The Pieces We Keep (32 page)

V
ivian would have outright rejected the idea just years ago.

But much had changed since then, and the task of becoming a dutiful housewife had become her penance.

Her bouts of nausea had fully waned. Though her pregnancy was eleven weeks along, the small swell of her belly was simple to hide. At Gene’s insistence, they had yet to announce the news, not even to family. It was only the first trimester, he had pointed out.

If in actuality he was hoping a natural mishap would eliminate the need, she could hardly fault him. In her own darkest moments–prior to the day a fluttering brushed her insides, a discernible whisper of life-she could not deny having had the same thought.

“Are you sure you’re okay with all of this?” Luanne once asked, after Vivian resigned from her job. From years of friendship Luanne knew her well enough to question the stark transition. No one else would have batted an eye at a new bride’s dedication to the role of a model homemaker.

“Why? Are you doubting my Betty Crocker skills?” Vivian teased, and swiftly changed the topic.

While she already missed Luanne’s regular company, their mismatch of schedules did offer a benefit: fewer chances of the truth slipping out. Charging forward would be easier without the weight of added fear.

The first goal was to establish a routine.

Three days a week Vivian washed, starched, and ironed Gene’s uniforms. On alternating days, equipped with her ration book, she shopped at the market and tidied their home, a modest two-bedroom apartment a stone’s throw from the base. Every morning she sent Gene off with a lunch pail, packed with more nutrition than mess-hall meals, and every evening she greeted him with a supper prepared by six o’clock sharp. Makeup and hair in place, she sat at the table and attempted small talk as he quietly ate her casseroles and dinner molds, the vegetables freshly picked at a Victory garden. On occasion, her meals even achieved the promise of their recipes in
Ladies’ Home Journal.

Afterward, as she washed and dried the dishes, he would read the paper on the davenport or listen to updates on the radio. The current broadcasts covered American bombing raids in Europe, the German march toward Stalingrad, the Japanese stronghold of Guadalcanal. Vivian could not imagine a single headline in the bunch of which Gene wasn’t already informed. More likely, they were but fillers for his evenings.

Sometimes he would tune in to a comedic program. A witty punch line from Jack Benny or a one-liner from Bob Hope would induce a smile on Gene’s face. But when Vivian entered the room, drying her hands on her apron, the smile would inevitably vanish. And soon they would retire to their respective sides of the bed. In every way, they were parallel rails of a single track, traveling together but never crossing. They had become two halves of a couple she most feared.

They had become her parents.

The other officers’ wives welcomed Vivian at their gatherings, though the inclusion had a compulsory air. Most conversations revolved around their children, to which Vivian could not yet relate, and personal jokes placed her further on the perimeter of their circle.

One day, as she sat smiling on cue and sipping flavorless Earl Grey, she recalled how hard her mother had tried to fit in with the British socialites. Vivian had been wrong to criticize. Maybe her mother had always been on the outside, even in DC, making the decision to remain in New Hampshire all the more alluring.

More than once, Vivian was tempted to address the topic with her mother, but other subjects always took precedence-such as her confession to marrying Gene. It took her several weeks following their nuptials to make that particular call.

“Vivian Maureen James,” her mother declared. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

As expected, the woman was less than delighted-more distraught over not being present, it seemed, than the lack of showy display. Faster than a lightning bolt, she jumped on a New York-bound train. Fortunately, already an admirer of Gene, she quickly forgave the offense, assured by the knowledge that, technically, he and Vivian had been acquainted as far back as their early teenage years. The translation was that their marriage would not suffer the consequences of spontaneity.

Days later, Vivian’s father, now back in the States, also paid them a visit. He was more accepting, less judging, than his norm. The war appeared to have loosened his views on situations not mortally critical. It didn’t hurt that Gene feigned ample pleasantness throughout their supper, just as he had done with Vivian’s mother, this time trading educated insight on war and politics. By the time Vivian served the coffee and peach cobbler, her father had ruled favorably.

Gene’s performance was so convincing, in fact, Vivian actually forgot it was a mere reflection of the man she used to know. A man she missed beyond words.

After waving good-bye to her father’s taxi, with the dishes put away and lights turned off, she and Gene slid beneath the covers. He murmured, “Good night,” a step that would precede his turn toward the window. But before he could complete the act, Vivian inched her way over.

Emboldened by the darkness and her after-supper schnapps, she laid a kiss on his neck, followed by another, and another. She created a path along his collarbone and over the surface of his chest. His skin prickled at the touch of her lips and strands of her hair, and as her fingers traveled downward his stomach muscles cinched. She sensed a firming beneath the covers, heard him gasp in response. His body otherwise refrained from all movement.

When she raised her head, to see if she should continue, his gaze latched on to hers. Before she could think, he shifted her onto her back. He pulled off her nightgown in a single motion and flung it away. He kissed her neck and shoulder with ravaging force, pausing only to maneuver out of his drawers. His hand moved over her breast, down her side, and up again, hungry and searching. A burning sensation rushed through Vivian. Arching her back, she closed her eyes, eager for more. Yet after his knee parted her legs, she felt him hesitate. The first thought in her mind was the baby. He was worried about hurting the baby.

“It’s all right,” she said, her breaths gone shallow. “The doctor, he said it’s perfectly fine.”

Somehow she knew, even before she opened her eyes, that her words might as well have been ice water.

Gene held in place, sobering from the short-lived spell, then sat up on his side of the bed. His legs over the edge, he stared at the window, saying nothing. When he stood to replace his boxers, Vivian drew the sheet up over her chest. She wished the mattress would swallow her whole.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly before leaving the room. And those two words, coming from Gene, nearly broke her.

 

Vivian was still feeling the wound of that night when a phone call arrived days after. It was this weakness, she reasoned, that caused her to concede to a meeting with Agent Gerard. Either that, or on account of the guilt that would always bind them.

And so, on the first Thursday of September, she again ventured to Prospect Park. The spot had been her suggestion; it seemed, in a darkly odd way, appropriate for an ending.

When she arrived at Binnen Bridge, where birds chirped and water rushed, Agent Gerard was already there. He was fanning himself with the brim of his hat but stopped when she came into view.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s nice to see you.”

It bothered her how he’d known of her married name and new residence without her divulging either one. An occupational advantage.

“What is it you wanted to see me about?”

He nodded, acknowledging her desire to bypass frills. “Now that it’s over, I thought you deserved to hear how everything wrapped up with the case.”

Part of her preferred not to hear a word. Yet in her mind, a greater part knew that closure would come only through enduring such details. Thus, she gripped her purse upon the railing and waited for him to continue.

“Four weeks ago, a military tribunal did make a ruling on the other spies,” he said. “All eight were found guilty.”

The announcement brought clarity to a fuzzy memory. “I thought you said one of them helped turn the group in?”

“There were actually two that collaborated. One was George Dasch. He got thirty years in the federal pen. His buddy, Ernest Burger, got hard labor for life.”

She shook her head, astonished. “That was their reward for coming forward?”

“They were originally sentenced to death, like the others. Only reason that changed was because Hoover and the Attorney General made an appeal to FDR. The rest got the chair, just a few days after the trial.”

Vivian leaned toward the railing and looked out onto the water. A pair of young boys stood down by the boathouse, skimming stones across the surface.

She caught the vague sounds of Agent Gerard talking. Something about hysteria and paranoia, and the relocation of Japanese Americans. About the possibility of people feeling the same toward citizens with German blood.

“Point of the matter is,” he went on, “I need you to keep all this to yourself. It’ll be released to the press, but not for a while.”

Vivian almost asked why he bothered telling her a thing; he had no obligation to do so. But inside she knew the reason. He wanted her to know that Isaak Hemel hadn’t been singled out. That once again the system had run the show.

“I trust you’ll keep this confidential,” the agent stressed when she didn’t answer.

Still gazing at the boathouse, she considered the alternative and laughed to herself. “Who would I possibly tell?” she said. It was hardly a boast-worthy accomplishment. She exhaled her morbid amusement and turned to face him. “Is there anything else?”

He paused a moment. “I suppose not.”

“Then, I’ll say good-bye, Agent Gerard.” She headed off without waiting for a response.

How wrong she had been to come here; the final details were not a source of closure.

“Congratulations,” he said, “by the way.”

The comment stopped her short. His casual tone clashed with the only reference she could summon: the three-month-old baby growing within her.

This, she realized, could be the true purpose of their meeting. But how could the man have known? Had the FBI tracked her every move, confiscated her medical files?

She pivoted back a quarter of the way, her purse over her middle. “On . . . ?”

“On tying the knot. I meant to tell you that on the phone.” He proffered a smile and placed his hat on his head, adjusted the tilt. “I do hope you and your husband will be real happy together.”

She studied his features, his voice, for an encoded message. An insinuation, perhaps, about the extent of her relationship with Isaak. But his well wishes appeared genuine.

“Thank you,” she said with a nod, and resumed her strides without looking back.

A
udra had a sudden impulse to drive straight by and never return. But she had made a promise to Jack, giving her no choice but to stop at her in-laws’ house. While she appreciated their reasons behind the petition, the fact remained: Even for a short time, they had viewed her as a mother who would abuse her child.

She pulled over to the curb. Although the driveway offered more shade from the morning sun, she chose not to park on their property. It would be too familiar for where the relationship stood.

Then again, she wasn’t sure where anything stood.

The phone call from the day before—linking Jakob and Isaak, the saboteurs, and a missing plane—had left her mind rattling like a screen door in a storm. Open, shut, open, shut. Her skeptical defenses had grown weary from the turbulence. Again, the theories could be as easily believed as mocked. Currently she didn’t have the brainpower to determine which was more deserved.

She rolled up the thought, snug as the keys in her hand. She smiled at Jack while walking him to the front door. Before she could even knock, Robert flung the door open. He must have been keeping lookout from a window.

“Well, good morning, Beanstalk! How’s life treating ya?”

“Good,” Jack said softly.

“Gee whiz, I think you grew another two inches. You keep up this pace, your grandma’s gonna put a brick on your head to slow you down.”

Jack lowered his eyes, but a chuckle sounded from his chest and his face brightened. Any reservations Audra had about bringing him here shrank in that moment.

“So, what are you waitin’ for? Get on in here.” Robert ruffled Jack’s hair. When the boy entered the house and disappeared around the corner, Robert turned to Audra with a thoughtful look. “I appreciate you doing this,” he said. “We both do.” This was the only time besides the day of Devon’s funeral that she ever saw tears mist Robert’s eyes.

“It’s the right thing for Jack.”

Robert nodded. Gesturing behind him, he said, “Could I persuade you to come inside?”

The image of Meredith at the cemetery, her gaze averted and lips pursed, held vividly in Audra’s thoughts. To face the woman again was a daunting thing. If not for the desire to hug Jack good-bye, Audra might have delayed the confrontation.

“Just for a minute.”

Eagerly Robert moved aside, enabling her to step past him. The rich aroma of chocolate-chip cookies enveloped her, and with it the feeling of returning to a place she once treasured as a second home.

Robert closed the door, sealing her in, just as Meredith appeared in the foyer.

“Hi, Audra,” she said with a stiff smile. One of her hands was squeezing the other as if molding a block of clay.

“Meredith.”

In the brief pause, a rare meekness from the woman made itself known. “Robert, dear, why don’t you see if Jack wants some milk for his cookies?”

“Sure thing, Mama.” He proceeded toward the kitchen, patting his wife’s shoulder in passing.

Audra had expected to feel a simmering of betrayal once in Meredith’s presence, and it was certainly there. What she hadn’t anticipated was an urge to cry and hug and declare all was forgiven. But she kept those emotions in check.

“Robert told me that he spoke to you,” Meredith said, “about what happened ... before.”

“He did.”

Meredith nodded slowly. “Well. Even so, I want you to hear how sorry I am for any hurt we’ve caused. It was wrong—
I
was wrong. I realize it’s not an excuse, but I hope you can see we had only the best intentions for Jack.”

“I know that, Meredith. He and I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Of course.”

Hands still clasped, Meredith gazed back at her. After a moment, they both angled their eyes toward the walls, the polished wooden floor. Tension could be wrung from the silence.

Perhaps this was enough for their first exchange. There was no indication they would ever resuscitate even half their former closeness, but nothing to say there was a need for it. Pleasant civility for Jack’s sake would be sufficient.

“I’ll go tell Jack I’m leaving,” Audra said. “Then I’ll be back around six if that still works.”

Meredith nodded and formed another rigid smile. “Six is perfect.”

Audra gripped her keys, a small asset of escape, and headed for the dining room to reach the kitchen. She was steps away from the formal table when Meredith spoke.

“I was afraid you were forgetting him.”

More than the words, it was the faltering tone that turned Audra around.

Moisture welled in Meredith’s eyes and her lips quivered. “I know how much you loved Devon. In my heart, I’ve always known it. And I understand you need to move on. I told myself this when you sold the house, and the furniture. But then you made it clear you wanted to be far away from anything to do with him—and us. And when you talked about the soldier you met, a new man in Jack’s life ...”

All at once, Audra saw Meredith’s efforts from an altered view. The stories in her lily garden, the visits to the cemetery, the pictures of Devon on shelves and tables, the resistance to Audra and Jack moving.

Both women had been treating the same wound with two vastly different remedies—neither of which had worked.

Meredith shook her head, her face growing mottled. “You have every right to do all of those things, and truly you should. I mean that. Devon was my son, but you’re my daughter, Audra, and I want you to be happy.”

Audra sucked in a breath. She never would have foreseen the effect of those words.

“I’m just so terrified he’ll be forgotten,” Meredith said hoarsely. “That little by little, Devon will fade from Jack’s life, and that one day Jack will have no idea what a special father he had—” The rest dropped off as she covered her face. She wept quietly into her palms, her shoulders shaking.

Audra couldn’t stop her own tears from rising. Right or wrong, her will to hold a grudge drifted away as if pulled by a current.

She moved closer to Meredith and laid a hand on her arm. In a whisper, a single word spilled out: “Mom . . .”

Though nothing followed, Meredith lowered her hands and reached out for an embrace. Audra accepted without pause, the connection so long overdue she could have cried for that alone.

“I could never forget him,” Audra said softly.

How pointless to have ever tried. After all, part of her would always love Devon, and she would forever see him in Jack.

Meredith nodded against Audra’s shoulder, as if she had heard her thoughts.

Once the moment had settled and they had both caught their breaths, a question nagged at Audra. She debated on discussing it another day, not wanting to reverse the progress they had made. Given their past, it could come off as a challenge. But now, more than ever, she needed to know.

“Could I ask you something?”

Meredith looked at her, a smile in her eyes. “Anything.”

“After everything you’ve been through, how do you still have faith? I mean, there are so many tragedies that are just so senseless.”

Meredith thought on this a moment. She sniffed and wiped the streaks from her face before answering. “I’ve had plenty of my own doubts,” she admitted. “I think that’s normal when it comes to believing in anything you can’t absolutely prove.” She sighed and shrugged lightly. “But one day I realized that faith is a choice. For me, it’s a hunch I feel in my heart. And once I understood that, the decision was easy.”

Audra took in the words, an idea to mull over, and nodded.

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” Robert looked tentative at first, then pleased at the scene.

“What is it, honey?” Meredith asked.

“Just wanted to see if there’s any objection to me whipping up some omelets. Jack said he’s getting a little hungry.”

Meredith regarded Audra. “Would that be all right?”

Memories of the omelets Devon used to cook, his favorite “breakfast-for-dinner” feature, made Audra smile. “Jack would love that,” she replied, and added, “It was his dad’s specialty.”

The corners of Meredith’s mouth rose and her eyes glinted.

“Audra, any chance you’d like to join us?” Robert asked.

Before Audra could respond, she remembered her awaiting meeting. “I’m afraid I can’t today.”

“Ah, well,” he said wistfully. “Another time, then.”

In lieu of an open-ended delay, she said, “How about next Saturday?”