The Pieces We Keep

by Kristina McMorris

  16

  The announcement was timely, inevitable really, yet Vivian startled at the words.

  “You two ought to get onboard now,” her father said over the din. His black fedora and trench coat matched nearly every man in Euston Station.

  Her mother, shockingly, didn’t sprint for the train. Adjusting her white gloves, she conferred over travel details one final time. The netting from her hat reached the narrow tip of her nose.

  Vivian checked her watch and begged the minutes to slow.

  The cars were bloating with passengers, most of them young children. From open windows they hollered farewells in a clash of thrills and tears. Evacuation tags hung over their travel wear. On the platform, any mother not weeping strained for a portrayal of strength, waiting to break down in private.

  On another day, Vivian’s heart would sink from the scene. But in this moment her greatest care lay with Isaak, the anticipation of his arrival. She would not dare cross the ocean without him.

  It had been seven days since they lay in that cellar, their limbs interwoven like the roots of a banyan tree. A sheen of sweat had glistened their bodies in the lantern’s soft light. Breath still heavy, he’d rested his head on her chest. She had stroked his hair and stared at the ceiling, where shadows moved in a watery sway. To her relief, there had been no pain from the joining of their bodies, as rumored from other girls, only initial discomfort fully rewarded by the intensity of Isaak’s pleasure. In her arms he’d drifted off for some time, but Vivian had never been more alert. She had given of herself in every way possible, and that vulnerable act left her equally comforted and unsettled.

  The next day, she had phoned Isaak from her father’s office with specifics of her travels. She withheld objections over Isaak’s plans to visit Munich. She understood; he couldn’t very well use a telegram to summon his mother across enemy borders. It was an invite to be delivered discreetly and in person. Through the black market he would arrange documents for his mother, his other relatives if possible. And if they don’t wish to go? Vivian had dared ask, to which he replied without pause: Then I’ll meet you at the station alone.

  But now, here she was, and he had yet to show.

  “Travel safely,” her father said, catching Vivian’s attention. “And don’t misplace your luggage tickets.” He glanced at the train. “Better not delay now.”

  “I’m sure we have a little more time before we actually leave,” she insisted.

  “The conductor already gave the last call.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure—”

  “Vivian,” her mother said, “don’t be difficult. If we don’t make it to Liverpool on time, we could miss the ship.”

  Steam blasted from the locomotive like a kettle heated for tea. The train would pull away within minutes. Short of throwing herself on the tracks, Vivian could think of no method to stall.

  “Wire me when you’re safely in New Hampshire,” she heard her father say. Until he joined them, they were to lodge with her maternal grandmother, a proper though pleasant woman, beyond her smell of mothballs.

  He gave his wife a peck on the cheek. Then instead of separating, they simply stood there. Unspoken messages flowed between them before he leaned in and tenderly kissed her lips.

  Vivian felt wholly intrusive, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She had never seen them exchange more than cursory affection. Dangers of wartime, she decided, inflated even marital emotions. Yet when their mouths parted, the truth of their good-bye became apparent. It held nothing in the way of passion, only a somberness so palpable it thickened the air.

  Vivian’s mother caught her gawking, a jolt of awkwardness. “Say good-bye to your father,” she said, composing herself. She gripped her purse with both hands and strode toward the closest train door.

  “Watch over your mother,” he said. “I’ll see you both when I can.”

  Vivian nodded, still taken aback.

  He took an audible breath and headed down the platform. He was about to veer around a porter, who was hauling a trunk on his back, when Vivian reclaimed her voice.

  “Father!”

  He twisted to see over his shoulder, and she realized she had no inkling how to fill this moment. Not with words anyhow. She rushed over and embraced him. There was a slight stiffness in his hold, as always, but she took no offense.

  “I’ll see you before long,” he said, and patted the back of her wool coat.

  She drew away and discovered on his face a wistful smile. It was a look she would carry with her like a lucky trinket in her pocket.

  “Be careful,” she said, and he nodded.

  Then he sent her off to the train, and she knew neither of them would look back.

  As Vivian neared the coach, her thoughts cleared and anxiety over Isaak returned. For him not to be here, something terrible must have occurred. He couldn’t have changed his mind. Considering what they had shared, it simply wasn’t possible.

  “Are you boarding, miss?” Atop the coach steps, the conductor extended his hand to guide her in.

  She was clutching the railing, but her feet would not leave the platform.

  “Well?”

  “I ... don’t know.” She could stay with her father, wait for word from Isaak. Tell her mother she would follow.

  “Vivian!” A male voice reached from a distance. “Vivian James!”

  Her breath hitched. A plaid flat cap moved through the crowd and a hand shot up over heads. He shouted her name again.

  She wasted no time running toward him. “Isaak!” She ignored the conductor’s chiding, overtaken by relief and joy.

  In her mind she saw it all; together, she and Isaak would marvel at the Grand Canyon, dip their toes in a frothy sea. They would adventure through the plains, resting by campfire, and make love every night until dawn. “Isaak!”

  She glimpsed his hat as it passed between people, winking like a star. She could not fathom a grander feeling, though she paused when she lost sight of him. Another man walked toward her, also in a cap, blocking her view. She tried to see around him until he spoke.

  “You’re Vivian James. Are you not?”

  “Well–yes–”

  “This is for you.” He held out an envelope. Her name was penned across the front in familiar script. Isaak always curled the V in such a way.

  Vivian was seized by her error. The stranger before her was the man who had called her name, waved a hand over the crowd. Not her beloved Isaak.

  The locomotive creaked and hissed, its departure imminent.

  “Is Isaak running late?” she demanded. “Shall I wait, take another train? Will he meet us in Liverpool?” Whatever the case, she needed answers this instant, for more than logistics. Prolonging the discovery would be altogether torturous.

  The man raised the delivery toward her, an explanation inside.

  “Please,” she begged. “You have to tell me ...”

  His shoulders rounded downward before he shook his head. “You should go back to the States,” he said. “Without him.”

  PART TWO

  In Memory’s Mansion are wonderful rooms,

  And I wander about them at will;

  And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms

  Are sending sweet scents o’er the sill.

  I lean from a window that looks on a lawn;

  From a turret that looks on the wave.

  But I draw down the shade, when I see on some glade

  A stone standing guard, by a grave.

  -from “Memory’s Mansion”

  by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

  17

  Late May 2012

  Portland, OR

  Contrary to Tess’s concern, Audra actually appreciated being put on leave. It had only been two days, but already she was able to focus more on Jack. She just wished quality time together would solve everything, eliminating appointments like these, where his actions and words would be scrutinized.

  After school, while driving here, she had
kept her explanation simple. “Your school counselor, Dr. Shaw, works at another office part of the week. We thought you might like to check it out. And he’s a great listener. You can talk to him about anything you feel like.”

  Thankfully, little about the room resembled the office of a therapist. At least not the grief-counseling type Audra had endured. There were large picture windows with curtains covered in sunbursts. The love seat beneath her was purple and tucked, with a whimsical curve. Children’s decor dominated the space: a wall of painted handprints, colorful kites strung above toy bins, a kitchen play set, and a supermarket stand. If not for the framed diplomas over the desk in the corner, the place could easily be mistaken for a kindergarten classroom.

  “Here, let me show you what that does,” Dr. Shaw said to Jack. Down on the carpet, the man with swooped bangs and geek-chic glasses pushed a button on the robot in Jack’s hands. Lights on the helmet frantically blinked and an automated voice declared the world safe from Veter Man.

  At long last, the therapist was interacting with his patient, demonstrating the tiniest speck of earning his fee. Aside from a genial greeting, he had spent their whole session in silence, playing with toys himself. Audra was starting to question the Talk portion of his tagline.

  “Do you like Transformers?” he asked.

  Jack shrugged a shoulder and set the robot down. His interest shifted to a plastic apple and a fake carton of eggs. When Dr. Shaw asked about his favorite foods, Jack moved on to a train carrying circus animals and clowns. He used his cast to knock over the elephant and a trio of brown monkeys.

  The man just watched, quiet once again. Audra imagined him scribbling on a mental steno pad. Shows signs of aggression. Possible attention deficit disorder.

  “Jack actually loves animals,” she interjected. “And he’s great at concentrating on one thing at a time—when it’s a place he’s used to.”

  Dr. Shaw replied with a splayed palm and smile: Your son’s doing fine.

  Audra sat back on the couch and recrossed her legs. Surely the man would base his evaluation on observations from school, not a single hour in an unfamiliar room. Plus, over the phone she had provided other details that could help: the festival scare, the car ride after, and the vividly violent dreams.

  Although the old joke about hiring a psychic seemed applicable here—No need to say much if they’re good at their jobs—she’d share just about anything to achieve a solution, with Dr. Shaw in particular. His input at school could put the principal at ease.

  Assuming, of course, this all went well and the plan didn’t backfire.

  “You know, Jack,” he said, “when you first got here, I saw you brought along your toy plane.”

  Jack recoiled slightly. His hand covered the lump in his jacket pocket.

  “Since you like old bombers, I think I’ve got something you’d enjoy.” He dug through a plastic tub, capturing Jack’s interest, and retrieved a dark-green aircraft. About a foot long, it was missing one of four propellers. “See that? It’s a B-seventeen from World War Two. Like the ones you like to draw.”

  Jack mumbled something.

  “What’s that you say?”

  Jack repeated himself more clearly. “This one’s a B-twenty-four. The Liberator.”

  “Hmm ... you sure about that?” Dr. Shaw flipped the plane over to examine its parts. Something told Audra he already knew the answer. “Is there a big difference between them?”

  He nodded, though he didn’t look up.

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “B-twenty-fours are faster and can go farther away. For a longer time too. And they can hold, like, three more tons.”

  “Wow. That sounds like a better plane all around.”

  “It can’t go as high though. Not with a combat load. It’s got the same horsepower as the Fortress, but the altitude ceiling’s lower. ’Cause of the Davis wing. And it’s heavier too, so the Liberator has to fly faster to take off....”

  Audra stared with breath held. Though it was wonderful to hear Jack ramble on again about anything, his advanced knowledge of warplanes left her baffled. Yes, he had model planes in his bedroom, but he’d never described any in such detail.

  Jack stopped and tilted his head at the bin. He pulled out a metallic gray object, the body of another bomber. Maybe a ship. He studied it for a long moment, running his fingers over the lines and bumps. A revelation darkened his eyes. With great intensity, he began foraging through the pile of pieces. He assembled two parts together, then added another and another.

  “Is that a submarine you got there?” Dr. Shaw asked.

  “U-boat.” Jack spoke absently, in deep concentration.

  “Oh, sure. Hitler used them in the Atlantic. To fight America’s Navy, right?”

  “Not this one.”

  “No?”

  “This one carried spies.”

  “I see. And where did those spies go?”

  “New York,” Jack said. “And Florida.”

  Audra wrestled down the urge to intervene. She just hoped Dr. Shaw was trying to extract the root of the issue and not feed into an obsession, one clearly formed thanks to Devon’s father. Where else would a seven-year-old have learned all of this?

  “Florida doesn’t seem like a very spy-like place to go.” If Dr. Shaw found this amusing, he managed to suppress any sign of it. “Those Germans must’ve had a tough time, landing there without getting caught. Seems like they would’ve stood out.”

  “It’s because they weren’t just German,” Jack said.

  “Is that so? What were they, then?”

  Jack’s hands halted as he pondered this. For the first time since his arrival, he looked straight at Dr. Shaw. “Americans.”

  A series of beeps shot from Audra’s purse. She’d set the timer on her phone for exactly an hour, and was now glad she had. She had heard more than enough to confirm the source of the problem. “Time to go, buddy. Let’s put the toys back.”

  Jack rose right away but showed reluctance in placing the sub in the box.

  “You can keep that one if you’d like,” Dr. Shaw said. “Another child left it here years ago. I’ve got too many toys as it is.”

  Audra didn’t see how encouraging Jack with a war souvenir could be productive. If anything, she needed to distract him with another hobby. One glance at Jack’s smile, however, and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. “Thank you,” she said.

  “My pleasure.” Dr. Shaw came to his feet and said to Jack, “And thank you for sharing all those stories. Glad you set me straight about the B-seventeen.”

  He nodded before Audra ushered him toward the door.

  “Hey, Jack, I forgot to ask,” Dr. Shaw said. “How do you know so much about the war anyway?”

  Jack turned with a crinkled nose, presenting his answer as the most obvious in the world.

  “Because I was there.”

  18

  March 1942

  Brooklyn, NY

  The mystery continued to swell with time. It had been well over two years, and still Isaak’s disappearance trailed Vivian like a shadow. Her telegrams and letters produced no response. She fared no better with calls to his dorm. She had even tried Professor Klein, who she was told had evacuated at the start of the war. She liked to think Isaak had followed him, that in the safety of the English countryside they were biding their time until peace returned.

  Most days, though, she simply regretted boarding that train. Whether staying in London would have reunited her with Isaak she would never know, but at least the distance dividing them would not have been so vast.

  After arriving in New Hampshire, her mother had instantly melded into the social realm of her youth. Vivian soon learned that Luanne Sullivan, an old school friend from DC, had relocated to Brooklyn. The girl was receiving room and board in addition to pay for working on a switchboard. The fact that the company was still hiring had struck Vivian as a sign. New York. That’s where Isaak would go once he made it to the States.
<
br />   So that’s precisely where Vivian went.

  The company’s boardinghouse was a lovely brownstone in the center of Park Slope, an affluent section of the borough. Naturally, this reduced her mother’s objections, though Vivian would have settled for a shack. Location was all that mattered. Her bags were barely unpacked when she began diligent rounds of Isaak’s favorite spots: the shopping strips of Manhattan, the carriages of Central Park, the window displays at Macy’s. But with the passing of time and escalation of the war—America, too, had joined the fray-her efforts waned with her hopes.

  The single place she sustained any faith was at Brooklyn’s Cafe Labrec.

  Once more now she sat in its courtyard. She dropped a sugar lump into her coffee, wishing her feelings would dissolve as easily. If only coming here were not so tempting. Near impossible to avoid, it was a short walk from her residence, enabling these morning visits before the chartered bus to work. Truthfully, even her job as an operator at Fort Hamilton served as a potential link to Isaak. Catching snippets of military discussions meant uncensored updates on the European Theatre. Which, more often than not, left her in a grievous mood.

  Isaak could not have better described Hitler’s greed and thirst for power. In June of 1941, he double-crossed even Stalin by funneling 3 million Nazi soldiers into the Soviet Union, and his offensives continued. Across the English Channel, his ruthless bombing raids-the Blitz, they called it-placed all Londoners in danger. Vivian’s father remained among them, despite the option to come home. Never was diplomacy more in need, he claimed in periodic letters; his wired messages assured her of his safety. Still, she kept him in her prayers, the same as she did for Isaak.

  Perhaps this, above all, was the cafe’s true appeal. It had become like a church, a sanctuary she frequented in search of peace, and answers.

  Had Isaak’s plans gone awry with the black market and his mother? Was he imprisoned in Munich thereafter? Had he been injured in a raid? Did he return to London and stay to help? Did he join the RAF and take to the skies?