The Pieces We Keep (4 page)

A
ll thoughts of Isaak should have been left at that theater, cast off like an old ticket stub. Yet in the full day since their parting, Vivian could think of nothing else.

“No, no, Miss James,” Mr. Harrington said in his proper English. “I requested the brown peep toes, not the black.” Low on his stool, he handed the pair back, and she confirmed yet another error.

“Good grief, I apologize.”

The owner of the shoe store was typically as gentle as his dove-gray beard, yet his impatience began to show. “Please do hurry.”

“Right away.” She proffered a smile for the seated customer.

The robust woman looked on in disapproval, flushed from straining, by choice, to sample shoes too small. Her sons, young twins in matching jumpers, sparred in the corner with metal shoehorns.

Vivian was halfway to the back room when she heard the woman cluck, “American girls. They are simply not raised to listen.” Then tersely, “Matty. Natty. Stop that horseplay at once.”

During moments like this, protests from Vivian’s mother rushed to mind.
The daughter of a U.S. diplomat has no business working at all, let alone to service the feet of strangers.

The implication of being paid to tickle and massage British toes would verge on amusing if not for the added point:
How do you expect to find a good husband this way? I did not raise my only child to become a spinster.
Her inflection conveyed a fatal disease, as though her own marriage encapsulated sheer bliss.

Vivian knew better.

She had also known, when offered the job at the store, to bypass her mother in favor of her father. Perpetually distracted, he had mumbled his consent. In doing so, he had spared her from torturous hours of knitting and playing bridge with her mother’s gossipy socialites. And most important, Vivian’s personal savings had continued to flourish. Stashed in an old coffee tin since early girlhood, each dollar and pound was a step toward her dream. Traveling. Self-reliance. Freedom.

That wasn’t to say she opposed marriage entirely-only the dreary, passionless type. She refused to be a caged and clipped housewife, with love deemed an afterthought. She would rather be alone forever than deprived of her independence.

Focusing on that divine word, she approached the storeroom’s mustard-colored curtains. Split down the middle, they draped to the ancient wooden floor. The scents of leather and black polish welcomed her entry. A single bulb threw dim light over the ceiling-high shelves.

She set aside the mistaken pair and scanned the array of choices, grouped by color and size. What a poor habit she had made today of placing shoes in the wrong slots. All because of foolishness over a boy.

At last, she spotted the chocolate-brown peep toes. They were up on a high shelf, but retrievable without the rickety stepstool. She rose onto the balls of her feet, stretching her arm. In her haste, her fingertips pushed the shoes away. She needed to concentrate, to be patient, if she wanted her life to improve, much less her workday.

“I can get those for you,” came the voice.

Her muscles petrified, rigid as stone.

Isaak.

For a second that seemed an hour, he reached over her from behind. Her head grew faint from the faded aroma of cigar on his clothes. His chest pressed against her shoulder blades. The warmth of his skin seeped through her flimsy cotton blouse, the drape of her skirt.

“There you go,” he said. That maddening rasp.

She fended off a shudder, and realized her eyes had closed. Opening them, she swung around and backed away, imprisoned by stacks of shelves. He peered at her from beneath the plaid bill of his flat cap. His black jacket hung unzipped.

How had he managed to sneak in here?

Before she could ask, he motioned toward the curtain. “Door was open from the alley.”

The side door was used for supply deliveries. And apparently, stray tomcats. “How fitting.”

“Vivian?” Mr. Harrington called out.

The customer.

The shoes.

She swiped them from Isaak. They were larger than requested, but she would present them regardless. It was silly, she had learned, to pretend something fit when it didn’t.

“One minute, sir,” she replied, then cut to Isaak in a hush. “You have to go.”

She attempted to stride past him, but his arm shot to the side. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I don’t owe you a thing. Now, let me pass, or-or I’ll have Mr. Harrington escort you out.”

Isaak drew his head back, emitting the same edge of mischief that had first lured her in. “Even though you’d left the back door unlocked for me? So we could mingle here in the closet?”

“I did no such-” She caught her raised volume. Was he trying to get her fired? “He’ll never believe you.”

Isaak folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, a bald dare.

At his outright arrogance, blood sped through her veins, spiking her temperature. “I can’t do this now.”

“And why is that?”

Didn’t he see she was at work? Or was it that he viewed a woman’s occupation as a piddly hobby?

“If you must know, I have inventory to take, supplies to stock, and a customer who, despite her toes being overstuffed sausages, is convinced she wears the same size as the Queen. Therefore, as I said, now is not a good time.” She pinned him with a glare, pressing him to relent.

Neither of them budged.

Finally he said, “A simple explanation. Please, Vivian. Give me that and I’ll leave you alone.” His tone suddenly shifted, tender as the memory of his hand on her skin, of his lips trailing the side of her neck.

She swatted away the thought, battled back with the truth-at least in basic form.

“Fine, I’ll tell you,” she said, at which he nodded. “I’m tired of being hidden away like something to be ashamed of. If Mr. Mueller is such a kind benefactor, he shouldn’t take issue with our relationship. Either way, I don’t see the point of sneaking around anymore.” She tried to leave it at that but added, “Unless you’re afraid a woman who you’re truly smitten with might spot us together.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think?”

Honestly, she didn’t know what to believe or how to feel. But then, how could she possibly with his dwindling show of interest?

“Whenever we’re together anymore, your mind is elsewhere. And frankly, I’ve endured enough of that with my father. So unless you can argue otherwise, it appears our relationship has run its course.”

Through her matter-of-fact delivery, she had taken control of the situation, even mercifully provided him an easy out. The air should have lessened in weight, not turned to lead.

Whoops and hollers burst from the front room. No doubt, the twins were escalating their antics out of boredom.

“Vivian!” Mr. Harrington yelled. His urgency for a sale had been buoyed by the need to salvage his store.

“Coming, sir!”

Isaak’s jaw twitched and his Adam’s apple bobbed, as if a reply were clinging to his throat. In the silence, an infinite wavering stretch, his eyes glinted with ... something. But as swiftly as it appeared, the spark vanished.

“Princess Beatrice,” he said.

She blinked at him.

“Princess Beatrice has large feet.” He moved from the threshold to permit her through. “It ought to help with your customer.”

A fact about royal feet. That’s all he was willing to share.

Vivian treated the appeasement with the respect it deserved, by not responding. She charged through the curtains and out to the front. She steadied her emotions as best she could.

“Sorry for the delay. These were tucked away on an upper shelf.”

Mr. Harrington accepted the shoes without thanks. “Here we are, madame,” he said, sliding the woman’s feet into the pair. “They are utterly lovely. Don’t you agree?”

The heels wobbled as she stood, like thumbtacks propping a sack of flour. “Yes, yes, these are splendid indeed.” She admired them at various angles while her sons spun in place, using arms as propellers, to the point of falling down. “I do say, they are exceptionally comfortable. Are you certain these are my usual size?”

As the woman reached down to check, an answer flew from Vivian’s mouth: “Princess Beatrice.”

Mr. Harrington and the customer turned to her, staring.

“Wears ... the same size,” Vivian finished. She resented using Isaak’s help-who knew if the claim was even true?—but it was too late to retract. “A smidge wider, I believe, but just as stunning.”

“Oh?” the woman said, a tad dubious. “Is that so?”

Mr. Harrington’s beard twitched as he cleared his throat. “Rightly so, madame. Precisely the same. Shall I wrap them up for you?”

After minimal contemplation, the woman agreed and followed him to the counter.

A click traveled from the hall, a sound only Vivian noticed. The closing of a door. In its wake flowed a sense of finality. She bristled at an absurd tide of angst, and her thoughts returned to Isaak’s eyes. A secret had risen from the depths, peeked into the open, and scuttled back inside. What admission had he almost made? What was so terrible that he could not say?

Then came a creak, like that of the stepstool.

Her imagination surely.

Or perhaps his return.

“I’ll be organizing the storeroom,” she told Mr. Harrington, who waved her off.

Down the hall she held her breath. At the curtain she let it out. She envisioned Isaak inside, hat in his hands, his defenses finally lowered. She flung open the drape.

Only to find the room empty.

A
udra was the only person there, waiting at the counter. Anxious to check in—a packed day awaited at the clinic—she attempted eye contact with the school receptionist. But the woman didn’t engage. She continued on the phone, her pace impossibly slow, addressing a student’s absence. She had a thick helmet of hair that smelled of Aqua Net.

Past the interior window a line of kids slogged toward the gym. A backdrop of handmade posters featured glittery medals and lopsided trophies.
Reading is for Winners,
they declared.

Reading ... Friday.

Was this Jack’s library day? Had he packed the Magic Tree House book to return? Or did they have PE class instead? She couldn’t keep track of his ever-rotating schedule, even before sleep deprivation hit its current high. Other distractions weren’t helping her focus—namely, that the job in Philly had been taken.

“Mrs. Hughes?”

Audra turned.

The principal, Miss Lewis, strode from her office in a beige pantsuit. She boasted the energy and build of a devoted runner. “Thanks for coming in.”

Audra greeted her with a handshake. “Sorry I’m a little late. I was about to leave when our fridge decided to create a manmade lake.” As proof, she motioned to the damp spots on her light-blue scrubs.

“Not to worry. It actually gave Dr. Shaw and me more time to discuss the ...
situation.”

Emphasis on the last word struck all too familiar. It was the padded introduction Audra often used when delivering fatal news about a family’s beloved pet.

“Dr. Shaw’s joining us?”

“He is. Did I forget to mention that?” The oversight sounded genuine, her deportment casual, as she led the way to her office. Still, Audra had learned to be wary of surprises. She had come here expecting a routine update.

Ever since Devon’s death, Miss Lewis had been kind enough to keep tabs on Jack’s change of demeanor. She was one of the few reasons Audra had remained in the same district when switching from a house to an apartment last year.

They entered the room to find Dr. Shaw parked in one of the two visitors’ chairs. The school counselor wore thick black glasses, commonly known as geek-chic, and a skinny plaid tie that completed his look of a yearbook shot from the seventies. “Good morning,” he said with a smile crafted for disarming, resulting in the opposite effect.

“Is there a problem with Jack?” Audra asked.

Miss Lewis closed the door—a private conference. “We’d just like to talk to you about some concerns we have. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Ruling that impossible, Audra settled for taking a seat. She gripped her purse as the principal reclaimed her rolling chair. On the corner of the desk sat a cup of pencils with troll-like hair and wiggly eyes that stared back.

“I’m afraid we did have an incident this morning. Everyone is fine now”—Miss Lewis raised a reassuring palm—“but whenever a conflict becomes physical between students, it’s standard for us to alert the parents.”

Physical? Audra tamped the urge to demand who specifically had tried to hurt her son, already wanting to have a word with the child’s parents. “What happened?”

“In the middle of morning announcements, a couple of military jets roared past the area. There was a lot of noise and some shaking of the walls. Apparently Jack crawled under his desk. A girl tried to coax him out by pulling his arm, and that’s when Jack hit her in the face.”

Audra went speechless. She felt as if she, too, had been struck.

“The teacher agreed it was a result of circumstance, and not malicious in any way. Really, if it weren’t for other factors, I would’ve just told you this over the phone.”

Miss Lewis then gave the counselor a nod. The handoff of a baton. A cue in a vaudeville act before the damsel was sawed in half.

“Mrs. Hughes,” he said, “we’d like you to take a look at something.” He opened a red file folder, and more than its color reminded Audra of the lights on Jack’s shoes. “They’re from assignments in your son’s class. All of these are drawings he created just this week.”

Audra cringed inside while accepting the stack, though the subject matter came of no surprise. The picture on top featured an airplane in gray marker, diving toward the ocean. Orange flames sprayed from the wings. Smoke curled from the tail. A star adorned the side, like his model planes at home. It was no doubt the looping scene that haunted her son every night.

She flipped to the next sheet, and the next. Each depicted a similar crash, but with passengers in a plummet. A girl and a boy stick figure held hands in midair.

The illustrations grew more frenetic. Thicker lines. Jagged faces. Fiercer flames. It was the product of an angry artist, emotionally unstable.

She had to remind herself the artist was Jack, and with the thought came reason.

Their plane ride had been a traumatic one. His nightmares reflected this. Each episode required more time and effort to soothe him. He claimed to not remember a single thing the following mornings. Subconsciously, though, he had to be affected. This, too, would explain his cowering under a desk and the instinct to fight for that haven.

Audra confessed: “We experienced a bit of a problem with an airline trip last week.”

“Yes, of course.” Dr. Shaw was clearly aware. “We both agreed that’s where a lot of this was coming from.”

The media had withheld Jack’s name, being that he was a minor, but not Audra’s. Until now she had hoped the news had bypassed her local community.

“I’ll definitely talk to him when he gets home,” Audra said in conclusion. Contrary to ten minutes ago, she was now anxious to check out of the building. But Dr. Shaw wasn’t finished.

“I think you’ll want to take a look at the next picture first.”

Audra felt her reaction being monitored, analyzed. She aimed for a neutral expression as she revealed the image.

No plane this time—gratefully. Rather, a wild-eyed figure sat in a chair, a domed helmet on his head and bands on his wrists. A wiggly X covered his chest like a shield. A Viking warrior, or a king on a throne.

“He did this one yesterday,” Dr. Shaw said, “for a cause-and-effect assignment. Other kids drew things like sunlight that turned a seed into a flower. Or a rainbow that appeared after a storm.”

If a warrior won a battle, Audra supposed, the effect would be his ruling from a castle. It wasn’t a rainbow or a flower, but still harmless enough—unless you were seeking out an issue. “I really don’t see the problem,” she said with a touch of relief.

Miss Lewis chimed in. “When asked about the man, Jack said the chair had killed him.”

Audra more closely inspected the drawing. The wavy lines, common indications of movement, were jagged enough to suggest ... electricity. The man was being electrocuted.

“My God,” Audra said. Where had Jack seen such a thing?

“Naturally,” Miss Lewis added, “the teacher asked him questions, to get an idea of what prompted the idea. But the only thing she could get out of Jack was the reason behind the man’s death.”

Audra swallowed, tightening her hold on the folder. “And? What did he say?”

“That the man was a Nazi spy.”

Then it became clear: The spidery design wasn’t a shield, but a swastika.

Miss Lewis attempted an encouraging look. “When asked by his teacher, Jack did agree to draw ... happier things. Even so, we felt the need to bring this to your attention. Especially since one of the class volunteers is an elderly Jewish woman. You can imagine why she was pretty shaken up.”

Dr. Shaw leaned closer, elbow on his wooden armrest. “Do you know if Jack is watching any movies that might be giving him these ideas? Kids often absorb images, or song lyrics from the radio, and actually don’t understanding their meaning.”

Audra grappled for the source, hindered by an overload of thoughts. “We don’t watch TV at home. Rarely anyway. When he does, it’s only cartoons. Disney. Pixar.”

“Maybe when you’re not around, then?”

“I’m always around. I mean, I wasn’t in the beginning, but—that was before.”

He was only three months old when she entered her final year of veterinary courses at Pacific University. Yet it was never a challenging juggle, with Devon’s dedication as a father.

“Jack does stay for after-school care now,” she admitted, “but just for a few hours. I get there as soon as I can. Being the only parent, and working full-time—”

“It’s okay.” Miss Lewis reached forward and gave the desk a light pat, as if meant for Audra’s arm. “Nobody’s criticizing you as a mother. We’re just trying to solve this, to create the best possible environment for Jack. And for the other children.”

So that was the point of this meeting: to keep the class safe from Jack.

“My son wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she told them. Then had to add, “Not on purpose anyway. It was obviously an accident.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“As for these drawings,” Audra said, “he could’ve learned about all of this from another kid. Maybe from a video game. Somebody might’ve snuck one into class. Just think about how violent those things have become.”

Whatever the case, Jack had every right to be fascinated by death. He was still comprehending the passing of his father. At the clinic, plenty of children processed loss in their own ways, at their own speed.

“You’re absolutely right,” Miss Lewis said. “That might be all it is. However, coupled with his behavior this week—more distressed and isolated than usual—it might help Jack to see someone. A person he can talk to.”

Distressed.
It seemed a lightly veiled word for
disturbed,
a description that didn’t pertain to Jack. The label applied to other kids, violent ones. The vicious shooters at schools and malls and movie theaters who took their own lives when cornered by a SWAT team.

Miss Lewis produced a business card from her top drawer. “With summer around the corner, I thought you might consider setting up a private session with Dr. Shaw.”

“Or if you’d be more comfortable,” the man assured Audra, “I also know several other therapists in town who are excellent. I’d be happy to refer you.”

Audra studied the card without taking it. All points and edges like a perfect paper shard. She looked up at Miss Lewis before making her own cause-and-effect inquiry. “And, if his behavior continues as it is ... ?”

The woman glanced at Dr. Shaw, a message traded between them. “Why don’t we cross that bridge when we get there.”