Lugers and even German shepherds, to spend their summer weekends playing war.

Shaking this off, she reworked her keywords. She added, deleted, and changed their order, seeking the right mix of ingredients for a recipe that worked. She skimmed numerous accounts of saboteurs and spies. They were men and women on both sides of the war, including Nazi agents captured on the East Coast. This one piqued her interest, especially since many had been sentenced to the electric chair for their crimes. A disturbing link to Jack’s drawing.

In the end, however, there was nothing her son couldn’t have gleaned from a PBS documentary. More important, there was nothing connecting the combination of words with the crash of a plane.

Once again, she reviewed her search.

She reinserted
Himmel,
this time at the front. Upon her pressing
Enter,
the top of the screen restated all of her words but with a question:
Did you mean: Hemel?

The search engine was suggesting she had misspelled a name. A slight tremble settled in her hand as she clicked her agreement, refreshing the results.
Jakob Hemel
jumped out in snippets from the content of two different sites. She followed the first link.

After a good amount of sifting, she located the name in a long list of servicemen. He had served in the German air force! But ... during the First World War. There was no relevance she could see to Nazis or swastikas. No indication he was killed in action.

She reversed to her prior search. Breath held, she clicked on the second link, only to face a message:
Server cannot find the page.

“You’re kidding me,” she said.

She tried again, and again, but her efforts failed. She sought out the home page of the site with the link, to no better result. A separate search
for Jakob Hemel
produced nothing remotely related.

Frustration piled inside, layer after layer. She was probing for other options when a muffled scream jarred her.

Jack. Another nightmare.

For a moment, she had forgotten their grueling routine. At least she was already awake. She hurried down the hall and found him thrashing around on his mattress.

“We’re gonna crash!” he hollered.

“Jack,” she ordered, “you need to calm down.” She grabbed hold of his wrist and cast. “Listen to me. You’re just dreaming. It’s not real.”

“We gotta get out!” Eyes open, unseeing, he shook his head with vigor. What she wouldn’t do to take his fears away, gather them in a ball, store them in her own soul.

“Wake up for me, buddy. Just wake up.
Please
.”

“Help me!”

He fought against her, and she did her best to maintain her strength. But after two weeks of nights like this, she was tired. Mentally, physically, emotionally. How much longer would this go on? Months? Years? What if he only got worse, no matter where they chose to live?

Hit by a spate of exhaustion, she felt tears mounting behind her eyes. “You’re all right, baby. You hear me?” Her voice cracked. “You’re safe in here, Jack.”

That’s what she had intended to say. Yet instantly a calm swept over him, like a power cord had been disconnected. The stillness was so sudden, so shocking, that she reflected on her own words.

The name she had called him was Jakob.

A
noise yanked Vivian from the depths of sleep. Something tapped the window. The room was dark and curtains blocked her view. A branch must have brushed the pane.

No-no, that wasn’t possible. She lived in a brownstone, a corner room on the third floor, not a single tree within reach. Oh, these thoughts were too straining. Her skull felt packed with sand. She glanced at Luanne’s bed lying empty and disheveled. The girl must be sneaking in late, using the fire escape to avoid a lecture from the landlady.

But wouldn’t Luanne be taking the train soon? She had made mention to that effect while Vivian was getting dressed for—

Where had she gone tonight?

More taps came, growing loud as a hammer on nails. She pressed her pillow to her ears, but not fast enough to prevent her head from throbbing. She envisioned a woodpecker assaulting the glass. The need to cease the sound crushed any other thought.

She pried herself from the cocoon of her sheets and rounded Luanne’s bed. When she pushed away the curtains, sunlight blasted through the glass. Her headache bloomed in full. Squinting against the rays, she discovered ... Luanne’s brother?

Befuddled, she slid open the window.

“Morning, twinkle toes.”

In that instant, flashes of the prior night assembled in chunks. The dance. The flask. The stairs. She had kissed him. Or he’d kissed her. Had she only dreamt it? Oh, Lord, what had they done?

She pressed her fingers to her temples, dizzied from the unknown.

“Yep. That’s about how I figured you’d feel,” he said, then abruptly averted his gaze. “You might wanna ...” He motioned toward her body, which further confused her until she looked down. Her red dress hung in a crooked mess, half of her brassiere exposed.

Her mind snapped to attention, as if by a whiff of smelling salts. She covered her chest with a pillow, terrified to imagine just how much she had already shown him.

“Last night,” she said, “I didn’t—I mean, I think it was ... a mistake.”

“Yeah?” he said, now looking at her. “Which part?”

“I just-you know. With what happened.”

He raised a brow, waiting. An obstinate tack. A decent man wouldn’t demand an admission, much less take advantage of a woman in a vulnerable state.

Gene suddenly snickered. “If you’re referring to something between you and me, you’ve got
nothing
to worry about.”

She would have been relieved if not for the implication that any temptation would be absurd. Then again, she was hardly his type, based on the bombshell he had dated throughout high school. Paired in photos, the sprightly cheerleader and quiet quarterback were a yearbook editor’s dream.

Vivian swallowed, her saliva like a layer of sap. “In that case, would you care to tell me what did happen?”

“Nothing to alert the cavalry over. We took a walk, you fell asleep. I flagged you a cab and delivered you home to Lu, safe and sound.”

It must have been past curfew, which meant he couldn’t have made it inside. Not without creating a scene. She dreaded to ask: “So, at that hour, how did you . . .”

“I maneuvered you through this window here. And the ladders were no picnic, let me tell you.”

She nodded, his answer a light balm. “Well. I appreciate all your help.”

He didn’t reply, just handed over a paper sack.

“What is this?”

“A plain breakfast roll and two aspirin. You’re gonna need them. Oh, and chug a gallon of water or you’ll be sorry tomorrow.” He spoke as if he had been in her condition many times before. It wasn’t behavior she admired, but in this case, it reduced her embarrassment.

“I will,” she said.

For a moment, his gaze drifted off to the side. He nodded at nothing in particular. “All right, then,” he said, and turned to leave.

As he navigated the metal grates, she sieved the sand in her head to find a suitable parting. If he hadn’t been at the dance, she hated to think where-or with whom-she would have landed.

“Gene!” she called out, too loud for her own brain. She dropped her volume. “If there’s anything I can do to thank you ...”

He halted mid-descent. A look of consideration played over his face. “Actually, yeah. There is.”

The words had spouted from her mouth as a courtesy. Already she sensed she would come to regret her offer. “O-okay. What is it?”

“I’ll pick you up at noon. Wear something you don’t mind ruining.”

“But-what are we doing?”

“Noon,” he said, and continued downward.

She sank against the window frame. Every fiber of her body wanted to soak in a tub and sleep the day away. “Should have kept my mouth shut,” she said under her breath.

“Noon,” Gene repeated, and strode off without looking up.

The morning flew by in a snap.

Food, water, and aspirin, plus a much-needed nap, had molded Vivian into something resembling a human. Unfortunately, the creaky rumble of the truck-a vehicle Gene had borrowed from the base-threatened to reverse her progress.

“Are you planning to tell me where we’re going?” she asked.

“A house,” he said.

“A house.”

“Yep.”

“To do ... ?”

“A project.”

This was far from revelatory. His cuffed jeans and white tee told her as much. As requested, she had dressed similarly despite the undisclosed purpose. She was about to press him for more, but extracting details felt like tweezing invisible splinters. She rested her head on the side window and focused on the road, staving off a recurrence of nausea.

A few minutes later he pulled over to the curb below a gray Victorian house. Located in Ditmas Park, it had a turret, bay windows, and a wraparound porch.

Vivian followed Gene to the rear of the truck, where he released the tailgate and climbed on up. He handed her a large-bristled brush and two buckets of paint. As he lowered a ladder from the flatbed, she stared wide-eyed at the row of remaining cans.

“Surely we’re not painting a whole house,” she said. Then added, “Are we?”

“Nope.”

She blew out a breath. It wasn’t a monstrous mansion, like many of the homes in the area, but still that would have taken them days.

“Just the porch and columns,” he said. “And the lattice below. The stairs too. Oh, and the fence.”

Twinges of exhaustion set into her limbs. She recoiled at the thought of ingesting paint fumes for hours. “Marvelous.”

He hopped onto the ground.

“Any particular reason we’re painting here?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He threw an old sheet over his shoulder. “Needs a new coat.”

Weathered with cracks and dirt, the place was indeed due for a touch-up. But obviously that wasn’t her point. She wondered if the side job would earn him a fee. If so, using her as free labor would be unethical.

On account of the previous night, however, she was in no position to protest.

Gene hefted the ladder and headed for the house. “You comin’?”

The question was presumably rhetorical.

 

Over the arch of blue sky the sun traveled its course. Done with the latticework, Vivian started on the low white fence. Gene went from columns to railings with military precision. Other than whistling various show tunes-a surprise, as he didn’t seem the type-the guy made not a peep beyond necessity. It was no wonder he had been assigned to Intelligence.

Twice he delivered drinks from inside, the only indication somebody was home. The glasses of chilled lemonade were a luxury given the new ration on sugar. For lunch he carried out sandwiches: bologna and Swiss on rye.

After devouring her last bite, she said, “You do realize this is a cruel form of punishment.”

Gene was kicking back on the porch steps above her. He smiled without pity, like the overseer of a chain gang on an allotted break. He swiped a rag over his hairline and the base of his neck. The muscles in his arms rose and shifted. Small patches of sweat caused his shirt to cling, accentuating the firm breadth of his chest.

Vivian turned toward the street. She pressed her glass to her forehead, its coolness fleeting.

“We better get back to it,” he said, and none too soon.

 

By the time all the paint had been set to dry, the neighborhood glowed like a string of lanterns.

Vivian waited in the truck, body slumped, her limbs limper than yarn. She felt no trace of guilt for leaving Gene to repack the supplies. She had, without question, repaid her debt.

She rolled her head toward the side window and spotted him on the porch. He stood at the front door, face-to-face with a shadowy woman. She touched his arm as they spoke, Gene now with words to spare.

Vivian sat up.

The woman gave him a small basket, a token of thanks. Perhaps a trade in a blossoming courtship.

Could all of the day’s work, slaving in the sun, withering from fumes, have been done to impress a girl? He had been vague about details for a reason.

“Incredible.”

If the lovebirds wished to carry on, they could do so on their own time. Vivian pushed on the horn, yielding a glance from Gene. Then he angled toward the woman and accepted a kiss. It was only on the cheek but, had they been in private, would undoubtedly have been meant for the lips.

He trekked down the steps, revealing a full silhouette of the woman. She moved backward to close the door. Light from inside swept past her face before she disappeared. Her features were familiar, though hard to place out of context.

The aroma of bread, from Gene’s kerchief-covered basket, billowed as he drove. A block down, Vivian’s mind snagged on the recognition.

“Mrs. Langtree,” she said. “Was that . . . her house?”

He gave a nod, his gaze locked on the street.

She had almost forgotten the two were acquainted. It was from his recommendation that Mrs. Langtree had hired Luanne, and later Vivian as well. His motivation for today’s chores now became clear. A widow without a son would have few helpers to maintain her home, thus Gene’s actions had assured her that she wasn’t on her own.

Vivian cringed at her prior assumptions, namely those pertaining to the scene on the porch. In Gene’s company, Mrs. Langtree had appeared so very different.

“I had no idea you two were close,” Vivian said, stricken by how little she knew of them both.

Gene steered in silence. Finally he replied without turning. “Neal and I met at basic. Became buddies right off the bat.”

Neal Langtree. The airman.

“Oh, Gene ... I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“He was hell-bent on getting those fancy pilot wings. We could’ve done it together, you know, if I’d wanted to....”

He trailed off, leaving Vivian to fill in the rest. Whether he was regretting not being there or questioning his own survival-perhaps simply mourning the senselessness of it all—the moisture rimming his eyes did not require words.

No freedom comes without a price,
people would say of the pilot’s honorable end. The adage was far more palatable when those sacrificed were distant strangers.

Vivian reached past the basket and laid a hand on Gene’s arm. He didn’t grasp her fingers, didn’t glance her way, but somehow the gesture felt welcome.

Once at her brownstone, she slowly drew back. Gene exited the truck and opened her side. “Thanks for your help today,” he said, guiding her out.

“It was my pleasure.” And she meant that, in more ways than anticipated. “Well, then ... good night.”

At the absence of a response, she departed for the stoop stairs. She was halfway to the door when he called to her.

“You—have any plans tomorrow?”

She twisted around. Tomorrow would be Sunday. No work, no roommate. But she caught herself before answering. “That would depend.”

He cocked his head a little.

“Is this for some other
project?
Because if it is, I’d like to negotiate a rate up front.”

The corners of his lips tugged into a smile. He shoved his hands into his front pockets and said, “I just thought, our trade-it didn’t seem quite even. Figured I owe you a decent lunch at least.”

Lunch, her mother would say, did not constitute an official date. All the same, heat rose to Vivian’s cheeks, hopefully concealed in the dimness between street lamps. “Let me guess,” she said. “Noon?”

His smile widened. His dark eyes glimmered. “Sleep well, twinkle toes.”

 

The following hour drifted by as hazy as a dream. Vivian nestled into her bed, washed and warm, on the cusp of sleep. Only then did she realize: A full day had passed without a single thought of Isaak. His grip on her heart had loosened at last.

She rolled onto her side, blanketed by a sad sort of relief, and envisioned possibilities of tomorrow.