by Beau North
She nodded, not looking at him but the stacks of photocopies spread out on the bed. “Okay, Ben. You’re right. You can do what you like.” She got up and began gathering the papers, putting them into folders. “You can repeat history if that’s what you want, but you’ll have to do it on your own.”
“What are you even talking about?” He was confused. And, to his shame, he was a little drunk.
“I’m not her”―she held up the photocopies. “And I’m not going to let you do to me what he did to her.”
Ben flopped down on the bed, head spinning. “Was it bad? Of course it was bad. She married someone else.” He held a hand out to her. “Keisha, I’m sorry. I don’t want to be shitty boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I don’t recall that we established that, either.”
“Can we just talk about this tomorrow? I promise not to be an asshole for the rest of the night.”
She sighed and put the papers aside, climbing back into bed beside him. He put his head in her lap, wrapping his arms around her.
“And if wishes were horses,” she said as she stroked his hair away from his brow. He thought she might have said something else, but he missed it as he slipped into black and dreamless sleep.
She was silent the whole way back from the airport, choosing to watch the scenery change from pasture to suburb to city instead. He kept thinking that when they got inside the house, he would press her back against the door and kiss her until the world around them became a meaningless blur, where there were no letters or parents or towers.
But she had other ideas. When he bent to kiss her, she moved her head.
“Ben, wait.”
“Is it my breath? I’ll go brush my teeth. But wait here, ’cause I have ideas.”
“No, it’s not your breath. We need to talk.”
He pulled away, scrutinizing her. “That’s never good.”
“Maybe we should sit down.”
He turned and led them into the refurbished living room, with its comfortable sofas and soft colors. It had none of the coldness he remembered from before. Now all the coldness seemed to come from her. They sat next to each other, sinking into the couch cushions, and Ben spared a moment to wonder if this was why his father had kept all the stiff, uncomfortable furniture around for so long. To avoid an undignified sink.
He sighed and looked at Keisha. He wanted to see her smile again, that smile that always seemed to reach inside and pull some essential part of him closer to the surface.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, officer.”
She laughed a little at that. It eased some of the tension enough that she was able to meet his eyes.
“I guess…I knew your world was different, but I guess I was unprepared for how much different.”
Ah, he’d wondered at her reaction to Pemberley, to Maggie Darcy, and everything that came with being part of their family.
“I’m still me.”
“But you’re not. You’re the guy who spent his summers in a literal castle while I was picking up cans off the side of the road so my mom could have bus fare.”
“Keisha—”
“I just…I think this moved a little too fast. I need some time to think. You should go to New York. Talk to your cousin, talk to your mom.”
He touched her shoulder lightly. “I’d rather stay and work this out with you.”
She smiled. “I know you would, and I appreciate it. I really do. But I already told you what I need. You’re a great guy, but if I’m being honest—”
“Oh, why stop now,” he grumbled.
“Okay, while I’m being honest then. You’re not…you’re not well, Ben.”
He pulled himself off the couch and began pacing in a tight line. His fingers tugged at his hair, an old habit when he got wound up. “With exception of this conversation, I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You think I don’t hear you talking in your sleep? You think I don’t hear you gasping awake in the middle of the night?”
He stopped and flopped back down beside her, suddenly exhausted. “You don’t get it. I was there. Do you know what it feels like to have half a million tons of concrete and steel and glass rushing at you? The burnt chemical stink of it and the unholy dust that gets into every goddamned pore on your skin? Can you see how that would mess someone up?”
“You think I was born on September twelfth? DC is a half hour drive from my mother’s house. We could see the smoke from there! I was off duty when it happened, but you better believe we got called in. We didn’t know what city was going to be next, or how it was going to come!” She took a deep breath and continued in a calm voice.
“I’m not blaming you, but you need help, Ben. You know you do. Don’t follow in the colonel’s footsteps because you can’t deal with your trauma. I can’t be the thing that fixes you. That foundation is too shaky to build on.”
She was right. He knew she was right, but he didn’t have to like it. But he liked the thought of losing her even less.
He took her hand. “I’ll go to New York. I’ll talk to people. I’ll see a therapist. I’ll do the work. Just…please don’t think I’m only this one thing, this…heir.” The word tasted sour on his tongue.
She didn’t pull her hand away, but neither did she lace her fingers with his or give it a reassuring squeeze. She just let him clasp hers in his own, the pressure of her heartbeat a steadfast rhythm where his fingertips lay against her wrist.
“I promise I’ll think about everything you’ve said,” she said, not unkindly. Ben suspected it was as much of an assurance as he could hope for.
6
October 27, 1943
Dear Richard,
I hope this has reached you, and in time for me to wish you a happy Halloween. If not, happy Thanksgiving and/or Christmas. Georgie, as always, sends her love and asks that if you find yourself in London, and you get a chance to visit the British Museum, to please do so. When you are here next, she will grill you about all the sarcophagi you’ll no doubt remember. I don’t know where this fascination with Egypt came from, but I think it’s completely adorable.
I don’t need to tell you how missed you are here. I could certainly use your help with our joint venture. I’m so busy most days, I fall asleep with my shoes still on. I’ve put Stevens in charge of scrap drives and getting food from the orchards out to the families in town…
“I think you must not like that letter very much.”
Richard looked up to see a woman taking the seat next to his. The Old Arcade was crowded with GI’s and Welsh girls of every shade and shape. His eyes took her in and then went back to Darcy’s letter without really reading it. She was pretty enough, with clear skin and hair the color of cut hay, but there was a hunger in her eyes that set his alarm bells ringing. He wouldn’t be bringing any bride home, no matter how healthy she looked.
“I like it fine,” he said, a small smile playing across his lips.
“You looked like you’d just bitten a lemon,” she observed, ordering a beer for herself. Richard wasn’t terribly fond of this wartime brew, watery and tasteless in a way that made him wish for something thick and bitter that suited his mood and his lemon-biting face. The girl waited for his response, but he gave none. After a few minutes of silence, she slid from her perch with a huff, gone to try her luck in more welcoming waters. Richard was fine with that. Truth be told, he’d not had much enthusiasm for wine, women, or sport in the months since he’d learned of his brother’s death. His only thoughts were of his boots on the ground, the rifle in his hands, his ears always listening for the pop of gunfire with every step.
He looked up, briefly, to see the girl had found herself in company that was, if possible, even worse than his own. Teo Bertram grinned wolfishly down at her, making the color rise to her cheeks. Richard shook his head. He considered it just his luck Bert of all people would have found himself a place in the Thirteenth Regiment as well.
The Louisiana Loverboy had been drowning in women since his arriv
al in Wales, and no wonder, with his tall swagger, his dusky Creole looks, and molasses accent; they lapped it up. Teo looked up, catching his stare, and gave a mocking salute before looking back down at his newest conquest.
After basic, Richard had gone to Fort Benning where he quickly advanced through OCS. He now bore a silver bar on his uniform, while Teo had advanced to the rank of Specialist. No matter where he went, the other man seemed to follow. Richard had privately begun to think of Bertram as Peter Pan’s shadow, someone who’d discovered Richard’s abandoned playbook and was now determined to have Richard’s old life.
He’s welcome to it. Richard smiled crookedly at the thought. The image of Teo Bertram…rough, uncouth, backwater Teo, sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with Aunt Catherine and the admiral held a darkly amusing charm for Richard.
The letter disappeared into his pocket as he stood, shouldering his way out of the crowded pub and onto the street. He walked into the quiet evening, avoiding the hollowed-out shells of buildings left after the bombings. James was still alive when these buildings were whole. The thought burrowed into the space between his eyes, an insidious parasite that would leave him restless, unable to trust the gathering night enough to sleep. It always happened with a letter from home, be it from Darcy or Anne. Not his father, thankfully. He never got letters from the admiral, and never expected he would. He walked past the old Norwegian church, the exiled sailors playing cards and speaking in their odd language that sounded strangely musical to his ears.
His wandering feet took him down to the docks, the only vestige of home he still clung to. There was a familiar comfort in the sounds of water lapping against the docks and the wheedling squawks of gulls. Richard watched the sky as it began to purple, waiting for the first of the evening stars to come out and shine.
“Happy Birthday, Jimmy,” he said to no one at all.
August 1944
Brest, France
Rubble crunched underfoot as the men darted from building to building, bent low to stay out of sight. They stopped, crouching along the side wall of what used to be a chemist’s shop. Richard took a second to wipe the dust from his face with the sleeve of his jacket, clearing his eyes.
“Riggleman, Carter, Hollis.” The men edged forward, listening. “You three take your men up the high street. We need the end of the lane to be a choke point. Maybe we can get them bottlenecked enough to get one of those tanks through. Reed, Skinner. You two hold this spot. Landry, you’re with me.”
The men all nodded and went about following his orders. Private Landry held his rifle ready, crouch-running behind Richard as they moved into the next building. It might have been a bakery once. They were to clear the building and proceed to the next as they had been doing for the last seventeen hours. The initial surge of adrenaline had long worn off, leaving Richard cold and empty. His rifle was slung over his shoulder; he ran out of ammo hours ago. His Browning was pointed and ready, his form perfect despite the blisters on his hands from gripping the stock. He nodded at Landry, and they advanced together into the dim front room of the building.
To the right was a long serving counter, where not so long ago patrons probably sat to have their morning café et croissant. Richard nudged Landry, nodding toward the counter. Landry nodded and they split up, shuffling forward quietly.
Richard rounded the side of the counter, pistol first, but still seconds too late. There was a loud crack, and the side of Landry’s head disappeared, the smell of meat and cordite filling the room. There were two German soldiers behind the counter, the larger of the two holding the Luger that had just killed Richard’s private. Richard fired twice without blinking, watching the Nazi slump forward, crumpling into a boneless heap before the smaller one tackled him.
They hit the stone floor hard enough to push the breath out of his lungs, spots dancing in front of his eyes. The German grabbed the front of Richard’s jacket and pulled him halfway up, spittle flying into Richard’s as he screamed.
“Getötet Klaus! Sie getötet mein bruder!”
Still dazed from the impact, Richard felt the barrel of the German’s Luger pressing into the softer flesh of his abdomen, a searing heat as the gun fired with two muffled pops. I’m burning, I’m burning. Then he felt nothing.
His Luger spent, the Nazi threw his gun away and resorted to using his fists. Richard felt his nose break―and found himself grinning, laughing, as the other man hit him again and again. He could taste his own blood on his lips, felt it coating his teeth in a warm, red wash. Now I match. The thought came swift and delirious. Inside and out. The blisters on his hand throbbed. With two bullets in his gut and a smashed face, it was in that moment the most annoying and persistent of his injuries. Then again, the blisters reminded him that he was still holding his sidearm.
The German pulled out a trench knife. Richard could feel it digging into the flesh just below his collarbone and realized that the man meant to cut out his heart. Good luck finding it, Fritz. Knowing he was about to die, his last thought was of his brother, gone two years now.
James.
Maybe it was the memory of James—good, kind James—that roused him, made him decide to live. With monumental effort, he raised the hand that held his pistol, keeping his arm to the side so that the barrel was against the German’s temple before the other man even noticed. The knife continued digging a bloody trench in his flesh. Richard fired. The German tilted to the side before collapsing on top of him, painting him red with gore.
With a strength that surprised even him, Richard managed to push the body away. He lifted his head and looked down at his abdomen, a burnt and red ruin.
“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He had to strain to see; either the room was getting darker or he was about to die.
Putting his weight on one arm, Richard dragged himself across the room to where Landry’s body lay cooling. He reached into his corporal’s shirt and pulled out his dog tags, managing to snap one off. He lay back at last, his eyes drawn to a pattern like a fan across the ceiling. Richard realized it was Landry’s brains. He closed his eyes. The room had gotten too dim to see anyway.
Flashes of light flooded the darkness, always carrying a searing lance of pain. Richard found himself wanting to hide, but there was no shelter in those moments of flooding agony.
Voices began to accompany the light. “He’s coming around, sir.”
“There’s no morphine. You’ll have to hold him.”
Richard tasted blood and bile. Hands held him as his wounds were explored. “Lie still, guv, and we’ll have you on your way,” the man holding him said. The darkness rose up once more, and he rushed to greet it, grateful for the escape.
“Hello, sweetheart. Just look at how you’ve grown.” A ghost spoke in his mother’s voice.
You aren’t real.
“Hold on, Richie.” A different voice spoke in a stronger, clearer, more familiar voice. An entirely different kind of pain pressed against him now.
James? Is that you?
“Not really, but this isn’t really the time to get into metaphysics.”
Wiseass.
Dark now, so deep and black it felt endless, eternal. He floated there, forgetting all concept of time and place and self. Where was he? Who was he? Questions whose answers lay just out of reach.
Light again. And pain, but its edges were somewhat dulled. Fire burned in his throat.
“Ah, good afternoon.”
He turned his head toward the voice. It felt, to him, like it took a long time, but the man sitting nearby didn’t seem to mind. He was spindly-limbed and thin, with a large, beak-like nose and hair that was a white and soft-looking as dandelion fluff. He stood, revealing himself to be very tall. The overall picture made Richard think of a stork.
“I came in here for a minute of peace and quiet, but I can see that wasn’t meant to be.”
He took a clipboard from the foot of the bed and looked it over, flipping pages. “Your injuries were qui
te severe.”
Richard couldn’t place the man’s accent. He wondered if he’d been captured by the Germans.
“One bullet missed your kidney, just barely, and the other broke two ribs and nicked the spleen. The doctors were able to remove it before too much damage was done, but your life may be very different than what it was. You are a strong young man, yes, but you must now take very good care of yourself.”
Richard twirled his finger, a question in his eyes.
“Where?” he managed to croak.
The doctor smiled. “England. You were flown to Bristol after triage at the field hospital.”
Richard nodded and closed his eyes. “How long?”
“You’ve been our guest for four days.”
He didn’t even know how to process this information, so he chose not to. The doctor left and returned later with a nurse.
“Are you in pain?” they’d asked. What a stupid question. He nodded.
The nurse pulled clear liquid into a syringe from a vial in her hand.
“One for sorrow, two for joy,” she said as she counted the dosage.
“Three for a girl, four for a boy,” he whispered. A chemical taste flooded his dry tongue. His thirst temporarily forgotten, Richard closed his heavy eyelids and dreamt of the ocean, and home, and for the first time in several years felt a small measure of peace.
September 1944
Frenchay Hospital
Bristol, England
The young ensign who brought the letter smelled so strongly of Vitalis hair tonic that Richard had asked him to stand outside the privacy screens while he read the message. He hated Vitalis. It’s what his father always wore.
Captain Fitzwilliam — Received word of your injuries. When you are convalesced, I have given instruction that you are to be brought to me in Liverpool. — Admiral Fitzwilliam
“Well there’s nothing quite so personal as pulling rank,” Richard muttered, wincing in pain as a laugh escaped him. He lost his spleen to one of the German’s bullets. The second had gone straight through. The real damage had come from the infection. In the month since Brest, he lost over fifteen pounds between the illness and its cure. When the nurse came to change his bandages, Richard could count his ribs.
