The Pieces We Keep (16 page)

T
he journey to find Sean Malloy had Audra feeling like a stalker. To her relief, only a handful of people with his name were listed online in the Portland area. An age range for each one had aided her deduction. Except for an outdated phone number, the search had been easy—until she reached the address.

It was located in northwest Portland, specifically the Pearl District. Over recent years, like polishing a grain of sand into a lustrous white gem, a tide of visionaries had transformed the old industrial area into a prime cultural hub. Modern art galleries, trendy martini bars, and culinary shops selling fifty-dollar colanders now inhabited what had once been rugged, abandoned warehouses.

Audra found herself at one such building, comprised of renovated high-end lofts. At the entrance, an elderly male resident informed her that nobody lived there by the name of Sean but that a Judith Malloy did and, who knows, they just might be related. He kindly directed her to a nearby art gallery where at noon on a Wednesday the woman would be working.

Following his instructions, Audra turned left by the yoga club. Several blocks later she discovered a wide black awning sandwiched between a Zen store and gelato shop. An arc of white letters on the window read:
The Attic.

She paused at the door, debating on how to present her mission. What if Judith wasn’t a relative but a bitter ex-wife? Any mention of the guy might earn Audra an earful of choice words.

A series of beeps blared from half a block down. A delivery truck was reversing direction. Audra fought an urge to follow suit. Jack’s school bus would drop him off at two forty. No time for delay.

She strode inside, where a waft of mint tea greeted her from an entry table. The recordings of an airy flute floated into the rafters. Burgundy carpet ran beneath moveable and permanent walls, all exhibiting original artwork.

“Now, remember,” said the lady at the counter, “when you go to unpack it, just slide the piece out from this side.” She handed the man a large rectangular box. “I hope your wife enjoys it.”

“I guarantee she’ll be thrilled.”

“You two have a great anniversary.”

“Thanks a lot, Judith.”

Sure enough, the elderly tenant had steered Audra right.

Thankfully, Judith appeared a little old to be Sean’s ex. Well into her sixties, she possessed an elegance befitting her classic look: fair skin, soft angles, and a short hairdo that few women, outside Audrey Hepburn, could pull off as well. Her sole modern touches were dangly copper earrings and a matching necklace, all with an African flair.

As the customer turned to leave, a FedEx gal rolled a hand trolley over to the counter. She requested a signature on an electronic device before discussing a delivery issue.

Judith glanced over at Audra. “I’ll be right with you.”

Audra smiled. Not wanting to hover, she busied herself by exploring the nearest collection. The multi-media creations were grouped on a wall. Iridescent jewels, dyed ribbons, and metallic paints composed surreal worlds of fays and fairies. Not childlike versions often printed on calendars and in picture books. These were sophisticated. Mysterious. Dark.

“I apologize for the wait.” Judith approached from the side. “My manager had a dental emergency this morning, leaving me a bit scrambled.”

“No problem,” Audra said, a split second before the initials on the art—
JM
—sank in. “You created these.” Spoken aloud, her tardy realization felt idiotic and, in front of the artist, partially insulting. Even more so when you were planning to request a favor. “What I meant was, these are really beautiful.”

“Well, thank you. I’m glad you like them.”

“I especially love how you ... made the wings.”

Judith groaned. “The bane of my existence. Half the time, those darn things make me want to quit altogether, switch to a more sane career. Like lion taming or alligator wrestling.”

Audra smiled as she surveyed the moonlit swarms. Their three-dimensional wings, delicate and veined, appeared crafted from rice paper.

“Besides, there’d be no point,” Judith sighed. “Eventually, I’d stumble across something that inspires me, and that obsession would pull me right back to my studio.” She flicked her paint-stained fingers behind her.

Audra’s gaze followed to the referenced spot, a room set back in the corner. In doing so, she scanned more works on display, easily viewed without the obstruction of patrons. Featured in various pieces were hummingbirds and dragonflies, lightning bugs and dandelion seeds, all of them objects of . . . flight.

The correlation was unnerving.

She swallowed before asking, “Have you always focused on flying?”

“Flying? Oh, as a theme,” Judith said. “For the most part, I have. I suppose I’ve been fascinated about it ever since I was little. But then, what child isn’t, right?”

Fascinated
wasn’t the word that Audra would have chosen, but she nodded as Judith continued.

“I used to wonder about that, actually—why kids love it so much. I spent years trying to figure out why we’re drawn to things like kites and butterflies and rockets. Then there’s unicorns and dragons. Paper planes and balloons.”

Audra had never considered reasons for the universal attraction. She had to admit it was an interesting observation. “And? Why do you think that is?”

“Personally?” Judith said, and regarded the closest art piece. “I think it’s the magical idea of floating above everything. Being untouchable, not knowing where you’re going to land. Just the pure freedom of it.” She drifted briefly into her thoughts before shifting the frame to hang a quarter inch lower. “Now, then—before I bore you with more of my philosophical analysis—are you looking for something in particular?”

Audra had to stop and reset her thoughts. She hoped it wasn’t offensive that she didn’t come to shop. “The truth is, I’m actually looking for some
one
.”

Judith’s sleek eyebrow rose, either intrigued or wary.

“His name’s Sean Malloy. He’s a young Army vet. We ... happened to cross paths at the Rose Festival last week. And I’d heard you might be related—”

“You’re that woman. The mother of the boy who’d gotten lost.”

Not Audra’s proudest distinction.

“I’m Sean’s mom,” Judith explained, “so I was there with family, to see him being honored by the mayor. I only caught a glimpse of you that day.” She lowered her chin with a compassionate smile. “I’ve thought of you and your son quite a bit. I’m so glad everything worked out.”

“Thanks. Me too.” An understatement.

Judith patted her chest. “Anyhow. Sean mentioned you two might know each other ... Aubrey, was it?”

“Audra. Hughes.” To avoid complicating the situation, she bypassed the details. “I’d love the chance to catch up with him, if that’s possible.”

“Oh, yes. You definitely should. The doctor said anyone from his past might be helpful. Here, let me jot down his address for you. Sean mentioned he’d be there all day.” She snagged a pen from the reception counter and scribbled on a notepad. “He’s staying with my aunt, on her farm up in Vancouver. You’ll love meeting her. She’s ninety-three going on eighty.”

Audra didn’t expect such eager cooperation. She checked her watch. Vancouver. It would take at least fifteen minutes to reach southwest Washington and another forty to get home.

“I’ll let them know you’re coming.” Judith passed along the paper, before a serious look took hold. “You do know about his accident, I assume?” Her tone suggested Audra should know more prior to the drive over.

“He just said there was a bomb, while he was on patrol.”

“A roadside bomb, that’s right. It broke a few bones that thankfully have healed well. The hearing in his left ear is still damaged, though, which you might have noticed.”

“I didn’t. I’m glad you mentioned it.” Audra hadn’t noticed much of anything during his time on her doorstep.

“Since Sean was the only one in the vehicle who made it through, we don’t know much else. Just that it’s been hard on him, not remembering what happened. Of course, as his mother, I’d prefer he not remember any of it—though that probably sounds selfish.”

“Not to me,” Audra said.

Judith smiled.

“How much of his memory has he lost, do you know?”

“Almost three years in all. Four months being his deployment, and about two and a half years before that. He gets bits and pieces now and then, so I’m sure the rest is locked in there somewhere. The doctors say it’s all pretty minor, compared to other traumatic brain injuries. But for Sean, it’s still made a big difference.”

Memory loss wasn’t anything Audra would ever dismiss as minor, not ever again. “I can imagine.”

“Now that he’s been back for six months, I’ve nudged him about getting a job. About getting out and reconnecting with friends. But I think my nudging is sounding more like nagging.” She smiled again, gave a shrug. “I guess I was hoping that . . . maybe you could help him out.”

Audra looked at the address in her hand, these days appreciating any clear destination. Careful, however, not to make an empty promise, she replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

I
ntent on reaching her destination, Vivian hurried into the brownstone. She went straight up the stairs toward the safety of her room, unnerved by a sense of being watched. She felt it in the air after bidding Gene good night.

And those suspicions were confirmed when she opened her bedroom door.

“Luanne,” Vivian said, noting her friend’s knowing look. “You’re ... back from your trip.”

“So I am.” Parked on her bed, Luanne held a knitting project on her lap that she seemed in no hurry to finish.

At the window facing the street, the curtains gapped just enough for an incriminating view. “When did-how long have you been home?”

“For a while.”

Vivian caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror, lipstick faded and cheeks flushed. After a day on the rides, her tangled hair and disheveled clothes could spell out more than a kiss.

She retreated to the closet. “So, how did it go? Did you have a good weekend?” She slipped off her crimson sweater, a hue matching her face.

“I did.”

“Really? That’s marvelous.”

“Evidently you enjoyed yours too.”

Vivian fumbled with a hanger. She felt the bashfulness of a little girl, her fingers slicked in oil. “It was all right, I suppose.”

How foolish of her not to consider Luanne in all of this. Vivian needed to collect herself before making things worse. “I think I’ll take a bath. Did you see anyone using the tub?”

“It’s okay, Viv.”

“You mean, it’s available?”

“I mean about Gene. That is, you and Gene.”

Reluctantly Vivian turned to face her.

“As a matter of fact, it’s beyond okay.” Luanne broke into a grin. “It’s magnificent.”

“Honest?”

Luanne nodded heartily and said, “He’s been so afraid to date anyone since Helen. After all, it didn’t end well and-oh, never mind that.” She waved it off. “I do have to admit, I’ve suspected for some time now that Gene was secretly mooning over you. I just didn’t feel it was my place, especially if you weren’t looking for a relationship-”

Relationship.
Hearing the word caused Vivian to bristle. This was to be the adventurous phase of her life.

“Luanne, please,” she interrupted, “keep in mind, we’ve only just started dating.” Her mind had scarcely processed even that much. “Besides, there’s no guarantee it will work out. We’re just . . . enjoying each other’s company.”

“Yes, yes, of course! I completely understand.” Although her voice conveyed sincerity, her eyes glinted with a scrapbook of wishes: throwing rice outside a chapel, hosting Sunday family barbecues, nieces and nephews playing games in the yard.

Could it be that Gene shared the same vision, that casual courting wasn’t part of his makeup?

“I’m going to whip up some hot cocoa,” Luanne said, as if a celebration were in order. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

For Vivian, it was a superfluous directive. Wherever would she go?

Yet from this thought she recalled her special savings. Her tin of distant dreams.

Not for the first time, she longed to grab those funds and run.

 

As it was, the urge for extremes lasted only until Tuesday. For that’s when Gene returned for their next date. He had an aura about him that always salved Vivian’s worries, a presence that made her feel safe.

At no time was this more apparent than during the circus at Madison Square Garden.

To amuse the crowd, a prankster of a dwarf sprayed a tramp clown with a bottle of fizzy water. The clown in turn chased him helter-skelter with a huge sloshing bucket. Just as the clown flung the contents in revenge, the dwarf hit the ground, leaving the audience to take the soaking.

Vivian had barely ducked when Gene, on instinct, launched his arms over her in a protective dome. Soon everyone realized the clown had swapped his bucket of water for one of white confetti.

“Sorry,” Gene said afterward, referencing his overreaction.

“Don’t be,” she insisted, and kissed him on the cheek.

Even during the trapeze numbers, in which scantily clad ladies stretched their bodies in impressive shapes, he appeared conscious of Vivian alone. And not just at the circus, but at movie palaces and restaurant booths, during strolls on the Brooklyn Bridge. She felt it when he touched her elbow or the small of her back, guiding her through a doorway or down a set of steps.

And so it went, week after week, one outing following the next. After three months together, it could have been three years.

Her mother was delighted even prior to meeting Gene. “How’s that dashing officer of yours?” she would ask Vivian during visits to the city. Her approval was so ardent, in fact, Vivian regretted not keeping him a secret. She needed to be cautious to avoid another mistake.

To reduce the pressure early on, Gene, too, agreed they ought to date freely. And yet Vivian knew he had no desire to do so. Nor, in truth, did she. Like a ride on the Parachute Jump, she was falling and floating and secure all at once.

So immersed had she become in this idyllic foray she had forgotten all about Cafe Labrec until she spotted it from the bus during her morning commute. Already the first Friday of June and her bill remained unpaid.

“Criminy.” She cringed at what Mr. Bisset must think. Her father had instilled in her the value of keeping her word.

Anxious to reconcile her debt, she anticipated the workday would slog until clock-out. Fortunately, she was wrong. Every officer on post suddenly had an incoming call. The switchboard blinked with the incessancy of a pinball machine.

Name, please. Name, please.
No time to say,
Thank you.

At one point, Luanne tapped Vivian on the shoulder, announcing their shift was over. Vivian was astounded. It seemed the day had just begun.

She shed her equipment and ambled toward the door, where her supervisor sat at her desk. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Langtree.”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Good evening.” Although the woman had recently returned, her vigilance had lessened, her thoughts often wandering. Part of Vivian missed the staunch figure who appeared to have passed with her son.

 

The bus rolled its way through the borough.

On the path of their evening loop, Vivian kept watch for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and the famed museum of art. After being cooped up in a room all day, she welcomed the sites she and Gene liked to frequent. Sometimes Luanne would join them, calling herself a third wheel, to which Vivian would remind her that without one any tricycle was doomed to collapse.

This evening, the missing wheel would be Gene. A work assignment required he stay overnight at Pine Camp, up in the North Country.

Bemoaning this, Vivian disembarked from the bus. She followed the group toward the stoop of the brownstone as they discussed plans to leave at six. Several of the girls had sweethearts stationed at faraway bases. A distractive evening was much needed. It was opening night of
Yankee Doodle Dandy,
and bowling or a diner would be sure to follow.

The idea sparked a memory. Vivian had almost forgotten the cafe again.

“Good grief,” she muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Luanne asked.

“I have a quick errand to run. But I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

Luanne smirked. “Viv, your errands are never quick.”

“Oh, shush,” Vivian said lightly, and hurried down the steps.

“If you’re late,” Luanne warned, “James Cagney and I will be spending the evening without you.”

Vivian waved her purse in acknowledgment.

Minutes later, she spotted the glass window of the shop. The bell jangled as she entered and a sense of nostalgia surprised her. The aroma of baking dough was so warm and inviting, she felt reunited with an old friend.

“Bonsoir,
Vivian.” Mr. Bisset set down his newspaper and emerged from the cashier’s counter. He wore the same vest and tie from her last visit, making it seem as though no time had passed. “I was beginning to worry,
chérie.”

“Yes, well, it’s been rather busy these days.”

“No, no. You must never be too busy for the desserts of life, my dear.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” she said with a smile. “Have you been well yourself?”

“I cannot complain.” He smiled in return, but in a manner reminiscent of Mr. Harrington. The kind tinged with concern for loved ones, and for good reason. Nazis had occupied Paris now for almost a full year.
“Allor,
your seat is waiting outside. I shall bring you a fig tart, new to the menu. Soft and sweet, warm with butter.”

“I do wish I could. But I came by just to pay my last bill.” She retrieved the coins from her sweater pocket. “I’m truly ashamed of how long it’s taken me.”

He raised his palm in refusal.

“Mr. Bisset, you have to accept. I’ll feel terrible if you don’t.”

He mulled this over and said, “We will trade. I shall take these”-he scooped up the change-“and you sample the tart, on the house. Now, go, go.”

Between his quiet worries and her inexcusable delay, she saw no way to decline. What’s more, his description of the pastry caused her stomach to grumble. She had eaten only half of her lunch due to the flood of calls.

“I’m not sure how this comes out fair for you,” she pointed out.

“In times like these, Vivian, it is more than fair.”

As he moved toward the display case, she admired him wistfully. She could always skip changing clothes for tonight, even meet the group at the theater if necessary. Luanne would understand.

 

Out in the courtyard Vivian treaded toward her table. An old somberness returned, as if released from the cobblestones by the weight of her steps. Two couples at separate tables dined nearby, their faces dappled with light from the setting sun.

She lowered into her seat, tucked away by the wilting flowers. A graveyard of memories. This, she knew, would be her last visit. Closure would come from this final indulgence. It was the ending of a chapter, the relinquishing of grief. She closed her eyes to wholly absorb the sounds and scents, etching them into the recesses of her mind.

“ ’Scuse me, miss?”

A boy no older than six appeared nearby. He approached her table with cap in hand. His threadbare clothes and dirt-smudged cheeks tugged at her heart. She glanced past his head on the lookout for Mr. Bisset. Though kindhearted, the man would not approve of beggars troubling his patrons.

She signaled for the boy to come closer, then dug through her purse and produced two dimes. “Here you are,” she said in a hush.

He gave a nod and slipped the money into the pocket of his trousers. His gaze darted around before he asked quietly, “You is Vivian, ain’t ya?”

“Why–yes. But, how did you–”

“This here’s for you.” He handed her an envelope from the inside of his hat, folded in half, edges curled over.

“What is this? Who is it from?”

“Some fella in the alley. Gave me a whole dollar to deliver it right to ya.”

A dollar would be a fortune for the child. She unfolded the envelope to examine both sides. It bore not a single marking.

“How did the man know I’d be-” She looked up and found the child halfway through the courtyard. Thoughts swimming, she tore open the casing and pulled out a note. The handwriting, printed in block letters, had a messiness that appeared rushed.

Her chest cinched. An ancient grip squeezed out her air, the hand of a ghost reaching from the soil. It wasn’t possible. Isaak was gone.

Or was he?

She snapped her head up to locate the messenger, now out of view. Whoever had employed the boy-she needed his description.

Vivian sped through the courtyard and out to the sidewalk. Her gaze combed the area in frantic sweeps, from cars to shops to alleys, but the child had evaporated like mist. He left no proof of existence. Save for the missive in her hand.